Authors: Matthew Reeve
He was finally
called as the clock struck 10.28. The digital display had virtually burned into
his corneas as he stared at it, daring it to hit 10.30 when he would up and
leave. The more he stared and thought about his vague reason for being here,
the vaguer the reason became. As far as he was aware there was nothing
technically wrong with him. There was nothing medical Dr Baker could surely
prescribe, but he had to speak to someone. Someone had to hear what he had to
say.
‘How can I help
you today Mr. Coupland?’
Dr Baker stared
into his monitor; the only light source in the room. It was his oracle to all
things medicinal, it appeared he didn’t even have to look at Charlie in order
to diagnose.
‘Well, I’m not
too sure to be honest.’
‘I see,’ said
Dr Baker.
‘I’m afraid I
can’t quite put my finger on it,’
‘I see,’ said
Dr Baker.
‘Things have
become vague.’
‘I see,’ said
Dr Baker.
There was that
word again, vague. But it really was the best way to describe how he had been
feeling.
‘For the last
couple of weeks I’ve felt a draining sensation. As if I’m not all me. I can’t
concentrate for long periods. My memory is clear but, it is as though it’s
someone else’s. I seem to be suffering from some reverse daja vu.’
‘Reverse?’ Dr
Baker finally looked round at him.
‘Yes, I do
something but don’t get the sensation that I’ve done it or been there before. I
get struck by this notion that I’m going to do it again. As if when I do
something, it’s only a dream, a precursor to me actually doing it. I feel
drained, fading away. That I’m not all me. Part of myself is missing.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I should
probably have seen a psychiatrist for this, or even gone to a priest. This soul
searching business is likely more up their street.’ He tried to laugh this off.
Despite his misgivings for being here it was a relief to express these words
out loud. He hadn't mentioned them to Nikki who herself had grown distant these
last couple of weeks. But as he sat there he realised once again that it wasn’t
her who was growing distant, something had happened to him, and it was he who
on some level was moving away.
‘Mr. Coupland,’
said Dr Baker. ‘Let me ask you a few questions. Do you ever cry?’
‘No.’
‘Has there been
a point recently where you’ve felt you can’t go on?’
‘No.’
‘Do you feel
you have let yourself down?’
‘No.’
‘Do you worry
you have let others down.’
‘Doesn’t
everybody?’
‘I can’t
prescribe you anything, but often a lack of self motivation, a feeling of
losing oneself, could be an early sign of depression.’
‘This isn’t
depression. I feel more like I’ve been set free, opened up, become almost
transparent to the universe and that the little piece of me that defines me
went with it.’
‘I see,’ said
Dr Baker, and he turned back to his monitor.
He saw the
punch, the connection, and the shock of all those around. The target had
unexpectedly struck and retaliated against the shadow.
How
unfortunate
,
he thought as he passed her friend, stepping over a scattering of fallen chips.
How unfortunate that it would mean nothing, except for further confusion once
he'd done what he was here to do.
Any excuse to get out of the office;
hands-on fieldwork was a highlight to be savoured. All other members managed to
vacate the confines of the office almost daily for retrievals; it was only
right that on occasion Bartley himself ventured into the field. The leader of
the troops didn’t necessarily want to be the authoritative figure sat behind
his desk whilst they had all the fun. This was more than about doing your
assigned duty; this was about remembering who you were and why you were
involved in the first place.
He sat outside the house, finalising
paperwork for retrieval ER3754. The feeble interior beam illuminated the
driver’s seat and random strikes of lightening lit the night sky in silent
explosions. The rain had been constant for the entire thirty minute drive out
to Posslingford Moss and if anything it was now falling in greater torrents.
Another reason for getting out of the
office was to distance himself from the bureaucracy of it all; the paperwork
and systematic filing that prolonged retrieval by valuable seconds was a common
sidetrack to any business. Dixon would have balked at the logistical nightmare
the governmental aspect of his time retrieval service had become, Bartley just
had to accept it now. It was part of the job, there was no longer any choice.
ER3754 was a routine retrieval.
Teenage girl, minus seven minutes, unaware - unaware because she was
unconscious. After signing document 64N and confirming The Device was primed
with her exact coordinates (which had taken a little longer than usual - the
signal was producing additional background static which had made connection
tricky. He would have to discuss this with Brian later) he checked the time.
1.32am on the plain; the night was cold and the rain fell in punishing drops.
