Kzine Issue 1

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  Then he missed the visit of Prof Reinhold Schmidt from Heidelburg. This was significant as Lazarus had been instrumental in inviting him. Once the lecture was over the senior members of the Institute held a meeting. It became clear that no-one had seen Lazarus for several days. The Administrator took the decision to open his lab, despite the convention of the time that a researcher’s lab was their own kingdom, to be entered only at their invitation. Therefore a delegation of senior fellows, myself included, went with the Administrator and caretaker to the third floor lab that Lazarus had occupied for the last eleven years. Did we expect to find Lazarus there? I asked no-one else, but personally I did not.

  Lazarus was not there. The lab was rather tidier than I had expected, with neat stacks of reprints on the shelves in contrast to the eighteen inch deep pile that covered the table in my own lab. Fully half the floorspace was taken up by a massive apparatus of huge magnetic coils, vacuum tubes and power cables as thick as my arm. A large red notice with black letters stated ‘Experiment in progress, do not switch off.’ The delegation withdrew and the caretaker locked the door behind us.

  Reluctantly the administrator called in the police. They came around, asked unintelligent questions and took statements, but there was very little to say. I learned from them that Leila was also missing. They believed that there was some connection; I did not. Leila had several times taken off at short notice with new admirers to spend their money in sunnier climes, reappearing when she lost interest in them. There were insinuations that he had defected; ridiculous to me but some gave them credence.

  Time passed with no news of Lazarus, and he slowly slipped from the forefront of our minds. His elderly parents visited the Institute asking questions in polite, respectful voices. I felt considerable embarrassment at the paucity of information that I could give them.

  Then four months later he was back. Looking somewhat weather-beaten, but clear-eyed and with a fine healthy glow to his cheeks, and a wife. Leila.

  I felt something was wrong the minute I saw her. The Leila I knew used to greet me with a grand dramatic kiss. Lazarus’s wife demurely lowered her eyes and offered her hand; I took it respectfully, noting the calloused palm and cracked nails. She was thinner too, and hollow-cheeked as if missing teeth, and her hair was not as lush and lustrous as usual. I wondered if she had been ill.

  Lazarus was a man transformed. He seemed to radiate confidence, brushing away enquiries about his absence like a politician discussing last year’s promises. He threw himself into his work, producing papers at a phenomenal rate, and became an active, indeed vociferous, participant in the departmental committee meetings. More than once I heard his name linked with the post of Director of the Institute.

  Mrs Andrews seemed happy too. Lazarus purchased a substantial house with half an acre of garden, and his wife took a most un-Leila-like delight in decorating and furnishing it. I was a frequent guest at their new abode and came to know Mrs Andrews as a charming, intelligent and graceful young woman. There was, however, always that shadow upon my heart that she was not the Leila I had known. She carefully avoided talking about those events that we had experienced before she was married. I tried a number of times to take her aside and ask what had happened, but I was never able to get her alone; but perhaps that is only proper for her situation as a new wife.

  It was no surprise at all when Lazarus announced that they were expecting their first child and threw a small dinner party to celebrate. I was amongst the guests and, long after the ladies had retired, Lazarus poured himself a generous glass of port, offering me the same which I declined, and assumed an air that I can only describe as triumphant.

  ‘Today is simply the finest of my life, Michael,’ he said. ‘I have kept back one more piece of news which I think you, of all people, will most appreciate. Nature have finally accepted my paper on portal theory.’

  I was well aware of, though baffled by, Lazarus’s work on the altered states of matter generated by high density magnetic fields, but this was the first I had heard of portal theory. He clearly noticed the confusion in my face as he embarked on a précis of his new theory. Many details of it were extremely difficult to follow; however, the summary of it was that under the extreme stress generated by immensely powerful magnetic fields, plasma tunnels into parallel dimensions may be generated.

  ‘The paper only reports tunnels on an atomic scale, but I’ve already done more, much more,’ said Lazarus.

