Into the Light- Lost in Translation

by Michael White

  Sometimes he couldn’t help remembering. His wife looking up at him from their bed. Their bed. A man beside her. Her face looking at him. He forced his eyes shut and shook his head, reflecting on how the physical act of doing so was almost as if he was mimicking his internal need to lose this particular train of thought.

  Which was one of the reasons he found himself half way up a hillside in Cumbria about to be soaked to the skin. It was not as simple as re-treading old haunts in a vain attempt to relive the glory of his previous visits.

  No, he was attempting to lift the veil he had drawn over himself where nobody could witness him doing so, for he was not sure of how much of him was left inside and what would become of him if he did decide to drop his defences.

  Yet even now the hills were dead to him, the mountains just mountains. The lakes looked amazing of course, but it failed to inspire him to learn to love them once again as surely he once had. He was dead to them. And so they ignored him as if waiting for him to open his heart to them once again.

  Overhead a sudden arc of lightning split the darkening sky, startling him from his introspection. He set himself counting, noticing that it was six seconds before he heard the thunder again.

  “Six miles away.” he said, almost conspiratorially, and increased his pace.

  Yet even with the storm threatening to arrive anytime now he was glad he had decided to take a holiday. Work was getting him down. It was the repetition, he reasoned, and it was inevitable that even he would begin to lose his patience eventually. He found that it was a slow creeping thing; a minor irritation here, an angry remark there and so on. Once he found his fingers drumming on the desk while the customer at the other end of the phone asked whether his email address was case sensitive or not then he knew; he just knew he had to get away for a break, whether it was just a few days or perhaps a few weeks.

  The Cumbrian Fells were the obvious choice. Open air, good exercise and the sheer magic of the countryside always used to rejuvenate him. It always had when he was younger. He had crossed these fields and seen the countryside he almost seemed reluctant to leave it behind. Always there was another hill to cross, one more mountain to get nearer. It was as if the landscape itself drew him in and was reluctant to let him go. In his heart of hearts, he wondered by coming to this place if it would open itself up to him again and his withdrawal and indifference would disappear. He wondered also what would be left of him if it did, and he was walking in such a remote place because if it did happen he did not want anyone else to witness it, whatever “it” was.

  He had always been an avid fan of history and long forgotten places; the stories of the knights of King Arthur had long been a favourite of his. Sometimes he knew he walked around in almost a daydream. Several of his teachers had commented on it as did many of his work colleagues. His ex-wife most definitely had.

  “Head in the clouds.” she had chided him, “where are you now then?” and he had come back to Earth with a bump, not entirely sure of the answer himself, or sometimes even if that was what she had actually asked him in the first place.

  The final straw at work was most definitely the fact that he seemed to be coming across too many people called Declan amongst his customers he had to train, and it was all starting to get decidedly strange.

  Paul knew he loved the Irish customers. They had a way of swearing that made their bad language sound almost as if they were singing. It drew the ear.

  “You see the mouse pointer at the top of the screen, Declan?” he had asked at the onset of the Declan thing. Declan Morrissey of Euro Laminates. “The two boxes at the top there.”

  “Ah I can’t see the fecking thing.” Declan had declared, before finally vocalising a small whoop. “I see it.” he happily declared. “I’ll click on the fecker in the middle!”

  “There are only two, Declan.” Paul had said patiently. “There isn’t one in the middle.” This had almost been a low sigh when Paul heard himself say it; not that Declan seemed to notice of course.

  “I’ve clicked on the middle left one then.” he had declared, and of course the “middle left one” was the wrong one altogether.

  And so the rest of the training session had gone. Paul was not sure just how much of what he was trying to show Declan he had actually taken onboard, but the Irishman seemed happy enough and so he had left him to it.

  The next day another call was diarised for Euro Laminates. Declan O’Shay.

  “Hello Declan.” Paul had said. “Paul from Regulus Data. Your account manager has asked me to train you on our online database.”

