“Can’t say I blame her. All these forms would be enough to drive anyone to move out.” I didn’t know what to do with my hand. Should I squeeze back? Or should I just leave it there for a moment? But for how long?
The problem was solved when Albert arrived and told us our meals were ready for collection at the counter. “Sorry, but the person who’s insured to carry plates to tables is on Paternity Leave at the moment.”
I went to the bar and collected the plates, along with two sets of plastic cutlery. I struggled with the blunt plastic knife for a while then resorted to fingers. The fish was delicious but fell to pieces each time I picked it up. I wished I’d settled for the burger as Saphie seemed to be much more in control of her meal than was I.
After we’d finished, my sense of adventure had exhausted itself and I persuaded Saphie to abandon any further explorations in favour of a warm fire in a familiar world. We stopped off at the general stores to buy kindling, observing the warning label which announced that under some circumstances kindling was likely to be inflammable. I also bought some bread, which might contain wheat, some milk which almost certainly contained dairy products and a packet of peanuts oddly devoid of any warning labels.
Saphie fired up the Rayburn which I had let die earlier in the day whilst chasing ladders through three separate universes. As soon as it was underway three cats, all Possicats, appeared from nowhere and arranged themselves in such a manner that it was impossible to get within six feet of the Rayburn. I found a bottle of Vino Blanco I’d forgotten about, another souvenir of my holiday, picked up two glasses and headed into the lounge. Saphie already had the lounge fire underway and I idly wondered if she’d ever been a Girl Guide, given her skills for fire starting. I had to forcibly stop myself thinking about her in a Girl Guide’s uniform. The flames from the fire danced in the huge fireplace and threw a golden haze over her white dress, the silhouette of her body showing clearly through the now almost transparent material. I poured two glasses of wine and placed hers on the small oak coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Thanks,” she said and sat next to me, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the warmth of her. “I thought I said I never drink when I’m driving?”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot. Would you prefer a tea or...”? I mentally searched my supply of non-alcoholic drinks and came up empty. “Or a tea?”
“This will be fine.” She took a sip of the wine and gave me a smile that for some reason made me stop breathing for several seconds.
“I can sleep on the sofa,” I said, gallantly. “Or I could always phone for a taxi if—”
She placed two fingers over my lips effectively terminating my adolescent babbling. “Shush,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”
We chatted into the evening, consuming the last of my supplies of Spanish wine. She explained more about the leylines and how our ancestors had been unconsciously drawn to arrange all their important monuments along them. She made it a lot clearer than the book had done.
“You see, humans have always been drawn to places of mystical significance. Historians will try to tell you that that the monuments came first then the people were drawn there, but in actual fact it’s the other way round. Iron age man recognised certain points where the earth forces were strong and built there.” She twisted in her seat to face me and took a sip of wine, her other hand settled on my leg, perhaps in emphasis for her theories? “I mean, why else would they build Stonehenge where it is? Two hundred miles from where the stone was quarried?”
“I thought it was because of the river,” I tried to recall a programme I’d seen on The History Channel. “Or the sunrise points there.”
“Idiot,” she said and patted my leg. “The sunrise gets everywhere, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Not really,” I said. “Me and the sunrise don’t exactly have a strong working relationship.”
She laughed and sat back on the sofa, her hand slipped off my leg leaving a noticeable cold patch. “The crystals deep within the earth create strong electromagnetic fields that find resonance in the magnetic field that surrounds each human. We can’t help it. We have to go to these places.”
“But that doesn’t explain the doors.”
“They’re just a manifestation of what happens when too many of these forces congregate in the same place. Space-time gets all twisted up at these points. The same thing happened inside the pyramids.” She finished her wine and gave a slightly disappointed frown.
I got up to put another log on the fire and as I returned to the sofa I noticed she’d shifted her position slightly making it impossible for me to sit down without coming into physical contact. I slid next to her feeling the firmness of her thigh press against mine as I wriggled into the space she’d left me.
“What are you so tense about, Ian?”
“Tense? What do you mean?”
“Your Crown Chakra is disturbed.”
“Uh?” Not one of my most coherent expressions of confusion and certainly not from one who claims to be a writer.
“I can see it in your aura.” She twisted to face me, her thigh sliding across the top of mine. Her dress had ridden up showing a glimpse of said thigh. She opened her open hands and made a circular sweeping movement over my head. “It shows tension and inner pain.”
“That’ll be the doors. I’m not good with doors that don’t behave in the way to which one has become accustomed.”
“It’s older than that.” Her face took a concerned expression and her hands settled each side of my head. “There is deep damage here.” She held her hands in place, only just making contact with my head. Her face seemed to lose focus and the firelight brought an ethereal glow to her skin.
“I can... I don’t... I...” My words stopped forming as I felt a heat coming from her hands. A slight tingling like a thousand tiny needles ran across my scalp. I wanted to push her away but at the same time her hands felt oddly like home. All the time she remained silent, her eyes only just open.
