Authors: Christopher Priest
Finally, he steadied.
“Who are you?” he said, his frightened voice uneven, breaking into falsetto on the last
word.
“I am Rupert Angier,” I replied hoarsely.
“But you are dead!”
“Yes.”
“Then how—?”
I said, “We should never have started this, Borden. But killing you is not the way to end
it.”
I was humbled by the awfulness what I had been trying to do, and the basic sense of
decency that had ruled my life until this point was reasserting itself in force. How could
I ever have imagined that I could kill a man in cold blood? I turned away from Borden
sorrowfully, and forced myself against the wooden door. As I passed through slowly I heard
him make his yelping rasp of horror once again.
v
I was thrown into a fit of despair and self-disgust by my attempt on Borden's life. I knew
I had betrayed myself, betrayed my prestige (who was aware of none of my actions),
betrayed Julia, my children, my father's name, every friend I had known. If ever I needed
proof that my feud with Borden was an appalling mistake, at last I had it. Nothing we had
done to each other in the past could justify such a descent into brutality.
In a state of wretchedness and apathy I returned to the room I had rented, thinking there
was no more I could do with my life. I had nothing more for which to live.
vi
I planned to waste away and die, but there is a spirit of life, even in one such as
myself, that stands in the way of such decisions. I thought that if I did not eat and
drink then death would simply follow, but in practice I found that thirst becomes such a
frantic obsession that it takes a greater resolve than mine to resist it. Every time I
took a few drops to slake it, I postponed my demise a little more. The same was true with
food; hunger is a monster.
After a while I came to an accommodation with this and stayed alive, a pathetic denizen of
a half-world that was as much of my own making as it had been of Borden’s, or so I came to
believe.
I went through most of the winter in this miserable state, a failure even at
self-destruction.
During February I felt something profound growing in me. At first I thought it was an
intensification of the loss I had felt since Lowestoft; the fact that I was never able to
see Julia or the children. I had denied myself this, believing that on balance my need to
be with them was outweighed by the horrific effect my appearance would have on them. As
the months slipped by, this sadness had become a horrible ache in me, but I could detect
nothing around me that made it suddenly grow in the way it had.
It was when I thought of the life of my other self, the prestige left behind me after
Lowestoft, that I felt a sense of sharp focus. I knew at once he was in trouble. There had
been an accident to him of some kind, or he was being threatened (perhaps by one of the
Bordens?), or even that his health had deteriorated more quickly than I had expected.
Once again, when I thought specifically about his health, I knew at once I had identified
what was happening. He was ill, dying even. I had to be with him, help him in whatever way
I could.
By this time I was myself no great figure of physical strength. In addition to the
attenuated body the accident had given me, my poor diet and lack of exercise had made me
into a virtual skeleton. I rarely moved from my sordid room, and did so only at night when
no one could see me. I knew that I had become hideous to behold, a veritable ghoul in
every sense. The prospect of the long journey to Derbyshire seemed fraught with dangerous
possibilities.
I therefore embarked on a conscious effort to improve my appearance. I began to take food
and drink in reasonable quantities, I hacked at my long and dishevelled hair, and stole a
new set of clothes. Several weeks of care would be necessary to restore me even to my
appearance after Lowestoft, but I did start feeling better almost at once, and my spirits
rose.
Against this was the knowledge that the pain being suffered by my prestige was almost
unendurable.
Everything was heading ineluctably towards my return to the family home, and in the last
week of March I bought a ticket for the overnight train to Sheffield.
vii
I knew only one thing about the impact of my return home. My sudden appearance would not
surprise the part of me that I called my prestige.
I arrived at Caldlow House in mid-morning, a bright Spring day, and in the unwavering
sunlight my physical appearance was at its most substantial. Even so, I knew I cut a
surprising figure, because during my short daytime journey from Sheffield station by cab,
omnibus and then cab again I had drawn many an inquisitive look from passers-by. I had
grown used to this in London, but Londoners are themselves accustomed to seeing the city's
stranger denizens. Here in the provinces a skeletal man in dark clothes and large hat,
with unnatural complexion, raggedly cut hair and weirdly hollow eyes, was an object of
curiosity and alarm.
At the house I went and hammered on the door. I could have let myself in, but I had no
idea what I should expect to find. I felt it best to take my unheralded return one step at
a time.
Hutton opened the door. I removed my hat, and stood plainly before him. He had begun to
speak before he looked properly at me, but he was silenced as he saw me. He stared
wordlessly, his face impassive. I knew him well enough to realize that his silence
revealed his consternation.
When I had given him time to accept who I might be, I said, “Hutton, I'm pleased to see
you again.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.
“You must know what occurred in Lowestoft, Hutton,” I said. “I am the unfortunate
consequence of that.”
“Yes, sir,” he said at last.
“May I come in?”
“Should I advise Lady Colderdale you are here, sir?”
“I should like to speak to you quietly before I see her, Hutton. I know my arrival here is
likely to cause alarm.”
He took me to his sitting room beside the kitchen, and he gave me a cup of tea from a pot
he had just been making. I sipped it while I stood before him, not knowing how to explain.
Hutton, a man I had always admired for his presence of mind, soon took control of the
situation.
“I think it best, sir,” he said, “if you would wait here while I take it upon myself to
announce your arrival to her ladyship. She will then, I believe, come to see you. You may
best decide how to proceed together.”
"Hutton, tell me. How is my—? I mean, how is the health of—?'
“His lordship has been gravely ill, sir. However, the prognosis is excellent and he has
returned this week from hospital. He is convalescing in the garden room, where we have
moved his bed. I believe her ladyship is with him at this moment.”
