There was no way of knowing where the speeding car would end up when it reached the crossing in the next second-and-a-half.
Whatever calculation occurred in Sarah's brain at that point, it was done quickly. Decision made, she raised her head and looked straight at her husband. John looked back, knowing that she had accepted her lack of agency, and chosen to look at the man she loved, just in case it was the last thing she ever saw.
He looked back at her, but—at the precise moment the car entered his field of vision, the rear tyres smoking and screaming as the driver fought for control—his eyes flicked across to it. There was a bang as if a tyre had exploded. As a result, the Fiesta slewed to one side, the rear pivoting around Sarah without touching her. With an explosion of glass and the brief, horrible crunch of metal on metal, it smacked into a lamppost.
The car alarm went off. The driver's door opened, and a scared-looking kid emerged, fell on his backside and swore. His passenger, clutching his arm and moaning, crawled out next, and they were sprinting down the street before Sarah had taken a step.
John ran to her then, and they held each other on the pavement in the cold December air. The car fizzed, creaked and popped as sheets of metal tried to return to their original shape, and fluid from the burst radiator hit the hot engine.
He dropped Monique's number into the fire that night and called in sick the next evening. When he went back, she was gone. John made a mental note. He may be a rational, sophisticated rational, self-aware being with the ability to make his own choices, but when it came to flirtatious French women, it was as if someone had turned a dial on his trousers back to caveman.
Monique, unlike the stolen Fiesta, was an avoidable disaster. He swore to keep clear of any future Moniques. After a few weeks, he told Sarah that he'd fancied one of the Christmas bar staff.
She said, "So what?" and poked him in the ribs.
"It was the best day of my life."
John had read those words in sub-par novels, heard them spoken in Sunday afternoon films, but he had never thought of saying them himself. It was unfair: by nominating one day above others, it declared every twenty-four-hour period in the past to be inferior. It also put too much pressure on future days, preemptively relegating them to second place, at best.
But, as he relived the next memory in perfect detail, those were the words in John's mind. He experienced every single word, thought, and physical sensation of the twenty-second of August 1992. And nothing had ever matched that particular day.
Sarah was five months pregnant. The wedding had been an afterthought. They knew, as only those in their twenties can, that they would spend the rest of their lives together, so the ceremony and party was more for their families and friends than the two of them.
"And I need to take your name, John Aviemore." He had been more than a little surprised at this statement, but he heard her out. "Not that I'm doing it for any other reason than my own surname is a bit crap."
"What's wrong with Cockburn?"
"Ask my brother."
"You're an only child."
"True. But you know what I mean. Don't get me wrong, taking your surname is a bizarre patriarchal tradition that has no place in the modern world."
"We could always combine them, go double-barrelled."
"Aviemore-Cockburn. Sounds like an STD. You haven't thought this through, have you?"
"Fair point. Aviemore it is."
And so, on the first day of their married life, it was as Mr and Mrs Aviemore that they drove to North Wales.
It was a long trip, and they were up just after dawn, leaving Augustus, John's best man, to entertain those who had stayed over after the wedding.
John and Sarah breakfasted on chocolate bars and crisps as they headed along the M40. They found the guesthouse as it was getting dark, at the end of a winding track on the banks of a small lake.
The food was rich, and the view from their room showed snow-capped hills climbing behind the far banks of the lake into the mist. That night, they were too tired to have sex. Instead, they lay propped up on their pillows, hand-in-hand, watching the reflection of the moon on the wind-ruffled water.
There was no one moment of incredible joy or realisation. It was a steady drip, drip of happiness, a sense of everything being in its right place, of the fundamental goodness of life. And, as John lived every moment again, his heart ached with the ephemeral beauty of it, knowing its fragility made it wonderful.
Sarah fell asleep first, and he pulled the eiderdown up to cover her, kissing her on the cheek before closing his own eyes.
Sleep came easily with no thoughts of the past, and no plans for the future. The optimist and the pessimist, man and wife, slept deeply and slept well.
