The Dark Restarter

by Sean McMahon

  Shelby growled, then moved away from him, jumping from the sofa and onto her bed, before placing her head on her paws, desperate for sleep but knowing her work was not done, her heavy eyelids fluttering every few minutes as she tried desperately to fight the urge to close them.

  *

  It was during the fourth episode of Grey’s Anatomy that Malcolm developed a notable sense of Stockholm syndrome, becoming as emotionally invested in Doctor Owen Hunt’s past as he was in determining whether or not being here was actually more of a purgatory than the restarts he had left behind.

  With the setting of the sun, Jess tried a second time to phone Harold to no avail, before heading into the garden to blow some bubbles for Shelby’s amusement, filming their antics and sending the video to him.

  Malcolm watched, feeling awkwardly in the way, as Jess tidied the house and prepared herself for bed, and resigned himself to the decision of sleeping on the couch. Not that he could have made it upstairs with Shelby blocking the doorway, hackles raised, refusing to answer Jess’s call to come to bed.

  Malcolm sighed.

  ‘I promise I will stay down here, little dog. Go to bed.’

  Shelby sniffed, shook off her stress, then panted for a second. She looked to her left towards the staircase, back at Malcolm, then reversed awkwardly from the room before heading upstairs, where she continued to stand guard on the edge of the bed until her heavy eyes grew too much for her.

  Malcolm waited until the early hours of Sunday morning, noting the wall clock.

  “3am.”

  Not needing to sleep in his current form, he stood up and stretched unnecessarily.

  The red light on the motion detector of Jess’s dog camera situated on the mantle-piece sprung to life and, for a moment, he wondered if the crude technology had just detected his presence.

  *

  Jess’s phone pinged with an alert tone, which she recognised as a notification bouncing through the ether from their downstairs webcam they had installed to check in on Shelby whilst they attended their unavoidable adulting duties knows as “day jobs”.

  She opened the app, more out of boredom than to check if there was a burglar, though deep down she did feel uneasy.

  The camera often detected false readings of movement, but as the image loaded, she was slightly unsettled by what she saw; a bright white mass of light that appeared to be standing in front of her sofa.

  She knew the camera took still-frame shots, and suspected it was just picking up a moth.

  Probably a moth.

  Placing her phone back on her bedside table, Jess reached out for her glass of water, downing it with the grace of a sailor. She looked over to Shelby, who was clearly relishing the extra space afforded to her by Hal’s absence and taking up the entirety of Hal’s pillow, dead to the world.

  Her phone spoke again, and she grabbed it to check the second image that had just been captured; notably humanoid in shape, the intensity of the light dominating the room, without actually illuminating it.

  Shelby awoke with a start, and growled.

  *

  Early that Sunday afternoon, Malcolm was busying himself with checking the balance of his blade, which see-sawed gently as he teased it to topple off his fingers, reasserting his mastery over the weapon at the last moment and starting the process all over again, as Shelby perked up. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, noticing as an internal struggle took hold of Jess’s protector.

  Shelby stared at the killer, then at the front door, then back to Malcolm, sensing the impending arrival of Hal well before Jess and the time traveller in front of her, before emitting a whine of confliction.

  Sure enough, a car pulled up on the driveway shortly after, causing Malcolm to marvel at her phenomenal senses. He was beginning to understand why people invited these creatures into their lives, and felt a sudden pang of an emotion he couldn’t quite get a handle on, but that he ultimately defined as wistful melancholy.

  ‘It’s okay. You’ve done admirably. Off you go.’

  Shelby huffed at him, darting from the sofa to the door and whined for attention, not for the first time resenting the fact she couldn’t open doors without human aid.

  Malcolm hoisted himself up from the dining room chair, which refused to grumble under his weight, and made his way into the kitchen to gain a glimpse through the window of what he knew must surely have been Harold, returning from his stay at Fir Lodge.

  A partially transparent tendril of black fog slithered across the floor of the kitchen, almost sentient in the way it seemed to hone in on him, attempting to wrap itself around his ankle, but Malcolm merely stepped over it.

