This wasn't a—what had Helen called it?—an aftershock from his breakdown. This was really happening.
When he had walked into the cottage bedroom and found himself in 1986, it hadn't felt like a hallucination. The creatures he'd seen in the Bloomsbury Suite, the missing city and bridge - none of them were hallucinations. He could treat them as such, but that would be to deny the evidence of every one of his senses, plus his continuing capacity for logical reasoning.
He had been there. In Clifton. With Chris and Alison at the party where he'd met Ash. The party where, afterwards, his best friends had insisted he'd left alone, without saying goodbye.
He had relived the evening in exactly the same level of detail as when it had happened. Not only externally although that had been convincing enough. Until the previous night, ninety-nine percent of the details of that evening had long since dissolved, leaving a handful of individual moments he could bring to mind. But now, having lived it all again, he could remember everyone who was there, what they were wearing, what they were drinking. He could remember Alison brushing fluff off Chris's shoulder. And the fact that everything reeked of cigarette smoke.
There were enough details to persuade him that what he had experienced was more than a hallucination. But it was the interior experience that clinched it. Every thought, however banal, that had passed through John Aviemore's mind on that night in 1986 had been present to him once again, without exception. He had been a passive witness to his younger self's stream of consciousness.
While he had carried the beers across the room to Chris and Alison, the label in the back of his T-shirt had rubbed against his neck. This physical sensation led to a trivial train of thought. And yet he had relived it without omitting a single detail.
He had a spot on his neck which was already tender, and the label wasn't helping. He wondered if he should go to the kitchen, try to find a pair of scissors, try to cut it out. That would mean asking someone to do it for him. Maybe a girl. That might work. He'd been near the kitchen just now for the beers, and there were three possible candidates. One was too pretty, he'd clam up if he asked her. She was wearing a short skirt. Her friend was cute, but she was already drunk, swaying. That left the girl with the glasses and the Alice band. She had been uncorking bottles with a lick of speed that suggested she was well-practised. John remembered then that she waitressed in a Clifton restaurant. What was her name? Kara? Tara? Clara? Shit. She was in a few of his lectures. He couldn't ask her to cut the label out in case he got her name wrong. And what if she said no? They'd laugh, and he'd have to laugh too, although his cheeks would go bright red, because that's what they did in every awkward situation, which was a bad bit of biology. What was the evolutionary advantage of blushing when you'd made a prat of yourself?
Half of John had wanted to slap his younger self and tell him to get his head out of his own arse. The other half wanted to give him a hug and tell him everything would all be all right.
Putting his half-finished cup of tea on the windowsill, John walked out of the back gate into Leigh Woods. His brain was aching like an overused muscle. He needed some simple physical exercise.
Five minutes into his walk, and he was already more relaxed. Despite suspecting he was experiencing something so far beyond common experience that there wasn't even a name for it, John found that breathing air freshened by trees on a sunny morning made him—if not happy—then, at least, calm. The soft earth gave a little under his feet with each step.
He thought about Sarah. Her presence arose naturally, as they had enjoyed woodland walks on hundreds of occasions during their marriage. Even if it was only Wimbledon Common on a Sunday evening, hand-in-hand among the joggers and dog walkers, they had shared an impulse to get close to the natural world. Sarah knew the names of many of the plants and trees. John was happy to listen and learn from her. Later, over supper in one of the nearby pubs, they would discuss the week ahead, maybe talk about how Harry and Evie were doing, then get home for a video call and catch up with them.
John knew why Sarah was on his mind now. He couldn't stop himself feeling a strong residual sense of guilt over what had happened last night. It hadn't been a dream or a memory; it had been a second-by-second replay. He couldn't change anything. The only difference from the original experience had been his own presence as an observer in his own younger mind and body. Which meant he had been just as excited, just as horny, just as desperate to explore her body as he had been at the time. His dream, memory, replay—whatever the hell it was—of the three times they'd had sex that first night had been vivid and visceral. Hence the guilt, and the deliberate reconnection with Sarah.
But what was there to feel bad about? The encounter had taken place years before he and Sarah had met, so there was no betrayal. The logic of this didn't prevent the twist of regret, anger, and guilt in his gut.
John walked for an hour. He tried to head north, but every time he checked the position of the sun, he found he had strayed from his route somehow. There was no sign of the edge of the woods.
When he came out of the trees into a small clearing, his mood was darkening, and he was increasingly aware of how afraid he was. He was trapped, his dead ex-lover might be haunting him, and he had no idea how to escape. It made no difference if this was all in his mind or real.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't realise he wasn't alone until the music started.
Twenty-Three
Years ago, by the look of it, an elm had been split by lightning, and half of it had fallen into the clearing where John was now standing. The trunk had long since been claimed by ivy and moss, the death of the tree providing an opportunity for new life to flourish.
Perched on the toppled trunk was what John at first imagined to be a child. He was thin, his profile drawn and angular, his eyes shut as he blew into a wooden instrument, producing a plaintive, eerie sound.
