by Susan May
To anyone watching she looked like a woman going about her errands, involved in nothing out of the ordinary. Inside, though, her excitement was so wild, if she could, she would skip across the road, screaming to the world now she understood. Now she knew she had a chance.
As she climbed into the car, she said a silent prayer.
Please let me come back again.
Movement 9
Over and over Dawn came back to relive the ten days. Returning was now a given. She’d lost count of how many times she’d jumped. Two dozen. Seventy. Maybe more. What did it matter?
She accepted she was trapped in a crazy time-loop, like a mouse running on a wheel. Perhaps she’d died and this was a keener hell than any she could have imagined.
It never grew easier to live through Tommy's death and, at every opportunity, she never stopped trying to change the timeline. She pushed and prodded at almost every phrase, action, and interaction with others as if she were testing for a weak point in a wall of glass.
Sometimes she felt a little give in the fabric of time, which she now imagined as one great looping ribbon, with her fallen on to some sidetrack. Nothing, though, ever amounted to the same variation of events as the coin dropping.
After the first coin-dropping instant, each time she came back to the moment at the checkout it was changed permanently, incorporated forever into the interaction, as if it had always been there. Now when she concluded her transaction with Kylie, the coin dropped. She couldn’t get it to do anything else, even though she surmised there must be a crack in the timeline at that point.
Dawn often wondered if her chance to change the future had been squandered on that coin, and the trunk release, and the few times she’d paused words. She wondered if the opportunities were somehow limited, and now she’d failed Tommy.
Movement 10
This time around was a carbon copy of every other time since the coin: Dawn attempting to push at the immovable and changing nothing. The one difference was she was trying less and less.
Here she was again, face-to-face with Kylie, standing at the checkout, the bustling sounds of the supermarket no longer registering with her. She studied the girl as if she’d never seen her before. Each time she stood at the checkout, she looked for clues why this moment had worked when all the others had not.
What a piece of work Kylie was.
The anger never failed to rise within Dawn, no matter how many times she was here. This time, she thought she detected something different in Kylie’s eyes. The look must have been there before, but she was always so caught up in her anger and frustration, she’d missed it.
Kylie’s face seemed softer, even as her lips seemed more tightly pursed together. Though her gaze still travelled about the checkout area just as it had done before, what Dawn had mistaken for disinterest in her job now seemed more akin to… to… desperation. Desperation and a veil of sadness. She would almost say the girl looked lost.
When Kylie turned to pack the bags, Dawn noticed how tightly she clutched the packet of pasta, as if she was afraid of dropping it. Even after so many times back again, she still found things she hadn’t previously noticed. She no longer trusted her memory.
The thought of this girl’s future crossed Dawn’s mind.
With that, she imagined how it must feel to be Kylie after the accident, to return home that day to live with what she’d done. In Dawn’s mind, this girl had become a harbinger of death, a minion of the devil.
She saw now she’d been wrong. This was just a girl living her life, just as Tommy and she were living their lives. Her heart swelled with compassion for Kylie and sorrow for everything that, in the next few minutes, would happen to change the world into a desolate place for both of them. She suddenly understood it wasn’t her versus this girl. They were simply two human beings caught up in life’s ironic intertwining.
If only she could reach out and touch Kylie’s hand, let her know it was okay. Let her know she was truly forgiven. Instead, Dawn could do nothing more than reach out to take the coin—and drop the coin—because that was all this life now allowed.
Dawn held out her hand and waited for the sound of it dropping. She anticipated this moment every single time.
There came no sound.
Instead, she felt the coin drop into her palm, the feeling of the small piece of metal like a mini-shock of static electricity on a dry day.
Dawn hadn’t been willing anything, wasn’t trying for a moment of change. She wanted to look down to be sure what she felt was real, but couldn’t. Instead, she continued to stare at Kylie as she counted out the rest of the change.
There was something different about the girl. The side of her mouth was quivering. Dawn racked her brain. Had Kylie made that movement before? Her eyes seemed different, too—moving more erratically—though that could be due to the coin. In not dropping it, this interaction had been minutely altered.
When she saw the next difference, her mind began to spin. A glistening in Kylie’s right eye appeared, a welling up, despite the girl’s face remaining impassive.
This was new. There was no mistaking it. She didn’t want the moment to move on, didn’t want to fold up her hand or put away the change. She felt as if she was standing over a precipice. What came next might change everything, if she could only work out what was actually happening.
Then a small tear fell from Kylie’s right eye, even though the girl’s eyes weren’t red and her face hadn’t moved. It was as if it were a spontaneous action, the tear a physical creation not borne from an emotion.
Dawn’s mind raced. How could the girl behave differently when Dawn had done nothing? The few changes made had always been hers alone.