  ‘Not yet,’ he muttered, watching Harold intently through the window, as the one named Jasmine killed the engine, and his own would-be killer leapt from the passenger seat, making his way to the boot of the car.

  Heading into the hallway, Malcolm rolled his eyes as Harold uttered muffled thanks to the driver. Why people felt inclined to drag out social exchanges such as these was a mystery to him.

  Jess flitted down the stairs, rushing through Malcolm and indulging in a shiver as she opened the door that Shelby was huffing at, allowing the Staffordshire bull terrier to make a bolt for the outside world.

  Malcolm peered around the door frame, watching as she jumped at her dad incessantly.

  ‘Ha-ha, I’ve missed you too girl, get orf me!’ said Hal, but Shelby refused to listen, continuing to wag her tail regardless.

  Realising Hal was going to be a while, Jess stepped onto the grass, giving him a hug, then chatted to Jasmine, whilst Shelby rolled onto her back, legs kicking into the air eager for attention.

  Hal let out a sigh of contentment as he rubbed Shelby’s belly.

  ‘Feels like I’ve been gone a year!’

  ‘You’ve only been gone since Friday, weirdo,’ said Jess, shooting him a wink that held no meaning to Malcolm.

  Love, perhaps?

  Malcolm ducked out of the way, pressing himself against the wall of the hallway as Hal made his way into the house and switched on the kettle, Jess closing the door behind him.

  ‘Coffee pleeeeease,’ she shouted, as she shot off into the living room out of sight.

  Hal glared upwards, grunting under his breath, but secretly smiling. For what reason, Malcolm had no idea. This entire dynamic was entirely alien to him.

  Encumbered with a cup of coffee in each hand, Hal made his way to the living room, walking straight through Malcolm, who failed miserably to get out of the way in time.

  Hal shivered, spilling some of his hot beverage, the liquid within his cup sloshing over the side and onto the carpet.

  Malcolm raised an eyebrow, as the snake-like wisps of black fog lurking behind Hal retreated immediately, pulled back into the alternate dimension from whence they came. At the exact moment Hal passed through Malcolm’s chest, a flash of red manifested briefly, topping up his out-of-phase body.

  The killer flexed his fingers, feeling invigorated, albeit marginally, and wondered if it was possible Hal’s alive-self had been altered somehow…that perhaps his numerous trips through time had imbued him with a residual reserve of Restarter energy all his own.

  It begged the question; were any of them truly going to be the same on the other side if they managed to escape? Or would they be changed forever. In ways they could not yet fathom?

  ‘Oops,’ said Hal sheepishly, now behind Malcolm, rousing him from his daydream. He cursed at having lost focus, Hal now occupying the living room and in the process of passing Jess a cup of coffee.

  Malcolm took up a spot in front of a large plant situated in the corner of the room, observing the two of them as they exchanged banal small talk about window cleaners, and Hal recounted his time at Fir Lodge. Or, at least, the time spent at Fir Lodge from the viewpoint of this version of himself.

  Shelby placed herself between her parents and the unwanted spectator, unintentionally cutting their conversation short with a growl of warning.

  Ma
lcolm remained motionless, feeling oddly exposed as they turned to face him, looking him squarely in the eyes.

  ‘What’s up with Shelby?’ asked Hal, taking another gulp of coffee.

  ‘Eesh, ignore her, she’s been growling at that plant all day.’

  ‘We’ve had that thing for over a week now, you’d think she’d be used to it.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Don’t stop, carry on, what did I miss?!’ said Jess eagerly.

  As Hal continued to fill her in on everything that had happened during his stay at Fir Lodge, Malcolm stared at Shelby, who was blocking him from progressing any further towards her dad.

  From the corner of the room, he looked up from her, and stared at Hal. His eyes dropped down to his left hand, and he once again inspected the pink plastic rectangle of information, reading it out loud.

