Conundrum

by Adam Colton

  River Cruise To Reality

  The central character in this final story is me.

  You see, I was bored one day and decided to do a river cruise along the Medway, the river that traditionally divides the men of Kent to the east from the Kentish men to the west. No, I've no idea what the distinction means either.

  I caught my train to the town of Chatham and found my way to the historic dockyard. It was near here that I boarded a white, 'cruiser' style boat via a floating jetty and took my seat up on the outside deck. As the boat pulled away from the shore, out into the wide estuary, I felt a feeling of freedom, with the gentle breeze cooling the sultry summer air.

  The city of Rochester was indiscernible from Chatham and the other towns that together make up Kent's largest conurbation, but it is Rochester that has the connections with Charles Dickens, and although I had never read any of his books, this appealed to me. I wanted to feel the vibes in the ancient pubs that the great author may have once frequented, but as I was on a boat, the best I could do for the moment was to head below deck to the bar.

  I ordered a pint of ale, and as I took a firm hold of my glass I heard a male voice pipe up next to me; “That's from Faversham that beer; home of England's oldest brewery.”

  The words sounded familiar but I wasn't sure where I'd heard them. I gave out a polite chuckle and took a swig. “As long as it's not England's oldest beer, I don't mind,” I joked.

  “The name's Adrian,” the guy then added. He looked to be in his thirties, with short hair and tanned skin; “That's where I'm from – Faversham. Worth a visit if you're new to Kent.”

  “Oh no, I know Kent,” I replied “I live in the county. I'm just here for a day trip. Do you know how far up the river we go?”

  “No idea,” said Adrian, “My girlfriend bought me the ticket as a birthday present. Dunno why she only got one ticket. It would have been better with a bit of company. I expect she's on that poxy Facebook. She'd rather sit at home on the Internet than have a nice day out with me!”

  “WWW,” I said “ - Worldwide waste. Of time!”

  Adrian laughed, “Yeah, tell me about it. Still, I'm used to days out on my own with my work and all that. They're always sending me around the country on deliveries.”

  'Deliveries?' I thought, 'No, it can't be!'

  I decided to test the water further.

  “It might seem a random question but have you ever been to Herefordshire?“ I ventured.

  “Why do you ask?” Adrian replied.

  “I'm just thinking of visiting that area for a few days,” I lied, “I've never been there before.”

  “Nah, not been there,” said Adrian, “I've taken the lorry down to Worcester before though. Home of the famous sauce.”

  “Everywhere is home to something I suppose,” I added, recalling those signs on railway stations that proudly announce that the place you are entering is home to some company that you really couldn't give a monkey's about.

  I let out a sigh of relief. You see, this amicable chap sounded just a little too much like a character I thought I'd invented for a story that I'd written a few years ago. It would be a terrible shock to find that I'd somehow met the guy before and subconsciously woven him into a tall tale about a mysterious trip to Herefordshire. I mean, what would happen if he didn't like the way I'd represented him? Would I have to withdraw the book from circulation? Or worse, would he be angling for some money?

  'It would be nice to actually make some money in the first place,' I thought.

  I took a substantial swig from my pint and decided to take a wander.

  Now, the bar area was enclosed with some portholes. It was quite lively, but there was a door which seemed to lead deeper into the boat. I ambled through and discovered a carpeted 'snug' type area, with papered walls and more little portholes. There were round, comfy seats to sit on and a lot of bookshelves, heaving under the weight of an impressive collection of leather-bound volumes.

  'There's bound to be some Dickens among that lot,' I thought, but rather than reach for one of the hefty tomes, I merely gazed out of the porthole. We passed beneath a bridge and then I saw Rochester's large castle tower standing guard over the little park beneath. I took another satisfying swig from my glass and felt relaxed as the city slowly drifted by. Before long, we were passing beneath some huge, concrete bridges, which took a confident stride across the river valley, carrying both the railway to the Channel Tunnel and the mighty M2 motorway. Beyond this were just green, rolling hills, with the odd country lane undulating its way across. 'The real Kent,' I thought.

