Authors: Matthew Reeve
‘Yeah, I saw
him at the bar.’
‘You know who
he is?’
‘I assumed. The
guy about your age?’
‘There were
several.’
‘So what’s he
like?’
‘We’re having
fun, his name's Trev, I’ll introduce you before you go.’
‘Trev, sounds
like a gardening implement for rooting out deep-embedded weeds. Pass me my
Trev!’
She came close
to nodding in agreement before shaking something clear.
‘Perhaps. Not
sure if it’s going to last, but then what does?’
Tony forced a
smile and did the only thing he could think of: took more of his drink and
another handful of crisps.
As Emma did the
same he found it harder to tear his gaze away from her. The details had always
been there: the brown streak through her blonde hair, the tiny mole to the
right of her lips, and the most perfect teeth he had ever seen in real life.
All these had been noted before, but the idea that these specifics came
together to make the unique individual known as Emma struck his heart. The fragility
of life had hit home recently, but sitting there he realised it was more than
just Emma that would be killed in approximately twenty days. It was all the
little things that made her
her
which would be wiped from the face of
the planet. It happened every day, everywhere, every second life was taken -
was it really so bad to ponder the possibility of bringing one back?
‘What is it? You haven’t taken your
eyes off me for a minute. Am I really that unmissable dressed in my pub t-shirt
with a Croydon facelift?’
‘It is rather
fetching. I like your thingy,’ he said gesturing at the small embroidered ship.
Emma glanced down at her chest with on arched eyebrow.
‘Thank you for
noticing my thingy. They’re called ships.’
‘I’m sorry; I’m
talking for talking's sake. You know, when people just say words for no other
reason other than to fill space. They talk and talk without ever actually
saying anything. You are unmissable.’ Trevor could now be seen collecting
glasses from the tables nearest the pub. A light breeze blew a crisp from the
surface of their packet; Tony caught it as it fluttered across the table and
put it in his mouth. ‘I have a lot of things going on in my mind at the moment.
There is so much I want to tell you, but what’s the point? I can’t change anything.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I can’t change
it.’
‘What? The
Strongbow? I’m sure I could get you...’
‘No, not that.
It’s,’ and then realising something, ‘I haven’t even paid for this.’
‘It’s fine, it
doesn’t matter.’
With that Tony
picked up his pint and took another large sip.
‘You’re right,'
he said. ‘It really doesn’t, does it?’ He looked around at those nearby. And
then back to Emma. ‘I just wish it did. There’s so much I want and need to tell
you. But it won’t change a thing. I know you’re not real, that none of this is
really here. The only real thing here is me, and that’s a first. I wish you
could come with me. I promise I’ll find a way.’
He half
expected her face to collapse in incomprehension at his words - that madness
had claimed him. But she just stared, unsure how to react. All she did was nod.
‘Tony, what...’
‘Go back to
work. Whether or not you see me again, Emma definitely will.’
The uncertainty
and unpredictability of these words kept Emma from replying with incredulity.
Perhaps she thought she could ignore him, or that on some level everything he
had said had made perfect sense. She grabbed her drink and stood.
‘Maybe you’re
right,’ she said. ‘Was good to see you.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in this
which Tony was glad to catch. If she didn't think he was weird for the things
he had just said then things were even worse and more confusing than he
thought.
‘You have no
idea,’ was all he said as she walked back to the pub with one quick look over
her shoulder.
Tony sat back
down and stared at his glass. He played over the image in his head as described
by Bartley, of a present moving on irrelevant to a past strand. The present's
past had happened, it couldn’t be changed, any changes would never catch up
with the plain. ‘It doesn’t matter,' he said to himself and purposefully pushed
his pint, watching it topple and spill Strongbow across the table. It dripped
through the slats and he heard it splash upon the concrete like a miniature
rain shower. The freedom of this move was liberating and opened up endless
possibilities. The words once more filtered through his head: it doesn’t
matter. He then picked up the glass and dropped it to the floor. It smashed,
bringing back images of a smashed car window. He could sense the people around
him hush and throw glances his way. The power he now possessed was almost
scary.