Short physical jumps were fine. Most
poppers claimed fact that the physical distance of a jump produced no notable
side effects or sensation. Bartley, as did a number of other senior poppers,
begged to differ. It may have been subtle but there was a definite internal
difference between crossing a wormhole of a few metres in length to one of a
mile or more, no matter what the time discrepancy may be. It was a guttural
wrench, like when you reach the peak of a roller coaster and your stomach catches
up with you only moments before you move on again without it. Subtle, but
certainly there.
He glanced up to the front facing
windows of the house. The connection was now strong and once on the strand her
matter self would be registered instantly. Of course, this being the middle of
the night and only recently jumped, she would not be far from where Bartley
would materialise. An amount of control over the space-time dilation would drop
him nicely bedside the bed, activating The Device would return them both to the
plain.
A silent
implosion of white light suffocated him as he burst into significance beside
the sleeping girl. Boy band posters adorned the walls, as did precariously
stacked piles of paperbacks that stood like pillars on two corners of the room.
A muted television threw coloured light upon the bed. The duvet rose and fell
as the subject dreamed, oblivious to her journey and to the oncoming return
that he was destined to provide. He whispered the concluding comments required
for this job into the interface which would be streamed directly to
headquarters and logged for that one day when someone would request reviewing
it. If they were ever urgently required then it would likely be too late, but
procedure was procedure, there were just certain things you needed to do in
this job.
Her signal was
strong and with the press of a button the subject would be ready to return. Yet
still an additional background static remained. It was as if it were trying to
bury her signal amongst a mass of others, almost purposefully concealing it.
Brian would definitely need to be consulted on this issue, a simple technical
malfunction: Brian was your man.
A localised
implosion of bright light erased the subject from the plain, half a second
later the rest of the room faded around Bartley and he closed his eyes as he
too returned to the quantum plain.
Fred Coles sat
in his favourite chair. These days a book and a sit down were all the
entertainment he required. The kettle was on the boil, preparing for a nice
warm coco to accompany the lightly buttered crumpet. He sat back, put his feet
up on the brown velvet footrest and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly. He
never noticed the jump in the clock, or the man in his house who brought him
back.
The snap shot image
of Emma’s brief glance through the open door had been ingrained on his mind all
day. Since rising from a sleepless night, through a morning of dressing,
preparing, and the ceremony, Emma had always been there. The vision was
heightened whenever he closed his eyes, yet even when open the spectre of her
memory haunted him. But he welcomed this. He didn’t want to be left alone just
yet. There would be a time when her looks, personality, and soul would fade to
a gentle reminder of their times together. But now, with their tearing apart so
fresh, the complete removal of her from his world would be unbearable.
The service had
been short but even now, barely minutes later, the memory of it had faded. He
couldn’t recall any of the details except the sobs of Pam Ronen and the
anguished pain of Terry. Emma had been sent off in the style befitting her all
too short life, now just another statistic to all but the thirty-seven
individuals who had mourned her loss.
He stood with
his back to the church whilst overlooking the cemetery; the ancient stones were
like jagged teeth reaching out through the earth. She wouldn’t be buried here
but it seemed easier, (and sadly selfish) to turn his back on the living
nestled within the warm confines of the church and take in the mementoes of the
dead before him. He also wanted less contact than ever with real people. His
new course of action in minimising the chances of having one of his freak-o
visions was by literally looking at human beings as little as possible. Emma’s
image was embedded in his mind, he didn’t want any of the confusion his illness
would bring to distort that sight.
The murmur of
those inside the church grew louder as a door opened and footsteps approached
from behind. He closed his eyes, hoping they weren’t headed his way. Emma’s
eyes flashed under his lids as if under a strobe. She wasn’t going anywhere
just yet. He opened them and the figure was standing next to him, he too looked
out over the garden of gravestones.
Tony had
assumed it was Emma’s dad who had joined him. Either that or her mum in need of
some fresh air and a vaguely familiar face to claim it with. Or maybe it was a
distant relative in need of declaring how beautiful a service it had been, as
if there really could be such a thing.
‘You know, she
spoke about you all the time.’
To Tony's
surprise it was Trevor. They were dressed identically: black blazer, shirt,
tie, shoes. He lit up a cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke over the
stones directly before them like a fog before dissipating to nothing.
Tony didn’t
know what to say.
Thanks? Did Emma know you smoked?
‘You to.’
