A Mind of its Own

by Martyn Ford

  They told Barry he was a good boy and then used the ladder to scale the tower. Dee helped Tim to his feet on the metal balcony. Crouching, they snuck round to the door and gently eased it open.

  On the table, in the middle of the small room, sat the imagination station, charging up from a mains socket. Tim had previously thought this need for power was a design flaw, but now he was grateful – these extra few minutes before it could be used had made all the difference.

  It was exactly like the drawing Tim had seen that day in Rick Harris’s office at TRAD. A flat, dark grey metal box with a tall container perched on top. Suspended in translucent liquid, barely visible through the tinted viewing window, was the replica of Tim’s brain. It stood to attention, perfectly still, held in place by the spine of wires leading into the back of it. And the reader, attached to the base by coiled cables, like a heavy tail, was at the side of the machine. Just seeing it felt like a victory in itself.

  They crept inside a little further but, when they were just a metre or so away from it, Stephen spotted them. He dived across the room and grabbed the device under his arm – it looked heavy and cumbersome, but he still moved fast. Without a word, he stumbled desperately towards the opposite door. However, Tim stood upright, waved a hand and the door was instantly a wall. Stephen slammed against the new bricks, confused. Tim was calmer now – seeing the imagination station, he knew he was back in the driving seat. Again, Stephen scrambled for another exit but was stopped when Tim sealed that one too.

  ‘Stephen,’ Tim whispered. ‘Hand it over.’

  Hugging the contraption to his chest, Stephen shook his head, stepping backwards. ‘No.’

  Dee sighed. ‘You’re not in a strong position, buddy,’ she said. ‘Tim could turn your blood to boiling custard just by thinking it. That’d be Deadville for you. Corpse Avenue.’

  Tim put his hand on his forehead and winced, making sure that didn’t accidently happen. ‘No, Dee, don’t say that.’

  ‘You can’t have it. I … I haven’t had enough time,’ Stephen said. And then his eyes flashed with an idea, a sudden realisation. ‘This is how things are, this is how they have to stay.’

  With that Tim watched, glaring and shaking his head, as Stephen pulled a handgun from his inside jacket pocket. For a moment Tim thought he might shoot him, or Dee, or perhaps even himself. But, instead, he placed the barrel of the pistol against the machine’s glass, pointing at the human brain enclosed within.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 22

  Once again, Tim’s mind acted in reflex, driven by anger and fear and shock. However, this time, he had no real idea what was happening.

  He knew, after Stephen pulled that trigger – that if a bullet drove its way through the imagination station, through that brain – they may well be stuck in this reality forever. So, without thinking, Tim scrunched his face up, grasped his head and whispered, ‘No.’

  The air around them seemed to thicken and tingle with static as Stephen watched the pistol leave his grip, floating up into the middle of the room, Tim guiding it with an invisible force he didn’t understand. It was suspended there, hovering, waiting, aiming now at the ceiling. There was a brief silence and then, when Tim exhaled, the gun went off and a shockwave blasted out from him, shattering glass and bricks and furniture.

  The sudden release triggered an earthquake – the ground lurched violently left and right and everyone in the watchtower was slammed on to the floor, pressed there by another unexplained force. Tim realised that it was, in fact, G-force that squeezed him, Dee and Stephen on the rumbling floor.

  For reasons his conscious mind couldn’t fully grasp, he made a tall brick tower appear beneath them. A large, skyscraper-sized column that tore the entire room from its metal frame legs and drove it – and everything inside – up into the air.

  Lying on the ground, dazed, Tim’s mind took yet more precautions. He looked up and the ceiling disappeared, replaced instantly with thin air. What remained of the walls faded away too. The scattered furniture went next, then the gun, Tim clearing away everything besides himself, Phil, Dee, Stephen and the imagination station.

  Less than ten seconds after Stephen had pulled out the pistol, they were all lying on top of a wide, empty platform, with nothing but clear sky around them. Tim crawled carefully to the edge and, still surprised by where he found himself, placed his fingers over the new bricks to look straight down.

