Authors: Matthew Reeve
'Steve, go out
back.'
Without a word
he left, his footsteps fading down the corridor, no doubt headed to the
kitchen.
'Thank you,'
said the man. He approached the counter. 'I don’t usually make chit chat, but
how are you feeling?'
'How am I
feeling?'
'Yes.
Disjointed? Somehow...removed? You have no idea how unique your situation is.'
'I’m afraid if
you have nothing to ask about electronic consumables then I will have to ask
you to leave. If you must know, it was a long night, very tiring.'
'I see.' The
man reached into his jacket pocket. 'A long night. Quite the opposite I would
suggest.'
He then pulled
out a device. Harry couldn’t quite make it out but it looked like an oversized
and complex calculator with a larger than normal display. The man himself, on
second looks, appeared to be as out of place as the device he now held. The
head of thick black hair and wrinkle-free face gave Harry the impression that
he must have been about his own age, but he somehow looked haggard. It was a
combination of the oversized raincoat he was wearing and the ever so slight
stoop to the man’s shoulders. Most of all it was the eyes. Whilst the rest of
him could have got away physically as a mid-thirties male specimen, it was
clear, even to Harry, someone with nary a psychological bone in his body, that
it housed an aged soul. The weariness of the eyes appeared tired as he typed
something into the device he now held.
'Are you
selling those? Is that why you’re here?'
The man
returned a stern look. He held the device up to his mouth and began speaking
into it. He stepped back into the centre of the shop, twisting a dial as if
trying to get a better signal. 'This is Bartley Robinson,' he said, keying
information into the device.
'What is that?'
asked Harry and began to step around from the counter for a better look.
'24791,' he
continued. 'Subject plus 5.2 hours from plain. I repeat, that’s
plus
5.2
hours from plain. Signal found.'
'I have never seen
one of them before. Some sort of mobile PDA device?'
'Sort of.' He
inputted a few more commands. 'Subject Harry Ellis. Co-ordinates secure, signal
strong.'
A hum had been
building within the room, so gradual that Harry only noticed it had been there
now that it had stopped.
'What’s
happening?' asked Harry. Suddenly the computers, mice and CDs appeared to lose
definition. The floor, the ceiling, all life outside the windows began to
noticeably blur, as if viewed through a camera losing focus. It was everything
in fact, except himself and the man now stepping further away.
'Don’t worry,
everything will be fine.' He keyed in one final command.
'What are you
doing?'
The man looked
at him. 'Quantum popping.'
Harry's world
grew bright. All sound was sucked away to a point of clarity and all that was
unfocussing around him glowed a brilliant white. A sensation of his own being
collapsing was strong until it was finally cut short as the other man vanished.
All went dark. And silent.
But was that
the pert-pop-princess echoing just out of reach...
The sun was
scything through the room like lasers shot from the slats of the blind. He
stared directly at it as he sat bolt upright in bed - the way they only ever
seem to do in the movies. He breathed deeply, registering the alarm clock flick
over to 7.21 whilst playing out a song coincidentally similar to the one of
which he had dreamt. To his left stirred Daisy. The song grew steadily louder
as Daisy reached out an arm, virtually rolling on top of him in order to carry out
his usual role for the morning - smacking the snooze button, hard.
'Come on hun,
you’re usually quicker than that,' she said before letting out an enormous yawn
and rolling out of bed.
Harry watched
her in silence as she crossed the room. Conflicting thoughts warred in his mind
- those about heightened reality dreams crumbling in an instant. Visions of a
morning routine already played out were collapsing upon foundations as that of
a dream. Yet there was a face...a man so vivid, but at the same time so
ghostly. It faded to a bright white light. A slipper landed in his lap, he
looked up to see Daisy leaving the room. 'Time to wake up.'
He stretched
and got out of bed more wide awake than he'd ever felt at 7.25 before. Deja vu
tore at him as he headed for the bathroom. Every day may well have seemed
exactly the same but this sentiment was truer than usual today. Perhaps it was
the dream, both vivid and faded. No,
unfocussed
was the word that best
matched the world he had inhabited whilst asleep last night.
The bathroom
blinds were pulled. He had no intention of opening them even slightly, not
wanting a stark look at his reflection. As he crossed the room the notion that
something wasn’t quite right intensified, even the wooden seagull perched on
the side of the bath appeared to follow him with an ominous gaze.
This is
ridiculous
, thought Harry. He turned on the cold tap, gave himself a
fleeting glimpse in the mirror before splashing handfuls of bitingly cold water
into his face. It was a welcoming sting. With both hands clasped either side of
the sink he allowed himself to stare at his reflection. Beads of water trickled
down his face, matted by wet black hair. He smiled at himself, even managed a
small laugh. Dreams were dreams and wooden seagulls never gave ominous looks.
He wiped a sheen of water from his face as in the reflection, slowly pacing by
the open door, walked Claire. She said nothing, just passed by with her
shoulders slumped, wrapped in a black robe. Harry watched her pass within the
mirror and heard her solemn steps descend the stairs. The rising smell of bacon
and eggs took her place on the upper floor.