John didn't want to move, half-believing that if he did so, this vision would prove to be a trick of the light. The boy was wearing a brown tunic, knotted around his middle with twine. His feet were bare. He blew again, shaking his head, dissatisfied with the sound.
As John watched with fascination, the boy rubbed one dirty thumb along the edge of the wooden whistle, and a thin strip of wood peeled away and fell to the ground below. John squinted, looking for a knife, but there was nothing to see. The boy raised the instrument to his lips again. This time, the sound was clearer. Nodding to himself, the child played a simple melody of three notes played over and over. After repeating the phrase four times, the boy took a breath and resumed. The melody was the same, but as he continued, the air itself rippled like a heat haze around him.
John, standing as still as possible, held his breath when an enormous rabbit hopped into the clearing, heading towards the boy. No, John realised, not a rabbit, but a hare. He had never seen one so close. It was sleek, muscular, and wild; black eyes fixed ahead, long ears twitching.
With an impressive leap, it joined the boy on the fallen tree, watching him as he played his tune. The boy's eyes were half-shut, and he nodded along with the music. After the hare sat beside him, the melody changed, slowing and lowering in pitch.
A few seconds after the new melody began, John blinked in surprise. He had almost fallen asleep on his feet. When he looked back at the boy, he saw that the hare's head had dropped, and it had stretched out on the trunk, breathing slowly; relaxed, eyes closed.
The boy stopped playing, but the atmosphere created by his tune still lent a soporific ambience to the sunlit clearing. Turning to the sleeping hare, the child stroked its sleek fur, then slipped one hand underneath its head. It didn't stir. With a dextrous movement, the boy jerked the animal's head up and to the side, cleanly breaking its neck with a crack that dissipated the effects of the music. Using only his hands, he began skinning his prey.
John couldn't quite reconcile the beauty of the music and the savagery of the act. When he got over the initial shock, he acknowledge
d that the killing had been instant and, probably, painless. The boy's actions had looked respectful. Didn't the Native Americans thank the spirit of the animal they killed for food?
Once his bloody work was done, the boy turned, without fear, and looked at John.
"Are you hungry?" he said. "There's enough for both of us."
Once that face was turned towards him, John could see that his initial assumption was wrong. This was no child. The grey eyes were too knowing, the language too sophisticated. A quick reassessment put the lad in his teens or even older although John had seen bigger preschoolers. Physically, he exhibited none of the common features of dwarfism, and when he jumped from the tree trunk and walked round to a small pile of branches, he moved with the lithe grace and confidence of an athlete.
"Well?" He stared at John with frank curiosity.
John smiled. "Er, no, no thank you. I've eaten. But, please, go ahead."
As John spoke, the expression on the boy's face changed from relaxed and at ease to tense and guarded. His disconcerting eyes narrowed in suspicion. He reached into the pocket of his tunic, and John flinched, expecting to see a weapon. It was the wooden whistle. The boy brought it to his lips with as much speed as if this were a shoot out. The melody that emerged was brighter, faster, and more complex, but again, featured a phrase that repeated over and over.
There was no change of atmosphere this time. The boy stopped playing. His mouth hung open with astonishment.
"You're no noone," he said. "What are you? You can't be what you seem to be. Can you?"
"I don't understand," said John. "What do you mean?"
The boy looked left and right, then shot a glance over his shoulder. His grip tightened on his recorder. For a moment, John was convinced he would bolt. Then he relaxed a little, put the instrument back in his pocket, and pointed at a spot on the ground between him and John, about six feet away from the fire.
Keeping his movements as slow and non-threatening as possible, John walked forward and sat where the boy had indicated.
"I'm not going to hurt you," said John, then wondered why he had bothered. However physically dominated the boy might be, someone who could whittle wood with their bare hands and enchant animals with music wouldn't be afraid of a tired, scared man in his early fifties.
The boy waved a hand at the piled branches while singing something under his breath. John watched him pick up the skinned hare, then looked back at the branches as they crackled and spat, flames licking around their leaves, sending smoke up towards the treetops.
The boy neatly gutted the animal and impaled it on a sharp stick before dropping it onto a spit made of two forked branches. As the flesh glistened, then darkened, he licked the blood from his fingers, staring at John all the while.
He cooked his food in silence, then ate, leaving the hare on the stick while he tore strips of flesh away with his teeth. The boy's initial offer to share with John had evidently been generous, because he was hungry enough to eat every last scrap himself, sucking the bones when he was done.
He fixed his gaze on John throughout, looking him up and down, sometimes staring at items of clothing with interest, spending a minute frowning at his boots. Eventually, he nodded.
"Human?" he said, as if it were the most natural question under the circumstances. John, taken aback by the implications of the question, was slow to reply.
"Yes... yes," he said. "Human. I'm human."
The boy nodded again, and John felt emboldened to ask the obvious.
"And you are...?"
"Noon." The boy pronounced the word as if doing so fully answered John's enquiry.
"Right," said John. "Noon. Wait." He thought of the building where he had encountered the solicitor, Hackleworth. "N, O, O, N, E?" He sketched the shape of the letters in the air in front of him.
"Yes," said the boy. "Noone."
