2 The Imposter Read Online Free Page A

with blood and grime.
    “Hello, uncle,” Edward said.
    The old man gaped at him, dropping his knife.
    “You want to be careful with that––you’ll have your finger off.”
    Jimmy hugged him and then released him, clutching him by the shoulders so he could look him up and down. “Good lord, Jack––you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
    It was the first time he had been addressed by his real name for seven years. It took a moment for him to reply, “It’s not Jack anymore, uncle, remember? It’s Edward.”
    “Hell, I forgot. Edward––?”
    “Fabian.”
    He chuckled. “Edward Fabian––that’s right. We really should have found you a better name.”
    “Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in a rush. It wasn’t like I could wait around for something better to come along.”
    The two nodded at the thought of it. Edward Fabian had been the victim of one of the first Luftwaffe bombs of The Blitz. He had been a promising medical student, just graduated from Trinity Hall, Cambridge. Jimmy had a friend in the coroner’s office and he had been paid a pound to look out for a casualty who matched Jack’s height, build and hair colour. Fabian had been the first to meet the criteria, and they had simply switched papers. The local council was at sixes and sevens as the bombs fell and it had been easy to cover their tracks. Fabian’s body had been cremated hastily and that was that: as far as the authorities were concerned, Jack Stern had died in the wreckage of a collapsed terrace. Jack had become Edward.
    “What do I call you? Jack or Edward?”
    “Edward,” he said. “It’s been years. I’ve got used to it now. And Jack’s dead. Let’s not tempt fate.”
    “When did you get back?”
    “Last week.”
    “And you’re out?”
    “I am.”
    “Properly? For good?”
    “I’m officially demobbed. I’m a free man.”
    Edward noticed a new, manic quality to his uncle. Jimmy had always been highly-strung, prone to mood swings, but it seemed that he was wound even tighter than usual.
    “Have you eaten?” Jimmy asked.
    “A sandwich on the train.”
    “‘A sandwich on the train.’ That’s not good enough, is it? Go and find a seat. I’ll fetch you something.”
    Edward was hungry and didn’t complain. He made his way through into the restaurant. It was quiet, just a few diners quietly going about their meals, cutlery ringing against the crockery. He checked his watch: it wasn’t late. They should have been much busier.
    Jimmy brought out a plate of Baked Pig’s Cheek and sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing special.”
    “It’ll do fine.” Edward sliced a piece of pork and put it into his mouth. He chewed; it was rubbery and dry, barely edible. Jimmy had prepared an excellent apple sauce to mask the poor quality of the meat but there was only so much he could do.
    “So? How was it?”
    “Up and down” he said. “Some days were good, some were bad. Most of the time it was boring.”
    “Boring?” Jimmy said.
    “You’d be surprised.” He had no desire to talk about the war and changed the subject. “How have things been here? It’s quiet.”
    “Slow.”
    His face showed the signs of strain and worry. “Are you making money?”
    “Not really. Not enough.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He dismissed the question with a brush of his hand. “We don’t need to talk about that now––you’ve just got back. It can wait.”
    This was more than enough to make Edward nervous. “No, tell me.”
    Jimmy slumped a little. “It’s been difficult. Bloody difficult. We’ve been losing money. The rent, the cost of staff, the ingredients.” He pointed at Edward’s half-finished plate of food. “I can’t charge proper prices for that. The food is the same as a National Restaurant. Worse, probably. It’s impossible.”
    “It’s not so bad,” Edward said, poking at the remnants of the meal.
    “I’m not an idiot, Edward. It’s awful. You saw the menu? The beef is horse, we don’t