by Mark Morris
I heard the unreal Clover say, ‘It’s no good, Alex. You’ve got to go, before he comes back.’
You’re only saying that because you know there’s no way I’ll abandon you, I thought bitterly, before the past me replied, ‘Don’t worry. If I can get the heart to work, it’ll protect us from that freak who attacked us in Incognito – him and his army.’
I frowned. Hang on. Was that what I’d originally said? It didn’t sound right somehow.
Before I had time to ponder on it, the unreal Clover said, ‘That wasn’t who took me.’
The past me looked surprised. ‘Who was it then?’
‘It was me!’
I turned my head, already knowing what I would see. Barnaby McCallum was stepping from the shadow of one of the arched openings about fifty metres away.
It wasn’t the real McCallum, of course. It was yet another splinter of the shape-shifter.
The past me gaped at him. ‘But you’re dead. I killed you.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’ The shape-shifter in McCallum’s form pointed at the heart in my hand. ‘Now, I believe you have some property of mine. Perhaps you should give it back before someone gets seriously hurt.’
I frowned again. What’s wrong with this picture? I thought. Then, as the false McCallum took a lurching step forward, I realised.
No Frank.
Again. He hadn’t appeared in my earlier vision and now he wasn’t here either.
The past me stood with the heart held above his (my) head, as if it was a rock he was intending to lob at the old man.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I heard my past self say. ‘Don’t come any closer. I want to know what’s going on. I want to know why you aren’t dead. Most of all, I want to know where my daughter is.’
The shape-shifter smiled. It was a warm smile. Reassuring.
‘So many questions. Though I can hardly blame you, I suppose. As regards what’s going on and why I’m not dead, it’s… complicated, Alex. Let’s leave it at that. As regards your daughter, I’m pleased to say I have information that will lead to her recovery. Rest assured, I simply want what’s best for all of us. What’s right.’
The past me looked uncertain, suspicious, though I could see that he was desperate to believe the old man.
‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’ he said.
McCallum rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
And then he came apart.
It was like before – one second he was standing there, the next he became a mass of slithering snakes; of insects, both flying and scuttling, that erupted outwards in all directions. The big difference this time, though, was that Frank wasn’t there to throw up a wall of darkness against them. They swarmed, unimpeded, towards the past me in a crackling, rustling, buzzing wave.
I saw the past me swing back to the cage, saw him begin once again to bash the heart against the bars. Although his (my) voice was muffled by the rush of creatures, I could hear him frantically muttering, ‘Come on, come on, come on.’
Last time this had happened, Frank had stopped a good ninety-nine per cent of the advancing wave of creatures in their tracks. The heart had finally erupted into life only when a weakened shred of the shape-shifter, in the form of a huge moth, had stung me on the back of the neck.
This time was different. This time the creatures were on me before the heart could respond – or at least, before it did respond. Watching from the sidelines I was shocked not only by the sight of the creatures swarming over my past self and literally taking him apart (once again there was blood; a lot of blood), but also because I had previously assumed, or at least hoped, that with the heart in my possession I was more or less invulnerable; that if ever I was physically threatened, it would respond immediately and protect me.
Not so. Not in this vision anyway.
I came to lying on the kitchen floor, with Clover bending over me. When I’d had the vision where I’d found myself in Pentonville I’d woken up alone in the sitting room, hunched in an armchair in front of the fire, slumped to one side with drool leaking out of the side of my mouth. I hadn’t said anything to Clover about that vision, just as I hadn’t mentioned the first one to her either, and so as far as she was concerned, this was the second occasion where, for no discernible reason, I’d phased out.
‘I’m fine,’ I said as she helped me sit up, ‘I slipped.’
‘You didn’t slip,’ she said. ‘You passed out. Just like before.’
‘No I didn’t. I’m still a bit wobbly, that’s all. I tried to stand up – I was going to get myself a drink – but my leg couldn’t take the weight. My knee buckled and I went down. But I’m fine, honestly. It wasn’t like before.’
‘It was like before. You didn’t just fall, Alex, you were completely out. I’m taking you back to Oak Hill right now. Something’s wrong with you. It might be something ser—’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I bellowed, shocking her.
My anger was out of proportion, and as soon as the outburst was over I was ashamed of it. I knew Clover was only showing concern, and I wasn’t angry with her specifically. It was just that I was worried and confused about what might be happening and why, and frustrated by the simple fact that I didn’t need this, that I had to find Kate and couldn’t afford to let anything hamper me.
I apologised to her as humbly as I could, and reminded her that the last time she’d taken me back to Oak Hill, after my blackout at Benny’s, Dr Wheeler had found nothing wrong with me.
‘I can’t afford for them to keep me in,’ I said. ‘I can’t afford to waste any more time having tests.’
‘You can’t afford to drop dead of a fucking stroke or brain haemorrhage either!’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do. This is… different. Look, just trust me, okay? I’ll be fine.’