  Just then my reverie was broken by a kerfuffle emanating from the opposite side of the room. I could hear a teenage girl of about fourteen getting very irate.

  “You shouldn't call those boys stupid,” she was berating her parents, “It's just down to luck that some people are more intelligent than others, and it's unfair that the less clever people are treated as stupid, and then we blame them for doing silly things like getting into fights and taking drugs, when if we treated them better, they might study and get jobs and live normal lives, and it's only all that rubbish on TV that makes them act that way they do, because the TV says it's normal to be like that. And there are even programmes where they can fight and argue in front of everybody, so that people who are supposed to be clever can laugh at them, but the ones who think they are clever don't even realise that they are just puppets too, because the people in power would rather they laugh at those poor people that they call idiots than look at what the ones in control are doing, like selling weapons and all kinds of horrible things that are the cause of all the nasty stuff on the news, but they think it's OK for them to do it because they are making money and they say it's making jobs for people, but who wants jobs like that?”

  I recognised the style of the rant from another story I'd once written. The girl was a bit older than the poor child I'd written about though.

  'A few years have passed,' I thought to myself, humouring the idea that another one of my characters could have had its basis in reality.

  Just then I discovered who it was that her parents had dared to call 'stupid.' A dictionary was propelled across the room, and I realised that behind one of the shelves a pair of young, teenage boys were throwing books at each other.

  'It makes a change from hurling abuse,' I thought, just as a four-letter flurry began to emanate from behind the shelf. My optimism had been misplaced.

  When I was a child using the F-word was considered truly shocking, but these days it was just an everyday sound. It struck me that perhaps a word can mean different things to people of different age groups, and therefore young people who have grown up always hearing the word were really using a completely different word to when a old person uses it with a sense of bringing out a rarely used verbal weapon in a state of extreme anger. Suddenly these boys didn't seem so awful.

  Just then Adrian wandered in with his beer. I gazed out of the window as we passed beneath another motorway and the scenery became very pleasant – a tranquil marina filled with small, white boats. There was a lock to one side, and on the other side some people waved from their outdoor tables, as they supped their drinks from the nearby pub.

  “Seen any good books?” Adrian asked.

  “Only that dictionary that just flew past,” I said, pointing at the book that was laying on the floor near another table occupied by an elderly couple.

  Adrian browsed the shelf next to me, “What do you recommend?”

  In a rare moment of opportunism, I opened my wallet and pulled out one of my business cards.

  “I've written a few books myself,” I said. “Just for fun really!” I added, trying not to sound too conceited.

  'How am I going to sell these unless I'm conceited,' I thought to myself, 'Or unless somebody decides to market them for me!'

  “Oh that's unusual,” said Adrian, taking the card, “What kind of stuff do you write?”

  “Some are travel books and some are sh
ort stories,” I answered, “They're all available online. There doesn't seem to be many local bookshops left these days, just big chains selling blockbusters.”

  “I'll have a look for you on there if I can ever get my girlfriend off that blasted computer!” joked Adrian.

  He turned to leave and then looked back at me; “By the way, I did go to Herefordshire. I didn't really see the city itself; it was just a stately home in some place nearby I went to. Anyway, cheers!” He raised his glass as a gesture and then left me, sitting dumbfounded at what I'd just heard.

  'It's got to be coincidence,' I thought, draining my glass, 'There must be loads of truck driving Adrians that have made deliveries to stately homes in Hereford.'

  I wasn't really convincing myself, so I decided that some fresh air would be good to clear my mind of such fantastical notions. My plan of action was to buy another drink and then wander back up to the outside deck. As I stood waiting for service, I saw the road bridges at the centre of Kent's county town of Maidstone pass over us. There were people wandering the pleasant riverside walkway.

