Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1)

by Sanders, Stewart

  ‘Breach, breach. Afghanistan airspace has been breached, all units to proceed to Anastasia location, for intercept.’ The two shadows of the spheres shrank and disappeared. Perhaps I would be forgotten.

  ‘Reset!’ And then the feeling that I was being tranquilised as something else took control and I felt the start of motion.

  There was something else inside this sphere with me.

  FOUR DAYS

  LATER:

  The Librarian, 1996

  I was leaning against Edna 1886-1914—Returned to the Lord in the prime of her life. Each of us was leaning against someone and we had been here sometime.

  Against my usual stance of keeping myself to myself, I’d been persuaded to join my roommates in the school graveyard. It was late and we’d had time enough to nearly finish the bottle of vodka some of the older girls had been paid to buy for us. They were in the woods somewhere, kissing boys and acting like prats, no doubt. We were content to sit in the graveyard and freak each other out. We had stuffed pillows under our duvets, just in case the housemistress did her rounds. I’d been woken a few times previously, by the rattle of a key in the cubicle door. The housemistress would peer in, checking we were in our beds. If she did that tonight she would think us all sound asleep.

  So far tonight I’d listened to a few very unimaginative tales and now it was my turn.

  ‘I don’t know any ghost stories, but something happened to me today that was well spooky,’ I began. ‘The librarian came and sat right opposite me. Too close. At first I thought it might be about my mobile phone, as I had left it on the table. But she ignored that and simply said, “We need to talk. Follow me!”

  ‘I heaved my books into my satchel before I was marched out. We climbed up the hill. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like it would soon and there was quite a wind, bracing all around us. It was break time, and just about everyone was inside.’

  ‘Suddenly she stopped and whirled round to face me. “You broke into my library!” I hesitated. “You broke in and checked out books on a date before they had been delivered. That is as impressive and almost as stupid as booking them out to yourself!”

  ‘I wanted to remind her that the library wasn’t in fact hers, it was the state’s and that it was better than stealing them, but although she’s short and looks cuddly enough, I figured she’s pretty precious about that library and didn’t want to antagonise her. So I just apologised. But then the strangest thing: she said that she had never known the library be broken into for anything more than a prank. I explained that I just enjoyed history. And then she said that it was hard to know what in history was true these days, with so many restrictions in place due to the war in Afghanistan going so badly, so to always be cautious. Only Communist Party members and those whose books were vetted and approved, ever got access to the National Library, which contains most of the primary history sources.’

  ‘Well, what’s so strange about that? It makes sense you can’t just have anybody reading the truth, can you?’ said Lucy. Her father, I knew to be the editor of The Daily Herald.

  ‘That wasn’t what was strange, what was strange was that she said that everyone used to have access. People could literally walk in off the street and access what they wanted. I said, “This sounds concerning.” And she said, “Well, yes, the state was so concerned that there are thousands of books, written before the revolution, that are illegal, but it keeps a copy of each, so that some people can access these, if need be.” Privately I was reminded of what my father had said about smallpox. ‘The state seems to like to keep things hidden and for themselves.’

  ‘Sounds like one of those conspiracy theories to me. You’ll be saying you’ve seen one of those flying saucers next,’ laughed one of the girls. Others joined in.

  Spheres, not saucers, I thought.

  ‘Who invited Vicky anyway?’ someone bitched, looking at the others as if I wasn’t even present.

  ‘Well, I find it all scary, and I thought we were meant to be telling scary stories!’

  ‘Yeah. If they think there’s stuff we shouldn’t know in those books, they should just burn them,’ chipped in one of the fourth years.

  ‘It’s a no-brainer. But that’s not really horrific, not like mine.’ Lucy paused for effect, her eyes wide in the gloom. ‘Like Vicky’s, it’s a true story, but this one could actually affect any one of us. Any one of us who’s caught out of bed by Miss Harper. We all know she is super strict and a bit of a psycho.’

  ‘And a lesbo,’ added the fourth year.

  We all laughed.