“This is an impossible situation, Hutton,” I ventured.
“It is, sir.”
“For you in particular, I mean.”
“For me and for you, and for everyone, sir. I understand what happened in that theatre in
Lowestoft. His lordship, that is, you, sir, took me into his confidence. You will
remember, no doubt, that I have been much involved with the disposal of the prestige
materials. There are of course no secrets in this house, my Lord, as you directed.”
“Is Adam Wilson here?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I'm glad to know that.”
A few moments later, Hutton left and after a delay of about five minutes returned with
Julia. She looked tired, and her hair was drawn back into a bun. She came straight to me
and we embraced warmly enough, but we were both so nervous. I could feel her tensing as we
held each other.
Hutton excused himself, and when we were alone together Julia and I assured each other I
was not some kind of gruesome impostor. Even I had sometimes doubted my own identity
during those long winter months. There is a kind of madness where delusion replaces
reality, and many times such a malaise seemed to explain everything; that I had once been
Rupert Angier but I was now dispossessed of my own life and only memories remained, or
alternatively that I was some other soul who in madness had come to believe he was Angier.
When I got a chance I explained to Julia the limits of my bodily existence; how I would
fade from sight without bright light, how I could slip inadvertently through solid objects.
Then she told me of the cancers from which I, my prestige, had been suffering, and how by
some miracle they had seemed to recede on their own, allowing me, him, to return home.
“Will he recover completely?” I asked anxiously.
“The surgeon said that recovery sometimes occurs spontaneously, but in most cases a
remission is only for a short while. He believes in this case, you, he—” She looked ready
to cry, so I took her hand in mine. She steadied herself and spoke sombrely. “He believes
that this is just a temporary reprieve. The cancers are malignant, widespread and
multifarious.”
Then she told me the matters that most surprised me: that Borden, or more accurately one
of the Borden twins, had died, and that his notebook had come into my, our, possession.
I was astounded to hear these things. For instance, I learned that Borden had died only
three days after my failed attempt on his life; the two events seemed to me inevitably
connected. Julia said it was thought he had suffered a heart attack; I wondered if this
could have been brought on by the fear I instilled in him? I remembered his terrible
noises of anguish, his laboured breathing, and his general appearance of fatigue and
ill-health. I knew that heart seizures could be caused by stress, but until this moment I
had supposed that after my departure Borden regained his senses and would eventually have
returned to normal.
I confessed my story to Julia, but she seemed to think the two events were unconnected.
Even more of interest was the news about Borden's notebook. Julia told me she had read
some of it, and that most of Borden's magic was described within its pages. I asked her if
I, my prestige, had any plans about what to do with it, but she said that the illness had
interrupted everything. She mentioned that she shared some of the contrition I felt
towards Borden, and that my prestige was of much the same mind.
I said, “Where is he? We must be together.”
“He will be waking soon,” Julia replied.
viii
My reunion with myself must be one of the most unusual in history! He and I were perfect
complements to each other. Everything I lacked was in him; everything I had he had lost.
Of course we were the same, closer to each other than identical twins.
When either of us spoke, the other could easily finish the sentence. We moved in the same
way, had the same gestures and mannerisms, came to the same thought in the same moment. I
knew everything about him, and he knew the same of me. All we lacked between ourselves was
our separate experiences of the last few months, but once we had described these to each
other even that difference was eliminated. He trembled at my description of my attempt on
Borden's life, and I suffered at second hand some of the pain and wretchedness of his
disease.
Once we were together there was nothing that would make us separate again. I asked Hutton
to make up a second bed in the garden room, so that the two halves of myself could be
together the whole time.
None of this could be kept from the rest of the household, and soon I was reunited with my
children, with Adam and Gertrude Wilson, as well as Mrs Hutton, the housekeeper. Everyone
exclaimed about the uncanny double effect we created. I dread to think what effect this
revelation of their father will have on my children in the future, but both parts of me,
and Julia, agreed that the truth was better than yet another lie.
It was not long before the chilling fact of the cancers lent an urgency to the time we
spent together, and we realized that if there was anything remaining to be done, now was
the time.
ix
From the beginning of April until the middle of May we worked together on the revision of
Borden's notebook, preparing it for the publisher. My twin brother (for so it became
convenient to think of my prestige) was soon ill again, and although he had done much of
the initial work on the book it was I who completed the work, and negotiated with the
publisher.
And I, using his identity, maintained the journal for him until his demise. So it was,
yesterday, that our double life came to an end, and with it comes the end of my own short
life story. Now there is only me, and I live beyond death once more.
#############
8th July 1904
This morning I went with Wilson down to the cellar, where we inspected the Tesla
apparatus. It was in full working order, but because it was a long time since I had used
it I went through Mr Alley's notes to check that everything was in place. I had always
enjoyed the sense of collaborating with the far distant Mr Alley. His meticulous notes
were a pleasure to work with.
Wilson asked me if we should dismantle the device.
I thought briefly, then said, “Let's leave it until after the funeral.”
The ceremony is planned for tomorrow at midday.
After Wilson had left, and I had locked the access door to the cellar, I powered up the
device and used it to transmit more gold coins. I was thinking of the future, of my son
the 15th Earl, of my wife the dowager lady. All these were responsibilities I could not
fully address. Once again I felt the crushing weight of my own ineffectuality holding back
not only me but my innocent family.
I had not counted the wealth we had created with the device, but my prestige had shown me
the hoard he had made, kept in a closed and locked compartment in the darkest recess of
the cellar. I removed what I estimated to be two thousand pounds’ worth, for Julia's
immediate requirements, then I added my few new coins to what was left, thinking that no
matter how much we forged there would never be enough.