The way her eyes looked into my own, scolding me. The way she bit her lip, smiling, hiding that she liked my gaze. Her messy, untamed hair. Her skin without flaw, cast in light and shadow where the covers didn’t quite reach.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was ready, even though my shaking hands and fluttering heart told a different story.
I took the gun from out of the briefcase and placed it on the bedsheets. Calmly and gently, I closed the catches on the case and put it on the floor. I picked up the gun once more, feeling its pull against my palm. It wasn’t the first time I’d held it, of course, but still it felt remarkably heavy. I guess anything so concluding has more than its share of weight to carry.
It was a 9mm, and a model I couldn’t tell you. I hadn’t asked questions, because frankly it doesn’t matter all too much what kills you, only that it does. I won’t name the young man who sourced it for me back in Maidenhead, but it’ll suffice to say he left having turned a considerably higher profit than he’d expected when he first approached me offering a bag of weed.
I didn’t like the idea of putting the gun into my mouth, so I placed it under my chin instead, pointing upwards. I dug it deep into the skin. I’d heard about idiots who managed to blow their face off and nothing else. If there was ever something to not screw up, this was it.
My finger coiled around the trigger.
‘George, no!’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I said, pulling the gun away. Just when I’d finally found a moment’s peace. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Can’t you just leave me to go in peace?’
The other George was standing in the bedroom doorway, out of breath. His eye was still blackened and a bruise on his temple was swelling where I’d whacked him with my briefcase. Well, there was no use stealing my briefcase now, was there? He could have it for all I cared, so long as he left me the hell alone.
‘Come on, George. It’s everything to do with me. You are me - one of me, at least.’
‘Exactly, I’m one of you,’ I said, exhausted. ‘Just one. There’s an infinite number of us out there, so why can’t you let just one go?’
‘Because it’s not just one, as well you know.’ My other self took a step forward into the bedroom so I flicked my gun towards him slightly. He kept still. ‘We all end up in the same place. We all end up in this room, with this choice. But not if I can help it.’
‘What, you’re going to stop all of us?’
‘Yes, I am. Granted, you’ve caused me considerably more grief than any of the others. Most of the time I get away with their briefcase before they even get back to their room.’
‘And that stops them, does it?’
‘Usually, yes. They worry and panic, mostly about the gun that’s gone missing. They ask the hotel concierge, and Pierre does his best to find their case. He never does, of course, because it’s nowhere to be found. So each George does the only thing he can: he goes to sleep in his soft, plush bed, gets a good night’s sleep, and checks out of Le Petit Monde in the morning. He doesn’t become happy all of a sudden, his woes aren’t magically cured, but he carries on. He starts to see the colour still left in the world.’
‘Oh, bullshit. Why on earth should I believe that?’
‘Because it happened to me. Is the fact that I’m standing here before you not enough? I could have blown my brains out, but I didn’t. There must be something more, I thought, something better. And ‘lo and behold, there I was, standing in my own doorway as I stand in yours now, telling myself I was right. There was something better, and I’d come back to myself to prove it. I built a new life for myself in my own world - got remarried, had a daughter, Belle, you’d love her - and vowed to do whatever I could to stop any other version of myself from making the choice I didn’t. The wrong choice.’
‘How goddamn noble of you. Now get out of my way.’
‘No, George. I’m not going to let you kill yourself any more than I’d let me do it to myself. Do you not think I know you? Because I’ve been right there, George, I’ve been right there and I’ve felt the same as you. I’ve felt everything you have and a little more.’
‘You have no idea-’
‘I have every idea,’ he said, making his way towards me, a twitch in his eyebrow. ‘I’ve known how it feels to wake up and expect Chloe’s head to be resting on the pillow next to mine, to feel her warmth and hear the sound of her gentle breath. I’ve known the breaking emptiness of walking past my son’s bedroom, seeing posters and toys laid out for no-one. I’ve known the dawning horror that everything you care about, the whole world you’d taken the best years of your life to curate for yourself, is gone, never to be retrieved. And believe it or not but I’ve known that numbness, that dull nothingness that plagues you, painting everything a hollow shade of grey. Do you think I don’t still feel that, sometimes? Do you think I’ve forgotten them? Or are you suggesting that I didn’t care as much about my Chloe and my Sam as you did yours?’