Finally she agreed to let me be – not that she could have made me go back to Oak Hill without bludgeoning me unconscious and dragging me physically out to the car – but she did make me promise that if I had another blackout I would go, not only for my own sake, but for Kate’s.
I agreed, keeping my fingers crossed that either my visions were finally over or that if I did have another one it would happen when I was alone, and she would therefore hear nothing about it.
I was bang out of luck on both accounts.
The next time I shifted, only a matter of hours after the argument with Clover, I found myself in a small, rectangular room with a brown carpet and white walls. The room was featureless except for two chairs, which were upholstered in olive-green PVC and positioned side by side against one of the long walls. The chairs faced what I guessed was a screen or a window or perhaps a large painting, concealed behind a pair of pale blue curtains with a pull cord at one side. Although the room could not have been plainer, I immediately felt an unfocused but acute dread mounting inside me – not because I necessarily felt that bad things had happened here, but more from a sense that bad memories could be, and had been, made here – the kind that could become embedded in the mind like sharp stones and forever cause pain.
Please, I thought, without knowing who or what I was appealing to, take me away from here. I don’t want this.
But it was no good. I couldn’t move, couldn’t leave, couldn’t even close my eyes.
All I could do was watch as the door in the narrow wall at the far end of the room opened and two people came through.
One was a man in a suit – balding, glasses; I barely registered him.
The other was me.
If I could have gasped I would have done. I looked dreadful. Not only ill, not only haggard, but haunted – my face etched with such pain, such despair, that I felt terribly, instantly afraid. Even though I couldn’t move I felt my soul, my essence, if such a thing exists, shrinking away from this appalling representation of what I had, or could, become. It was as if the other me had an infection so virulent it could spr
ead through the multiverse, affecting each and every one of my alternate selves.
The other me stumbled and the man in the suit reached out to grab his arm.
‘Are you all right, Mr Locke?’
Of course I’m not fucking all right! I retorted silently, and saw a flash of that thought echoed on the other me’s face.
But he simply nodded. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘Would you like to sit for a few minutes to gather yourself? Perhaps a glass of water?’
The other me shook his head curtly. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
The man in the suit nodded solicitously. Indicating the curtains he said, ‘Behind here is a window. Through it you will see a brightly lit room containing a trolley on which the deceased will be lying. The deceased will be covered in a sheet. As soon as you’re ready, Mr Locke, and not a moment before, a colleague of mine, who will be standing beside the trolley, will fold back the sheet, revealing the face of the deceased. You will then be required to confirm the deceased’s identity – or not, as the case may be. Do you understand?’
The other me gave another curt nod and barely whispered, ‘Yes.’
The man in the suit reached for the curtain cord. ‘Very well. If you could step a little closer to the curtain? That’s it… Now, if you’re ready?’
I saw the past me’s hands clench at the ends of ramrod-straight arms. Another papery whisper: ‘Ready.’
With a faint grinding swish the curtains peeled back. Beyond them was exactly what the man had promised: a brightly lit room, a trolley, a body beneath a sheet. On the far side of the trolley, his face carefully neutral, stood a burly man with close-cropped ginger hair, wearing a blue V-neck surgical top over a white T-shirt.
The other me gave a low moan. The man in the suit glanced at him, but said nothing. A moment went by. The other me shuddered. Then he (I) turned to the suited man, his head moving so slowly it made me think of a rusty automaton coming to life after years of inactivity.
‘Okay.’
The suited man’s lips twitched in sympathy and support. He turned to the ginger man in the surgical top and nodded. The ginger man reached out, his hands encased in latex gloves, and almost daintily folded back the top of the sheet. The other me moaned again and seemed to sag. Between the other me and the man in the suit I saw the waxy face of the deceased, who the other me had come here to identify.
It was my eldest daughter, Candice.
The shock jolted me back to my own reality. I came to, flailing, screaming out denials, as if that alone would enable me to unsee what I’d seen. I felt a weight on me, holding me down, clamps tightening on my arms. My vision was a blur, a confused smear of colour and movement. I struggled, blinked, and realised that the reason I couldn’t see was because my eyes were full of tears. I blinked more rapidly to clear them. My eyes focused.
Déjà vu. Here was Clover again. Bending over me. Hair falling around her face. Large, widely spaced eyes full of fear, alarm… and anger too. Anger at me for point-blank refusing to go back to Oak Hill. Anger at herself for allowing me to persuade her I was okay.
‘Alex!’ she was saying, and from the way she was saying it I guessed it wasn’t the first time. ‘Alex, can you hear me?’
I forced myself to stop screaming, to stop saying no. I tried to nod and realised I was shaking so much I could barely control my movements. When I tried to speak I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
‘Alex!’ she repeated. ‘Are you with me or not? Do you know where you are?’
With an almighty effort I wrestled free of the involuntary spasms racing through my body. I clamped my mouth shut and closed my eyes tight, then opened them again.
