by Matt Hilton
Chapter 9
April 1st 2018
Undisclosed location, England
Rembrandt recalled the time when Brent Walker and Harry Bowlam had asked Benny Oxford to help them collect some equipment from the armoury. They’d sent him for a “long stand” and the Base Sergeant had complied with his equipment request and kept Oxford standing the best part of an hour while he went off on his lunch break.
When Oxford had finally returned to the squad room empty-handed and bemused, Bowlam and Walker had chimed ‘April Fool!’ at him.
Ox had reddened, casting glances at Crystal Kwolek, and muttering. ‘Not fair, that date doesn’t count for anything anymore.’
And he was probably correct. In Old City the dates used prior to the nuclear war held little relevance to those who’d survived, and certainly very few dates that had any celebration or frivolity attached. What was there to cheer about in Old City? Rembrandt’s amnesia was acute. All he knew about the events that led to the destruction of the world was what he’d been told in hindsight by his team and others who primarily had been youngsters prior to the event. He knew that war had been proclaimed following the assassination of an American president, and that the Soviets had struck first, setting off a chain reaction that spared no civilized country the immolation of nuclear fire. The entire earth was a scorched dust ball, with a poisonous atmosphere, wherein only the most brutal survived, but where even they were dwindling fast. Enduring such an existence people found little time or cause for celebration. Unless you were Brent Walker or Harry Bowlam, who had learned to buck the depression suffered by most with laughter. Often their humour was centred on their slow-minded pal, Oxford.
To be honest, Rembrandt hadn’t been familiar with the practice of pranking people on April 1st. But he’d got the gist quickly enough, when other jokes were played throughout the day – not all of them at Oxford’s expense.
Now, sitting in his room, in this weird time and place he thought that today’s date was apt. In fact, he wondered if he hadn’t been made a fool of for the last four days running. He still wasn’t fully convinced that he wasn’t part of some incredibly strange plot to mess with his mind, and found himself hoping that Bowlam and Walker would suddenly bounce into his room laughing and cheering and announce that he’d been pranked. Wishful thinking, he knew. He understood that this was reality; it just took a lot to wrap his head around the concept.
He was no longer in a cell.
Having been debriefed by Professor Doherty, and reporting all that he knew or could recall with any lucidity about his years in Old City, he’d been deemed sufficiently in command of his own wits to be allowed more freedom of movement and had been allocated new lodgings.
He was in a room a little more comfortable, if not as sparsely furnished as a cell. At least his bed had a conventional mattress and bedding, and his toilet had a seat, and he had access to a washbasin. Plus there was a small bedside table and reading lamp, and in the drawer of the table he’d found a pencil and notepad. On the notepad he’d scrawled a timeline of sorts, to understand better what had supposedly happened to him. It was a contrived technique, but without something tangible to get his hands on – and his brain around – he couldn’t keep his thoughts ordered in his mind for long.
He’d studied the piece of paper and his spidery jottings for the best part of an hour now, and still he could barely accept the proof. The writing had occasionally blurred in and out of focus as he’d stared. Sometimes he had to bat angry tears from his cheeks, while other times when the letters blurred it was because his mind simply would not absorb the facts. Sighing, he looked again at the sheet of lined paper, re-reading his summation:
“David James Johnston bn 18th Jan 1998
DJJ aged 20 yrs in 2018
“On March 25th 2018 DJJ is sent back/jumped sideways to 4th July 1989
DJJ is somehow injured/suffers amnesia
Reborn as James Rembrandt
Lives in this alternate world/time until July 12th 2002”
Thirteen years of hell, Rembrandt thought as he mulled over his jottings.
“DJJ is returned to March 28th 2018, now aged 33 yrs.
Hardly 50 hours have passed in this world, but DJJ is now thirteen years older.”
It wasn’t difficult to comprehend when looked at from an outsider’s perspective. In fact it was easy enough as far as mathematics went to figure things out, but it didn’t make anything rest easier in his brain. One thing in particular was troubling him.