My mouth opened and closed but nothing of importance came out. The other George was only a metre or so away.
‘We split from the same path, George,’ he continued, not once breaking eye contact. I swear he didn’t even blink. ‘Until this hotel we were one and the same. I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re at the bottom of a well, peering up through the dark as the rest of the world walks by in the light. Feeling the drip, drip, drip of rain on your forehead, wondering when the water will get high enough for you to drown. I know, George, because I was standing right there with you.’
He was right next to me now. On his jacket I could smell the sweat and grass from our earlier rendezvous. He offered an open palm.
‘Give me the gun, George. Think of what you could achieve with what you now know. Think of the places you could go, the people you could meet. You needn’t follow the same path as me, just… Just do something. Give me the gun, George.’
I let the gun’s grip bob up and down in my hand, testing its weight. I thought of all the life and colour of New Orleans, of the dirge and filthy gloom of Viola’s London, of the heat and flora of unmapped Peru. Of the horrors in harrowed hospitals and the soft peace of a loving home. I thought of all the passion and the pain, of all the laughter that could be lost.
And then I thought of Chloe and Sam, torn apart in an embrace of tree and metal.
‘Nope, I think I’m done,’ I said, raising the gun to my head once more.
The other George grabbed at my wrist, squeezing so hard I could barely move my fingers. He twisted it so that the gun’s barrel pointed not at my head but at one of the glass-bead lamps beside my bed. With his other hand he tried wrenching the gun from my grip. Unfortunately this meant that not only could I not put a bullet through my brain, I couldn’t let go of the damn thing either.
I swung my free fist into his side - a tricky and ultimately ineffective assault given my awkward position sat upon the edge of the bed. I tried kneeing him in the groin but that was just as weak, missing any part of his manhood and instead slamming my thigh into his calf. This made him pull away, but as he had an unrelenting hold over my right hand this meant we both went tumbling onto the carpet in an uncomfortably undignified sprawl.
Elbows went in ribs. Feet got kicked. And an unfortunate fist went crashing into my mouth, filling it with red and iron.
‘Give it up, you damn idiot,’ he said in between gasps for breath. ‘Can’t you see I’m-’
A gunshot went crashing through the room, and then all that hung was silence.
I lay motionless, unable to move. Something hot and wet was spreading out across my arm. I felt like a crazy person strapped into a hospital bed, straining against his covers. It took a few seconds but eventually I wriggled my arm free, soaked in blood, and pushed the body from off my chest.
The other George rolled over, limp and unresisting. His eyes stared at the ceiling. His mouth hung agape. A hole had appeared in his side, a hole that oozed and bled out like a sewage pipe. The gun looked so innoc
ent and alien in my hand. I threw it aside. It still blew smoke from its mouth.
‘Oh God, George, what did you do?’
I looked up to see Pierre standing in the doorway. Out of the three of us his eyes stared widest of all. He was leaning against the doorframe and running his hands through his hair.
‘It was an accident,’ I said, my words coming out all frantic. ‘I was here by myself and he startled me, he came for the gun and it just went off…’
I was sick onto the carpet beside the bed, quite without warning.
‘Oh this is bad, this is so bad,’ said Pierre, cupping his hands in front of his face and breathing deeply as if into a paper bag.
‘You don’t say? I’ve killed someone, Pierre. And worst of all it was me!’
‘No, you don’t understand. As far as the authorities are concerned, you’re dead. If they ID you, or run DNA, check dental records… Whatever they do, you’re the one coming up on their system. Not George Webber from another world, but the one I’m talking to right this moment. You’re over. Done. Imagine the confusion if you try to live a normal life after this gets reported. Bank accounts frozen. The mortgage on your cottage, wiped. Hell, you won’t even be able to get a library card.’