  I glanced round to the other side of the bar and saw that Adrian had found a new friend to talk to. He was an older guy with a beard and they both seemed to be looking at my business card. This made me smile, as I'd had more interest in my books in the last ten minutes than in the last ten months. However, I felt a little uncomfortable about the way they kept looking over to me as they chatted.

  With a full glass in hand, I took a stroll outside. We were now heading back out into countryside, although the river was much narrower than the wide, muddy channel I remembered between the two motorways. There was a high, wooded bank on one side of the river, and a train rumbled by on the railway line on the opposite side. We soon cruised beneath an old stone bridge with several arches. 'East Farleigh,' I thought.

  I had no idea how far we were going to cruise upriver, or indeed where this adventure with all its coincidences was going to take me. I just decided to take in the vibes, looking forward to the site of another quaint, old fashioned bridge at Teston.

  Suddenly the peace was shattered again, as the two teenage boys rushed out on deck, one chasing the other. They were heading straight towards me like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  The next part happened so fast that I can't really say what took place, but the boys seemed to slam into my table, knocking my drink flying, and the next minute I found myself laying on the floor. As I looked up I could just see the leaves on the trees drifting across the blue sky above me. It was very pleasant, like a scene from a film, but I felt dizzy and a little bit sick. Did I hit my head?

  I heard a loud, rushing sound in my ears and my vision became blurry, and before I knew it consciousness had left the building.

  When I awoke I was laying on a couch inside a room. The man with the beard was standing next to me and I could see that there were around a dozen other people in the room. I could hear the rumble of an engine, so I knew I was still on the boat, somewhere below deck.

  “Don't worry, I'm a doctor!” said the bearded man in a gruff voice.

  'You look more like a folk singer!' I thought to myself.

  “You hit your head and passed out. The best thing to do is relax.”

  The conversations of the people slowly became more clear. I heard a male voice quietly say, “What are we going to do, Doctor Greenstreet?”

  I knew it! I knew all along that there was something funny about this cruise! Doctor Greenstreet, yes – the unfortunate soul who I'd written about getting stuck inside a machine that can record and play back people's dreams, but didn't he die while he was wired up to it? I therefore deduced that this had to be a dream too then. All of it.

  I sat up and addressed the people; “I know this is a dream, so I want to get back up on deck and just watch the scenery until I wake up.”

  The doctor then walked back to me.

  “It's not so simple,” he said, “You recognise us all, don't you?”

  “Well yes, I recognise you because I invented you all, but this dream is just a story, like all the others I wrote.”

  “You may think so, but take a look at us. Do you see any smiling faces?”

  I looked around. The girl who had had the outburst was reading one of the books from the library.

  “She looks OK.”

  “Penny is a very disturbed girl,” said the doctor, “She finds the world intolerably harsh to live in and her only solace is in reading, but who made her that way? It wasn't me, and it wasn't these other good people, was it?”

  I could see where this conversation was heading.

  “Look, you are all just characters from the stories I've written, so if you want some kind of vendetta, you'll have to do it quick, because as soon as I wake up, you'll all be just words on a page again,” I remonstrated. I hoped I hadn't sounded too threatening, but being victimised by my own characters really was the last straw.

  The doctor laughed in a slightly disturbing way; “You gave none of us a happy ending. None of us. We think you've forgotten about us, but really we've been just the same all these years, struggling along with our problems – problems that you gave to us. Until you write us a happy ending it will always be like this.”

  “That's not true!” I blurted out. I knew that there were some tales I'd written that did have happy endings and I desperately tried to remember which stories they were. Then I got it.

  “Adrian! I wrote him a happy ending!” I declared triumphantly. I searched the room with my eyes but he was nowhere to be seen, so I changed tack. “Anyway, the stories were supposed to be sad,” I said, “Like tragedies.”

  The doctor looked pained. “But why?” he said, “Why so few happy endings? People like happy endings.”

  I threw the question straight back; “Do they? The endings aren't always happy in real life, and maybe if things were a bit less 'Hollywood' and a bit more real, we wouldn't feel like there is something wrong with us every time we get annoyed or depressed. That's why people enjoy a good horror story. Haven't you heard of Stephen King?” I immediately regretted this sarcasm, realising that I was outnumbered and that I didn't have the upper hand here at all.