He paused now
by the landing window. The morning sun was still bright which brought with it
streams of subconscious that woke forgotten memories and a nagging repetition
of how real his dream had been. He took a few more steps down before what he
heard triggered deja vu so strong it almost knocked him off his feet. The
kitchen door stood ajar and Harry clasped the banister for some physical connection
to root him to the here and now.
'I can guess,'
he heard over the sounds of the morning’s routines. The words came to him upon
clouds of grilled bacon and fried egg.
'Well then,'
replied Claire.
'Well what,'
said Daisy.
'Do I have to?'
Harry sat down.
Buried images came into focus, flooding his mind like a tidal wave. The most
distinctive being that of a man and some sort of device Harry had not been able
to make out.
'Have to go to
school,' he heard his wife and daughter say. He stood and made his way to the
kitchen door. A conversation, which at some level he had already heard,
continued to play out. He watched Claire, whose exaggerated expression of gloom
heightened the aura that all was not well. With a hesitant hand he pushed the
kitchen door open.
'...I made you
go on the one day you actually enjoyed.'
'No I won’t,'
said Claire. She stared down at the breakfast as he looked at his own waiting
to be devoured. But he couldn’t move. First Claire glanced up, and then Daisy
turned to see Harry staring vacantly at his fried eggs.
'Hun,
everything ok?'
'I say
something about slippers now,' he said, his eyes not off of the breakfast.
'Pardon?'
'And something
about not going to work.'
'Are you ok?'
Daisy stood.
Harry glanced
around the kitchen. The feeling that all this was a dream grew strong; he
needed to clasp something substantial to anchor him to its reality. A fear that
all around him was somehow not secure, and ready to fade to white at any time,
intensified. His breathing grew heavier, he gripped the kitchen counter
tightly.
'Darling,
you’re scaring me,' said Daisy.
She began to
approach him as Harry whispered one last fragment that had now excavated itself
from his dream. 'Quantum popping,' he whispered.
The room glowed
a warm shade of orange, as though it were viewed through a veil of honey,
muting all colours to a natural hue accentuated by the roaring fire. Shelves of
books walled the study, most bound in brown and green leather, which coupled
with the oak furnishings heightened the aura of earthy tones within which Dixon
sat. Two large oak chairs, throne-like yet cushioned (comfort was still an
important factor within his sanctuary), faced the warming glow of the
fireplace; there was no television within the room to face the furniture towards
as so many others would do.
Dixon raised
the glass of whiskey to his lips and took a minuscule sip of the burning
liquid. Eleanor would not let his supply drop too low. This was his room - a
place to sit and think and be alone - but he would never stop his wife from
maintaining the alcohol supply, especially that of his treasured 1965 Bowmore.
No matter what was on his mind, or the reason for needing solitude in this
particular room, a dash of the old liquor slicker always smoothed the jagged
edges of his thoughts.
The fire spat
shards of wood against the grill. Dixon stood and crossed the room, hunched
beneath the weight and worry of age. He stoked the fire, enraging the beast,
and looked into the settling flames. It wasn’t just for himself he was making
the room a comfortable 72°F; his guest would be offered ultimate comfort for
alleviating some of the stresses that had burdened him for enough of his years.
His golden robe, another gift of Eleanor’s, sparkled against the flames, as did
his crown-like halo of silver hair. He was physically at ease for the
inevitable news his guest was sure to bring and took one more sip of his drink
to calm the dark thoughts it would no doubt ignite.
The doorbell
chimed throughout the house and he heard murmurs of Eleanor greeting their
guest from down the corridor. Dixon closed his eyes as the approaching
footsteps grew louder, as did the ongoing thoughts that it all - everything
that was happening and ultimately would happen - was his fault. There was a
knock at the door and he called for his visitor to enter.
‘Bartley,’ said
Dixon. He stood, weakened arms pushing him out of his chair. Even the simplest
aspects of life such as this required that extra effort these days. The door
opened inward and Bartley stood framed, hesitant of foot but an expression not
hard to read. His mouth formed a smile; the eyes told of hidden agendas.
‘Dixon,’ he
said. ‘It's great to see you.’
‘It's been too
long. Come in, come in. Take a seat, I’ll pour the drinks.’
‘Nothing for me
thanks.’
Without
hesitating Dixon began to fill the empty glass. ‘We both know you don’t mean
that. We’ll definitely be needing one by now I presume.’
Bartley nodded
and approached the vacant chair. It looked almost alive as its leather sheen
rippled in the fire’s glow.
‘How long has
it been? Three, four years?’ asked Dixon. He passed Bartley the extra large
helping of whiskey.
‘Almost five.’
‘To the
future,’ said Dixon, raising his glass in toast.
‘I’ll stick to
the present for now,’ replied Bartley. They chinked glasses that broke part of
the portentous atmosphere Bartley had brought in the room with him. As Dixon
took a sip from his drink he could not help shake the realisation that this
heavy atmosphere had already been here waiting for him.
‘Please, sit
down.’
‘Quite a place
you’ve got here,’ said Bartley as they both sunk into the double arms of the
chairs.
‘Our line of
work did pay rather well. I suppose there had to be some advantages to our
service.’
