He put the book down, got up from the bed.
The first thing I noticed was how well he was looking, for his age. I mean, I've lost a little hair myself, and grown A stomach in the passing years, but Ozzie was hirsute and trim-lined. The bastard, I thought, it shouldn't be allowed.
'Who are you?' A voice from the past.
'It's Billy. Remember?'
'Billy Sunset?'
'That's right. I've brought you some aftershave. It's what I do these days. I sell smells. What are you up to? I hear you're a meteorologist.'
'Yes, for the television.'
That's brilliant.'
'You think so?'
Well no, actually. I would have thought Oswald worth much more than that. But I didn't want to mention such things. Instead I said something even more stupid:
'I was sorry to hear about Junior. Do you hear from him?'
Oswald just looked at me. Then he moved to the telescope.
It was a bad thing to say, of course, about Junior I mean, but the years of selling have frozen me solid, I suppose, especially in the heart. And I was dragged backwards to another Christmas morning, ages ago, when I wasn't yet so cold.
Ozzie was the neighbourhood kid you just had to hate. I mean, there was the stupid name to start with, and the fact that he somehow managed to have two parents, which was one more than any other kids on the street could ever manage. And they were posh and rich of course, these parents, with two incomes and a nice house and two vintage cars, never mind the pedigree dogs and the goddamn loving relationship, whatever that was. Also, he received every little thing he could ever desire, this spoilt little brat, which was every little thing more than I could hope for. The latest model kit, the gun that saved the world, a telescope, pointed towards the stars.
Really, I should've hated his guts to the toyshop and back, but somehow I fell half in love with him, much to the downmarket taunts of my other friends. I was nine, Oswald ten, and we wasted some time together, talking about the moonshot and the effect it might have upon the atmosphere, and fantasizing about what presents we would get for Christmas. I was pinning my hopes on a new football, or some such small-fry dream, compared to Oswald demanding the latest model Tweedle Boy from Santa.
I laughed at him, of course, because Tweedle dolls were the toy of choice that Xmas, ever since the Only Child Law had been passed, and how could even his well-to-do parents afford such a luxury? But sure enough, that week one of the antique cars vanished, likewise one of the pedigree dogs, both of them sold to the same collector of oddities. Two days later Oswald was taken into hospital.
I didn't get to see him until Christmas morning, when I paid a call to show off my new Air UK football, my mother having also made a few sacrifices. 'Fancy a game, Ozzie?' I asked, but he claimed he was too weak still from his operation. 'What? You mean it's really happened?' I was dumbfounded. 'You've really gone through with it? Didn't it hurt?' I was shuddering to imagine my own bone marrow being excavated.
'Nothing much,' he answered, quite slowly. 'It's only a little DNA, after all, and I've got lots to spare.' Together we went up to his bedroom, where his number one present was sleeping in
a specially designed cot. It was the first time I'd ever seen a Tweedle, for real I mean, not on television. I must admit I was disappointed at first glance, mainly because the adverts had painted the Tweedles as these marvellous objects, exact copies of their owners. But this sleeping toy was only about a foot long, rather chubby and quite blank in the face, hair and eyes, rather like a blindworm. 'But it looks nothing like you, Ozzie,' I said.
'Give him time.' Ozzie picked up the doll from its bed. 'He's called Junior, by the way. He's my younger brother.' The poor thing stirred in his arms, and started to gurgle.
Well, the holidays were soon over, and we all went back to school. Oswald turned up five days late for the new term, clutching his Tweedle close to his chest. He sat the doll on his desk during every lesson, where it got some looks of course, and all those kid jokes that cover jealousy. And maybe you're thinking, what's a ten-year-old boy want a doll for anyway? The thing is, Tweedles could be monsters, if you wanted them to be. Some tough tried to steal it off Ozzie once; maybe the kid hadn't heard about the security devices, or was just too stupid to care. Whatever, there was an almighty flash of light, a shower of sparks, and a scream from the tough. I tell you, he wouldn't be playing the guitar for a living.
Oswald turned eleven, passed all his exams with ease, and went on to high school. He dragged the Tweedle along with him, which was over two feet tall by now, with a twisted reflection of its owner's face. The thing could even talk a little, a mutated impression. I followed along as best I could, giving up the football to concentrate on learning. But, you know, Oswald became reclusive round about then, preferring the company of his Tweedle I suppose, rather than real people. I must admit I was jealous, to see Oswald and Junior growing up together like that, growing closer. The thing had these special growth hormones, and pretty soon it was catching up with him. I suppose other kids had the dolls, but they weren't hanging out together all the time, you know? Not like Ozzie and his brother.