Screaming Science Fiction

by Brian Lumley

  George glanced at his watch. Just 11:00 p.m. Damn it, he’d planned to be in Bellington by now, at home with the Old Folks, and he would have been if he’d come off the Ml at the right place.

  Of course, when he’d left England there had been no motorway as such, just another road stretching away north and south. That was where he’d gone wrong; obviously he’d come off the Ml too soon. He should have gone on to the next exit. Well, all right, he’d kill two birds with one stone. He’d go back to Harvey’s all-nighter, check out the weird one’s story again, then see if he couldn’t perhaps latch on to some of the joker’s small change to cover his time. Then he’d try to pick up a map of the area before heading home. He couldn’t go wrong with a map—now could he?

  Having decided his course, and considering the winding roads and pitch darkness, George put his foot down and sped back to Harvey’s place. Parking his car, he walked in through the open door into the unhealthy atmosphere and lighting of the so-called cafeteria (where the lights were kept low, George suspected, to make the young cockroaches on the walls less conspicuous). He went straight to the service counter and carefully rested his elbows upon it, avoiding the splashes of sticky coffee and spilled grease. Of the equally greasy proprietor he casually inquired the whereabouts of Mr. Kent.

  “Eh? Kent? He’ll be in his room. I let him lodge here, y’know. He doesn’t like to be too far from this area….”

  “You let him lodge here?” George asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Well, y’know—he pays a bit.”

  George nodded, silently repeating the other’s words: Yeah, I’ll bet he pays a bit!

  “G’night there!” Harvey waved a stained dishcloth at a departing truck driver and his mate. “See y’next time.” He turned back to George with a scowl. “Anyway, what’s it to you, about Kent? After making y’self a quick quid or two?”

  “How do you mean?” George returned, assuming a hurt look. “It’s just that I think I might be able to help the poor bloke out, that’s all.”

  “Oh?” Harvey looked suspicious. “How’s that, then?”

  “Well, half an hour ago I was on the road to Middle Hamborough, and I passed a place set back off the road called High House. I just thought—”

  “‘Ere,” Harvey cut in, a surprisingly fast hand shooting out to catch George’s jacket front and pull him close so that their faces almost met across the service counter. “You tryin’ t’ be clever, chief?”

  “Well, I’ll be—” George spluttered, genuinely astonished. “What the hell do you think you’re—’

  “Cos if you are—you an’ me’ll fall out, we will!”

  George carefully disengaged himself. “Well,” he said, “I think that answers one of my questions, at least.”

  “Eh? What d’you mean?’ Harvey asked, still looking surly. George backed off a step.

  “Looks to me like you’re as mad as him, attacking me like that. I mean, I might have expected you to laugh, seeing as how I fell for your funny little joke—but I’d hardly think you’d get all physical.”

  “What the merry ’ell are you on about?” Harvey questioned, a very convincing frown creasing his forehead. “What joke?”

  “Why, about Middle Hamborough, about it not being on any map and about no roads going there and Kent looking for the place for fifteen years. I’m on about a place that’s not twenty minutes’ fast drive from here, signposted clear as the City of London!”

  Suddenly Harvey’s unwashed features paled visibly. “You mean you’ve actually seen this place?” he whispered. “And you drove past…High House?”

  “Damn right!” George answered, abruptly feeling as though things were all unreal, a very vivid but meaningless daydream.

  Harvey lifted a flap in the counter and waddled through to George’s side. He was a very big man, George suddenly noticed, and the color had come back to his face with a vengeance. There was a red, angry tinge to the man’s sallow features now; moreover, the cafeteria was quite empty of other souls, all bar the two of them.

  “Now look here—” George blurted, as Harvey began to maneuver him into a corner.

  “I shouldn’t ’av mentioned ’is money, should I?” the fat man cut him off, his piggy eyes fastening upon those of his patently intended victim, making his question more a statement than a question proper.