I felt her give a little shudder and she broke contact, her eyes opening wide. “Oh,” she said. “You certainly have made a mess of that.” Her hands fell into mine and she squeezed.
“Must have been the cheap wine,” I said. “Sorry, but it was all I had.”
“One day you’ll have to deal with it.” She slid her hands up to the side of my face and we locked eyes. My own hands found themselves reaching around her and pulling her close. The feel of her firm breasts brushed my chest just moments before our lips made contact and I sank towards her.
We spent the night together and made love twice with a kind of warm passion I couldn’t ever remember feeling with another woman. The following morning, she rushed off to open the shop leaving me staggering around the kitchen in a pre-caffeine fug.
As I sat at the kitchen table with my second coffee and toast, I wondered about the universe we’d visited last night. The small differences actually made it feel in many ways quite alien. I thought about what Saphie had said about my aura and was that real or just New Age fluff and waffle? I certainly felt more relaxed this morning, but that might just be because we’d had a night of glorious sex. Even when the inevitable knock came at the kitchen door I didn’t jump, I just opened it with a mild curiosity as to what I’d find this time.
“Hello,” said a smartly dressed man in his mid thirties. I was sure I should recognise him but couldn’t quite place.
“Good morning,” I greeted with a level of cheerfulness that surprised me. “Front door?”
“Please, that would be most kind.”
I led him through the cottage and he departed with a wave and a smile. I returned to the kitchen and peered through the back door. This world was a long way from my own. The outside entirely different. So different that up until now I’d felt a sense of panic each time I’d opened the door. But this morning I was only sensing curiosity. I stepped through the door, quite expecting to be overcome by the familiar wave of panic. My heart did beat a bit f
aster and my breathing fell shallow but I had no overwhelming urge to run screaming back into the house. I padded across the unkempt lawn and it was only when a felt my feet becoming wet that I realised I was still in my dressing gown and the morning dew from the long grass was turning my Marks and Spencer’s slippers into a sodden mess. I stopped at the bottom of the garden next to the low stone wall that stood where there should be a large hedge.
The lane looked much the same except it was wider and there appeared to be a bus shelter about fifty metres away. I wonder if The Kings Head existed here. What would Trembly be like in this universe? I decided to investigate.
After a shower and another coffee, I dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers and headed out of the kitchen door, over the wall and into the lane. I paused in the lane and glanced back at the cottage with a moment of concern that I might never find my way back. Don’t be daft, I told myself. As long as I go back through the same door from which I left all would be fine. The danger was in forgetting which door I’d left from and returning through a different one. I didn’t even want to attempt thinking through the complexities of that scenario.
As I passed the bus shelter, I noticed the stop was designated as ‘Tinker’s Cottage’. That was certainly odd. Most bus stops I knew were named after the road or a landmark rather than the name of a dwelling. As I walked through the main road into Trembly I noticed the houses seemed much more brightly decorated than the ones in my Universe. My Trembly had been designated as a Conservation Village and as such the houses were restricted to maintaining the feel of the original buildings. Stone walls, slate roofs and sash windows were the order. Here each house was different. Many had been painted or faced in modern brickwork. One even had timber cladding all across the front. Windows were mostly modern and double glazed and the front doors were all colours and styles.
The building which in my world had been the small general store, here was a large supermarket spread across what had once been a row of three stone cottages. I ventured inside. I needed to see what went for currency here before any more difficult moments. The prices on each item were in familiar sterling but each with a rider saying ‘All Currencies Accepted’. I picked up a packet of biscuits and took them to the tills. As I waited behind an elderly woman paying for a basket of cat food, I noticed the display behind the counter. The usual cigarettes and tobacco lined the shelves but there were also packets of more exotic smoking materials. Moroccan Gold, Jamaican Skunk and a host of other offerings from the cannabis producers of the world.
The woman finished paying for her cat food and I placed the biscuits on the counter.
“What currency would you like to use today?” asked a bored looking teenage girl in a white T-shirt that clearly showed her dislike of underwear.
“Sterling please,” I said and placed a ten-pound note on the counter.
She picked it up and glanced at it briefly before ringing it through the till and handing me my change. I thanked her and left the shop studying the handful of coins I’d been given. The coins were different to the ones with which I was familiar but the queen’s head was in evidence on most of them. There seemed to be more cars in the village than I was used to, and they all had what seemed to be personalised number plates. Some fairly normal but several slightly quirky and one on a four-by-four parked outside the butchers which was downright obscene. I headed towards the pub. I reasoned that as it was the place with which I was most familiar I would see the differences more clearly.
The Kings Head, as it was still known here, announced its presence with a huge neon sign all across the front facade. I was immediately hit by the wall of smoke that confirmed that pubs here were not subject to the non-smoking regulations of my world. I could already feel the onset of chronic bronchitis by the time I reached the bar.
“I’ll have a pint of Old Grumbler,” I asked Albert or Arthur.
“Coming right up, mate,” he said as he poured the beer. “What currency do you want to pay with?”
