Elsewhere in the pub people were fighting, others were arguing about the colour of the sky when viewed through the huge hole in the roof. No such thing existed. Billy the landlord was lying on his back on the bar smoking a cigar demanding Mabel install snooker lights above the entrance to the toilets. Billy suggested you needed the bright light to guide your balls into the corner pocket.
I returned to my seat at the end of the bar which was now occupied by a young girl in glasses who announced she was an eagle in her eerie. I pushed her out of the nest and took my seat. I was waiting for the return of John Smith and had no idea what would happen next. I started to wonder if he'd gouged Hartley Sparrow's eyes out after deciding that pissing was not doing the job. It had been several minutes and I helped myself to a stiff brandy from the optic behind the bar. The brandy hit me with its warm intoxication, and like a sailor on rum I was ready for the fight, or I thought I was.
John Smith appeared at the end of the bar and walked very slowly towards me. He stopped twenty feet away looking at me through the mayhem. He seemed to be puzzled by my appearance and I looked back shrugging my shoulders with the question of “what”? He then raised his voice into a loud shouting chant,
“Red eyes, red eyes, red eyes, everybody's got red eyes! You're their leader, you must die!” As he shouted he moved towards me. The hunting cougar had returned for its prey.
Before John was upon me I managed to grab my bar stool to use as a weapon. It might've been the LSD slowing him down, but I managed to swing the stool holding its legs and made hard contact against his shoulder. I was aiming for his head but this blow managed to knock him down to the floor. I didn't have time to put the trainer in or hit him again. John was off the floor in a second and looked at me filled with a black anger. I swung the stool again in the confined space and managed to catch him a glancing blow across the cheek which sent him spinning away. He didn't make the floor. He clutched at clothing in the crowd stopping himself halfway down.
I was on the move towards the door figuring I could run faster than a drugged John Smith. I was driven by the adrenaline of terror, but he was driven by the LSD madness and the thrill of the chase. Driven by fear I moved quickly, pushing my way through the crazy throng inside the pub. The main entrance was blocked by a rugby scrum playing a game of God knows what with a pool ball. The idiots were blocking the doorway, but I'd made them idiots so I suppose I deserved it. I made for the side door, the very door Bob and I had walked through two years ago.
An enormous flash of heat burst up in front of me as I approached the rabid mushbies. Whatever liquid they were playing with had caught fire and taken hold of the heavy curtains covering the window behind them. The reactions varied from fascination to wild panic. In only a handful of seconds there was an inferno up the back wall. A crowd of retreating mushbies dived into the passageway leading to the side door, my exit was blocked. I swung round and dived below the clutching arms of John Smith as he lunged to grab me. He ploughed on into the crowd of mushbies. In frustration he lashed out at three or four of them, giving me time to go for the fire door. My escape had me passing very close to the inferno and into the corridor towards the back door. Cool salvation and freedom awaited me in the yard if I could move quickly enough.
I headed down the corridor past the toilets towards the back yard. I would have to climb over the gate to gain my freedom, but I was fired up with so much adrenaline this would be no obstacle at all. It would put space between me and John Smith. Not enough space it seemed. The corridor was long and I was halfway down it. My pursuer was close behind me, but at the other end of the corridor, waiting, bloodied and vengeful was Dave Hartley Sparrow.
Conscious, with his useless right arm dangling by his side he waited. His shoulders were saturated as if he'd been walking in the rain. I think I could smell him on the breeze being sucked towards me by the rising heat in the pub. Millicent was not her usual steady self, his left arm never used to wield the shotgun. It didn't matter. His intentions were clear. He raised it and fired. The unfamiliar left-handed stance saved my life.
I could feel the draught as the lead shot passed me by. There was a sharp sting to the very top point of my left shoulder as just one single lead shot dug into my body. I dived to the right to avoid the second barrel and smashed my way into the toilets.
Outside I could hear the second barrel go. Millicent had shot my pursuer and now I had to get outside to escape before he could reload. I would have to climb over John Smith's shattered body. This didn't worry me. I opened the door and dived out into the corridor to discover to my horror John Smith alive and well. He was giving a beating to the shotgun wielding Dave who with bad eyes, and using the wrong arm, had missed once again. Two or three sharp blows had the gunman unconscious or even in a coma. Each blow was delivered with such force I thought his head would snap off. In those moments you could see he would never be the same man again.
