Alice Through The Multiverse

by Brian Trenchard-Smith

  CHAPTER 24

  The Girl with Red-gold Hair

  The squeaky wheels of a prison cart, escorted by horsemen in chainmail, approached the west gate to the Tower of London. Two semi-conscious figures, a man and a young woman, lay chained to opposite ends of the cart. The man stirred with a groan. The woman’s eyes opened. They blinked, then she gasped with shock. She was no longer in the underground railway tunnels. She was in Alice’s world. Whenever this happened before, what she later remembered was similar to fragments of a dream upon waking. However long and complex the dream, only bits and pieces were retained. But now she was actually there, continuously, second by second, minute by minute, in Alice’s body, wearing Alice’s clothes, experiencing Alice’s life as it was happening. Yet she was still herself: Jane Benedict, history student at the University of London.

  Jane became aware of the painful spot on the side of her head. Someone must have hit her. Omigod! No…no…this was not right…this wasn’t happening. This wasn’t a fleeting image from Alice’s world. Now she herself was in the mainframe, in Alice’s life, which did not seem to be headed in a positive direction.

  “Not happening!” Jane yelled as she strained against the chains. They were real and it hurt. Then she looked at the man chained at the other end of the cart, his clothes torn and filthy like hers, his dark hair long and caked with dried blood, his face bruised, but unmistakably that of the man she had clung to between thundering trains just moments before.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Alice, don’t blaspheme!” said a shocked voice. “The Lord will not aid us if you take His Name in vain.” This was James De Fries, the local Robin Hood and love of Alice’s life. His voice had the easy tone of the southern English countryside spiced with French accents acquired from his schooling in Paris.

  Jane sobbed. “I’m not meant to be here…It’s just...good dreams, bad dreams...” She shouted out, “I’M NOT MEANT TO BE HERE!” Jane recalled her wish to know the answer to the crazed conundrum of her life. This wasn’t the answer she wanted.

  James looked at her in horror and pity. “Oh, sweet Alice, have they stolen your wits?” Or worse, was she indeed possessed?

  “It’s Jane! My name is Jane!” she screamed at him, more in panic than anger.

  James was at a loss for words. The cart stopped in front of the west gate. The spiked portcullis started to rise. The mechanism squealed its complaint. The prison wagon passed through and the portcullis slammed down as the vehicle stopped in the outer courtyard to the Tower. Guards dragged the woman and the man out by their chains, pitching them into the mud. Two more guards approached carrying ragged sackcloth hoods to place over the prisoner’s heads. Jane resisted, screaming abuse. A guard kicked her in the stomach to quieten her.

  “Alice! Be silent! Say nothing, girl!” James implored as she gasped for breath.

  He prayed she had enough wits left to contain her madness, lest they kill her outright. The hood went over Jane’s head. Its stench almost made her retch but the semi-darkness helped focus her thoughts on why this was happening to her. She calmed herself with the notion that she would wake up soon as she always did, remembering only fragments. Perhaps when the hood came off, she would be back in her warm, comfortable, book-strewn flat, ready for tea and toast, and many satisfying hours writing her paper. Vicious intruders would not interrupt her. They would be confined to whatever part of the multiverse they had come from. Or whatever. Everything would be back to normal.

  But when the hood did come off, Jane’s nightmare persisted. She found herself kneeling chained to a ring in the floor of a spacious chamber surrounded by monks and priests. Shafts of sunlight streamed in from high windows. James was nowhere to be seen. Jane looked round at the man behind her who had pulled the hood from her head, a tall man around fifty, wearing black robes and an ornate golden pectoral cross. To the assembled clergy, he was Fernando Córdoba, Dominican Inquisitor and special emissary of Prince Philip of Spain, sent to ensure England’s reconciliation with the Roman Church. He bore letters of authority from Queen Mary to combat heresy in all its forms. Consequently, the English clerics treated him with deference.