“Euros please,” I said and handed over a twenty euro note.
He gave me my change in sterling without a second glance at the note I’d given him. I found a table by the window and supped on my beer. It was as good as the others from the previous two universes. A surprising constant in the multiverse. It was still relatively early so I was the only occupant of the pub. People drifted by outside in much the same manner I was used to. Two small boys kicked a ball down the pavement, bouncing it off the odd parked car as they went. I decided this world wasn’t that far removed from my own and certainly less scary than I’d originally thought.
Two young women arrived, picked up a pint of beer each and sat at the table next to me. They looked to be in their early twenties and both dressed in skimpy tops and skirts that seemed way too short for this time of day.
One of them caught me looking at them, she smiled. “You here for Tinker’s Cottage?”
“Yes... I mean no. I mean what’s that?” Smooth as usual, Ian.
“Tinker’s Cottage? Didn’t you know it’s open again? It’s all over Wikidoors.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps I need to have a look?” I wasn’t sure I was making the slightest bit of sense but it seemed the only thing I could come up with.
She returned her attention to her friend and they exchanged a few whispered words before they both erupted into giggles. Clearly, I’d said something very stupid. I finished my beer and headed home. I remembered to go back through the kitchen door and closed it firmly behind me. I collapsed onto the chair and I suddenly realised my heart was racing. I scanned the kitchen to be sure it was the one to which I belonged. All seemed okay. I was just feeling pleased with myself when I heard a crashing sound from the other end of the cottage. Not feeling quite as brave as I had done earlier, I picked up a carving knife and went in search of the sound.
Eric Three Four Nine stood in the library, pickaxe in hand.
“What are you doing here?” I yelled. A totally redundant question as even an idiot could see what he was doing here. My precious book collection was scattered all over the floor and covered in the dust created by the huge hole that now existed in the end wall.
“I have to get my wife. I promised her.”
“But look what you’ve done to my books.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to be tidy. I thought you might come back at any moment.” He took a couple of steps towards me, the pickaxe still swung from his hand.
“And you can put that down.” I waved my knife towards him.
He dropped the pickaxe to the floor and raised his hands in supplication. “Can’t you just let me finish and go through? I promise I’ll clean up. You’ll never know I was here.”
“This will take a team of builders a week to put right.” I thought about Wayne. “Or possibly a month.”
“I can do it. My secondary designation is that of maintenance. It’s what I do.”
“Your secondary what?” For the first time I saw a truly desperate man in front of me. His eyes a mixture of fear and determination. I softened slightly. “I don’t understand. What exactly happened with your wife?”
“I escaped but I had to leave her behind. Only one could go, I didn’t want to leave her but she made me go.” He looked close to tears.
I put the knife on one of the remaining shelves and said, “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on and you can take it more slowly.”
Eric Three Four Nine followed me into the kitchen. I motioned him to sit and he carefully positioned the chair so it was across the table from mine. I saw a small frightened man and wondered why I’d been worried about him. “Tea or coffee? I asked. “Or maybe something stronger. I have beer?”
“I don’t drink stimulants or alcohol. None of us do. It’s not allowed.”
“That only leaves tap water then I’m afraid. My selection of soft drinks is somewhat limited.”
“Water’s fine,” Eric said.
I poured a glass of water for Eric and made tea
for myself. It took a bit of coaxing to get him to tell me what had happened but once he started, a story worthy of one of my plot lines spilled from him. His world was one where it seemed people were selected to be organ donors for the rich and powerful. He wasn’t sure of how it all worked; he just knew that he and millions of others were kept fed and looked after very well until one day someone would just disappear. Sometimes they would return with scars from surgery, but often they were never seen again.
I was horrified. He continued to explain that many years ago somebody had found a way out through the cellar of a small cottage that somehow led into a different world. He told how some sympathetic guardians would, for a fee, help the odd person through. He and his wife had raised the necessary fee for one escapee and she insisted that he go as he was best placed to earn some money on the other side and come back for her. He’d agreed but shortly after his escape the access door back had been sealed and he had no way of returning. Until that is, I turned up and took a pickaxe to the kitchen doorway.
“Okay,” I said. “If what you say is true, I’ll help.” Where had that come from? Had I been taken over by the spirit of The Falconer?
“You will?” Tears glistened in his eyes.
“What do you need?” I asked, regretting the words even as they left my lips.
“About three hundred credits, a way back though the cellar and somewhere to stay while I’m waiting for her to be brought out.”
“Three hundred credits? What’s that?”
“On my side it’s about enough to buy a television.”
“But how can you get credits here? We have pounds.”
“When the door was open people would trade pounds for credits. A busy black market ran through the doors. Probably will again if the doors stay open.”
I agreed to fund him the three hundred pounds which he guessed would be a straight swap for credits and for his part he agreed to make a tidy job of reopening the cellar door. It also looked like I was going to have a lodger for a while. I set him up in the spare room and found a towel and some bedding.
Schrodinger's Cottage Page 12
