by E. M. Brown
He decided that he should tell Digby all about the time-jumps, and risk his ridicule – no, not ridicule, Digby was more sensitive than that, but his incredulity, his concern. Or maybe he should spare his friend the worry that he might be losing his marbles. After all, there was nothing Digby could do to stop what was happening, only come up with a theory that might account for the phenomenon.
No, he had to unburden himself, he decided, to take the weight from his mind. A problem shared…
The dogs bounded out when he pulled into the drive, the setters two years younger and bouncier. He kneaded their ears, waved to Caroline on the doorstep. She was younger, too, and the difference was appreciable.
They embraced, kissed cheeks. “Dinner’s almost ready. Dall paneer, Edward. Isn’t that your favourite?”
“Love it.”
“And chicken saag, Digby’s favourite. Did I tell you I was putting him on a white meat only diet? He’s getting a bit paunchy in his middle age. Wish I could do something about his boozing, though.”
Was that said with real concern, he wondered, or with mock despair? “You’re looking well, Caroline.”
“I started a keep fit class a month ago,” she said, leading him into the house. “I’m feeling great.”
He calculated that she was forty-eight, and the lines around her eyes had not yet appeared; she seemed slimmer, her hair not as grey.
“Digby!” she called. “Edward’s here!”
Digby emerged from his study. His beard and hair were trimmed, shorter and much neater than the last time Richie had seen him. He looked well, despite the paunch that preceded him into the lounge.
He opened a couple of bottles of Black Sheep and they drank while Caroline put the finishing touches to the curries.
“How’s the outline coming along?” Digby asked.
Richie said he’d almost finished it, and was happy with how the synopsis had worked out.
He thought back to this evening, recalled enjoying a superb Indian meal and talking shop, then watching the match. Although he knew the score, the other details of his visit were lost. He had no idea what they chatted about, though he guessed that it was business, as now: Digby regaled him with an account of his script-conference with the other writers on Henderson’s Farm. Richie had an odd sense of deja vu: he recalled, dimly, Digby telling him about a couple of new writers on the team.
Caroline called them in and for the next hour they ate, Richie falling quiet as he savoured the meal. The dall was cooked to perfection, the chicken tender and suffused with spice without being overwhelmingly hot. Caroline made her own chappatis, which melted in the mouth.
“This,” he declared at one point, “is sublime.” He lifted his glass. “If you weren’t already shackled to this old reprobate, Caroline, I’d ask you to marry me.”
“I don’t think I could compete with your harem, Edward,” Caroline laughed.
“Speaking of which, how’s the latest?” Digby said. “The wondrous Samantha?”
Richie smiled. “She’s a delight,” he temporised.
“So this is serious?” Caroline asked.
Digby laughed. “As serious as Ed will ever be, I’ll wager,” and Richie joined in with the laughter and spared himself from replying.
After the meal, he helped clear the table and then Caroline excused herself. Digby replenished their beers and led the way to his study. He switched on a flatscreen television, muted the sound on the pre-match build-up, then settled himself in his armchair and turned to Richie.
“So… what’s wrong, Ed?”
Richie lowered his beer, surprised. He wasn’t aware that he’d let anything show. “Wrong?”
“Last Friday at the Bull you were full of beans about the synopsis. Best thing you’d ever done… Now you seem lukewarm. Carter hasn’t pulled the plug on the project, has he?”
Richie sighed. Part of him wanted to say nothing about the time-jumps, despite his earlier decision; another part wanted to get it off his chest, although he feared Digby’s reaction.
Then he said what he’d say three years in the future. “You’re not going to believe this, Digby.”
And his friend replied as he would do then. “Try me.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay… Three days ago it was 2017,” he said, “and I woke up one morning to find myself in 2016.”
He detailed what had happened to him over the course of the past few days. He described his first jump, from January 2017 to April 2016, and then his second, from 2016 to the ‘present,’ September 2013. He told Digby all about Sam leaving him, and then about Anna… He said that he’d already told the Digby of the future, in 2016, about his first jump.