  Jane looked at him in astonishment. His face was that of her kidnapper, Suit. Their features were identical. It was a handsome face. Deep set and knowing eyes, a long sculpted nose that flared at the base, carved cheekbones. That slightly disdainful curve of the mouth. How could he be here? “I know you!” she exclaimed. Then it dawned on her. She must be part of some psychiatric experiment, a lab rat for some new mind-altering chemical. That was why they had abducted her. Of course! Rage exploded and she lunged at him. “Bastard!” But the chain restrained her an inch short of his elbow. Córdoba had calculated just where to stand, and remained motionless while others stepped back. This further reinforced his authority in the eyes of all. Except Jane.

  “What have you given me?” she screamed. “You’re testing some new drug, aren‘t you? You’ve filled me full of weird shit and now I’m hallucinating! What makes you think you can get away with kidnapping me?” Her strident tone, strange words, and pronunciation made it hard for the assembled clergy to understand her. But there was no doubting her ferocious lunacy. She added: “Fuck all you shrinks or spies or whatever you are and your fucking God complex!”

  A collective shudder at the blasphemy. Everyone made the Sign of the Cross, Córdoba last, when all eyes were on him. He would turn their deference into respect and fear. He would bring this wretched English church under control. He signaled a guard unnoticed by Jane, who had now whirled round to harangue the crowd of clergy.

  “You! What are you looking at? Come to see the crazy person, eh? Are you real?...Is anything here real?” Jane had much more to say, but was abruptly gagged from behind. She began to flail, rage, and sob beneath the gag. Then she noticed a young woman of about Jane’s own age standing in an alcove; she was simply but elegantly dressed, a crucifix dangling from her neck. But it was her red-gold hair that made Jane really wonder whether someone had given her psychedelic drugs. Why would a genuine historical figure be part of the delusion? From her studies, Jane knew of a young woman with legendary red-gold hair who was imprisoned in the Tower of London during the reign of Queen Mary: Princess Elizabeth, daughter of Henry VIII by Anne Boleyn. What year was that? 1550-something-or-other? Elizabeth had come to the Tower not as a guest, but as a prisoner for interrogation awaiting formal charges of treason. And indeed, Jane saw, two men-at-arms stood a short distance behind this striking-looking girl.

  Córdoba addressed the assembly: “Plainly this witch is possessed by the demon Superbia, that most dangerous entity from Hell, who causes women and the lower orders to question their station in life. She may infect others. What we must decide today is whether to exorcize the demon before the witch is burned, so that the child has a chance to repent and attain salvation.”

  Jane howled through her gag. Averting their eyes, the clergy began to confer amongst themselves. The other woman in the chamber looked on the unhappy madwoman with pity. Why was she chosen for this wretchedness? wondered Princess Elizabeth, putting aside for a moment her own misery and fear. She was caught in a different trap; she prayed she would not be brought as low as this poor creature. Death would be better than madness or possession. And death might indeed await her if she were not careful.

  Jane saw that the girl with red-gold hair was the only person in the room who stared at her with sympathy, not disdain. Then a courtier approached from the hallway into the chamber, a nobleman, to judge by his clothing as he neared the central shafts of light emanating from the high windows. He seemed to be between forty and fifty. Jane wondered whether she could identify him. Ever the historian, she thought ruefully. Was he a known historical figure? If she could hear him speak, that might provide some clues. She stopped cursing beneath the gag. The nobleman stood beside the Princess. After a formal nod acknowledging her rank, he spoke. “As you see,
madam, I promised you another lady-in-waiting.”

  The Princess felt a tightening in her throat. Had this evil man scoured the byways of the realm to find such a wretch with whom to torment her? A lady-in-waiting who was either demented or possessed? The Princess stared straight ahead, pretending to ignore the cruel implication, though the prospect did terrify her. Madness and possession could be contagious. Who was this Giles De Fries to threaten her? A jumped up rural poppinjay, who had sold himself to Philip of Spain. Indeed, there was a rumor that he had stolen his nephew’s inheritance, and had had him condemned as an outlaw before he could appeal his case to the Queen.