  “Ah that’s good.” had said Declan. “Though I haven’t a fecking clue between a mouse and a keyboard if the truth is told.” Paul had stopped, listening to the voice. It sounded just like Declan Morrissey from the day before.

  Exactly like him, in fact.

  “You have lots of Declan’s there then?” he had asked.

  “One or two.” Declan had declared thoughtfully, and Paul had left it at that.

  The remainder of the training session had proceeded exactly the same as the previous one. That is to say slowly and with great confusion and more than one or two the swear words. Again, Paul was not convinced that the second Declan had fared any better than the first one but as before he seemed happy enough and so he had left the Irishman with apparently his enthusiasm for the database sufficiently enhanced, if not his actual knowledge of how to actually use it.

  He had looked through his diary for the afternoon appointments while he ate his lunch, and when he examined it he saw that there was another appointment for Eurolaminates. Tutting to himself he opened up the Outlook calendar entry. Why on Earth all of these people could not be trained all at once he did not know, but there inside the appointment was the name of the attendee.

  Declan Flanagan.

  At the correct time Paul phoned and after asking for Declan Flanagan a familiar voice came on the phone.

  “Hello Declan.” Paul had said. “Paul from Regulus Data. Your account manager has asked me to train you on our online database.”

  “Is that right?” Had said the third Declan. “Well if you say that’s the case then that’s what we’ll be up to then.” had declared Declan earnestly, and so another torturous session of mouse confusion followed over the course of the next hour. As before, Declan number three seemed at best confused but equally happy and so the call was concluded more or less right on time. Paul was confused though. All of the Declan’s so far had sounded exactly the same.

  Paul looked at the company notes. There only appeared to be one user licensed to use the database, who unsurprisingly was Declan. Declan Morrissey.

  “Odd.” thought Paul, but dwelled no more upon it, moving on to his next training session. That is until he looked at his diary the following day at 11pm. Euro Laminates. Declan Murphy.

  Paul coloured a little, a frown crossing his face as he read the training details. There definitely seemed to be far too many Declan’s! Eleven O’clock came and Paul decided to see if he could try to figure out what was happening, and so he approached the phone call with a plan in mind. If he didn’t ask for a particular Declan, then surely the receptionist would ask him which one he wanted to speak to. He smiled as he considered his plan. This would solve the riddle once and for all!

  “Could I speak to Declan please?” he asked the receptionist upon her answering the call. This was definitely going to throw the cat amongst the pigeons.

  “I will put you through.” said the receptionist without turning a hair, her by now familiar Irish accent leaving him waiting while Declan presumably tried to remember what surname he was meant to be going by today.

  “Ah Paul.” came the voice down the phone.

  The same voice.

  “Is it the database thing then you’ll be wanting to show me?” asked Declan. “The fecking thing on my desktop somewhere and I’ll be buggered if I can remember me password.”

  Twenty minutes later Paul’s temper was getting decidedly
frayed.

  “There is NO middle box Declan.” he spat, “Just one on the left. Then one on the right. There cannot possibly be one in the bloody middle if there are just two.”

  “Shall I click on the fecking middle one then?” repeated Declan almost defiantly. “I’m sure it won’t make any bloody difference for sure if I do.” and so he had clicked on the wrong box yet again. Paul felt the room he was sat in was definitely getting warmer. Yet as before, Declan seemed happy and he was left to it.

  Paul concluded the call and opening his Outlook diary furiously searched through it. There was one remaining training appointment for Euro Laminates, and looking inside it he sighed out loud. Declan O'Hannessey. Ten o’clock the next day.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Dan, the sales manager who sat next to him.

  “Too many Declan's.” whispered Paul, “This is the fifth one this week.” and Dan had given him a pitying look, obviously already having decided to leave him well alone.

