The Gates of Balawat, Chapter 4
Ella continues her investigations and notices signs that something isn't right.
“Sorry to bother you,” Ella said in a tone she hoped would imply an unspoken ‘again’ if this were the same Andy she had spoken to the previous day, whilst trying not to sound too familiar lest this be the other Andy, the twin, whatever his name was. She twirled the broken pencil in her fingers again.
“You wouldn’t happen...” He looked up, no flash of recognition on his face at all, not even a hint of it.“You wouldn’t happen to have a pencil sharpener, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Have I seen you here before?”
“You might have. I try to come most days.”
Ella smiled as she sharpened her pencil again. Still blue eyes, faint freckles, but no mole. And his hair was cut slightly differently. She glanced at his sketchbook. His style was more manga, less superhero this time, she thought, comparing it to her memories of the work she’d seen that Friday.
“I like it!” She nodded at his sketchbook.
“Thanks!”
“Do you have your own webcomic?”
“Funny you should say that, I’ve been working on something but I haven’t put it online yet.”
“Oh, you totally should!”
“It just takes so long, though. Drawing, scanning, tidying up. I’m trying to get to a point where I can put out an episode a month without feeling too pressured about it.”
“Yeah, it’s not a quick process. Have you tried using one of those Cintiq tablets? Friend of mine has one, says they’re awesome.”
“Oh, that is way beyond my budget!”
“Yeah, that’s what I say to Poppy every time she mentions it. Hell on your eyes, too, if you’re not careful.”
“And not very portable.”
“No. Can’t beat paper and pencil.” With that, she finished sharpening her pencil and handed the sharpener back. “Well, maybe I’ll see you again!”
“I hope so!”
❦
“Excuse me,” Ella said, beginning to wonder if she sounded as false to his ears as she did to her own. She held up the broken pencil, now almost a stump. It had been new last Wednesday and was now barely viable as an implement for drawing. He laughed before she could continue her request.
“Sure,” he said, delving in his bag. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” she said, checking for the mole and finding it near his left ear. If he was one of a set of identical siblings they must have been at least sextuplets, and that didn’t feel particularly likely. “I’m Ella, by the way,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve seen you here before.”
“I’m Anthony,” he said, except he ran the syllables together so that it sounded like ‘Antnee’. “You must draw a lot to get a pencil in that state!”
“I try to come most days,” she said, almost choking on the repetition of the previous day’s conversation.
“What’s your favourite gallery?”
“I have to say it’s the Assyrian section.”
“Oh, that statue of Ashurnasirpal’s pretty impressive. You know he’s gone on tour?” he said.
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, I came here to draw it one day and he was gone. They said he was in Chicago. No idea how long for.”
“Huh. I’d never thought about pieces of artwork going on tour. Swapsies between museums.” She said, sitting down on the bench next to him.
“I guess it means they can get something new on display without forking over a small fortune in acquisitions.”
“Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”
The pause stretched on, threatening to become uncomfortable. Ella groped for a sensible question to keep the conversation going, but her mind remained disturbingly blank.
“Are you an art student?” he eventually said.
“No, I graduated a couple of years ago.”
“Ah.”
“You didn’t get to go to art school?” she asked.
“No, I left school at 16 to get a job.”
“It nearly came to that for me, too,” Ella said. “My dad left when I was 13, and it wasn’t entirely clear that I’d be able to afford university.”
“You managed it, though?”
“Yeah, worked holidays as soon as I was old enough and saved up. Took a year out to work and save too.”
“Really? That’s dedication!”
“I always knew I wanted to go to art school. There was never any doubt as far as I was concerned, it was just a matter of how I was going to get there. And London’s not cheap. I mean, even with a student loan, it’s hard to make it work.”
Anthony snorted. “You can say that again. It doesn’t get any easier, either!”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off moving somewhere cheaper.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought that a million times too, but this is where all the opportunities are.” He shrugged at the Catch 22. “So you freelance?”
“Me? No, no, not yet. I’d like to but, well…” she trailed off.
“But you seem incredibly determined and…” he peered at her sketch book, “you’re really good. How are you not swamped with work?”
Ella was, for a moment, lost for words. “Thanks,” she managed. “It’s, well, it’s really competitive out there.”