John Smith turned to look at me, and with slow deliberation brushed his suit down making himself look presentable. He had a small trickle of blood running from his left cheek, the result of my second blow with the stool. He was dabbing this very calmly with an immaculate white linen handkerchief. He looked at me and shook his head as if he was a disappointed father. Then he made a cutthroat gesture with his right hand and pointed at me. He made no sound and mouthed the wordsâ¦
“You're next!”
Back in the modern day world of instant communication and instant gratification my post-cancer treatment was going slowly. Urinal incontinence had backed off to become the embarrassment of small leaks. The tiredness was very slow to leave my body. Little by little, day by day, tiny parts of my strength and functions of the body returned. To do this I was getting a little help from my friends. This is something I mentioned much earlier.
To help stop urinal incontinence I used pelvic floor stimulation, an electric device to contract the muscles. I won't say where it fits. To recover my sexual ability I used an erectile dysfunction device. This exercises the tissue and reminds the body of what it can do; it works for some people. Finally I used a power breathing apparatus to help strengthen my lungs weakened by chemotherapy.
All done in an effort to regain full pre-cancer function, but to me I seemed like the biggest pervert on the planet. To save time I was doing all three exercises at once, pelvic floor, penis excitement and heavy breathing exercises. I was like a sex crazed one-man band, every orifice in action, but I must add that I can now run upstairs without collapsing at the top through lack of breath, or pissing my pants. Finally, when I'm up there, I can make it into the bedroom with more than half a smile on my face!
It will be a long and sometimes frustrating road, but it is my great fortune to have survived to walk that road.
Over a month had passed since my trip to Paris in the other universe. I knew that each trip revealed more, and during the last the pain was almost unbearable. If I think about it now it makes me shudder and come out in a cold sweat.
Despite this I was desperately missing my lovely Jennifer. She had become the love of my life. I was tormented because she only existed in another dimension and I only visited when summoned. I was convinced I'd never go there again, and everything was over. I wanted to know the truth about the poor heroin addicted Anne and what happened that night. What I didn't want to experience was the suffering to pay for the knowledge. Night times didn't bring any return to a train station or a level crossing gate. No public houses with incredible real ale appeared. The mundane and the ordinary were my nightly staple.
I fell asleep in the middle of the day reading a novel while relaxing in the dappled shade. The beer was slipping down and the pages were turning so slow as to not make sense. I was slipping out of the zone and some lines were being covered five times and still not understood.
A hand shook me awake. I could feel the heartbeat of the person shaking me, and I knew in an instant it was my Jennifer. We were sitting in the pub garden by the river. In the far distance I could hear and feel the vibration of the train passing through a cutting. Never a moment passed in this paradise without travel along the iron road of truth, all those rigid rails are as unmoving as past history. Not the mutated truths received through opinion and education, but your real history, the truth you know to be true, not the lies you sometimes use to deceive yourself. The whole experience was how it should be. She was radiant and the mood was high. She talked about us being together forever. One day I would live in this place all the time. We would get old together, though it would take far longer than in my dull normal world.
Our conversation sparkled for an age until I could see something strange in the distance. The glassy surface of the river was being broken by the approach of a craft. At first I thought it was a long distance away. It was much nearer than I imagined. What I was looking at was a large dog paddling along in the river, and on its back stood a very familiar pixie complete with sub-aqua gear. I knew where I was going. What I couldn't figure out was how. Then I could see a small chord wrapped around the dog's waist. O'Duke was using the briefcase as a buoyancy aid strapped to one side of his large body. It was back to the old dark space routine inside the briefcase. All I had to do was sit and wait for the little armada to arrive at the dock.
I lifted the pint to my lips and took a large delicious mouthful of this wondrous real ale. My foolish move was to close my eyes in ecstasy at the taste. When I opened them I was sitting in the dark. I was sitting inside the briefcase which was leaking river water more and more by the second. The pixie was standing on the bridge of the good ship O'Duke looking down into the briefcase.
“Do you want me to throw you a line and get you out of there?” pixie said, saluting as she did so.
