by Sean McMahon
‘Like he wants us to win?’ asked Kara.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, his face twitching in equal surprise, confirming that the only sensations he experienced were positive and genuine.
Fearne, meanwhile, found herself finding it hard to breathe.
It had been one thing wishing they would finally see what Malcolm truly was, but another thing entirely seeing them get sucked in by yet another deception. She had gone from feeling like someone had walked over her grave, to feeling like her friends were digging a fresh one reserved just for her.
‘Fearne,’ said Kara, sensing the sudden change in her friend and starting to worry. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she lied, knowing in that very moment that she was truly alone now.
That when it came to saving her friends, and saving herself in the process, it would be down to her and her alone to bring an end to the pantomime.
“Or, more precisely,” she thought, “an end to the so-called Future Malcolm.”
‘So, what now?’ said Kara, folding her arms and blowing a stray strand of her reddish fringe that was obstructing her line-of-sight.
‘I think we just chill here for a bit,’ said Hal, unintentionally mimicking her body language. ‘There’s no way in hell he’s actually going to make it further than the boundary line,’ he added, with the same level of certainty he displayed during his first viewing of “Deep Blue Sea”, when he had declared Samuel L Jackson’s character was totally protected by plot armour.
But ultimately wasn’t.
EVIF-YTFIF RETPAHC
Malcolm Unbound
R.I Timestamp Error: Recalculating…
System Error. Timestamp Failure.
For all of his newfound abilities, such as fast-forwarding through timelines, and accessing the nexus between what once was and what could one day be, there was a singular, inconvenient truth that reeked of limitation.
Malcolm could move among the echoes of the past with a freedom the other Restarters could only dream of. Indeed, they could only access The White Lodge – where he currently found himself – if he alone chose to take them there.
It was off limits to the more conventional brand of Restarters, and only accessible by him due to the mind-frazzling paradox caused, presumably, by him having taken his own life when he had switched off his own life support. At least, that’s what he had told them…
Malcolm reasoned that his unrestricted access to such a place was clearly only granted to him thanks to the fact he could not affect or interact with the real world in any tangible way.
He had learned, thanks to their recent altercation, that he could whisper sweet nothings in his own ear just like his “Dark Restarter” self was penchant to, forcing his alive-self in the past to do his bidding. But Future Malcolm felt confident that was a trick he could only perform once. His younger, darker-self had far more of a hold on his living body that he now had.
As Malcolm approached the boundary line on the outskirts of the Fir Lodge Nexus that doubled as a Restart Point in Hal and Kara’s current phase, his mind raced at what rules the same location abided by in this alternate universe, that both existed between the land of the living, and the land of the dead.
He stopped short in hesitation, deliberating over what the ramifications would be if he stepped over the threshold, into the netherworld beyond. Across the line in the sand that represented the adhesive bond which held the past, present and future together like a pliable but unbreakable glue.
Those living in the present, outside of the confines of this thirty-three-hour time bubble, could surely not be influenced by his presence in their world, though he feared time itself would not be so forgiving by the potential loophole he was attempting to exploit.
Future Malcolm felt a rush of fear, wondering if he would simply disintegrate.
What if his essence, his spirit – or whatever the scientific or metaphysical term for his now wraith-like existence was these days – was eviscerated if he attempted to leave? Or perhaps he would simply be returned to Hal, Kara and Fearne? Or would he single-handedly break the universe entirely, sending time into a spasm of irreparable chaos?
He sniffed stalling for, of all things, time…and smiled.
He knew Harold’s true reason for sending him on this nonsensical voyage, of course.
His incessant claims that viewing the future would somehow yield vital information on how to escape their purgatorial prison?
Utter nonsense.
It was clear as the sky on a first restart to him that Hal’s… “Harold’s,” he corrected, true motive was solely to use the opportunity to fish around the dark lakes inside the killer’s head, looking for answers on Malcolm’s true…raison d’etre.
He had prepared for this very eventuality, obviously.
Ever since he first heard Peter mutter about how the transference of thought via the medium of telepathy, brought on by extended contact and the sharing of the energy that fuelled them all in this cursed place.
And he had prepared.
Admirably so.
Despite the onslaught of Fearne’s emotions, which admittedly ran him through his paces, he had focused intently on showing whichever one of them it was that was trying to probe his thoughts – Harold, presumably. It was classic Harold – exactly what they needed to see in order to nudge them, ever-so-slightly, towards the endgame.
His endgame.
The key to his release. The end to all of this.
And the end, not that it mattered, to those that had placed their admittedly reluctant trust in him.
Knowing there was far more to come in the approaching restarts, he took comfort in possessing the memories of events that were yet to transpire, his resolve suddenly fortified by the fact that the future literally couldn’t function without him, and walked without doubt across the duplicated boundary line of the nexus that contained him.
