Schrodinger's Cottage

by David Luddington

  “I’m telling you, he’s been there for the last three days.”

  “How can you be sure it’s him?” A man in jeans and a blue sweatshirt asked. “Isn’t he still in Rome?”

  “I’m only telling you what I saw. As clear as I stand here, Pope Francis.” The man made the sign of the cross across his chest in a weak attempt at the Catholic sign.

  “What’s he doing here?” somebody else asked.

  “I don’t know. How would I know? All I’m saying is that he’s been there, kneeling by King Arthur’s grave.”

  I pushed forward a bit. “What time was he there? I asked.

  The man in the cloak looked at me and paused. He tipped his head to one side is if in concentration. I felt as if he realized I didn’t quite belong here. “Dawn,” he said eventually. “Just as the sun tips the Tor.”

  I thanked the man and made way down the Tor. George, what are you up to? It surely can’t be any good whatever it is.

  I found my way back to Albert’s van. It was still parked on its green line. I’d half wondered if The Green Police or some such might have towed it away for transgressing an obscure European rule on green lines. But no, just a flyer on the windscreen that thanked me for being a Green and Considerate citizen.

  I returned the van to Albert with many thanks and headed home. Whilst remembering to go in through the patio doors I wondered for a moment what I’d find if I entered through the front door. Would that be Nine?

  *****

  That evening Saphie came over and we adjourned to The Camelot for supper. Arthur had decided that his international theme nights were the way forward so had headed for Germany and tonight, despite being mid June, was Oktoberfest. Not being a country widely regarded for its cuisine the menu consisted primarily of sausages in rolls with various sauces. Although there was a plentiful supply of sauerkraut and chips. A German flag hung behind the bar and oompah music drifted around the room. Arthur greeted us with “Guten Morgen, Vat does sie vant?” He wore lederhosen and a Hitler moustache.

  For a moment I was rendered incapable of either speech or movement as I took in the full horror of the scene. It was only when I heard Saphie struggling to suppress fits of giggles that the spell broke.

  “Beer?”

  “Ah Gut! Ve have lots of ze special beers tonight as zis is bierkeller nacht!” He swept his arms across the bar. He had indeed outdone himself with the choice. A host of Bavarian ales jostled for my attention and demanded sampling. I chose a Dortmunder and Saphie a Rothaus, because she liked the cute picture on the bottle.

  After placing our orders for food, we settled at my favourite table by the window.

  “Still no sign of Eric then?” Saphie asked.

  “No, I’m worried he’s disappeared with my money.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. He seems very straight.” Saphie took a sip of her Rothaus. “Ooh, that’s nice. I could grow to like this one.”

  “Be careful, that’s quite strong.”

  “Worried I might let my inhibitions slip and let you take advantage?” She smiled coyly across the top of the glass.

  “I had a weird experience today,” I said.

  “Okay, so my charms are fading already?”

  “Sorry.” I reached for her hand. “Bit preoccupied. Let’s talk about your charms and inhibitions, or lack thereof.”

  She withdrew her hand in mock affront. “No. Lost your chance. Tell me about your weird experience.”

  I took a sip of my beer. “I met your dopple today. Only I’m not sure it was a dopple.”

  “It?”

  “Sorry, she… you. You were you as well as your dopple. Both. If that makes sense.”

  “Perfectly!” She took a sip of beer and smiled.

  Arthur brought our food, a hamburger with sauerkraut for Saphie and a currywurst with chips for me. The sauce was delicious. I went on to explain what had happened and she became increasingly interested.

  “I’ve always felt a sort of connection with other souls, entities. I just didn’t realise they might be alternate versions of me! What fun. Was she cute?”

  “Err…” I wasn’t sure how to answer that. It felt a bit like a trap. “How could she not be?” I looked into her eyes, they were full of mischief.

  “Fancy a threesome?” she asked.

  She caught me mid-sip and my laugh exploded Dort-munder over the table. I mopped at it with a paper napkin.

  Arthur returned with two more beers that I hadn’t remembered ordering. He placed a Tucher in front of Saphie and a Bockbier in front of me. “With the compliments of the gent at the bar,” he said.

  I glanced over to see who our benefactor was. The unmistakable figure of Eric in his green overalls with the orange circle stood at the bar. He looked somewhat like a trustee from Guantanamo Bay. He picked up his own drink and plate and carried them over to us and sat down.

  I held up my beer towards him. “Thanks.” I realized that the beer I held was not the one Arthur had placed in front of me. I looked at Saphie.

  “What?” she said with a slightly guilty expression then looked at the bottle in her own hand. “Oh, this. Hmm, I preferred the picture on this one. Look, it’s two people sitting on a goat. How cool is that!”

  “Very cool.” I squinted at the bottle. 12% ABV. I glanced at Eric who just shrugged.

  “How did it go?” I asked him.

  He reached into a plastic Tesco bag he’d been carrying and dumped a pile of euros on the table in front of me. Notes of all denominations fluttered on the table and threatened to blow away. I gathered them up. Tens, twenties, fifties even some hundreds and each one displaying the smiling face of Supreme President Cherie Blair.