He picked up the pencil, smoothed out the piece of paper and wrote two further lines:
“No. David James Johnston didn’t return.
He no longer exists.”
Then, after a further pause, he practically scratched words into the paper.
“I AM JAMES REMBRANDT.”
Slapping down the pencil, he picked up the paper in both hands, and he studied the final sentence fervently.
‘I am James Rembrandt,’ he said to himself. Then more forcefully, ‘I am James Rembrandt, damn it.’
Rembrandt was all that he knew, all that he was. Nobody would tell him otherwise. Sergeant David James Johnston died when he was dumped into an unfamiliar and totally terrifying world, which the soft life he’d known here could not prepare him for. David Johnston was a fucking weakling who would not last more than the day or so he had in the ash-covered hellscape to which Rembrandt had brought law and order.
He crumpled the sheet of paper between his palms, was about to throw it across the room, but thought otherwise and tore it into shreds. He threw them across the floor like confetti at a doomed wedding.
Getting up from where he sat on the edge of the bed, he moved towards the door. Despite his new found freedom two guards had been stationed outside, but Rembrandt suspected they were placed there as some form of suicide watch, rather than to hold him. He opened the door and spotted one of the guards standing close by. The other, an overweight man in straining uniform, had moved along the corridor and was talking with a young woman in a lab coat. Hearing the door open, he turned around, and with a look of wariness wandered back to support his mate at the door. The lab tech headed off along the hall.
‘I want to see the guvnor,’ Rembrandt said.
‘You’re talking about Terrence Semple?’ the nearest guard asked.
‘Who else?’
The guard who’d been talking to the lab tech was armed with a sidearm. Rembrandt was unfamiliar with the model, but it resembled the Glock he’d used in his own time. This must be a newer model. The guard’s hand strayed to the butt of the gun, and then it was as if he remembered that Rembrandt wasn’t a criminal, but actually a colleague. He folded his arms across his wide chest, studying Rembrandt as if he were a bug in a jar.
‘Why do you want to see the governor?’
Rembrandt noticed the subtle mispronunciation. Time, fate, or whatever the hell governed these subtle variances, also conspired to keep certain details similar across all the different dimensions. Guvnor. Governor. Made little difference.
‘I wish to speak with him,’ Rembrandt said. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Could be,’ the nearest guard said. ‘We don’t know if he’s accepting visitors at this time.’
‘So ask him. In fact, no, tell him. I want to see him.’
‘Mate,’ the second guard said, ‘you do realise who you’re demanding to see, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Rembrandt said. ‘Semple’s the man who totally fucked up my life. I gave him thirteen years, so you can tell him the least he can do is spare me five fucking minutes.’
The guards aimed glances at each other, and it was the first guard who came to a conclusion. ‘If we don’t ask, we’ll never know.’
Hooked to his tunic jacket was a radio. Rembrandt was familiar with the old clunky Motorola radios, the size and weight approximating that of a building brick, with a detachable aerial that was prone to snapping off during close-quarter battle. This man’s radio was a compact thing
, with a softly glowing blue screen. The guard keyed a button on it and spoke, calling up a controller of sorts. He cocked his head, listening, and Rembrandt marveled again at the technology: the earpiece the man wore was practically invisible, a tiny flesh-coloured bud inserted into his ear canal, and not a wire to be seen.
The guard said, ‘Governor Semple is unavailable, but Major Coombs is free if you wish to speak to him.’
‘Major Coombs?’ Rembrandt asked. ‘What’s his significance here?’
‘Military liaison. You could say he’s the brawn to Semple’s brain. Not that they’ve too much of either between them-’ the guard shared a laugh with his mate ‘- not when compared to Doctor Heller and Professor Doherty.’
‘Heller’s the woman with red hair and green eyes?’
‘And the horns and forked tail,’ the first guard said with a grin. ‘Heller by name, hell by nature.’
Rembrandt met the guard eye-to-eye. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you don’t know the meaning of the world “hell”.’