  ‘Harold Callaghan, 165 Kent Street, thirty-three years of age,’ he said out loud, despite having already committed it to memory.

  He looked up from Hal’s driving licence, placing it back into his out-of-phase pocket, and reaffixed his gaze back to his would-be murderer. It had taken him an incomprehensible amount of time to reach this stage in his plan. Countless years spent planning his revenge, obsessing over every detail; what weapon to use, whether he would kill the orange detective first, or last.

  “Better to make him watch,” he had thought, all those years ago.

  It suddenly dawned on him that his hand had drifted unconsciously to his waist, and was now gripping the hilt of the large blade that was tucked into his belt. Malcolm blinked to clear his mind, and then grinned, baring all of his teeth like the hungry shark of old.

  Retrieving Hal’s gun, he raised it towards Shelby, miming the act of pulling the trigger, and blowing the sound of a fake gunshot through his pursed lips, before smiling at her warmly.

  She had proven to be something of an unexpected friend to him during his impossible journey through the Sunday that was soon to be erased.

  Unable to help herself, Shelby responded by rolling onto her back, and playing dead, as if hoping to be rewarded with a treat. Malcolm having seen it was a customary reward for a trick well done in this household, Jess having done just that earlier that morning.

  It felt…odd to Malcolm. A betrayal of his character, even. He was never one for indulging in play, least of all with dogs. Unless you counted toying with the victims of…

  “Canvasses,” he thought, correcting himself for the bizarre slip.

  They had been canvasses. Nothing more.

  Yet, with no one to bear witness, he found himself powerless to resist the dark urge within him, and redirected the weapon towards Jess, once again mimicking the action of firing off another pretend bullet into her forehead, then one at Hal, just for good measure.

  Malcolm chuckled to himself.

  “Much better to be up-close,” he thought, as he remembered the blood that flowed from–

  ‘Focus Malcolm,’ he said to himself sternly, suddenly sensing that the black, liquid-like fog was reforming around him, sending his thoughts spiralling off tangentially along a path of irrelevance.

  Lowering the gun back down to his side, he felt the darkness before it arrived.

  It swirled around his body, sliding across his shoulders and coiling around his chest like an oil-drenched python, eager to claim him once more.

  But he wasn’t in the least bit concerned. He had achieved more than any of them had ever dreamed possible.

  The all-too-familiar sound of rushing air filled his eardrums, as his surroundings were systematically obliterated from his vision, with Hal himself being the last to vanish.

  Malcolm closed his eyes, realising he was about to be recaptured. Sent back to his friends. Or the closest thing he had ever had to such a thing. That he had expended the seemingly arbitrary allowance of time that had allotted for his exploration of a slice of reality he should never have been in to begin with.

  ‘See you soon, Harold,’ he whispered into the dark black fog, his words thick with iciness, and seasoned with resentment.

  A resentment aimed partially at the ruthless fog that thickened all around him. An abominable anachronism acting as a proxy for time itself, wrapping around him proudly as if it had finally sought him out. And additionally, towards the sobering reality that those that trusted him would never forgive him for what came next.

  Hand in pocket, the once and future Malcolm clenched the driver’s licence, the sharp plastic digging into his palm, a sensation he used as a reminder that he was here, that he was real, at least in some form, as the darkness consumed him and erased him into nothingness. Sending him hurtling back into the past, with a single, simple agenda; to restart the past, and change the future.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The Voice in the Shadows

  7,150th Restart – Saturday, August 25th, 2018

  As Malcolm’s body solidified and his consciousness returned, he knew immediately something was wrong. The room he had appeared in was empty, for one thing.

  A first, for sure.

  He flexed his fingers, the gun having vanished, and pressed against his trouser leg to feel for a driving licence that was no longer there.

  The weary traveller made his way out of the abandoned cabin into what he was expecting to be dazzling sunlight, but was greeted instead by a domain thick with a static fog, mixed with the unsettling hue of twilight. Having not been returned to the beginning of his restart cycle threw him off his game, and for a brief moment he thought that perhaps he had returned to the nexus realm. But as his eyes adjusted, he realised there was colour in the world around him, on the fringes of his perception. It was just incredibly saturated.