  “I see your logic,” came the response, “But unfortunately it doesn't help any of us. We'd like to give you an insight into how we feel now.”

  Just then a metal, medical table was wheeled over to me by one of the people who I couldn't quite see. There were no instruments upon it thankfully, but instead I saw a black, metal box with what looked like a computer monitor resting on top.

  “Do you recognise this?” inquired the doctor.

  “It's the dream machine,” I said, “I invented it.”

  “Not quite,” said the doctor, “Vincent Smithfield invented it. But now you have a chance to experience it for yourself.”

  I began to feel afraid. This was a dream, but what would happen if they wired me up to the machine and put me into a dream within the dream? Or worse still, what if they put me through a whole series of dreams? This could go on forever. I recalled George Orwell's 1984.

  “What is this – Room 101 or something?” I called out. This began to feel like that place where all the worst experiences you could ever dream of become reality.

  “People talk a lot about Room 101,” began the doctor, sounding ever more like a villain from a Bond movie, “But remember, there must have been at least a hundred other rooms in that place; some good no doubt, some awful. We'd like you to experience some of those rooms now – the rooms in which we have lived out our lives – the rooms that you designed for us.”

  The doctor reached behind the black box and pulled out a bundle of wires. I knew that these would be attached to the potential dreamer's head and that the series of dreams could then be piped straight into his or her consciousness. There was no way he was getting near me with those if I could help it!

  The two teenage boys came over and pulled me back onto the couch. I had no idea how these young lads had
aquired such strength, but I wished they would just get back to throwing books at each other. My heart was now pounding. How could this be happening?

  It was then that I heard a female voice pipe up; “Stop it at once!”

  A young woman in her early twenties walked across the room. She was wearing a white blouse and had dark, shoulder-length hair.

  “Doctor Greenstreet, you are forgetting that I had a happy ending, and that I am a writer too.”

  The doctor looked confused.

  “Harriet?” he questioned.

  “Yes,” replied the young lady, “I was at uni in my story, and it is true that I was having a tough time, but in my ending I made the choice to face what frightened me. A few years have passed since then and I am happy; I got honours for my degree and now I have a secure job, as well as the partner I always dreamed of. On top of that I've just published that book that I was writing, so you see that a small seed of hope can grow and that it will be me who ends this story now.”

  This was the best news I'd heard all day.

  The girl pulled out a key from her pocket and unlocked the only door in the stuffy, windowless room. I then pulled myself out from the grip of the teenage boys, who suddenly seemed weaker, sat up and got down off the couch.

  I decided to take one last look at the people in the room. Yes, there was the bearded doctor and there was the fourteen-year-old girl, Penny. As I stared blankly at the other faces I realised that I'd forgotten many of them, so the doctor was right in a way. Maybe I had cast these characters aside rather flippantly. Either way, I wasn't going to hang about.

  I walked through the door and found myself back in the 'snug' room with the bookshelves. Sensing that this would be my last chance, I decided to take a closer look before I left. The books were all different shapes and sizes, but upon closer inspection there was no Dickens, no Orwell, in fact not even a 'Stephen King' – they were all dictionaries – every one - the author's toolkit, you could say!

  I then strolled back through the bar and up onto the outside deck. This time it was completely empty, and the scene was more urban again. I was cruising into Tonbridge and I could see the bridge ahead where the High Street crosses the river between buildings. The span of the waterway was now much narrower, for like any story, the river had started off wide and open to any possibility, but as events unfolded, its course had narrowed.

  Harriet followed me out onto the deck and then looked up to the cockpit, which was reached by a metal staircase. She gave a salute to the figure at the controls and I recognised him instantly – it was Adrian.

  'I hope he can steer this boat after a couple of beers,' I thought.