John was woken by a voice calling his name.
"John? John?"
He stopped and looked behind him. A tall girl with blonde hair in a ponytail was hurrying to catch up with him. He frowned and pursed his lips, as if trying to remember, then smiled as she reached him.
"Sarah, right?"
"Yes. How are you? Any more showers of cacti recently?"
"Ah... no, no. Not really."
"Not really?"
"Er, well, a couple of geraniums, um, the odd petunia, but, well, I'm good at dodging now. And there's always, you know, umbrellas and the like."
"Umbrellas and the like? What other devices are you using?"
John hoped he could hold his nerve. He'd been walking this stretch of road every lunchtime for ten days, ever since Sarah had knocked a cactus out of her office window and nearly brained him. Now that she was in front of him again, his tongue was struggling to maintain a connection to his brain.
"Devices? Um..."
"I'm just teasing. Do you fancy joining me for a cup of tea and a sandwich?"
"I, er, well, if it's not, I mean, if you want to, um..."
Sarah smiled. "Unless there's someone else you need to see? Someone else you've been looking for while you've been walking up and down this street the last few days."
John flushed and stammered. "N-no. No. I haven't, that is, I wasn't, I don't want you to think I'm weird or a stalker, but, well, you know, I was, I was... yes. I was hoping to see you. Again. See you."
"Hmm." Sarah looked him up and down, still smiling. "Luckily for you, I don't mind a bit of weird. Good. Let's go."
She started walking. John followed, then stopped in confusion as she suddenly halted, holding up a hand.
"No. This is no good. Before we go any further, one question."
"Question? Oh, right, yes, fire away."
Sarah's face became serious. "I should warn you that this is a deal-breaker. Wrong answer, and we can't have lunch together. So think carefully."
John blinked, but said nothing.
"Arsenal or Tottenham?"
His eyes flicked up and to the right. He rubbed his chin. Sarah tutted.
"You shouldn't need to think about it. Which one?"
Miserable now, John slumped. "This is something to do with sport, isn't it?" he said. "Is it football?"
In answer, Sarah took his arm, pulled him close, and they walked together.
"Perfect answer," she said. "I may just have to marry you."
Forty-Five
When John next opened his eyes, he spent a few moments trying to establish where he was. Nothing looked familiar. The unswept fireplace, the dirty floorboards, the old sofa and the few pieces of second-hand furniture seemed more of a dream than what he had lived through during the night.
He stood up and stretched, then rubbed his eyes. His state of mind was so heightened that he barely knew what he was doing. His dreams hadn't been dreams. He had spent all night in the company of his wife, something that hadn't happened for three years, and something he had believed could never happen again. Sarah was dead. John had watched her die. He had been the first mourner to throw dirt on her coffin that day in the cemetery. He had shaken hands and hugged a succession of tearful family members and friends,
he had paid the undertaker, he had thanked Helen and Fiona for helping with catering and drinks at the house afterwards. He had shut the door behind Harry when he had left to return to America two days after the funeral. He had walked back into an empty house. Sarah was dead, his time with her was over. It was over.
He poured himself a glass of water. It was still dark outside, but an ancient instinct alerted him to the first tiny changes of light that signified the end of the night.
John thought of the bargain he had made with Ash. He could leave at dawn.
For the first time, he noticed a weight in his left hand and looked down in confusion. He was holding the stone that Ash had shown him last night. The stone that contained the time cage.
His bag had a pair of jeans and a T-shirt he hadn't worn yet. He pulled them out along with some clean underwear and went upstairs to the bathroom. He glanced at the bedroom door as he reached the top of the stairs. It was shut.
John cleaned his teeth. He kept his attention on the bristles of the toothbrush as they passed along the enamel of his teeth, pushing up against the gum, moving along, repeating the process.
He couldn't think about last night. He couldn't.
