Base Camp November (closed for Monique_minx)

A secret is something you only tell one other person.

Anna: I miss you. It's a secret.

It was OK. No security risk. Tim had no way of communicating with Anna. No address, no mobile phone, no telepathy. But he did find himself saying it out loud, in the dark of the night, to the walls of the cheap hotel in Brighton. 'I miss you.'

Neon light streaked in through a gap in the drapes. The white sheets formed themselves into the shape of Anna's thighs. The surprise glint of the gold ring there. Anna: I -

No I don't miss you.

So at five in the morning there he was, gulping down the one Days Inn portion of coffee, going over the paperwork of the assignment again. Joan Brenner, dob 30/11/84 born Brighton Sussex UK, educated Brighton and Hove High School, matriculated...

That was why he'd found himself thinking of Anna. 30/11/84. It had been a deep and dark November a year ago, when strictly against regs (Intimate personal relationships between trainees will rank as unreasonable conduct and give rise to instant dismissal) he and the white-thighed gold-glinting Anna Cross had found themselves making passionate love in a freezing fucking store cupboard of a barracks somewhere in the wastes of southern France where Camp November or should he say Novembre was based because they feared their rooms had cameras and bugs in them so they rolled amid blankets and towels and emergency rations and candles and -

'Light me a candle,' she'd said. 'It's my birthday.'

And she had gone on to do extraordinary things to intimate places on her body with that candle – who could have dreamt that a woman who could defeat him at chess in thirteen moves would have such, such, well, depths to her?

It's my birthday. Twenty-four years old. 30/11/84. Twenty-five now.

Probably he had it wrong. It was the middle of the night, maybe she'd meant December 1st. But the association tugged at him now. He even hunted the drawers of room 318 for a candle. Somehow it would have seemed in honour of her, to light one. But Gideon had left no more than his bible to find.

Tomorrow Tim would find the missing Joan Brenner. Fired by caffeine and joyful memory, he suddenly imagined it possible. Even with the dim-witted Craven, currently sleeping off his hangover in the next room, as his partner. Even though she'd left Brighton at 18 when her parents died, never to return – which was why the rest of the investigating team was pursuing other leads in London and Switzerland – maybe her vital secret, the thing told to only one other person, would be here and would lead him to her. He, they, would find it tomorrow. Today. When the world woke. Then he would call the Network in triumph. They'd say Whee-hooo! And insist he took a year-long assignment with Anna Cross as a reward.

Of course it can't happen. Of course it must, then! And so he ordered more coffee from the sleepy man on reception, and ploughed through files, newspaper clippings, coroners' reports, maps, jottings, rambling notes from others – buoyed by the wonderful illusion of hope. And the memory of the glint of gold between a woman's thighs.

She ran through the darkness, her voice a senseless tumult of emotion as she described the nothingness she felt deep inside, the vinyl of the couch beneath her squeaking in silent protest as her eyes fluttered open to focus on the man in tweed that sat before her.

“Every time and nothing? Why won’t it stop?” She pleaded with him, begging a question she had asked many times over, asked him, asked herself and the few friends she had left as well. The answer however remained the same.

“I don’t know Joan. “ He said quietly, “We’ve been over this; you’re the only one who can answer that question.”

“But I can’t!” Joan whined desperately, “my family died, it was horrible and tragic but I shouldn’t have been affected like this! I know you said it was a deep psyche thing that I can’t connect to just yet but I’ve poured my life out over and over, I don’t have a reason to black out like this! I feel crazy, I can’t work or drive for fear of what might happen and I keep seeing things in my dreams…things I can’t make sense of and I feel like this has sent my imagination into overdrive!”

He sat forward slightly, interest lighting his face as the mid afternoon sun streamed through the window and sent shadows sprawling over the lithe young woman lying on the couch in his 5th storey office. She was attractive but for the dark circles under her eyes, indicating the restless night’s sleep and her hair fanned out beneath her head; chocolate waves that reached her mid back when she stood up. Piercing coffee coloured eyes that had lost their spark somewhere along the way, now she merely seemed tired and even her beautiful ruby lips had curled into a permanent pout and the psychiatrist suddenly found himself wondering if he had ever seen her smile.