‘Why don’t we take the body to another world?’ I said, spitballing for ideas. ‘The one he came from? That way it’s all… even.’
‘Oh, and which world was that?’ replied Pierre, sitting down in the bedroom’s chair. ‘We’d have to be a thousand percent sure, otherwise we’d be landing some other version of ourselves in a tonne of trouble.’
I bent down, almost threw up again, and picked up the gun.
‘Don’t even think about killing yourself as well. One dead George Webber is enough of a problem, without explaining to the police how there’s two of you.’
‘Only bought the one bullet. I’m not made of money.’ I dropped the gun so that it lay only a foot from the other George’s right hand. ‘I thought it would be enough.’
Pierre put his face in his hands and groaned.
‘Euuurggghh. The ladies in housekeeping are going to kill me.’
I was stuck between two impossible situations. I couldn’t live, because the world I’d always known would soon think I was dead. And I couldn’t die, because then the authorities would have to work out how it was possible two versions of one man had turned up dead in a hotel bedroom. That, and I didn’t have the bottle to hang myself with a tie or throw myself from off a balcony. My skin was starting to feel about six sizes too small for my skeleton.
But then it struck me like a Book of Revelations thrown by a shot-putter.
Lived, living, will live.
I didn’t need to kill myself - again - to get what I wanted. And I didn’t need to wait out the rest of my days in a lonely misery, either. There I was, spread out on the carpet, bleeding profusely from a hole in my side. There I was, standing very much alive, though with a rather sore jaw. And there I would be, eventually, in a thousand other worlds, at a time in which I hadn’t yet been born.
For every version of me alive, another was dead. For every world where an old George Webber would slip off silently in his sleep, there was another where he was yet to be conceived. The ripples of my actions spoke back from a fabric far more astronomic than I could comprehend, and yet in a way I could; in my small, insignificant way I was infinite, as was Pierre, as was Marie, as were all who ever were, ever would be, and ever are.
My Chloe and Sam were dead, I knew that. But my Chloe and Sam were also alive, and only a sidestep away.
I stormed past the body, grabbing his black scarf as I went, so full of sudden adrenaline that bile was starting to creep up the back of my throat. I could barely think, so busy my head felt. My breathing was sharp and shallow. I sounded like a bicycle pump.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Pierre, getting up from the chair and joining me in the hallway. ‘You just killed someone, and it’s only marginally better for being yourself.’
‘Pierre,’ I said, starting to feel light-headed, ‘this isn’t my world. It hasn’t been for years now.’
‘George, I know it’s been hard, God knows there’s little worse to go through, but you can’t…’
‘No, listen. This isn’t my world. You’ve shown me that much. It’s just my luck, right? A billion billion worlds, and I’m standing in one of the only few that can’t give me what I want.’
‘I’m really not sure I understand.’
‘And you really don’t need to. Just do me one last favour, please? Swap me the spare key for your keyring. I don’t need all the extras where I’m going.’
‘Sure, I guess. I can always cut another. But what am I supposed to do about him?’
We both turned to look at the dead body on the floor.
‘Just say I killed myself,’ I said. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? George Webber had never been long for this world.’
Pierre paused for a second, then nodded. ‘I guess it brings about a balance of sorts. I’m glad to have met you, George. I really wish you’d chosen a different hotel to stay at, all things considered, but then I suppose you wouldn’t be alive, and that would be a crying shame.’
I shook his hand and used the spare key on the door. It turned easily.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ said Pierre. ‘We’ll have a room ready any time - you know how to reach me.’
‘Thanks… for everything, actually. It’s been one hell of an evening, hasn’t it? Goodbye, Pierre.’
I stepped through and left my old world for good. Pierre sighed.
‘It won’t end well, George,’ he said to the closed door, shaking his head. ‘It won’t end well at all.’