When he washed, he was shocked to find thick, coarse hair on his chin and cheeks. He tilted the mirror and saw the face of a stranger. Gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed. A little crazy-looking.
His thoughts drifted back to Wales, and the first night of their honeymoon. He could remember it like it was yesterday because—for him—it was yesterday.
"No." He bent back over the sink and splashed water onto his face, removing the soap. His beard was full. Yesterday, it had only been stubble. He rubbed the towel over his face, brushed his hair and got dressed. He checked the mirror one more time before leaving the bathroom, angling it to see his whole body. The jeans were hanging off him. How had he lost so much weight in so short a time? It looked like he was dressed in borrowed clothes.
Despite his lack of belief in predestination, John accepted that certain moments in life were significant, particularly in hindsight. It was tempting to imagine some guiding hand was present, whether for good or ill. The day Sarah had knocked over the cactus was a good example
This was one of those moments. John stood on the landing in front of the bedroom, turning the stone over in his left hand. He pushed open the door and walked in.
The windows were shuttered, and the bedroom was lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Ash was almost unrecognisable. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and was wearing a white blouse with navy blue leggings. As long as he didn't look into those ancient green eyes, John could almost convince himself she was human.
"The time cage doesn't have to be a prison," she said, fastening a watch to her wrist. It was the first time John had ever seen her wearing jewellery. Besides the watch, she had a gold bangle on her right arm and a silver necklace around her throat. "It has become that for me. I won't deny it. But it took millennia before it felt that way. The time cage didn't begin as a burden. At first, it was a source of joy."
She pulled open a drawer on the dresser and removed a half-empty bottle of cheap perfume. The blouse was too big for her, and the jewellery was mismatched. John wondered if Ash was wearing items left behind by previous tenants of the cottage. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, but dressed as she was now, she could walk across Clifton Suspension Bridge into Bristol without stopping traffic.
John turned the stone over in his hand, its smooth contours brushing warmly across the skin of his palm. It felt comfortable there.
"I can't talk to you about where I come from in terms you could comprehend," she said, picking up a makeup brush and applying foundation to her flawless skin. "But there is one thing you should know. Although my kind are not immortal, we think of decades the same way you think of hours. I was young when I came here. Not to the Blurred Lands. They didn't exist in the same way when I first found your realm. I was young and impetuous. I underestimated my enemies, and I was defeated. The punishment they chose did not seem cruel to them, but those who put me here are long dead. Yet here I am. Did you dream, John?"
She looked smaller and more vulnerable in ordinary clothes.
"Don't play with me, Ash. You know I did." John's mind returned to the memory of Sarah's friend's wedding, and the shocked look on the faces of the other guests when they had finally emerged from the toilet. The intense bubble of happiness produced by the memory burst as he brought himself back to the cottage, the bedroom, and Ash. "Why did you do that? Why did you send me those memories? Even you must have experienced loss. Why torture me with it?"
"Me?" Ash shook her head. "I did nothing last night. You had the stone. You chose the memories. That's how the time cage works. I wanted you to see for yourself."
John sat on the bed. It was just a frame without a mattress again, and the bedroom was uncarpeted.
"I don't understand."
"I think you do. When I was trapped here, I had over a thousand years of memories to explore. I could go back to the greatest moments of my life and relive them as if they were actually happening. Better still, my present self was there, and I could soak in every detail. I found episodes in my life I had forgotten, beautiful moments, conversations, lovers, battles and victories. But, over centuries, it was the small things that drew me back. We are all creatures trapped in time, John, and every moment, before we appreciate it, has already passed. Not here, though. That's what I've been showing you since you arrived. And, last night, that's what you showed yourself. That's what the cage can give you."
Ash opened the shutters. The light outside had morphed from black to dark grey. John looked out. The light seemed wrong for the time of year. Too dark.
"What it can give me?" John knew he was circling around the truth he didn't want to acknowledge. He pictured himself standing up and handing the stone to Ash, but his fingers curled more tightly around it even as he considered the idea.