‘Really? Not
too sure I believe that, but thanks. It's funny, being told Emma's life story
by her close family and the minister. After only knowing her a few weeks...you
realise, you know nothing.’
‘She was happy
though.’
He could tell
Trevor wasn’t too convinced that it was he who was the cause of this happiness.
Tony stood there as Trevor puffed away, forcing himself to believe that being
happy leading up to the moment of your death was a good thing. He supposed it
was, yet ultimately, it didn’t matter now. It never would.
Tony walked
home from the funeral by himself. He had made his goodbyes as politely as
possible but needed to get out. Whilst he and Emma had been close he had rarely
got to meet the family and now didn’t seem to be the time. He had been an
outsider to a very personal situation. Even Trevor had slunk away and it had
been then that Tony too had decided to leave.
He had got the
bus there but decided to walk home. It was a two-mile journey but the thought
of getting a lift never crossed his mind. All he wanted to do was get home
whilst thinking only of the good memories of Emma. It turned out that all his
memories of time spent with her were good.
He passed the
pub at which she worked: The Smack, a dank pit of a boozer. It sat on an urban
street flanked by a furniture store and bookmakers but hid a vast beer garden
that spread out behind - an acre of grass, spotted by picnic tables, bins and
gas heaters. Tony almost stopped to go in for a pint but the timing just wasn’t
right. Maybe he would return, but not in the near future. He was by no means
prepared to answer any questions posed by staff members who may have recognised
him.
He continued to
walk, staring at the pavement. His near reclusiveness into himself had grown
overwhelming as he forced visual contact with other people to a minimum. The
visions had faded and he attributed this to mostly not looking for them. They
were either still going on around him, to which he was turning a blind eye, or
they had stopped. Either way it didn’t bother him.
It was the
shadow that made him realise someone was approaching. And at speed. He glanced
up to see a man, late thirties, heading straight for him. He had a bag which flapped
about his waist. He gave no concern to the unbuckled top flapping silently
against his hip. Tony took the necessary gesture of stepping out of his way. He
made brief eye contact at the man who continued to run, disappearing round the
corner and into the crowded high street. Tony tried to ignore it but couldn’t.
It was in the man’s eyes, the same confused and scared look that had been on
the child’s face at Stayx back with Emma....
He closed that
thought off. If it was another vision then there was no sign of its double
anywhere. They almost always followed soon after and Tony could see clearly up
the street to a few women with pushchairs, an elderly man walking a dog and a
young girl carrying a stack of newspapers ready for delivery. There was no sign
of a double, this was more than enough reason to pass off what he had seen. It
was just a scared guy running down a pavement, probably late for work or the
bus, simple as that.
He continued to
walk, leaving The Smack behind with the promise that another day he would pop
in for one last pint. He had promised Emma he’d return for a quick cider one
evening soon and he didn’t want to let her down, even if she would no longer be
there to join him. He passed the elderly man and the newspaper carrier whilst
claiming the lack of eye contact and no sign of crazy visions as a minor
victory. He was ten minutes walk from home. He could get in, close all the
curtains, get into bed and finally, if he could manage it, cry. He didn’t
believe he would be capable but if he were going to, that would be the place to
do it. Out of sight of others and out of mind from himself. He crossed the road
and took a left down Baxter Street.
‘Excuse me?’ At
first he ignored the voice. ‘Excuse me.’
Tony continued
to walk down the road, no one had need to stop and talk to him today. ‘Excuse
me, sir.’ This time the voice was louder and the footsteps behind had sped up
to catch him. Tony glanced around to see a man, thankfully not the bag carrying
sprinter, staring straight at him. He was not scared or confused but wore a
look Tony couldn’t make out. He was curious about something and on second
glance, perhaps there was a tint of fear within his eyes. Tony was about to
ignore him, to mutter something about not being interested, convinced he would
only be asking for directions or the time.
‘Hi, I...’ the
man struggled to find the right words. He took a step back and glanced over all
of Tony.
‘I’m sorry,’
said Tony. ‘I’m not interested thanks.’
‘No, I,’ again
he paused, before adding, ‘please, give me a minute. I might need to talk to
you.’
‘What does that
mean?’
‘I saw you a
moment ago. You stepped out of the way of somebody didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘You were
walking past the bookmakers and took a definite step out of somebody’s way.
Didn’t you?’ he added feebly.
‘Well, yeah.
He’d have hit me.’
‘Would he,’ this was mostly to
himself.
