As we passed close to the farmhouse John was waxing lyrically about all the improvements he'd make to the estate when he owned everything. He may even purchase the hunting lodge to complete his kingdom. I heard some of his plans, but for the most part his words were ignored as I watched the countryside rolling past with dim interest. Everything crushed into in these frantic hours had been a surprise from the unexpected sexual initiation to my mother being a tigress with teeth. What could I possibly find out now that would change anything? In a couple of hours I was supposed to be in the pub to sort everything out. I lacked the slightest clue as to what I was sorting out. I had the drugs, they were my insurance. The money would never be found, that's if it was ever all in my possession!
John pulled the car over to the kerb, stopping in the middle of town only a few streets away from Harry's house, and not very far from my own little town house. Was I supposed to get out of the car now? John Smith got out and walked across the street to the phone box. He'd left the keys in the ignition. As if I was going to steal a car with an unconscious murder suspect in the boot? He was wearing the murder weapons and this was several years before DNA.
My brutal companion returned smiling, I assumed because his phone call had been a success. He gave me no clue as to who he'd been talking to. It may have had nothing to do with the situation at the moment, but more business to keep the wheels of the John Smith moneymaking empire in motion.
“Peter your still here? You've got to be ready for our big night of fun in The Cauldron. Go on! Get out! Go and get yourself ready. It was your plan in the first place to find the source and make a killing. As you know I made a killing, and in a short while possibly another,” John said.
“My plan, some of it must be yours,” I said.
“Fucking too right! I just hardened it up a bit,” John said. He was still smiling as he drove away leaving me standing by the side of the road with only one thought in my head. My plan! Yes, he'd hardened it up a bit! I assumed I'd planned a coup, and John had decided to eliminate all the opposition!
But this terrible slaughter was mostly my plan!
The radio club had captured every minute of every day. I had no time; this was my life. Every day key noted by waiting to be let into the secret lair of the radio club, and fried behind lead doors. This is not a complete lie. My days were passing by in a blur of chronic tiredness.
The first few weeks had been a joke for me. I had no skin burns, I had resistant skin, or would that be thick skin? I wasn't suffering from diarrhoea. Perhaps in this instance I was lucky. Radioactive rays were pointing very close to my stomach. I didn't suffer anything until five weeks in. This is when I noticed the days getting shorter, because I was asleep for much longer.
Every waking hour was geared to one purpose: drive to the hospital to be irradiated then return to my flat. Other than this I did nothing but dark daydream to keep in touch with a real world at some level. The rest of the time I was eating, moving very slowly or sleeping. To my regret the number of other dimensional experiences did not increase with my amount of sleep. Most of my sleep was filled with repetitious irritating nonsense, forgotten the instant I awoke. Nothing brilliant with crystal bright light and vivid all-encompassing sensation! So perhaps I was fighting back. Or did I need to?
Another poor child was anaesthetised and alone behind the foot thick door. I had a long wait for the Chernobyl effect. This gave me a lot of time for reflection, and as usual I returned to those brandy filled days listening to Rachel as she freed herself by voicing all her past horrors.
Discovering Maximilian Haussler had survived the war and now prospered dealing art in London, had tortured Rachel. She was obsessed by a desire for revenge. At night she would lie in bed safe in Abraham's arms with her baby girl in a cot at the end of the room. She couldn't bear the thought of being apart after all the separations in her life. Yet she'd left the baby for two weeks to search out the man her husband had described, the man who'd nearly cost him his dignity and his job. Her initial obsession had been finding him to prove it couldn't be Maximilian Haussler, she prayed he was dead, burnt in the war. He was alive and she was obsessed with bringing him to justice. Many times at night she thought about telling Abraham her story, but it would destroy him knowing the whole sordid truth. He didn't know she'd been used daily as a prepubescent sex toy by only one sadistic man.
Rachel explained that as the months passed the feeling she must seek revenge never lessened. In fact it grew to a point where several times she picked the phone up and dialled 999. Seconds later before any answer was given to her plight, she would slam the phone down. How could she prove this Swiss businessman was anything other than what he claimed? He would have all the papers and all the proofs he needed to make her the mad woman. The police had too many crimes and too little resource to follow up the crazed ravings of a Polish Jewish woman.
She then told me of a day she found the answer. Rachel had been shopping in the market and was strolling down a very narrow street which was lined on each side with a variety of interesting shops. Some of these were selling musical instruments, others clothing and shoes, for which after the camp she had developed a secret addiction. Her wardrobe hid too many pairs of shoes bought because they were pretty. Abraham wouldn't have understood especially all that expense just for shoes.
