by Неизвестный
A supercharged particle in Peyne’s reality found itself occupying the same point in space and time as an identical particle in Evelyn’s reality. This created a paradox which was resolved by a sudden and violent release of energy. Evelyn did not have time to register the event. She was killed instantly, as was Juliette, and every other person within the complex, as the Collider, the Control Room, the entire Institute and approximately one cubic mile of solid granite rock was vaporised in a cataclysmic explosion, the shockwaves of which were felt on the other side of the planet.
A side-effect of the paradox was the creation of a tiny bubble in space and time, which in the space of one billionth of a second expanded, inflating, and like a bud sprouting from a tree, a new universe exploded into life, separating off from the universe of Evelyn and Peyne, with all the infinite realities it contained, to create a new universe with its own set of infinite outcomes and its own place within the eternal multi-verse.
***
Peyne looked at the figures on his console. There had been a miniscule reduction in the energy readings. “Those are slightly lower than I would have predicted,” he told a technician as he tapped at the figures on the screen. “Might be worth following up tomorrow.”
The end of the first day. He considered the day’s work and he was pleased. “Well done today,” he told the technician as he left the room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
***
Peyne stared at his reflection in the mirror of the lift as it took him back to the surface of the complex. He did not know it, but he was staring into the face of God.
The Whistler
by Claire Slomski
So there I was, sitting on Platform One, Bolton Train Station.
My heart was racing at the thought of the night ahead. I always looked forward to my nights with Charlie like a fifteen year old on her first official date. It had taken me many long and torturous hours to decide how to dress, and already the first threads of doubt were beginning to sow their way into my judgement.
Despite the fact that the platform was full, I could feel several sets of eyes checking out my attire. I had felt totally dressed for the occasion when I left home. I had known I was going to end up in a Rock Club – somewhere completely different to my normal main stream scene – but I didn’t want to let Charlie down. I knew he would feel uncomfortable if I stood out like a sore thumb just because I had chosen the wrong outfit. On the other hand, I wouldn’t allow myself to blend in with the crowd completely. More than anything, I needed Charlie to look at me with the longing that kept me warm on the nights we weren’t able to be together. Yet here I was, regretting my choice, as unwanted attention ate away at my self confidence.
I could see the very edge of a bench towards the middle of the platform, and felt a different kind of torture, as I tried to decide which was worse – standing alone, feeling alone and glared at – or facing two very short minutes of actually being watched as I made my way to a haven without eyes. The decision was very short made, and I practically ran to the empty seat to avoid the eyes of those around me.
It worked, too. Once seated, I was out of sight of ninety percent of the travellers sharing Platform One. The only person who paid me any attention was the middle aged guy I sat next to. He smiled at me as I sat down, but said nothing.
As I smiled back – thankful for a friendly face – he pursed his lips and whistled a tune I knew as familiar. His eyes did not hold mine, and he glanced further down the platform, continuing to whistle his melodic tune.
It took me less than a moment to place it, as it as one of my favourites. Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello.” I scrolled the words in my head as he whistled his tune... “Hello. Is it me you’re looking for...?” But just as quickly as the stranger had started his tune, the tannoy on Platform One disturbed him.
“Information for passengers on platform number one,” I managed to ascertain through the crackling. “The 19:07 train to Manchester Victoria has been delayed by approximately twenty-five minutes.”
It was as if the platform itself groaned at the news just broadcast. Fifty percent of the waiting passengers must have sighed out loud, and within seconds, they started to leave Platform One to make their disappointed way to Platform Four – the route to the opposite side of Manchester, Oxford Road.
I stayed put. Charlie was meeting me at Victoria, and there was no way I would be able to find my way to the other side of Manchester alone. I’d been in Bolton for almost two years, but my trips to Manchester solely revolved around Charlie’s availability. Instead of moving with the crowd, I reached for my mobile, and began to dial Charlie’s number.
Before his phone began to ring, a second tune started playing through my mind, “Hanging on the Telephone” by Blondie. It took me a couple of confused seconds before I realised that the tune was not just in my imagination, but was being whistled by my seated companion!
I glanced in his direction, but again, he was looking further down the platform, watching the migration from Platform One to Platform Four, so all I could see was his now familiar profile.
***
Smiling to myself at the irony of feeling alone next to such an aware stranger, I myself turned my head while I waited for Charlie to answer his phone. “Hi sweet,” I heard his warm voice say. “You on your way to me yet?”
I started to explain the situation, but ended my conversation abruptly when I realised a few of the remaining passengers on Platform One looking my way. I knew by instinct that they recognised my accent. The Newcastle dialect was normally greeted with friendly but inquisitive questions. However, this particular Saturday, my team of birth had beaten my home of choice by two goals to nil.
Charlie knew instinctively that I was feeling uncomfortable, and realised the need to end the conversation quickly. “Stay safe, Sweet,” he said. “Stay close to someone responsible.” I glanced once again to my left, to the Whistler, and immediately felt at ease as he smiled understandingly.
