The base of my spine knotted into a cold fist, and squeezed.
I turned to look into eyes that were also my own, and yet not. Gone was the dull greyness that plagued the irises; gone were the wrinkles that crept out from their corners like fault lines. These eyes were bright, ferocious, a sparking electric blue. They’d seen easier years go by. Silver stubble traced a not-unattractive jaw, but I knew from years past that my own would look like that, could look like that, if only my cheeks’ ever-growing jowls would care to recede. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror at a carnival, if instead of warping me into an unsettling, deformed shape it returned the most flattering portrait of all.
He was a little older, if I had to hazard a guess, but I’d also wager he’d weathered a quieter storm. A better version of me, perhaps; one who had made the right choice at the crossroads, quite a few roads back.
‘No, this isn’t right,’ I muttered, feeling my stomach heave as the spinning took hold once more. My brain was trying to multiply A by B, and coming up with an answer that resembled a fish. ‘I’m me so you can’t be, else I wouldn’t be.’ A sharp ringing screamed through the centre of my brain, dissipating into echoes as quickly as it came.
‘Why would I be doing this?’ I added, no less addled.
My answer came in the form of a clenched fist to the side of my mouth. A sudden explosion of pain down the side of my face later, I was stumbling backwards, still holding on to my briefcase but just about. The thief - the other me - had sacrificed his grip for a better swing. Now he was scrambling amongst the grass to find his scarf - my scarf, I wanted to shout, though I knew truly that my own still hung from the rack in the porch by my front door. I knew how precious it was to him, just as it was to me. Another gift from Chloe.
I spat a fleshy chunk of blood out into the dirt. My tongue found a flap of skin on the inside of my mouth, and the top row of gums on my left side felt raw and coppery.
‘George, stop it,’ said the other version of me, holding up his hands. In one of them dangled his scarf, now covered in muck and blades of grass. God, even his voice sounded like a better version of my own. ‘This has gone far enough already. I only want what’s best for-’
What was best for both of us was for him to shut his mouth, particularly after smashing me one in my own. I was seeing red, but I was also seeing a whole spectrum of jealous greens and blacks and angry purples. I swung my briefcase round in a quick, tight arc as I rose and caught him right across the temple. He went down in a silent slump, like a sack of spoiled potatoes.
When he hadn’t gotten up after a few seconds, I made a tentative approach. I held my briefcase far out behind me. I could tell that he was breathing, and a right rotten bruise was forming on the side of his head. I didn’t know what to be sure of right that moment, but I was sure of that. He wasn’t pretending to be knocked out, no sir.
‘What the hell?’ I whispered to myself, peering down at him. Peering down at me. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I suppose the human brain wasn’t designed with that sort of riddle in mind. I knew that I was real - the ache in my mouth was a bloody great reminder of that unfortunate fact - so who was this handsome chap in front of me? He certainly seemed no less opaque, no more ephemeral.
This is what it’s like to have an out-of-body experience, I assumed. I’d never had one, obviously.
‘What the hell did you want my briefcase for?’ I asked him, though I think deep down I already knew the answer. I found myself wanting to poke his face, to see if he was solid. I didn’t. ‘Surely you had your own if you needed one that badly?’
I had to stop looking at him. The longer I did the more my head started to throb from the inside out, growing and growing. It was like water rushing up from down a pipe - it starts as an innocent low rumble in the distance but if you don’t plug it up pronto it’s going to burst out like Old Faithful, that Yellowstone geyser. The last thing I wanted was an aneurism. It might even lead to a nose bleed.
I hurried back to the wannabe radio tower. I couldn’t see what else there was to do.
‘How’d it go?’ asked Pierre as I burst through the rickety white door. He was still on the bed and looking a little worse for wear, but at least he was lucid and for the most part sitting upright.
I shut the door behind me and raced to the windows on the opposite side of the room. Much to my relief, my other self was still out cold on the grass down below, not far from where I’d first looked up at the tower. Up at where I stood that very moment.
‘Hello?’ said Pierre, leaning forwards and rubbing the small of his back. ‘Did we accidentally travel to a world where manners don’t exist? Ooo, look at that! You got your briefcase. Well done. Let’s go home.’
‘Did you know?’ I asked, storming back across the room towards him, jabbing at him with my finger. ‘Did you know that he was… me?’
‘You? Who was you? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The thief, Pierre, the thief,’ I said, pacing back and forth. ‘The guy who we’ve been chasing for the past… ah, God knows how long. The guy who stole this, remember?’
‘Okay, okay, calm down,’ said Pierre, though his words were rising like the sound of a Formula One car getting closer and closer. ‘You’re saying that the person who broke into your room and stole your briefcase… is you?’
‘Yes! Well, not me me, but goddamn George Webber 2.0. Slimmer, smarter, infinitely better looking.’
‘Oh no,’ said Pierre, burying his head in his hands. ‘Oh no, this is bad. This is very bad.’
‘Really? You think?’
