by Sean McMahon
He absently acknowledged the sound of a dust-sheet being shaken out behind him, but had more on his plate at the moment, not particularly fancying the idea of having to deal with that wrinkle in his own timeline.
Malcolm calmed himself, reached into his mouth, and fished around with his perfectly clipped nails, hoping to gain purchase on the foreign object, before quickly realising that not only was it gone, the hole in his throat has also miraculously healed.
He cursed, reasoning that the “bullet” must have returned to the chamber of the rat-catcher’s weapon, the damage to his body now merely a memory that acted as little more than a souvenir to their encounter.
The Dark Restarter breathed through flaring nostrils and clenched his eyes shut, expecting to feel pain, preparing to shut off that part of his brain, compartmentalising it and drawing upon the more analytical side of his mind to assess the entirety of his run-in with the self-proclaimed Restarters.
Calming the ocean of anger that ran through him, he smiled to himself.
All was not lost.
They had tipped their hand. There was no way they could recreate what they had just achieved a second time. All that was required of him was to try again, safe in the knowledge that, sooner or later, he would inevitably succeed.
There was a singular incongruity he needed to address, however, and that was how his corporeal-self had deviated so dramatically from the path he himself had set him on. Malcolm knew his physical body was a puppet to him, but how on earth Harold had literally taken the wheel remotely was a mystery.
He recalled the scene; Harold waving his arm at the last moment, Malcolm’s physical-self seemingly acting on his instruction, and sending the truck careening into the fir trees lined up along either side of the road.
“Unless…” thought Malcolm, wincing.
Not through pain, but due to the arrival of the most logical answer presenting itself to him.
‘No matter,’ he gargled, still not quite right after being shot in the face, and proceeding gingerly back to the shack that served as his chronologically-decreed point of re-entry into the past. His “point of origin”, as he had taken to calling it.
He outright refused to check himself over by applying pressure to his rear end, as if doing so would somehow give a sense of victory to the man who shot him in it. He would pay for that. They all would.
As Malcolm returned to his shack he surveyed his living, former-self with contempt. A shadow of the man he once was, his cerebral synapses severely frazzled and fractured, no longer able to formulate thoughts of his own.
In his arrogance, Malcolm automatically assumed he would be able to piece together his mind once they had successfully escaped, reasoning that in doing so all of his reprogramming would be undone and erased from history, taking the damage he was surely inflicting on his own psyche with it. With that in mind, he barked an order at the shadow of his former self.
‘Get to the truck, we’re going again.’
But the hulk of a man, whose shoulders now sagged despondently in a way that made him look almost frail, or at the very least mentally exhausted, merely stood there, swaying slightly.
‘Malcolm,’ he said to himself again, taking a curious step forward, knowing the increased proximity to each other would amplify his hold whilst reducing his alive-self’s ability to resist him.
At least that’s how it had worked.
For years, in fact.
And yet, the man remained firmly in place, defying his orders without so much as a troubled frown.
Malcolm felt a surge of anger, and plunged his hands into the brain of his physical self, the connection causing the eyes of the lobotomised doppelgänger to light up like a set of traffic lights urging oncoming traffic to stop.
‘Get to the truck,’ he ordered dispassionately.
But something was wrong. Different. Altered, somehow.
The Dark Restarter was flooded with garbled memories; the woman in the white dress, who he recognised as Fearne, walking towards the truck, a knife in her hand.
Was he seeing the memories of his alive-self watching Fearne? Or was it something else? Someone else?
He was repelled from delving deeper, pushed several steps back across the room by a force unlike anything he had encountered before. Whatever had happened whilst he had been distracted, the time-travelling thorns in his side had done something.
Malcolm had no idea how he knew, but he did know. A simple notion telling him that, from here on out, he would never again be able to manipulate his alive-self into getting into that damned truck.
The red flared within him, and he pulled the second knife that was concealed behind his apron, pressed between his jeans and shirt, kept in place by a sturdy belt. The second of two knives he had brought back in time with him, and threw it with all his might.
It flew right through his replicated out-of-phase head, and connected soundlessly with the wall of the shack, tumbling to the floor pathetically.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Trigger
180th Restart – Friday, August 24th, 2018, 12:01pm
Hal and Kara came with the wind, with Fearne hot on their heels a minute later.
But still no Peter, nor the radio that he had inadvertently brought with him into the past, which served as a callous reminder that their victory over The Dark Restarter was nothing if not bittersweet.
Hal spoke first, trying to begin their new restart on a positive note.
‘Oh, I bet he’s pissed off now,’ said Hal gleefully. ‘Throwing things around in a right hissy fit.’
Kara was more reserved, noting Fearne’s stern expression, as they took up residence on Hal and Kara’s favourite bench, waiting for their Malcolm to catch up with them.
*
‘Here he is,’ said Hal, as Malcolm made his way over to them twenty-or-so minutes later, hands raised in peace so they knew it was their version of him. ‘Looking pretty dope for a guy who just survived an explosion!’
‘Hmm,’ growled Malcolm.