  ‘How large is it possible to make such a tunnel?’ I asked.

  ‘The only limit is the power available. With these new super-conducting magnets the sky’s the limit.’ He spread his arms wide to demonstrate, spilling a little port on the rug. A terrible suspicion took root in my mind.

  ‘Is it possible to traverse such a tunnel?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I have done so.’

  ‘Can one transport things to these parallel worlds?’

  ‘Yes, but there is a caveat. If you bring something from a parallel place, you have to leave an equal thing there. You cannot close the portal leaving things unbalanced. ‘ He sat back looking immensely pleased with himself.

  A cold hand gripped my stomach. I tried to compose myself so that he would not see written upon my face that I knew what he had done.

  I wondered how he had done it. It would have been very difficult to force Leila through such a portal, so I presumed he had played upon that sense of reckless adventure which had been so strong in her. How on earth he had found a parallel version of her, God only knows. Once there, he must have immobilised her, come through the portal with the woman that now is his wife and closed it behind him. I thought of the calluses on Mrs Andrews’ hands and the eagerness with which she cleared her plate; my Leila must now be living a much harder life than the one she had left.

  I felt quite sick at the sheer calculated monstrosity of it. Equally chilling was the realisation that I could not do a damn thing about it. Lazarus was not about to return his wife to her world and he had committed no crime that had a name. Mrs Andrews seemed utterly content in her new life, so there would be no help there. I left their house utterly horrified and depressed for what had happened to my friend.

  I tried as much as I politely could to stay out of their circle after that evening; easier once their daughter was born. Lazarus did ask me to be godfather, but I declined.

  Mrs Leila Andrews had very little time to enjoy her new house. Within eighteen months the portal work was licensed to the US military for a substantial amount of money, further discussion of it disappeared into closed seminars and I never saw any subsequent publications. Lazarus was offered, and accepted, a chair at Chicago where he thrives to this day. I believe they have several more children.

  I don’t often think of them nowadays, but I think of my friend Leila every day.

  WHAT YOU GET IS NO TOMORROW

  by Stuart Young

  Nikki was so embarrassed when the waitress told her that yet another of her credit cards had been denied. Here she was, a fledgling superstar, and she couldn’t even pay for a slice of carrot cake and a few drinks. She could have died.

  Bad enough that her date hadn’t arrived yet, leaving her sitting outside this posh bistro, stomach rumbling as she watched other people eating mouth-watering meals. In the end she succumbed and ordered herself a quick snack. But now the bill had arrived - even though she hadn’t asked for it - and the waitress was looking at her as if she was the missing link between chavs and the apes. Nikki knew the waitress was just jealous because Nikki was young and pretty and going places while she was stuck in a demeaning job and had hair that looked it had been styled by a blind epileptic. Nikki almost felt sorry for her.

  Nikki rummaged through her purse, searching for cash, but all she found was a 5p piece, a photo of David Beckham and a piña colada flavoured condom. The money wouldn’t cover the bill, Nikki refused to part with the photo and by the looks of the waitress the only time she would need a c
ondom was if she ever decided to become a drug mule.

  Forcing a smile Nikki made one last effort to be polite. ‘I am so sorry about this. If you just let me run over to a cash machine -’

  The waitress shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Nikki pouted. Before this business with the bill she had intended to give the waitress some friendly fashion tips - how to disguise that humungous arse, how to coordinate her wardrobe to make her legs look less like a rugby player’s and how to do something with that terrible, terrible hair. But now the waitress could forget it - she could spend the rest of her life going round looking like Quasimodo’s less attractive sister.

  Nikki glared at the waitress, preparing to play the celebrity card. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  The waitress raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I?’