  I turned to Saphie. “All set then. Looks like I’m off through the looking glass tomorrow.”

  We finished our meals and headed back. Much to my disappointment, Saphie collapsed into slumber as soon as she hit the futon. Eric and I chatted for a while about his exploits in Universe Eight. He told me he’d paid over the money to ensure the safe passage of Katrina and that he was going back in the morning to meet with the intermediary who would take him to her. I wished him luck and set about helping a dozing Saphie up the stairs and into bed. I lay there for a while wondering what tomorrow would bring. I had funds now and a clear lead on George but still no sign of Tania. I would probably have to make my way down to Cornwall to her sister’s and with luck, I might find her there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My alarm clock buzzed me into life at four a.m. I reached for the off button as quickly as possible to avoid disturbing Saphie. The buzzing silenced, I glanced at Saphie. I needn’t have worried she was still in the arms of German beers. I stumbled downstairs. This was an ungodly hour but if I wanted to catch George I needed to be in Glastonbury around sunrise. I had a quick shower, several cups of coffee and abandoned a piece of toast after one mouthful. The human body is not designed to digest food at this time in the morning. I dragged my bicycle out of the garage and pushed it through the house and out of the patio doors.

  I wobbled up the lane following the puddle of totally ineffectual light dumped in front of me by the high-tech LED headlamp. I’d never ridden in the dark. Although bicycles were the only sensible means of transport in London of course it never gets dark there so there’d been no need to test out the lighting system before.

  I actually reached Glastonbury in shorter time than when I’d taken Albert’s van. Not having to navigate complex one-way systems or wait at traffic lights makes life simpler and these obstacles are merely voluntary to the cyclist. We understand this in London. I chained my bike to the railings outside the Abbey and ventured into the ruins. The approaching sun smudged reds and oranges above the Tor and cast long shadows from the Abbey ruins. I closed my mind to the creatures that lived in the shadows and wove my way to the knave where King Arthur’s grave lay.

  The figure knelt by the side of the grave. He was dressed in a white cloak, similar to the one the man on the Tor had been w
earing. He held his hands clasped together in obvious prayer. I heard a movement slightly behind me and turned ready to fight the goblins. An elderly woman shuffled out of the shadows of the remains of the southern knave wall.

  As she approached my position, she asked me, “Is it him? Is it really him? His Holiness?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s just an old man who looks a bit like him.”

  I moved closer. I could hear his low mumbles, it certainly sounded like prayers. “George?” I called softly. The mumbles stopped but the man didn’t move. A Spiritist Pope dressed as a druid in the ruins of an English abbey praying to the grave of King Arthur. This was wrong on so many levels. “George,” I called again.

  I heard a voice behind me and turned. It was a small woman with a child in tow. “Be quiet,” she said. “Let him pray.”

  “What? It’s not him you know,” I tried to explain but she wasn’t listening. She fell to her knees pulling the child with her and started to pray.

  A few more people had started to gather. If I didn’t do something soon this was going to get out of hand and the police would likely turn up any minute. And whatever papers they were going to ask me for I was sure my library card wouldn’t go very far. I moved forward and knelt beside George. He turned to look at me.

  “Ah, the Gatekeeper,” he said.

  “What are you doing here, George?”

  “Why, I’m tending the wounds of the past.” He sounded slightly incredulous as if I should have realised.

  I touched his shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got to go. The police will be here soon.”

  “I welcome them. That militia of the unjust. It is time we returned to the true path.” He shrugged his shoulder free of my hand.

  “Leave him alone,” I heard someone call from the growing crowd.

  I needed to take action. I grabbed his upper arm firmly and pulled him to his feet. A slightly awestruck murmuring washed over the assembly. “You’ve got to come with me.” He felt frail under my grip as I guided him to a gap in the rear wall. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the people starting to move forward. All thoughts of goblins left my mind now as I fled the abbey grounds, if I wasn’t quick this was going to be a good old-fashioned lynching.

  “Hey, he’s kidnapping the Pope,” I heard from behind me.

  “Come on, George. We’ve got to get out of here.” I dragged him half running, half stumbling across the gardens and fallen stones and into the bottom of the high street. A quick look behind me gave encouragement to my feet and I was now virtually pulling George up the hill of the High Street. We ducked into an alley, cut round the back of a car park and doubled back on the opposite side of the road from the Abbey. I risked a glance and saw about a dozen people heading up the High Street. All that was missing were the pitch forks and burning torches. George was wheezing badly so we slid into a narrow street and I helped him out of his robes and bundled them into a nearby wheelie bin. He tried to protest but he couldn’t catch enough breath to speak. I led him down the street and we found an early morning café. We went inside and I ordered a couple of coffees.

  “What on earth do you think you were doing?” I asked when we were sat down. “You trying to start another inquisition?”

  “It’s my purpose. My raison d'etre if you like.” The vision of Pope Francis sat opposite me drinking coffee in a Greasy Spoon in Glastonbury and expounding pop philosophy was not doing any good for my state of mind. I closed my eyes hard and wiped my hands across my face before looking again. No, he was still there.

  “I’ve got to take you back, you know that, don’t you.”

  “Why is that?” He transferred some of the coffee into the saucer and slurped noisily at it.