  ‘Uhh,’ he said, realising how high they were.

  To his right, the sun was just behind the horizon, sending warm orange and morning purple on to the underside of hazy clouds. Tim looked over and out to sea, noticing the rising light and the curve of the earth. Trapped in the prison, he had forgotten that Hawk Peak was so close to the ocean. The air was fresh up here and the water looked as though it might just go on forever. He gazed along the cliffs of the coast, which ran off in a wiggly line. Three curious crows were circling above and a faint breeze was whistling.

  Beneath he could see the base of the tower, bricks spreading out organically like the roots of a great tree. He could also see the prison, just a small square now, with strange colours and odd things strewn about the middle. Luckily the majority of Tim’s creations were contained within the four large wings of the building. However, one of the dinosaurs was marching idly across a nearby wheat field and there was some commotion in the car park – a couple of fires and some more police arriving. What must they think of this daunting new tower growing out of the corner of the prison?

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Stephen asked, standing now.

  Tim shuffled away from the edge, stood and walked across to the imagination station.

  ‘I should ask you the same,’ he said, crouching to check the machine was still intact. A few scratches, but no serious damage. Tim eyed Stephen warily and said, ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Where?’ Stephen asked, looking at the empty floor.

  ‘There.’ Tim pointed as a chair appeared. He made one for him and Dee too.

  Stephen sat. It was obvious he had given up. Even someone who’d tasted such power knew when they were defeated.

  There was still so much about this universe that confused Tim. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’ he asked, not angrily, but out of pure curiosity.

  Stephen stared across the horizon. ‘She … my mother, she came back.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tim said. ‘I know. I know the man who repaired the teleporter – he made this thing too.’ He groaned as he heaved the imagination station up on to a new table. It was heavier than he thought it would be.

  Squirming, Stephen seemed almost ashamed.

  ‘I don’t understand though,’ Tim added, turning back to him. ‘Why would you help her again?’

  Stephen struggled to find the right words. ‘After what happened, at Crowfield House,’ he finally said, looking heartbroken at the memory. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I could hardly eat. I just felt so … so guilty.’

  ‘Well, I’m no psychiatrist,’ Dee said, ‘but teleporting your own mum into oblivion is not the kind of thing you just forget.’

  ‘She was … awful to me,’ Stephen said. ‘And, yes, I hated her for it. But … but she was still my mother – she still brought me into this world. When I heard she was alive, I was … I was relieved.’

  ‘So you broke into TRAD, what, to make it up to her?’ Tim said. ‘Sorry about the attempted murder, here’s a universe where all your dreams have come true?’

  ‘Kind of, yeah. We hoped to teleport into the Diamond Building, but Fredric was too stubborn, too scared of the technology.’ Stephen seemed so exhausted that he was happy to just tell them everything. ‘Instead, a bit of petrol and I slipped in disguised as a firefighter, using a key card mother stole from the upper floors to get to the restricted areas. Nothing changes the state of things quite like fire.’

  This was not the first time the Crowfields had used fire to get their way, Tim reflected. However
, this time, it wasn’t Clarice who got her hands dirty. ‘But then you used it, the imagination station – you used it yourself,’ Tim said.

  ‘I was meant to hand the device over to her,’ Stephen went on. ‘But once I understood it, I knew I could make a better world than she could. You know what she was like. Can you imagine what sort of terrible place she would want to create? So I put the reader on and … honestly, I wasn’t expecting it to actually work … but, then …’ He looked up at the sky, still amazed.

  ‘Why pick on me though?’ Tim asked. ‘I woke up in Glassbridge Orphanage, alone. My family, my friends, no one knew who I was.’

  This was by far the most bewildering part for Tim.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ Stephen said. ‘But I did it for your own good. What if there was still some part of her that remembered? Still wanted revenge for Crowfield House? I hid you away to keep you safe.’

  ‘But … but you left me able to remember everything?’ Tim said. ‘Why? Why not just erase my memories? Did you honestly think I would just accept it all? Were you punishing me?’