  “You need a holiday mate.” was all Dan had said, and Paul was forced to agree. He would get a holiday form printed the very next day. Once he had spoken to Declan the fifth.

  The next day ten O’clock rapidly approached and as before upon enquiring of Declan through the Euro Laminates receptionist he was quickly put through to Declan O'Hannessey.

  “Ah. The fecking database.” declared Declan in the same voice as before, “Do you know what my password is, Paul? I can’t find the ruddy thing.”

  Paul had had enough.

  “Declan.” he said, his tone of voice stopping Declan O'Hannessey dead in his tracks, “Why do you pretend to be someone else every time I have rung? This is the fifth time now I have been through the training with you. Every time I ring you pretend not to have looked at the bloody thing before.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, and that’s the fecking truth.” said Declan quietly, but Paul persisted.

  “Declan I know it’s you. Your voice is the same. You say the same things. You never remember your password. You have definite quite severe spatial awareness problems and you do not know your left from your right.” Paul paused, taking a deep breath. “When I ask the receptionist to be put through she doesn’t ask which Declan I want. She always puts me straight through to you. I have spoken to you four times already, haven’t I? This is the bloody fifth time!”

  “Course you haven’t.” said Declan at the other end of the phone. There was a small silence whilst both of them decided where to go with the conversation next, before the Irishman continued, “Ah it’s only four. You haven’t done the fecking fifth one yet. I’m still waiting here for that one.”

  “Are you saying that it has been you the last four times I have called and that I have trained you three times already?” Paul had asked, anger rising in his voice.

  “Well I thought maybe it would be better if you showed meself a few times as it were.” There was a small pause. “I just don’t seem able to get me head round that fecking middle box.”

  “There is no middle box you daft bastard!” Paul had yelled, “And I can’t believe you had to put yourself down under five different surnames to try and pretend that there were five of you!”

  “Well it’s not as if any fecker died now, is it?” shouted Declan back. In the back of his mind Paul hoped that this was not going to be a call he was being quality monitored on, or he would be picking up his P45 sometime soon. “Besides, there’s no harm done. It’s not as if it’s me real name or anything.” he finished. Paul could feel the stupid grin from where he was sitting a few hundred miles away.

  “Well no.” shouted Paul. “You can’t be five people at the same time can you now?”

  “Ah.” said the Irishman from the other end of the line. There was an even longer pause before he spoke again, almost as if he was considering whether to say what he was about to say next. Eventually he obviously decided to throw caution to the wind and continued. “I didn’t mean that. I meant me real name’s not Declan.” there was another small pause. “I’m actually Patrick.”

  Paul felt like screaming, but Declan / Patrick wasn’t quite done yet.

  “So there’s no harm done now is there? There never were five Declans. In truth there was only ever one Patrick.”

  Paul sighed and thumped the desk.

  “Why did you want training five times then Dec…. Erm… Patrick?”

  “I’ve already told you you daft bastard. It’s that middle box.” said the Irishman, to all intents and purposes sounding as if everything that he had said so far had made sense, “I just don’t seem to be able to get the fecking hang of it at all!”

  Paul carried on with the training session. It was definitely time for a holiday. Enough was enough.

  Another fork of lightning tore through the sky and forked into the fells a distance away from where Paul stood, bringing his attention back to the present day, a smile on his face that had definitely not been there at the time when he had been chasing Eurolaminate’s collection of Declans.

  The rain clouds were much closer now, and the temperature had dropped a little as the sky clouded over. Paul knew that he had a good few miles to walk yet and hoped that the storm would be a small one, though looking at the horizon he had little conviction that it would be. It was a disappointing but distinct possibility that the pint he had been promising himself all afternoon may possibly have to wait until another time.

