The Dark Restarter

by Sean McMahon

  ‘I...honestly? I have no idea.’

  Hal didn’t see the benefit of sugar-coating it, realising they were at the total mercy of whatever had brought them here. They were so balls-deep lost in time that there wasn’t a watch in the entire universe that could even begin to tell them when the hell in time they actually were. Luckily, they didn’t need a watch. They just needed a person; the only man who knew for certain what the future held.

  Before they could go down that rabbit hole, however, there was still one huge omission from the dizzying list of timelines they had mapped out. One involving the small matter of Peter and Fearne. A timeline that allegedly not only predated Hal and Kara’s initial trip through time, but had directly caused it in the first place.

  ‘We can’t go any further into this half-cocked,’ said Hal. ‘I think it’s time you told us everything.’

  All eyes resting on him, Peter took an enormous deep breath and exhaled slowly, eventually encroaching beyond the territory of what was socially acceptable in terms of exhalation duration, as he stalled for time.

  ‘Okay,’ said Peter, searching for the courage he would need to tell his side of the story. ‘This is what happened.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Living for the Weekend

  Timeline Prime – Saturday, August 25th, 2018, 8:35pm

  Peter felt a subtle vibration against his leg, and reached into the right-hand pocket of his grey golfing trousers, his fingertips making contact with one of the curved edges of his phone. Pulling the device from its resting place, and holding it parallel to his hip, he looked down at the screen.

  The features of his face danced across the black mirror, reflecting a man in his late twenties. It was the general consensus of his friends that he had a facial structure that would age gracefully, not that they ever told him that of course. Peter’s meticulously maintained designer stubble defined his already attractive cheekbones, and his piercing brown eyes simmered with intensity even whilst indulging in the mundane task of checking his phone.

  As the familiar fruit-shaped logo disappeared from the display, all of this was lost on Peter, who merely noted the reflected look of disdain and mild irritation adorning his face. He raised the phone closer, using the opportunity to fuss with the front of his already perfect hair, running his fingers through it, the rogue strands effortlessly returning to their correct and proper place. Whilst in Rome, he also stole a glance at his complexion, not that his regularly moisturised skin ever suffered from such trivialities as dehydration. One of the more endearing things about Peter was that he wasn’t vain, he was just innately, obliviously, easy on the eye.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Peter, realising he’d need to find a charger.

  He left Will and Jon to their game of pool and began his pursuit of a means to charge it, knowing that neither he nor Fearne had remembered to bring one. As he made his way through the hallway that led to the rear garden of Fir Lodge, he noticed Hal slipping into his own room, and called out to his friend.

  ‘Hal mate, can I borrow your charger?’

  Peter heard a somewhat mumbled response that sounded like a disappointing “no”, followed by the suggestion that he should try asking Robert.

  ‘Urgh,’ mumbled Peter. ‘Will do.’

  As Peter made his way down the corridor, he pressed gently against Robert and Daisy’s bedroom door, clearing his throat a little to announce his presence. Noting the light was off, he felt it safe to enter without making more of a thing of it.

  The exterior lights that illuminated the hot-tub and rear garden offered little in the way of cutting through the darkness of the room, but the refracted light glistened back at him from a silver object that had been discarded on the top of a suitcase, which he immediately recognised as the buckle of Robert’s Santa Clause belt.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Peter, as he leaned over the case and acquired visual confirmation of the white plug and charging cable nestled happily into the plug socket behind what he reasonably deduced to be Robert’s bed.

  Grabbing the lead, he shoved it into the charging port, placing his phone onto a bedside table, waiting idly for the tell-tale sign of the charging symbol to adorn the screen, then span around happily, proceeding to head back out to the party, before suddenly feeling a little out of sorts.

  Peter surveyed the humble room with nonsensical suspicion, his eyes adjusting gradually to the darkness, as a sudden bombardment of both oppression and anxiety formed a heady mix within him that felt an awful lot like claustrophobia. It was as if the world was closing in on him, his mind adamant that it knew this particular room far better than he should, for reasons he couldn’t quite rationalise.

