An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  “Yes.”

  He smiles. “This seems logical to you?”

  “Of course,” I frown. “Why, what’s your explanation?”

  He shrugs. “I have none. People are. When they die, they are not.”

  “But where do they come from?” I press. “How did all these people get here? Do you know?”

  He hesitates. “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  “You mean it’s part of your instinctual knowledge, that it only comes to the surface when prompted by specific events?”

  “Ah,” he winks, “you’re beginning to understand our ways. That’s good. Some of your kind never get to grips with us. They remain rooted in the ways of their other place, rejecting change. They generally don’t survive very long. Belief isn’t necessary to thrive in this city, but understanding is. I think you’ll fit in nicely, Newman Riplan. You have what it takes.”

  “Yeah,” I grin sarcastically, “I’ve got the right stuff.”

  Our talk drags on for hours. The Alchemist is an inquisitive soul and genuinely wants to aid me in my quest for answers. He doesn’t come right out and say so but I think he also feels out of place. He knows – maybe only deep down – that this city doesn’t make sense, that people can’t just appear out of the blue, that the sun and moon should be constant, that the forces of chaos and order should be more evenly balanced.

  I ask where he lives but he won’t or can’t tell me. Nor can he describe where the wolfers, sandmen or baggers stay, how he recruits them or what they do to kill time between attacks. “They’re different to other people,” he says. “Like those you met at the drone port, Jess, Phil and Bryan. They have a firmer concept of the past and more of a comprehending of the exterior forces acting upon those of us here. If this world is a successor to yours, perhaps the sandmen and the others are humans who’ve retained fragments of old-world memories. Maybe they wind up in their jobs because they’re the best equipped to handle them.”

  “If that’s so,” I wonder aloud, “what’s my job? If a little recollection’s enough for a position with the sandmen, what does my full memory entitle me to?”

  The Alchemist shrugs and smiles. “If I know, I can’t currently say.”

  “I have a purpose though?” I push.

  “I think so,” he says.

  “But you’ve no idea what it is?”

  He shakes his head. “Not at the moment.” The Alchemist checks the falling sun and gathers up his robes. “I must be saying farewell.”

  “You’re leaving?” I ask dolefully.

  “I’ve spent too much time with you already,” he says. “There are things I must attend to, operations I must oversee. I don’t have what you would call a schedule, but my days are full. This city doesn’t run itself, even if it often seems that way.”

  I don’t like the idea of losing contact with him. There are still a thousand questions I want to ask. “Let me come with you,” I suggest. “If I see you in action, maybe I’ll learn more about you, this city and my place in it.”

  “Sorry,” he says, “but that’s not permissible. I’d like to take you with me – I enjoy your company and the way you stimulate my mind – but it’s not allowed.”

  “What if I want to get in touch with you again?” I ask. “How can I find you?”

  “You can’t,” he says. “There’s no way to directly contact me. I will know if you wish to find me – word spreads quickly – but may not be able to respond. I never know what duties I’ll be required to perform day to day.”

  “What if I unearth the truth?” I smile. “Do you want to know about it?”

  His smile matches mine. “I most certainly do.”

  “But how can I let you know if I don’t know where to find you?” I ask.

  “If the situation arises, you’ll find a way,” he assures me. “Of that I have no doubt.”

  The Alchemist shakes my hand. Ahead of us I spot a handful of wolfers waiting for him. Have they been following us or did they somehow sense where he would be and when? I think about asking the question but feel it would go unanswered.

  “Good luck with your quest,” the Alchemist says.

  “Thanks,” I sniff.

  “But be careful,” he warns. “This city can be cruel. You might be cut out for something wonderful in the future, but destiny – I think that’s the right word – won’t protect you from the perils of the present.”

  He joins the wolfers and they depart. As I turn and dig out my map to find the way home, I spot a giraffe loping down the road that – a quick glance at the map – leads into Piccadilly Square. I look for the Alchemist – I’d meant to ask him where the animals came from – but he’s gone. Oh well, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell me anyway.

  Home, I decide, to tell Cheryl about my audience with the Alchemist, and then to brainstorm, mull over and plan.

  THIRTEEN

  A couple of days have passed since my encounter with the Alchemist. I’ve spent the time pondering my next move. I haven’t been very good company and can feel Cheryl growing more frustrated by the day. She’s never been in a relationship that’s cooled. For her it’s always been hot, committed love followed by a clean, crisp break. She doesn’t know how to deal with my mood swings and mixed signals. If I told her I’d lost interest and wanted to leave, she’d be fine, but she can’t understand how I can want to stay but not be entirely in love with her at the same time.

  Finally, having made up my mind, I arrange a special night out, the fanciest nourishment house I can find, the grandest public car to convey us there, flowers, the lot. She arrives home from the candle-making factory, unaware of my romantic intentions, and nearly drops when she spots the beautiful dress draped across the bed, the new shoes, the erotic red candles.

  “What’s going on?” she gasps.

  “A treat,” I smile. “I’m taking you out. Unless you’ve other plans…?”

