I was on the up escalator at the station when I saw him coming down. Terry Hamer. Except that it wasn’t Terry Hamer. He was the exact likeness of Terry Hamer. The same black curly hair that no comb could tame. The heavy-set brows hooding dark brown eyes. The pale face that never seemed to tan, not even on the hottest summer’s day. I knew it couldn’t be Terry Hamer. I knew Terry Hamer at college forty years ago. This guy was in his twenties. You might suppose he was his son, or his grandson even. The likeness was disturbing. Who was he? I knew he wasn’t a son or grandson because on 27^th May 1982, I murdered Terry Hamer.

It had been surprisingly easy. Nobody knew we had gone walking along a mountain path in Snowdonia. Now, Terry Hamer is at the bottom of a ravine. It was weeks before anybody realised he was missing. I went back to Liverpool and got on with my life.

It was all over a girl, of course. Stupid jealousy. Terry Hamer won: he had the hair and the hooded eyes. Even with him out of the way I didn’t get the girl.

I hadn’t thought about them in forty years until this morning. As he came down the escalator he smirked across at me and mouthed: ‘They’re coming for you.’

Two detectives from the Cold Case Squad were waiting for me when I got home. Someone had found a skeleton in Snowdonia.

Words: Richard Rooney

Illustration: A.I.

Flash Fiction 250

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