Authors: Matthew Reeve
Dean Warren was
driving when it happened. He jumped just four seconds, yet it was more than
enough to disorientate him. The speeding surroundings skipped like a scratched
record and he had to swerve into a lay-by in order to gain his bearings. His
girlfriend, sitting beside him, didn’t react or notice a thing. She seamlessly
followed the words to the song on the radio, as four seconds worth were
repeated.
He was soon
caught up with and returned.
Zoe and Sarah
could hardly hear each other over the roar of the afternoon traffic. The town
was small, a village really, but it seemed everyone came out in force for the
lunchtime school run, clogging the roads like cholesterol in an artery; this
town was long overdue a coronary. The narrow pavements didn’t help either. They
could barely walk two abreast without Sarah brushing her right shoulder upon
the overgrown garden shrubbery and Zoe herself precariously poised to fall into
the road with one misplaced step. Fortunately this daily walk from school had
been traversed so often that it was pretty much muscle memory that drove them
home. The dip and raise of each driveway was ingrained upon them both allowing
the continual rumble of passing engines to not disrupt them from the walk. It
was rare to even register the cars flying only inches by their shoulders and
unfortunately easy to forget how dangerous one misplaced step could be.
‘I don’t care
what you say,’ shouted Zoe over the roar of the traffic. ‘These are, and always
will be,’ pause for effect, 'the greatest chips in the world, ever!’ She pulled
one from the paper bag she was holding and held it aloft as though it were a
treasured relic recovered after a lengthy voyage. She could have sworn the sun
glinted off it as if it were made of gold and not covered in grease.
‘I don’t know,’
said Sarah. She too pulled out a chip and held it up as if examining it for
purity under a microscope. ‘They’re all right I suppose. Bit chunky’
‘A bit chunky?
How can a chip be too chunky, and how can the chunkiness of a chip ever be a
negative. It’s the chunkiness that makes them the greatest chips in the world’
‘If you say
so.’ Sarah bit down on her chip whilst Zoe took some more, looking at it
lovingly before devouring and savouring. Her loving gaze was broken as a grown
man on a bike shot out of Fairfield Street. Lucky for him the road was
momentarily quiet. Without looking he bunny hopped into the street, avoiding
them at the last second.
‘Grown men
should not ride bikes on pavements,’ shouted Zoe towards the disappearing
figure. He couldn’t hear them, if he had, she assumed his response would have
been a raised middle finger.
It was that
time again, to eat their school lunches at home; a Wednesday being the day
Zoe’s house was free. There was no Mum to force them to eat sandwiches of ham
and lettuce and no Dad to force them to sit through the news. They had
forty-seven minutes precisely to enjoy their lunch whilst watching the fine
selection of Australian soaps that cable TV had to offer. Lunch was usually a
bag of chips, consumed long before home was even sighted.
As Zoe’s
collection of fat doorstops of chips began to whittle down to those crisp burnt
bits she believed nobody could possibly like, she could no longer ignore the
growing calls emanating from behind them. Surely Sarah had noticed them too and
like her had ignored them - both subconsciously increasing their pace to make
it home quicker. The roar of the calls could even be heard over the passing
traffic and were unmistakably aimed at them. She knew Sarah had glanced out the
corner of her eye at Zoe to note that she had heard the noise too. Zoe
continued apace and devoted all her attention to the gum-shredding crispy chips
which had become a fascinating distraction as they sped up. The roar of the
traffic and the wall of the bordered hedges grew claustrophobic as they heard
‘chippy’ called from behind, random shouts of ‘oi’ and an unmistakable call of
‘Fattie Fleck’ from resident school bully Dylan Jones. There was only one
logical step: ignore them and hasten the pace.
The first chip
sailed over their heads and skidded off the pavement into the road. The second
struck Sarah on the back and the third struck Zoe on the shoulder. ‘Just keep
walking,’ she heard Sarah say, but even this became a struggle and the first
shimmers of fear welled inside her. Unfortunately the two of them had grown
used to the taunts and shoves but it would never make it any easier.
