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You’re a spy from an enemy country, and you don’t belong here.”
    â€œSo what are you going to do about it?”
    â€œBlam! Blam blam! You’re dead!”
    I keel over like he’s shot me and groan and act like I’m throwing up and bleeding everywhere.
    â€œYuk! You don’t do that when you’re dead, you just lie down and stay still.”
    â€œNot in my world you don’t. This is how it’s done.”
    I go on howling and writhing. Then I slump down, my back to him.
    There’s a silence.
    I stay still.
    He pokes me in the back.
    Gently.
    I don’t move.
    He pokes me again, harder.
    Yells.
    â€œMummy, Marilyn’s dead. I shot her and she’s had a heart attack all over. I didn’t mean to.”
    He sounds a bit wobbly, like he believes it. Didn’t know I was such a good actor.
    â€œMummy!”
    I don’t want her to come upstairs. I turn over and lunge for him. He gives a little scream, then runs towards the door. I have to stop him.
    â€œOnly joking!”
    He stops.
    â€œYou stink, Marilyn stupid Bolton. You stink and you smell and you’re like poo.”
    He’s out of the door and slams it behind him.
    What am I doing? Play-acting with a child from another planet? I can’t believe any of this.
    Marilyn Bolton. So that’s who she is, the girl who lives here, the girl who people keep mistaking me for. Where is she? Maybe she’ll come in later – that would be a shock for her, to find me here. But maybe – maybe I’m her now. If any of that makes sense. It doesn’t make sense to me. And I’m here living it.
    I look at the last page she’s written, about half way through the book. There’s a crap drawing of a boy’s face. Or it seems to be a boy. A boy with black glasses. She’s written ‘Tony’ underneath it. With a heart.
    I feel so bad reading this. Worse because it’s so sad. I look at the page before. It’s a long ramble about her life:
    Thursday, and all I’ve got to look forward to is the church social on Saturday, and the vague hope that Tony might notice me. I need to finish making the skirt by then. And church on Sunday. And homework of course, there’s a chemistry test on Monday, and I have to finish the physics for Monday too. I can’t wait to do these A levels and get to university. Another six months before I get out of here, for good. I’ll make a calendar and count off the days. But the biggest thing is, I want a boy to kiss me. Soon. I can’t go on much longer without. I can’t go to university never having been kissed. I’ve tried practicing on my arm, but it’s not the same.
    So this girl is the same age as me. Doing A levels. In another world. This room is totally different from mine. It’s freezing cold. The bed has sheets and blankets and a quilt, no duvet. Thin curtains on the windows. Clashing with the flowery walls. Like nobody cared about the style. Then there are the books. Some I know, like classics. Loads of science books. She’s serious about science. The pile of library books. Look like romances.
    I flip one open. Hidden Love . There’s a date stamp. 20th March. Overdue. Take another look.
    1962.
    I look at the others.
    All due back on 20th March. 1962.

Marilyn was getting used to the shoes, but she couldn’t think who’d be crazy enough to wear them. She had a pair of sandals for the summer and some lace-ups for winter. That was it, nothing like these. And the skirt got in the way of walking too. She kept pulling it down. It was like a fancy dress costume.
    She managed to walk half way up the hill. Then she wondered where to go. It looked a bit like her road, the road she used to roller skate down when she was little. But when she saw the house with her number, she couldn’t believe it. The front garden was gone, tarmacced over. There was only tarmac and gravel, with a plant pot by the front