Authors: Matthew Reeve
He stood alone
as the taxi pulled away. So, he sold garage doors. Or did he install them? Was
this his company? Hell, was he just the tea boy? Or had the taxi driver made a
mistake and left him nowhere near where Caroline had said? But part of him
could accept this turn of career path. He had spent many hours each night
complaining to Caroline about needing a drastic change. Perhaps he had used
Kerry as an excuse to kick his arse into gear to actually do it, but it seemed
as though he (or whoever was masquerading as he) had finally managed it.
The large steel
door was shut but through a window to the side John could see it was quiet
inside. He pushed his face up to the glass and was able to see a small showroom
to his immediate right, to his left were rows of garage doors, awaiting
collection and installation. He had been hankering for a more hands on job,
with fewer colleagues - it appeared that he had found the very thing.
To the left of
the window was a regular wooden door and intercom. A sandwich board instructed
visitors to ring the buzzer and come inside for a look at their latest
offerings. Without hesitation John took up this offer.
‘Hello,’ came
the fuzz-enfueled voice of the boss John was soon to meet.
‘Hi, my name is
John Johnson,’ he said, suddenly unsure how to behave or what to say. There was
silence. ‘Hello?’
‘John Johnson.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going
to buzz on my buzzer, claim to be John Johnson and that’s it?’
‘Yes, I’d like
to talk with you please.’
‘Too bloody
right you’ll want to talk to me. You have some explaining to do.’ The line went
dead as a buzz rang out followed by a click. John turned to the door and gave
it a gentle push. It opened inwards to the chill of the showroom.
The echo of the
door closing behind him sounded throughout the hanger-like interior. Before him
stood an array of garage doors and other miscellaneous exterior housing
accessories. Lights, door bells, gnomes and street signs cluttered for
attention as behind them stood the mass storage department, plus one empty
space for the van. To his left rose stairs. They were topped by a solitary
door, staring down at him like an old wooden monolith. His boss waiting to see
if he would take the next voluntary steps to his fate.
As he took the
first step, the door at the top swung open. Daylight shone through to back
light the immense frame of the owner of the fuzzy voice. The hairless bulky
outline was larger than that of the door and it shrugged before turning back to
the office, leaving the door open for John to enter. He did so in silence.
From his chair,
the eyes of the boss followed him, either expecting a plea for forgiveness or a
pathetic apology for having not turned up to work for two weeks. All John knew
was that he wasn’t going to get either.
‘So. I sell
garage doors,’ was all John said.
‘Excuse me? No
need for the present tense. You sold garage doors. Sold. And for a while you
did it well. But not anymore, not under my watch. So what have you got to say
for yourself?’
‘Nothing,
you’ve said it for me. Confirmation that whatever I did here, I did well.
Hardly any customers or staff, fairly hands on role. I was probably happy.’
‘We did have
staff, until they up and leave without warning. We do have customers, it’s just
you’re never here to see them. I don’t understand it.’ And that’s when he had
launched into his tirade about the garage door business, theories of John
jetting off to the Costa del Sol, and his judge of character radar being on the
blitz.
John turned to
leave.
‘So that’s it?
Not even the common courtesy to explain where you have been.’
John stopped at
the door before turning back. He almost felt sorry for the guy. His face had
gone bright red, and sweat flushed his cheeks in waves. He supposed it must
have been difficult for what looked like a fairly small operation to lose a
member of staff so suddenly, but the look of hatred in his eyes released
something in John. He vented at a stranger that he knew.
‘I’ll give you
an explanation. Over one year ago I was kidnapped whilst at work for Alfred and
Sons. After twenty-five years employment. I wasn’t happy but did enough to get
by. I fancied the secretary, had doubts over my marriage. I’m ashamed but
that’s the way it was. I was kidnapped, not before coming face to face with a
man I have since deduced is an exact replicate of myself, living my life,
getting this job, raising my children and impregnating my wife. Not only that,
but he had raised the level of fancying my secretary to a full-blown affair
from which I cowardly fled. I return to find that he too seemingly vanished
from the face of the earth two weeks ago, around the time I escaped. I have no
idea what’s going on and am scared to track down the one man I think will have
any answers in case he incarcerates me again, ripping me away from the new
found love and affection I have for my family. Is that ok for an excuse?’ By
the end John was shouting. He had edged closer to the boss whose rage had
subsided as John’s grew. It was John who must now be bright red, the boss
reduced to a mere orange.