  ‘Well, I promise you that you’ll all keep your distance after I tell you this story.’ Lucy commanded centre stage. ‘It was seventeen years ago tonight that poor Miss Brown was caught creeping back after a long night in the woods with her handsome lover. They’d fucked, drank and smoked under the stars all through the night.’

  This story was sounding more contrived than any book I’d read. One girl snickered and muttered something about getting her stockings filled, and I considered leaving. It had been a mistake coming here. Oh, I’d enjoyed the vodka. More potent than any mead or wine I’d drunk in my Richard life, or any ale I’d imbibed as Charlie. But these girls were blinkered from what was really going on in their world and didn’t seem to care. What was really scary was that on the outside at least, I was like them, living in a big house and being driven here in that Bentley. A stately home on wheels. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair, but then my other lives were not so dissimilar. The Marxism they taught us in class sounded better than being ruled by the warring kings and queens I was used to as Richard, or the dusty old men who only represented the wealthy in Charlie’s time. But the more I thought about my lives and what was different about them, the more I could see that these differences were superficial. My head was hurting and I decided to delay any further political awakenings, until I was sober.

  ‘Miss Brown should have been dancing and singing, but she arrived back in tears,’ Lucy continued. ‘As soon as he’d had his wicked way with her, Prince Charming dumped her and turned into the toad he really was.’

  I couldn’t help but imagine Lucy’s father, a senior wordsmith, reading his daughter bedtime fairy tales. The untold damage it was doing to her storytelling was infuriating! For a brief moment I remembered my own father, reading stories to me. His voice soothing me to sleep.

  ‘So Miss Harper awoke to the sound of the tears and pretended to be concerned, letting Miss Brown come into her room and tell her all about it, only once she had, the old bat span into a rage and dragged the poor girl into the linen cupboard. There she was, locked in, burning up in the overly warm room. No windows, the light-switch on the outside of a locked door, and with little air. In despair, Miss Brown cut open her wrists. The following morning she was found shrivelled up and dead. Her body empty of blood, with only a small pool of blood beneath her, but surrounded by walls of red sheets. They had soaked up all her blood.’

  ‘Really, is that true?’

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ I piped up. ‘I’ve never heard such tripe.’

  ‘Her ghost haunts that cupboard to this day and we all sleep on those same sheets every night, I tell you!’

  That was a step too far for me. ‘Wow, at least your dad gets paid for his lies—what’s your excuse?’

  ‘If you’re so sure, why don’t you go and spend a night in there then?’ slurred the fourth year.

  Hell, why not.

  ‘They say it got so hot her blood actually boiled and her blood steamed, soaking even the roof,’ said Lucy.

  ‘You’re only intriguing me more.’ I stood up, slightly unsteadily. ‘If I’m dead in the morning, you can all have a nice laugh about it.’

  I flounced off, steadily but not too fast. Within a few paces, I realised that no one was going to stop me, so I kept on going, out of the woods, down the slope and towards the teacher’s apartments. By the time I arrived at Miss Harper’s glass fronted door I had severe hiccups. I held my breath
a few times and swallowed, trying to get rid of them and had resolved to walk away and head back to my cubicle, only I started to puke. The door flew open.

  ‘My goodness, girl, what are you doing out there?’

  I wiped my chin and burped.

  ‘You are drunk!’ Miss Harper accused me, as if I should be shocked too. ‘Come in, let’s take a look at you.’

  I stumbled in, reminding myself that arriving at the door of the school’s most notorious lesbian, blind drunk in the early hours was not that well considered. Although I had kissed girls as Richard and Charlie, so in many ways it would feel more natural being with a woman, even in this life. The only problem was that Miss Harper looked and acted so masculine. She sat me down and made me a cup of tea. Taking a seat opposite me, she lit a cigarette as she waited for me to take a few sips, before the inevitable interrogation. I imagined making a break for the door and her running after and tackling me. I was pretty sure that she could not be as evil as everyone said she was, but I figured that I really must learn self-defence in one life or another. Just in case.

