Ronny didn’t agree but he merely shrugged. He found it hard to commit himself to disagreements.
The man was silent for a while. Ronny studied him. He seemed very young but his face was not a very young face. It was lined, vertically, and not in the places normal faces creased and wrinkled. It was as though he’d only just woken up from a hard sleep but his face hadn’t shaken it, hadn’t hurled off its sheets and its blankets yet to get on with the business of living.
He seemed ludicrously pliant and tractable, but singular. He seemed…Ronny shuddered at the thought…he seemed wide, wide open. But you couldn’t survive that way. Not in this world. Not for long. Ronny knew it.
In fact he prided himself on being shut right up. Like an oyster. Like a tomb. Like a beach-hut in winter; all bolted, all boarded. Like the bright lips of an old wound. Resolutely sealed.
“Well, I think I’ll be going,” he said finally, swallowing down his unease and then feeling it bob back up in his throat like a ballcock.
The man glanced at Ronny, but only quickly, as though he could barely stand to drag his eyes away from the dead wasp. “Today’s been worthwhile after all,” he muttered. “You know? Just to get to see the wasp and the sting and everything.”
Ronny thought the man must be deranged but he nodded anyway.
“Do you need another look before I bury him?”
“Need?” Ronny smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”
The man sighed. “He feels so hollow and light now that the life has gone. Before he had a kind of weight. Some gravity. But not any more.”
Ronny turned to go.
The man spoke again, a parting shot, it seemed, because as he spoke he also turned. “I’m Ronny.”
Ronny froze.
“Ronny?”
The other Ronny stopped turning.
“What?”
Ronny pointed to himself.
“I’m Ronny too.”
They both paused.
“Uh…actually,” Ronny said, “I’m Ronald. How about you?”
The other Ronny shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“We’re The Two Ronnies.”
The other Ronny didn’t get it. “What?”
“Like in the comedy show.”
“What comedy show?”
“You don’t remember The Two Ronnies? The little one with glasses and the bigger, fatter one?”
The other Ronny shook his head. “No.”
“Oh. I thought everybody knew about them.”
The other Ronny pointed at the wasp and said, “I think I’d better bury him.” He started walking towards the edge of the bridge. He walked strangely. Ronny thought that this was because there was something wrong with his legs but then he realized that his shoes were several sizes too large. They were white shoes.
“Excuse me…”
The other Ronny stopped walking. “What?”
“We’re wearing the same shoes.”
The other Ronny peered down at his shoes. “These aren’t my shoes.”
“Not yours? Then whose are they?”
“I don’t know. I must’ve picked them up somewhere.”
Ronny drew closer to the other Ronny. “You know, it’s a rare thing to see someone in white shoes. And those shoes are special. They’re the kind I wear for work.”
The other Ronny frowned and looked down at his shoes a second time. “Maybe they are your shoes.”
Ronny squinted at this, baffled. “Pardon?”
“I got them in Lost Property. Maybe you lost them and I picked them up. I’m called Ronny. So are you. Maybe the person on the desk got us confused.”
“Lost Property?”
“On the Underground. The tube. At Baker Street.”
Ronny let this sink in for a few seconds and then he said softly, “My brother works there.”
The other Ronny was clearly impressed. “Really? In the office?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Uh…reddish hair. Blue eyes. Quite short.”
The other Ronny grinned. “I know him.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. That’s Nathan. I know him. I go in there all the time. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been going in there.”
“What for?”
“I keep losing stuff.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The other Ronny bit his lip. “Nathan? Uh…a month.”
“How did he look?”
“I think he looked fine.”
Ronny was clearly delighted, but he spoke with an element of restraint. “Well that’s good then.”
“So…” the other Ronny seemed genuinely interested, “when was the last time you saw him?”
“Ten years ago.”
The other Ronny mulled this over for a while and then said, “I’ve got a whole family somewhere that I’ve never even met. Brothers and sisters. All lost.”
Ronny didn’t want to appear competitive so he laboriously adjusted his collar in an attempt to distance himself. “That’s a great pity,” he said finally, “luckily I have no sisters.”
The other Ronny looked serious. “Yes, that is a relief.”
“It is?”
Ronny was bemused. The other Ronny gazed up at the sky. It had begun to rain again. He turned his attention back to Ronny. “There’s this famous story about a man who meets someone purely by accident but the more they find out about each other the more they realize that they have things in common until finally they realize that they are the same person. I don’t know who wrote the story.”
Ronny took a deep breath. “It wasn’t a story. It was a play. It’s by Ionesco. And what happens is that the two men realize that they have the same life but that they are in fact different people.”
“Oh. Right.”
The other Ronny suppressed a grimace. He was clearly dissatisfied with this piece of clarification.
“Which makes the whole thing even more absurd.” Ronny added, as an afterthought, “anyway…” He pulled off his hat, “we don’t look alike.”
Without his hat Ronny resembled a king prawn, fully processed; legs gone, shell gone, ready for serving, soft and pink and pale and smooth. Pure and unadorned.
His was a gentle face, a complex mixture of blankness and fullness. He was plain as a boiled sweet, but his eyes were deep, complex and dark-ringed, and his lashless lids were swollen. His irises were the mellow, golden brown of raw cane sugar.
“You’ve got no hair.”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
“Alopecia.”
It began raining harder. Ronny put his hat back on again. The other Ronny hunched up his shoulders to keep the rain from dripping down his neck. “Did you get here by car?”
Ronny nodded. “Green Volvo. I parked on the hard shoulder.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Yes.”
“Unless you broke down.”
“No. The car’s fine. I stopped because I thought you might be intending to jump.”
“Me?” The other Ronny looked flabbergasted. “From this bridge?”
Ronny felt embarrassed. To hide it he said quickly, “I’m on my way to work. I’m in Tottenham for a while.”
The other Ronny didn’t seem to register.
“So…” Ronny struggled, “uh…what’s in the box then?”
“The box?” The other Ronny looked down. “This box?”
“Yes.”
The box was approximately a foot and a half square and firmly sealed with strong brown tape.
The other Ronny paused and then smiled. “My soul.”
“Your soul?” Ronny didn’t like this kind of talk. He didn’t like talk of souls.
Ronny smiled even wider. “I’m kidding.”
Then he added softly, without prompting and without feeling, “I used to live on Claremont Road. In a squat. Now it’s gone. They built a link road over it. So I decided to give myself up to the road. To many roads. And now I’m on the motorway. I’m trying to find out what I can get back from it. I’ve been waving from here for three weeks.”