‘Get out,’ was
all he said. ‘I was close to offering you your job back before that outburst.’
‘That's very
kind. But this garage door installer, or whatever I have become, can’t live in
fear anymore.’
John fled the
office, taking the stairs two at a time. Outside, the large hanger-like
structures of businesses dwarfed him. He was the only human in sight, the only
natural element in an environment of brick and metal. The echo of what he had
said rang true. He could not go on being scared any more. There was only one
man he had to speak to. He’d attempted himself, Caroline, and even an exchange
with Kerry; each taking him one step further from the inevitable.
He had fled a
complex within Bressingham, fled on foot before getting a train to Great
Looley. From there he had visited London before returning home to Skinningrove
- only thirty miles east of the complex. And now he had been returned full
circle, his new place of work just minutes from Bartley. Fate had brought him
home.
John began to
run. He was near the front of the estate and it took fifteen minutes to sprint
to its other side. He passed other gigantic storage structures and dodged the
occasional truck. He reached a cafe which stood at the opposite end to the
estate from where he had entered. This marked the far end of the industrial
park, behind it laid a steep slope, crowned by a waist high metal fence to stop
the distracted truck drivers dropping into the valley below. At its bottom
crossed a busy road, four lanes of traffic intercutting beneath the roar of a
jet overhead, punctuated by hooting. John almost smiled at the coincidence. He
wasn’t going to get away from Bartley quite so easily. Had things really come
full circle to this moment? Across from the road he could make out a train
track behind an ivy riddled fence. And beyond that stood the car park of
Bressingham Retail Estate where he had fled two weeks ago. Beyond that he knew
there was a complex. All within walking distance. It could hold the answers. At
the very least it would hold an ending.
John jumped the
fence and began to slide down the slope.
4523.21
I have been
trying to ignore this. The disturbances registered by The Device have been
increasing beyond the rational these last few years. In the ten years since
that first successful attempt in connecting to a naturally occurring wormhole
it is clear that something is looming. The disruptions reported by The Device
2.0 do not correlate to usual jumping activity throughout the globe. Better men
than myself have concluded that we are reading disruptions emanating from an
epicentre from the future. Its shock waves are being sent to the past to where
we are feeling its effects, one of which I believe is the increased natural
occurrences of jumps, which recently became global – official. As I wind down
my involvement, Bartley must take up the reigns in foreshadowing what this
potential event could be and successfully navigate us around its threat. Whilst
writing this I am both attempting to ignore it and convince myself that I am
overreacting. But isn’t that the point of all this? To expect the worst case
scenario to give us a reason to continue?
3417.17
A major
breakthrough. After prolonged testing The Device no longer leaves anti-matter
selves in the present. The anti-matter self is now merged with the true self
when I jump back. I cease to exist in any form upon the plain once departed. I
hated the idea of my own self being replicated. It was somehow dirty and
perverse to have another behaving as I would in the present without my
knowledge. And most important, the miniature annihilations the plain manages to
withhold whenever my shadow would have come into contact with other actual
selves has now been alleviated. Paradox issues are growing greater judging by
the increased rate of natural occurring wormholes, which themselves are being
detected further afield. By omitting my own shadow from the equation I have
relieved Mother Nature of one additional burden in the protection of the
universe.
4729.22
This needs
highlighting. Matter connecting with anti-matter selves will cause
annihilation! This cannot be ignored. We lose the plain, we all die.
I will write
into the QP constitution how important this is. We cannot take any chances!
5943.24
The news isn’t
good, I fear this will be my last entry. Looking back, was it worth it? Of
course it was. I discovered a global threat, and devoted my life to preserving
it. The global aspect, not the threat. I’m weaker now than before. Eleanor has
been strong. I know she cries, she makes sure I never hear but her eyes are
often red with sadness.
Bartley has
been giving me weekly reports. He says it is to keep my mind busy. He’s right,
since retirement I think it’s the lack of brain activity which has caused most
of my recent health problems. There have been more reports of jumps forward. I
hope Bartley manages to find the cause of this event which I fear is growing
closer at increasing speeds. Could it be a paradox that we are about to hit?
Are we sensing the shocks of a future annihilation being sent back to us? Can
it be averted? To be honest, I doubt it. The future can’t be changed, but when
we reach it, it will be our present - and that you can always change.