  That hurt. In the past six months Nikki had dated two footballers and a member of a boy band - she should be celebrity royalty by now. But the two-faced gits always dumped her before the tabloids got past calling her a ‘mystery blonde.’ Even after the time she “accidentally” lost her bikini top as the photographer came into view the newspapers never bothered finding out her name. Bragging about the boyfriends on Facebook and Twitter and her personalised website didn’t work either. She was tempted to do a kiss-and-tell story - or, in the case of one of the football players a disgusting-act-with-a-pineapple-and-tell story - but she knew that would only grant her fleeting fame. She wanted something more substantial.

  Her patience had finally paid off when she bagged herself a premier league superstar, Paolo Moretti, a hot new signing from Italy. He was rich, handsome and had a body to die for.

  He was also two hours late.

  Nikki couldn’t wait for him to finally get here to pay the bill so she could put the waitress in her place.

  A beep emanated from Nikki’s handbag. Her mobile. Snatching it up she saw she had a text from Paolo. Excited, she opened it.

  Nikky,

  It was fun while it lasted.

  Paolo

  She went pale beneath her fake tan. He couldn’t do this to her, couldn’t break her heart. Especially not before she had got her photo in the papers.

  The waitress tapped her forefinger on the bill. ‘So exactly how will you be paying?’ Her mouth twitched slightly. ‘I assume you are going to pay?’

  If Nikki was dealing with a man she would have fluttered her eyelashes and flashed some cleavage. But with the waitress her options ran more to throwing a tantrum and yanking the waitress’s hair out by the roots.

  Tempting as this was Nikki still had one other option. Classy. Dignified.

  She burst into tears.

  ‘He dumped me! By text! And the bastard didn’t even spell my name right!’

  ‘How tragic. Now about the bill …?’

  So much for female solidarity.

  As Nikki continued to blub a man in a swish suit stepped forward, flourishing a platinum credit card. ‘Allow me.’

  He slipped the card into the credit card machine, tapped in his PIN number then returned the card to his wallet before seating himself at Nikki’s table. He waved the waitress away without even looking at her. ‘That’ll be all for the moment.’

  Nikki shot the waitress a triumphant smile and then turned her attention to the man. Early fifties, Armani suit, manicure, capped teeth, a tan that was probably half sunbed and half exotic holiday and hair so black that it had to have come out of a bottle. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He passed her his handkerchief. ‘Don’t mention it.’

  She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. Silk. With a monogram in the corner - DM.

  Of course. Dennis Melling. Some sort of businessman, he used to appear in a Dragon’s Den rip-off on one of the digital channels until the show got cancelled. He hardly made the news these days, when he did it was because of his status as an aging playboy, forever showing off a new piece of arm candy.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  He extended his hand. ‘I’m Dennis by the way.’

  She shook his hand, trying not to drool over the gold bracelet that showed beneath his cuff. ‘Yeah, I recognise you from …’ She tailed off, unable to remember the name of his axed TV programme.

  ‘From the gossip pages, I know.’ Dennis sighed. ‘I run a multimillion pound empire but the papers only care about the girls I’m dating.’

  ‘Really?’ Nikki’s eyes lit up and she flashed him her most dazzling smile. ‘I’m Nikki.’

  They chatted for a little while. Dennis was funny, much funnier than Paolo, with the easy confidence that came with great wealth. And when he smiled he wrinkled his nose in a way that reminded Nikki of her pet rabbits Katie and Peter.

  Dennis glanced at his watch. ‘Look, if you’re not doing anything I can reschedule the meetings I had planned for this afternoon and we can go for a drive.’

  Nikki hesitated. She still felt slightly dazed by Paolo dumping her; she didn’t want to go through that again. Dennis might not be as young and callow as previous celebs she had dated but she still knew his reputation. Ground rules had to be laid. Subtly. Diplomatically.

  ‘Look, Dennis, I like you but I don’t want to be just another one of your trophy girlfriends helping you get through your midlife crisis.’

  Smooth.

  Dennis’s smile wobbled slightly then came back more confident than ever. ‘You speak your mind, don’t you? I like that.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Anyway, I’m not having a midlife crisis. Now come look at the new Lamborghini I bought this afternoon.’