"Yes, John. Over the millennia, I have exhausted my supply of memories, and my time here has turned from a paradise to Hell. For you, it will be different. Your human life is short. How many more years can you expect? Twenty? Thirty? A few more, perhaps? I am offering you the chance to spend the rest of your life with Sarah."
"No. No." John's voice was so faint, he barely heard it himself, and when he looked up at Ash, he knew he wouldn't walk away from the cottage that day, or any day. Not if he could find Sarah here.
His eyes were full of tears. "What do I have to do?"
Forty-Six
"Hold the stone in the palm of your hand," said Ash. John did as instructed, and she placed her palm on top of the stone, their hands closing to cover it. Ash looked into John's eyes. "For you to enter the time cage," she said, "we need to go to the Between."
John looked back at her. She was more beautiful now than she had ever been, but he saw none of that. He only saw Sarah, alive, happy, every moment of their lives together, available to be experienced again and again.
"We go together," said Ash.
"Together."
Ash held John's gaze a moment longer, then nodded and half-closed her eyes. John did the same.
The transition to the Between was instant. John didn't know if this was because he was improving with practice, or because the link with a living god made his abilities more powerful. He was sitting in the Platonic Chair. The stone was missing from his hand. In its place was a strange orb of mist. It was weightless, but when he raised his hand, it followed the movement. When he tried to close his fingers, it became more solid, and he felt some resistance. He stood up and looked out across the featureless plain, the eternal snowfall still continuing its slow descent from the galaxies above to the ground below. A solitary figure was out there, waiting. He moved closer to the invisible window, not understanding what he was looking at.
The figure in the snow could only be Ash, but nobody would mistake her for a human being now. The woman standing outside his sanctum
was, if his estimation were anywhere near correct, over twelve feet tall. She was hooded, a dark robe falling from her shoulders to her feet. The face inside the hood was hidden in shadow, but a few strands of copper hair reflected the light of the stars.
She stopped and looked towards John. He walked to the door. His brief career as a real magician, a potential Adept, was over before it had begun. He was giving up a world of fantastic power and ancient secrets to live in a dream. But a dream as real as life.
John headed down the stairs and opened the outside door. Without hesitation, he pulled the cord tight on his dressing gown and stepped out into the snow. He didn't look back.
Astarte, Ashtoreth, the god of love and war, waited for him in the field of snow. As he got closer, John wondered how this might look to an observer. A middle-aged man in pyjamas and dressing gown meeting a giant hooded figure in a snowstorm.
"I have not been here for thousands of years," said the god. There was something different about her voice. Her hidden face turned from left to right to take in the changeless landscape. "Even the gods don't understand this place. We may rule the realms in other skins, but we meet in our true form here, John Aviemore."
A huge hand, its skin tinged a deathly blue, came out of the robe and barred John from walking any further. He looked up. Ashtoreth said nothing but pointed ahead into the snow.
Something was moving. Something big. Something so big, it made the giant figure beside John look like an insect. Whatever it was, it was following a path of its own and didn't appear to have noticed them, judging from its unchanged course.
John watched with a mixture of terror and curiosity as the thing ahead of them came closer. It had no limbs as such, nothing that touched the snowy ground beneath it, and its shape changed as it moved, elongating and contracting like the segments of a millipede. Its skin was rust brown, the colour of dried blood. When it was within fifty yards, John worked out that it was propelling itself through some kind of manipulation and expulsion of the surrounding air, like a flying jellyfish. It was a kind of organic dirigible. Each individual segment, as high as a five-storey building, swelled as it moved before squeezing itself into a smaller shape, the gas within hissing backwards along its body. There was no discernible head, and John could see no way that the thing could perceive the world around it. As each segment ballooned before shrinking, it moved forwards to take the place of the segment in front, which was doing the same. The creature was folding back in on itself so that its motion was circular, each segment having a turn at the front, then making its way down the side, before ending up at the rear and beginning the journey again.
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