by Femi Fadugba
Just like the shades of blue, time itself is relative. It passes at one pace here and a slower pace over there, all depending on where you are and what you understand. And, since time, light and everything else in the universe can only be properly described through the language of the gods, even a few lessons of childhood maths can provide a brief glimpse of the Upper World. But, until you are fluent in the sacred language, do not expect to see much more.
Lastly, you must look through your WINDOW.
Our brothers and sisters in the East say that each snap of your finger contains 65 unique moments. Using pen and paper, physicists today can prove that the number is even greater. Now imagine the vast multiplicity of moments contained in one breath. One smile. One dream. How does the mind continually hold the near-infinite granules spanning an entire lifetime?
It can’t.
To ensure our survival, Nature decided long ago to restrict our view of time to a single moment: a solitary and ever-changing canvas on to which the immediate concerns of shelter, sustenance and procreation could be projected. The Now. Our view of the past was therefore relegated to a fuzzy blur and the existential distractions of the future blacked out completely. And yet our ability to tap into chronosthesia (mental time travel) was not destroyed. Only unplugged. Locked inside a crevice of our minds called the WINDOW.
The WINDOW is a memory from the past or the future. A memory unique to each individual, often so severe or traumatic that our minds force us to forget it. Due to the WINDOW being the lens through which we perceive true time, it is common to hear people claim that time ‘slowed down’ or even ‘completely stopped’ in these buried memories. It has been suggested that an acute or repeated concussion can temporarily ‘yank’ open one’s WINDOW. But all we know for sure is that the only safe path to the Upper World is through an Elder guiding you to your WINDOW, once you possess the language to see what’s on the other side.
In a few months you will leave your world and be born into ours, my child. You will be told that what you see with your physical eyes is final, and that men like me who claim otherwise are fools. But know that just beyond the tug of our chains and the warmth of this cave, a clearer, more terrifying world awaits us.
CHAPTER 6
Rhia · 15 Years Later
My old English teacher once said that the -cide in the word decide is the same as the one in homicide. ‘To choose one future is to murder all the rest,’ she warned. ‘Deciding is a ruthless act.’ As I sat on the carpet between Olivia’s knees, debating what to do next about my Dr Esso situation, trying not to flinch each time Olivia tugged a new strand into a new braid, I understood just how right my old English teacher had been.
I’d told Olivia (pretty much) everything. How I ran out the kit room the second Dr Esso ordered my Zuber because I thought that, if I stayed any longer, I’d spontaneously combust. I’d told her how my mum looked happier in his photo than in the one I had in my drawer, although she wasn’t even smiling in his. I’d also told her about the social, which I’d arrived only five minutes late to in the end thanks to a scary-fast Zuber ride. Looking back, it was laughable how stressed I’d been about that. With bigger things on my mind, I spent the entire night swaying back and forth – desperate to submit to the onslaught of emotions but afraid of being consumed by them. My team-mates were probably still debating what was wrong with me – so much for my plan to restore my reputation.
Olivia was also the only person who knew about my recurring dream (which she rightly called a nightmare). The one where my mum had blacked-out eyes and was reaching out to me, crying. Honestly, Olivia’s dreams were even weirder. Every foster kid I knew dreamt about their real parents. Even the ones with messed-up ones. Especially the ones with messed-up ones. She understood full well why I was so fixated on getting answers.
‘I just can’t believe this is happening to me,’ I said over my shoulder. Somewhere inside me was the child who’d always believed she’d find her way back to her mum. It was scary and exciting and amazing that it might finally come true.
But when all I got was a forced ‘I know’ from Olivia, I remembered to rein it in, to stop sounding so bloody happy about it all. She’d spent the past four days matching my excitement, revelation by revelation, smile for smile. But she couldn’t quite hide (not from me, anyway) the sombre gazes in between, the moments when I could see the sorrow she was holding back. That was the toughest part about growing up in struggle – your gains shone a light on the loss around you. Wins never fully got to feel like wins. I’d even considered not telling her at all, knowing she’d have given up everything to be where I was now.