“Yes, pixie, throw me a line.” I said this with a resignation. I knew what was coming.
A line coming down towards me was unexpected in itself. This little tyrant was actually throwing me a line. On the end was a Turk's head knot, not unusual in itself, except as it plunged down towards me the knot appeared to be wrapped around a shiny black ball. This object was as big as a cricket ball with a surface as shiny as a diamond and as black as the darkest night. I dived out of the way not wanting to be involved with the evil blackness coming towards me.
“Don't call me pixie, my name is Hysandrbopel and I'm a Lylybel. Get that through your thick head!” These angry words from her lips were muted by this hard black ball seeking me out for a pummelling. At the last second I closed my eyes fearing a shattering impact. Surprised at feeling nothing from the impact I opened my eyes to discover the blackness wasn't solid. I was travelling at speed down an ever widening tunnel. At the end of the tunnel I could already see a wild-eyed Bob waiting for me, one hand forming a fist the other thrust down his trousers.
It had been several weeks since I'd been to the other universe. It was as if a moment hadn't passed since Bob told me he was going to take what he wanted. Without any hesitation he charged directly at me in a drunken madness, his eyes frightful and deranged. His inebriation made him duck and weave like a prize fighter. It wasn't intentional. He was intent on moving in on me, getting me out of the way and then taking what he thought he was entitled to. It wasn't hard to hit him. I took a swing and connected with his jaw just in front of the ear sending him crashing into the corner of the room.
Bob was lying in an untidy heap on the carpet, he breathed heavily without moving his limbs. He appeared to be unconscious, or the drink had finally got the better of him.
“Thank God for that. I thought the mad bastard was going to beat you and rape me. Now who's going to pay for the door?” Anne said to me.
We both stared at the unconscious Bob apparently snoring on the floor.
“I'll get the door fixed, don't worry!” I said.
I smiled at her and indicated that I was enjoying the moment before we were interrupted. Without hesitation Anne slipped back into her girlfriend fantasy, and within seconds she was pulling me back into her arms, working away on my lower body. Bob was out of the picture. Thinking back to her actions, I'm quite sure Anne was out of the picture also. I was well on my way to being very drunk and my judgement was not the best in the world. With hormones rushing forwards, and a very beautiful girl by my side, my mind was a complete void, only filled with lust, and the desire to finally be inside a woman.
A couple of minutes had passed and our rising desires had become a restless passion. Bob remained still and quiet in the corner. He started to make very loud snoring noises. I snorted to myself in derision at his stupidity and he heard me. He wasn't asleep, but growling like a wild animal. I was too involved in the hot pleasures and moving towards my sexual emancipation to notice my derision had garnered a response. Moments later he was on his feet. This time he went for a weapon and it was deadly weapon as it turned out. He didn't manage to kill me with it.
“What the fuck?” was all I managed to say. He was lunging towards me holding a big metal box above his head. It looked like a metal storage trunk, and the way he handled it seemed dangerous. He hurled it straight at me with all the fury of his strength. It never contacted, passing wide of the target, me. The metal box caught on the light fitting and crashed to the bed hitting Anne's head with a glancing blow. The poor girl didn't suffer a bad injury. There would be bruising but she was only stunned. The box hit the bed's headboard and rolled onto its side. My mouth opened in horror on seeing what Bob had thrown in his drunken rage.
Before I could even shout out a single word the small paraffin heater had spilt a gallon of pungent fuel onto the bedclothes, and within a second of stunned inaction half the bed was engulfed in a wall of hot flame. This was the half of the bed nearest to the headboard. This was the half of the bed in which a near naked beautiful seventeen-year-old drug addict was burning to death. The flames in their first seconds were hot beyond the point of approach. This heater, the source of the cloying throat catching dampness in the basement flat was now warming the whole place to a skin mutilating furnace.
Bob looked at me, his face gone from rage in one instant to a wide-eyed terror. Anne was writhing on the bed in a sea of human shaped flame, and her skin was visibly shrinking by the second. This accompanied by a smell of burning hair as her lustrous mane frizzled and died in the flames. I was in a terrible panic because I had to do something. He didn't help the girl he'd set on fire. He ran past me and out of the bedroom door, and out onto the street and away into the dark night as fast as his drunken legs could carry his miserable body. The coward had no guts to confront what he'd done. This man was not a man, and the possibility was, neither was I.
