Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1) (13 page)

More waves crashed in, washing away the dirty foam and much of the white dust, which blew along the beach in fine, white wisps. I felt the need to run again and started moving along the beach, faster and faster, skimming over the waves and darting over the sand. I smelt nothing. I went low enough to get splashed but never felt a thing. Yet I saw and heard and thought as well as in any life, despite these handicaps. I wanted to scream but couldn’t, so instead I accelerated, noting as I did that the beach was covered with many more bone piles and intermittent shipwrecks, evidence of life entwined with evidence of humanity. I left a trail of dust and sand behind me as I accelerated faster and faster, until the realisation hit me as hard as a sonic boom, which I passed through but was itself a non-event.

I appreciated life, perhaps more than many I had encountered; yet my lives had me on an inescapable pathway to this horrific time where I had become a weapon, destroying only life. An ironic destiny, one that Adwoliu would smirk at, no doubt. I wanted to think of something else. In my Vicky life, I would take myself to my happy garden whenever I felt really lonely. And this coastline was as lonely as any hell. I rose higher and within moments was back on the edge of space and then dropped again.

I was surprised to see a dark world scattered with pale blue and yellow lights that started to grow around me, before I flew across a glistening lake and arrived in the garden of a stately home. I hovered at the exact point I would imagine standing in my happy garden, above some stone steps, looking down into flower beds, surrounded by statues. Beyond that, the lake I had just skimmed over. My happy garden was an imagined, tranquil place, but here it was before me. It was as real as anything in any life.

Suddenly a loud siren started wailing, and bright white spotlights flickered on and illuminated the garden. The winged angel on a high column, the leaning man holding a sword and a shield. I looked down and noted there were seven steps. As a little girl I would imagine coming here to talk to my mother. She had died when I was six, but whenever I felt anxious I could come to my happy garden, run down these steps, and talk to her. If she were here now, I would run down them, but of course she was not.

Against the stone walls was a single circular shadow that moved as if a lone planet against the backdrop of its brilliant sun. The circle I knew was me. No arms, no legs, not even wings. I heard buzzing behind, but I had become entranced by my ominous silhouette. Two more circles appeared on either side of me, and I heard them, joint voices but slightly crackled as if coming through on the radio.

‘Return, return, return...’ they repeated endlessly.

‘Where is this?’ I asked, still staring at the wall. Not wanting to look at them, for I felt sure that to see them would be to see myself. Then I heard another cackle and the voice that reminded me of Dr Koestler:

‘Breach, breach. Afghanistan airspace has been breached, all units to proceed to Anastasia location, for intercept.’ The two shadows of the spheres shrank and disappeared. Perhaps I would be forgotten.

‘Reset!’ And then the feeling that I was being tranquilised as something else took control and I felt the start of motion.

There was something else inside this sphere with me.

FOUR DAYS

LATER:

The Librarian, 1996

I was leaning against
Edna 1886-1914—Returned to the Lord in the prime of her life.
Each of us was leaning against someone and we had been here sometime.

Against my usual stance of keeping myself to myself, I’d been persuaded to join my roommates in the school graveyard. It was late and we’d had time enough to nearly finish the bottle of vodka some of the older girls had been paid to buy for us. They were in the woods somewhere, kissing boys and acting like prats, no doubt. We were content to sit in the graveyard and freak each other out. We had stuffed pillows under our duvets, just in case the housemistress did her rounds. I’d been woken a few times previously, by the rattle of a key in the cubicle door. The housemistress would peer in, checking we were in our beds. If she did that tonight she would think us all sound asleep.

So far tonight I’d listened to a few very unimaginative tales and now it was my turn.

‘I don’t know any ghost stories, but something happened to me today that was well spooky,’ I began. ‘The librarian came and sat right opposite me. Too close. At first I thought it might be about my mobile phone, as I had left it on the table. But she ignored that and simply said, “We need to talk. Follow me!”

‘I heaved my books into my satchel before I was marched out. We climbed up the hill. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like it would soon and there was quite a wind, bracing all around us. It was break time, and just about everyone was inside.’

‘Suddenly she stopped and whirled round to face me. “You broke into my library!” I hesitated. “You broke in and checked out books on a date before they had been delivered. That is as impressive and almost as stupid as booking them out to yourself!”

‘I wanted to remind her that the library wasn’t in fact hers, it was the state’s and that it was better than stealing them, but although she’s short and looks cuddly enough, I figured she’s pretty precious about that library and didn’t want to antagonise her. So I just apologised. But then the strangest thing: she said that she had never known the library be broken into for anything more than a prank. I explained that I just enjoyed history. And then she said that it was hard to know what in history was true these days, with so many restrictions in place due to the war in Afghanistan going so badly, so to always be cautious. Only Communist Party members and those whose books were vetted and approved, ever got access to the National Library, which contains most of the primary history sources.’

‘Well, what’s so strange about that? It makes sense you can’t just have anybody reading the truth, can you?’ said Lucy. Her father, I knew to be the editor of
The Daily Herald
.

‘That wasn’t what was strange, what was strange was that she said that everyone used to have access. People could literally walk in off the street and access what they wanted. I said, “This sounds concerning.” And she said, “Well, yes, the state was so concerned that there are thousands of books, written before the
revolution
, that are illegal, but it keeps a copy of each, so that some people can access these, if need be.” Privately I was reminded of what my father had said about smallpox. ‘The state seems to like to keep things hidden and for themselves.’

‘Sounds like one of those conspiracy theories to me. You’ll be saying you’ve seen one of those flying saucers next,’ laughed one of the girls. Others joined in.

Spheres, not saucers
, I thought.

‘Who invited Vicky anyway?’ someone bitched, looking at the others as if I wasn’t even present.