But we were tied to each other, and sworn to transparency. Literally weeks after first meeting, three years earlier, we’d pinky-sworn to never let twenty-four hours pass without sharing big news. And it didn’t get bigger than this.
The state of our bedroom didn’t make it easy to think through the options. The outfits Olivia had tried on over the weekend were dotted in a trail from her wardrobe to the bottom bunk. In fact, the only things made up in there were our beds, and even that was thanks to the self-laying Blankoos that Poppy had bought us earlier in the year.
I had exactly three days until my next tutorial so I needed a plan fast. Specifically, I needed to find out everything Dr Esso knew about my mum, and that meant digging up information on him first.
‘Tilt your head forward a bit, sis.’ Olivia brushed through a kink before twisting the strand into a finished braid that she let fall to my collarbone.
I’d been sitting cross-legged in the same spot for so long that my right bum cheek had gone tingly. It was well past bedtime and we hadn’t reached the back of my hair yet, let alone a good answer. I’d offered to braid Olivia’s as well, but she was already booked in for an appointment tomorrow and committed to shaving her locs down to a level three.
‘I still think you should just confront him,’ she insisted.
Neither of us could tell how or why Dr Esso had found me, but we both agreed it wasn’t a coincidence. His overall sketchy behaviour … the photo. I was willing to bet everything he’d been in my mum’s life. And now – somehow – he’d snuck into mine.
‘What if he attacks me during the lesson?’ I replied. ‘Pulls out a knife or suttin.’
‘Just keep doing them at the stadium. There’s security guards everywhere, aren’t there?’
‘Fair,’ I said. Maybe the idea that he’d pull a slicer on me had been a tad extreme. ‘But what if I confront him and he bails? Or just straight up lies?’
I’d found surprisingly little about him online. The Open University had his profile on their website since he was a virtual teaching assistant there, and his bio mentioned he’d got his PhD in physics from the same department. What I didn’t find were any social-media profiles, avatars or news articles on him. Nothing in the wedding or parent registries, no trace of him socializing with other non-university humans. I still didn’t know him from a tin of beans. But the photo in his pouch had proven he was capable of keeping secrets. One careless step by me and he could easily disappear, along with the answers about my mum.
‘And even if he did tell me the truth,’ I continued. ‘I’d have no way of knowing if he was lying or not. He could just report me to Care for trying to nick money off him and then –’
‘I get it, sis,’ Olivia interjected, sighing. We had to toss that idea along with all the other rubbish ones we’d come up with, including telling Tony and Poppy. ‘Back to the drawing board we go.’
The moment my foster dad’s name crossed my mind, our bedroom door creaked open, and he slid his large head through it.
‘Rhia,’ Tony whispered, pushing his face an inch further in. I used to joke with Olivia that you could use his chin to tell the time of day: white and smooth in the mornings; shadow by lunch; stubble before supper and bristle right after it. ‘Could you do us a favour and grab a Christmas gift for Mum this weekend?’
He’d made the same request the
last three years, but never this early in December. Good for him, I thought. To be fair to Tony, Poppy was by far the hardest person to buy gifts for. And that meant a lot, coming from me. Olivia was big on these things called love languages and was convinced my preferred dialect for expressing love was giving gifts. I did enjoy that shit. But, even with my natural enthusiasm, it was impossible to figure out what to get our foster mum. We all knew what she hated: night shifts, dishes in the sink, any activist with a marketing deal. In terms of what she (mildly) liked: battered Mars bars, being a mum, Tony about six days of the week. But what she loved? It certainly wasn’t the 3D-printer cartridge I’d got her last Christmas that came preloaded with a synthetic cashmere scarf (I thought that was pretty manic). It wasn’t the paisley-patterned flower vase that Olivia had got her either.
‘I’ll send you the cash in the morning. Just make sure it’s nice and unique. And under 120 quid, ideally. Oh, and we need a Christmas tree as well, so I’ll throw in another thirty for that.’
‘That all?’ I replied, secretly fired up for the challenge of nailing the holidays this year.