“What do you see in your dreams Joan?” He asked her, intrigued as it had been awhile since he had seen her let alone asked her about her dreams.

“I don’t know…faces I suppose.” She sighed disinterestedly, it was useless to talk about it and she was sick of talking about it after five years, had it gotten her anywhere? No. “I see a man, I hear gunfire and I feel longing…” She giggled slightly and shook her head, sitting up, “It’s like a bad romance novel really. It’s like I want this complete stranger only he’s not a stranger to me…well to the dream me anyway. He’s a soldier I think…”

“What makes you think that?” The psychiatrist ignored the rest of her ramblings and tried to keep her focused on a single area, this man.

“Well cause he’s wearing khaki’s or something, he looks like a soldier to me and well I don’t know much about rank but he seems like he should be an officer I think. It’s just that I feel it, not that I see it.” She explained, looking utterly relieved as the clock ticked to indicate their time was up.

“Alright Joan, I’ll see you next time, in the meantime I want you to keep a dream diary and tell me everything you feel, everything you see and I don’t want arguments.” He held up his hand as she suddenly looked like a school girl about to whine about the amount of homework. He handed her a notebook which she took begrudgingly.

“Fine,” She stood up from the couch and smoothed her black pencil skirt out, “I’ll see you next time Bruce.” She said flatly as she wandered out the door without so much as a handshake for him but then he knew better to expect it after five years and little results.

Joan stepped into the lift and pulled her white blouse taut as though attempting to straighten it however her movements clearly indicated her anger. She pressed the ground floor button and quickly fished her mobile from her handbag, dialing furiously and holding it to her ear as it rang a few times before a female voice answered.

“Miss Brenner?” Her silky business like tone whispered from the speaker.

“I’m ready to leave, have the car out front now!” She snapped her phone shut and threw it into her bag before falling against the wall of the elevator; she leaned there and held her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes. Finally the lift pinged and the doors opened, she pulled herself from the wall and walked out into a marble foyer which glittered beautifully though Joan merely focused on the glass doors that signified an exit into the street.

She pushed the doors open as a stretch limousine pulled up outside, the female chauffeur hopped out of the front seat and quickly moved to the sidewalk and opened the back door. Joan barely looked at her as she slid inside the car and the door slammed shut behind her promptly, she could tell Joan was lost in her own thoughts so she quickly stalked around the car and got into the driver’s seat again. The car pulled out and Joan sighed in relief, each time she considered not returning but then after trying many drugs nothing else worked and although this hadn’t either, there was always the possibility of someday wasn’t there?

The car drove up the long winding driveway and Joan blinked back from her thoughts to see her mansion like home before her, the steel gates had already clanged shut and she sighed with relief. The chauffeur pulled up in front of the large wooden doors that seemed almost medieval and she quickly made her way around to the door, she opened it and Joan stepped out with a deep breath.

“Thank you Melissa, I’m sorry I’ve been abrupt today.” Joan smiled apologetically.

Melissa shook her head, her blonde locks shaking from the ponytail beneath her cap, “No need to apologize Miss Brenner, I know how much you hate that shrink and personally I agree that if it’s not doing you any good, you should just stop going.”

Joan nodded to her and made her way inside, she was exhausted as she collapsed onto the warm couch…her eyes drifted closed and soon the man, the mysterious soldier was before her and a smile tugged at her lips as she slept.

No photograph. No National Insurance number. No driving licence. No reference in the Brighton Argus database. No record.

DOB 30/11/84.

Oh, Anna. We were made for each other.

I am not looking for Anna. I am looking for someone who happens to share the same birthday, Joan Br -

By nine he's woken Craven in the nextdoor room. 'Touch of the flu,' said his so-called partner.

Touch of the alcoholic excess. And the bastard expects me to cover for him.

By ten Tim has forgotten to bother with breakfast and has illicit access to a database of every Brenner who pays Council tax in the United Kingdom. 2,745 of them. Who could imagine there would be so many Brenners?

