by Michael Bray
“How do you know?”
“Well, we’re standing right in the spot where the broadcast is coming from; I would think they might have noticed.”
Doyle pulled his arm back out of the cold space, and glanced towards the dark shape of the car up by the road.
“What now?” He asked.
“Now, we need to do some research. And think about what happens next. This could be big Doyle, really, really big.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it answers questions. Which questions are to be determined, but my best educated guess is that it will either prove the existence of alternate dimensions running parallel to our own, or that after death, life goes on. Either way, it’s pretty heavy.”
“No shit.” Doyle said quietly, staring into the blank space that was both everything and nothing at the same time.
“I think we have seen all we can here, let’s get out of here, and talk about what to do.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, this place gives me the creeps.”
“Relax.” Terry said as the pair walked back to the car. “There is nothing here to be scared of, it’s just science. There is no such thing as ghosts; the living are the ones you should be worried about.”
“Aren’t you full of joy tonight?” Doyle said as they clambered back up the embankment.
They climbed back in the car, and for all of Doyle’s fears, it already seemed unreal. They sat and listened to the broadcast. They were playing some more Big T, although the one in the world that Terry and Doyle inhabited was still very much alive and kicking. How long he stayed that way, remained to be seen. Doyle was about to gun the engine when the song faded and the smooth voice of the DJ filled the car.
Some more Big T for you there with his chart topping classic, ‘everythin’ ain’t what it seems.’ Before we go on, a couple of shout outs, to you, our listeners. First up, to Kelly and Alice tuning in during the nightshift at Penny’s. Keep it up girls, and keep listening to DJ D. also, shout outs to Ken, Andrew, Simon and Dexter who are out to celebrate Ken’s birthday. Enjoy it boys, and don’t do anything that DJ D wouldn’t do, which leaves pretty much everything on the table. And lastly, a personal shout out from me, to Doyle and Terry, who I know are listening tonight. All I can say boys, is don’t underestimate the things you don’t understand. Coming up, the debut solo single by former Sex pistols bassist Sid Vicious. First I—
Doyle turned off the radio, and turned towards Terry. He was no longer smiling.
Big T – the one that inhabited Terry and Doyle’s world was killed early the following morning. The world’s press went into overdrive, to Terry and Doyle, it was already old news.
“Thirteen hours, give or take.” Terry said as he sipped his umpteenth cup of coffee.
“What is?” Doyle asked, rubbing his stubble fluffed cheeks.
“The time. Between it happening in their world and ours.”
Doyle nodded, and they sat in silence, watching the news of the Rapper’s death. Neither had slept, and although they had sat up all night discussing options, the reality was, that they were no further along than the night before. They had almost come to blows about how to proceed, the combination of stress, the unreality of the situation and their differing opinions making a potent fuel for their aggression. Doyle had wanted to ignore it, take their veiled warning for what it was and forget all about it, but Terry had wanted to explore further, and continue in his quest for answers. There was now a tense, if not awkward peace between them. Terry stood and stretched.
“I’m going to go home, grab a few hours’ sleep.”
“Good idea, I might do the same.”
Terry nodded. “I’ll come back later, and we can try to come to some kind of compromise on what to do.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Terry hesitated and then left. Doyle put his feet up and lay on the couch. He didn’t expect sleep to come, he was too jittery, his brain too active. He closed his eyes anyway, as it helped with the coming headache.
He was asleep within minutes.
Terry came back just after nine pm. He was excited and anxious, and sat at the kitchen table, opening the notepad he had brought with him and grinning at Doyle.
“I went back out there.” He said, eyes glittering in excitement.
“What the hell, I thought we were supposed to talk about this?”
“I know, I know, but just listen. I went out there and took some measurements.”
Doyle’s anger dissipated, and he sat at the table.
“Go on.”
Terry spun the notebook around so Doyle could see his scrawled notes.
“The cold area is still there. It’s around ten feet square. It’s about seven degrees cooler than the normal air temperature. There is definitely something there.”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t help us with what to do about it.”
“I had a thought about that too.” Terry said.
“Go on.”
“How about this? Let me take a few more measurements, record some video, hell even record the broadcast tonight. First thing tomorrow, we report it, anonymously of course, then sit back and let the publicity build. As soon as it’s common knowledge, we can present our evidence as the first to find it.”
It wasn’t ideal, but it was more of a compromise than Doyle had expected.
“One more night, then that’s it.”
“Perfect. I brought my recording equipment. Let me set it up, make sure it’s receiving the broadcast, then we can head out there.”
“Fine.” Doyle said standing up and going to one of the cupboards in the kitchen. “But just in case, I’m taking this.”
He came back and set the handgun on the table.
“What the hell are you doing with a gun?” Terry said, glaring at the weapon.
“I got it for home protection, but I figured if nothing else, it will make me feel better to have it.”
“I don’t see why you would need it, but whatever. Just be careful you don’t get spooked and start shooting the damn thing into the night.”
“I won’t. I’m just being cautious.”