At this, Digby interrupted, “And what was my reaction?”
“What else? You thought I’d gone mad. I sometimes wonder myself. That’d be the easy explanation. Or maybe I’ve had an accident and I’m lying in hospital, and all this is a hallucination. Though a bloody real hallucination, I must say.”
Digby was wearing his non-judgemental expression, the straight face he assumed when listening to Richie outline a story idea: he would reserve judgement, let Richie get to the end of his tale, and only then pronounce on the feasibility, or otherwise, of the outline.
Richie went on, “But I know it’s happening to me, Digby. Listen… In almost three years from now, Sam walks out on me. She goes to London, shooting some crime drama, and when she gets back she tells me she’s met someone, and off she goes. Yesterday afternoon I came to my senses in my study and found that I’d jumped back two and a half years, and I’m a few months into the relationship with Sam. And…” He shook hishead. “And it’s cracking me up, knowing how it’ll end, and knowing that soon, in all likelihood, I’ll find myself shunted back to God knows when.”
Digby said, quietly, “How long did you remain in the ‘present’ the first time, in 2016?”
Richie thought about it. “Around a day, just over.”
“And now you’ve been in this time for…?”
“Just over a day. I ‘woke up’ yesterday afternoon, around twelve-thirty. Of course, it might not follow the same pattern.”
“You might,” Digby said, “remain here for good.”
Richie shrugged. “Christ knows. I might. But… the jump to 2016, and then to now… Why? Why the hell did it happen, just to stop now? Logically it should go on forever, shouldn’t it, or at least until… until I run out of life to relive.”
“When you told me last time, and I thought you’d gone mad… did I try to offer some kind of… rationale, other than insanity?”
Richie shook his head. “No, and I don’t blame you. It’s a hell of a thing to land on a friend. I don’t know… perhaps I was hoping…” He made a sweeping gesture at the ranked science fiction paperbacks on the shelves. “Perhaps I was hoping you might be able to come up with an explanation, however outrageous.”
Digby stroked his chin, for all the world like a TV psychoanalyst. “And you say you have all your memories of the intervening years, of all the events you experienced?”
“Well, those that I recall,” Richie said. “I can’t remember everything, the minutiae of day to day life. And that’s another thing… There are things I do recall, but which don’t happen this time around. Like yesterday. I remember Sam coming back with a take-away. After the meal, last time, we went to bed after watching a film. This time, Sam wanted to go to the pub, and we did. So… so what happened to the night we spent at home? Has that ceased to exist? Did it ever exist, despite my remembering it?”
Digby took a long drink of beer, as if buying himself time. “Other than the two explanations you’ve suggested, insanity or a hallucination, I can’t offer an explanation, no matter how far-fetched, to explain what’s happening to you.”
“So you think I’m crazy?”
“I didn’t say that. I said that I can’t offer an explanation.”
“Should that make me feel better?”
Digby smiled. “I’m glad
you’ve still got your sense of humour.”
“Despite losing my marbles.”
He saw the television, flickering away silently. He stared at the emerald green pitch and smiled to himself. “Before I was whisked away from 2016,” he said, “I’d arranged to meet you at the Bull the following day and watch the Newcastle v Man City match. I could prove what was happening to me, you see, because I knew the result, a one-all draw.”
Digby nodded towards the screen. “Don’t tell me. You can remember tonight’s result, right?”
Richie smiled, pleased that his friend was going along with what must sound, to him, like the rant of a psychotic. “I think so. Your beloved Man U beat Munich 1-0. Rooney scores late in the second half.”
Digby laughed. “One-nil? I’ll take that,” he said. “And if you’re right, and if Rooney does score, late on…”
“Yes?”
Digby shook his head. “Then I might have to rethink what little I know about the workings of the space-time continuum… Another beer?”