‘What happened back there?’ asked Kara.
‘Nothing,’ he said curtly, keeping his words brief in an attempt at reaffirmation, intentionally avoiding eye-contact with Fearne, who he could feel staring at him as if wondering which way he was going to go.
Would he rat her out? Try and turn her friends against her? Or would he stick with what he did best, and lie his way through this…
As Malcolm uttered his next words, Fearne’s third assumption was immediately validated, confirming to her that secrets were the only currency the killer traded in.
‘It took longer than I expected,’ said Malcolm, lying effortlessly. ‘Luckily the blast was harmless to me in this state. Though I suspect my alive-self was not so fortunate. Thank you for triggering the restart when you did, Kara.’
Hal mulled his words over, taking the opportunity to fish around in his mouth with his finger whilst prodding his gums with his tongue, happy to confirm his formerly dislodged tooth had been returned to him.
‘Damn,’ said Hal. ‘I guess what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,’ he mused, removing his finger from his mouth, relieved to see no trace of red residue between his fingers and thumb.
‘Not that,’ said Kara. ‘You wanna talk about why you froze when you saw Kevin’s car wrapped around a tree?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Malcolm, his tone ringing with unexpected honesty.
‘Fine. But did it work, do you think?’ said Kara, having just replayed their plan in her head and comparing it with the way in which they had all implemented it. ‘Will it stick?’
‘It will stick,’ said Malcolm.
Their plan had been so simple in theory, which – for them at least – usually meant it could have gone wrong in so many ways that it was a miracle they were all still here and talking at all; Hal would act as bait, drawing Malcolm’s murderous Dark Restarter-self into the open. Meanwhile, Kara and Fearne would boost Future Malcolm’s energy levels, allowing him to theor
etically reach across both time and space to issue a last-minute instruction to his alive-self who was driving the truck. Two simple words;
“Sharp. Left.”
With the Malcolm of the past out of commission, and the Malcolm of the present having been thrown from the rear of the vehicle, this allowed the Malcolm of the future to backtrack through the forest, crossing the road back to the crash site. Once there, Future Malcolm proceeded to imbed what Hal was referring to as “an unbreakable vow” into the mind of his own alive self.
In essence, their goal was for Malcolm to implant a deep-rooted instruction, along the lines of “stay away from that damn truck, no matter what I say in future”, thus preventing The Dark Restarter’s tactic to leave the Pentney Lakes via vehicular means going forward.
It wasn’t just a suggestion being imparted, more a long-lasting idea they were implanting.
Hal waving his arm was just the showboating icing on the cake, providing enough cover for Dark Malcolm to question Hal’s true abilities, whilst allowing them to conceal Future Malcolm’s existence entirely.
‘What’s he doing now,’ asked Kara.
Malcolm folded his arms and closed his eyes, searching his own memories, as glimmers of faded recollections swam into focus.
‘Licking his wounds,’ said Malcolm, following his words with an uncharacteristic chuckle. ‘He’s very angry at you Harold. And especially you, Kara.’
‘I think we’ll live,’ said Hal.
‘Goading me by slandering my mother? What were you thinking?’ the former killer added, trying to figure out what on earth had possessed her.
Kara shrugged. ‘I mean, I took a gamble. There must be some kind of reason you are the way you are.’
‘Why do you do it?’ said Fearne, the question filling their eardrums like a large glass vase of “don’t go there” connecting with the concrete floor of “oh she’s going to go there despite the aforementioned warning.”
‘Do what?’ said Malcolm, knowing full well where this was going, but attempting to put an end to the line of questioning all the same.
But Fearne wasn’t prepared to let this go. And if anyone had the right to ask him, it was her.
‘You know what. Why do you kill innocent people?’
‘Does it really matter why?’ said Malcolm, genuinely curious. ‘Why do any of you live the way you do?’
‘Because we choose to,’ said Kara.
‘Precisely,’ said Malcolm.
‘But what makes someone wake up one morning and decide to be a serial killer?’ said Hal.
‘You keep using that term,’ said Malcolm. ‘It’s rather reductive.’
‘Well consider this a casting of the Reducto spell,’ said Hal, waving an imaginary wand and adopting a pose befitting a wizard preparing for battle. ‘A rose by any other name and all that.’
‘What would you call yourself?’ asked Kara curiously.
‘If I were to label that which cannot be labelled, I have always thought of myself more of an artist. The people I encounter the canvas.’
‘Yeah, that’s…not normal, Malc’’ said Hal, shivering slightly.
‘You are viewing this from the perspective of someone who has been nurtured to conform to a societal structure,’ he countered.
‘No,’ hummed Kara. ‘We’re viewing this from the perspective of basic human decency.’
‘Oh c’mon Malc’,’ said Hal, utterly engrossed. ‘It’s not like any of us will remember anything you tell us when we bust our way out of here.’
‘Hal’s got a point. How often is it that you get to tell your side of the story to people like us? It’s not every day you get to chit-chat with a serial…artist,’ added Kara, changing her mind mid-sentence in the hope of perhaps appeasing his ego.