“Some might say irrational.”
“Some might say we shouldn’t be messing with something we don’t understand.” Doyle shot back.
Terry nodded, and scooped up his notepad.
“I’m going to go set the recording equipment up; then we can make a move. Okay?”
“Fine. I’ll be ready.” Doyle said, as that horrible dull ache in his belly started to appear.
They were underway by ten fifteen. As before, they had the station tuned into the car stereo. Big T, he who had been shot and killed earlier that day in Doyle and Terry’s world and the evening before wherever DJ D was broadcasting from, was a guest on the show and was conducting his first live interview.
Terry looked excited; Doyle was horrified but kept his expression neutral. They arrived, and parked the car. As they had agreed, they wound down the windows and turned up the radio, so they could hear the broadcast as they investigated. The conditions were the same as the night before, hot and dry and as they walked down the embankment, the feeling of dread in Doyle’s stomach increased as he looked both ways down the expanse of the tarmac where the car was parked. There was no sign of any traffic, which only increased the sense of isolation. Terry marched on, rounding the corner and taking out his notepad and digital thermometer, taking readings of the air. Doyle stood and waited, half watching for anything strange, half listening to the broadcast. He wondered why Terry wasn’t afraid, or at least concerned with the enormity of the situation. It wasn’t exactly a normal everyday occurrence, and yet he had taken it all in his stride. He watched his friend, crouched in the dirt taking his readings, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps, this was all a big joke, and Terry was in on it.
The broadcast was interrupted mid song, which got Doyle’s attention.
We interrupt this broadcast to bring you, our fan
s, news. We are sad to report that one of our loyal listeners, Doyle Reynolds, aged just thirty seven, passed away today.
Cold rolled down Doyle’s spine, as he turned towards the car.
It seems he got too close to something he didn’t understand, and he paid the price with his life. Rest in peace Doyle, this one goes out to you.
The Door’s track ‘The End’ filled the airwaves, and Doyle turned towards Terry.
“Holy shit, did you hear...?”
Terry was gone.
Doyle glared into the darkness, and without thinking about it pulled out the gun from his jacket and flicked off the safety.
“Hey, come on, this isn’t funny. Stop screwing around.”
He walked towards the cold spot, his eyes wide as he tried to see where his friend might be hiding. Confusion, anger and fear raced through him as he stared into the dark. He couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by fear. The song finished, and once again, DJ D filled the airwaves.
That was Mr Mojo Risin’ himself, Jim Morrison, who will be joining us live next week to perform a few of his classics and maybe a new song or two. Next up is…
Doyle pushed it aside, trying to ignore it and will himself to move. He took a single step, such a small thing feeling like a huge achievement.
“Damn it, Terry where the hell are you?” He screamed into the night, listening to the sound of his voice echo.
You know where he is.
The voice in his head startled him, as it had been dormant for a long time. He knew it was a bad sign that he was hearing it again, and so tried to ignore it. But it wouldn’t be silent.
Don’t think you can ignore me. I’m here to help.
“Go away.” He whispered.
You know why I’m here. You know what’s happening to you, don’t you?
“I won’t listen to you, you aren’t real.”
None of this is real. That’s the point. Whispered the voice in his head.
Doyle stared at the cold spot, then at the car. The broadcast was silent, the air filled with the static hiss of dead air.
“I don’t understand.” Doyle whispered, letting his gun arm fall to his side.
You are sick again. Remember? Like before.
He could remember snatches. A hospital bed. Medication. Therapy.
“I’m okay now, they said so....”
You never heard of a relapse?
“Terry, I need help buddy.” Doyle shouted into the night, trying to ignore the voice emanating from the centre of his brain.
Terry isn’t here.
“He is. I know he is.”
Terry’s dead. Remember?
“It’s not true, he’s here,” Doyle screamed, falling to his knees.
No, he’s dead. Dead because of you.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Doyle whispered.
It was your fault. You were the one who fucked his wife, remember?
“It wasn’t like that, we were in love…”
And when he found out, he went apeshit. Come on, help me out here. This is all buried somewhere in this head of yours.
“I can’t remember, it’s not true.”
You remember, you just had it all repressed by the shrinks. You lost it buddy. Lost it big time.
“But why?”
Because he killed her. Terry killed his wife because of you, then he came out here, and killed himself.
“But the radio, the broadcast…”
It’s in here, just like I am. The radio station, Terry helping you out, all a fantasy, all a failed attempt by this brain of yours to untangle the cables in here and put itself right.
“No, it can’t be.”
Really, let’s take a look at it. What was Terry’s wife called?
“She was called Dianne.”
But that wasn’t what he called her was it? Can you remember?
“Dee, everyone called her Dee.”
As in DJ D. coincidence? I doubt it. And the playlist, all dead artists, true, but also your own personal favourites.
“They played new songs, songs that shouldn’t exist.”
They didn’t. They played songs you wish had been created. It was never real. You told yourself it broadcasted from here because you know this is where Terry came to end it all after you fucked his life up.