He reflected a cheeky grin back at me. ‘Thanks, Rhia. Now, don’t be up long, you two. Night, Liv.’
Almost any sound made it through the leaf-thin walls of our two-bedroom flat, so, to be safe, Olivia waited a while before relighting the conversation in a whisper.
‘So –’ she put the comb down on the bed – ‘have you thought about why he has your mum’s photo in his wallet?’
‘I think they probably went school together,’ I said. ‘But not sure. Still tryna figure it all out.’
‘Right, but you don’t think he might be …’ She went quiet for a second. ‘Your dad?’
It was a fair question; I just hadn’t worked up the courage to ask it myself. He seemed old enough, and the photo of my mum in his wallet was a potential hint. My dad, whoever he was, had never really been in the picture. Maybe because he literally wasn’t in that picture in my drawer. And, ignoring how awkward Dr Esso had been in our first meeting, there was something faintly appealing about the idea. He was smart and knew how to have a laugh, and I’d have gone as far as calling him considerate if he’d not gone full CPT on the worst possible night. But, for now, I had to resist reaching for too much in one go. I wasn’t sure I could survive double disappointment. Finding out more about Mum, even if only a sniff of her, would be enough. Whatever else came out of my information dig, I’d judge when I saw it.
‘I just think there’s more to this guy than –’ She probably noticed how tightly my shoulders had clumped in the last few seconds. And so she caught herself, sighed and moved on. ‘Lean forward again, please.’
‘My bad,’ I replied, grateful she’d eased off the topic.
After hearing our exchange, the carpet decided to tell us off via the speaker in the floorboards. ‘You have spent sixty … three … minutes … in a suboptimal sitting posture,’ came the automated message. ‘It is advised that you take a walking break and, when you return, retain a flat –’
‘Shut up, carpet!’ I said, aiming my voice down at my lap. And then it dawned on me. The answer to how I could get the information about my mum that I needed … I was literally sitting on top of it.
‘Specs’ lived in the exact same flat as us – same maroon-painted door, same front room facing the landing – just one floor down. His parents had moved into the estate a year ago and, since their arrival, opinion on the block was angrily split on whether Specs was a looker or just a geek with a deep voice. For reasons beyond my intellect, Olivia was convinced he was perfect for me. She tended to have much stronger opinions on my love life than I did, especially when it came to my last and only ex, who she positively loathed. I maintained (even a year later) that he was a decent guy. Strange, yes. Acquired taste, sure. But decent overall.
Specs was an inch taller than me (five foot ten-ish on air bubbles) but towered over Olivia as they negotiated back and forth.
‘By the way, what happened to your glasses?’ she asked him.
She’d read online about this negotiation tactic called a ‘snow job’. To me, it sounded like something a call girl in the Alps could charge for, but apparently it meant drowning your bargaining opponent with confusing questions to get the upper hand. Ultimately what we wanted from Specs were the keys to Dr Esso’s digital life. We needed the answers to how he knew my mum, what he knew about her and what he might want from me. And, with the right access, there wasn’t much you couldn’t find on the dark web, including his government data and any articles about him that might have got archived.
‘I don’t wear them no more,’ Specs replied.
‘Did you get holo-lenses put in? Stem cells?’ Loudly popping bubble gum must have been part of her act as well.
‘Nah, I just don’t wear them any more.’
Given everything that was at stake for me, I had the shortest patience imaginable for this eye banter. ‘What’s your final price, bruv?’ I butted in.
‘Eighty.’
‘And, once we bring his iris scan back, how long will it take you to pull his deets from the dark web?’
Specs stared at Olivia, equal parts surprised and annoyed. ‘As I already told your sister three times –’ he gripped the door handle, as if he might shut it at any second – ‘you need to get someone else to pull this guy’s data. The price I quoted is just for the iris scanner.’
Olivia gave me a reassuring look before fighting back. ‘Specs, ain’t you going Cambridge or suttin next year? Why you being so tight, you little posh boy?’
