Out of Nowhere

by Gerard Whelan

  ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘In a way I was hoping that you did know something, however odd the explanation.’

  Stephen stared at the quilt on the bed. His mind was numb. Paul tried to say something soothing.

  ‘It’s obviously some kind of doppelgänger,’ he said. ‘A double. I’ve heard of such things, though I must admit I always thought of them as legends. But there seems to be nothing threatening about it – quite the reverse, in fact. Your appearance yesterday saved your lives.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen blankly. He was anything but convinced. It wasn’t comfortable to think that another version of you was likely to appear somewhere without your knowing about it. And Stephen had no solid identity to hold on to: what if he himself turned out to be the double?

  Mad thoughts maybe, but it wasn’t the sanest of situations. In his mind Stephen saw again the wicked little eye of the gun- barrel staring at him in the library. He saw Philip’s own wild mad eyes.

  ‘Philip doesn’t think this is harmless,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the abbot gravely. ‘He doesn’t. In fact, it’s given him a terrible shock.’

  ‘He was very disturbed anyway. He told you about the body?’

  ‘Yes. A mystery, certainly, but there are a lot of mysteries lately. I see no need to drag in the supernatural.’

  The abbot said the word with some distaste. Then he sighed.

  ‘Philip told me once, jokingly I thought, that if you scratch an Irishman you’ll find a superstitious peasant under his skin. They have a doppelgänger legend here too, you know. It’s called a fetch. It’s a messenger of death – a messenger from hell, some say.’

  Ordinarily that might have sounded funny. It didn’t sound very funny now.

  ‘Who is Philip?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He has guns – handguns. He handles them like he knows what he’s doing. And he shoots people without hesitating. Who is he?’

  The abbot pursed his lips. He sighed.

  ‘Philip confessed to me yesterday,’ he said, ‘that he was very tempted to kill you in the library.’

  ‘I guessed that. I could see it in his face. I’m surprised he didn’t.’

  Paul nodded. He stopped for a while, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘I suppose I may tell you about him,’ he said. ‘It might help you to understand the pressure he lives under at the best of times. I won’t try to excuse him, but a man is what he is not what he was.’

  That’s easy for you to say, Stephen thought – you know what you’ve been and what you are. I’ve just found out that I may be a messenger from hell. But he said nothing, and the abbot told him Philip’s story.

  16. The Special Case

  ‘Brother Philip,’ the abbot began, ‘is the only Irish monk here. The basic purpose of this abbey is to train novices, and our order prefers to train its novices in countries other than their own. Philip came to our doors about ten years ago, shortly after we first arrived here. He asked to join the order. For various reasons, not least his age, it would have been unusual for him to be posted here in Ireland, even if he was accepted. But after he told me his story I arranged for him to join, and pulled some strings so that he could stay with us for his novitiate and afterwards. I might have done better to send him away, I don’t know. But he was a special case.’

  He paused. He was a man careful with words. He preferred to take his time, to find exactly the right expression.

  ‘Philip,’ he said, ‘was a terrorist – over across the border there. I use the word ‘terrorist’ as neutrally as I can. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom-fighter. In my experience their methods tend to be identical – a freedom-fighter is what history calls a terrorist who succeeds. I don’t presume to judge others. I try not to have opinions on things which are none of my business. I fail, of course, but when I do have opinions on such things I keep them to myself.’

  He was watching Stephen carefully as he spoke, as though for a reaction to the news of Philip’s past. But Stephen just thought that at least now he understood Philip’s familiarity with guns.

  ‘Philip was never a bomber,’ Paul went on. ‘He was a specialist, a marksman. But many of his friends dealt with explosives. One day, one of these friends asked Philip to do him a favour – to store some explosives in his house for a day. At the time Philip lived with his parents and his younger sister, whom he especially adored. He didn’t want to endanger or incriminate them by keeping explosives in their house, but it was an emergency. His friend was holding the explosives for a bombing team that was due to plant them that night. He’d received a tip-off that his own hiding-place was known, and that he himself was to be arrested that day. In the circumstances, Philip decided to take the risk. His family fully supported him in his activities. Far from condemning his involvement, they were proud of him. But Philip didn’t tell them about the explosives, because he didn’t want to worry them.

  ‘Philip was working all night that night – at his legitimate job, I mean. He warned his family that someone would be calling late to collect something from their house. There had been other such occasions, although never involving material such as this. But Philip’s family trusted him implicitly and never asked questions. At such times they went to their beds early and listened to the quiet footsteps downstairs in the middle of the night without going down. The idea was that they could never be forced to identify anybody they had never seen. This of course is not so, as anyone who’s had dealings with an army fighting terrorism will tell you – one can be made to do all sorts of impossible things. But anyway, Philip gave the spare key of his parents’ house to the leader of the bombing team and told him exactly where he had hidden the material.’

  He paused again, and looked down at his feet.

  ‘Something went wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps all the moving around had made the explosives unstable – there’s no way of knowing now. At any rate, the material detonated when the bombers tried to move it. Everyone in the house was killed, both the bombers and the sleeping family. Four people in the adjoining houses – including two small children – were also killed, and several maimed.’