  ‘No … no. It wasn’t meant to happen that way,’ Stephen said. ‘It wasn’t how I imagined it. But it’s—’

  ‘It’s what?’ Tim snapped.

  Stephen took in a long breath. ‘Rick wrote about how the machine works, how the imagination station does what it does.’ He looked towards the ocean. ‘There are an infinite number of universes, he said. Which means every possible scenario, every conceivable arrangement of atomic matter, exists. Somewhere out there in the endless fabric of space and time, it’s all happening. Like a radio, the machine simply tunes in to one of these realities and your imagination dictates the frequency, it dictates the station.’

  Tim nodded, frowning – it was a simple explanation for an extremely complex thing. An infinite number of universes, he thought to himself. This was just one of them.

  ‘And it’s all thanks to the power of the human mind,’ Stephen added. ‘Your mind, Tim. The brain inside the jar. That is why you remember everything – that is the one thing I didn’t see coming, the one glitch in this system. I picked this world, but you made it …’

  Tim looked through the glass of the imagination station. It was a difficult thing to comprehend.

  ‘So, Timothy is still the architect of everything,’ Phil said. ‘You have simply hijacked his imagination.’

  ‘Wait, hang on,’ Dee said, thinking aloud. ‘The brain Tim created, the one in that machine, it created all of this. So he is a creation, of his own creation.’

  ‘It’s like a photo of a photo,’ Stephen added. ‘You can’t change the original. I tried to delete your memories, but your brain made a faithful copy of you – I suppose only the “master mind” would have that power. Either way, that’s why you didn’t fit into your new life. I tried to make it good, I gave you a loyal friend – loyal enough to lie to the police for you – and a safe place to live. You should have been happy.’

  In the weirdest possible way, that was almost a kind thing, Tim thought. Maybe Stephen wasn’t all that bad – and yet …

  ‘What about killing Fredric?’ Dee asked ‘What about framing us?’

  ‘What else could I have done?’ Stephen said. ‘When you made contact with him, I knew something was wrong. Those paths should not have crossed. I realised that you remembered – that you knew the truth. Luckily, I had positioned myself well to handle something like that. My mother thinks she is an ultimate ruler, but I command the Grey Guards, I have the real power here. Me, you and Fredric were the only people on this earth who knew about the imagination station. It was a case of two birds with one stone. He’s gone, and you’re wanted for his murder.’

  ‘And Granddad?’ Dee asked. ‘Have you murdered him too?’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s safe, somewhere, locked up in another prison I expect. I wouldn’t hurt someone without a good reason.’

  ‘So, then, for what reason did you keep Fredric around, with his memories?’ Phil asked, sitting now on the edge of the table. ‘You really risked it all for a petty punishment?’

  There was half a smirk on Stephen’s face. ‘I told him that he would regret not helping me.’

  ‘But then you killed him anyway,’ Dee said. ‘That is messed up.’

  Stephen rolled his eyes – and Tim saw just how much he looked like his mother. He actually looked skinnier, paler and, well, somehow uglier than Tim remembered. He seemed weak. Was this how he saw himself?

  ‘Oh, come on. Fredric was nothing,’ Stephen said. ‘Have you forgotten what he did? He was a murderer – are you really sad he’s dead?’

  Tim wasn’t necessarily sad about Fredric, but he was surprised to hear how cold Stephen was being. It wasn’t hard to understand why he was such a messed-up guy, what with his upbringing, but Tim had never realised just how much of Clarice there was in him.

  ‘What?’ Stephen said, noticing Tim’s reaction. ‘So I arranged to have someone murdered? Sue me.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘Oh, Clarice can indeed create monsters.’

  That was it, Tim realised. That was why Stephen had made himself this way, made himself into a mean, spiteful person. The kind of man who would murder someone without remorse. The kind of man who would order armed guards to shoot unarmed children.

  ‘You’ve become everything your mother said you were,’ Tim said. ‘If someone tells you that you’re no good, eventually you’ll start believing it. Eventually, it’ll become true.’