She suddenly realized her own hand wanted to move. The pressure of the future was pulling her away, forcing her to continue travelling the timeline, to put away her change, to walk out the door, and watch her son die in the next few minutes.
Fighting the pull, she continued to stare at Kylie. For the first time, she didn’t know what would come next.
As the tear slowly rolled down Kylie’s face, Dawn felt drawn to drop the money, reach out to the girl, and save her. She wanted to do that just as much as she wanted to save Tommy. The desire was so overwhelming, it felt as if her insides were being torn apart, with as much pressure as her body was being torn away. Still she held on, pushing at her hand, pushing at her muscles with every ounce of energy and will remaining within her.
It felt as if her soul was lifted from her and, afraid, she desperately tried to drag it, or the feeling, or whatever it was, back. If she died, then Tommy would die permanently, too.
Dawn panicked. She couldn’t hold on to it; it was too powerful.
Then, as if the energy had stretched beyond its capacity, it popped like an over-expanded balloon, and she felt the power fizzle and dissipate within her.
If she could have cried, screamed, or both she would have, but the only action she could take was to look down at her change and then fold it into her purse.
Something extraordinary had occurred, but now she was left only with the deflated feeling her chance for change had gone, this time forever. She couldn’t keep living this crazy circle of ten days or she would lose her mind. Quietly, with nobody watching, she would disintegrate from within.
When she heard the words, her first thought was the shock and distress of what had just happened had created an illusion, a mirage of reality. They were quiet words, strained, as if whispered through a keyhole by a frightened child too nervous to come out from a hiding place.
“Don’t wait.”
She must have misheard, too busy contemplating her sanity. These weren’t the right words, the words Kylie always said after she handed over the change.
This was the moment when Dawn would look up and say, “Thank you.”
Kylie would then reply with disinterest, “Have a nice day,” before turning to the next waiting customer.
This time, instead, when she looked back at
Kylie, after putting away her change, there were more tears rolling down the girl’s face. One tear clung precariously from a metal circle embedded in her lip.
“Don’t wait,” Kylie repeated, with a tremor in her voice and a little louder.
Dawn felt a sudden freeing inside, as if a hot wind had blown threw her, melting the bindings holding her mind imprisoned within her body. She went to reply with her usual next line of “thank you.”
Her mouth opened but, instead, she heard herself say, “I beg your pardon?”
Kylie’s eyes reflected the emotion in Dawn’s own voice. She saw a lightness, where before there had been only contempt, Dawn’s words clearly holding as much meaning for Kylie as they did for her. There was a relief, a recognition of the determination and time taken by both of them to change those few simple words.
More tears now flowed down Kylie’s face, but she didn’t reach up to wipe them. Her brow creased in concentration. She stared at Dawn, as she had done so many times before, but this time she continued to speak, her mouth forming words as if she was reading from a script, every syllable a struggle to enunciate.
“Don’t wait. In. The car… for him—”
Then Kylie paused, for what seemed longer than a decade and shorter than a heartbeat, sucked in a long, deep breath that echoed around them, and added, “Stop him.”
Now it was Dawn’s turn to cry.
Reaching across, she wiped her palm gently across Kylie’s wet cheek and whispered, “Thank you.”
© 2014 Susan May
From the Imagination Vault
The Time Machine by H.G. Wells was the first time travel story I read as a child, and I reread it many times as an adult. The social themes explored through Well’s future inhabitants of earth, the innocent, downtrodden, working-class Eloi and the cruel, industrial, overlord Morlocks are as contemporary today as they were over a hundred years ago.
What captivated me more than the adventure was the poignancy of time travel. Once he’d travelled, the time traveler’s perspectives on life and himself were forever altered. I believe our cultural fascination with time travel stems from its seeming ability to solve everything; in being granted a second chance, we always find we create even greater dilemmas.
Writing a time travel story is quite difficult. There are so many established memes in the genre you plug one plot hole, only to find you’ve sprung a leak somewhere else. I guess that’s the fun of writing time travel: finding new ways to tell a story without breaking the known rules.
The idea for Back Again came to me several years ago while watching my son—via the rear vision mirror—place his guitar in my car’s trunk. Even though the concept haunted me constantly, I couldn’t work out what would happen once the mother returned to the day of the accident.
Finally I thought, Maybe if I put myself in the driver’s seat, so to speak, and just write the story, perhaps the solution might be revealed to me. Just like a reader, I didn’t know how it would end when I began the opening scene. However the minute Dawn went back again to discover she had no control, and was merely a passenger in her body, I knew I had a wonderful, impossible dilemma to explore.
For most of the first draft, I wondered what lay ahead and how the story would resolve. I didn’t know whether Dawn would end up stuck in a loop coming back again and again forever, and that would be the ironic twist. Suddenly the penny literally dropped with the coin—it’s these moments, for which writers live. I was literally jumping up and down with excitement, knowing I had my ending and twist. Up until then, nervous-writer-syndrome had taken up residence in my mind.
