Free 2 The Imposter by Mark Dawson Page A

curiously, and the way that fellow servicemen, once they recognised the medal that was still pinned to his breast, would tip their hats or salute. My God, he thought, it all felt amazing. The sense of guilt from earlier had been obliterated. The way that Joseph was looking at him almost persuaded him that he deserved to be decorated. He as good as believed the narrative that he had created for himself.
    Edward felt proud for having arranged everything so perfectly. And yet, despite his pride, there was also a curious sense of remoteness. He could not share everything with Joseph, nor with anyone else. He had a feeling that everyone was watching him, as if he had an audience comprised of the entire world, a foreboding that kept him on his mettle, for, if he made a mistake now or in the future, it would be disastrous. Yet he felt absolutely confident that he was a match for the challenge he had presented for himself. He had had a lot of practice over the years, starting even from when he had been a small child, and this was no different. He was quite sure: he was good, and he would not make a mistake.
    They finished their pints and ordered another.
    “What are you doing this afternoon?” Joseph asked him.
    Jimmy had said he could manage all day without him. “I don’t have any plans,” he said. “We could have a few drinks?”
    “Why don’t you come with me to The Hill? It’s the carnival today––plenty of booze and fun, too. You should come, really, you should. My family will be there. I’d love to introduce you to them.”
    Edward remembered what Joseph had said to him on the train: there was a successful Costello family business. His interest began to stir. Perhaps there was an opportunity to be had. It had been a good morning. Why not see if he could continue his good luck into the afternoon, too? He looked down at his pristine uniform and the bright new medal that glittered silver against the khaki fabric. He would never have a better chance to make a good first impression.
    “Sounds like fun,” he said.
    * * *
    THE TAXI DEPOSITED THEM on Roseberry Avenue and they made their way to Amwell Street where a long line of empty trestle tables had been arranged down the middle of the road, covered with mismatched cloths. An assortment of chairs were set on either side. Women were arranging flowers and greenery around the doorways of the houses and men on step-ladders were hanging yards of colourful bunting from the gas lamps. The Italian tricolore and the Union Jack vied for space from the ledges of first-floor windows. Gay tapestries obscured the dilapidated walls, the street-corners were ornamented by large illuminated frames which bore the statue of the Madonna and windows held statues, votive lights, flowers and candles. Even the narrow courts and alleys had been transformed, blazing with flowers and brilliantly coloured lights. The atmosphere was febrile: in five minutes they passed a spiv selling nylons from a suitcase, a couple embracing with drunken ardour and two men throwing sloppy, half-hearted punches at each other.
    Joseph led the way to a table where three women had congregated. “These are my sisters,” he said. “Edie, Sophia and Chiara.”
    “Who’s this dish?” Sophia said, making no attempt disguise her lewd up-and-down appraisal of Edward.
    “This is my friend, Edward Fabian.”
    Edward smiled warmly. The women were a strange collection: Evie walked with a stick, was tall and slim with long dark hair and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Sophia was shorter, and plumper, with ringlets of copper-coloured hair that spilled across her shoulders in tight coils. Chiara was neither tall nor short, doll-like with slender arms and wrists. Her hair had been carefully water-waved and set, her lips looked soft and shapely with the lip salve she had on them. She wore a brown flannel coat with rabbit collar over an art-silk dress of light blue. Despite their differences it was obvious that they were