And nor
should it,
thought Zoe.
They turned off
the main road and onto Bellington Crescent, the traffic fell quiet. It was now
almost raining chips, indicating that it wasn’t just Dylan out in force today.
‘Hey, Chubba Chunks, got plenty more chips for you.’ This was unmistakably
Dylan but other voices began taunting them with names and insults all offered
up with wasteful outpouring of the Fryery's finest. ‘Don’t worry, when you’ve
scoffed those down we got plenty more for you.’
Sarah was the
first to break and made a sound which was a cross between a muted squeal and a
forceful cry. She no doubt wanted to intimidate them, tell them to leave them
alone, but as she turned, the threat caught in her throat and only a feeble
shriek came out. ‘Ooh, I’m scared now,’ came one of the voices. Zoe glanced
round to see exactly who they were. It was Dylan, the Motson kid and some other
boy who had been expelled whose name she couldn’t recall. Behind them followed
a group of four other kids, caught up in the show with looks of intrigue and
excitement. It sickened her.
‘Leave us
alone,’ Sarah finally managed and they both stopped to face the boys who
continued to approach lobbing chips at their feet whilst continuing their
unoriginal taunts.
The three of
them laughed whilst the others stopped a few feet behind. ‘Leave us alone,'
Dylan mimicked with a high-pitched squeal. ‘Or what?’
‘Just leave us
alone, we’re eating our lunch, nothing more.’
‘Very healthy,
I suppose they’re technically vegetables.’
‘There’s no
technically about it,’ said Zoe, which appeared to enrage Dylan further. Her
bag may have been almost empty but he slammed his fist down into it, knocking
it to the floor as shards of crispy chips scattered at her feet. The welling
fear was beginning to bring tears.
‘Come on,’ said
Sarah who reached out, connected with Zoe, and turned to walk.
‘Hey, chip
shops that way,’ they heard, followed by derisive laughs.
They walked for
a further thirty seconds in silence, catching occasional glimpses of each
other. Both had a guilty look in their eye as if they were responsible. It was
a feeling she knew to be nonsense, but there nonetheless. She now needed
contact again and this time reached out to Sarah, to touch her elbow in some
unspoken gesture of solidarity when out of nowhere Dylan sped up behind them,
grabbed Sarah’s shoulder, spun her around, and slammed her half finished bag to
the floor. ‘I said, the chip shop is that way!’
Zoe could not
believe the anger in him as he said this. She was momentarily disoriented by
the uncalled for hatred in his eyes. He slammed his foot down on to the bag
which gave an audible squelch as the greased potato flattened inside. He then
turned to Zoe and made to reach for her - some final unnecessary action to
prove his worth to a bunch of fifteen-year-old boys who were all grinning, as
if this was a good thing that was happening. His palm drew close, aimed for her
shoulders, she was going to fall if he made contact, she was going to fall...
‘They’re all
right I suppose, a bit chunky.’
Zoe stopped.
Everything had jumped. In a snap of pure white she now found herself once again
wedged between Sarah, the bushes, and the busy road. Sarah took another few
steps before noticing her companion had stopped. ‘What just happened?’ said
Zoe.
‘You’re the one
who suddenly stopped. I’m supposed to ask that,’
‘No, what the
hell just happened then? We were over there, now we’re back here.’ She looked
down to see she was still holding the bag of chips, a few fat ones remained
uneaten.
‘What are you
talking about?’
‘You don’t
know?’ The ability to put into words what had happened failed her. For the
first time she was literally speechless. It was not possible, her being
speechless or the complete physical jump back to this spot. Her mind was
exploding with thoughts and doubts as to where she really was and her breath
caught in her throat as panic drew in. ‘We’ve just done this.’
‘About twenty
times this year, yes,’
‘No, now, a
minute ago. We walk on and,’ and it became clear. Dylan, he had reached out to
push, no, attack her and now she was here. Had she been knocked down? Was she
currently unconscious or even dead from a fall to the floor? Was her mind now
so fundamentally broken she was replaying the moments leading up to her very
death...