  Having no way of knowing he was actually experiencing the onset symptoms of temporal dysplasia, due to having no prior point of reference to define the sensation, he simply shivered the shiver that often accompanied the prospect that someone had just walked over their own grave. Eager to shake the malevolent feeling, he left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  As Peter burst forth into the much more adequately lit hallway, his ears were met with Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky”, which seemed to be blasting from the living area above his head. Suddenly, Hal bumped into him, making his way into the rear garden and clearly not looking where he was going.

  ‘Sorry dude! Didn’t see you. Any luck?’

  ‘Huh?’ replied Peter, still feeling a little bit out of sync with the world.

  ‘Did Rob have a charger?’ said Hal, expanding on what he had wrongly assumed to be the obvious.

  ‘Oh, yeah, thanks. Have you seen Fearne?’

  ‘Upstairs I think,’ shrugged Hal. ‘Catch you in a bit!’ he added, excited by the prospect of sneaking in a not-so-secret cigarette as only an addict would.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Peter, making his way back into the communal area where the pool table resided.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an odd shape through the window of the double front entrance doors to the lodge, and called over to Will and Jon who were still playing pool.

  ‘Lads, that dog from earlier is back.’

  From the floor above, Fearne eased her way past Stacey and trotted down the central staircase, removing herself from the embarrassing situation of the champagne flute she had just knocked over, knowing she’d just get in Daisy’s way if she stayed.

  ‘Aww little doggy!’ said Fearne, full of the loaded coos that sent a streak of panic through Peter whenever Fearne showed even the remotest indication that she was broody for small animals or, more concisely, babies. ‘Let him in, let him in!’

  Peter opened the door and Jerry sauntered inside, sniffing the pair of them before making his way to the two men playing pool, until eventually trying his luck and trying to make his way up the stairs.

  Daisy called out, ordering them all to keep Jerry away whilst she cleared up the broken shards of glass, as Kara seized her opportunity to give up on cleaning duties, reasoning that Daisy and Stacey both clearly had it covered.

  The top of the stairs was entirely unobstructed now, allowing free passage for Kara to descend, so she swiftly grabbed her glass of Southern Comfort and headed down them.

  As she joined Peter and Fearne, she too fussed over Jerry, who rolled over to present his belly to her, eager for some attention.

  ‘Naww, hey Jerry!’ said Kara. ‘What should we do with him?’

  Jon, meanwhile, was clearly losing at pool to Will. Badly. And he chimed in, willing to do anything to free himself from another defeat.

  ‘Didn’t that Kev guy say you just have to tell him to go home?’ said Jon, preparing to ditch his pool cue. ‘Here, let me try…’

  ‘Don’t think so, mate,’ said Will. ‘You’re not getting–’

  ‘–out of this that easy…’ whispered Peter, the volume of his utterance cloaked by Will saying the words at the exact same time.

  ‘You okay, Pete?’ said Kara, noticing how he appeared to be zoning out a bit.

  ‘Fine
,’ said Peter, partially snapping out of it.

  After several failed attempts at instructing Jerry to return home, Kara put into words what she, Fearne and Peter were all thinking.

  ‘Yeah, that’s not working. Shall we just take him home?’ she suggested, knocking back a large swig of her whisky-mixer. ‘Can’t be that far.’

  ‘You’re okay hun, we’ll take him,’ said Fearne. ‘Right, Pete?’

  Peter was staring up at the stars, a million miles away from the two ladies standing next to him.

  ‘Peter!’ repeated Fearne, nudging him in his ribs.

  ‘Huh?’ he said, quickly resorting to his tried and tested response when he had been ignoring his girlfriend. ‘Sure sweetie, definitely.’

  ‘Did you even hear what I said?’ her tone playfully suspicious.

  In times like these he found it prudent not to hesitate, and surveyed the things in his immediate vicinity in the hope that combining the words might form a coherent sentence that held relevance.