  He stopped speaking. There was silence for a while.

  ‘And Philip did … what?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘He left the world. He felt he’d killed his family. At first he meant to kill himself. Then he turned to alcohol, which is only a slower way of doing the same thing. Then he left his city and crossed the border, living rough in the mountains for a time. And then he came to us. How he’d heard of us I don’t know. I took him in. He’s been an excellent Brother, especially popular with the novices. He still supports the cause he fought for then, a little at least. No man would be happier to see peace in that poor place, I think. But it’s only his own involvement that he’s terminated. He’s still indirectly involved at times, I regret to say. We’re very close to the border here. I’ve known for a long time that Philip occasionally holds things for people: packages, letters, small pieces of equipment. No explosives, of course – Philip won’t have anything to do with explosives again. But certainly other things.’

  ‘Such as pistols,’ Stephen said.

  ‘I hadn’t known, but obviously yes.’

  ‘And you never interfered?’

  ‘No. I could stop what he does, but that wouldn’t change his mind. Instead I waited for him to see sense. That’s what our order does: it encourages, it doesn’t demand. We don’t believe ideals can be enforced by mere physical might any more than they can be suppressed by it. So long as he didn’t endanger his fellow monks it seemed a matter for Philip alone. And I knew that he’d never endanger the monks – the order is like a second family to him. The novices all look up to him, and he takes that responsibility seriously. I may have been wrong not to interfere, but do remember that if Philip hadn’t been armed either you or Fräulein Herzenweg might be dead.’

  Stephen didn’t know what to say. The abbot looked at
him with sympathy.

  ‘Will you do something for me, Stephen?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ve said nothing to Fräulein Herzenweg about what happened in the town. She knows something is wrong, but not what it is. I wanted to talk to you first. She’s extremely upset.’

  ‘She would be. So am I.’

  ‘I wondered whether you could tell her about the doubles? She must be told. You’re a similar age, and it may be easier for her to hear these things from … a fellow sufferer.’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course I’ll tell her, if I can think how.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the abbot said. ‘She’s been waiting to see you. She was asleep in a chair the last time I saw her. I’ll send her up. And about these … manifestations. They’re certainly strange, but we’ve no reason to think that they’re harmful. Do try to remember that the one yesterday seems deliberately to have saved your lives.’

  Damn your fairness, Stephen thought, it’s not you these things are happening to. But of course he didn’t say that.

  ‘Yes,’ he said instead. ‘Yes, I know.’

  And he did know it too. But he drew no comfort from the knowledge.

  The abbot left. Stephen lay back in his bed. The thought struck him suddenly that for all he knew his double might be appearing to someone at that very moment. It gave him an odd feeling. He felt the flesh creep on his bruised and weary bones, and he was very afraid.

  17. The Desperate Girl

  It was a while before Kirsten came to see him. When she did come she brought a pot of coffee on the now familiar tray. She was obviously upset, though she tried to hide it under a veneer of mock gaiety. But the tell-tale redness was around her eyes.

  ‘I think we should start charging you for room service,’ she said.

  There were two cups on the tray. Stephen’s nostrils flared at the scent of fresh coffee.

  ‘I didn’t know whether or not to bring food,’ Kirsten said.

  ‘The coffee smells good, but I’m not hungry.’

  He watched her as she poured coffee into the cups. She was pale and tired-looking, her slim shoulders slumped, but she was … solid. She was solid, and so was he. There was nothing ghostly about them. And only ghosts and saints and devils, so far as he’d heard, could be in two places at the same time, and he couldn’t believe that either of them was any of those things.

  Looking at her scared face, he wondered how he was going to get up the nerve to tell her what had happened. He’d agreed to the abbot’s request without thinking. Now he baulked at the idea of causing her more upset than she’d already endured.

  ‘We were very lucky yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. But I keep thinking, you know … I killed someone.’

  Stephen hadn’t even thought of the effect of that on her.

  ‘He was trying to kill you,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I know. But that doesn’t make it feel any better. I know it sounds stupid, but … that was his business. As it happened, I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but still I did and that’s my business.’

  ‘Philip killed three of them. He didn’t seem too disturbed.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I wanted to talk to Philip about it, I thought maybe he’d tell me something that would help me feel better. But he shunned me. He wouldn’t even look at me. And you know, Philip has been so nice to me since I came here. I really like him … liked him. But now …’

  She waved her hands in a helpless sort of gesture. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light and Stephen had a sudden, terrible feeling that she was going to cry again. He felt flustered.

  ‘Philip saved our lives,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sure of that.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Stephen felt sorry for her. She’d been so determined to make the best of things. From their first meeting she’d seemed almost relieved by the loss of her past. She’d been born again, flung into a new world full of possibilities. She’d borne up more bravely than he had to a whole series of shocks. Now her cheerful façade had collapsed like a house of cards.

  ‘It will be all right,’ he lied. ‘We didn’t know how dangerous it could be out there. Next time we’ll be better prepared.’