  “See,” he continued, “I’d ’ad a couple of pints earlier, or I wouldn’t ’ave let it drop about ’is predicament. ’E’s been right good to me, Mr. Kent ’as. ’Elped me set this place up proper, ’e did—an’ I don’t cotton to the idea of some flyboy tryin’ to—”

  Again his arm shot out and he grabbed Benson’s throat this time, trapping him in the dim corner. “So you’ve been down the road to Middle Hamborough, ’ave you?—And you’ve seen High House, eh? Well, let me tell you, I’ve been looking for that place close on six years, me an’ ol’ Kent, an’ not so much as a peep!

  “Now I knows ’e’s a bit of a nut, but I like ’im an’ we gets on fine. Stays ’ere, cheap like, ’e does, an’ we do a bit of motorin’ in ’is ol’ car—lookin’ for those places you say you’ve seen, y’know? But we never finds ’em, an’ we never will, ’cos they’re not there, see? Kent bein’ a decent gent, I ’umors ’im an’ things is OK. But I’m no crook, if you see what I mean, though I’m not so sure I can say the same for everybody!”

  He peered pointedly at George, releasing the pressure on his windpipe enough for him to croak: “I tell you I have seen High House, or at least, I saw a place of that name and answering the description I heard from Kent. And I have been on the road to—”

  “What’s that about High House?” The question was a hoarse, quavering whisper—hesitant, and yet filled with excited expectancy. Hearing that whisper, Harvey immediately released his grip on Benson’s neck and turned to move over quickly to the thin, gray-haired, middle-aged man who had appeared out of a back room behind the service counter.

  “Don’t get yourself all upset, Mr. Kent,” Harvey protested, holding up his hands solicitously. “It’s just some bloke tryin’ to pull a fast one, an’—”

  “But I heard him say—” Kent’s eyes were wide, staring past the fat proprietor straight at Benson where he stood, still shaken, in the corner.

  George found his voice again. “I said I’d seen High House, on the road to Middle Hamborough—and I did see it.” He shook himself, straightening his tie and shrugging his disarranged jacket back into position. “But I didn’t come back in here to get involved with a couple of nuts. And I don’t think much of your joke.”

  George turned away and made for the door; then, remembering his previous trouble, he turned back to face Harvey. “Do you have a map of the area by any chance? I’ve been in Germany for a long time and seem to be out of touch over here. I can’t seem to find my way about anymore.”

  For a moment Kent continued to stare very hard at the speaker; then he turned to Harvey. “He—he got lost! And he says he’s seen High House…! I’ve got to believe him. I daren’t miss the chance that—”

  Almost sure by now that he was the victim of some cockeyed leg-pull (and yet still experiencing niggling little subconscious doubts), George Benson shrugged. “OK. No map,” he grumbled. “Well, goodnight, boys. Maybe I’ll drop in again sometime—like next visiting day!”

  “No, wait!” the thin man cried. “Do you think that you can find…that you can find High House again?” His voice went back to a whisper on the last half dozen words.

  “Sure, I can find it again,” George told him, nodding his head. “But it’s well out of my way.”

  “I’ll make it worth your trouble,” Kent quickly answered, his voice rising rapidly in what sounded to George like a bad case of barely suppressed hysteria. “I’ll make it very worthwhile indeed!”

  George was not the man to pass up a good thing. “My car’s outside,” he said. “Do you want to ride with me, or will you follow in your own car?”

  “I’ll r
ide with you. My hands are shaking so badly that I—”

  “I’m coming with you,” Harvey suddenly grunted, taking off his greasy apron.

  “No, no, my friend,” Kent turned to him. “If we don’t find High House, I’ll be back. Until then, and just in case we do find it, this is for all you’ve done.” His hand was still shaking as he took out a checkbook and quickly, nervously, scribbled. He passed the check to Harvey and George managed to get a good look at it. His eyes went wide when he saw the amount it was made out for. Five hundred pounds!

  “Now look ’ere, Mr. Kent,” Harvey blustered. “I don’t like the looks of this bloke. I reckon—”

  “I understand your concern,” the older man told him, “but I’m sure Mr.—?” he turned to George.

  “Er, Smith,” George told him, unwilling to reveal his real name. This could still be some crazy joke, but if so, it would be on some bloke called “Smith,” and not on George Benson!