“Yeah, it is, but, well, I hope you won’t be offended, but I think you might be hiding your light under a bushel.”
Ella laughed. “That’s very kind of you to say! You’re not too bad yourself!” she said as she peered in return at his work.
Just like it had been with Andy, the conversation was natural and comfortable. The fact that her childhood had so many points of similarity made her feel a deep kinship with them both. There was an easy understanding, a sense that deep explanations weren’t really necessary because they’d been through the same sorts of experiences.
Indeed, Ella thought, Anthony’s past seemed not just similar to but identical to Andy’s. They had to be siblings. Yet something was subtly off, something she couldn’t figure out. There was just too much overlap between the two men’s personalities, their turns of phrase, their mannerisms. It was as if she was looking at the same person fragmented through a kaleidoscope.
❦
Andy/Anthony was nowhere to be found. Ella made her way through the galleries, checking the smaller, less frequented halls. She wound up in the main atrium, disappointed but curious. Who were these people, these siblings with similar names and a roving mole who were never seen in the same room together?
She passed the huge signpost and map as she approached the main exit and pulled up short. ‘Welcome to the British Museum’. British Museum, not National Museum. Odd. A mistake, maybe? She filed out behind some tourists into the museum approach and turned to look at the majestic neo-classical portico. There, in huge letters on every sign were the words ‘British Museum’.
She saw a cluster of young women, day packs on their backs, shorts and T-shirts to take advantage of the lovely weather. They were poring over a map of the capital, perhaps deciding where to visit next.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Could I take a quick look at your map please?” She pointed.
“Yes, yes,” one of the women said in a heavy accent, holding the map out towards Ella. She studied it. There was the British Museum in Holborn. There in Trafalgar Square was the British Gallery and, next to it, the British Portrait Gallery. Ella knew them as the National Museum, the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. Confused, she gave the map back and thanked the women.
She wandered out of the main gates, automatically bearing right before remembering that there were roadworks in the way. Or there should be. But the enormous hole in the ground that would eventually become a new Underground station simply wasn’t there.
Ella felt tension growing and quickened her pace, heading for Caroline’s art shop, all the while looking for the tiny details, comparing each one to the images in her memory. She balked at the implications of the thought. Things, small things, were not what they should be, but that didn’t mean, couldn’t mean…
She turned the corner, queasy with anticipation. There it was, Caroline’s shop, except the sign didn’t say Fine Lines, it said Hart Works. That made sense — Caroline’s surname was Hart — but that wasn’t how it should be. It should say Fine Lines because Caroline had decided Hart Works was far too cheesy. She whipped out her phone and snapped a photo of the shop. She checked the screen and noticed the words ‘no carrier’ where the signal bars should be.
She shuddered. Hurriedly, she walked back to the museum, photographing every anomaly she spotted along the way, everything that could be compared when she got home, whatever ‘home’ meant.
She retraced her steps through the museum. Through Ancient Greece and Rome, the Egyptian monumental galleries, she twisted and turned, dodging the tourists, trying to remember the way. She knew the museum like the back of her hand, she berated herself, of course she knew the way. But here she was now at the back door, her secret way in and out, and the signage still said British instead of National. She panicked, wheeling away from the door, scared that stepping through it would condemn her to a life in a world that wasn’t hers. She turned back on herself once again, her pace so brisk that she teetered on the edge of running, but to run would draw unwanted attention and the last thing she wanted now was questions.
Soon enough she was back in the Great Courtyard, clamping down on the sick feeling and casting around for clues. The shop had signage saying British Museum, the café too. But there was the table she had sat at with Andy. Perhaps not the exact same one, but she had gone home quite happily that day, unaware that anything was wrong. She walked over and sat in the same chair, or a chair in the same location, and took a deep breath. She thought back to that conversation with Andy, thought about his easy nature, his laugh, that smile. She smiled herself involuntarily. She played the conversation over in her mind right up until the moment that they had said goodbye. Then she stood and quietly retrod those steps, back through the Assyrian rooms, back past Ashurnasirpal II, back through the Balawat Gates, back down the quiet, hidden passageways that took her out to her secret exit... And there, at the exit, a sign: ‘Thank you for visiting the National Museum. Please give generously.’ And Ella did, giving a few pounds and generous thanks that she was home.
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