The street was so varied and Rachel was enjoying her time looking in the shop windows. One particular shop caught her attention. It was an antique shop and they needed a nice clock to go on top of the fireplace, nothing from the 30s but something similar to a Victorian carriage clock. This is what she'd got in mind. The proprietor showed her two good quality clocks. Rachel enquired if he had more. While the shopkeeper moved off into the back to delve into his stock she spent her time looking into various display cases. This is when she found the answer.
It came in the form of a 1938 Nazi ceremonial dagger. This particular dagger was the SS model, and this made it irresistible. Barley sugar twist ivory handle with gold braid in the bottom of the twists, a T-bar made in the shape of very fine eagles' feathers followed by the thing that grabbed Rachel's attention. This ceremonial dagger had a stainless steel blade, diamond in section and ten inches long. It came in a lovely gold dimple worked scabbard with two hanging rings and small scar where the Nazi insignia had been prised off at some time.
None of the details interested Rachel. The justice of having this ten inch ceremonial blade driving into Maximilian's heart while blood rushed out along the blade was enough. She could watch his life forces spurt out. Thinking of this Rachel didn't care if the blood squirted all over her body, her face and her arms. Thinking of the hot sticky metallic life force oozing from this abomination made her catch her breath. The thought of it excited her in a way that also appalled. She needed the knife, this knife, not any other knife. This ceremonial representation of Nazi power was going to destroy the man who'd taken her, penetrated in every way. Now he would be penetrated in a final ugly end to his degenerate murder laden life.
Rachel didn't buy a carriage clock. She made more of her accent pretending it was from further south, somewhere in Germany. She purchased the SS ceremonial dagger for the purpose of her own little ritual of ceremonial slaughter. The shopkeeper wrapped it with great care for her because he knew he was selling it to somebody who'd supported the party. He didn't like Spics and Jews. He'd spent the war hoping a man with real charisma would conquer this wishy-washy nation, and he would've become an avid supporter of his strong pure views. He'd sold the dagger for cost, plus a little bit. A true old-time party member would understand. He winked at Rachel as she left the shop.
The dagger was hidden away in the house, and with the weapon to kill Maximilian the urge to carry out the final act subsided. A few weeks passed in which desire for revenge had disappeared, or perhaps she'd understood the gravity of buying the knife. She could go to the gallows for what she planned. With a good judge she might serve fifteen years in prison, and Rachel wouldn't survive in any prison after her hell in the camp. The dagger would remain hidden until the day when she threw it away, unused. Rachel would never get the opportunity to stab Maximilian in the heart.
The dagger was easy to forget until a neighbour put a sign up in his front garden. “House for sale”. Abraham had noticed it, mentioning it casually as he came in for dinner. He was very pleased with himself, things were going well at the bank, and an official whisper of his promotion to deputy manager had been passed to him. Abraham was delighted that he'd climbed back to a good position in such a short time. It wasn't London, and it was a provincial branch, but nevertheless. With her head full of panic Rachel wasn't listening to a husband, and every word he spoke was a background jumble.
“House for sale” had terrified her. Now there was no time to waste. In a handful of seconds it had all rushed back in. If Maximilian moved in London' it would be almost impossible to find him, and if he moved to another country her chance of revenge would be lost forever. Rachel could feel one of her depressions coming on, a time when she needed to be with her sister Mila in London.
Only a couple of weeks rest and time away from her demanding child
would brighten her mood. Another thing was praying on Rachel's mind. She hadn't had her period for two months and was starting to feel nauseous in the mornings. She had great joy at the thought of a new child coming into the world, and now great panic to get the job done before Maximilian moved or she got wrapped up in family matters for the rest of her life. If she was going to kill him it would have to be in the next three weeks!
I was imagining Rachel on a train going down to London clutching her small cardboard suitcase. Abraham had begged her many times to buy a new one, but this was the case she'd brought from the American army hospital camp in Poland. The case became the only thing left from those dark days. She decided that after Maximilian was dead a complete purge of the past would take place. The little battered case would go, and she would buy a shiny brown leather case to represent the bright new future.