Perhaps the guard misconstrued Rembrandt’s meaning because he took a subtle step back and his hand crept towards the butt of his gun once more. Rembrandt wasn’t worried. He could take the gun away from the overweight punk, shoot him in the face, and pop a round in the head of the other guard before they even realised they were in a fight. Shit, he thought that Crystal Kwolek could overpower these two, and she was only a tiny thing. But, he hadn’t been making any threat, simply stating a point.
‘Tell Coombs I’d like to see him.’
The guard blinked slowly, then straightened up. His hand went from his Glock to a toggle button on his radio. After a brief discourse, he said, ‘This way. We have to accompany you, OK?’
‘No problem,’ Rembrandt said. ‘But I’d best put on some shoes first.’
He returned to his room and pushed his feet into a pair of slip-on training shoes. His lower legs were bandaged, and his feet scored with tiny nicks that had already began to scab over. The shoes were new and uncomfortable, but preferable to walking barefoot through the corridors. He also shucked on a plain denim over-shirt, covering his T-shirt. He allowed it to hang loose over his combat trousers. Unshaven, his hair long and unkempt, he looked more like a slacker than a cop…or a soldier, as once he was supposed to have been. Going up in front of the brass he should maybe make more of an effort, he thought, but then decided, fuck it. Major Coombs would have to win his respect before he began saluting and standing to attention.
‘Lead on,’ he said, exiting his room and pulling the door shut behind him. He checked that it was locked tight. It was an unconscious act, but one that was necessary where he’d come from. Ironically, but for the few items of clothing he’d been supplied, and the notebook and pencil, there was nothing in the room to steal. He doubted anyone in the complex would want to take the few items of toiletries he’d stacked on the sink, or the toilet paper, but back in his own world they’d been worth their weight in gold.
The guards led the way, but it was too formal for them, and soon they’d fallen back so that Rembrandt strode along the corridor between them, as if they were three amigos out for a stroll.
‘What’s this Coombs character like?’ Rembrandt asked.
‘Typical military officer,’ the overweight guard said with a curl of his lip. ‘A donkey that leads lions.’
Rembrandt thought the saying sounded familiar but wasn’t sure from whom he’d heard it before. He disliked the analogy. But he didn’t say so. These guards obviously weren’t soldiers, probably weren’t law enforcement either, and he guessed they were some kind of private security operatives, hired because they could fill out a uniform but didn’t rate the same pay grade as a genuine soldier or cop. The guard’s words were disrespectful coming from someone who’d probably never served their country, and wasn’t worthy of cleaning a major’s boots.
‘You said earlier he was a military liaison, so he’s not in charge of this operation?’
‘No. That honour falls to Governor Semple. Coombs, Heller and Professor Doherty are his indirect aides.’
‘It’s an odd set up,’ Rembrandt said.
‘Not really. You should know that in this day and age money talks. There aren’t too many people who have the bank balance of Terrence Semple.’
‘He’s rich?’
‘Enough to make Sir Alan Sugar think about sending him begging letters.’
‘Alan Sugar? The Amstrad guy…they made him a lord here?’
The guard looked at him oddly. ‘No, mate, they made him a lord at Buckingham Palace.’
Rembrandt couldn’t believe it. He’d heard about Alan Sugar from his teammates, how he’d attempted to compete with the Silicon Valley geeks by inventing his own home computer, but he’d lost his money along with everything else when the bombs had dropped. As far as he could tell, he doubted his riches had saved him immolation in the nuclear fires, along with the other millions of hapless souls burned to a crisp when the Soviet missiles struck London. Here in this soft world, the former market trader had made his riches pay and had gained himself a title. Jesus, he thought, there’s a tale of a poor boy made good worth writing home about.
‘Mind if I ask you something?’ It was the second guard, the slimmer of the two. Rembrandt read his name badge: Craig Malone.
‘Go for it, Craig,’ he said.
‘You just back from a tour?’
‘Nope. Never left London,’ Rembrandt said.
Craig looked at his overweight pal. ‘You lose, Barry.’