He stood and
stared at the nearest table. They had noticed him smash the glass and all four
of them watched - two men looking ready for a fight and two women holding back
giggles at the nutter who’d just spilled a drink and smashed the glass. He was
hurled into action by a need to shake free the mental torment that had claimed
him. It was time for a physical action to unleash the pent up confusion and
loneliness. With no idea why, he ran at the table, jumped up, and sprinted
across it. He dodged the glasses, jumped down, and ran from the garden towards
the car park amid the cries of threats. No one followed, they were probably
just glad he’d left.
But he didn’t
flee straight away. As he reached the car park he saw a figure begin to raise
the stairs to the pub. It was Trevor. He too wore the Smack uniform and managed
to hold five pint glasses per hand, each somehow looped upon a finger.
‘Trevor,’
shouted Tony.
Trevor turned,
ready to acknowledge a friend. His face fell upon seeing Tony. ‘Yes,’ he asked.
Yet there was
nothing to say. Adrenaline still flowed through Tony from his run across the
table, coupled with the insight into his position within this world, but it
failed to fuel his words. Trevor was the innocent party in all of this. Perhaps
he would fall in love with Emma, perhaps he would dream over the next few weeks
of a future together. Perhaps he wasn’t the villain Tony was trying hard to
cast him as.
‘I even blew
the second chance,’ said Tony. ‘Take good care of her.’ This time he fled the
pub completely, leaving Trevor and Emma behind, where they would forever be.
His heart beat
fast and delusions of godhood peaked within him. He was the master of this
whole universe, pathetic gestures such as jumping on tables meant nothing. Yet,
in a world with no boundaries or consequences, he suddenly had no idea what to
do. The urge to destroy - smash a window, kick over a bin - was strong. This
was conflicted by a desire to do good. To step in and stop a fight, stop a
robbery. Without consequence he could take risks, but then without consequence,
doing nothing would produce the same outcome. He could do anything, or do
nothing. For now all he would do was run.
He bombed up
the high street, fleeing as if the very hounds of hell were at his feet. It
wasn’t until he saw the road that he realised where he wanted to go. No big
gestures were necessary and he couldn’t do nothing. He would use this one
opportunity to do what needed to be done. Just talk. Air a truth to the one
person who had been right all along.
He turned into
Weston Road, cutting across the corner garden, careful not to damage anything;
he hadn’t lost his manners in the emergence of this new power. Rows of terraced
houses seemed to move in on either side, the further he ran the more they
squeezed in against him - looming closer like deathly walls in a horror movie.
He could never remember the number, but the green door honed into view and the
dead tree lying out from the front garden into the road, dropping brown leaves
like nature’s rust, indicated which house he was aiming for. He ran up the path
and knocked loudly on the door. The flimsy frame shook and for a second Tony
thought the door would splinter under his insistence to get an answer.
The hazed
outline grew larger and more defined as it reached the door. Black hair took
form atop a red t-shirt and as the door opened Simon gave an enormous yawn.
Only Simon would be waking up at 3pm on a Monday.
Tony walked
straight past as Simon stepped back against a mirror. It shimmered with dust as
it rattled against the lime-striped wallpaper. There were calls along the line
of ‘what was he thinking of barging in like this’ but coming from Simon you
never could tell if his threats were genuine. His hulking frame and gormless
look often cast signs of intimidation in contrast to the lazy oaf that lay
beneath. They were more like lifelong acquaintances than true friends, but Tony
knew this was who he had to talk to before his return. He stopped at the end of
the hallway and turned to Simon.
‘I’ve come here
to tell you that you were right. All that rambling we do down the pub, all the
inconsequential bullshit we excrete in the name of conversation...you only ever
said one word worth hearing. And I ignored it. You and Andy were right, and
it’s soon going to be too late to do anything about it - again.’
Simon hadn’t
even closed the door. His expression was similar to Emma’s. There was too much
shock at Tony's outburst to render a negative emotion, this was simply bizarre
behaviour; getting him out of the house was the next step and not bothering
with a dignified response was all the effort this entailed.