  ‘So, Vicky, tell me what you’ve been doing and how you ended up vomiting on my porch?’

  It was surprising that she knew my name and I could not help but wonder if she had looked me up in a registry book while she made my tea.

  ‘Well...um...’

  After two false starts, Miss Harper reminded me sharply that I really should tell the truth. Eventually I finished my tea and she reached over, snatching the empty cup.

  ‘If you don’t tell me the truth, Vicky, I am going to report this incident and your family will be called in. You will likely be put on report, with Sunday detentions for the month. But what I think will upset you more, is that as this would be official, we will have to take steps to ensure that no other students are able to leave their dormitory at night.’

  It was doubtful that my father would come in, but he would be livid with me just for receiving the phone call. Detentions were bearable and I’d had enough of those before. But this Miss Harper was pretty damn clever for a games mistress—the dorm threat was my biggest concern. Yes, the other girls would make my life hell, but I’d always felt lonely in this awful place. It was hardly a change. Even the way the other girls acted tonight proved there was little love for me here. It had always been mutual. Despite this, I had no intention of being the girl who put a stop to midnight feasts, secret smoking, drinking, kissing, and more. It wasn’t a matter of loyalty—I owed them fuck all—but it was a matter of freedom.

  ‘And if I tell you how I got drunk and why I’m here?’

  ‘Then I will punish only you.’

  ‘OK, I got drunk with some other girls and we were swapping ghost stories—’

  ‘Who? I want their names.’

  ‘I don’t know most of their names. Come on, Miss, you know that I can’t tell you that,’ I said, hoping to appeal to some trace of humanity. Surely, she couldn’t be all evil? I thought of the incident in the church, in my Charlie life, when I’d wanted to confess about Swanshurst Farm to the policeman. I yearned to be honest. It seemed simpler and I was willing to do that, but giving out names was simply, well, nasty!

  ‘One. One name, but I will be true to my word. Even though you will share her name, only you will be punished.’

  I was being set up. Miss Harper hadn’t said what the punishment would be, and I imagined anything from having to go on cross-country runs every day (she was the games mistress), to perverse sex games (she was the games mistress...).

  ‘Lucy,’ I blurted. ‘Lucy Thwaite,’

  ‘That wasn’t so hard. Good. Now get on with it, girl.’

  My hiccups had gone and my head was starting to throb. I wanted Andreas to arrive in his over-sized helicopter and blow Miss Harper’s doors down. Oh dear, that sounds like innuendo, but the fantasy wasn’t about sex—it was about violence. She had trapped me, but I had chosen this new route. This experiment with truth. Now the gates were open, I was curious where telling the truth would take me.

  ‘She told us some dumb story about a girl killing herself in the linen cupboard.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘You’ve heard it before?’

  ‘Oh yes, unfortunately it’s not just a story. Come, I’ll show you.’

  I followed her, stepping carefully over my vodka vomit and across the paved courtyard and into the dormitory block. The linen cupboard was below our dorms, and she unlocked it and showed me the brightly lit room. I was surprised by how tall the ceiling was, with a large boiler attached to one wall, extending all the way up. It was all very white. Shelves either side, stacked taller than me with neatly folded linen, perfectly starched and pristine clean. As I looked around me, Miss Harper rested her hand on my shoulder. She probably felt me shudder.

  ‘You see there,’ she said, pointing down, ‘that brown spot? That is where Miss Brown died. Hardly a whole cupboard soaked in blood, as I’ve heard the story told, but apparently it simply won’t wash out. I guess everyone leaves a mark on the world and that is poor Miss Brown’s. The silly slut!’

  I was momentarily relieved that the pressure of her hand on my shoulder eased, but then realised she must have darted for the door.

  ‘Enjoy the night, sweet dreams.’

  The door closed and a second later the brilliant, bright white linen cupboard turned to utter blackness. This was my punishment. I hoped.