‘Some would see that as a good thing,’ countered Malcolm. ‘I do not have to justify myself to you.’
‘You may not owe it to them,’ said Fearne, ‘but you do owe me. Tell me why Peter had to die. What art was there in that? It was just pointless bloodlust.’
‘Fearne, I…’ he struggled, unable to find a suitable response.
He could tell his explanation wasn’t good enough. That they needed more. Or at the very least, Fearne deserved more.
For the first time since it happened, he dropped the eloquent enunciation he was so fond of, and dialled back his inherently patronising tone.
‘If you’re asking what caused me to be this way, I suppose there was an incident that one could argue served as a trigger…’
Kara’s mind was taken back to the first time she saw all of the newspaper articles lining the walls of Kevin’s basement.
‘What happened to her?’ said Kara, taking a leap and reasoning it must have been about a woman.
“His wife, maybe?”
Kara felt a splash of unexpected regret when it occurred to her that maybe she had been more on-point about it involving his mother, and suddenly felt very lucky to be alive. Or at least the Restarter equivalent.
And then Malcolm did something he very rarely indulged in. Something he usually only shared just before he ended the life of the person he was standing over.
He told them how he was reborn.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Origins
Thursday, December 14th, 1995
Ophelia Moreaux was the kindest woman you could ever hope to meet. The sort of person who would bring you doughnuts as well as a coffee, even if you only asked for the latter latte, and would not expect money for either, despite it being your turn for the fourth day running.
She was simply built that way. Generous to a fault. And literally the only person Malcolm could stand. Ophelia understood him like no other.
She was also Malcolm’s sister.
Five years his senior, the two of them shared the same mother, a woman of French descendancy named Lilith, who was stern in demeanour and incredibly tough. Malcolm and Ophelia would never have become family at all were it not for the untimely demise of Ophelia’s father, which led to a rather quick remarriage to her second husband, boringly named Mark. That wasn’t to say Mark was a boring person. If anything, he had spent his final moments on Earth doing what he loved; namely, breathing. It just wasn’t the name you’d expect for a man who would inadvertently sire a serial killer.
Not that the name “Malcolm” screamed “Zodiac.”
Despite being a mere twenty-two years of age, Malcolm had never been good at communicating with others. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, of course. He just had no desire to do so.
It was for this reason that meeting with his sister filled him with such ambivalence. She always demanded they met in public places, to test him he supposed, a means of dragging him out of his comfort zone.
Despite being five years older, she never lorded over him. They were equals.
Even though she was smarter than he was, both literally and emotionally.
She knew exactly what to say to someone to get what she wanted, and always made them feel like it had been their decision all along. It was through these innate people skills that she had successfully climbed the ranks within her career as a forensic scientist. She was paid less than the men she worked with, but nobody questioned that in the nineties. Additionally, Ophelia had an ace up her sleeve that she would utilise in various interviews, and that ace was that she was categorically adamant that she would never have children.
What difference that made to potential career advancement Malcolm had no idea, but apparently it meant something to those that employed her.
Back then he often wondered if times would ever change, and if such things would be trivial compared to the equality someone of Ophelia’s intelligence and capabilities so rightly deserved.
He doubted it.
‘Aren’t all the lights beautiful?!’ she said to him enthusiastically, her hair as thick and dark as his, but cascading to just below her shoulder blades and far better maintained.
She was wearing an expensive black cashmer
e three-quarter length coat, her gold stud earrings subtle and elegant, with black high-heels almost definitely matching the black power dress she always wore on a Thursday for her weekly team meeting.
Malcolm looked around, the smell of roasting chestnuts from the vendor several feet away traversing across the crisp London air that was still somehow humid, because, well, London was always humid. He fought the urge to throw up the admittedly empty contents of his stomach, much in the same way he fought the urge to stab the man who had just brushed past his shoulder with just a fraction-too-much vivacity.
‘Truly a thing of beauty,’ he said in a droll tone that was dripping with a truth only she could see.
‘Have you even been remotely trying what we spoke about?’ said Ophelia.
He absorbed the look of teacher-like disappointment on her face and shot her one of equal fervour that implied he would kill for less, but Ophelia merely laughed and hugged him.
Her hair smelt like coconut. Her preferred scent when choosing conditioner. It mingled with the thick chestnut smell that still lingered in his nostrils and he felt sick again.
‘Come on, grumpus’ said Ophelia. ‘It’s nearly eight, which means I know you haven’t eaten. I’ve booked us a table at O’Reilly’s.’
Malcolm groaned. ‘Of course you have.’
*
The following evening, having caught the train from London to Chelmsford, Malcolm was naturally early, despite the universe conspiring against him.
It was Christmas time in England, which meant that trains were about as reliable as Malcolm taking up a career as a door to door knives salesman.
He waited patiently on the corner of Market Road for Ophelia to arrive, his mood unusually positive. The distant chatter and sounds of shutters closing from the nearby market square mingled with the infuriating relentlessness of archaic Christmas music.