There are thirty seven within thirty miles of Brighton.

You're kidding me. You're going to visit every one of these...?

Only two have the first initial J, though two more have it as a middle initial.

By eleven he has established that Jonathan Brenner died peacefully in his sleep last Thursday. Leaving, aside from i J and B J...

J T Brenner, in a snooty-sounding address ('Beech Holme') just outside Peacehaven.

He should haul out Craven and drag him along. Craven is asleep again, or pretending to be. 'Come on you lazy bastard.'

Tim regrets rousing him as soon as they're in the blue rented Citroen, heading east, and Craven is moaning about never getting home leave and being overlooked for Switzerland and bla-di-bla-di-bla. Tim turns the radio up. Anything but his partner's moaning, yes, OK, even Cyndi Lauper, 'I'm go-nna be strong...'

Flashes of gunfire, a man lying on the ground, clutching his chest and covered in blood.

“Jesus Christ Cross!” He wheezed out as she emerged from the bushes laughing; on closer inspection it appeared to be red paint not blood.

“Those fuckers hurt at close range ya know!” He gasped and grabbed her hand as she offered it; she hauled up the 6 foot, 5 inches worth of man with little hassle though she continued to laugh.

“Oh come on Jake, you’re a big boy. You can take it!” She pressed her gun to his chest and tapped the red band on her arm with her fingertips, “you’re mine sergeant!”

He groaned and handed her his gun just as two shots rang out, she stumbled forward, gasping with wide eyes as Jake moved quickly and took his gun from her. He started laughing as he saw the blue paint on the back of her shirt and she spun around as the other soldier emerged with a grin on his face.

“You shot me in the back?!” She asked exasperated.

“Yeah, looks like I did doesn’t it?” He chuckled at the incredulous look on her face, “oh come on Lieutenant! I saw you shoot Jake, if you’d had the chance I’d be on my back covered in red paint right now! Take it like a man!”

She scowled at first then licked her lips as she threw her gun to his feet and laced her fingers behind her head in surrender.

“I’d prefer to take it like a woman actually.” With that she turned on her heel and wiggled her ass as he grinned and led her off.

“I think I’d prefer it too…”


Joan awoke with a gasp and groaned as she pushed her brown hair from her eyes, looking to the clock on the mantle.

“10 o’clock?! Jesus, how long was I asleep?!” She muttered to herself as she pushed up from the couch where she had collapsed the previous afternoon and made her way upstairs.

She wandered into her ensuite and peeled her clothes from her body; she looked herself over in the full length mirror and sighed at what had become a morning ritual. She checked herself over and supposed she was attractive, nothing sagging and she was extremely fit though a few scars did mar her skin in places. She ran a hand over a circular one on her shoulder and her forehead crinkled as she recalled its appearance three years ago during this same morning ritual as she stepped under the waterfall of warm water.

She’d gone to see her doctor immediately of course and he had told her the impossible – a bullet wound and one that was well cared for and wouldn’t cause her any damage in the long run. She’d left confused and angry, unable to remember that she had ever been shot and worried about the reasons she couldn’t remember such a thing.

Joan sighed and stepped from the shower, toweling off as she considered her dream of the previous night. That soldier had been there again, why didn’t she say his name? Joan quickly decided that in the dream she hadn’t known him, this was the first meeting and she grumbled wishing she could just know what to call him as she made her way to her walk in wardrobe. She flicked the light switch and barely noticed as the room lit up; it was massive and could just about be considered another bedroom were it not for the shelving and clothing inside. She quickly selected a denim dress with a brown belt and matching blue underwear before she ran a quick brush through her wet hair.

Joan wandered downstairs and into a very silvery kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in a restaurant as she started to fix herself some breakfast and considered what she would do with the rest of the day. She looked over the camera system to find all was quiet and groaned; she never had visitors but wondered if she should call Melissa or someone to keep her company…

I'm gonna be strong

It was the song's fault. I'm gonna be strong. And stand as tall as I can...