  The Princess glanced at the gagged and chained girl, whose rage had turned to tears. “She is unsuitable,” she said flatly, as if responding to a serious offer.

  Sir Giles decided to end the bear-baiting and speak plainly. “You have but to sign the documents,” he demanded “and your sojourn here will end.”

  “I will not, Sir,” Elizabeth said curtly. She turned and left the chamber. Sir Giles signaled the two men-at-arms to follow.

  The hood was again placed over Jane’s head. She felt more frightened and isolated than ever. Inside its gloom, Jane heard the chanting of lugubrious prayers. She calmed herself, the better to direct her analytical powers to this latest predicament. The psychotropic drug-induced hallucination theory had evaporated. The bruises and caked blood on her body were real and days old. How long had she been in this condition? Medications always gave her a detached, otherworldly quality. Whereas now, she felt drug free and clearheaded. Like others who have found themselves in dire circumstances, Jane became focused on the possible existence of a higher power, and whether that power intervened in the daily outcomes of life. Jane could use some intervention just now. So she whispered quietly in the back of her mind. “Hello…are You there? If You are, please help me. I want to go home…” There was no blinding flash, no Saul of Tarsus moment. But there was something. Like a door had opened, letting in a light breeze. She heard footsteps approach. Two men paused nearby, engaged in earnest conversation.

  Then everything became clear to her.

  CHAPTER 25

  Within the Weightless Cocoon

  Pamela van Doren reclined in her spa suite on a Singapore Airlines flight from Dulles to Heathrow, brushing aside a strand of coppery hair so that she could gaze down at the ocean. She knew that the flight path took her over the North Atlantic Garbage Vortex, as it was known, an archipelago of discarded plastic, chemical sludge and other debris trapped between the four currents of the North Atlantic Gyre. There were two similar vortices in the Pacific, imperceptible by satellite photography because most of the pollution remained just below the surface of the ocean, but extended, it was estimated, over an area twice the size of Texas. Governments lamented the damage done to marine ecology, but international waters were considered someone else’s problem.

  Pamela was not content to be a voice crying in the wilderness, hurling jeremiads at the world’s problems. She had the wealth to be part of the solution. A year ago she had decided to fund a cleanup technique which, instead of nets, employed floating booms to divert rather than catch the debris, then used surface currents to direct it to specially designed collection platforms. Initial tests with a boom strung between two vessels a mile apart had produced impressive results, and allowed marine life to roam freely beneath the boom. The ultimate plan was to create a concave boom sixty miles across. Four such booms attacking each of the plastic vortices could eradicate the plastic swamp engulfing the Pacific within five years. Another company Pamela was funding was developing cheap biodegradable packaging to replace conventional plastics. She had signed the contracts and green lit the next stage of development just before leaving Washington.

  Pamela stretched and yawned. Ah, the little victories. She had not felt so relaxed in months. The disturbing thought entered her mind that she could get used to a sybaritic lifestyle, having nothing more to worry about than what she would wear throughout each day. Even that she could leave to others to decide, if she chose. Simply enjoy her immense inheritance and leave the world to its own troubles, from which wealth would insulate her. No stress, no effort, all pleasure. Not the ever present consciousness of the world’s suffering. Weltschmerz. The constant companion of her thoughts.

  Pamela wondered why she had always identified more with people outside her class than within it. She couldn’t remember an age at which she had not been concerned that each of the inhabitants of the globe should have good and plentiful food, fresh water, decent surroundings. When she was a child, her parents and their friends wrote off her altruism as juvenile naiveté, but it had stuck. It had become the driving force of her life; her existence would lack meaning without it.

  Yet she was tired. Exhausted, in fact. So were her assistants, Emily and Paige. This is why she had set aside a few days for their self-indulgence. Each had a spa suite to herself and had been visited by a manicurist. Pamela wished that the flight were longer, so that they could have a little more time in which to be suspended in this weightless cocoon. After a few days’ recreation in London, however, she was scheduled to address a conference in New Delhi. Her paper was written, but she could not discipline herself to work on its delivery quite yet.