  The bridge passed overhead, and beyond the tight-knit buildings at the centre of town, the boat cruised past green parkland, where people were walking and playing football in the bright, afternoon sunshine. I noticed that we were now veering across to the side of the river and that we were approaching a small, wooden jetty.

  The speed of the boat slowed to a crawl and eventually we stopped. Harriet walked over to the side of the boat and threw a rope over it. This was caught by an old, grey-haired man wearing a wax jacket, standing upon the pontoon. He tied it around a metal post and nodded to Harriet.

  “Who's that?” I asked the young lady.

  “Just a character you've yet to write about,” she replied cryptically, as she undid a bolt and opened up a flap in the side of the boat. I knew that the river went on for a good many miles after Tonbridge, getting narrower and narrower, but I had come far enough along this particular story. It was time for me to alight.

  Harriet pressed a button on a small control panel and some steps came out from the side of the boat to usher me safely to shore. She then gestured with her arm to show me the way off.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She smiled back, “Thanks for the happy ending.”

  As I stepped off the boat and onto the floating, wooden platform, I breathed in the fresh air. Harriet closed the flap in the side of the boat and waved, as I stepped off of the pontoon and onto the short, green grass. I waved back, feeling pleased that I'd put just enough happiness into my stories to grow into the conclusion that we all deserved.

  I noticed that the people were beginning to drift back up onto the outside deck. They didn't seem so sinister now, but just people who became the way they were because of the awkward circumstances I'd put them in. I suppose that was the point that Penny was trying to make in general when the young guys had started fighting with the books. Harder circumstances bring about harder behaviour. It all seemed to fit into place now.

  'Talk of the devil...' I thought, as I saw the teenagers push past the emerging crowd. They were still squabbling, and the one behind was carrying another leather-bound book. He took a huge lunge with his arm and flung it at the lad in front, missing the side of his head by about an inch. The book flew right off the boat and landed on the riverbank.

  I was curious, and strolled back a few paces to take a look at it. This was all a dream without a doubt, but I wondered what happens if you try to read a book in a dream. My brain would have to make up the words pretty sharpish, and in a big dictionary like this there would be all kinds of words that I'd never heard before. My mind would have to invent them and come up with a definition for each as soon as I opened the book. I felt like I was challenging myself – a kind of duel with my subconscious.

  I crouched down among the reeds and picked up the brown, leather-bound book, which seemed to flop lifelessly in my hands. I opened it at random by letting it fall open in my palms, but the pages before me were completely blank.

  I flicked through. Ditto for every page. Not a sausage!

  And it was then that I understood that my brain clearly wasn't up for the challenge and it was therefore time to wake up, because everybody knows, that when the author runs out of words, then it truly is...

  ...THE END

  About Adam Colton

  Born in 1975, Adam Colton is a writer of humorous travelogues and short stories from Kent, UK. His first paperback documented an attempt to visit every lighthouse on the mainland coast of England and Wales undertaken with his father, Roger Colton, who published and contributed to the book which was featured on the BBC news to mark National Lighthouse Day and became the subject of a question on the quiz show, University Challenge.

  Since then, Adam has straddled the line between documenting his lightly philosophical UK travel escapades and mind-blowing fiction. One of his stories was short-listed for the HG Wells festival's short story competition. He is also a writer of topical songs, performing as one half of the duo Adam and Teresa, whose song 'Fat Cats with a Death Wish on the M25' received airplay on BBC Radio Kent.

  If you have enjoyed this book please review it on your favourite online bookstore. Details of other books by Adam Colton are listed below.

  England and Wales in a Flash (father and son jaunt around the mainland coast in search of every lighthouse)

  Bordering on Lunacy (father and son explore the lighthouses of Southern Scotland and trace the route of the border with England)

  Mud Sweat and Beers (two friends hike across Southern England from Kent to Somerset documenting their adventure)

  Stair-Rods and Stars (enjoy the positive vibes as our roaming cyclist relishes the rail trails, ale trails, ridgeways and waterways of Southern England)