The fact H.G. Wells still inspires writers nearly a hundred years later proves time travel is possible, even if it is simply via books. I’ve met Mr. Wells in his fictional worlds and, in my writing, he travels with me wherever I go.
As a child, I believed The Time Machine was, in fact, a non-fiction work. In my heart, I do hope it’s true and Mr. Wells is still out there somewhere exploring all the possibilities time travel offers.
Read BACK AGAIN the novel
Since writing this novelette, I went on to write the full novel of Back Again.
My wonderful content editor Christie from eBook Editing Pro wrote me a few days after editing the original novelette and suggested I turn it into a book.
My copy editor Peg, also, had a few questions after she worked on it. Like what happened after Dawn left the store? Did she rescue Tommy? What happened to Kylie? How did Dawn travel back in time?
I realized I wanted to know those answers, too. So I thought, why not? It seemed a formidable task to turn a short story into a novel. In fact, not believing I could do it, I gave myself four weeks to write the draft of around 75,000 words (around 280 pages). If I had nothing decent at the end of that time, I’d give up.
In 27 days the draft was finished. It then took another three months for edits. This novel taught me how to write and edit quickly, and stick to a daily word count.
While Back Again was at the editors, just to be certain my drafting quickly was no accident, I wrote the first draft of my next novel Deadly Messengers in 31 days. Deadly Messengers was released 30 September to great reviews. It’s a real page-turning thriller, I’m sure you’ll enjoy. There’s an excerpt included in the next few pages, too.
If you’ve enjoyed the novelette of Back Again, I’m sure you’d enjoy the novel. Even though you know some of the plot, it won’t ruin the story. There’s so much more there, along with a very different ending. The novelette part has been revised, and is included, but the rest of the story flows seamlessly around it.
It’s been such a fun ride to time travel with Dawn and Kylie and Tommy. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey, too.
Read Back Again the novel
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Read a nine chapter excerpt from Susan May’s best selling psychological thriller, the book readers are saying they cannot put down.
Deadly Messengers
3 massacres, 2 detectives, 1 writer, 0 answers
“A riveting thriller… highly recommend to every mystery thriller fan.” Suspense Magazine
Discover the book readers are calling the most terrifying impossible-to-put-down thriller released this year, by the author readers are naming the next Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl) and the female Stephen King.
Freelancer Kendall Jennings writes fluff pieces for women's magazines. When a horrific massacre occurs at Café Amaretto, she scores an exclusive interview with a survivor. Suddenly, she's the go-to reporter for the crime.
Investigating veteran detective Lance O'Grady and his partner Trip are tasked with finalizing the open and shut case. Seven people are dead at the hands of an unprovoked killer wielding an axe.
Then another mass killing occurs. This time, arson, and ten eldercare facility residents die in the blaze. Again the killer dies at the scene. The crimes have no motive, and Lance O'Grady is left wondering how evil can strike twice in such a short space of time.
Then it happens again. Even more shocking: a mother with a gun goes on a rampage at a family birthday party.
The killers share one odd detail: none have a murderer's profile. No history of violence. No connection to terrorists. No vendettas. Ordinary citizens suddenly just became killers.
Drawn deeper inside the crime investigation, Kendall finds herself not only clashing with O'Grady but also struggling with old demons. O'Grady resents this interfering reporter, whose presence provokes memories of a personal tragedy.
What Kendall and O'Grady don't realize is they are caught in a plot far greater reaching than just these crimes. Someone is sending a message. And unless they can decipher the meaning, very soon, many more will die.
Deadly Messengers, an unputdownable thriller, poses the question: Does a killer lurk inside everyone? The answer may prove more frightening than the crimes.
Chapter 1
TOBY BENSON PAUSED AT T
HE alley’s entrance to hoist the ungainly blue sports bag higher on his shoulder. Traveling here, the awkward, precious cargo had caused the bag to slip down his arm, forcing him to stop several times to rebalance the weight.
He stared up the dark corridor of gray shadows and fractured shapes, the towering buildings only allowing the barest slip of light to enter from the full moon overhead. Wall lights hung above the back entrances to the establishments illuminating a collection of trash containers, sentinels to the doors. A perfect location to film a horror movie; just add haunting music and the audience would be clued something terrifying was about to happen.
Toby didn’t notice these things. Somewhere deep inside, perhaps, he registered them on a subconscious level, understood he should be afraid or this wasn’t the place for him. If he did, though, the thought didn’t make it through to that part of his brain controlled by self-preservation.
He saw nothing except a strange mist settled over his vision like a swirling film on the surface of a pond. He heard nothing except the voice in his head, which he imagined came from God, spoken with such authority he couldn’t resist. The voice knew him, wanted to help him and guide him toward his destiny.
