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Book II
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Chapter Five
‘I don’t care for hard names,’ interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. ‘You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.’
CHARLES DICKENS, Oliver Twist
They found a table in the back corner of the Twisted Root. Robin’s doppelgänger ordered them two glasses of a light golden ale. Robin drained half his glass in three desperate gulps and felt somewhat steadier, though no less confused.
‘My name,’ said his doppelgänger, ‘is Griffin Lovell.’
Upon closer inspection, he and Robin were not so alike after all. He was several years older, and his face bore a hard maturity that Robin’s hadn’t yet acquired. His voice was deeper, less forgiving, more assertive. He was several inches taller than Robin, though he was also much thinner; indeed, he appeared composed entirely of sharp edges and angles. His hair was darker, his skin paler. He looked like a print illustration of Robin, the lighting contrasts amplified and the colour blanched out.
He’s even more of your spitting image than the last.
‘Lovell,’ Robin repeated, trying to find his bearings. ‘Then you’re—?’
‘He’ll never admit it,’ said Griffin. ‘But he won’t with you either, will he? Do you know he’s got a wife and children?’
Robin choked. ‘What?’
‘It’s true. A girl and a boy, seven and three. Darling Philippa and little Dick. The wife’s name is Johanna. He’s got them squirrelled away in a lovely estate in Yorkshire. It’s partly how he gets funding for voyages abroad – he came from nothing, but she’s terribly rich. Five hundred pounds a year, I’m told.’
‘But then does—?’
‘Does she know about us? Absolutely not. Though I don’t think she’d care if she did, apart from the obvious reputational problems. There’s no love lost in that marriage. He wanted an estate and she wanted bragging rights. They see each other about twice a year, and the rest of his time he lives here, or in Hampstead. We’re the children he spends the most time with, funnily enough.’ Griffin cocked his head. ‘At least, you are.’
‘Am I dreaming?’ Robin mumbled.
‘You wish. You look ghastly. Drink.’
Robin reached mechanically for his glass. He was no longer trembling, but his head felt very fuzzy. Drinking didn’t help, but it at least gave him something to do with his hands.
‘I’m sure you’ve got loads of questions,’ said Griffin. ‘I’ll try to answer them, but you’ll have to be patient. I’ve got questions too. What do you call yourself?’
‘Robin Swift,’ said Robin, puzzled. ‘You know that.’
‘But that’s the name you prefer?’
Robin was not sure what he meant by this. ‘I mean, there’s my first – I mean, my Chinese name, but no one – I don’t—’
‘Fine,’ said Griffin. ‘Swift. Nice name. How’d you come up with that?’
‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ Robin admitted. It sounded very silly when he said it out loud. Everything about Griffin made him feel like a child in contrast. ‘It – it’s one of my favourite books. Professor Lovell said to pick whatever I liked, and that was the first name that came to mind.’
Griffin’s lip curled. ‘He’s softened a bit, then. Me, he took to a street corner before we signed the papers and told me foundlings were often named after the places they’d been abandoned. Said I could walk the city until I found a word that didn’t sound too ridiculous.’
‘Did you?’
‘Sure. Harley. Nowhere special in particular, I just saw it above a shop and I liked the way it sounded. The shapes your mouth has to make, the release of the second syllable. But I’m no Harley, I’m a Lovell, just as you’re no Swift.’
‘So we’re—’
‘Half-brothers,’ said Griffin. ‘Hello, brother. It’s lovely to meet you.’
Robin set down his glass. ‘I’d like to have the full story now.’