Chapter Seventeen
Snow fluttered down from a black and endless sky, a sky so full of night that even the stars lay hidden. They were hidden, perhaps, not by a blanket of midnight cloud, but by their refusal to be complicit in what was destined to happen next.
Yet the trees still shook in the spring breeze, and that breeze still blew. That much of the world remained, just as I remembered. As I had always remembered.
The view out the thin bathroom window, a frosted rectangle cracked open a mere inch or two, was limited. But through the obsidian I could see the shadows of the forest spreading out to block a view of endless white fields; I could see snow building up against the windowsill like thick icing on a wedding cake; I could smell the crisp and unblemished, unspoiled air. I could also see a heavy-duty recycling bin, its lid struggling to hold down its dinner, but that did little to ruin the view.
I was back - not in my when, for I’d already seen how that played out - but in the right where, in someone else’s when, one that was almost the same as my own.
I didn’t recognise the bathroom, but I could tell where I was all the same. Not by its smell, for I’d be alarmed by the scent of cheap bleach and troubled movements of the bowel in any other environment, but by the aura of the place. It resonated with me, somehow, as the natural extension of somewhere else - the way you can expect how your neighbour’s bathroom will look, or their dog, maybe, having seen their doghouse in the garden. I don’t know how else to explain it, except perhaps that I’d known where I was going, and everything felt right. Felt familiar.
I was alone except for two stained urinals and an equal number of empty stalls. Given the state of the one directly behind me, I was lucky not to have emerged on the opposite side of its door. Graffiti decorated the interior in a technicolour scrawl and a very identifiable puddle had spread across its floor. There was a bitter cold creeping in to cover the tiles in icy kisses, but my nose was adamant that the window be kept open.
On the opposite side of the bathroom were two mirrors, each directly above a pale, anaemic sink. I was sweating and burning up, despite the coolness of the night, but I dared not touch the grimy, once-silver taps. Somehow I found myself believing whatever came flowing out would be even less pleasant. Somehow. But I did reflect upon myself in the mirr
or, checking what the new world would see.
My jaw ached. It would swell, and it would be obvious. Not great, but the waxy light did it no favours. Elsewhere it might not steal so much of the stage that was my face, and at least there were no other contenders for the leading role. Most of the other George’s blows had been to my chest, my ribs, my arms. Places that could be covered… for now, at least.
Were those really my eyes, looking back at me? Still, after all I’d been through? Flecks of blue, losing their battle against a tide of dull grey. Would they notice? Would they know? My pupils looked as panicked as I felt. I wore my tiredness openly, despite my excitement. With all the evening had thrown at me, fatigue had become like an estranged cousin, trying to catch up.
Shake such nonsense from your mind. You’re doing this, right now, and you’re not going to screw it up. You hear me? Do you, Georgie-boy? Don’t think you can just switch and reset. Don’t think that you can just hop over to another world and screw it up some more. This is it - this is finally it - so pull yourself together and GO.
I rolled up my sleeve where the other George’s blood had stained it. It would have to be binned as soon as possible. I drew myself a deep breath and did my best to calm my nerves. They’d bolted from their stables, but I managed to stop my hands from shaking and I guessed, if somebody had stumbled into the bathroom, I’d have looked relatively normal. Normal enough, at the very least, and that would have to do.
Realising I still had the other George’s black scarf in my hand - a scarf identical in appearance and smell to my own, hanging perpetually alone but not forgotten in another, even more familiar world - I wrapped it around my neck. I would have been wearing it back then. A gift from Chloe - I’d always worn it, back then.
Back now.
I crossed over to the bathroom door and turned its grubby little handle.
Now I could taste the familiar; no longer did it linger in the back of my throat, disguised as deja vu, but instead ran across my tongue in every hum of its discount lighting, every waft of refrigerated air, every similar sight and sound. It was thick, heavy, overwhelming - too great a portion, clogging up my throat and making it hard to breathe.
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