'Remind me, who are we today?'

Tim's given Craven the file to read through but it sits unopened on the man's lap. Be patient, be patient. 'You're the visiting American detective. She has relatives in the States. I'm the local copper. I can do local copper.' His voice shifts as he speaks. Mm, more South London than South Coast but it'll do.

Craven, not reading the file, is blathering about some new perceived injustice the Unit has done to him so Tim turns up the radio again, to drown him out, to drown out 'I'm gonna be strong' with new songs but on the radio it's talk talk talk now and as he tries to focus on the winding road ahead he sees the ghost of Anna Cross. That first time, paint-balling, as he slipped from behind a tree and shot her and she turned, brown eyes blazing. And he said...

It's strange, in the song, that Cyndi Lauper sings, that a woman sings...I'm gonna be strong, and let you run along, and take it like a man...

That's what he said, that day, to Anna Cross, 'Take it like a man.'

And something about the world changed, as if new colours had suddenly been invented out of nowhere for her tanned skin, and the blueness of the sky behind her, when the look in her eyes melted and she licked her lips and put her hands on her head in surrender. Agh: surrender. The feeling swept through him again now, remembering the slight tilt to her full mouth as she stared at him and spoke: 'I'd prefer to take it like a woman actually.'

- 'Is it much further?'

Craven's grumbling voice cuts into Tim's dream. Damn, it might have been that gateway they just passed. He turns the car round in the next lay-by. Yes, this is it: 'Beech Holme' says the gold-painted sign hanging from the heavy steel gates. Tim parks on the gravel, gets out and goes to the intercom. Hm, heavy security: he sees a camera high up on the gatepost swing towards him. He presses the button and holds up his fake id to the camera. 'Inspector O'Donnell. East Sussex CID. Is there a Ms Joan Brenner at home?'

A voice, a rather prim woman's voice responds immediately. 'What is the nature of your enquiry?'

'Missing persons. Don't worry, she isn't in any trouble.'

And he smiles up at the camera, still holding his id, waiting for a reply, still humming that same damned song...

Joan gave into the need for company and called Melissa; she’d never minded and always seemed to be there for her. Joan considered this as she set some food down for them both and answered the door, smiling at her. Melissa had the code to the gate and the key to the house but no matter what she never seemed to use the key out of respect for Joan.

“Come in…sorry, I was just…” Joan trailed off and Melissa smiled understandingly.

“It’s alright, we all have those days! Glad of your call actually, wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself today!” She wandered into the dining room and the pair sat down to the lunch Joan had laid out for them.

They’d barely begun when an annoying buzzing sound interrupted and Joan’s computerized system whirred into action to let her know someone was at the gate.

“Damn!” She grimaced and Melissa held up her hand in a stop motion as Joan moved to get up.

“Leave it…stay right there, I’ll get it.” She smiled at Joan and moved to the intercom, Joan couldn’t hear what was being said but Melissa had a rather perplexed look on her face when she returned.

“What is it Mel?” Joan looked worried.

“CID…saying something about missing persons, they want to talk to you…” Melissa said slowly, confused as to what Joan would know about a missing person as she was rather reclusive.

“Huh? Why?” Joan asked, looking utterly bewildered and Melissa just shrugged in reply, Joan shook her head, “Alright let them in I guess, deny a copper today and deal with it ten times as bad tomorrow!”

Melissa giggled and nodded, turned on her heel and returned to the intercom, she keyed the microphone and spoke clearly, “Enter, drive up to the door. Miss Brenner has agreed to see you.”
She pressed the button and the gates swung open, it was barely five minutes before the knock at the door signaled the police hadn’t gotten lost on their way up to the house. Melissa opened the door as Joan set coffee and tea down in the living room; she sat on the couch and waited.

“Joan Brenner?” Asked a male voice as Melissa opened the door.

She shook her head, “Nope, this way if you please gentlemen.”

She led them to the living room where Joan was seated, waiting patiently with her brown curls hanging loosely around her face. When he stepped into view from behind the other however, she seemed to freeze up and barely heard Melissa introduce her. Her eyes widened, he was…he was real?