While Digby was fetching the beer, the match kicked off. Richie found the controls and increased the volume, but kept it low. Digby returned and passed him a bottle, and they settled down to watch the match.
“If it is one-nil, and Rooney scores,” Richie said, “then I’ll know for certain that I’m not going loopy. And to be honest, I don’t know what I’d prefer. If I am being shunted back in time, then…”
Digby looked across at him. “Then where might it end?”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
Digby was silent for a while, absorbed in the to-and-fro of the match. United were doing all the pressing, but Munich absorbed the pressure and looked dangerous on the counter-attack.
One eye still on the game, Digby said, “And another thing, what happens to the ‘you’ of now while you’re in possession of his mind? I mean, if you do jump again tomorrow or whenever…”
“Then what will he recall of today and yesterday from twelve-thirty?”
“Exactly.”
Richie shook his head. “I don’t know. Will he have a blank in his memory, or will he recall…” – he paused, following a new line of thought – “or will he recall the events that would have happened, had I not shunted back to occupy his mind?”
“Intriguing.”
“Because I did come here in 2013,” Richie said, “and sat watching the game after having a fine Indian with you and Caroline. But of course we didn’t discuss anything about the time-jump business, because it hadn’t happened then.”
“So the you of tomorrow might recall the original version of the visit?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s mind-boggling,” Digby laughed.
“How do you think I’ve felt for the past few days, trying to make sense of it all?”
They watched the match. It was one of the very few occasions, he reflected wryly, when he wanted Manchester United to win.
At one point Digby asked, “Have you mentioned this to Sam?”
“What? And have her think I’m a nutcase? No way.”
“Wise man. You do realise, of course, that if you’re right and we do win the game one-nil, then I’ll have you racking your brain for every result you can remember for the next two years. Pity you aren’t a racing man.”
Richie chugged on his beer. “I can tell you that in 2016, David Cameron will call a referendum on whether or not Britain should stay in Europe – and by a narrow majority the good citizens of the country, in their wisdom, elect to get out.”
Digby squinted at him. “You’re joking?”
“I jest not,” Richie said. “Oh – and you might not believe it, but in November 2016 Donald Trump is elected President of the USA.”
Digby stared at him. “What? The multiple-bankrupt, TV celebrity shyster? Come on, even the Americans can’t be that stupid!”
Richie smiled to himself. “And Leicester will win the league in the 2015-16 season.”
“You’re talking rugby union, I take it?”
“No, football. Leicester win the Premier League in 2016.”
Digby laughed. “And now I know you’re crazy.”
Richie smiled, shaking his head. “Whatever happens to me, Diggers. Remember my prediction and put a hundred on Leicester. They were five thousand to one against at the start of the season.”
They returned their attention to the match.
Half-time arrived with the score still nil-nil. Digby muted the sound and told Richie about an idea he’d had for a police drama series set in a northern town.
“Have you done anything with your ’sixties counter-culture idea, set in London?” Richie asked.
Digby stared at him. “I can’t recall telling you about that.” He tapped his head. “It’s still in here, gestating. I must have let it slip when we were pissed.”
Richie smiled. “No, you’ll tell me, in great detail, over a few beers in a month or so… as far as I recall. But three years down the line, the BBC like the idea and commission six episodes. Please believe me, Diggers.”
His friend grunted. “Like I should believe you about Trump becoming President and Leicester winning the league?”
The second half kicked off. They downed more beer and concentrated on the game. United pressed, and ten minutes from time Rooney headed them into the lead from a corner.
Digby punched the air.
“There,” Richie said. “What did I tell you?”
His friend peered at the time in the top left corner of the screen. “Still ten minutes to go.”
But despite German pressure, Manchester held out and won the game 1-0.
Digby killed the screen.
“So?” Richie said.
Digby looked uncomfortable. “A lucky guess?”
Richie sighed. What else had he expected? “I know, I know… I must sound crazy.” He stared at his friend. “Bloody hell, Diggers, what’s happening to me?”