I tried to smile back at him, but my attention was drawn by a broad male Boltonian accent. “’Scuse me, love,” he said, “You goin’ to Victoria?” I knew he had been listening to me on the phone to Charlie, and recognised him immediately as he was the only person on the platform on a bicycle. I fought for the right words to answer politely, when every bone in my body screamed at me to simply say “no,” but before I had a chance to form a full but firm sentence, the Whistler again piped out a tune.
“Silence is Golden,” I said, naming the Whistler’s tune, and the Boltonian biker grimaced a half smile in the direction of my new best friend, and pedalled away to the monitors at the end of Platform One.
The tannoy again crackled into life. “The next train to arrive at Platform Number One is the 19:25 to Stockport, calling at Th.....” I blanked out the remainder of the message, knowing it didn’t apply to me, and noting with exultation that a full thirteen minutes had already passed. My delayed train to Victoria would be with me in approximately seven minutes.
As the Stockport train pulled out of Platform One, it left only a handful of passengers. Apart from myself, there was only the Whistler and a group of five skateboarders – four boys, one girl. No sign of the Boltonian Biker or the initial Wanna-Be-Rock-Chick Watchers. I looked again at the Skateboarding Crew, and estimated them to be around sixteen years of age. Automatically, my mind slipped back to my mid-teens. I remembered with reverence the way of my world in my youth, and with indignity at how little I actually knew about life back then. I couldn’t help but grin widely as I watched the Skater-Girl separate from the remaining Skater-Boys, stating “Stay individual maan” as she raised a peace sign in their direction. As if their era had created a whole new existence of creative thought and being!
As I again toyed with my own thoughts, the Whistler started a different tune. The Bluebell’s “Young at Heart.” I gaped at him in disbelief. Could it just be coincidence, or was he actually reading my mind? His eyes smiled at me as he continued to tunefully whistle m
y every waking thought. The lights from the town stores outside the station highlighted the mismatch of colour under his heavy lids – ash greys, khaki green and a fleck of emerald – almost identical to my own.
Changing his tune abruptly, he began to whistle an old Harold Melvin track, “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” I arose with a start, scared now by how quickly this stranger could ascertain my thoughts. Not knowing where I was headed, just wanting to be out of ear-shot of the Whistler and his telepathy, I made my way to the TV monitors at the end of the platform. It was now 19:40. A loud buzzing noise dragged me out of my own self pity, as the tannoy announced, “The 19:07 train to Manchester Victoria has been delayed by approximately one hour....”
My heart sank at the thought of Charlie waiting at the other end for me. All I wanted was to be near him. The night had taken on a spooky theme that did not bode well with me. But as I reached for my mobile again, with a plan to letting Charlie’s voice sooth me, a heard a frantic pedalling noise behind me. As I turned to see the Boltonian Biker from earlier hurtling towards me, the tannoy system kicked in with a whistled version of the Supremes classic “Stop In The Name Of Love.” I instinctively guarded my bag, seeing the look on intent on the Biker’s face, but as if the tune was guiding him, he slowly drew to a stop just less than a meter away from me. “Whazzit say, luv?” he asked with a glazed look in his eyes.
“Twenty-oh-seven,” I said, and watched him turn away with a look that was more confused than I felt.
I quickly made my way back to the safety of my bench and the spookily telepathic Whistler. He smiled again as I took my seat, and started a tune I did not immediately recognise. I had just enough time to understand the relief in his eyes before my phone began to ring.
“Charlie!” I spoke gratefully, “Thank you for calling!”
“I had to!” he said, “Listen to the track they’re playing over the tannoy system!” And as he held his phone out, the melody blended in with that of the Whistler. The tune was by The Beatles: “She Loves You.”
With tears in my eyes, I looked directly at the Whistler and simply said, “How did you know?” Our attentions were both distracted when the lights in the store behind the station went out, as they finally gave up any trading for the day. Without the glare of their fluorescents, I could clearly make out a full, bright blue moon over the roof of the building, and knew automatically that the Whistler would begin his own rendition of the Marcel’s “Blue Moon.”
Three bars in, the screeching sound of a train approached. “It’s here!” I cried to Charlie. “My train! I’ll see you in twenty minutes!” I hung up and walked to the edge of the platform, heart pounding at the thought of being close to him again.
I found a seat next to the window, and trembled gently as the warmth and safety of the train started to eradicate the unusual events on the platform. The twenty minutes seemed to streak by, and as the train approached Victoria station, I couldn’t help but wonder about the weird and wonderful people with whom I’d shared Platform One that evening: the Boltonian Biker whose intention seemed to be unplugged by a simple tune; the Skater-Girl and -Boys who thought they had invented something unique; and of course, the Whistler.
“Tickets, please!” a voice called, just as I was getting out of my seat to depart. I rummaged in my bag and found the ticket, though my thoughts were concentrated on seeing Charlie – feeling his arms around me; breathing in his scent and basking in his company. I thrust my ticket at an anonymous hand as I made my way to the doors. But as I left the train, I heard the haunting sound of a whistled tune. This time, a particular lyric from a Police song... “I’ll Be Watching You.”
I turned just as the train was pulling out of Victoria Station, and could have sworn I saw the Whistler from Platform One dressed in a Train Inspector’s uniform, watching me from the doors.