“I don’t remember…” he wailed, openly crying.
You are broken, Doyle. I think you are going to be spending the rest of your life in the hospital, best place for you, really.
“I won’t do it, I won’t go back there.” He shouted, pounding his fist on the ground.
You don’t have a choice, a man who can’t separate reality and fantasy isn’t safe to roam the streets. I’m sorry it had to be me who told you, but somebody had to.
“No, I refuse to go back there. Not again.”
He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His world exploded into a haze of white light and pain as the side of his face sheared away. He lay there on the ground, his blood soaking into sand as his ears rang. He waited for death, and was relieved when his vision faded.
Six years had passed since that day in the desert. The bullet had exited through Doyle’s cheek, taking with it most of his lower jaw. The surgery to repair the damage had gone as well as could be expected, but his once handsome features were gone, his ravaged face held together with screws and plates. He had been admitted to Penry Hospital following his recovery, and there he had stayed since. His routine was mundane, pills in the morning, electro shock therapy twice a week. He had a room with a view of the gardens and part of the large wall preventing patients from leaving. It was a simple life.
The voice in his head had been silent since the night he had shot himself, but he knew it was still in there, repressed by the electro-shock therapy for now, but there nonetheless.
The doctors told him he was making progress, and he only wished it were true, but at night, when he was lying in the dark, strapped to his bed by the wrists and ankles, he would sometimes hear DJ D’s show, and smiled as it played one of his favourite songs.
Doyle closed his eyes, and slept.
THE EYE
Timmy was desperate. He had known it for the last half hour, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the fantasy land of magic and monsters that was unfolding on the carpet of his bedroom floor. For a while, crossing his legs had worked, but now even that was doing nothing to fend off the sharp ache in his belly. He set down the toys and hopped to his feet, leaving the Beast Lord Ragnock and his companions in situ as he hurried towards the bathroom. He charged down the hallway as his mother’s disinterested voice, automatically activated by the sound of his feet padding on the carpet drifted to him from downstairs.
“Timmy, slow down.”
Timmy didn’t answer. He hit the brakes and slid to a halt outside the bathroom, went inside and slammed the door behind him.
The bathroom was quiet and cool. Its floors were black-and-white tiles, and the porcelain bath and sink gleamed under the artificial overhead light, which hummed steadily. None of that mattered to Timmy, however, because the ache in his belly told him he needed to go now, or there would be an accident, and he didn’t want that.
He had just turned nine years old, and hadn’t had an accident for a long, long time. However, sometimes, like today, Timmy got so involved with his toys that he simply forgot to go. He hurried toward to the toilet and lifted the lid, and then paused, letting out a short, surprised gasp.
There was an eye in the water.
It looked like a toy, a joke left for him to find, but unlike the fake vampire’s teeth or plastic dog mess that Timmy’s dad used to buy him from the joke shop, this was definitely real. He was aware of just how afraid he was, but was even more aware of the sharp ache in his stomach, and so he stood there, hopping from foot to foot as he tried to figure out what to do. The eye in the water blinked, and Timmy gasped.
Its eyelid had teeth. They were thin and sharp, like tiny yellow needles which protruded forwards as
the eye blinked, sending tiny bubbles to the surface of the scented water. Timmy continued to hop from foot to foot, and clutched his belly, trying to ignore the aching need to empty his bladder. The eye watched him, its glassy black pupil betraying no hint of emotion. Timmy opened his mouth, intending to call for his mother, as he was sure she would know what to do, but he remembered that Sam was with her tonight, and he snapped his mouth closed.
No.
He couldn’t call out, not with Sam in the house. However, his decision didn’t solve his problem, as he still needed to go, and go badly. The eye offered another sharp-toothed blink, sending more ripples through the water. Timmy moaned softly and looked around the room, assessing his other options. He considered the option of trying to do his business anyway, and pretend the eye wasn’t even there, but as he looked at it and those sharp, needle like teeth, he had a vision of it bursting up out of the water, wrapping its stalk like body around his neck and biting him with those horrible teeth. He knew it would happen that way, he just knew it. But knowing still didn’t help him, and as another cramp gnawed at his stomach, he knew he had to make a decision quickly. He looked around the room, and his eyes landed upon the bath, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He was too afraid of the consequences if he were caught going in there. For as much as hoped his mother might understand his desperation—especially if she saw the eyeball in the toilet — Sam most certainly would not. He had moved in not long after Timmy’s dad moved out, and although he pretended to be nice enough — especially when Timmy’s mother was around — the reality was that he was a horrible, nasty man with a violent temper.
He would often shout at Timmy (especially if he had been drinking), and say horrible things about Timmy’s dad. He wanted to tell his mother about it, about how frightened he was, but all she cared about was Sam, and whenever he would try to explain, she would just tell him to be nice and not cause any problems. He did as he was asked, because despite everything, he loved his mother, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted his dad to come back home more than anything, and for the three of them to be happy again without Sam hanging around the place and making life hard.