The bike sped
round the corner, this time not coming close to hitting them as they had
stopped yards before it.
We cross that street
, she thought,
then head
down Bellington when
...
She turned, and
there he was, already armed with a handful of chips and ready to launch the
first attack. Sarah glanced at them as they approached. ‘Come on, let’s go.‘
But Zoe stood
firm.
‘We don’t need
this,’ said Sarah.
‘But I might.’
Dylan now had a
non-moving target and launched a handful of chips up in the air so that they
would rain down on top of them both. He laughed as they cascaded to the
pavement, missing Zoe who didn’t react. She watched Dylan approach one step at
a time. ‘Enjoying your chips?' he shouted, his voice full of childish scorn.
Sarah called for her to come, to get home.
But this time
Zoe stepped towards Dylan. He instantly looked rattled by this unexpected move.
His accomplices - Motson and the nameless one - now smirked at her gall to
react in this way but she knew somehow that he was responsible. ‘That’s better,
chip shops this way,’ he said but his voice faltered as she headed towards him,
her eyes piercing like needles.
‘Zoe,’ Sarah
shouted from behind. As she drew near she threw down her own bag at his feet,
there were sarcastic ‘oohs’ from most of the boys and a smile began to grow on
Dylan’s face as if he suddenly fancied this unexpected challenge.
‘What did you
do?’ she shouted.
‘I haven’t
started yet.’ He forced amusement into his voice and glanced around for his
mates to join in.
‘What did you
do?’ she repeated and was inches from him. He took a step back, his forced
smile wavered.
‘Calm down.
Here, have some more chips,’ he said and lobbed a few at her feet. ‘Fattie
Fleck feeling faint from lack of grease?’
‘What did you
do?’ She shrieked so loud that it almost tore her throat. It certainly broke
something in Dylan whose false smile disappeared completely, as did those on
the boys surrounding him. The ones who had tagged along stepped back, most
turned and walked away with what she hoped was shame. They missed the next
move. Her right fist connecting with Dylan's jaw. The pain in her fist
surprised even her but was nothing compared to the satisfaction now burning
within.
‘This is Nick
McNally, subject to be popped back to the plain exactly five minutes and four
seconds.’
‘Excuse me, do
you have an appointment?’
‘I’m climbing
up stairs. Bartley, if you’re listening to this, there looks like a wonderful
fish restaurant next door you should try.’
‘Excuse me sir,
you can’t go up there without visiting reception first. Sir.’
‘That voice,
she’s now running up the stairs after me. Anyway, subject has been found, I’m
entering the office, a few people have looked up, and then back down again.’
‘Can I help
you?’
‘Someone else
is now politely confronting me. But I see him. Seems unaware, always for the
best. Nick McNally, popping back David Sewell, subject DS66533, to the quantum
plain, in precisely 5, 4, he’s now looked up, oblivious, 2, 1, button pushed,
things starting to fade, simple return. Speak soon Bart.’
David King
stood still for his entire duration away from the plain, fully aware something
was undeniably wrong. He just could not put his finger on what, and certainly
didn’t want to admit what he thought had happened.
I’ll remain perfectly
still. I won’t move.
And he didn’t, for eight minutes. Even as the man
approached and did what forever he would refer to as:
his magic to make
everything right
. He remained motionless for several minutes after the man
had brought the light.
The clock had
ticked past his allotted appointment twenty-five minutes ago.
Typical
,
thought Charlie. He should have known not to have bothered turning up until at
least fifteen minutes after his appointed time with Dr Baker. He often joked
with his wife about the complete lack of time keeping ability their family
physician maintained, yet was convinced these delays were exaggerated whenever
the subject arose. It wasn’t until he was back that he remembered how true they
were. Dr Baker was good, thorough, the downside being his inability to complete
a ten-minute allotted session within fifteen. It was half past nine and he was
already forty-five minutes behind schedule. How did the man do it?