Read by Kim Scopes (second story in podcast, at 15m 40s)
Holly Williams lived alone. She liked it that way. She certainly preferred it to the flat-shares she had endured when she first moved to London, with their stilted conversations in grimy kitchens, and furious notes about stolen milk. After a few years, she was delighted to find that she could afford to put a front door between herself and her fellow renters; and, two promotions later, she finally bought herself a door to which she had the only key.
On one such evening, she let herself in through that hard-won front door, thinking about the open bottle of red that was waiting on the kitchen counter. As she walked into her living room, she froze. A stranger was sitting in her favourite chair.
The two women stared at one another. The stranger was of average build, with straight, medium-length, mousy hair, and a nondescript face. She sat very still. Holly had the odd sensation of looking into a mirror, despite the fact that they looked nothing alike.
“Who are you?” she demanded. The question seemed to echo back at her. She realised the stranger had spoken exactly the same words, at the same time.
“I’m Holly Williams,” said the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”
It took a moment for this to register. “I’m Holly Williams,” Holly replied. “You’re in my house.”
“No, this is my house,” said the stranger.
They both kept staring. Holly couldn’t think what else to say.
“I’m calling the police,” she said finally. She strode quickly into the kitchen, hoping to project a confidence she did not feel. As she dialled 999, she heard footsteps in the hall, the front door opening, and then the latch clicking softly back into place.
Assured that the intruder had gone and that the police were on their way, she looked around for signs of a robbery. Her laptop was there on the coffee table, the TV in its place. Even that morning’s cereal bowl was in the sink, right where she had left it. The only object out of place was the mug balanced on the arm of her favourite chair. It was half-full, and still steaming.
She grabbed the mug, strode back to the kitchen, and tipped it down the sink. Pouring herself a glass of red with trembling hands, she sat and sipped, trying to calm herself down.
Suddenly, she heard a key in the lock. The stranger was coming back into the house, followed by a large, gruff-looking police officer. His hi-vis jacket rustled noisily as the three of them crowded awkwardly into the tiny hallway. Holly clenched her fists, and tried to concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths.
“That’s her,” announced the stranger, pointing at Holly.
Thrown again, Holly tried to pull herself together and take charge. “I just came home and found this woman –” she began.
But the stranger spoke over her. “I was just sitting in my living room and this woman walked in!”
Holly realised they had both run their hands through their hair, a tic of hers which always reared its head when she was stressed. Again, she felt that uncanny sensation of looking into a mirror.
The police officer held up his hands.
“All right! All right. Let’s get this straight. You first.” He pointed to the stranger.
“My name is Holly Williams. This is my house. This woman has broken in.”
Holly fought the urge to stamp her foot. “No, I’m Holly Williams, and this is my house. I’ve no idea who she is.”
The officer looked mildly baffled, but mostly irritated. He gestured towards the stranger. “She just let me in with a key.”
“I don’t …” Holly faltered. “She must have stolen it. Look, I have a key too!”
She registered the look of shock on the other Holly’s face, and saw that the officer had also noticed it.
“She must have taken my spare,” said the other Holly uncertainly.
The officer looked sceptical. “All right, let’s see some photo ID. Both of you. Driving licence?”
Holly shook her head. Who drove in London?
“Work ID, then?”
Holly rummaged in her bag. A chill spread through her. “My purse has gone. She must have stolen that too!” She tried to think – had she left her bag in the living room when she came to the kitchen to phone the police?
She had a sudden idea and, ignoring the stranger’s withering look, Holly strode across the room to the drawer where she kept her passport. She scrabbled frantically through the mess of old receipts and bank statements, but it was not there.
She turned back to see the stranger taking a card out of her pocket. The three of them shuffled close together and looked down. There it was, the stranger’s photo, beside Holly’s name.
“It’s a common name,” Holly mumbled, less sure of herself. The officer’s expression had hardened. She tried desperately to marshal her thoughts.
“I could show you the deeds to the house …?” But even as she said it, she realised that that would only prove that the owner’s name was Holly Williams.
The other woman’s face brightened. “I know – I could speak to a neighbour, they’ll confirm that I live here.”
The officer looked unconvinced but, with a sigh, he nodded and gestured towards the door. Holly felt a brief surge of panic. Would any of her neighbours recognise her? She had never been especially friendly; after all, who was in London? An ill-judged greeting might invite conversation or, worse, set a precedent; and the steady stream of renters tended to turn over each year anyway. In any case, if they didn’t know her, they wouldn’t know this other woman either. When they failed to confirm her story, surely the officer would see sense?