Bartley, if you
ever get to read this, thank you. I have left the company in secure, trusting
hands. Perhaps one day you will find someone you can trust as much as I have
trusted you and Quantum Poppers can go on, striving to do whatever we can, no
matter how small, in saving this old rock we call home.
I can hear
Eleanor coming down the hall, no doubt armed with the cascade of pills I have
to take each night before bed. I don't think I will see out another year. Time,
when you suddenly don’t have any left, becomes the most precious quantity of
all.
5928.23
Bartley visited
today. It had been too long. Funny, after all that is accounted for within this
tome – the science, the pessimism, the hope - the greatest thing I gained from
his visit was just how lucky I was to have made it through with Eleanor still
at my side. I am a lucky man. At my age it really is good to see an old friend.
People have called me crazy for devoting my life to this concept but the
potential for annihilation (I must have used that word a thousand times in this
journal) whilst small has consequences so great it had to be upheld. Moments
like today are why we keep going, why we attempt to preserve. We want to savour
this world for the simple things - the meeting of an old friend and the love we
have for our partners.
His worry about
this subject popping forward has been playing on my mind though. He is right.
This is further confirmation of the upcoming event we have seen forecast - an
event I believe is the cause for all the jumps and disruptions in time that
have ever occurred - the event that is sending ripples back along the sea of
time. It pains me to suggest I may have started it all. Will we ever know?
We must up our
game. I know Bartley will not rest until this threat has subsided. This man,
this Harry, going forward represents a leap in the severity of the disruption;
let’s hope Bartley’s interventions into what he believes are causing this can
calm the storm.
He is a good
man. If I get nothing else out of this (I’ll never be able to prove whether I
saved the universe) then at least I found a good friend. I’m reminded of our
meeting with the PM twenty years ago; the way Bartley stood up and explained
our first encounter, and the articulation of his jump that I could never have
described so succinctly. I am lucky that the one I found, trusted, and owe my
life’s work to, was that man.
I know he will
make the right choices.
They had kissed
once; at the corner of Stanley Street, beneath a glowing amber streetlight and
in front of a derelict restaurant that began with an O, the actual name now a
meaningless and lost detail. The impetus to do this from both sides had been
largely alcohol driven, but there was something remarkably sobering about the
lingering touch of lips that had lasted a little longer than a kiss goodnight
usually would.
The party was
officially Tony’s leaving do for his final summer of work at Hamiltons. There
had been drink and food laid out by the good people of The Peterboat and the
long hot evening had allowed drinkers to stay out later than normal, consuming
alcohol beyond the final bell to bask in the glowing moonlight.
One by one,
fellow workers had drifted away, some unreasonably early, others staying longer
than they probably should have. As the remaining few were eventually shooed
away by a landlord dawning in comprehension that he could end up losing his
license, the remaining few - Tony, Emma, Bob the caretaker, and a couple of
kids who probably shouldn’t have been invited in the first place - began to
disperse onto the streets of Muckle Hill in search of the quickest and cheapest
way home. Bob had mysteriously disappeared unnoticed into the night, whilst a
concerned parent collected the work experience kids that a nineteen-year-old
Tony felt obliged to protect.
That had left
Tony and Emma, standing on the street corner awaiting two separate cabs that
would take them their separate directions. Emma to another year of Hamiltons,
and Tony to university; a future so unplanned that at that moment, when Emma’s
taxi arrived, coupled with the alcohol, the two were unsure whether they would
see each other again.
‘Posslingford,’
the driver called.
‘Coming,’ said
Emma. They hugged in the awkward way that they had throughout the past six
months since Tony’s snapshot of her in the doorway, but failed to break away as
easily as they usually did.
‘Promise you’ll
stay in touch,’ Emma had said.
‘I promise,’
said Tony. And then the half-arsed attempt at a goodbye kiss on the cheek fell
into a goodbye kiss on the lips which extended into, well, looking back now
Tony didn’t know what. It was a kiss that had never been repeated, one that
neither of them had particularly even shown favour of repeating, but a
connection nonetheless that their friendship was something special, something
that would last.
‘Sorry to keep
you waiting,’ said Bartley as he exited the faux lift doors into the reception
of the quantum poppers lobby. Tony stood from the single black leather sofa; he
took it this place didn’t get too many visitors. ‘Tony will be signing
contracts today,’ said Bartley to the receptionist, ‘no need to log in as a
visitor.’