I'm an actor. I'm both a soldier and an intelligence man, and to do well at those occupations in tandem you have to be a heck of an actor. Whatever I feel – it mustn't show.

When we went into the room, after the long driveway, the sumptuous décor, the original Miros on the wall, it was already a little dreamlike and then, when I saw her, 'Joan Brenner', there was a moment of utter disbelief, of a feeling that I had stepped through a wall into another universe.

I'm back in the hotel room now, writing this down, trying to make sense of it. The woman who says she is Joan Brenner is also Anna Cross. Isn't she? She certainly looks and sounds identical. Soldier, intelligence woman, actor herself – is she acting? How can I make sense of the part? Why doesn't she call?

The others took coffee. I took tea with nothing in it. I heard myself taking charge of the conversation. Craven hadn't read the file. He still hasn't. He mustn't. So I began, after a long vague preliminary about regretting that much of the information we held being confidential so we were so sorry if we couldn't always divulge -

Her hand was trembling as she lifted the coffee to her mouth. Her full mouth. The mouth that had kissed me passionately. That I had passionately kissed. Hadn't we?

She confirmed her age with a murmur. I rattled on to her birthday. '25th June 1984...'

'No,' she said, ' 30th November.'

Will Craven remember that I lied about the birthdate? He wasn't listening; he was looking at the other woman, Melissa. He didn't look up. Might he look back and wonder why I gave my own birthdate, as a clue to her? For it was on her birthday that we fell for each other, fucked each other, became a little possessed by each other, and there was that little jokey diffident exchange in the morning...We must do this again some time...Yes, let's celebrate my birthday the same way...

And so I rambled on, inventing a social security number (she said she'd have to check with her accountant), whether she'd been in the United States between certain dates (this was true according to the file) and she said no, she was something of a stay-at-home...

Her voice was Anna Cross's. One of those hard-to-place voices, middle-class English with a hint of both American and something else to it – Australian? I love her voice. Anna Cross's voice. Her lilting sometimes severe sometimes amazingly low-pitched voice. Do you say the most surprisingly daring things in the middle of the night? Is there unexpected gold between your thighs?

Somehow I got through the conversation, racking my brains on how to leave it as I wanted...Finally I saw how it could be done. I waited till we'd stood up to go. I took out a card with my fake name on it: Inspector Tom O'Donnell, East Sussex CID. 'Ms Brenner – if you can think of any reason why someone, anyone might be impersonating you, or using your name – give me a call on my mobile – I'll leave you the number...'

Why doesn't she call? It seems like hours since we got back but maybe it's only minutes. She knew who I was. And yet didn't. There was a look of recognition in her eyes – and yet a lost look. We weren't conspiring silently to cover up our previous acquaintance, it was all one way. What game is she playing? Why has the Unit sent us to find her? Why doesn't she call?

She’d barely heard anything either of them had said and merely answered his questions in a monotone. Joan took his card without a glance and Melissa showed them to the door as Joan collapsed onto the sofa. Melissa returned with an extremely puzzled expression on her face to find Joan holding her head in her hands.

“Wanna tell me why you looked like a ghost when he walked in here?” Melissa asked her.

Joan took a deep breath and raised her eyes, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Joan!” Melissa arched a brow and folded her arms.

“Melissa seriously, please don’t,” Joan reclined with a sigh.

Melissa nodded and chose to clear up the cups, leaving Joan with her thoughts. She looked over the plain business card he’d handed to her and frowned as she saw his name. Somehow when she tried to think Tom it always came out as Tim in her head; she groaned and laid back on the couch as a sudden headache took hold.

“Joan? You okay?” Melissa asked her softly, announcing her reentry.

“Headache,” She murmured in response, “they’re becoming more frequent lately.”

Melissa nodded and whispered to her, “Okay, I’ll go and get you some aspirin.”

Joan nodded as Melissa hurried from the room and she was left to consider just how big of a raise she owed to Mel for all of this. Joan thought about calling him for the millionth time but she was still unsure of what to say to this police officer.