‘No, you don’t understand. Boy, if you thought it was convoluted before… Things are going to get messy. Really messy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This guy, this you; he knows which world you’re from, so he knows which world you’re headed back to. What’s your plan, eh? Go back home and have him steal your briefcase again? Or will you disappear into the multiverse in a never-ending game of cat and mouse?’
I looked out the window again. The other me was still sprawled out across the grass, though who knew for how much longer. I gave my briefcase a little shake and could feel the weight of its contents roll around inside. Good, the bastard hadn’t ditched it. I was desperate to look inside but no, not with Pierre present. Not until I could finally be alone once again.
‘You’ve got a spare key, yes?’ I asked.
Pierre patted his front left pocket and nodded.
I fished Pierre’s ring of keys from out of my own pocket with an encouraging tug, as one of them had decided to sink its teeth into the lining. They jangled like a tone-deaf wind-chime as I looked through them for the key I’d used before.
‘Wait, what do you have in mind?’ asked Pierre, trying to stand up. I walked past him to the door leading back out to the balcony.
‘I don’t have to outrun him for long,’ I said, turning the key in the lock. ‘I just have to get home before he does.’
I stepped through and was gone, leaving Pierre and his spare key alone in the lookout tower. I’m not a heartless bastard. I felt bad for dragging him into all that mess and then ditching him once I’d got what I wanted. But that’s exactly why I didn’t want him coming with me; he’d already gone further in the pursuit of lost property than any other concierge in the history of the universe. In my own selfish way, I guess I was trying to make it up to him. Or so I told myself.
All I had to do was find the right patch on the quilt, so to speak. How was I supposed to know I was following the wrong thread?
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know where I went, but I can tell you it wasn’t home. It wasn’t home at all.
Never been one for hospitals, me. Seen too many people pass before their time, and always found their smell to be too clinical… too lifeless. I’ll tell you what, though - they look a hell of a lot nicer when their pale lights aren’t flashing on and off and their halls are full of doctors rushing around trying to keep
people alive.
I stepped into a corridor devoid of any such hurry. The strip of lighting overhead hadn’t just blown out, sending shards of glass and plastic all across the linoleum floor, but come loose from half of the coiled wiring that kept it attached to the ceiling. It hung at a crooked angle, spitting blue and yellow sparks. The next light down was in better condition, but insisted on flashing on and off, on and off, banishing the world each time it blinked.
The nearest room’s door was left wide open. I peered inside. Through the gap in its window’s curtains I could see night looking in, and the room was lit only by the light of the television screen up in the top right corner of the room. Cartoons played out in silence. The bedsheets had been thrown back and not replaced. Whatever reason people had for leaving, they’d done so in one heck of a rush.
I could see a set of double doors past the end of the corridor, where I guessed the floor’s reception lay. One of them was squeaking back and forth on its hinge. Beside them were two elevator doors; neither’s light was on.
I know I should have just walked back through my door, tried my luck rolling the dice once more. But curiosity got the better of me, and when I hear a question I tend to find myself listening for its answer. I walked down towards what I assumed was the lobby and, looking at the epileptic bulbs above, wondered if there was anything left in that dump still able to shed some light on whatever it was that had happened.
The reception was just as empty as the corridor. The receiver of a phone dangled down the side of a desk. Papers fluttered off onto the floor, blown by a breeze that brushed nothing else.
Looks as if there’s been an evacuation, I thought. There was a muffled moaning coming from somewhere further along and to the right - a private cubicle. What was it: a bomb threat? Did someone drop a vial of some obscure, flesh-eating virus? Oh God. I’ve stumbled into a zombie apocalypse, haven’t I? Just my bloody luck.
Glass cracked under my feet. Something was making the floor vibrate in a strange, pulsing rhythm, as if there were a rave happening on the floor below. But it wasn’t a sound, just a… heartbeat. A wave that rippled through reality, each time bringing in a tide of something dark.
‘Psst,’ came a voice from behind the reception desk. I stepped around it, my briefcase primed for a good swing, and saw a cowering hospital porter, white scrubs and all.
‘What are you still doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Why didn’t you leave with the rest of them? Go on now, go!’
‘What on earth happened here?’ I asked, crouching down to join him. I was starting to suspect that we weren’t alone in the hospital after all.
‘How the hell would I know?’ replied the porter. From the look in his eyes, I may as well have asked him what the colour of the wind was. He was shaking, unable to gather up the courage to run away himself. ‘Something wrong though, man. Something that isn’t right.’
I stood up, wondering if something terrible would come cascading through the corridors to tear us limb from limb. Nothing did. But the same muffled moaning persisted from the private room opposite us, its blinds shuttered yet skewed.
‘What’s going on in there?’ I asked, walking towards the door. For a second we were plunged into darkness, and then the lights flickered on again.
‘Are you crazy? Get away from there!’
‘What? Can’t you hear them? Someone needs help - this is supposed to be a hospital, isn’t it?’
‘Oh sod it, suit yourself,’ yelled the porter, finally getting to his feet and sprinting out through the double doors. They flung back on themselves with a slam.