‘Well, I find it all scary, and I thought we were meant to be telling scary stories!’

‘Yeah. If they think there’s stuff we shouldn’t know in those books, they should just burn them,’ chipped in one of the fourth years.

‘It’s a no-brainer. But that’s not really horrific, not like mine.’ Lucy paused for effect, her eyes wide in the gloom. ‘Like Vicky’s, it’s a true story, but this one could actually affect any one of us. Any one of us who’s caught out of bed by Miss Harper. We all know she is super strict and a bit of a psycho.’

‘And a lesbo,’ added the fourth year.

We all laughed.

‘Well, I promise you that you’ll all keep your distance after I tell you this story.’ Lucy commanded centre stage. ‘It was seventeen years ago tonight that poor Miss Brown was caught creeping back after a long night in the woods with her handsome lover. They’d fucked, drank and smoked under the stars all through the night.’

This story was sounding more contrived than any book I’d read. One girl snickered and muttered something about getting her stockings filled, and I considered leaving. It had been a mistake coming here. Oh, I’d enjoyed the vodka. More potent than any mead or wine I’d drunk in my Richard life, or any ale I’d imbibed as Charlie. But these girls were blinkered from what was really going on in their world and didn’t seem to care. What was really scary was that on the outside at least, I was like them, living in a big house and being driven here in that Bentley. A stately home on wheels. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair, but then my other lives were not so dissimilar. The Marxism they taught us in class sounded better than being ruled by the warring kings and queens I was used to as Richard, or the dusty old men who only represented the wealthy in Charlie’s time. But the more I thought about my lives and what was different about them, the more I could see that these differences were superficial. My head was hurting and I decided to delay any further political awakenings, until I was sober.

‘Miss Brown should have been dancing and singing, but she arrived back in tears,’ Lucy continued. ‘As soon as he’d had his wicked way with her, Prince Charming dumped her and turned into the toad he really was.’

I couldn’t help but imagine Lucy’s father, a senior wordsmith, reading his daughter bedtime fairy tales. The untold damage it was doing to her storytelling was infuriating! For a brief moment I remembered my own father, reading stories to me. His voice soothing me to sleep.

‘So Miss Harper awoke to the sound of the tears and pretended to be concerned, letting Miss Brown come into her room and tell her all about it, only once she had, the old bat span into a rage and dragged the poor girl into the linen cupboard. There she was, locked in, burning up in the overly warm room. No windows, the light-switch on the outside of a locked door, and with little air. In despair, Miss Brown cut open her wrists. The following morning she was found shrivelled up and dead. Her body empty of blood, with only a small pool of blood beneath her, but surrounded by walls of red sheets. They had soaked up all her blood.’

‘Really, is that true?’

‘Of course it’s not,’ I piped up. ‘I’ve never heard such tripe.’

‘Her ghost haunts that cupboard to this day and we all sleep on those same sheets every night, I tell you!’

That was a step too far for me. ‘Wow, at least your dad gets paid for his lies—what’s your excuse?’

‘If you’re so sure, why don’t you go and spend a night in there then?’ slurred the fourth year.

Hell, why not.

‘They say it got so hot her blood actually boiled and her blood steamed, soaking even the roof,’ said Lucy.

‘You’re only intriguing me more.’ I stood up, slightly unsteadily. ‘If I’m dead in the morning, you can all have a nice laugh about it.’

I flounced off, steadily but not too fast. Within a few paces, I realised that no one was going to stop me, so I kept on going, out of the woods, down the slope and towards the teacher’s apartments. By the time I arrived at Miss Harper’s glass fronted door I had severe hiccups. I held my breath a few times and swallowed, trying to get rid of them and had resolved to walk away and head back to my cubicle, only I started to puke. The door flew open.

‘My goodness, girl, what are you doing out there?’

I wiped my chin and burped.

‘You are
drunk!
’ Miss Harper accused me, as if I should be shocked too. ‘Come in, let’s take a look at you.’

I stumbled in, reminding myself that arriving at the door of the school’s most notorious lesbian, blind drunk in the early hours was not that well considered. Although I had kissed girls as Richard and Charlie, so in many ways it would feel more natural being with a woman, even in this life. The only problem was that Miss Harper looked and acted so masculine. She sat me down and made me a cup of tea. Taking a seat opposite me, she lit a cigarette as she waited for me to take a few sips, before the inevitable interrogation. I imagined making a break for the door and her running after and tackling me. I was pretty sure that she could not be as evil as everyone said she was, but I figured that I really must learn self-defence in one life or another. Just in case.

‘So, Vicky, tell me what you’ve been doing and how you ended up vomiting on my porch?’

It was surprising that she knew my name and I could not help but wonder if she had looked me up in a registry book while she made my tea.

‘Well...um...’

After two false starts, Miss Harper reminded me sharply that I really should tell the truth. Eventually I finished my tea and she reached over, snatching the empty cup.

‘If you don’t tell me the truth, Vicky, I am going to report this incident and your family will be called in. You will likely be put on report, with Sunday detentions for the month. But what I think will upset you more, is that as this would be official, we will have to take steps to ensure that no other students are able to leave their dormitory at night.’

It was doubtful that my father would come in, but he would be livid with me just for receiving the phone call. Detentions were bearable and I’d had enough of those before. But this Miss Harper was pretty damn clever for a games mistress—the dorm threat was my biggest concern. Yes, the other girls would make my life hell, but I’d always felt lonely in this awful place. It was hardly a change. Even the way the other girls acted tonight proved there was little love for me here. It had always been mutual. Despite this, I had no intention of being the girl who put a stop to midnight feasts, secret smoking, drinking, kissing, and more. It wasn’t a matter of loyalty—I owed them fuck all—but it was a matter of freedom.