“Umm I’m sorry Sir but you may or may not have sprayed me with blue paint while we were both wearing soldier suits once. Oh, oh, oh and this happened in my dream!” She muttered to herself, slapping her hand over her forehead.

Melissa brought the aspirin and water in for Joan, if she heard anything the woman had said however; she kept it to herself. She left Joan to take the pills and gave her some peace, wandering off into the kitchen.

Joan slowly sat up and quickly swallowed the drugs; washing them down with the liquid. She wiped her mouth and reached for the cordless on the end table, Joan sat back gripping the phone in one hand and his card in the other.

She sighed softly and dialed slowly; deciding she would just hang up if she got stuck for words. Finally Joan pressed the call button and held the phone to her ear, it rang a few times before his crisp familiar voice answered.

“Oh um hello Officer; it’s ah Joan Brenner speaking. This might sound a little…odd but I was wondering if I, ah, that is to say well if we would meet and speak? In person? I h-have a few questions of my own to ask…”

Joan Brenner has Anna Cross's voice. Even down the phone line, it plays an arpeggio along his nerves, like the touch of her remembered fingers over his skin.

Is she a twin? Or a clone? Or – or who is she?

He worries that shaking off Craven will be a problem, but when he goes into the nextdoor hotel room he realizes he needn't have worried. Craven is at his laptop, doing something surreptitious he immediately closes down as Tim enters.

'Hey,' says Tim, 'what if you take over the researching I did overnight...'

'Suits me,' says Craven quickly, obviously with the answer ready, 'I think we should be looking at variants on the name – Bremner, Brunner, what d'you think?'

I think you can idle away some time doing that ore pretending to do that because we've already found who we're looking for and anyway I expect you just mean you want to gamble or write or whatever illicit activity you were just engaged in. 'Sure. Fine. I'm having lunch with an old friend, OK?'

Well, perhaps he is. Having lunch with an old friend. Driving the now-familiar road out of Brighton, he reaches for the radio then remembers the tune that was playing last time and decides to let that play in his imagination instead. Take it like a ma-a-an.

All kinds of scenarios play through his mind – he might climb over the gate and walk through the grounds to take her by surprise and say 'Anna!' - but when he gets to the entrance he thinks, why bother? It's a long walk to the house and why can't he just surprise her face to face?

'Tom O'Donnell, Inspector,' he says to the other woman through the intercom and the gates whirr open.

It's only then that a simple plan begins to form: it's often that way with him, as the deadline nears the adrenalin tells him what to do. He's ready for her to answer the door herself, but it's Melissa who invites him in and ushers him upstairs.

Joan Brenner is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, obviously hearing him coming. 'I'll be fine, Mel,' she says. 'Officer,' she goes on, 'how kind of you...'
'Please.' He raises his hand. 'Would you just do something for me?'

She bites her lower lip. 'And what might that be?'

He smiles. As if he knows her. 'Interlock your fingers behind your head.'

'Like – like this?'

'Yes – like that.' Like Anna Cross did when I – 'Now say, I'd rather take it like a woman actually...'

She watched Melissa lead him into the room and leave, his request might’ve seemed odd to someone else but Joan was increasingly curious and complied. If it meant getting some semblance of an answer from the man then it was worth it.

She laced her fingers behind her head nervously, she’d done this before in her dream and he was there. Was it real? He was real; didn’t that mean she must have lived it? Then why, why couldn’t she just remember it?!

“Yes – like that. Now say, I'd rather take it like a woman actually...”

“I’d rather take it like a woman actually…” She said nervously and bit her lip, it was the dream all over again but it wasn’t because he was really here.

She dropped her hands and looked at him reproachfully, “How did you-?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, “It’s not possible, it was a dream! You can’t be...real…”

Yet when she looked in his eyes, she knew that it was definitely possible and he was most certainly real.

“Who are you? How do you…how do I know you?” She murmured in question before she moved to the door and closed it.