‘We no longer
refer to it as a service,’ said Bartley. ‘Service implies we have a choice.’
It was Dixon’s
turn to remain silent. He nodded, drank and watched the ever-changing patterns
of flame mutate behind the grill.
‘Eleanor looks
well,’ said Bartley.
‘Of course,’
said Dixon, a memory being triggered. ‘That would have been the last time you
were actually here.’
‘The wedding,
yes.’
‘She was
certainly worth the wait.’ He savoured the thought whilst searching a name.
‘Catherine wasn’t it?’
‘That came to
an end.’
‘I’m sorry to
hear that,’ said Dixon.
‘Worth a try I suppose.’
‘Relationships
are always worth a try. I often wish I’d tried settling down with Eleanor
earlier. But we both know that wouldn’t have worked. I’m jealous you even tried
settling down at your age.’
‘Wasn’t meant
to be, I suppose I’ll have to wait until my own retirement before I attempt
that elusive settling down.’
Both men nodded
and acknowledged what didn’t need to be said. If Bartley made it to retirement
age, at least thirty or forty years from now, then they would have been
extremely lucky.
‘You know why
I’m here?’ said Bartley. Both men made direct eye contact and Dixon rested his
drink upon the table before him, the only sounds were the crackling flames,
like distant gunfire shot in erratic bursts. Dixon noticed the white of
Bartley's knuckles as they grew tighter around the glass. Dixon nodded.
‘Glad you got
that drink now?’
‘Definitely. We
haven’t stopped for a second. You don’t have to worry about that. We do what we
do and draw closer to an event I don't think we can stop. The threat’s more
real than ever.’
‘The threat is
avoidable, just keep reading the signs.’
‘I think we
reached that sign - neon emblazoned. Point of no return.’
‘Someone went
forward.’ Dixon had almost turned this into a question but before he finished
speaking knew it was undeniable fact.
‘Someone went
forward.’
‘Details.’
‘Irrelevant. He
was spotted the usual way, retrieved by myself. As far as he’s aware all is
back to normal. I’m sure he’s a little disorientated but that’s the least of
our worries for now.’
‘What was it
like?’
‘That plain?’
Dixon nodded,
nobody had connected to a plain the way Bartley now had. As far as they knew,
one had never even existed before.
‘Stable.
Subject’s readings were normal. But this indicates we are growing closer
to...something.’
‘Something,’
said Dixon. ‘That is an understatement.’
‘Don’t worry,
we're all aware of the severity this represents.’
‘I know you
are, I just wish we had a clearer idea of what this something that causes so
much disruption could be.’
The two men
resumed their drinks and Bartley joined Dixon in staring at the unpredictable
patterns and formations the ever-changing fire was portraying. As the fire died
and the drinks were drained they talked of missions passed.
The regret of
how their work and responsibilities had taken over their lives was kept to a
minimum. Dixon and Eleanor were finally happy; Bartley did what he needed to
do. Despite the two hours Bartley remained, he managed to make his drink last.
He would after all be driving and they both realised that the alcohol was
simply a loosener of tongues; when they got started, lives, memories, and
events to come flowed freely between the two.
‘I can’t
believe it’s got so late,’ said Bartley. He looked at his watch. There were no
clocks within the room. As a matter of principle Dixon kept timekeeping at a
minimum, there were only clocks where his wife necessarily needed them.
‘Time to go?’
‘Always.’
Bartley stood and Dixon slowly joined him. He held out a hand.
‘It's been good
to see you,’ said Dixon. ‘Whatever the circumstances.’
They shook, but
it soon instinctively turned into an embrace. Dixon was dragged into the open
arms of the man which so much rested on. He sensed chocked breaths close to his
ear.
‘Everything
will be fine,’ said Dixon. ‘Everything is meant to be.’
‘That’s what
I’m afraid of.’ They broke apart. ‘I promise I won’t leave it another five
years. And I won’t come baring apocalyptic news.’
Both men
chuckled at this. It was all they could do faced with such genuine
possibilities.
An hour later,
Dixon headed up to bed. He had sat alone in silence. The fire had all but died
and the absence of a ticking clock had been notable now that Bartley had
mentioned it. He had finished his second drink and after much internal debate
over what must be done he headed to bed. He concluded that ultimately, not much
could be. The right man was now in charge and as he said: everything really was
meant to be.
Eleanor was
already in bed by the time he had donned his pyjamas and got under the covers.
She put down her book (her
good
book, as she called it, she only read
good
books) and looked at him over her reading glasses. She couldn’t hide the
reluctance at wanting an update, as if it were the last thing she needed to
hear before sleep.
‘Will
everything be ok?’ she asked as he sidled up to her. The warmth of her body
beneath her nightclothes invigorated him more than the alcohol.
‘I don’t know,’
he said. ‘Please, tell me I’ve made the right decisions through life.’
‘You have made
the right decisions. You’re here now, with me, it worked out for us.’
‘What about
everybody else?’
She removed her
glasses and kissed him on the lips. He held her hand.
‘We’ll just
have to wait and see.’
‘I love you.’
‘And I love you
to.’
Three pages
later and the night dissolved to its natural end.