‘I’m sorry, I
really need to get home.’ Tony began walking but the guy followed suit. He
stood to Tony's right and about a step behind.
‘Please, give
me a minute. Can you please confirm that 250 seconds ago, you passed that
bookmakers and saw,’ there was added emphasis on this word, ‘a man fleeing. He
ran towards you and so he would not crash into you, you stepped out of the
way.’
‘Yes, I can
confirm that. Is that all?’
‘No.’ The
firmness in the man’s voice brought Tony to a halt. ‘My name is Aaron Carls, if
you have a moment I would really like to ask you some questions.’
‘I really
don’t,’ and he began walking again.
‘Was that the
first?’
‘First what?’
‘Shadow
sighting.’
‘I don’t know
what that is.’
‘Have you ever
seen anybody act out of the ordinary before?’
‘No more than
anyone else.’
‘Were you at
Stayx five weeks ago?’
Again Tony
stopped, this man seemed to have some answers but still all Tony wanted was to
be left alone and to get home. The last thing he needed was somebody giving any
explanation to what he was finally beginning to pass off as stress, or fleeting
moments of weakness. He had been pleading internally for answers, but now that
they potentially were here he no longer wanted to give credence to the
possibility these were actual entities with purpose. It was easier to ignore
them and hope they would all just go away.
‘Were you?’
asked Tony.
‘No, but you
were mentioned by one of my colleagues, I believe. They noticed someone fitting
your description and after your reaction to that shadow on a past plain it’s
almost definite you are the same person.’
‘I don’t know
what you’re talking about, past plains and shadows. A guy was running towards
me and I had to get out of the way.’
‘No you
didn’t.’
Tony stared at
him. There was still a hesitancy to him, but he looked back at Tony, almost
daring him to walk off. He held answers, and he, Tony, should probably hear
what he had to say.
‘I may have
seen a few things recently that I can’t fully comprehend,’ this statement hung
in the air between them.
‘We may have
some answers, but I’m not too sure I’m the right person to give them. Shall we
walk.’ The guy indicted the way forward and with nowhere else to go but home,
Tony led. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tony. Who are
we
?’
‘You’ll be
told,’ they continued to walk. The day had transformed with warm sunshine, in
contrast to the miserable greys which had seen Emma off. ‘What exactly have you
been seeing?’
He was
unconvinced exactly how to proceed. The fact that this guy had approached him
made it easier for him to talk to. It was as if Tony still hadn’t admitted to
himself anything out of the ordinary was going on. This stranger had asked him
for details that Tony had kept hidden, it was likely that whatever was going
on, this stranger and the
we
he had referred to, had a rough idea what
circumstances could have triggered Tony's recent developments. Tony began to
tell him a few things, playing down the frequency but not afraid to give a few
key facts. He was honest about seeing people quickly followed by doubles that
it appeared only he could see. Some of these doubles, often the first
iterations, appeared conscious to the fact that something wasn’t right, whilst
some played out the same actions as the previous, just a few seconds after. He
described the guy in the office during his interview and then the kid who had
been freaked out at the restaurant. ‘And then I dodge some guy who is hurtling
towards me and it turns out he too is some sort of duplicate.’
‘He was the
real self on a different plain.’
‘What does that
mean?’
‘I’m sure
you’ll be told.’
‘Why didn’t he
have a double?’
‘He did, his
quantum shadow was carrying on in the way he would have if nothing had
happened. What you saw was the guy well aware that something out of the
ordinary had taken place and was behaving a lot different to his oblivious
shadow who was at home cutting his grass.’
‘Where is he
now, the one I saw?’
‘I returned
him, that’s what I - that’s what
we
- do.’
They continued to walk. Tony had
hardly looked up to the guy beside him but he could sense a gap building
between them. He glanced up and saw him staring intently ahead, as if playing
over many thoughts whilst keeping a physical distance from Tony. They turned
one more corner onto Tony’s road. His house was third on the left. They stopped
outside.
‘Are you going
to tell me who you are, or what I have been seeing?’
‘As I said, my
name is Aaron Carls. I work for the extraction department of time
discrepancies. What you have been experiencing is what is known as quantum
shadow idents which explain the images or echoes of people that you have been
experiencing recently. I won’t explain the details now, Bartley will want to do
that. And now that we know where you live,’ he motioned to the semidetached
house they were outside of, ‘I’ve no doubt he will pay you a visit soon.’