‘’God, Daniel,’’ Jane gasped. ‘’This kid’s the spitting image of you.’’

It was the breaktime between second and third period and they were sitting at the table beside the window overlooking the playground.

As she did every lunchtime, Jane was flicking through the Sun, a ‘newspaper’ that Daniel abhorred. That someone who taught children could be interested such tabloid trash alarmed him, but he’d learnt better than to voice such opinions. It was better to judge in silence.

Rolling his eyes, he looked down at the newspaper on the table.

One of two pictures on the page, the photograph was five by ten centimetres, a head and shoulders shot of a boy who looked no older than his late teens. He had short, dark hair and wore a white t-shirt over which a tacky gold chain hung. His face was speckled with stubble and his lips were fixed in a neutral line, his expression joyless. He looked, Daniel thought, not unlike one of his year ten students: disengaged and delinquent. No doubt Jane’s joke was at his expense; she was saying, in her backwards way, that his general demeanour was comparable with that of a sullen teen. And no doubt she was right. He’d overheard enough staffroom whispers to know that the majority of his colleagues regarded him as a morose loner. How depressing to be such a non-presence that they didn't feel the need to be more subtle. At fifty five, Daniel was the oldest teacher in the school and often felt as alienated from his colleagues as he did his students. How relieved he’d been when Jane started last year; though they had little in common aside from their ages, it was comforting to have an ally. Not that he’d ever admit this. God, no. He’d swallow his own tongue before acknowledging that Jane played any pivotal role in his life.

‘’Very funny, Jane,’’ he replied. ‘’It really is one laugh after another with you, isn’t it?’’ He took a new packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. ‘’Coming?’’

‘’In a minute,’’ Jane said quickly. ‘’I know you think I’m winding you up, but look at him properly and tell me he doesn’t look like you. Honestly, it’s the eyes.’’
Doing as he was told, Daniel took the paper and looked closer at the photograph.

The room dipped to silence around him as recognition twisted in his stomach. As Jane had said, the boy’s eyes were his own. He clenched his jaw, conscious that she was watching him, waiting for a response. He wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue lay futile against gritted teeth. What he was thinking couldn’t be true. Of course it couldn’t be. Samantha would have told him if he had a son. She would have told him. Though they were strangers now, he’d once known her well enough to know she couldn’t keep a secret of such scale. She’d have told him; in the twenty years since their separation, she’d have told him.

His eyes flicked to the headline on the page - ‘Soap star’s son battered in nightclub’ – then to the second, larger, photograph: a man he’d seen on television in one of the ridiculous soap operas that his lodger’s girlfriend loved to watch. Smartly dressed in a black suit, he was brandishing a gold trophy at shoulder-level, a smile wide on his face. His other arm was clamped tightly over a younger man – his son? - who looked uncomfortable in the spotlight.

Beneath the picture was the caption, ‘Happier times: Dre and his father – TV’s Julian Jones – at last year’s BAFTAs’.

‘’Don’t you think so?’’ Jane asked, ever persistent. ‘’Don’t you think he looks anything like you?’’

Daniel pushed the paper back to her, irritated now. ‘’I think you’re seeing whatever you want to see, Jane,’’ he lied. ‘’You’re always so desperate for a drama.’’

Her face fell and he felt a pang of guilt. He knew she wasn’t being malicious or unkind, but he couldn’t bear the idea that what this image implied could be true.

And it was then that Jane said, ‘’Oh my god, it gets even weirder. He’s even got the same surname as you. Look.’’