  “I’m sure that Mr. Smith is legitimate. And in any case I daren’t miss the chance to get…to get back home.” He was eager now to be on his way. “Are you ready, Mr. Smith?”

  “Just as soon as you say,” George told him. “The sooner the better.”

  They walked out into the night, to George’s car, leaving fat greasy Harvey worriedly squeezing his hands in the doorway to his all-nighter. Suddenly the night air seemed inordinately cold, and as George opened the passenger door to let Kent get in, he shivered. He walked round the. car, climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

  As George started up the motor, Kent spoke up from where he crouched against the opposite door, a huddled shape in the dark interior of the car. “Are you sure that—that—”

  “Look,” George answered, the utter craziness of the whole business abruptly dawning on him, souring his voice, “if this is some sort of nutty joke….” He let the threat hang, then snapped, “Of course I can find it again! High House, you’re talking about?

  “Yes, yes. High House. The home I built for the woman who lives there, waiting for me.”

  “For fifteen years?” George allowed himself to indulge in the other’s fantasy.

  “She would wait until time froze!” Kent leaned over to spit the words in George’s ear. “And in any case, I have a theory.”

  Yeah! George thought to himself. Me, too! Out loud, he said, “A theory?”

  “Yes. I think—I hope—it’s possible that time itself is frozen at the moment of the fracture. If I can get back, it may all be unchanged. I may even regain my lost years!”

  “A parallel dimension, eh?” George said, feeling strangely nervous.

  “Right,” his passenger nodded emphatically. “That’s the way I see it.”

  Humoring him, George asked, “What’s it like, this other world of yours?”

  “Why, it’s just like this world—except that there’s a village called Middle Hamborough, and a house on a hill, and a building firm called Milton, Jones & Kent. There are probably other differences, too, but I haven’t found any yet to concern me. Do you know the theory of parallel worlds?”

  “I’ve read some science fiction,” George guardedly answered. “Some of these other dimensions, or whatever they’re supposed to be, are just like this world. Maybe a few odd differences, like you say. Others are different, completely different. Horrible and alien—stuff like that.” He suddenly felt stupid. “That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Load of rubbish!”

  “Rubbish?” Kent grunted, stirring in his seat. “I wish it were. But, anyway, you’ve got the right idea. Why are you stopping?”

  “See that sign?” George said, pointing through the windscreen to where the headlights lit up a village sign-post. “Meadington, just a few miles down the road. We’re through Meadington in about five minutes. Then we turn left where it’s signposted to Middle Hamborough. Another five minutes after that and we’re at High House. You said it would be worth my while?”

  Now comes the crunch, George told himself. This is where the idiot bursts out laughing—and that’s when I brain him.

  But Kent didn’t laugh. Instead he got out his checkbook, and George switched on the interior light to watch him write a note for….

  George’s eyes bulged as he saw the numbers go down on the crisp paper. First a one, followed by three zeros! One thousand pounds! “This won’t bounce?” he asked suspiciously, his hand trembling as he reached for the check.

  “It won’t bounce,” said Kent, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “Fortunately, my money was good for this world, too. You get it when we get to High House.”

  “You have a deal,” George told him, putting the car in gear. They drove through slumbering Meadington, its roofs and hedges silvered in a moonlight that shone through the promise of a mist. Leaving the village behind; the car sped along the country road, but after a few minutes George pulled into the curb and stopped. His passenger had slumped down in his seat. “Are you OK?” George asked.

  “There’s no turnoff,” Kent sobbed. “We should have passed it before now. I’ve driven down this road a thousand, five thousand times in the last fifteen years, and tonight it’s just the same as always. There’s no turnoff, no signpost to Middle Hamborough!”

  “Yeah.” George chewed his lip, unwilling to accept defeat so easily. “We must have missed it. It wasn’t this far out of Meadington last time.” He turned the big car about, driving on to the grass verge to do so, then headed back towards Meadington.