  ‘Jerry,’ he said, looking down, ‘lodge,’ he added, looking behind him, ‘…Kara?’ he said finally. “Nailed it,” he thought.

  Fearne sighed, and grabbed his arm. ‘You’re very lucky you’re pretty,’ she said jokingly. ‘Wait, do we know where he lives?’

  ‘Check his–’’ began Kara.

  ‘–don’t bother,’ said Peter. ‘I know the way,’ he added creepily.

  Kara and Fearne exchanged a look that seemed to show they were both aware of how weird Peter was acting, resulting in Kara turning around and heading back inside whilst taking another sip of her drink, more than a little glad that none of that was her problem.

  ‘What is with you tonight?’ asked Fearne, as they walked down the shingle driveway of Fir Lodge. ‘Have you been drinking Jon’s cocktails? I told you not to drink too much of them, I swear I caught him putting pasta sauce into one of them…’

  Fearne’s torrent of questions eventually faded into nothingness, as the two of them headed out into the darkness of the woods with both Jerry and, bizarrely, Peter leading the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Stowaway

  Timeline Prime – Saturday, August 25th, 2018, 8:52pm

  As Fearne walked alongside Peter, she was beginning to find it hard to determine if they were following Jerry, or if Jerry was following them. Peter was unusually quiet, but as another lodge sprung into view, whatever it was that had him so preoccupied slowly began to bleed into her own mood as well.

  There was an eerie sense of foreboding in the humid air, which generated a shiver deep within her. Her white dress rippled in the barely-present breeze, and Fearne felt more like she was gliding across the road they were traversing, as opposed to taking it step by step. The fresh air was clearly coercing with the admittedly excessive amount of alcohol in her system, and she had to consciously shake her head in order to keep the fogginess at bay.

  Peter had apparently adopted the same ethos to their impromptu walk in the pale moonlight, shaking his head and reverting to his actual personality in an instant.

  ‘Eesh, I think we’re here,’ he said, with more than an ounce of relief.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine hun, promise. You’re right, must be Jon’s cocktails. I kind of hit them hard over dinner.’

  Peter leant down to check Jerry’s collar. ‘This must be the place,’ he added, raising a perfectly maintained, yet undeniably manly eyebrow at the humble lodge before them.

  “More of a cabin, really,” he thought.

  ‘Well that’s not creepy as shit,’ said Fearne, the lack of any lights beyond the open door sending off all kinds of red flags.

  She calmed her nerves, realising she was being somewhat over-zealous. After all, it was just an empty cabin in the woods, and this was Norfolk. Not exactly prime real-estate for nefarious goings on.

  Peter laughed heartily, immediately putting her at ease in a way only he knew how; he had an innate skill of being able to calm her concerns without making her feel silly. She loved him for that.

  ‘Yeah, doesn’t look great, does it. In you go doggy,’ said Peter, flapping his hands effeminately in the direction of Jerry’s home, as if forcing a flow of air would be enough to egg the spaniel on, dropping his head dramatically for effect and staring at the ground between his feet when, predictably, Jerry failed to play ball.

  ‘Babe, what even was that weird hand-flap thing you just did?’ said Fearne, her eyes judging him with a playfully delivered partial squint. ‘I swear, I’m banning you from any more rewatches of La La Land when we get home.

  ‘First off, La La Land is life Fearne. It’s a cinematic masterpiece. But I’ll chalk up you thinking I remind you of Ryan Gosling as a win.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s clearly what I meant…’

  ‘Secondly, you’re welcome to give this a punt?’

  Fearne hurtled a pair of daggers towards him in a loving act of amused defiance, and walked up the small driveway towards the rectangle of blackness that made up the doorway, her white heels clacking against the pathway tiles that were all but concealed beneath years of weathering, coupled with the natural dirt generated by the forest. She accentuated the movement of her hips as she did so, knowing it drove him wild, and that he’d backed himself too far into a corner of pride to be able to mention it.