  The car was a thing of beauty. It sat outside the bistro, gleaming in the sunshine. Even sitting still, its engine silent, it pulsed with barely suppressed energy, eager to stamp its carbon footprint upon the environment.

  ‘Wow.’

  Dennis grinned. ‘Now how about that drive?’

  Giggling, Nikki jumped in.

  Dennis drove fast, roof down, horn blaring at anyone who got in his way. Gradually he eased out of the built-up areas, into the quieter streets and then finally out of the city altogether.

  ‘Now let’s see what this baby can really do.’

  They tore along the road, leaving the speed limit in shreds behind them.

  Leaning back against her seat Nikki dreamt about owning a car like this. And she would one day, when she ran her own fashion label. But working her way up the ladder would take too much effort, by the time she made any headway she would be burned out. She needed a shortcut, someone with the money and high profile that would allow her to become a style icon; the media would swoon over the outfits she wore at film premieres and celebrity weddings, leaving them salivating for her to launch her own fashion label.

  She glanced over at Dennis. ‘Did I tell you I’ve got an A Level in fashion and design?’

  ‘That right?’

  Dennis pulled in to the drive of a huge house, as large and ornate as a palace. Statues decorated the immaculately mown lawns that stretched off to the horizons.

  ‘We’ll have a drink and a freshen up then head back.’

  Nikki gazed up at the house. She wasn’t sure she wanted to head back.

  Opening the door Dennis bowed as he waved her inside.

  The hallway was magnificent. Tiled floor, elaborate chandelier, framed oil paintings and polished mahogany banisters leading up to yet more wonders on the upper floors. Everything gleamed with exquisite grandeur. Even the sunlight seemed brighter for beaming in through the elegant windows rather than slumming it outside in the dullness of boring old Mother Nature.

  Dennis led Nikki into a lounge the size of Nikki’s entire flat and sat her down on the sofa. Swaggering over to a refrigerated drinks cabinet he opened it and pulled out an ice bucket. Nikki spotted him take something from his pocket and pop it in his mouth. A tiny blue pill.

  A flicker of doubt. Did she really want to be here?

  Dennis swa
ggered back over brandishing a pair of fluted glasses and a bottle of champagne. ‘Drink?’

  Oh, what the hell. ‘Yes please.’

  Unwrapping the foil Dennis popped the cork; it disappeared from view, lost in the vastness of the lounge.

  Glasses frothing with champagne they leaned back on the sofa. Dennis raised his glass. ‘To getting the best in life.’

  They clinked glasses musically.

  ‘So you work in fashion?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The ladies department at BHS.

  ‘You’re ambitious, right?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Good, good. That’s how I made my fortune, good honest hard work. But now I only get media coverage because of the women I date and the women only want to date me because of the media coverage.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  Dennis shrugged. ‘I do my best to solider on through the pain. But it’s girls like you who really interest me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A girl with spirit.’ He leaned closer. ‘A girl with the drive to go for what she wants.’

  She could feel his breath on her face.

  ‘A girl who seizes an opportunity with both - ’

  Dennis’s mobile rang, the chorus of “Hey, Big Spender” shattering the moment. ‘Excuse me.’

  He spoke into the phone, a heated back and forth between him and the caller.

  Eventually he put his hand over the receiver and turned to Nikki with a sigh. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this call in my study. You make yourself at home.’

  He strode out, snapping instructions into the phone.

  Nikki stretched out on the sofa, sipping champagne. This would teach Paolo. Except he probably wouldn’t even care. He probably already had some new squeeze; a supermodel, pop singer or movie star.

  Irritated, she prowled around the lounge, examining the furnishings, estimating their worth. Forget Paolo. All that mattered was that she got her big break. If that meant cosying up to Dennis then so be it.

  A sudden realisation hit her. Dennis was older than her dad.