‘You were
right, and there must be a way to work round it.’ Tony reached into his pocket
and pulled out one of Bartley’s popping devices. It seemed that the shock at
Tony's actions had also clouded Simon’s ability to register the item he now
held. Tony started walking towards Simon with purpose, the presets had been
entered by Bartley and all Tony had to do was press the Return button. ‘And one
more thing,’ said Tony, almost whispering it now that he was so close to Simon.
‘Please stop that whole spitting into the pint glass thing, it’s disgusting,
and makes you an even less pleasant human being to be around.’
Simon almost
broke and could easily have gone to hit Tony, but before any further action
could take place, Tony pressed the button, and around him everything faded to
white. There was that deathly sound of a silent sonic boom before a faint pop
brought everything to darkness.
Another plain
had faded from existence.
Bartley was
exactly where he had left him, sat in the car five minutes walk from the pub.
Tony had been sent back on the clear proviso that he claim his proof (i.e. see
Emma) and then return (i.e. do not do anything else). To a certain extent Tony
had adhered, with all that power and freedom he congratulated himself on only
going as far as he had with his experiments. Bartley had armed him with the
time device with the sole instruction of: ‘press this button and return.’ Tony
was aware of the trust put in him by allowing him to go back alone, but to a
certain extent it was the least Bartley could do. They needed him. He had
suffered great loss, and in a world without consequence was there really much damage
he could do in such a short space of time? Tony had no doubt that Bartley could
easily retrieve him if necessary.
Walking back
now, the day was overcast, normality reflected in the sky. He could see Bartley
up ahead sat behind the wheel of his car parked outside the very bus stop from
where he had looked out for Repeat Others. The notion of coincidence and fate
grew ever stronger.
‘Have fun?’ was
all Bartley asked as Tony got into the passenger side and handed the time
device over. The sense of its power was strong yet Bartley pocketed it as if it
were a pen, or a screwdriver - just another tool to carry out a day’s work.
‘Tried out a
few theories,’ said Tony.
‘Tony, never
forget the seriousness of this. You can’t go around testing theories.’ There
wasn’t much conviction in his voice, as if a little theory testing was to be
expected. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Yeah,’ Tony
muttered. The representation of who this
her
was seemed even stranger
after returning to a plain on which she no longer existed.
‘Was it worth
it?’
‘I wasn’t as
pleased as I thought I would be. I think it was in the knowing that something
was wrong, out of place. I just knew it wasn’t really her, however much I
wanted to pretend.’
‘It really was her to a certain
extent. That quantum shadow - all the quantum shadows on that plain - were to
all intents and purposes themselves from that time. Merely reflections of a
true self that has passed.’
‘But still just
a shadow, a ghost.’ There was now one undeniable truth: ‘I believe you. I’m
in.’
‘Good,’ said
Bartley. He started the ignition. The car crept to life.
‘Where are we
going?’ asked Tony, his future suddenly blown wide open to possibilities.
Bartley
indicated and began pulling out into the main road. ‘To work,’ he said.
5431.19
Bartley and I
have delivered our findings to a cabinet minister. We had to. We need to do all
we can in order to minimise risk of annihilation. I believe I can trust him. He
certainly believes us. I showed him the broken window routine and explained
everything. He is reporting directly to the PM with our findings. I couldn’t
tell the university. It is simply too huge in scope. The fewer people who are
told the better. Bartley wanted to tell them first but I think I have made the
right decision. They have funded and supported my seemingly fruitless
experiments for too long. Whilst I thank, respect, and on the whole trust them,
it would only take one member of the board to meddle, claim this for their own,
to literally put humanity at risk. I can’t believe I am trusting the government
but what else should I do?
The cabinet
minister has mentioned the possibility of setting us up with as much funding as
we need as well as premises to continue our work. The threat is increasing, and
so we will continue to do what we can to retrieve these people from the past.
The minister says that he wants to set us up like a company (one that
technically wouldn’t exist) - a subsidised government department to monitor and
maintain surveillance and quick response to retrieval.
I really hope
he was joking when he said he wanted to call it The Quantum Poppers.
2534.10
I’ve just had
the most bizarre conversation with the caretaker, Colin Franzen, which leads to
a conclusion I’ve been afraid to accept for some time.