Maybe there was more to this idea than the laughable attempt at subterfuge Harold was trying to facilitate…
“One small step for a damned man,” he thought, as he stepped across the invisible line, waiting for the rushing air or the black liquid-like tentacles of death to wrap themselves around his un-beating heart and drag him into the chasm of eternity, intent on punishing him. To torture him for his unwillingness to follow the rules of his extended parole. A reprieve that time had selflessly afforded him, and that he was now abusing…
It was therefore, understandably anti-climactic when nothing happened at all.
He was simply…there.
Standing on the other side of the boundary line, a mere leaf in the cosmic winds of self-perpetuating time, unwatched, unseen and unmonitored.
At least that’s how it appeared at first, as he looked back towards the bubble that contained countless iterations of both himself and his frien–
‘Steady, Malcolm,’ he said out loud, reprimanding his sub-conscious for having the audacity to even whisper that type of terminology when describing The Restarters.
He held up the gun that had been gifted to him by Harold and marvelled at the paradox; surely it should have dematerialised, catapulted back to its rightful owner as soon as he crossed the invisible barrier?
And yet, here it was, the chrome refusing to reflect the insidious whiteness that surrounded him. The nexus was nothing if not full of unexpected quirks when it came to the objects that were tangled in the web of reality on a quantum level.
As if in direct response to his slip in vocabulary, or perhaps brought on by the anomaly of the gun itself, the world he had been trapped in became increasingly opaque, like a car windscreen steaming up due to rivalling temperatures from either side of the glass that separated Malcolm from the present and past, until eventually his vision was entirely obscured.
The complete lack of visual stimulation sent a surge of panic through him, as he turned frantically on the spot to look out at the brave new world he may or may not have been granted access to, and heard his own shar
p intake of breath as the unnaturally-pristine white hue began to fill with colour, like droplets of paint colliding with water and spreading outwards, unleashing a glorious technicolour into everything they came into contact with.
His concerns on wondering just how he would be able to pull himself out of the nexus in order to re-enter a notably more solidified timeline – what with there surely being no disembodied arcs of electricity for him to latch onto on this side of the boundary line, blue or otherwise – were quickly dispelled.
Time, it seemed, had taken care of that for him.
Future Malcolm had no need to find an anchor; he had become one.
Struggling to tear his eyes away from the overwhelmingly glorious sight of the real world, he snapped his head back towards the white screen of the Restart Point, which was now as innocuous and vibrant as what lay behind him.
He chuckled in disbelief, and then descended into full blown hysterics.
‘I’m free?’ he muttered. ‘I’m…I’m free!’ he shouted, screaming the words at the top of his out-of-phase lungs, before rather embarrassingly being clipped by an oncoming red car, which sent him spinning out of the way of the numerous additional convoy of cars that had burst forth from nowhere, the drivers of which equally unfazed or even remotely aware of his presence.
Malcolm caught a glimpse of the passengers in a white car, noting that the vehicle contained both Harold and Kara, who were just arriving for the first time, en route to their stay at Fir Lodge.
‘Today is Friday?!’ he said aloud, as if expecting an answer from Harold or Kara themselves as they shot past him.
He felt the faintest twinge of…what? Sadness? That felt odd to him, so he decided to actively ignore the fact that, for the briefest of heartbeats, he felt unhappy that he was unable to share this moment with someone…anyone else.
Shifting the large knife – which he had thus far kept secret from his unlikely allies by hiding it in the forest at the beginning of each new restart, or concealed behind his apron in the earlier days – he made room for Harold’s arguably useless gun, which he shoved into the waistband of his black trousers.
Despite the Restarters failed attempt at subterfuge, Malcolm suddenly felt even more obligated to continue with the plan. He couldn’t rationalise why, but if he was truly free, he felt it was the very least he could do to see this thing through to the end, eager to embark on what was surely a journey fraught with impossibility.
*
The journey was long, but made shorter by hitching lifts on coaches that had stopped for refuelling at a nearby service station, and as he made his way into the more rural areas leading to his destination, he downgraded to a form of public transport that made him glad he wasn’t in-phase with the occupants; that of the county bus service.
He loathed using them, and reasoned that even the less-murderously inclined would surely have been driven to such lengths after being subjected to several short trips on them.
Despite being considerably better at applying directions to navigate the world than Harold (though to be fair, that was a universal truth; everyone was better at geographical traversal than Harold) it had been Kara’s transferred memories that had proven most useful in getting Malcolm where he needed to be.
Indeed, having initially relied on Harold’s memories, Malcolm had ended up very much lost over the course of the next 24 hours, leading him to experience panic at the thought that Sunday may just have passed him by without him ever making it to Harold’s house.
But, as he walked into the quiet cul-de-sac that felt oddly like home, thanks to the residual transference of emotion-memory he had obtained from the Restarter, he finally made it.
Retrieving the small rectangular piece of plastic from his pocket, Malcolm looked down at the driver’s licence for the millionth time, going over the details;
‘165 Kent Street,’ he said out loud, looking around the peaceful suburban surroundings, drinking in the dull and ordinary backdrop with notable contempt.