Joan prayed Melissa hadn’t heard any of that because it was too hard to explain to herself let alone someone else. She brushed a brown curl from her face and nervously smoothed her blue denim dress over as she usually did when she was uneasy. The fact that she knew in her dreams that she’d had romantic relations with the man and the fact that the now very really person was standing in her bedroom was not helping her anxieties any either.

Joan felt a very sudden urge to call her psychiatrist and tell him she’d finally cracked, book her into the next straight jacket and rubber room please! Something clicked like a bulb inside her head and she remembered about his name.

“Not Tom is it? Tim…” She said softly, a little unsure of herself but knew it to be a gut feeling of some kind.

Indescribable.

Everything that was happening in this room, in this moment was utterly indescribable, inconceivable and totally devastating to her mind. The impact upon her had another headache stirring in the depths of her brain; she winced slightly at the strange, painful sensation. Her headaches were unlike any she’d ever had before and they’d only come on rather recently though she wondered if the cease to her black outs had anything to do with that? Was it temporary or permanent?

'Do you run?'

'I'm sorry, what, what are you...?'

It's too much for her, there's such a look of pain on her face he wants to fold her in his arms and kiss her hair and tell her everything's all right but who is she? Who does she believe herself to be? He keeps his distance and gestures at the window:

'It's a beautiful day. I'm going to go down to the sea and take a run along the beach. What do you say?'

'I don't – I'm not sure I -'

But she's turning. The anguish is clearing. Oh the smoothness of her skin. The flicker of a light in her eyes. He smiles encouragingly. 'We can talk about all these other things later. Sometimes just to run – to feel free - it can clear your mind.'

'Perhaps Melissa...'

She looks at him; looks away. 'Yes,' he says, 'get her to drive you, follow my car, we'll go down to the beach. You know – I once ran through a forest with – with a woman called,' no, not now, 'with a woman who looked rather like you - and it was neck and neck who was faster...so what do you say?'

“Yes, get her to drive you, follow my car, we'll go down to the beach. You know – I once ran through a forest with – with a woman called…with a woman who looked rather like you - and it was neck and neck who was faster...so what do you say?”

Joan bit her lip and looked down at herself, her clothing wasn’t exactly appropriate for a run. She looked at him again and nodded, “Sure, just ah let me change okay?”

She waited until he nodded and exited the room before she made for her closet, rifling through until she found some blue sweatpants and a jacket. She changed quickly and pulled on her socks and joggers before she wandered out of her bedroom. She called to Melissa as she made her way downstairs and found that she was already standing at the front door with the car keys in hand.

Joan sighed with a smile and walked outside with her, grabbing her purse and keys as she went. She slid into the car as Melissa dutifully opened the door and sat patiently as Melissa made her way around the car. Joan looked over at Tom; Tim? She watched him drive towards the gate and Melissa keyed them open, the metal gates heaving as the two cars drove out in silence.

It wasn’t a very long drive and Joan was grateful when they pulled up, she left her keys and purse in the backseat of the car as Melissa opened the door for her. She got out and stretched slightly, watching Tom; Tim or whatever his name was as he made his way over.

“I hope you know it’s been a very long time since anyone has run with me, I’m not sure I’ll do very well.” She offered a smile as she spoke, taking a deep whiff of the salty air.

Underneath the sweater and the tracksuit trousers I'm wearing long purple shorts and a blue top spattered with old paint - clothes that Anna Cross might recognize.

But would her lookalike Joan Brenner?

How anxious her smile is. There's a cool breeze in off the sea from France, but the sun has pushed aside some clouds to look down on us. I'm remembering our training, mine and Anna's, deep in the mid-West, when I foolishly, with what I meant to be gallantry but soon realized was arrogance, gave her a head start in the sprint after, I mean after a six-mile endurance run. All I saw was her arse, her rather sexy arse, receding into the distance even when I moved into top speed.

About a quarter of a mile to the east, along the open beach, is some sort of construction. The ruin of an old wartime shelter maybe; the coast is littered with them. 'See that...?' I say to her.

She's still Joan, uncertain of herself. Not Anna. Perhaps that's all she is, a lookalike, a clone without Anna's courage, vitality, grace, character. 'Mm hm.'

