On the armrest of the bench is another of those strange split-circles. This one has an ear in the middle. Which is appropriate really, because now that I’m settled and quiet I can hear the sound of singing drifting towards me. Just a lone singer, not a choir. And, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a male voice and not a particularly gifted one.
The Barleycorn King strides into view. He’s as old and unkempt as last time. Still has the cane, but the candy-striping is faded. I stay sitting. This is as good a spot as any. I’m not too near the edge, nor any staircases. He looks happy, which is new. His song is completely nonsensical. It’s full of birds—crows and jays and the like—and some of it seems to be purely an approximation of birdsong. Which is off-putting to say the least. I’m listening because I have nothing else to do; I don’t expect it to make any sense.
He sits on the bench beside me and finishes the song. Too close for comfort, but what choice do I have? His robes are still green and brown, still without the fresh look that regular washing might give them. His smell reminds of the farm: not unpleasant, but distinctive.
“What happened to the prophets?” I ask. Just to show him I’m in the know.
“They taught me to sing,” he says. “I miss it here.”
We sit in silence for a while, because, quite frankly, it’s him that’s brought me here.
“Have you met Eila?” he asks.
I can feel the phone on my wrist tingle. “No,” I say because that seems the best answer.
“Then you must,” says the Barleycorn King. “Let’s wait here until she comes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Green Jay
I KNOW THE Crow has left; there is no need to look for him. The water tower feels empty and peaceful without him. I miss Blue Jay, but the feeling of freedom has not left me. When I move, my body fails me. It craves the drugs Rose-Q gave me, it needs more doses from the box. But I can walk and I do not fall. I spend some time exploring the water tower, looking for a message from Blue Jay. It’s unlikely—probably impossible—but I cannot help but hope.
The poor tower has suffered. Water has dripped through many things, and animals have found a home here. There is some food in cans, but not much. What I really need is sun. I could bask on top of the tower, but then a thought strikes me. There is nothing to stop me walking outside. Through the alleyways and back to my old home.
Of course, thanks to the Crow, I cannot know exactly where and when we are, I cannot be sure I am safe, but the greenhouse is pulling me and after all this time in captivity with Guerra, I cannot stop myself. I am down the ladder, standing under the water tower before I have truly thought.
I take a circular route under the High Track, staying away from the marketplace. I don’t venture into the warehouses in the middle, just stick with the curve of the High Track above me. When it takes me close to the tenements I slip across the road and into the alleys. I should know the layout here, but somehow I am lost. I find dead ends where I thought there was another lane. But I am not yet fearful, because in each of these dead ends there is a picture.
A picture of me.
At first I thought it was a picture of a green goddess. Each portrait is a face covered with swirls and ornaments so that the only features that are clear are the mouth and the eyes. Even the hair is an extension of these curling patterns. The green goddess is always positioned at the end of the alley and underneath her are flowers and other gifts. Sometimes there are messages painted onto the wall. I stopped in front of one portrait to read them: blending, union, hope. And it was then that I realised that the eyes staring down at me were mine. And that the lips, if they were to speak, would know exactly who I was. I know they are mine, not Olwin Duilis’, but how I know this I cannot say.
This brings me great joy, although I cannot claim to understand it. And the joy carries me through to the right alley, towards the greenhouse. There is no-one by the doorway and it is not hard to open the bottom door and walk up the staircase. It seems deserted, but also clean. There is no urine on the stairs the way there often was when I lived here. No dark stains, no smells to rush past.
I come to the door of my greenhouse and I am almost too scared to open it. I don’t want it to be as deserted as the rest of the building. I am worried the greenhouse belongs to a time past that has been and gone with nothing left. I close my eyes. I open the door.
Crow
WE SIT IN silence for so long that it’s getting awkward. But then I see a figure coming up from the right. From this distance the person looks as if they’re floating along. But as they get closer that illusion sorts itself out and I see that it’s a woman, not that old, probably around my age. She’s wearing something like the prophets’ robes, but belted and not flowing. And there’s no colour to speak of, just a plain off-white. This is as far as my sartorial expertise takes me. The woman herself is dark-skinned, and for a moment I worry that she’s going to turn into yet another manifestation of the increasingly annoying Olwin Duilis, but that too proves to be an unnecessary concern. She’s very much herself, this woman. Echoes of the minor prophet if anything, but I don’t think it’s her. You’d think I’d be more certain on that score, but it turns out I’m not.
“My dear,” says the Barleycorn King.
The woman bends to kiss him on the cheek, then straightens up again. She makes no move to sit down.
“This,” he says, “is Eila.”
“Kern Bromley,” she says. Then she shakes my hand, which is also weird because her grasp bothers me. It’s too flimsy, not quite solid. But it’s also too brief to really be called a proper handshake. “You really shouldn’t be here,” she continues.
Why the hell not? is what I’d like to say. Instead I suffice with a low key, “Because…?”
“You’re not made for all this, Kern,” she replies.
“Too true,” I reply. “And yet it seems to keep happening.”