He’s one of the
few people I talk to down here. I think the university commits those of us to
the lower levels that they would rather not accept that they are helping; like
shameful parents shunning the disappointment of their children. The next step
would be to halt funding and throw us out onto the streets. I suppose I’m
grateful they haven’t got that far yet; they will soon if I continue to hold
back my findings.
Colin and I
often chat about the previous night’s game and occasionally dabble in politics.
I get the impression he’s only repeating what he’s heard more learned minds
recite on the radio as though it’s his idea. The passion behind the words is
all his, that can’t be forced. He believes it, and that’s what’s important.
These chats take place when he’s emptying the bins, mopping the corridors or
carrying out repairs to the beyond ancient lighting system. I should be
grateful that I’m connected at all to the electric grid. The university is
likely to kick me out when they question the amount of power I’ve begun using.
I hadn’t seen
Colin for a couple of weeks. Turns out his wife had been in and out of hospital
with complications to a recent arrhythmia problem that they have been assured
is resolved. I wouldn’t trust those doctor types, but at least the university
were understanding and let him take time off to assist her recovery. It seems
that he’s only back because his wife got sick of him pampering and following
her around like a lost puppy. She had told him the arrhythmia would likely get
worse unless she was left alone. So on her medical advice, he’s back at work so
she can spend more quiet time recuperating.
He has just
left, and I can hear him mopping the corridor as I write. He is the proof that
I too become replicated; a shadow remains on the plain whilst I am away on my
adventures.
I was trying to
nap when the knock struck at the door. I had been up all last night attempting
to amplify the background interference I have noted registering on The Device.
Once amplified I’m hoping to get a better idea as to what it actually is. I
didn’t go home last night due to this work and collapsed on my office chair,
sleeping with a mug of coffee I thankfully didn’t spill. It was cold when I was
awoken by Colin’s knock. I let him in - assured him my thoughts were with him
and his wife. He entered, emptied the bins and took my coffee cup for me. He
was just leaving when he said: ‘I’ll expect the pony by the end of the week.’
Quite why the
man wanted a horse was beyond me but the glint in his eye gave me the assurance
he wasn’t that desperate for his pony and that I at least would know what he
was on about.
‘The pony,’ I
said
‘Yes, the pony.
The twenty pounds.’
So his
definition was clear, a pony being a denomination of money but I still had no
reason why I owed him the amount. Had he now started charging for his bin
emptying services? He could tell by the look on my face I had no idea what he
was talking about so he went on to remind me about a bet we had made last
Monday. City had thrashed The Town the night before for which I now owed him
£20, a pony. We had made a bet and even shook on it - which proves the
stability of the plain is more secure than the strands. The bet was made a
little after 6pm on that Monday. At this time I had been seven minutes in the
past, exploring a plain, testing theories regarding the non-effect on the
present from the past. I had not been in my office making bets. But someone
had. Someone who acted and looked exactly like me. Someone who it would seem
was
me. A replication; my anti-matter self that remained in the present whilst I,
the actual self, was in the past. I had an anti-matter self interacting on the
plain amongst all the matter selves, making decisions, apparently making
physical contact, and carrying on as I would have. This is quite alarming to
know there is another me acting of its own freewill when I am away. But he is
still me. Carrying on as I would, apparently just awaiting my return. But in
the meantime making a casual bet with the caretaker when he popped in to empty
the bins.
This revelation
led me to pay Colin the £20 straight away, as though it was his fee for
confirming this new aspect of what I have discovered.
There must be a
way to stop this anti-matter self from being left on the quantum plain when I
jump back. I don’t like it and it could cause potential issues. No matter how
secure the present may be, continued contact of my shadow with others could
destabilise the strength of the plain. As long as myself and the anti-matter
self can be taken back to the past and merged (if he has to be created at all)
then we haven’t got a problem. I will make that my next point to test.
The mopping
outside has stopped. I can hear Colin whistling a happy tune. That pony has
cheered him up - I hope he treats his wife with it.
