What did the site look like now? Much of the rubble was probably cleared in the search for survivors, but it would still be cordoned off by police tape. The search for any more survivors had been exhausted.
Dark woods gave way to dark farmers’ fields; and eventually, he approached the main road to turn left to Blanworth for a few miles. The approach into Blanworth was flat. Buildings lit the night, particularly the cathedral with its numerous spires and central tower. He parked on the roofless top of the multi-storey and stood next to the low wall protecting him from a bus lane far below. To one side was the adjoining Princegate Shopping Centre, and to the other was the east side of the city. Could he leave a legacy in this town, the town he grew up in?
He moved quickly through the shopping centre, passing the odd person and unlit shops, and out through the doors into City Square. A wind blew into his face, as if suddenly the new gap on the other side of the Square had relieved a pressure. Much of the debris in the surrounding area had been cleared over the two and a half weeks, leaving a thin slither of public access down the High Street next to ravaged, old shop buildings where apparently some pedestrians had died. On the site, itself, there was now a lower level of rubble. Unmanned trucks were parked idly by the side, and dormant cranes hovered above. John couldn’t see any workers and hoped the clear-up process had finished for today.
Tonight’s exercise was technically pointless, because all the information he needed about the site was on the Internet, but he wanted to feel the ground with his own ‘two hands’. He approached the tramp in the same place on the bench and prodded a dirty leg with his torch: ‘Don’t mind if I take a look, do you?’
The tramp’s lifeless eyes opened, and John walked on. With the torch shining, he stepped over the police tape and scrambled over stones whilst avoiding twisted shafts of steel. The feeling of cold concrete on the skin of his hand felt good, but it was strange to think that people died here.
‘You there!’ a policeman shouted, and John lost his balance several times as he approached the policeman. John explained he was an architect, but the policeman told him it was very dangerous and allowed him only to walk just outside the perimeter for five minutes. It was all John needed anyway. He counted his strides and began to feel more in tune with the site, as if he were a part of it.
Back at the bench, he angled the notepad to the lamp post light and wrote the following:
‘My perimeter walk:
Length: 60 metres
Width: 55 metres’
He made a rough calculation to determine how much wider the perimeter of the cordoned off area was to the original perimeter of the building.
‘News people were here,’ the tramp said. ‘Caught you on camera.’
John couldn’t see any news people or anybody else, for that matter. ‘How long for?’
‘A few minutes, until the police came.’
Back on Blanworth Road a mile out of the city, John parked in the brightly lit petrol station and filled up his Jag. A bored girl behind the till served him. Her apathy and lack of make-up, attractive. She reminded him of his daughter. He threw his pack of cigs on the passenger seat and drove out without strapping himself in.
It was raining hard. The tarmac was smooth and straight. He passed a sign that said twenty-six miles to Toxon and drove for several minutes at increasing speed before turning onto the rougher, snake-like road that led directly to his house.
He sped around corners, slowing down initially but turning at, and accelerating to, dangerous speeds. The vast, dark countryside pervaded the periphery of his vision, and the crystal grey road appeared bright and intense. Lights from an approaching car blinded him as it passed, and he swerved quickly to realign himself. He felt the excitement of life growing inside him, and the dark fields and road seemed to unite with his experience into one fiery ball of energy. It was the culmination of the past couple of weeks – the destruction of the old building, the worldwide media attention and the prospect of a new building to take its place – that seemed to explode into this moment. And with it came an unadulterated confidence that he would be the architect of the new Blanworth building! He approached another corner far too quickly and hit the brake as he began to move the steering wheel to the right, but the car suddenly began to spin in a whoosh, and he felt it descend off the road into a ditch as his head hit the steering wheel.
3
John awoke in darkness. There were noises: squeaks on the floor, like trainers rubbing against a shiny surface, and the sound of female voices: ‘Bring her through here,’ one said. There was a sharp, unnatural smell of disinfectant too, and he realised he was in hospital.
He remembered last night clearly: he’d been at the site in Blanworth, taking measurements; he’d driven home afterwards, increasing his speed as he thought about being the next architect; and then he’d crashed into the bend. Idiot! Idiot for two reasons: one, he had crashed his car; and two, in his excitement he had believed he was going to be the architect of the next building! It must have been the night air or something.
There was a noise of clothes rustling and general body movement, this time much closer to him. Suddenly, an unbearable, bright light appeared, and he instinctively closed his eyes with a hard pull of his facial muscles.