‘Yes, I am going Cambridge,’ Specs replied. ‘No, I am not posh. And the reason I’m being tight is because tuition is twenty-three bells a year and I don’t get to earn proper money until after I graduate. And getting nicked for hacking someone’s private data is a sure way to guarantee I don’t graduate.’
I could feel my stomach lifting, as if it could also sense the ground rapidly disappearing from beneath me. I’d felt so close to getting answers.
What use is half a key? I wanted to shout. What am I meant to do with just his iris scan?!
Specs must have seen the life fleeing my face, because he turned to me with a softer look. ‘I’m sorry, Rhia. I really wish I could help you with the data pull.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Honestly, I just happen to have this illegal piece of tech. I’m not a proper trapper. And I’m definitely not a scammer.’
‘It’s lax, bruv,’ I said, shielding my sad eyes from him.
‘Well,’ Olivia declared. ‘I guess we should just take our money somewhere else, then. Come on, sis.’
She grabbed my hand and started down the landing, winking at me once she knew he couldn’t see. Principle number three, I could imagine her reciting in her head, always be willing to walk.
And that was exactly the problem. I wasn’t willing to walk. I couldn’t unsee what I’d found in Dr Esso’s wallet even if I wanted to. And how was I meant to live out my life knowing I’d reversed at the first pothole? Maybe half of the key wasn’t nothing. For all I knew, getting his iris scan might be the hardest part.
One foot in front of the other, I told myself. Get the scanner … Then figure out how to get the data pull … Then you’ll have your answers.
I snatched my hand out of Olivia’s, turned back and shoved my trainer into the crack just before Specs managed to close the door.
‘The scanner. You said I have to hold it how close to his eyes?’ I asked, forcing a brave face while pain skipped across my wedged toes.
Thankfully he opened the door again, asking a hundred times if I was all right.
‘How close, Specs?’ I repeated, ignoring him.
‘Twenty centimetres,’ he said. ‘Max.’ He dangled the disc-shaped device in the air between us. It was built like a slice off the fat end of a carrot. ‘Just hold it steady in front of his right eye until this red light on the back goes green.’
‘Deal.’ I held out four sparkling notes.
Just be
fore he could take the money, I lifted it above his head. ‘Best know – if your ting don’t work, I’m coming back and collecting a hundred and twenty off you.’ I paused. ‘For wasting my time.’
‘Say no more,’ he replied, raising his hands to take the cash. His expression turned serious. ‘Be careful, though, yeah. This guy is a ghost online. And there are lots of good reasons to be scared of ghosts.’
I thought about Specs’s words while scaling the stairs back to our flat. I thought about my old English teacher’s warning too.
We all make decisions every day, never knowing which one will destroy us.
CHAPTER 7
Esso · Now
After the collision, I expect to turn and see a pumpkin-coloured bench stuffed with people waiting for the 78, 381, 63 or 363. And, on the other side of the road, I expect a barbershop, followed by a Western Union, then a pub, then a corner shop selling fufu and Oyster-card top-ups – the same rota of shops that repeats itself across Narm, interrupted only by the odd pound shop or chain cafe. I expect to see a Range Rover with a dent in its front end and I’m ready to go ballistic on the driver, threaten to sue him, punch him, both. I expect – no, I hope – to see a little boy, sitting safely on the pavement, in roughly the same shape and condition I’d met him.
Instead I can barely see my own hands. Darkness has swallowed them. And inside the darkness are echoes: half-familiar screams and hushed voices, each one loud enough for me to hear, but not clear enough to make out the words. My mind draws its own imaginary lines in the dark, filling it with demonic creatures with jagged teeth and talons.
Scenario A, I think, this is a dream, and I’m alive. Scenario B: I’m dead, and this is either heaven or hell.
A bead of sweat tumbles down my forehead. Above the echoes, I can hear my heart pounding and my breaths getting shorter. In all the Sunday school lessons I remember, not one mentioned heaven looking like a barren wasteland filled with screams. Not to mention the scorching heat. Please let this be scenario A.