  ‘Judge me all you want. You don’t know what it’s like.’ Stephen looked close to tears. ‘To grow up and feel alone.’

  ‘I know exactly what that’s like,’ Tim said.

  ‘But I got nothing but hate from the person who is meant to love me the most,’ Stephen whispered.

  ‘Arson, murder, interdimensional shifts in reality?’ Phil added, stroking his chin. ‘All for something as simple as affection from your mother. You are quite the psychological case study, young Stephen Crowfield.’

  ‘And what about you, Tim?’ Stephen said, composing himself. He gestured over the edge of the bricks, to the prison below. ‘What makes you special? You’re going to put that reader on your head and use the imagination station? You’ve carved a path of destruction through my world, so what makes you think you can create a better one?’

  ‘I …’ Tim paused. He couldn’t really answer that question. The task seemed too daunting.

  ‘You have not addressed your worst crime of all,’ Phil said. ‘Why would you desire a universe without chocolate?’

  Sighing, Stephen let out a short laugh. ‘I’m lactose intolerant, so I guess that’s where that came from.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You have no soul,’ the monkey said.

  Tim took a deep breath. He’d heard enough. ‘Goodbye, Stephen,’ he said.

  A lift had appeared at the edge of the tower behind him, and Tim nodded at it.

  Patting his legs and sighing again, Stephen stood from the chair and strolled slowly to the new elevator. The doors slid open and he glanced around the interior, before stepping inside. He turned back and faced them, blinking in the golden sunrise.

  ‘Well, see you on the other side,’ he said with a casual salute.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ Tim replied.

  The doors slid closed, the lift descended. And, just like that, Stephen Crowfield was gone.

  Chapter 23

  Now alone on the tower, high above all the guards and creatures and colours below, Tim and Dee sat at the table. Tim pulled the imagination station towards him. All this potential, he thought, contained in such a small thing. And then Stephen’s words echoed in his ears – the power of the human mind. Tim always felt uneasy when he thought about his own brain, and here it was, a perfect replica suspended in liquid, running this machine. Everything he had ever seen or done, the memories that made him who he was, every single thought and emotion – it was all ultimately contained within the dark, confined space inside his skull. All just the
consequence of a few electrical signals shooting around a squidgy lump of wet stuff. This thought made him feel nervous and small.

  ‘A brain,’ he whispered. ‘A mind. A universe.’

  ‘So, yeah, to recap: new reality,’ Dee said. ‘I would like to be rich – not crazy rich, just quite rich. Enough cash to own a boat, but not so much that I forget to value it, you know? Also can I be a smidge taller. Again, don’t go crazy – I want to look normal … and, and …’

  She carried on listing her demands, counting them on her fingers, all the things she wants from life. Or, Tim thought, all the things she thinks she wants. He thought then of what Hammer said at the window. All he wanted was to be happy. But, beyond that, he couldn’t be specific.

  ‘You were right,’ Tim whispered. ‘Stephen was right. I don’t know how to make a better universe.’

  ‘Timothy,’ Phil said, sitting perched on the edge of the table just in front of the imagination station, ‘I am afraid to say, I think the window in which we could feasibly do nothing has long since passed.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re still wanted felons here,’ Dee said. ‘And Granddad is still locked up somewhere. Not to mention all those things down there.’

  They were right. Tim knew he had to do something. Staying in this reality was not an option – especially with his rampant powers of imagination back off the leash. ‘I … I could create my idea of a perfect life,’ he said. ‘If I knew what it was.’

  ‘There must be things you want?’ Dee said.

  ‘I want …’

  What did Tim want? He wanted things back to how they were – he wanted a family, a mother. Someone who would be there, someone who would ask how he was and care about the answer, someone who would give him advice on anything in the whole wide world. Someone like Elisa. He wanted that garden he’d imagined at the new hotel, a rose arch and fairy lights in the bushes. Short grass and long, simple evenings spent in a tree house. The smell of summer. He wanted to feel safe.