  George was angry now and more than a little puzzled. He’d been watching for that signpost as keenly as his passenger. How the hell could they have missed it? No matter, this time he’d drive dead slow. He knew the road was there, for he’d been down it and back once already tonight.

  Sure enough, with the first of Meadington’s roofs glimmering silver in the near distance, a dilapidated signpost suddenly showed up in the beam of the car’s lights. It pointed across the tarmac to where the surface of a second road ribboned away into the milky moonlight; a sign whose legend, though grimy, was nevertheless amply legible: middle hamborough.

  And quite as suddenly George Benson’s passenger was sitting bolt upright in his seat, his whole body visibly trembling while his eyes stood out like organ stops, staring madly at the signpost. “Middle Hamborough!” he cried, his voice pitched so high it almost broke. And again: “Middle Hamborough, Middle Hamborough!”

  “Sure,” said George, an unnatural chill racing up his spine. “I told you I could find it!” And to himself he added, But I’m damned if I know how we missed it the first time!

  He turned on to the new road, noticing the second signpost at his right as he did so. That was the one they’d missed. Perhaps it had been in the shadows; but in any case, what odds? They were on the right road now.

  Kent’s trembling had stopped, and his voice was quite steady when he said, “You really don’t know how much I owe you, Mr. Smith. You shall have your check, of course, but if it were for a million pounds it wouldn’t really be enough.” His face was dark in the car’s interior, and his silhouette looked different somehow.

  George said, “You realize that fat Harvey’s been having you on all this time, don’t you?” His voice became quite gentle as he added: “You know, you really ought to see someone about it—about all…this, I mean. People can take advantage of you. Harvey could have brought you here any time he wanted.”

  Suddenly Kent laughed, a young laugh that had more than a trace of weary hysteria in it. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, do you, Mr. Smith? Can’t you get it through your head that I’m not mad and no one is trying to make a fool of you? This is all real. My story is the truth. I was lost in an alien dimension, in your world, but now I’m finally back in my own. You may believe me, Mr. Smith, that you have earned your thousand pounds!”

  George was almost convinced. Certainly Kent seemed sincere enough. “Well, OK—whatever you say. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Kent. If that check of yours bounces when I try to cas
h it tomorrow, I’ll be back, and you better believe I’ll find High House again!”

  The silhouette turned in its seat in an attitude of concern. “Do me a favor, will you, Mr. Smith? If—just if, you understand—if you can’t find the road back to Meadington, don’t hesitate to—”

  George cut him off with a short bark of a laugh. “You must be joking! I’ll find it, all right.” His voice went hard again. “And I’ll find you, too, if—”

  But he paused as, at the top of the next low hill, the headlights illuminated a house standing above the road at the end of a winding drive. George’s passenger grabbed his elbow in terrific excitement. “High House!” Kent cried, his voice wild and exultant. “High House! You’ve done it!”

  George grunted in answer, revving the car down into the valley and up the hill to pull in to a halt outside the wrought-iron gates. He reached across to catch hold of his passenger’s coat as Kent tried to scramble from the car. “Kent!”

  “Oh, yes, your check,” answered the young man, turning to smile excitedly at George in the yellow light from the little lamp on the gate….

  George’s jaw dropped. Oh, this was Kent, all right. Little doubt about that. Same features, same suit, same trembling hand that reached into a pocket to bring out the folded check and place it in George’s suddenly clammy hand. But it was a hand that trembled now in excitement and not frustrated but undying hope—and it was a Kent fifteen years younger!

  One thousand pounds, and at last George knew that he had indeed earned it!

  Kent turned and threw open the gates, racing up the drive like a wild man. In the house, lights were starting to go on. George fingered his check unbelievingly and ran his tongue over dry lips. His mind seemed to have frozen over, so that only one phrase kept repeating in his brain. It was something Kent had said: “If you can’t find the road back to—”

  He gunned the motor, spinning the car wildly round in a spray of gravel chips. Up on the hill at the top of the drive, Kent was vaulting the fence, and a figure in white was waiting in the garden for him, open arms held wide. George tore his eyes away from them and roared down the hill. For the second time that night he headed for the Meadington road.