‘Official now
is it?’
‘Almost,
almost.’ They headed towards the lift doors which Bartley once again opened
with a combination of keycard and keypad before entering the corridor with its
seemingly never ending array of doors.
‘We’ve had some
very interesting news from our men in the field, Frank and Max, I’ll introduce
you one day. It appears our friend John is closing in on his expected
explanation. One which I promise I’ll now give. We believe we have calmed the
potential threat.’
They reached
one of the unmarked doors which Bartley keyed in a code to open. Once again the
office was dimly lit with only Brian monitoring screens; he was almost hidden
behind heaps of paper and boxes. It’s as if he were creating a fort for himself
like a child would from old boxes on moving day.
‘This has been
one of the better weeks in terms of paper work, trust me,’ said Bartley. ‘Take
a seat. The tour will begin shortly.’
Tony sat in a
vacated office chair in front of one of the few monitors that was off. He
watched as Bartley headed over to Brian, who once more jumped at his unknown
presence. Bartley rested his arm on the back of Brian’s chair and leant in to
view his screen. Tony edged closer to catch what they were saying, but there
were only whispered words as though things were purposefully being kept from
him. Brian pointed to various graphs and images which flashed across the screen
and rooted through papers that cluttered the desk, a few lay on the floor to
his right where they had fallen.
Tony stood and
approached from behind, casting glances to the filing cabinets which offered no
information apart from dates from the last twelve months.
‘All ok?’ he
said as he approached Bartley. It was Bartley’s turn to jump at Tony’s silent
advancement. He turned from the screen as various images vanished to be
replaced by further layouts of temporal displacement information.
‘As well as
could be,’ said Bartley. Brian continued to scan the endless reams of graphs
flashing across the monitor as Bartley headed over to a coffee machine that sat
atop a caffeine stained table. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks,’
Tony scanned the room, searching for evidence of an event from the past.
‘Right,’ said
Bartley. He was perched on the edge of a desk and used the coffee cup as a prop
in which to direct his office-based tour. ‘From this office we monitor the
fluctuations shown to us by The Device. It’s an upgraded expansion of a similar
device created around fifty years ago. It has grown in power and size, taking
up most of the lower levels, and has also been minimised and made portable.’
From his jacket pocket he removed his own device, the one that had reminded
Tony of an overly large TV remote control and the one which had sent him back
to Emma. ‘The Device in this building talks constantly to these individual
devices. Each is continually locking on to wormholes created around the globe
through which people have unknowingly passed through due to disruptions in
space-time. The Device finds them, converts the signals to a readable source
and locks onto them. We jump back, appearing where the initial wormhole
appeared and retrieve that person - each time alleviating the threat of global
paradox and universal destruction. As I said before, not much activity takes
place on these office floors. We have a minimal staff led by Brian, actively
monitoring The Device’s output; most of our staff are in the field, popping. We
still need to decide long term what to do with you.’
‘I’m all yours,
mould me.’
‘How have the
visions been lately?’
‘They’ve
actually slowed down drastically. Since I met you guys I’ve only had one that
I’m aware of. They were oblivious, a case of man walking down street, followed
by himself.’ For the first time Tony thought this over. His visions had been
slowing down since meeting with Bartley, which at first he had been grateful.
Was he now disposable? Was his talent wasted?
‘That’s
actually a good sign. The disruption that would have caused your alignment to
get realigned must have been a huge surge. This must surely be due to the John
Johnson situation and the potential threat he caused by replicating on the
plain. The fact that your visions have subsided must be due to this major
paradox being resolved. I know what you’re thinking: do we still want you? Most
definitely. For a start we have revealed far too much to simply let you go, and
secondly, perhaps you are susceptible.’
‘Susceptible?’
‘Yes. If John
is the cause of the surge in space-time that caused you to become realigned
then - why you? You had no link to John. You weren’t knocked back like so many
have been. You were directly affected in a completely different way. You’re
susceptible; still a huge asset to us, and to be honest, I don’t think the
visions will completely have stopped.’
‘Maybe I will
have a coffee,’ is all Tony said.
The tour
continued. The mundaity of it only accentuated the sheer ramifications of what
these people were doing. The entire third and fourth floor were storage areas
containing miniature cities of skyscraper-like filing cabinets fading into the
distance. They didn’t venture far in but each was labelled with dates. There
had to be at least two hundred per floor. Tony could imagine getting lost
within these labyrinthine depths for days. Bartley only showed him behind a
couple of the doors on the ground level, each contained more offices similar to
the main one he had been in with Brian, as well as a couple of meeting rooms.