  I didn’t scream, nor did I cry. It was surprising to me that the story was true, but that didn’t matter as I don’t believe in ghosts. I had wanted to be here and in the process of opening myself up to Miss Harper, I had experimented with being truthful and found it wanting. She was all evil though, that much was true. I felt around the shelves and took the softest sheets and towels to make my bed in the centre of the room. I took a few others and put them in a corner. They would be to pee on.

  A sudden slithering sound made me jump. I felt my way to the door and sure enough, after a little groping I discovered a book had been put under the door. Much good a book would do me here. I felt the pages. There was something inside, a small square acting as a bookmark. As I felt around it, carefully sensing what it was, I also got a whiff of its sulphur. A book of matches.

  Lighting one, I could see that the book was The Castle by Franz Kafka and the book of matches had something scribbled on the back.

  Candles behind boiler.

  Well, what else could that mean?

  I spent most of the night reading The Castle by candlelight, before eventually falling asleep. Curiously it was, again, written in Spanish—what’s all that about? I wasn’t disturbed by any steaming blood, or slutty ghosts. The only frightening thing here was the story about a village that shrouded its people in ignorance, locking all their secrets in the castle. I suspected this was just one of the thousands of banned books.

  The Stranger, 1911

  I had been off work for two days following my injury, but had been in the last two days, organising filing. My father had given me two days’ wages and then moaned when I said on Friday night that I was off down to the pub. Ma was still defending me as I slipped out through the back door. So I sat in the corner with my mates, positioned so I could watch the door. If their row got really bad, my father would be coming in to have a few ales himself and might want to try and give me a hiding. Pa was harsh, but not violent. If the hiding came, it would be verbal, not physical. Still, I’d rather see it coming.

  I was rubbing my back carefully so as not to mess up the bandages, when Walter came back from the bar with his round.

  ‘I know you wouldn’t tell the old doc, but how did you actually do that, Charlie? Did something happen at the...you know?’ He couldn’t dare say the farm. None of us could. Bobbies and Tommies had invaded King’s Heath, and there were even a few in the pub this evening.

  ‘If I did, I don’t remember it.’ I gulped down some ale.

  ‘Where’s George tonight?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘And Evan, I thought you wo
uld invite him?’ I asked, knowing that Arthur wouldn’t.

  ‘Not seen him for days. Think he’s scared,’ said Mac.

  ‘Yeah, sounds like Evan.’

  ‘Last time I saw George, he was talking to that copper in the church.’

  Walter and Arthur frowned. ‘You think they found his knife, was he asking about that?’ asked Walter.

  ‘No, he was likely asking why Arthur had just punched me. In a church too!’

  There was an uncomfortable silence—I already knew that Arthur had told Walter I was out of line and was going to snitch to the policeman, but it was more complicated than that. What happened at the farm was so confusing and so terrible, that I firstly wanted to understand what had happened and why. And secondly, I think I sought to confess. To confess would be to unburden myself of the guilt of what we did.

  ‘Not everything we do is about you, Charlie,’ challenged Arthur.

  Walter was soon patting him on the back, calming him down as Mac went and bought another round. We had been in there long enough to be quite drunk, certainly long enough for me to have bought two more rounds. My inebriated antics had got me in trouble in my Vicky life. So much so, that there I was currently sleeping in a linen cupboard. I’d resolved to leave after I’d finished my pint, but then Evan and the stranger we met at the farm arrived. They’d been down the road at The Duke and acted like they’d had a few bevvies themselves. Well, it was Friday night. Mac insisted that they join us, and we all squashed up round the tiny table, as if we were all some cosy family.

  ‘This is Frederick,’ Evan introduced him, ‘and you’ll all be glad to know that he has a proper home again.’

  Mac laughed. ‘Ha—shall we all pop round later and set your new place alight?’

  So this was Frederick. He looked a few years older than us, fair haired and tall. I could see why Catherine might find him attractive, but I was shocked to find out that this stranger who we had found sleeping rough at the farm, could be the same suitor that the doctor was telling me about on the night he died. Or maybe he wasn’t. There must be plenty of Fredericks around.