  ‘Where have you been,’ said a familiar voice, cutting through the shadows behind him like a figure-skater turning sharply through fresh ice.

  Not feeling the need to turn around, Malcolm was instantly alert all the same. In his experience, turning suddenly could lead to finding yourself intimately acquainted with the business end of blade. At least that’s what his victims could attest to. Not only that, he knew the temporal dysplasia could be kept at bay as long as he didn’t make eye contact whilst the impending questions rolled.

  ‘I have been working,’ he said with his face still turned away.

  ‘How is it possible, exactly,’ said the voice, smooth as silk despite the razor-blades that rested underneath, ‘that you have not graced me with your presence in over three weeks?’

  “Three weeks?” thought Malcolm. Surely that was impossible. He had assumed his journey into a relative present would have run parallel to the time loop taking place at the lakes. “Clearly,” he thought as the voice continued, assuming his questioner could be trusted, “that was not the case.”

  ‘I’ve been watching them, in your absence. Unbeknownst to them of course. They read your mind before you left.’

  ‘Did you hurt them?’ asked Malcolm, trying to keep his voice steady.

  ‘That’s an odd question.’

  ‘I’ve been careful,’ said Malcolm, changing tack.

  ‘You’ve been careless,’ said the visitor. ‘I have been patient. Forced to live in your shadow under the proviso you would not…outlive your usefulness.’ His interrogator released a murmur of curious disapproval.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean,’ said Malcolm irritably, the after-effects of his journey leaving him notably weaker than he would have liked.

  ‘I have devised my own solution. You would do well to refrain from further intervention.’

  ‘I need more time. Just a little longer, you need to–’ began Malcolm, concerned by how methodical and concise the words being sent his way sounded. How dangerous they were.

  ‘Say the word patient again, and not even your age will protect you. Your time, in every sense, is up. Now, run along. And do whatever it is you do here outside of delaying the inevitable.’

  Malcolm turned on the spot, brandishing a glare of such intensity that he knew it would bring the i
nsolent child to his knees for speaking to him in such a way, but the entity had vanished.

  Presumably into the future. Or present. Or even a nearby hedge.

  Malcolm sighed, knowing it made little difference, and set off to find those of a far more hospitable disposition.

  *

  Malcolm had checked everywhere, but was perturbed to discover there was no sign of the Restarters at all amidst the bleak surroundings.

  Over the past few hours he had checked Fir Lodge, their makeshift campsite, and various other key locations they could have been holing up; including Kevin’s, and as a last-ditch effort even neighbouring lodges, for the faintest trace of either Hal, Kara or Fearne.

  I have devised my own solution.

  The words echoed through his mind.

  “So soon?” he thought. He had expected it to take longer to reach this point, before remembering it had been years already, and truly long enough.

  The impatient child in the shadows would cool off.

  He always did.

  ‘Where are you?’ he muttered to the wilderness, once again coming up empty.

  He had at least managed to ascertain that it was currently Saturday. As he returned for a second time to the clearing that had become their base of operations, he was greeted by the sound of a sickly click, and the feel of metal against the back of his head, which felt soothingly cold thanks to being in-phase with him.

  Malcolm turned, welcomed by the sight of a gun barrel millimetres away from his left eyeball, which was being held by a very pissed-off looking Kara.

  Hal and Fearne had flanked him from either side, creating a wall behind him, and gradually moved towards him, closing into a tighter circle. All three of them had a look of power about them, and Malcolm realised they had obviously built a charge.

  ‘Not quite the welcome home I was expecting,’ he said in a tone as dry as yesterday’s mashed potato.

  ‘But more than the welcome you deserve,’ said Kara. ‘Just so you know, if it were up to me I’d have pulled the trigger as soon as you popped up, but Hal convinced me to wait, on the off chance it was really you and not your past-self.’