Then I was looking at the brown leather case and all my other reality had vanished. You've got to understand in the alternative universe I have no past in this world. I was no longer remembering Rachel's small cardboard suitcase. In this world it had never existed. The brown leather case was placed very carefully under the legs of the table. I looked up expecting to see a train, or a pub, or a village green with a game of cricket. What I didn't expect was a connection between two of them. It started with a cool breeze followed by a sensation of every molecule in my body flowing across a sea of moving oil. I opened my eyes and I was on a ferryboat, a large ferryboat. I could feel every movement inside the engine and fish swimming at great depths below the keel. I needed something to concentrate my attention away from the millions of sensations. Full focus came into my world.
She wore no make-up. Jennifer never had to. She was looking out across the sea watching brilliant white almost iridescent silver cliffs passing by several miles to the south. I know it was the south. This is how sensations work in an all-encompassing super reality. I watched her looking across to the land. I could feel the wind blowing through her hair and the essence from her body passing by me on those vapours. Salt was everywhere in a fine mist in the air. I didn't want to distract her. I was looking at something far more beautiful than any painting. The
Mona Lisa
was a dull daub executed by a poor artist. What I was seeing not only delighted my senses. It poured through my heart.
“This is the train ferry, owned by the railway company, linking the two countries. We're going to Paris for dinner!” Jennifer said, turning to me as she did so. As if she'd known I'd been watching the whole time. Then again, I might have been with her all day. This is something I don't know. Perhaps I am always in this dimension and only join myself from brief snippets of my better life. I don't think this is true. It's just I like to imagine I'm never without her.
“The train ferry? Do you mean the actual train is on the boat?” A stupid thing to ask, I could sense cooling water, dying steam.
“Of course, silly. How else are we going to get to Paris? We don't have to move our luggage. It stays on the train,” Jennifer replied.
“You brought the bag,” I said, looking down at it, discovering it was now open-mouthed.
“Yes, this is an educational school trip.”
“After my last visit at the cricket match I didn't burn, and I didn't see you!”
“I think the education burnt you enough, but I was surprised when you didn't return. The Lylybel wasn't!” Jennifer said. She was looking downwards and my eyes followed hers.
I looked into the bag and I could see the ferryboat from the air, on the very sea we were travelling on, so fine in detail I could make out myself looking down into the bag. I wondered if this went on for infinity, down the scale of dimension and up the scale also. I was concentrating on these thoughts when I started to fall. I was plunging from a thousand feet in the air down towards another deck where I was sitting opposite Jennifer. I was in danger of crashing down on top of myself. Then I noticedâ¦
The other me had also disappeared. I landed very gently opposite the smaller Jennifer. At this point the only thought in my head was if a version of me from above had landed opposite my Jennifer. The girl opposite me was the same girl, the same size. There was one difference. She was wearing a very wry smile and pointing up at the bridge of the ship.
The captain wore Mediterranean whites, a spectacular uniform with gold braid encrusted epaulets. This captain's hair cascaded over her shoulders in wondrous glistening curls. Yes, the captain was my favourite pixie.
“Welcome to the SS
Nimrod
, the ship that hunts. You'll notice we are running purely on memory. No coal or oil involved here!” pixie stated. Then she added, “You still think I'm a pixie. One day I'll put you right. Now look up at the funnel.”
And there it was, SS
Nimrod
steaming along in all her glory with millions of bubbles pouring out of the funnel. They were all being blown away to leeward with no chance of me popping one, as if this trifle would stop the pixie's plans. The funnel started to produce a giant grey bubble that grew in size moment by moment until it was as large as a house. It detached itself and flopped onto the surface of the sea. All the other bubbles were landing softly on the surface of the sea, and none ever broke. I had a temptation to dive in and find the brightest bubble I could, prodding it to release a happy glorious memory.
No such luck. The pixie ordered the crew onto the deck. They were all dressed as doctors wearing white coats with the obligatory stethoscope around their necks. She snapped out an order in a high pitched voice, all in a language I didn't understand. The doctors moved in around me, all eight of them. I was lifted bodily from the deck, and without ceremony thrown off the leeward side of the ferry. I was joining the big grey bubble floating in the sea.
“Just what the doctor ordered. A nice swim, it will do you good!” The pixie shouted through a megaphone, followed by a long giggly laugh.
I remained still treading water. The wind was blowing all the other bubbles across the top of the waves. The grey bubble was moving contrary to nature advancing towards me giving me little choice. This great grey blob rolled over the top of me pushing me down under the water. The only thing I could do was claw at it. I was drowning. So this was how it was going to be. I would die under this bubble of grey memory, or burst my way into the fat horror.
I was thrashing at the bubble, fighting to hold my breath, when two strong arms pulled me up out of the cold water.