  He knew he was getting no closer to telling her what he’d promised to tell. But how exactly did you go about telling someone something like that? He doubted he’d ever had any experience of such things in his forgotten life.

  Kirsten needed to talk about what had happened in the town, and he let her. As she talked, he understood just how upset she was. She was appalled by the fact that she’d killed someone, whatever the circumstances. She’d got along well with Philip, and she’d hoped for reassurance if not comfort from him. Instead she’d met with something that upset her far more than hostility.

  ‘After you passed out,’ she said, ‘Philip wanted to leave the library right away. We even abandoned those stupid books we were collecting. We had to carry you to the truck, but Philip seemed reluctant to even touch you. If I hadn’t badgered him I think he’d have left you there. In the end he carried you, though he obviously didn’t like it. He put you in the back of the truck, and I went with you. The trip back was a nightmare. Philip drove so recklessly I thought we’d crash, and you were sliding all over the place. I had to keep your head from banging into the sides of the truck-bed, and then I was sliding around too on the corners.’

  She was getting upset just talking about it. Her shoulders were clenched tight and her fists were clenched too, the knuckles white.

  ‘When we got back,’ she said, ‘Philip went off and just left us there. I sat in the back of the truck with your head in my lap and just cried. Simon came to help us in the end. He doesn’t approve of Philip, and he was making all sorts of snide remarks about peasant superstitions. Eventually we got you up here and I went to corner Philip. I found him coming out of the abbot’s office. He was very gruff. He wouldn’t meet my eyes at all. But I did see his, just for a second, and I couldn’t believe what I saw in them. It was–’

  ‘Fear,’ Stephen said. ‘You saw fear in them.’

  Kirsten stared at him.

  ‘Yes. But more than that – it was fear of me. And I thought …’

  Again she gestured helplessly.

  ‘I don’t know what I thought,’ she said.

  ‘Have you spoken with the abbot?’

  ‘He’s talked to me, yes. And Simon has. They tried to reassure me, and they were very kind. Simon even told me that he’s killed people himself, during the war. But I still feel … I feel like a murderer. Maybe that’s why Philip is afraid of me.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘No? What does it have to do with then? Why are we suddenly so terrifying?’

  Stephen thought of Philip in the field, his wild eyes searching for the vanished body. What had the big monk said then: What devil’s work is this? Then he looked at Kirsten, so obviously human. He was going mad himself even to consider such nonsense.

  ‘You know something I don’t,’ Kirsten said angrily. ‘Don’t you? You know why Philip is afraid.’

  Stephen hung his head. He suddenly resented Paul’s request. He felt he’d been given the job of destroying her altogether.

  ‘I–’ he began.

  But he got no further. From outside the drawn curtains there was a sudden babble of voices, but Stephen couldn’t make out what they were saying. Had someone else wandered in? Or was it an attack by another group of savages?

  Then, over the babble, Stephen and Kirsten could hear another sound.

  ‘That sounds like …’ Kirsten began. Her voice trailed off.

  ‘It is!’ Stephen said.

  They ran for the window and snatched back the curtains. It had grown fully light as they talked. Philip came into view, the big pistol in his hand. His face was grim. Behind him came the abbot, empty-handed. They stood in front of the well, staring towards the gateway.


  ‘Open the gates!’ Philip called in a choked voice.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Kirsten said a moment later.

  The sound they’d heard was exactly what it sounded like: a car engine. The car drew up in front of Philip and the abbot. Old Brother Simon and Thomas, the novice, came up behind it. Simon held a shotgun; Thomas held what looked like Philip’s little silver pistol. Both aimed their guns squarely at the car. Philip still kept the big automatic hanging limply by his side. His face was white, and devoid of any expression whatsoever.

  The babble of voices had yielded to complete silence. Beside him, Stephen heard Kirsten moan a low moan, a whimpering animal sound of pure undiluted terror. He knew the source of that terror, because it was the source of his own – they’d seen the car’s occupants.

  There were three men in the car. In the back sat a stout dark-haired man who looked annoyed. In the front were two slim men in dark suits. One, the driver, was a dour-faced man in a grey hat. He looked to be maybe in his late forties. But it was the third man who inspired terror – the man in the front passenger seat. He was sitting casually, with his torso turned towards the driver, one arm resting on the back of his seat and the other fiddling idly with his tie. Stephen couldn’t say what this man looked like, and he couldn’t say what the man looked like for the same reason that the man inspired such terror. The man in the front seat had no head.

  PART TWO: The Big Bubble

  18. Monday

  Let’s skip back in time a few days and look at all this from another angle. Let’s take a peek at the bigger picture.

  Early one Monday morning in Ireland, a man and a woman woke up in a car. They found they were parked in the middle of a field, and that the car was surrounded by sheep.

  The man and the woman were confused. They didn’t recall driving into a field and going asleep. In fact, they didn’t remember going to sleep at all. The last thing they remembered was going home from a dinner-dance late the night before, driving down the dark country roads, longing to be home. And they remembered that – or at least they thought they remembered that – quite clearly.