  She kisses me wildly, then slips out of her clothes and into the new gear. She almost rips the dress, she’s in such a hurry to try it on. I watch with a warm smile, sad there isn’t a mirror for her to admire herself in, then get into my own suit. As I’m adjusting the top button on the shirt my hands automatically slide up to rub my jowls, as they usually do when I’ve washed, shaved and spruced myself up, and that’s when – amazingly, for the first time – I realise that, though I haven’t shaved since arriving here, my face is as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom.

  Cheryl knows nothing about razor blades or shaving when I ask. “But I’ve seen people with beards,” I grunt. “I’ve seen a few women with hairy legs too.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Anyone can grow hair. I don’t know about getting rid of it though. If you grow it, I think you’re stuck with it.”

  “How do you grow it?” I ask.

  “Before you go to sleep, picture it in your mind,” she says, “where you want the hair to sprout and what you want it to look like.”

  “And it’ll be there the next morning?” I ask incredulously.

  “No,” she giggles, “but stubble will have emerged. You keep doing the same thing, night after night, until you’re satisfied with the result, then you stop.”

  I’ve never bothered with a beard before but it would be nice to try something new. I rub my face and wonder what it would look like bearded. Maybe the hair won’t develop – you might need to take sleeping pills for it to work – but I think, in light of the circumstances, I’ll give it a shot. After all, shouldn’t every explorer have a crazy, bushy beard?

  The night proceeds splendidly. We arrive at the nourishment house in style and are seated at the best table, on a hanging platform with a bird’s eye view of the entire room. Waiters present us with elaborate menus, from which we choose the priciest items, no expense spared. There’s no wine in this city – as I believe I’ve already indicated – but they have casks of specially treated sap, which lacks an alcoholic buzz but leaves something of a similar taste in the mouth.

&nb
sp; Cheryl studies the other women and remarks on their clothes and how drab they look compared to her gorgeous costume. “I’m glad you like it,” I grin. “I wasn’t sure you would.” (Like hell I wasn’t.)

  “Oh no,” she assures me, “it’s magnificent. But it must have cost as much as a car. How could you afford it?”

  “Mugged a coach-load of drones on the way in from the airport,” I smirk but the joke sails over her head.

  We go for a walk after the meal, by the banks of the prettiest canal I could find. Water lilies drift across the still surface like little green messages, while frogs – a rarity in the city, where most of the animals are of the more savage variety – croak melodically in the background. Cheryl sighs happily and rests her head on my shoulder. “This is wonderful,” she says softly, “the most perfect night I’ve known. Thank you.”

  “I’d spare the thanks if I were you,” I chuckle edgily. “There’s a stinger.”

  “A what?” she asks.

  “I had a hidden motive. I didn’t arrange this night for the noblest of reasons.”

  She stops and frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m leaving. I wanted this night to be special because it’s going to be our last together for some time, maybe forever.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says. “Have you fallen out of love with me?” I shake my head. “Tell me if you have,” she snaps. “I know a bit about how your mind works. If you’re saying you still love me just to spare my feelings…”

  “I’m not,” I promise. “I do love you. In another place, another time, I’d be delighted to –”

  “Stop saying that!” she shouts. “There are no other places or times. I’ve had enough of those lame excuses. I’ve made allowances because you’re different to most people, but those differences don’t mean you’re free to play with my feelings and treat me like a beast.”

  “It’s not like that,” I groan. “I’d stay with you if I could – God knows, it’s the easiest option – but this isn’t my city, not even my world. I’ve got to try and find a way back to my own.”

  “Then take me with you,” she says.

  “No,” I say firmly. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll run up against. Besides, if I find a way back, you might not be able to make it with me. Even if you could, I don’t think you’d like my world. You’d no more fit in there than I do here. If possible, I’ll try returning for you, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “What if you fail?” she asks quietly. “What if you can’t return, or wake up to the fact that there’s nowhere to return to, that this city is all there is? What then?”

  I shrug. “I’m trying not to think negatively. Things are going to be hard enough as they are without admitting defeat before I begin.”

  “Well,” Cheryl says coolly, “if you think you can waltz back and pick up where you left off, forget it.” She kicks off her shoes and starts to take off her dress.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.

  “I don’t want your shit,” she snarls, a rare and atypical curse.

  “Cheryl, don’t be silly, you can’t –”

  “I can do what I like, you bastard,” she cries. (That’s a word I taught her. With no families, there can be no bastards. No sons of bitches or motherfuckers either.) “You think you’re such a big man, more important than the rest of us, that we’re less human. Well, I’ve news for you, bastard, we’re not! You’re the one who isn’t human, who acts like a freak.”

  She’s out of the dress now. Throws it in the canal. Stands before me, naked and quivering with rage.

  “Leave if you want,” she says, angry tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. “Go hunt for this other world of yours. Do what you like. You always do. But don’t expect me to sit here and wait for you. I’m not half the fool you take me for. I don’t care that I’m in love with you. My feelings can go snuff themselves. I’m through with you, Newman Riplan. I’ve had it with your selfish, ignorant ways. You say you’re leaving?” She sneers through her tears. “Too late, bastard, because I’ve already left.”