  There was a knock on the door of the cabin and a female flight attendant stepped into the suite to pour her coffee. As she did so, Pamela suddenly thought of a wording change to the speech and reached for her iPad, bumping the carafe the attendant was carrying. Coffee spilled onto Pamela’s jacaranda blue cashmere sweater. The attendant was aghast. “My pardon, Madam. I am so sorry.” Pamela could feel the woman’s anxiety mount as she helped her mop up, and hastened to reassure the attendant that it wasn’t her fault at all.

  “Please don’t be concerned. My fault. I’ve always been absent-minded and a little clumsy.”

  “I’ll inform my supervisor of this accident,” the woman offered.

  Pamela shook her head; she didn’t care that the sweater was ruined and couldn’t live with herself if the woman lost her job over something so petty. And that she herself had caused. Pamela begged the woman not to mention it to anyone; she’d intended to shower and change her clothing, anyway, before arrival in London. They introduced themselves to one another and chatted until Pamela could sense that the attendant, Jazreen, felt relaxed. Before disembarking, Pamela went out of her way to commend Jazreen to the chief steward for her gracious service. An encouraging word, a helping hand—what does it cost?

  CHAPTER 26

  Plan B

  Back in the homeless encampment, Mr. Broken Teeth was cooking a sausage on a fork over an open fire, already feeling the social benefit of having frightened off those idiot coppers that had come barging in a couple of hours earlier. His status in the camp had gone way up. Footsteps were approaching. He hoped that it was that plump girl he had had sex with the other day. Of his recent conquests, she was by far the best lay. He would share the sausage with her. He laughed at his crude double entendre. Just as he looked round, a hood was thrust over his head, and he was dragged away.

  Soon afterwards, Brandt slid the razor wire barrier to one side and led the handcuffed hooded man into the temporary cell of Nelson’s forward HQ. He had expected more trouble with his prisoner, but the hood was an effective demoralizer. Mr. Broken Teeth was meek as a lamb when they took his fingerprints and a blood sample. Brandt removed the hood. Mr. Broken Teeth blinked, then saw the stark concrete walls and floor. The sole furniture was a cot, a table and two chairs. Whatever was on the table was covered by a white cloth. Being the man he was, Broken Teeth decided on defiance. “So…this is where you torture...well, do your worst. You won’t get nuthin’ out of me.”

  Brandt approached the table and slowly peeled back the cloth revealing plates of oysters, roast beef sandwiches, fruit, chocolates, and a six pack of Newcastle. “Are you hungry?” asked Brandt cheerfully.

  Nelson e
ntered the basement cell where their backup plan was housed. Brandt was supervising Mr. Broken Teeth as he consumed the last of the food. In fact the man did not have many teeth, Nelson observed, and was unlikely to be identifiable by dental records. By the look of the remaining teeth he may never have seen a dentist in his life. His fingerprints had not come up on any U.K. or international database. He was a non-person, as they had anticipated. Malleable clay.

  Broken Teeth had cleaned every plate. Crumbs and orange peel were all that remained. He lifted a buttock and broke wind loudly. Satisfied, he looked at Nelson.

  “So...what’s this all about?”

  Nelson smiled engagingly. “Do you want to be on television?”

  Not what Broken Teeth had expected. But he knew that there had to be some reason they were buttering him up. Nelson went on to explain that he had been selected to be part of a secret new government program that would be unveiled to the public the next day. Hence the need for confidentiality. He would have to remain here in this facility until the ceremony. Creating public awareness of the issue of homelessness would be the first step in the government’s program. He would be given clean clothes, job training and shared accommodation with other homeless people. A camera team would follow him twenty-four hours a day. He would be a spokesperson for the issue, and his initial media interviews had been scheduled to take place nearby sometime in the following morning. He would be paid a weekly salary of 2000 pounds for a year.

  Broken Teeth gaped. Had he died and gone to Heaven?