3134.12
The Device is
beginning to pick up additional disturbances. I had put these down to general
background interference within the space-time continuum (who knows what I have
really created, it could be picking up all sorts of readings/radiation). It’s
as if they are many weaker readings (unconverted wormholes) rather than one
larger background hum. If this is true I should be able to lock on to one if I
amplify The Device’s output signal.
3372.15
There are
clearly multiple link-to points (initial entry wormholes) that have not been
created by myself. At this point I will assume they are natural, but have
subjects passed through them? A reconfiguration of The Device’s conversion
module will allow me to lock on and warp (for want of a better word) to one of
these. What I will find, as always, only time will tell.
3478.16
Increased power
results in an amplified output giving clearer definition of the background
interference received.
I have my
nine-year-old nephew to thank for this. Last Friday it was my sister’s turn to
instigate the bi-monthly ritual of gathering the family for some, as she calls
it, quality time. I enjoy these meetings and will arrange one over the coming
months myself, but work is becoming so overburdening I just don’t know when I
will have time. Even at this latest gathering I couldn’t fully concentrate on
all my various relatives’ current situations. My mind wouldn’t let go of all
these tests, this journal, and what I will uncover next. One luxury it did
entail me was to speak out all that was held within my head. Laying down this
journal has been cathartic as well as a basis for scientific record. It’s good
to download all the information to these pages to both record for prosperity
and free up room in my head for what conclusions will result next. The latest
family reunion allowed me to do a similar thing verbally, speaking these
secrets out to another person allowed perspective on what I am doing and what I
have achieved so far. Audience: my one-year-old niece. I held her in my arms
whilst I walked the ground level of my sister’s house talking to her pretty
much the words written in these pages. The wormholes, the quantum plain, the
idea of parallel universes being born within the quantum strands, and the
intricate workings of The Device – she didn’t understand it either. But it
helped me. Verbalising all this freed me for what was the next discovery.
As I was
talking I couldn’t help hearing the sounds of an electric guitar from overhead.
At first it was background, my nephew experimenting with a few rock n’ roll
riffs, bending strings and generally making noise. Then it grew louder. And
then it grew louder still. My sister shouted up to him but all I could do was
stare up at the ceiling, roughly where he would be standing. It then got even
louder, and no longer muffled by the walls, but clearer, each chord and note
pierced through to the increasingly agitated crowd below. With my niece still
in my arms I went upstairs to his room and saw the setup. Electric guitar
hooked into a small amplifier. The music had stopped as he was turning up the
volume even more.
‘I don’t think
your mum wants it any louder,’ I said.
‘But I want
them all to hear.’ They certainly heard the crash of strings after that.
The point is:
the increase in volume increased the hardness and purity of the sound. Whilst
the amplitude grew taller and the wavelengths grew narrower they also grew more
defined, louder. And all it took was additional power! More power increased the
output of his instrument, and this is what I have done. This will amplify the
background disturbances into individually defined readings that can be
captured. Looking back, the main reason I didn’t do this before was out of
courtesy to the university. What was I thinking? I should have been concerned
of the needs of science, not the Dean’s next utility bill. I have hooked up a
rudimentary amplifier which acts as a power booster, sucking additional current
from the mains. The university will definitely question this when noticed, but
rock n’ roll – this is science.
5843.20
Moved into new
offices today. Farewell to my university basement (which I will unashamedly
miss) and hello to Bressingham high street. I have been assured that the
general public will view the building as any other – one of little interest.
The minister of science has told us that hundreds of government buildings such
as ours are scattered around the country. It’s the buildings at which you
wouldn’t look at twice that hold the greatest treasures of all.
The Device 3.0
has been successfully installed within the basement (and finally the portable
Devices sync without too much bother) and a minimal staff has been assembled.
This will generally be constructed of Poppers who have previously been
retrieved.
Bartley will
head up the ground level team whilst I sit in my office praying that patterns
can be found - I’ve almost given up expecting to deduce them myself.
We celebrated
the move with champagne; I suppose the milestone is worth celebrating. We're
almost a legitimate organisation - just another public service like the bin men
or fire department. I quite like the mundaity of this comparison. The second we
begin to think that what we do is cool or hip is when we forget its importance.