I discounted the thought, and hurried along to meet Charlie at the entrance. I was almost running as I saw him, but the look on his face made me falter for a moment. He looked sad. Morose even. And just for a second I thought he was upset because I was late. But as I got closer, I knew it was more.
He threw his arms around me and spoke my name with a pity I’d never heard from him before.
“Gina” he said. “I’ve just heard the news. How are you?”
I looked up at him with an obvious confusion.
“You haven’t heard, Sweet, have you?”
I shook my head slowly as the realisation that something major had happened struck me.
“Your granddad,” he said. “He died at 19:07 tonight.”
And as I sank into Charlie’s arms and into my own tears, I heard him say, “His last words were to you, my Sweet. He wanted to tell you, ‘Thank you for the music.’”
When the Dead Call
by Gerald J. Tate
“What’s wrong with Travis? He’s crying again,” Beverly announced.
“He’s always freekin’ crying,” Ralph replied, as he rolled up a piece of torn paper and threw it at the sobbing boy who sat at the back of the class, in the corner, alone.
Mr Sullivan had witnessed this behaviour from Travis before. He had spoken to his ailing father about it on more than one occasion. But no one had an answer. Even Travis refused to speak about it.
Now though, Mr Sullivan would have no choice but to act.
Tom Sullivan had always liked Travis. A very polite boy, he thought, who normally studied hard, and a boy who was always helpful to everyone around him.
But this behaviour was distracting to the other pupils, and this could simply not be tolerated. He would have to speak to the head about the worrying situation.
As the pupils filed from the class, Mr Sullivan asked Travis to stay behind. He would give it one last chance to see if he could persuade him to talk about this problem he was hiding. Perhaps someone is bullying the boy, he thought. And so badly that he is afraid to tell.
“Travis, can we talk for a moment?”
Travis, head bowed, turned to face the teacher, but made no eye contact.
“Listen to me, Travis; if you don’t tell me what’s going on with you, then you will leave me with no alternative but to have you removed from the school. Not only are you upsetting the others, but your own class work is suffering very badly.”
This was the same silent reaction he had witnessed before from Travis, only this time he believed he saw him visibly shake when he mentioned removing him from the school.
Travis raised his head slowly and looked at the teacher through bloodshot eyes, his lips quivering.
“Has someone been bullying you?” Tom asked.
“No!”
“What troubles you then?”
“You won’t believe me, Mr Sullivan, no one would.”
“Well, try me.”
“I um, I don’t think you’d understand. It would be hard for anyone to understa....”
“Try me!”
“Ok,” Travis whispered, as he stared hard at the floor.
“It’s my sister; she tells me things.”
“Your sister tells you things, what sort of things?”
“Bad things!”
“Well can’t anyone talk to her about it? I mea....”
“No,” Travis broke in. “No one can talk to her.”
“Well why not?”
“Because my sister has been fucking dead for the last eight years.”
Tom didn’t like the tone or the language this fifteen year old boy was using, but he decided to ignore it.
“You’re saying your dead sister comes to you? Talks to you?” Tom asked, now more concerned and puzzled than ever.
Travis looked to the floor, unmoving, while Tom stared at the blackboard, and eyed the large chalked figures in the corner.
E=mc2, zoomed out across at him. Einstein’s theory of relativity, and he wondered how the great man would have viewed this situation.
Tom had been a science teacher for thirty years, and like Einstein, he believed there was alway
s a scientific answer for everything, and as far as he was concerned, this haunting stuff was all just a crock of bullshit.
“Well, would you be willing to tell me about these things she says to you?”
“I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Travis croaked, through tears.
“Why would I disbelieve you?”
“Because you are a man of science, that’s why.”
Travis was right. He wouldn’t believe him. But maybe if he got him to unburden himself about it, then he could perhaps find the cause of the underlying problem. Although by now it was already clear to Tom that the boy needed some serious psychiatric help.
“Well Travis, you need to talk about this problem, because what you are saying really doesn’t make much sense to me. I mean I’ve never heard anything like this before.”
“Who cares what you believe, Mr Sullivan? It’s the truth.”
Tom thought hard for a moment before speaking again.
“Are these voices inside your head, or when you are dreaming? Wher..?”
“No, they’re not inside my head,” Travis rather loudly interrupted.
“She comes to me at night, almost every night. And she’s real. She’s as real as the nose on your face. She says things like, ‘You must kill him,’ and other stuff, over and over again.”
“Kill who?”
“I don’t know who.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Um, she just says things like, ‘We will have our revenge on him,’ and stuff like that.”
Tom knew this was more serious than he had at first thought. Now there was a chance that someone’s life may be in danger. Expelling Travis from school at this time may do him more harm than good, he thought.
Tom excused Travis with the promise he would not speak of this to the headmaster. Not yet, anyway. There was something he had to do first.
***
It was two days later when he had the full picture of how Carla, Travis’s sister, had died. She had overdosed on a bad dose of crack cocaine during her sixteenth birthday party, when Travis was only seven years old. But it was also reported that a very frightening thing occurred at her funeral. Just as they were lowering the coffin into the ground, the mourners heard a frantic scraping sound coming from inside the casket.