  “Because you’re... You’re...” I struggled to remember what Aunt Flora had said. “You’re upsetting the timeline or something. I don’t know. This is all bonkers to me anyway.”

  “I’ll only run away again.”

  I pondered that for a moment. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take you with me where I can keep an eye on you.” Oh joy. What could be more wonderful than dragging a kidnapped Pope around Cherie Blair World in search of a misplaced literary agent?

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cornwall.”

  “Oh lovely. I’ve never been there.”

  *****

  It was nearly eight, so I hoped Glastonbury Car Hire would be open by now. It was. I approached the counter and the woman behind it greeted me with a smile.

  “I’d like to hire a car for a couple of days please.” I said.

  We discussed models, although the total stock seemed to consist of either Renault or Citroen and I chose a cheap run around which in my world would have been a Clio only here it was a Martin.

  “I need your license and your Driver’s Personal Injury Waiver,” she said.

  Ah, I hadn’t thought this one through. I patted my pockets as if that would magically make them appear. “I don’t seem to…”

  “Here, put it in my name.” George placed a small pile of documents on the counter. The woman gathered them up and took them to a scanner on the desk behind her.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “Need to plan these things, my boy.” He gave a self-satisfied grin.

  She returned with George’s documents and placed them on the counter along with another pile of paper.

  “That’s all in order, mister Bergoglio. Here’s the contract, your insurance, your temporary owner’s form, our Faults Disclaimer, Your Roadworthiness Statement your…” The list went on and the pile of paper grew.

  George gathered the papers together and they all fitted neatly in a medium sized box file the woman kindly provided. We were shown to the car by an attendant who laboriously pointed out the safety features of the vehicle, including airbags, foot brake, handbrake, seatbelts, toughened glass and a host of other trivia that just washed over me. The attendant then drove the car out of the compound and left us to it. As soon as I was sure we were not being observed, I climbed into the driver’s seat and we set off. George grumbled that he should be driving as it was his license at stake but I ignored him.

  *****

  Being early, the traffic was light and even allowing for two circuits of the one-way system and slowing down for each of the numerous speed cameras we made the motorway in good time and headed south for Cornwall.

  “I was surprised they would hire a car to you,” I said as I nudged the little Renault into the outside lane.

  “Not allowed to discriminate on age here. Used to come here sometimes just so I could hire a fast car and have fun. Of course, that was before you closed the bloody door,” he added, sulkily.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t close the door. I opened it!”

  “All gatekeepers. You’re all…”

  I glanced over to see why he’d stopped speaking in what appeared to be mid-grumble. He’d fallen asleep.

  *****

  I settled into the drive and even started enjoying the scenery. Much was the same but the differences were striking. Speed limits changed seemingly randomly, signs warned of high winds, low flying aircraft, uneven surfaces and slippery when wet. The central barrier seemed to be plastic as opposed to the metal with which I was familiar.

  “You need to pull over.”

  “You’re awake then,” I said.

  “You’ve got to stop. I need a piss.”

  I glanced at my passenger. The Pope was struggling into wakefulness and fidgeting. “I can’t stop, it’s a motorway.”

  “You have to.”

  “Can’t you hold on? There’s some services coming up.”

  “Well put your foot down, there’s a good lad.”

  “Yes, your Holiness.”

  We pulled into what I remembered as Taunton Deane Services but which were now labelled Eurostop Rest Park UKM5/25. I stopped as close to the toilets as I could and George scuttled over to them with remarkable agility for an eighty-five-year-old pontiff. I waited for what seemed
like ages and he eventually returned carrying a pair of cardboard cups.

  “Bought us something to drink,” he said and passed me a large mug with what looked for all the world like Coke but said Le Cola on the carton.

  “Thanks.” I stared at the murky, fizzing liquid.

  “Keeps you awake,” George said. “What you need on a long journey.”

  I placed the drink in the cup-holder and noted the warning sign on the holder telling me it is inadvisable to drink hot liquids in a moving vehicle. We set out once more southwards and I settled into the outside lane once more.

  “So, what’s with the robes and King Arthur’s grave?” I asked.

  “He’s the link. Arthur, The Druid Merlin, Glastonbury Abbey, you see? It all points to me!” He drank his cola down and threw the cup into the back seat.

  “No, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “In my world religion is dead. All that matters is the individual but in this one it’s the State. I’m the only one who can reunite the spiritual cohesion of the universe.”

  “You? The spiritual welfare of the Multiverse is resting on the shoulders of a retired market trader from Clapham?” I looked at him. He was asleep again.

  I drove on and wondered quite how I was going to find Tania. I just had to hope that her sister lived at the same address in this world. Or that she even had a sister here. Tania would have been totally bewildered when she found herself here. It must have seemed like a bad dream. But she was resourceful and would no doubt deal with the bureaucrats better than I could. She could be quite scary at times. I drove on and enjoyed watching this new world go by. The trucks were much bigger than the ones in my world and had access to all three lanes, which made for some interesting driving experiences at times. Especially as most of them seemed to be of East European origin. I checked my watch; we were making quite good time and would probably be in St Just by lunch time.