As in Noone House. What the hell?
"I'm John. John Aviemore." When John held out his hand, the boy spat on his own then rubbed his palm briefly against John's. His skin was cold, despite the warmth of the day.
"Gaius," he said.
"Guy Uss?"
"Call me Gai. Well met, John Aviemore."
John couldn't help but smile at that. It was exactly the sort of thing Augustus might have said.
"How long?" said Gai.
"I'm sorry?"
"How long have you been here?"
"Two nights," said John. "I think."
"Hmm." Gai walked back to the fallen trunk and picked up a canvas knapsack from behind it. He reached in and pulled out a bottle, removing the cork with his teeth. He offered it to John, twirling the cork between his fingers with impressive dexterity.
John's inclination to demur was overruled by the friendliness he felt towards Gai. It was like meeting a distant relative.
He took the bottle and drank. The liquid was alcoholic, and sweet. It was so light it was almost like drinking vapour. John gave the bottle back and watched as Gai drank.
"What is that? I've never tasted anything like it."
Gai re-corked the bottle.
"Mead," he said. "Good stuff, too, not the usual. Nicked it from Obe's personal stash." He held the bottle up towards the sun. "It's all I have to drink until I can get out of here."
"You too? You can't get out?"
"Seems that way. I got lost here last half-moon. Time works differently near the cage. Might be that I've been here twelve moons."
"Cage? What cage?"
"It's my fault. Too curious, even for a noone. We know not to get too close. There are warning charms all over this edge of the Lands. But, hey, I'm the most talented magician for a thousand moons, everyone knows that. And father gave me his blessing. Said I should explore the area." He looked rueful for a second, then smiled. "Anyway, now you're here, they can't say I'm reckless. You came to find me. Here I am, John Aviemore."
"I didn't come to find you, Gai. I was out walking, that's all. About this cage..."
"I don't understand what you mean. You walked here today, so you and I were meant to meet."
"No. It's just a coincidence."
"A what?"
Gai wouldn't answer John's questions until he'd explained the meaning of the word. When John had finished, he was still puzzled.
"How can two incidences that lead to a significant event occur without any connection?"
He demanded an example. Without knowing why, John told Gai a story he'd never told anyone before.
"A young woman was working at a design agency near Waterloo station. It was Tuesday, the third of July, nineteen-ninety. She knocked a cactus off a window sill. It was in a terracotta pot. Her elbow caught it as she was opening the window. Her office was three floors up, and she leaned out. A man was tying his shoelace below. She screamed a warning and, to her horror, the man looked up a split second before the cactus was about to hit him. She heard the pot smash as she sprinted across the office and ran downstairs. When she got to the door of the building, she was already crying. She knew there was no way the man could have avoided the falling pot plant. To her amazement, the man was standing in the doorway, unharmed. In his cupped hands was soil, pieces of terracotta, and a dented cactus. She was shaking and upset. He took her back inside and got her a glass of water. Three months later they were married. The cactus didn't survive."
"So? How is this a coincidence?"
John was lost in his own thoughts. "What? Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that I know everything about this story, and it's full of coincidences. I was the man. The woman was Sarah, my wife. She had swapped desks with a co-worker that morning because she wanted more natural light for a drawing she was working on. That meant she didn't know how stiff the window was, which meant her elbow caught the cactus which her co-worker denied even owning. I was on my way to a magic convention, and I was late, so was jogging along Waterloo Road. My lace came undone just as I was under the window. I heard a scream, the pot smashed on the pavement right next to me, so I scooped up what
I could and took it to the door. All those unrelated incidents led to Sarah and I meeting for the first time. All coincidences."
Gai stared at him as if he were an idiot. "Not coincidences. The word means nothing, the concept is stupid."
John shrugged. "Some people take comfort in believing in fate - that things are 'meant to be,' the same way as people take comfort in religion. Not everyone is comfortable believing their lives are governed by chance."
"Your... wife. She is your life partner."
"Yes. She was. She died."
Gai offered no platitudes. "Then, if you had waited a few minutes to tie your shoe, someone else would have been her partner?"
"Well, we wouldn't have met that day. So, yes, it's probable we would have married other people."
Gai was looking at him intently. "And yet, what you said then was a lie. You believe you would have found each other somehow, am I right?"
John looked at the sky. The sun was already touching the tree tops to the west. He had left the cottage in the morning. He thought he'd been out for two hours, maximum. Apparently not.
Gai waited for his answer. John frowned.
"I want to believe it, yes. Because I loved her. But it would mean our freedom is an illusion, that our future is already written, and I can't believe that."
"Hmm." Gai offered him the bottle. "Noones do not have a word for 'coincidence'. Everything is connected. It is so obvious, we do not even have to state it. We do not believe anything, we just are. Bizarre concept, belief. I would like to know more about it."
The edges of the clearing were darkening now. There was something strange about it. Behind the tree trunk, instead of a line of trees, John could see the outline of a rectangle hanging in mid-air. As he looked at it, it became a window.
In confusion, John looked at Gai, who was shaking his head at him.
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