Alfie

      Alfie headed back to the house. There was a group of people smoking on the terrace. Perfect. He could stop for a chat and then if Claire detected any lingering smell of smoke on him he could blame it on them.

      ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Nice evening.’

      There were five of them, four men he didn’t know and a woman he vaguely recognized. Her face was flushed and she was a little glassy-eyed. No wedding ring and probably no boyfriend, which was why she was out here smoking with a bunch of men who were no doubt hoping she’d leave them so they could talk about football or rugby or the other women at the party. He looked at her for a few seconds longer than was polite. She was starting to put on weight she would never get rid of and was on the cusp of losing the youthfulness that gave her what little appeal she had. She knew it, too; there was something desperate about the way she smiled at the men and laughed too loudly at their jokes.

      He felt a twinge of lust. He found that kind of vulnerability irresistible. He’d have to behave himself, though. He could hardly go chasing women at his wife’s birthday party.

      ‘You want a ciggy?’ one of the men said. He was tall and had thick red hair and a thin, irritating voice.

      ‘No thanks,’ Alfie said.

      He walked across the terrace to the house. Through the window he saw Claire. She was clinking champagne glasses with Jodie and some tall guy. Did Jodie have a boyfriend? He’d be jealous if she did. He looked at her for a moment. He would have loved to fuck her. Two summers ago they’d gone for a weekend in St Tropez with her. She had a white bikini and he’d spent the entire time staring at her from behind his sunglasses, and then thinking about her while he was having sex with Claire.

      Claire. It was getting worse. As soon as he was in there she’d ask where he’d been, and he’d say nowhere, just a walk, when what he wanted to say was none of your fucking business. He hated the feeling he was being watched the whole time. It made him feel trapped, like a wild animal that had wandered into a house and was now being kept as a pet. He couldn’t look at her without feeling a deep and mounting anger.

      Because there was no escape. Worse, by acting so in love with her from the start he had set a precedent, which left him with things like singing that awful song. He shook his head. It was so humiliating. But he had no choice. If he didn’t totally overdo it he was worried the mask would slip and she would see his true feelings, and then it – all of it, the cars and houses and holidays and money – would be gone. And he had no intention of letting that happen, especially not now when he’d had a taste of it. All he needed was an escape.

      Which was where Henry Bryant came in. It had started with a fake email address. It was amazing, really: all he’d had to do was open a gmail account in the name Henry Bryant and pop! All of a sudden, he existed. He could communicate with people, log into chat rooms, post underneath newspaper articles, get Facebook and Twitter accounts.

      Which he did for a while. He got involved in conversations in chat rooms and comments sections, and one of them – he’d forgotten which one – had led to an app which brought people who were looking for illicit, extra-marital affairs together.

      You posted a photo, your age, some interests, and the app proposed some matches. You messaged back and forth, and, if you both agreed, you met up.

      The first woman did not look like the photo she had posted at all. In the photo she looked in her early thirties and in reasonable shape; in reality she was ten years older and about three stone overweight.

      Alfie didn’t care. He would not have been attracted to her under normal circumstances, but that was the whole point: these were not normal circumstances, and he was not Alfie Daniels.

      The second candidate he chose was a blonde, stick-thin mother of three in her late thirties. It was a clinical transaction; afterwards, Alfie asked her if she wanted to meet again. She didn’t. The third one did, though, and she wanted to learn more about Henry Bryant.

      So Alfie gave her more to learn.

      It became a kind of game, to see how far he could take it.

      And he had taken it much, much further than he had thought possible.

      He got an address – a PO box number – and used it to get a bank account. With that, a bank account and then a credit card and a PayPal account. With his PayPal account he could buy and sell on eBay, which provided Henry Bryant with an income. The fact that the things he sold – first editions of books, rare vinyl, other collectables – were things Alfie bought was neither here nor there. None of his customers would, or could, ever know. He just needed a way of getting some money to Henry Bryant.

      And with the money came – all acquired illegally and incredibly cheaply on the dark web – a birth certificate, passport and National Insurance number. Which meant Henry Bryant was real in every meaningful way possible. He could buy a house, get a job, cross international borders. He could do anything he wanted.

      He just happened not to exist.

      It had been perfect for Alfie. It offered him everything he wanted: a release from his life with Claire, the thrill of illicit sex with a variety of women, and most of all, a sense that he was beating the system, outsmarting everyone around him. And there was no link to him. The phone, bank account, everything – it all led to Henry Bryant.

      It was odd: the longer it had gone on, the more he had started to feel that he and Henry Bryant were different people. When he was with some woman he’d met online in the corner of a pub in a part of London where Claire and her friends would never go, he was Henry Bryant. He didn’t really feel guilty, but the slight misgivings he did have were eased by the thought that it wasn’t him doing it.

      It was Henry Bryant.

      He even developed Bryantisms; mannerisms and affected patterns of speech – a pursing of the lips and drawing out of vowels – that he only did when he was being Henry. In some ways – and this was worrying – he preferred Henry. He was funnier, more relaxed. Moreover, he didn’t have to be the soft, unthreatening little bitch that Alfie Daniels pretended to be.

      He could be whatever he wanted, and he was. He cancelled at the last minute (on the occasions when it was too risky to go), drank hard when he wanted and was rough in bed. Most of all he didn’t apologize, didn’t simper and coo, and didn’t sing any fucking stupid songs.

      It was wonderful. And it was