The sheets on the bed were now engulfed in flames. I tried to drag the curtains down but they were pitifully small for the task. I rushed into the bathroom and pushed a bath towel under the tap which took several long seconds to saturate. In my panic this seemed to take an age. By the time I got back into the bedroom the girl had stopped writhing and screaming in agony. The room itself was now three quarters full of acrid black smoke from the foam in the mattress. I wasn't burnt by the fire, but I could hardly breathe even with my head down at floor level. I knew if I managed to quench the flames the girl would never survive. The black cloying fumes were burning my eyes and the horrible black heat in room drove me back. In the end, in my panic, I ran!
I never called the police. Bob never called the police. The man who was supplying her drugs, the man who was also her cousin, never called the police. This man would die two years later kicked to death under the boot of John Smith. The little weasel Smiggy had set us up with his drug addicted cousin, a girl he'd got addicted whilst trying to sell heroin to her group of friends. That very night she'd phoned him and asked what the payment would be. He'd arranged for her to have a little advance before we got our wallets out. The money would go to Smiggy and not help the girl. Perhaps what goes around does come around; karma bites!
I ended the night hiding in a piss and shit smelling alleyway. I was seeking Lenny looking for a way out from this nightmare. Where mad Bob ran to I do not know. When I tried to converse with him in the garage the final time I saw him he wouldn't admit the truth. He'd used outrage to make me feel I'd done something wrong. I'd been part of it, but not the instigator! I'd been there and seen what he'd done. I didn't help either. I couldn't with all the heat and fumes, but to my shame I ran! I didn't go to the police, an action I lived to regret.
This was my first double memory. I'd already lived that moment of filth covered terror in the alleyway. Now I was suffering it again. I stepped forward to leave the alleyway careful nobody should see me. I was moving exactly as before. This was history all over again. This time I trod on some greasy paper or a loose can in the rubbish and fell backwards, hard backwards.
I landed with a very soft thud on the lawn next to Jennifer. It was as if I'd dived down onto the grass to be next to her. I winded myself on landing, but only a little, nothing too serious. Jennifer handed me a fresh pint and a lovely beef with horseradish sandwich. Over by the boat pontoon the pixie was now dressed in her beautiful gossamer outfit. The briefcase had disappeared along with it the dog. That was until the dog padded past me and down to the dock where he dived into the water. The pixie climbed onto his head.
“Goodbye and⦠good luck?” O'Duke and Hysandrabopel said in unison. The dog could speak!
I looked over to Jennifer, and she pulled me into her arms and gave me an embrace as if to say it was all over. I'd suffered my education and now I knew the truth. I suffered no acid in the final moments of discovery because this time I'd done no wrong other than being foolish and seventeen driven by wild hormones.
“No more briefcase. Do you want to live with me for the rest of your life?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes, I love you. I want to be with you always,” I said, and pulled her once more into my arms.
In the next three glorious months I discovered so much about this other universe. My senses were almost overpowered. However, I learnt to control sensual input until it was needed. The first few days were hard work; overdosing on pleasure can be very tiring. Within a month I'd mastered the control, within two months my life was complete. Jennifer was pregnant with our first child, and it was going to be a glorious life. The third month cemented the solidity of our relationship. We were inseparable and as one. Nothing could ever come between us in this almost perfect universe. As with everything new you always find out there are hidden issues, and sometimes dark secrets. Compared to life on Earth these were trivial, centuries ahead of our evolution now.
I woke up one morning to find Jennifer not lying next to me because I was sitting outside on a bench half drunk with my finger holding the page of a novel. The book was,
Das Boot.
It relives the traumas of wartime life in a submarine fighting a gruelling battle for survival deep under the ocean. The realisation that I was back in my post-cancer recuperation world sickened me. If I was in the submarine I would've opened the hatch and let the water flood in to take my life. I got up from my bench and drank four more beers before dragging myself off to bed. Once there I blindly watched the television and drank four more beers to quench my tears of misery, after which I slipped into a drunken coma. Next morning I awoke, not in our bed next to Jennifer. I was, as always, alone.