The sensible decision would have been to go back to the door I’d come through, or any other door - hell, even the door I was about to open - and use the keys to get as far from that cursed place as possible.
Obviously that’s what I should have done. And obviously that’s not what I did.
I turned the door handle, heard the lock give an audible click as it popped open. Nothing rushed through the gap; no cloud of gas enveloped me, burning at my skin and encouraging me to claw out my eyes.
An elderly woman was hunched over the bed. Her handbag had fallen off her chair, and toffees and tissues had scattered out across the floor like a sea of mines. In the other chair, on the other side of the room, was a teddy bear, lying on its side and staring out at me with black glass eyes. The woman was clutching at a young boy in the bed - I’d guess nine, maybe ten years old - over whom she’d laid some strange bundle of knitting. Its thread crossed over and over like a web, and trailed down from his chest to his feet.
There came a great shaking in the floor - another pulsing wave - and the lights ebbed and waned, casting shadows of light against an oily darkness. The old woman was crying low sobs from deep within her chest but the boy lay there in silence. Neither seemed to notice me.
It was only as I went to leave, quite honestly confused by the whole scene, that I noticed a growing blackness beneath the boy’s bed. It wasn’t so much the absence of light as it was its opposite, its true opposite, its mortal enemy. It was as if oil had been sprung beneath the mattress, seeping out over his grandmother’s shoes like a toxic spill.
The boy began to convulse, throwing the knitted aberration from his covers. The grandmother tried to hold him down but his back kept rearing up, bending the boy into horrible angles all whilst his face remained serenely calm. Her crying grew louder and louder, long past the point where words even mattered, the only sound apart from the steady thumping of the boy’s body against the mattress and the accelerating beeping of his heart monitor.
Blood started to pour from his nose and ears. Little streams rolled down from the corner of each eye and stained his pillow red.
The porter had been spot-on; this wasn’t just wrong, it belonged to a whole other universe to anything with even a passing resemblance to right. Hell, I’d have rather been on the bad-end of Viola’s torture room than stay in that world a moment longer. I went to back out of the door, only to fall over a cable and land on my arse with a painful crunch.
I looked at what I’d tripped over and screamed an expletive I’m not proud of.
It wasn’t a cable. It wasn’t a cable at all. Whatever it was slithered and slipped and writhed all of its own accord, wriggling and feeling and… God, it was disgusting. It was all the worse that I couldn’t see where it had come from - or what it was attached to, for that matter. It just seemed to emerge from a shadow in the corner of the room - a tentacle, prying through a hole in the very fabric of reality.
As if that wasn’t enough to scare the living crap out of me, as I crawled backwards onto the reception’s floor I could make out the bathroom door creaking open - the toilet in the boy’s room, that is. The light inside illuminated little more than a candle at the bottom of a well, but I could see what came creeping out from within easily enough. More easily than I would have liked. Black claws, as long and spindly as the teeth of a rake or the legs of a wasp, wrapped around the door, tapping the wood like a clarinet player. The boy’s heart monitor wailed out a flatline.
‘Nah, sod this,’ I said, and sprinted back down the corridor.
My keys were already in my hand by the time I reached the door through which I’d entered. I fumbled them. What in God’s name even was that in there? This world was a very distant cousin from my own, that was for sure, and one I didn’t intend to keep in contact with.
Another pulse came through the floor. Some of the tiles came loose from the ceiling, and a fresh shower of sparks came showering down from the lighting strip above my head. I had to hold onto the wall to keep from falling over.
I found the right key and rushed through the door. A moment later a cloud of empty black and darkness came billowing down the hallway, swallowing all the light, echoed by the sound of laughter.
The smell of well-worn leather. Something that reminded me of Christmas, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it… Apple cider. Spiced apple cider. But faint and artificial, like the kind that gets puf
fed out of air fresheners. The air was full of it - that, and the faint, lingering note of a woman’s perfume.
I’d like to say that the new world I found myself in was full of rainbows and kittens made of candy-floss, but in truth it was nearly as disconcerting as the last. At least I’d known where I stood with the last one - somewhere a million miles away from it, preferably - but this one… well, there was something too normal about it.
I was standing in the front porch of a house I’d never seen before. The mat beneath my feet promised me a welcoming experience. Through the windows behind me shone a bright summer’s day, and its heat was building up through the glass. The house was most definitely English; it was tidy and neat, and quaint. The lights in the hall were shaped like crystalline dragon eggs and an umbrella stand stood to attention beside the door. There were three umbrellas inside - one that was plain and black, one that was white with rose petals fluttering all around its canopy, and another that was small and violently pink.
In front of me was a short corridor and a flight of stairs, of matching cream carpet. Its bannister was of rich, deep mahogany, and in an alcove under it sat a chair and a desk. On the latter was a pile of blank paper, the sort destined to never see a drop of ink, and an old-fashioned telephone complete with rotary dial. The opposite wall was flush with framed pictures; the one nearest to the entrance was a close up photograph of a young girl, her bright smile taking up most of the shot.
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