Digby shrugged, uneasy. “Perhaps… perhaps it’s down to stress, the series you’re working on? The workload is pretty constant, isn’t it? And the relationship with Sam…?”
The door opened and Caroline poked her head in. “Match finished? How did it go?”
“One-nil to the Reds,” Digby said.
“And that’s good?”
Digby smiled. “I’m happy enough.”
Caroline nodded. “How nice,” she said, with the blithe condescension of those blessed with the knowledge that football was, after all, only a game. “I’m turning in. Lovely to see you again, Edward. And next time bring Sam, hm?”
“I’ll do that, and thanks for a great meal.” He climbed to his feet and hugged her goodnight.
He and Digby sat drinking for another hour, Digby assassinating the character of a director they both knew, and around midnight Richie called a taxi to take him home.
“You’re welcome to stay here tonight,” Digby offered.
All Richie wanted was to get home and hold Sam to him, a locus of reassurance in an uncertain world. “Thanks, but Sam’s expecting me.”
“You lucky man.”
The taxi arrived fifteen minutes later, and in the hallway Richie turned to Digby and said, “Maybe this is all my own doing, Diggers? Me, punishing myself?”
“Come again?”
“You once told me… in the future… you told me I have a self-destructive streak.”
Digby winced.
“Said I drive all the women away, because… because of what happened to Annabelle.”
“Ed,” Digby said, gripping his arm.
“So perhaps you’re right, and I am punishing myself,” Richie finished. He opened the door and hurried out to the taxi.
THE CAB DROVE through Harrowby Bridge, climbed the hill and turned into the driveway. He paid the driver and made his way into the house with the exaggerated care of the hopelessly inebriated. He undressed as quietly as possible, slipped into bed and pulled a naked Sam to him. She was as warm, and as reassuring, as he’d hoped
. She murmured something, which Richie told himself was, “Loves…” before he fell asleep.
He awoke with a start in the morning, to bright sunlight streaming in through drawn curtains. He sat up, relieved when he saw Sam emerge from the bathroom. She dressed quickly, applied lipstick, and explained, “Must dash. Read-through of the play in Manchester. Be back around six.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her. “I’ll cook something.”
“Okay, bye-ee.”
That morning, feeling more than a little cut adrift from reality, wondering if he were insane and whether it would be for the best if he were, he took the Guardian down to the pub for a pint or two before lunch. He wanted to do nothing but get drunk, anaesthetise his senses with the balm of alcohol, and forget everything…
He carried the beer across the snug to his favourite table beside the hearth.
He was assailed by a sudden premonition, a forewarning that reminded him of the time, years ago, when he could tell that he was about to suffer a migraine.
A sudden pain shot through his head, followed by a blinding white light.
From Ed Richie’s journal, 9th June, 2015
I SOMETIMES WONDER about Sam’s state of mind. I don’t mind her exhibitionism – and I like making love to her in the picture window – but when she started slapping me as she climaxed the other night… I really got the impression that she was enjoying hurting me more than she was enjoying what I was doing to her. And another thing… a few nights ago, after making love, she told me that her friend Kath fancied me, and Sam looked at me and said, “Have you ever wanted to make love to two women at the same time, Ed?”
Call me a traditional old fart, but I said that it was all I could do these days to make love to one woman.
I think she was disappointed in me.
Extract from the review, by T. J. Laisterdyke in The Times, of Towards Oblivion by Edward Richie, March, 2022
RICHIE TAKES ONE of the well-worn tropes of sci-fi, nuclear armageddon, and tries to construct a fable for our time. One of the main problems with this approach, quite apart from the fact that it’s been done a thousand times before, is that Richie’s cast of characters is thoroughly objectionable and runs the risk of alienating the reader. Richie has been praised for writing strong female characters, but this is a superficial analysis. His women lack in-depth psychological portraits, and a case in point is the female lead in Towards Oblivion, Kate Lerner, a domineering neurotic without a single redeeming feature…