The Barleycorn King is staring away from us both, lost in contemplation of something else entirely.
“I’ve tried to help you,” she continues.
“I don’t think so.”
“But I have. Did you not realise those messages on your phone were from me?”
“Same name, don’t mean the same person.”
Eila smiles again, and it’s an infuriating smile, really. “Do you know any other Eilas?” she asks.
It’s my turn to offer an infuriating smile into the mix and for a while it’s a tussle of politeness, but truly, that gets boring after a while.
“Where are the Tenties, then?” I ask, because, from my point of view, she’s the one that asked me to see that footage. And everyone else seems accounted for.
“We’ve tried,” says Eila.
The Barleycorn King stirs. He looks straight at me and places a hand on my arm. His eyes are so wild that for a minute I think he’s going to pick up his cane and escort me down the stairs again, but he calms, although the hand is still there and I’m not completely comfortable with it.
“If you didn’t keep jumping around and changing things,” he says.
He’s blaming me? “I’m not changing anything,” I say.
“But Brom, you are,” insists Eila.
“You’re the ones that got me into this in the first place,” I tell them.
The Barleycorn King shifts in his seat, the better to freak me out. “We’re not trying to blame you, Brom.” Oh, yeah? “But no-one asked you to take that package. The very first day. It was unexpected. And it created patterns no-one was ready for.”
So he’s admitted he’s Guerra. Or was Guerra, or a version of Guerra, but that’s hardly a surprise.
“And Mac?” Not because I want to dob Mac in, but because Mac has a lot more, let’s say, expertise in these matters. But I straight away feel shitty, because what kind of friend am I?
The Barleycorn King shakes his head. “I know I’m the one to blame,” he says. This is not quite believable, but it has the effect of removing his hand from my arm
, if only because Eila bends over to comfort him. I don’t know why. As far as I can see, he is the one to blame. Him and Olwin Duilis and, I’m increasingly coming to suspect, Eila.
“Why’d you show me that footage, then?” I ask her.
“That isn’t important, Brom,” says Eila.
God, but she’s a pain. I turn to the Barleycorn King. “Look,” I say. “You’re trying to tell me that you knew what you were doing back in the day when you were…”—a small deal criminal, is what I really mean, but can’t bring myself to say it—“...younger. I mean you didn’t seem to know much about this kind of thing, then.”
“That’s all too true, Kern. I fell into this. I thought I understood, but I knew nothing.”
Once again Eila’s with the comforting, but I’m having none of that. “You knew things, though,” I say to her.
“Nobody truly understood,” she says.
We are all quiet for a moment, reflecting on our various levels of non-understanding. Mine, I have to say, is definitely the winner. But I can’t help myself. “So you mean to tell me that with all this mucking about, you went and lost the Tenties.”
Eila looks at me as if considering whether to tell me what the Chemical Conjurers might refer to as a quarter-truth. But the Barleycorn King has had enough of that, it seems. “Not lost, Kern,” he says. “Sent away. Got rid of.”
“So they’re okay? Just somewhere else.” I’m the one looking for the half-truths now.
“They’re adapting,” says Eila. She’s all excited now.
“They were put in Time Lock,” admits the Barleycorn King. “And they became... stuck.”
“Stuck?” I ask. “Just permanently zipping around, in between. You know that feels like shit, don’t you? Like absolute shit. I mean, how long did they do this?”
They speak at once. “It’s over now, Brom,” says Eila.
“Too long,” says the Barleycorn King.
“So where are they?” I ask.
And now it’s all silence.
I TAKE MY time coming back down staircase number 4 and through the farm, and so I see there’s some faded graffiti on the side of the tower which I think could be a bird. There’s an eye, anyway, and something that looks like a wing. Which means we’re further into the future than last time. Or they used crappier paint in this reality. Once you start thinking of possibilities, it leads you down too many paths and then... brain explosion.
I feel unaccountably sad about the Tenties. I’m not their greatest fan, that’s the truth. But being the experienced inter-reality traveller that I am, I can’t imagine that anyone, alien or otherwise, would enjoy an extended period Time Locked. I didn’t ask the Barleycorn King for details, but it became pretty obvious that the Big Screen footage and the way everyone took that out on the Tenties was just the start of some not-very-well-thought-through actions. I mean, it sounds good ’n’ all: this isn’t working out, why don’t we shift you along to a reality that will fully appreciate you? But it’s hardly in the spirit of things, is it? An alien race goes to all the bother of showing up, adapting themselves to looks reasonably like you, and then you just say, thanks, but no thanks, why don’t you try the next reality along? Especially if the next reality along is also doing the same thing. And, as it turns out, they didn’t even do that. Just kept them jumping around, perpetually Time Locked. Even shittier.
I’d intended to just go back to the water tower, but as it happens hunger is overtaking and I decide to chance the farm. If I’m right, then probably Judith and Ed are too old to be here, or possibly old enough not to care. I can always show them Eva if it comes down to it, though it won’t be my first move. I’ve not forgotten the footage where she was running away from the shed.
