Irene snapped out of her daze. She picked up the cordless telephone she always kept down the side of the couch when it wasn't charging. And, with one last glance at the photo, she stabbed the buttons with her finger.
Chapter Two
"I remember there used to be a poster here when I was growing up, some band," the person claiming to be Matthew Daley said, examining the wall of what had once been 'his' bedroom.
The request had come after he'd brought back the tea on a tray, along with a plate of biscuits, taken from the jar Irene always kept on the counter next to the bread bin. He wanted to see his old room, asked her politely and with that same lilt Matthew once had in his voice. Irene simply agreed, not knowing what else to say. She led the way up the rickety stairs, checking behind her all the time to see if he was still there. He was, and he followed her to the room where her son had spent much of the first twenty-two years of his life.
"The TV was there, the stereo over... there." He pointed to a sideboard. "I bought it with my first month's wages from the plant. You used to keep telling me to turn down the racket, you remember?"
Another nod.
"It's not there anymore, is it?"
For a second she thought he was still talking about the stereo, but then she realized he meant the place where he'd worked since he was in his late teens. "They... they shut it down a few years ago," she managed.
He nodded and walked over to the wardrobe, a cheap flat-pack one that was still----remarkably----standing, after many years of service. He opened the door nearest to him, taking out a jumper on a hangar. It was navy with pink zigzag lines running across the middle. "I can't believe this is still here. You gave me this one Christmas when I was about fifteen. I didn't like it, but I wore it anyway because I knew you did."
Irene thought she had the tears under control, but now they came again. "How do you know all these things?" she asked him.
"I thought we'd been through that. I'm your son."
At the risk of repeating herself, she said it again; this time the last word was more emphatic. "My son is dead."
He thought for a second or two. "Then who am I?"
"I... I don't know."
He put the jumper back inside the wardrobe and his eye caught something on the floor inside. Stooping, he picked it up; it was a small red racing car. Irene stood in silence as he brought the toy up to his face, turning it over.
There was a knock on the door downstairs, much the same as the one she'd answered earlier that morning. The 'stranger' in her home didn't appear to notice; he was too transfixed by the car her son had once played with and which had been left, forgotten, in the bottom of the wardrobe. The knock came again and Irene made for the door of the bedroom. She thought at any moment he would try to stop her from answering it, but he didn't. There was no hand on her arm this time, no sharp words. He----whoever he was----seemed to be in a world of his own.
She ventured down the stairs, more quickly than she had ascended them. Another shadow was visible through the frosted glass, but this time she knew exactly who it was. And for a moment, when she opened the door, it was like déjà vu. Irene was back in time, seven years ago, the two policemen standing at the door waiting to tell her the news. Except this time it was the uniformed officers waiting for her to speak, not the other way around. She'd known instinctively that Matthew had passed on even before she saw the Police Constables, just as she still knew he was dead---- shouldbe dead. Now it was a case of how to explain it to the policemen without sounding like she was on some kind of medication.
"Mrs. Irene Daley? We've had a report of a disturbance," said the first copper, a young black man.
A disturbance? That was one way of putting it.
"That someone was in your house," chipped in the other officer, a much older man with a graying beard.
"Y-Yes," she said, not really knowing where to begin. "He's... upstairs."
"Right," said the younger man, entering the house. The older man put a hand on his shoulder and gestured up towards the top of the stairs. Irene followed their gaze and saw 'Matthew' standing there. It sent a shiver up her spine.
"Sir, would you mind coming down here?" said the bearded officer. "Hands where I can see them."
He started to descend, a disappointed but resigned expression on his face. He held his hands palm outwards, and there was nothing in them.
"Now," continued the older man, "perhaps you'd mind explaining to me what you're doing in Mrs. Daley's home."
The man said nothing.
"Mrs. Daley... have you been hurt at all?"
"No signs of forced entry at the doorway," the younger PC confirmed.
"I... I opened the door and..." Irene was still crying and they took this as a sign to proceed.
The young black officer turned the man around and handcuffed him, just to be on the safe side. Their prisoner stared at Irene, half in disbelief, half resentment.
"So, perhaps we can get a few things sorted out now," said the bearded PC. "Who exactly are you and what are you doing in Mrs. Daley's home?"
"I'm her son," he said at last.
"Her son, eh? Mrs. Daley, is this true?"
She hesitated for a second, then shook her head.
"My name is Matthew Daley," stated the handcuffed man as he was patted down. The young PC found nothing, no ID, no weapons----nothing, save for a small toy car in the man's pocket, which he handed to his colleague.
"So he's not your son?" pressed the bearded policeman.
"He... he looks like him, but..."
The police officers exchanged glances.
"I am him," insisted the man.
"You can'tbe!" screamed Irene, finally reaching the end of her tether. "My Matthew has been dead for seven years!"
The bearded man sighed. "There's obviously been some kind of misunderstanding here. I think the best thing we can probably do is take you down to the station for a little chat. Valentine, stay here and get a statement from Mrs. Daley." He tugged on the intruder's arm and tried to lead him out of the house. For a fraction of a second he held fast, refusing to move, and it looked like they were going to have a struggle on their hands to shift him.
Then he spoke again before allowing the bearded PC to take him. "Dad would have believed me."
Irene leapt forward, all her trepidation forgotten, her hands turning to claws ready to rake this intruder's flesh. Luckily the black officer saw this coming and was able to hold her back before she could do any injury. "Let PC Wilson take it from here," Valentine said.
"You'll see me again," 'Matthew' told her.
"All right, that's enough," said Wilson. The bearded copper led the man out the door and down the path. Irene watched with the other policeman standing alongside. A small crowd of people had gathered now, attracted by the police car at the front of the house. A man with ginger hair and a potbelly was leaning against his open doorway, scratching himself and eating a sandwich. The kids who'd been playing on the road had picked their football up; one held it under his arm like a headless ghost.
All paid attention now, all noticed. The handcuffed man was bundled into the back, PC Wilson slamming the door after him. Then the policeman climbed into the front and started the engine again.
The car drove off, away from the scene, and Valentine started to close the door. Something flew past them and out through the gap.
It was a small brown bird, a sparrow.