Bartley assured him most were empty.
‘The second
floor is also empty at present, in anticipation for the endless paper work
we’re bound to receive in the coming months. Part of Brian and his team’s job
is to search for patterns. We could probably get rid of most of it, but it’s
likely the one we do get rid of would be the one which holds the key to
stopping all this.’
‘You really
think you can stop it?’
‘No, but you
have to have a goal, no matter how impossible. If we didn’t, we might as well
let annihilation commence at its own free will.’
They reached
the end of the ground floor corridor which culminated in a stairwell that only
went down. As with all the doors they had entered it was locked and flanked by
keypads and key readers to exclude intruders, or perhaps nosy members of staff.
‘I think it
best I don’t show you down there just yet.’
‘Sounds
ominous,’ said Tony as he peered through the frosted glass panel in the door
but could see nothing except the jagged outline of descending stairs.
‘The scene of
my greatest regret lies down there.’
‘I see,’ was
all Tony said, remembering back to the tale of the family man held against his
will in the basement.
‘Yes, I hope
you understand. We also house The Device which itself is growing monthly in
terms of power and literal size. You’d have thought the technology we accepted as
being good enough years ago would still be so today. It’s amazing how quickly
the simplest of routines becomes obsolete.’ Tony took one last look through
frosted glass, imaging the muted screams that would have permeated the
stairwell for the first few months of John's capture. Could he have done the
same? Would he perhaps in years to come, if in Bartley’s position, be made to
make similar decisions?
‘He’s here,’
the voice came down the corridor. Brian poked his head from out of the main
office doorway.
‘It’s time,’
said Bartley. They headed back.
A noticeable
hum now hung in the air. An additional quantum popper had arrived in the office
who glanced at Tony, accepted who he was without introduction and turned to
Brian, who for a change wasn’t sat in front of his computer. The new popper
stood by the door, pacing, and awaiting instruction from Bartley who joined
Brian at the far side of the office by a bank of monitors hung in a row atop
the length of the far wall. Previously, only the middle one had been on,
showing an empty image of the corridor outside and the door at the end leading
downstairs. Brian walked beneath them, reaching up and turning each on. There
was an audible click and whine as they faded into being; each image a fraction
of the exterior of the building, black and white and soundless - another dated
technology Tony couldn’t help but note in contrast to the hi-end science which
surrounded them. Every monitor showed an off-angle view of the building, both
external and internal. One showed a complete view of the building. It must have
been from a camera mounted across the street. The others showed various scenes
within the building of doors, corridors and one of the reception area which
swept from left to right, the receptionist gazing at a magazine maintaining her
role of cover.
Most showed
areas of the building Tony had yet to see. A stairwell, and one of a shadowed
room complete with bed, TV, and wash facilities; as if it were a hotel room
with what seemed to be the world’s smallest and degrading window. Another
showed rows and rows of servers which blended to black within the darkness of
the room in which they were housed. Its outline grew distinct by the glow of
lights which emanated from them plus a regular flash from a mechanism on the
wall - no doubt an additional security device or temperature regulator. However,
it was to none of these that any of their gazes fell.
Brian and
Bartley stood examining the screen on the far right. Behind Tony the additional
popper continued to pace as Tony approached Bartley and Brian.
‘Is that him?’
he whispered.
‘That’s him',
replied Bartley.
The monochrome
image showed what appeared to be a random alleyway sandwiched between two
urbanised buildings. As its length faded into the low definition of the screen
Tony could make out the standard array of bins and litter, a ladder which
didn’t quite reach the ground and a cat which fled away from the screen. It
also fled from the gesticulating character who filled most of the frame. The
camera must have been twelve feet in the air, sat at a crooked angle like a
rogue villain’s headquarters from Batman, and followed the movement of the man
from side to side as he crossed the narrow alley whilst throwing looks and
soundless verbal assaults at the camera. Occasionally he tried to jump up, but
couldn’t quite reach it. His face was contorted in rage, yet a defeated sadness
registered in his near lack of effort to actually destroy the camera. He
continued to wave his arms and shout silently, his mouth forming words Tony
couldn’t make out - all that was clear was that he was stammering for attention,
and getting it, whether he knew it or not.