The three of them trooped out into the dimly-lit street. The officer led the way to the next house on the right, and rapped sharply on the door.
It opened to reveal an elderly man in a frayed dressing gown. He looked vaguely familiar, but, in any other context, Holly could not have said where she recognised him from. She wondered for a moment whether they had ever actually spoken, but her doubts were immediately resolved when the man opened his mouth.
“Holly,” he said, surprised. “What can I do for you?”
They had definitely never spoken to one another. But the man was not looking at her. He was addressing the other Holly Williams.
“So you know this woman?” asked the officer.
“Well, I don’t know that I’d say we know each other, but we pass the time of day, you know, in the corner shop, or on the way to the station. Holly always asks after my Teddy.” He smiled down indulgently at a glowering Yorkshire Terrier that had appeared between his ankles.
“Can you verify that she lives at number 34?” asked the officer. Holly started to object that he had given away the address, but he shot her a warning glance, and she fell silent.
“She certainly lives on this road, yes,” the man replied. “I see her walking past most days. I wouldn’t normally notice but, as I say, we do stop and chat sometimes. So many people just don’t bother these days, do they?”
“Thank you sir,” said the officer, sounding weary. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He turned to go, Holly trailing miserably behind him. The stranger called over her shoulder: “So sorry to bother you, Jim!” Holly turned the name over in her mind – maybe she knew it and had just forgotten? – but no, it meant nothing to her. As they trudged back into the house, she began to feel frantic.
“Photos!” she exclaimed. “There are photos in the attic. I can show you, I’m in them.”
There were no photos around the house. She didn’t keep in touch with her family much, and decades of unaired grievances had made her feel uneasy about having their frozen faces staring at her. But she had kept a few holiday snaps; and there were some childhood albums that her mother had thrust unceremoniously into her arms, after one particularly uncomfortable visit.
The officer and the other woman watched as Holly eased her hand behind a bookshelf on the landing, to reach the hidden switch that activated the ladder up in the eaves. This would prove she was right, and that the other woman was the impostor. She tried to ignore the growing sense that she needed to prove this, not just to them, but to herself too.
As she climbed into the attic, she had an odd feeling that things were not quite right – had she left that box over there? She couldn’t remember when she was last up here. She went straight to the far corner of the attic and heaved out the first box that came to hand, noticing vaguely that it lacked the thick layer of dust that had gathered on the others around it. She was already beginning to feel relieved as she eased open the lid.
She caught sight of the photo at the top of the pile, and time seemed to stand still. There, unmistakable, in her early 20s and smiling shyly back at the camera, was Holly Williams.
The other Holly Williams.
She climbed slowly back down the ladder, as if in a trance, barely registering her feet as they reached the once-familiar carpet. The other woman was coming out of her bedroom, brandishing a framed photograph. She knew, without having to look, that it showed the other Holly Williams, grinning into the camera with her arms around yet another stranger.
The officer’s expression had softened, his irritation replaced with pity. He thinks I’m mad, Holly realised, and she let out a short, barking laugh. He murmured something into his radio and then, gently but firmly, took her by the arm.
“You’re going to come with me,” he said, enunciating each word as though he were speaking to a small child. “We’ll get all this straightened out.”
He turned to the other Holly. “Are you sure you’ll be all right, Miss Williams? Might be a good idea to call a friend or a neighbour. This must have been a nasty shock.”
The other Holly gave him a smile, shaky but resolute. “I’ll be fine. Please just make sure she doesn’t come back.”
“Don’t worry,” said the officer, steering Holly towards the stairs. “She won’t be coming here again.”
As Holly was led away, she looked back. The other Holly Williams smiled, winked, and then reached behind the boorekcase, retracting the loft ladder with a well-practised flick of the wrist.
(c) Hannah Noyce, 2025
This is Hannah Noyce's second story to be read at Liars' League, following "Two Down" in October 2024. Hannah lives in London, where she juggles writing, a full-time job, & a toddler. The writing happens mainly during nap time.
Kim Scopes is an actor, puppeteer & theatre maker based in London. Recent credits include an international tour of Olivier Award-winning Dinosaur World, Somewhere to Belong by Sycorax Collective, NEWZOIDS by ITV, & Strange Hill High for CBBC.
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