  And she turns her back on me and storms off, a superb dramatic exit, bare, indignant buttocks illuminated by the soft canal lights.

  I’ve felt a lot of things since that flight out of Amsterdam took a turn for the surreal. I’ve been scared, confused, angry, fascinated, alienated. I’ve known elation when I made my first return to the real world, and despair when I returned a second time. I’ve felt like a king, performing in Kipp’s, and like a powerless slave more times than I can recall. But right now I just feel like a rat, a complete and utter scumbag of the highest order.

  I return to Franz’s and pack a bag, not much, just the essentials — a change of clothes, several pairs of socks, drone teeth, my maps. I tell Franz I’m leaving but that Cheryl may or may not be staying. He takes the news in his stride. “Even if she doesn’t stay,” he says, “I’ll keep the room vacant in case you return.”

  “You don’t have to,” I reply. “I don’t know when – if ever – I’ll be back.”

  “That’s OK,” he smiles, “business is bad anyway. I probably couldn’t rent it out even if I wanted.”

  I thank him and tip him a few teeth, then let myself out and hail a public car. I give the driver the name of a shop in a street at the farthest eastern edge of my charted maps. It doesn’t take long to get there — traffic is never a problem at night. I check into a local boarding house and bed down. I remember the beard just before drifting off and fall asleep visualising it.

  I rise with the sun and hit the streets. I face east and take a deep breath. This is it, the start of my great escape. I haven’t seriously set out to leave the confines of the city before. Now I’m going to. I’ll face the rising sun every day and walk till it drops behind me, find a boarding house and tuck in for the night, then set off again in the morning. This way I’m bound to make it out eventually. What I’ll find is anybody’s guess – maybe it’ll be worse than what’s here – but one thing’s for sure. Whatever lies beyond, at least it won’t be merely more of the same.

  Walking fills my days. Every waking hour – bar a few set aside for refreshments and asking questions of the locals – is devoted to it. My legs have forgotten what inertia feels like. Even in sleep they twitch and strain, toes curling beneath the covers of unfamiliar beds. My feet will never forgive me for what I’m putting them through. I’ve almost worn out the shoes I began with, and they were nearly new when I started.

  I’ve no idea how many kilometres I’ve covered, but it must be several hundred. It’s been at least seventeen or eighteen days since I departed – I can’t be any more accurate than that, since time doesn’t mean so much when you’re on the road – and I must surely be covering twenty or thirty klicks a day, maybe more.

  My beard has come on in leaps and bounds, the growth far quicker here than in the other world. I like playing with it as I walk. I set out to wind it into braids, but that reminded me of Cheryl, so I quit. I’m sure I look a fright – beard to the chest, dusty from the road, wide-eyed from staring at the sun to check my direction – but I haven’t been turned away from any boarding houses on account of my looks. In this city, teeth talk.

  Five more days of walking, maybe six — I don’t think it’s been more than seven. I bought a new pair of shoes yesterday and had huge, bubbling blisters growing out of my heels when I woke this morning. I thought about resting for the day but decided against it. Popped the blisters, wrapped makeshift bandages round my ankles and walked off the pain. I’ll be in agony come night but as long as infection doesn’t set in you won’t find me complaining.

  I’ve been expecting the city to change but have noticed nothing new in the architecture so far. Or the people.

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “What does outside mean?”

  “The end of the city? How can the city have an end?”

  I’ve asked publi
c car drivers if they know how to get to Kipp’s or Franz’s. They do. I’m not sure how to react to their familiarity with my old stomping ground. On the one hand it’s nice to know I can return if things go sour, but on the other it would be encouraging to wind up in a place where nobody knew anything about that other part of the city. It would give me the sense that I was getting somewhere.

  I’ve taken to climbing tall buildings – I’ve never looked on this city from a height – but to no advantage. The few which tower above the others are devoid of windows on the higher storeys and access to their roofs is restricted. I’ve considered trying to scale the walls from the outside but I’m no daredevil. I’d be sure to fall and plummet to my death.

  What would happen to me if I died here? Would I simply blink out of existence, as I always believed I would back in the real world? (I’ve taken to referring to it as that again, for the duration of the quest.) Or would I move on to a world even stranger than this? Perhaps there’s an endless string of these hermetic worlds and death is simply a code required to pass from one to another. Maybe the real world wasn’t my first experience of life. Perhaps, because of the way life operates there, it just seemed like that. I might have been knocking about between universes for thousands – millions – of years. I may even have been in positions like this before, where the memory of one life spills over into the next.

  Hell, it’s even possible that death will return me to good old Mother Earth. I’ve pretty much given up on my body – Newman Riplan’s dead and gone in the world-that-was – but perhaps I could come back as someone or something else. Maybe the reincarnationists got it right and the soul is infinite, forever moving between bodies and worlds.

  I ponder coming back as a child, memory banks wiped, life to live all over again, and can’t decide whether that’s an attractive or terrifying prospect. Either way, I’m in no rush to put an end to my current existence. I’m not that desperate.