I take a peek inside the polytunnels as I walk, just to be sure that this still is a farm and therefore a likely place to get some food. It all seems normal as, despite the distinct lack of people. I walk up to the house and as I knock on the door, there’s a feeling that this is very ill-advised. Just a feeling, though of course anyone with common sense would listen to it. But then who am I to listen to reason? Apparently, I’ve cocked everything up with my unexpected bloody behaviour. I may as well keep right on going.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Green Jay
THE GREENHOUSE IS as beautiful as I remember it. Even better, if I am honest, because someone has spent time bringing furniture up here and cleaning. Making things polished and shiny the way they never were while I lived here. There are shelves of books and a chair to read in. Even a bed. None of this was here for me. Though strangely, I wish there was no bed, that I could lie on the floor with Blue Jay.
I go and stand by the window. The view is not so different. The big screen is not there, but otherwise Barlewin seems as it always did. If I stand on my toes and stretch, I can see part of the High Track. It doesn’t look remarkable either, though I notice something glinting in the light with lots of coloured ribbons twined around the rail and fluttering in the wind. But there is no-one there.
I’m exhausted now. I find the spot on the floor that Blue Jay and I used, and I lie down. There’s a rug there now, so it’s softer than before, more comfortable, although I feel less like a lizard than I want to. But I am overcome by a happiness all out of proportion to my circumstances. I drift quickly into half-sleep. I think about what it would be like if I really was the woman in the graffitied picture. Someone with swirls of colour on their skin. Someone whose hair rides up patterned and beautiful. I wonder if that is who I could become. A green goddess. Someone who could control their life.
There is a knock on the door and I realise that it is not the first time I have heard it. I let myself drift up, but before I can open the door, I hear it creak open softly and hear footsteps coming into the room. I should be more worried than I am, but I sit up, open my eyes, look to see who this could be. There are two people, both young: a man and a woman. They look as if they want to rush towards me, but they don’t move.
“Oh, we are so sorry,” says the woman.
“We’ll go,” says the man.
“Why did you knock?” I ask.
“We thought it was close. And we were right! But there’s no need to stay now.”
“Unless… you need anything?”
“What did you think was close?”
“The time. When you arrived.”
I shake my head; they make no sense. “I used to live here,” I say, “but it wasn’t like this.”
“Oh,” says the man. “We know.” Both of them have moved forward now. They would rush in and hug me if they could, I think, but something holds them back, and for now I am glad of it.
“We knew that you would come,” says the woman.
“Sit down and tell me,” I ask. They find floor cushions and sit on them. The woman offers one to me and I take it.
“I’m Lona,” she tells me.
“And Kolb,” says the man.
“Eva,” I say.
“Green Jay,” they echo. I try to hide the tears on my cheeks. I can see them trying not to notice, though I think they are too shy to say anything. Instead, they tell my story. And even as they begin, I don’t know if it can come true. I feel as if they are talking about someone who is not me. A life that cannot be mine. Parts of it are echoes of the Crow’s strange fairytale. But that is their part. What makes me fear and hope and wonder are the parts that are mine.
Crow
I’M SITTING AT the dining table, which I remember well, drinking coffee, eating food, so all’s good except that the two other people sitting with me are as different from Judith and Ed as you could possibly get. Come to think of it, the food is just sandwiches, and not exactly the high care, excellent-quality stuff that Judith always served, but then it fills me up and who am I to complain?
But the more important thing is the identity of the two men sitting here with me. They opened the door, greeted me, totally friendly, almost as if they’d been expecting me. There’s something familiar
about them, but there’s also something I don’t like. Can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the lingering weirdness of the Barleycorn King and the betrayal of the Chemical Conjurers, but I’m not sure about these two.
“How long’ve you lived here?” I ask.
“Not that long,” says one of them, the older one, with a scar across his forehead. There’s been no names given as yet.
“Stayed here once,” I say. “Really nice people. Judith and Ed.” Which is a bit lame as a conversational opener, but I’m claiming dibs if I possibly can.
The other man grins. His hair’s getting to that length where it starts to get annoying and he keeps trying to get it out of his eyes. “Yeah, we met them,” he says. We’re all eating, which, of course, is a good thing, but on the other hand there’s nothing like eating to evade a full answer.
There’s silence. There’s something about these two that’s really off-putting, difficult to watch. But I make myself observe them. There’s something here I need to know.
The younger one starts to make a noise that I can only describe as a suppressed giggle. “Shall we tell him?” he asks.
The older one’s smiling too. He says, “You’ve not given us your name.”
“Kern Bromley,” I say. “Most everyone calls me Brom.”
“Yeah, me too,” says Scar and then they both drop the pretence and start laughing out loud. Which is disconcerting, to say the least.
And then, I get it. Not that it’s much of a joke. They don’t have to explain. And yes, I’m unbelievably slow. I am living the nightmare. I have met myself. Two bloody selves. “What the fuck,” I say. Because no other comment will suffice.
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