  It had been about the time of the multiple Declan’s and after he had decided to have a holiday that Paul had first noticed the impossible woman in the canteen. He had found that it would be almost a month before he could take his holiday. The problem was finding sufficient space in his diary, for he was always booked at least a fortnight ahead, and so he had more time to dwell upon her absence

  Almost reluctantly he drew his attention back to the present day and the path along which he was travelling. Slow splashes of rain began to fall lazily across the fells, large drops that made the foliage and bushes droop as they hit the splayed leaves. The air was now chilly and damp. Thick black clouds that rolled slowly but steadily towards him now began to tint the whole moorland in a strange light that was eerily devoid of colour, as if a grey curtain had been drawn across the countryside. Slowly the pace of the rain increased and another bolt of lightning crackled amongst the clouds, the deep thunder rolling across the mountains shortly afterwards.

  Paul pulled his hood tightly about his head now, tying the cord below his chin carefully and checking too that his waterproof pockets were closed and impervious to the deluge that was about to engulf him. Hopefully that would keep his cigarettes dry. He would celebrate with one of them when he found himself out of the storm as he did not want them to get wet. He increased his pace a little more though he knew he was going to be exposed to the elements and whatever they threw at him for the next few miles ahead no matter how fast he moved. He was simply too far away from shelter.

  Lightning split the encroaching preternatural darkness once again, illuminating the fens as if caught in a brief but violent flash of flame. Then as if a dam had been torn asunder the storm suddenly broke and the rain fell like a hammer across the moorlands. Almost straight away the path Paul was now stumbling along was battered into mud as the torrential downpour pummelled the ground, slowing him down, the mud sticking and pulling at his boots.

  He had rarely seen rain like it before. It battered against his hood and ran down his face despite the carefully crafted waterproof that the sales assistant in the camping shop from which he had bought it promising when he bought it that it would keep the rain off his face no matter how strong the storm. He struggled to see as the salty water ran down his face, the waterproof clinging to him like a second skin as the rain flung itself at him.

  He started as a fork of lightning suddenly hit the ground not five hundred yards away, throwing burnt clumps of smoking vegetation and ferns high into the air. The thunder that followed almost seemed to make the ground shake. Despite the mud clingi
ng to his feet Paul forced himself to hurry, mentally running through a checklist to ensure none of his equipment had metal fasteners. As far as he could remember luckily they did not, and so on he went, the fens pushing against his legs as he struggled through the rain.

  Now the wind picked up a pace too, and threw itself at him, forcing the rain that ran down his face to feel as if was attempting to find a way through his waterproofs. He slipped slightly on the mud and tumbled forward, the ground rushing up to meet him. Luckily a small clump of fens broke his fall and he rolled onto his back, the rain hitting his eyes and running down his cheeks.

  “Ouch!” he shouted, trying to struggle to his feet but slipping back down to the ground again. He closed his eyes to the rain that was falling down on him and in his mind suddenly he saw eyes looking at him. Green eyes. Eyes that looked familiar somehow.

  “Don’t touch the water.” he suddenly heard a loud voice in his head say, and he startled. He knew that voice. The eyes too.

  The impossible woman!

  There then came then a loud explosion that lifted him from the ground and sent him flying into the air. There followed what may possibly have been a loud crash of thunder but it seemed to fade as if it was far away. Light seemed to burn into the back of his mind, into his eyes, filling him with a pure brilliant azure blue that made him dizzy; weightless. He felt as if he were floating above the ground, and as he thought this a feeling of dizziness stabbed at him. He fought the feeling of panic down, and the overwhelming sense of floating overtook him once again.

  “Well now.” he heard the same female voice say, and the light faded, the sudden crackling of his entire being seeming to force him back down towards the ground, deeper and deeper, and yet at the same time he felt as if he was not moving at all. His back relaxed on the ground and whatever it came into contact with there did not feel like grass or fens any more. It felt much more like wood in fact, but he was not completely sure. He just felt displaced and confused. He gasped out loud and opened his eyes, but all he could see was a bright blue sheen that totally obscured his vision. He tried to sit but it was if all of the strength had been drained from him.