  Fearne stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder, the swift action causing her long brunette hair to cover the right-hand side of her face.

  ‘You coming?’ she said daringly.

  She could just make out the smirk beneath his ridiculously-expensive designer golfing cap, which was casting a shadow over the contours of his jawline. It always amazed her how he genuinely seemed to believe she had no idea how much he spent on that crap.

  Placing her right hand on her waist, Fearne straightened her posture slightly, just enough to match his irritatingly inherent smoulder. She called out for Jerry, and stepped into the dark, the springer spaniel treading gently, and slowly following her inside.

  Realising she had him over a barrel, Peter sniffed in some of the night air and exhaled an over-the-top sigh, then retraced the path his heroic partner had mapped out before him, his athletic frame being the third living entity to be claimed by the gloomy threshold of the doorway that evening.

  And, indeed, for that particular timeline.

  *

  Peter felt uncharacteristically unnerved. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, but the unfamiliar environment, coupled with the sudden sound of an unseen radio hit home the fact that they were both technically trespassing. He didn’t know who was singing, but after a few seconds managed to gather the song was probably called either “Man comes around” or “Hear the trumpets.”

  He’d seen enough movies for his over-active imagination to reason that if the owner was home, he was probably within his rights to shoot them dead.

  It was then he felt the blades carve through his eyes; blades of amber light surging from the bulb above them, as Fearne hit the switch behind him. She was lurking behind the frame of the door like a malevolent wraith, clearly chuffed that she’d caught him off guard.

  ‘Found the light,’ she said innocently, as Peter pinched the gap connecting his tear ducts with his right forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Super,’ he drawled.

  His eyelids blinked open, and he drank in the room.

  An old-fashioned radio that he was seeing for the first time was the first object to catch his eye; consisting of cream-coloured panelling connecting the metal grills that housed the speakers, several burgundy dials protruding from the unit, with a handle of matching colour tucked down behind it neatly.

  “Definitely Man Comes Around he thought, as a singer that sounded to him like Elvis in his later years continued to serenade them.

  ‘No one’s home,’ said Fearne, calmly dispensing a rhetorically-saturated list of things he could make out for himself. ‘Well, we should go, Jerry’s safe now and we’re missing the party!’
>
  Peter nodded several times, as if each dip of his head signified that he was ticking off all of the above, then made his way to the front door, grinding to a halt when he heard Jerry whining and sniffing at a bedroom door.

  ‘I think he wants to get in there?’ said Fearne. ‘Shall we open it for him?’

  Peter shrugged as he approached Jerry and reached out for the handle, which turned in his hand with little fuss, before pulling the door towards him.

  He flinched, as a sharpness cut across his skin.

  A breeze surging forth from the basement below had collided with his arms, seemingly caused by the vacuum he had created, and he realised that the bedroom was actually a basement.

  Without warning, Jerry bolted through Peter’s legs and down the stairs into the darkness below, growling angrily.

  ‘Shit,’ mumbled Peter. ‘God knows what’s down there, we can’t leave the poor doggo in a basement.’

  ‘Just leave the door open for him,’ reasoned Fearne. ‘He can come back up when he’s ready.’

  Peter let go of the handle and turned his back on it, ready to walk away, as Jerry’s growls grew louder, accentuated by an angry bark. ‘He’s worked up, I should probably go get him.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Fearne, not offering him the counter-argument he was hoping for.

  ‘Relax. I’ll be right back.’

  *

  After waiting impatiently for several minutes, the singular noise of Peter navigating multiple floorboards evolved into what sounded like him tripping over something and causing all kinds of havoc.

  “Beautiful, but clumsy as ever,” thought Fearne, the inanimate objects he’d somehow managed to knock over bouncing around beneath her.

  She could hear Jerry growling at him and, deciding her dearest Peter had clearly been the cause of some form of self-imposed mayhem, she descended the staircase in search of him.