'First to it gets to ask a favour of the other.'

A chink of a wry instead of anxious smile. 'Starting,' she says, 'on Three. One, three...'

And she's away. And I'm after her. Just us. The beach. The sun. The distant finish. The exhilaration of the chase.

Joan took off like a shot, something in the fast paced chase was familiar and yet she was unable to place it. She loved the way the wind whipped through her chocolate curls and tussled them so beautifully, for the first time in years she actually felt alive again. Joan looked over her shoulder and grinned when she saw him catching up to her, she’d cheated but it was still pretty funny.

Joan drew closer and stretched out her hand to touch the concrete ruin as she felt him not a hair breadth behind her. Her fingertips reached and scraped the surface and she smiled in triumph before she bent over, gripping her knees to catch her breath.

Joan looked up at Tim and grinned victoriously, “Guess you owe me a favour now don’t you?”

She spoke breathlessly, gasping for oxygen as her heartbeat slowly calmed and she realized she’d only won by an inch or so. Joan straightened slowly and appraised him, holding out her hand for him to shake just didn’t seem right between them; it was too impersonal and yet she’d only met him that very same day technically.

“I know what I want for my favour Tim…” She said slowly, warily, “Tell me why you’re here really? Don’t spin me some missing persons story cause the second I saw you, I didn’t believe it for a second!”

Desire. He felt it when she smiled. He felt it when she cheated at the start. He felt it when he saw her, running. He felt it when she bent, gasping. And now:

'You notice what you called me?'

She opens her mouth to speak; something holds her back.

'Tim, right?'

She nods. Her eyes are somewhere else for a moment, far away. Then she's back with me. 'Right,' she says, not quite a question but not a firm statement.

'Well,' and without asking he takes her left hand in his right and they turn to walk back along the beach, a few gulls croaking in derision but what the heck, 'you need to cast your mind back to your crash course in Physics, you remember that?'

'No.'

'Well,' he laughs and squeezes her hand, ' that's tricky but let me explain, in quantum mechanics a wave function that's in a number of states, what are known as eigenstates, seems to collapse into one particular state or position when viewed by an observer. With me so far?'

Smoke-trails streak the sky. He wants to look at her and brush a curl away from her eye but at least she hasn't pulled her hand away from his. 'Assuming I might know what a wave function is which I think I do remember...'

'OK,' because he doesn't want to get bogged down in this he's already going round the houses to explain himself, 'well one way of solving the puzzle of this is to deny that the wave function collapses in this way. Instead quantum physicists posit that every possible outcome does happen - somewhere else - in another version of the universe - it's one of a number of multiverse theories.'

She's smiling. Does she remember him pontificating like this over a campfire after too many beers one night when he was Tim and she was...

'And that's how it is with you and me. In another eigenstate, another version of the universe you've met me before. And I'm called Tim. And we...' Don't say we made love, not yet. He stops, releasing her hand, stands in front of her. 'Joan – do you remember the name Anna Cross?'

Joan listened to his explanations and while she understood, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Alternate universes? It was a bit of a stretch for any mind; especially her’s but at the same time; she couldn’t deny the familiarity this man provoked and the emotions that welled up within her at the mere sight of him.

'And that's how it is with you and me. In another eigenstate, another version of the universe you've met me before. And I'm called Tim. And we...'

He was going to say something and stopped; what were you going to say? Tell me! She desperately wanted to know and yet she couldn’t fathom why it mattered, he changed the subject quickly.

'Joan – do you remember the name Anna Cross?'

They’d been walking up until that point and Joan froze solid like a brick wall had just been planted in front of her and there was nowhere to go. Her eyes widened for unknown reasons and a flash of pain was felt in the far recesses of her brain. The pain was written over her face and she stumbled, looking at him as though she wasn’t quite in there anymore.

“My love?” She whispered and another flash of pain stabbed at her head, she swooned and fainted.

Like some cheesy romance; by chance and quick reflexes he caught her but she was out like a light.