Rembrandt looked at the bigger guy, who sighed and pulled an alien-looking twenty-pound note from his trouser pocket. He was about to hand it over to Craig, but paused. To Rembrandt he said, ‘But if you were abroad, you wouldn’t be able to tell us, right? I don’t need details, mate, just come clean. I had a bet on with Craig-o that you were some kind of spec ops dude. Where were you really? Afghanistan?’
‘Why’d I be in Afghanistan?’ Rembrandt was truly puzzled.
‘Fuckin’ up the Taliban,’ Barry said.
‘Are they something like the Mujahedeen? They’re the good guys, aren’t they?’
‘Shit! Where have you been the last twenty years? Al-Qaeda? Osama bin Laden? Nine-Eleven?’
Rembrandt didn’t reply.
‘You do know that the twin towers were brought down, right?’ Craig added.
‘You’re talking about the World Trade Centre in New York? Yeah, I’m sure they came down with everything else.’
Craig and Barry frowned at each other. Then Craig clicked his fingers, held out his hand. Barry scowled as he handed over the twenty-pound note.
‘Told you he was nuts,’ Craig whispered. Catching a look from Rembrandt, he added quickly, ‘No offence, mate. It’s just that…well, you have to admit you are kind of out of it.’
‘Yeah,’ Rembrandt agreed sardonically, ‘by a very long shot.’
Chapter 10
April 1st 2018
Undisclosed location, England
Major Vincent Coombs wore no insignia or indication of his rank. Dressed in an expensive and obviously bespoke navy blue suit, crisp shirt, knotted tie and brogues buffed to a mirror shine, he had the look of a City banker. He was aged in his mid-fifties, but he carried his years well. Straight-backed, shoulders held squarely, he had the build of man twenty years his junior. When the guard – overweight Barry – had described him as a donkey leading lions, he’d got it wrong. Rembrandt recognised a fellow warrior when he saw one, and he could tell from the Major’s muscle tone and bearing that he hadn’t won his pips from behind a desk or in a golf club. Coombs had the thousand yards stare of a man who’d seen service, who’d traded rounds for rounds, and came out on top. In his presence, Rembrandt felt that perhaps he should salute: latent memory swimming to the surface of his consciousness?
‘Good to see you back on your feet, Sergeant Johnston,’ Coombs said as Rembrandt came to a halt in front of his desk. ‘But, please, let’s not rest on formality. Take a seat.’
Rembrandt felt a pang of déjà vu, recalling the similar greeting made to him by the other Terrence Semple a few days – sixteen years – earlier. Then he’d declined to sit and he did so now. ‘I prefer to stand, sir,’ he said. ‘And I prefer to be referred to by my proper name. Chief James Rembrandt.’
‘I heard you were still suffering residual amnesia from your ordeal. You still don’t recall who you really are?’
‘Really, I’m James Rembrandt. David Johnston died many years ago.’
‘It saddens me to hear you say those words, uh, Rembrandt. Sergeant Johnston was under my command. He was a good soldier, and a good man.’
‘I’m better,’ Rembrandt stated. ‘At least as a soldier.’
Nodding, the major studied him. Then he took his own offer of seating himself, not in his chair but on the edge of his desk. ‘You have certainly proved resilient and more than capable in a fight, a survivor. Judging by your scars you’ve seen more action than most other veterans of a similar age.’
‘Yes,’ Rembrandt added, ‘and with no time off for rest and recuperation. I survived – as you describe it – thirteen years of daily battle.’
‘It must have been tough?’
‘It was the only life I knew,’ Rembrandt corrected. ‘When you’ve nothing else to compare it to, you take your lot and get on with it.’
‘Spoken like a true soldier,’ Coombs smiled. ‘But then, over there, I hear tell you were a policeman.’ The major showed he’d studied the debriefing reports that Professor Doherty had collated during their sessions together. ‘You worked directly under Governor Terrence Semple. Now there’s one hell of a coincidence, or one hell of a quirk of fate. Here Semple runs this facility, over there a castle?’