‘Yes,’ I whispered, and this time felt only a slight judder in my jawbone, as though a low electrical charge was running through me. ‘Yes, I know where I am. I’m back. I’m fine. I had another one, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you fucking did.’ Anxiety was making her cross. ‘And you are definitely not fine. This time you’re going back to Oak Hill. I don’t care what you say. In fact, you promised, so that’s that.’
My faculties were slowly returning. Glancing around I realised where I was – in the bathroom on the second floor – and what I’d been doing when I’d blacked out: washing my hands.
Things could have been worse. If the vision had come a couple of minutes earlier I’d have toppled off the toilet where I’d been sitting, and would now be lying on the bathroom floor covered in my own shit with my jeans and boxer shorts round my ankles.
I moved my head and winced as a throb of pain went through my temple. I put my hand up to the sore spot and winced again. There was a lump there and it hurt like hell. I must have caught it a whack on the sink or the side of the bath when I went down.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I said.
Clover rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t give me that crap.’
Still lying on my back, I raised my hands, as if warding off an attack from a wild animal.
‘No, listen. I’ll go to Oak Hill if you want me to. But I want to talk to you first. I want to explain. I should have told you straight away.’
‘Told me what?’
‘These… episodes. They’re not strokes or fits. I don’t think they’re physical at all. They’re… mental attacks. Well, maybe not even attacks. Warnings.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re not making sense.’
‘Help me up and I’ll explain.’
When she did I discovered that I’d caught my knee a good one too, probably on the floor when I went down. It was now throbbing like a bastard, and made me cry out when I tried to put my weight on it. With my arm around Clover’s shoulders I limped into my bedroom – the one I’d woken up in after taking a pounding from Hulse and his cronies the first time I’d found myself in Victorian London; the one where a future version of me had appeared on the night Hawkins had died and persuaded me to change history, and because of that had then never had cause to exist.
‘So?’ Clover said, hands on hips, after I’d flopped with a grunt onto the bed.
I shuffled up the mattress until my back was against the headboard and I could stretch out my injured leg. Then I gestured towards the chair where the future me had once sat.
‘Sit down a minute.’
She sighed, but did as I asked.
‘Every time I blacked out I went somewhere,’ I said. ‘I revisited my past – except I didn’t. Because on each occasion something had changed.’
She frowned, but before she could say anything I launched into an explanation of what had happened during each of my visions. The longer I spoke the more thoughtful and worried-looking she became. Finally I told her about the latest vision; about how I’d found myself in a morgue or a coroner’s office, or wherever it was that someone went to identify a relative’s body (I hoped I’d never have to find out, never have to go through the experience for real) and what I’d seen there.
‘It was awful, Clover.’ My voice had started to shake again. ‘I mean, they were all awful, but that was the worst. No offence. It’s just…’
‘I know,’ Clover said almost bluntly. ‘Candice is your daughter. Your own flesh and blood. Her death – her perceived death – is bound to affect you more than… well, more than anyone else’s.’
I fell silent. She was frowning, almost scowling. Despite what she’d said I wondered whether I had offended her by saying that seeing Candice lying dead in the morgue had been worse than seeing Clover beheaded by the shape-shifter.
I was about to say something, if only to break the silence, when she muttered, ‘You say you thought these visions might be warnings?’
I nodded.
‘Of what might happen if you don’t use the heart again?’
‘Yeah.’ I used my fingers to count off each specific future action. ‘If I don’t save Frank; if I don’t pay Benny to protect me in prison; if I don’t pay off Candice’s boyfriend’s debt…’
Still frowning she said, ‘
Except these… scenes you’ve been shown, these visions… they don’t quite tally, do they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, take the first vision at Benny’s house, and then the third one in the tunnels. If you don’t meet Frank, and I die in Benny’s conservatory as a result, then you’d never have been lured to the Isle of Dogs to save me, would you? I mean, I’d already be dead, so that future would never happen.’
‘So what are you saying? That the visions are false?’
‘I think they’re… I don’t know… fabrications? Dramatic fictions?’
I thought about it. ‘You mean they’re not really real? They’re not alternate bits of this multiverse of yours I’m being shown? They’re just… what? Dreams?’
‘More than dreams, maybe. Worst-case scenarios. But fictions all the same.’
‘But they’re still warnings? They’re still examples of the kinds of things that might happen if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do – if I miss an appointment, as it were?’
Clover shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m not sure how it works. I mean, we’re here, aren’t we? We’ve arrived at this point in our lives. I wasn’t killed by the shape-shifter in Benny’s conservatory.’
‘But time is flexible,’ I said, thinking again of the future me who had appeared at my bedside on the night Hawkins had been killed, the one whose warning had caused me to change what I might otherwise had done, thus negating the need for me to go back in time and issue the warning to my past self in the first place. ‘It’s not solid. If things change in the future, then maybe the past can be… I don’t know… rolled back. Reshaped. The multiverse, remember. Maybe if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do, this present, the one we’re living in now, will disappear, or be shunted into another reality or something.’
‘And I’ll die,’ said Clover. ‘And Candice will die. And maybe even you’ll die too.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