He felt exposed in the bright afternoon sun.
A man to his left was focusing intently on cleaning his expensive-looking silver car, utterly oblivious to Malcolm’s presence. The former killer waved at the man, who dutifully ignored him, adding to the reassurance that he was definitely invisible.
To Malcolm’s right, a door opened, and a young woman marched out onto the front grass, encumbered by a black sack of household rubbish. Hot on her heels, a small black dog followed her out, embracing unexpected freedom and sniffing along the edges of the grass, drinking in the scents of the local cats that had traversed across it the night before.
The woman lifted up the lid of a grey wheelie bin, placed the bag inside it, then headed back inside the house, which was adorned with the number 165, printed in gold writing against a jet-black plate, affixed to the light-coloured brickwork.
“Harold’s home,” he thought, releasing a chuckle.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Netflix and Kill
Saturday, August 25th, 2018
Malcolm walked briskly, taking advantage of the inexplicable serendipity of not having to wait outside forever, slipping in through the front door, as the woman called out to the dog, who was munching on some blades of grass that Harold clearly hadn’t bothered to strim.
‘Shelby, in now, come on,’ said the woman who Malcolm would soon learn was Hal’s fiancée, Jess.
As Malcolm crossed the threshold, he felt a sense of temporal dissonance wash over him.
When was he exactly?
Shelby stopped at the door and looked up to him, continuing to chomp on a long blade of grass that had got caught in her back teeth, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as if trying to gauge the measure of the man who had walked into her home.
Inhaling the remainder of her snack, Shelby emitted a guttural growl, as if warning him to behave, then burped at him. She waddled past the time traveller, and shook from head to tail, his presence having generated a shiver deep within her, as Jess closed the door behind them.
Future Malcolm followed Jess into her kitchen and watched with fascination as she popped the kettle on, moved towards the stainless-steel sink and rinsed any residual bin juice from her hands.
He glanced to his right, where a calendar was pinned against the back of the kitchen door; a calendar with a picture of Shelby chasing bubbles stared back at him, but it was the image beneath that held true value.
All other days leading up to the 25th of August had a line through them, the words “Hal Fir Lodge” written in the unmarred square in a bubble-gum-pink permanent marker.
“Remarkable,” he thought, smiling to himself at the irony that the calendar contradicted the use of the word.
He had not only travelled to a location that had been incepted into his brain by a time traveller, but – relatively speaking – had also travelled not into the future, but to the present of the current restart he and his temporally-displaced allies…“acquaintances?” were occupying.
Any reservations he may have held that this was all just a coma-induced hallucination were finally debunked. He had no prior knowledge of this place, or this woman, or the creature that had just given him a burp-laced warning to follow the rules whilst on the dog’s turf.
He thought on that for a moment, before the most fantastical observation of all manifested in his mind as a cold, hard fact; the mundane events playing out before him were surely occurring in tandem with what they were experiencing back at Pentney Lakes.
This meant that the world outside of their bubble of time was operating in parallel with their plight.
He mused over how this specific date was largely immune to their meddling. This day would play out exactly as destiny dictated. Indeed, it was tomorrow, Sunday the 26th of August, that was open to obliteration and alteration.
With little else to do, he made himself at home, Jess utterly oblivious to the fact that she was now house-sharing with a serial killer.
A murderer, no less, that had kille
d her actual fiancé more times than she had told Hal to get off his phone in the past week.
*
Malcolm and Jess streamed movies together, took the dog for a walk, spent some time on a video-call with her parents and generally doing a mish-mash of other ordinarily bland things.
Ordinary, that was, with the exception that Jess was none the wiser he was even there.
Shelby, on the other hand, was considerably less inviting.
When she wasn’t growling or barking in his general vicinity, she was sitting in her bed staring at the man who smelt oddly like the colour red.
Shelby knew, deep down, that her dad would not be happy about him being here.
Her animal instincts flared under the certainty of that.
But there was nothing she could do about it, besides protect her mum the only way she knew how.
Whilst Malcolm maintained a notable level of respect when Jess showered and changed, Shelby held the line, making sure she kept between him and Jess at all times, acting like a sentinel charged with protecting a person of interest and not once taking her eyes off the killer. As she munched her dinner, not even the allure of food could pull her away from keeping one wary eye on the uninvited time-travelling house guest.
It was during a particularly mundane episode of MasterChef that Jess was bizarrely engrossed in – specifically the part of the show Malcolm was learning he despised the most; where each judge proceeded to eat the food, quietly emoting how great everything tasted, lips slapping together to the dulcet tones of cutlery clinking against ceramics. The act inadvertently making a pretty good argument in Malcolm’s favour for why his “work” may have actually merited advocation – that Malcolm decided to broach the subject with Shelby.
‘Have I not proven myself to be honourable, Shelby?’ said Malcolm, as Shelby panted, her ears tweaking in response to the utterance of her name. ‘Your…father sent me here himself. You can relax.’