‘Mr Gowan?’ a male voice asked.
John opened his eyes tentatively. The light was easier this time and less painful, and he realised he was looking up at a man with brown skin and glasses, looking down at him.
‘Hello,’ John said.
‘How are you feeling?’
The man’s face was a little too close to focus easily, so John looked away towards the blue curtains with flowery patterns that surrounded the bed. For the first time, he realised his forehead was throbbing a little, though not much. Again, he remembered crashing into the bend and even hitting his head onto the steering wheel.
‘I’m feeling okay, I think. I think I hit my head, right? Concussion or something?’
‘That’s right, Mr Gowan,’ the man said, with an Indian accent.
John looked back at him. He had large eyes. He was dressed in a white coat and had a stethoscope around his neck.
‘How do you know my name?’ John said. ‘Did you look in my wallet?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Of course I know your name. You remember telling me last night, don’t you?’
John didn’t remember anything, but a fear of exposing his vulnerability, when already in such a vulnerable position, made him lie instinctively: ‘Oh, yes.’
‘And you remember the CT scan?’
John nodded.
‘Good,’ the doctor said. ‘As I said last night, you have bruising to your head, but nothing at all to worry about, not as long as you rest. I’d like to keep you in for just another day, and then you shouldn’t work for at least a couple of days – just take it easy.’
John closed his eyes and tried remembering more details from last night after he had hit his head but couldn’t remember anything new. All he saw was darkness. He opened his eyes again.
‘I know, I know,’ the doctor said. ‘I know that you’ll want to get to work today with everything that’s going on, but you simply can’t.’ He waved his finger and opened his eyes wide: ‘Strict orders from your Doctor Patel, okay?’
John nodded slowly, wondering why the hell the doctor was speaking to him in such a familiar way. Why would the doctor believe that John would want to go to work today? And why couldn’t John remember anything from the hospital last night?
‘I would like you to do something for me,’ the doctor said. He bent down to a chair beside the bed and unearthed a newspaper from John’s jacket which hung on the back of the chair. John couldn’t remember having had a newspaper last night. Also on the chair were the rest of his clothes laid neatly: his blue sweater, trousers, pants and socks. For the first time he realised he was wearing a pale blue hospital gown with nothing underneath.
The doctor waved the newspaper in front of him:
‘I want you to read the newspaper to me, just a paragraph.’
John looked at the newspaper in the doctor’s hands: ‘Is that my newspaper?’
The doc smiled and nodded: ‘Will you read it?’
John felt a pain in his forehead and raised his hand towards it. The skin was sore from where he had hit his head on the steering wheel. He remembered the petrol station before he crashed and guessed he must have bought the newspaper there.
‘Mr Gowan, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, just a little head pain.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s to be expected, and you’re in good hands. If it gets worse, then tell me or a nurse.’ He glanced down at the newspaper: ‘So will you read it?’
‘Why do I have to read it?’
‘Because sometimes it is difficult to read after a concussion, and I want to see how well you are. But also, I would very much like to keep it, if you don’t mind, and ask you to sign it, if you please. I feel very honoured to have you as my patient.’ His eyes widened further, and he smiled even more.
Who the hell was this nut? In addition to not remembering the newspaper from last night, John had a weirdo for a doctor to contend with. He would do as the doctor asked him, though, and then hopefully he would go away. Tentatively, he took the newspaper from the doctor’s hands.
‘I need my glasses,’ John said. ‘They’re probably in my trouser pocket.’
The doctor bent down, unearthed his thin green glasses case from a trouser pocket and handed it to him. John looked down at the newspaper and read aloud:
‘In court number one at the Old Bailey this morning, the five defendants, found guilty on all counts of the terrorist attack on the Blanworth office building which resulted in the death of 181 people, were sentenced by Judge Richards. They all received life sentences, with the recommendation that they serve a minimum of thirty-five years each before being considered for parole, except for the mastermind, Abdulla Hussain, who received a recommended minimum of forty years.’
There was a picture of Abdulla Hussain, dressed in a dark suit, next to the article. John was immediately confused. Since when were the terrorists captured? Not only captured, but sentenced? All this took time. John saw the News on television yesterday, and nothing like this had happened. What was wrong with this place, the weird doctor, the newspaper that didn’t make any sense? Was he still dreaming?
‘What the hell is this?’ John blurted.
The doctor looked bemused, and his fingers fiddled with his stethoscope which hung around his neck: ‘Is there a problem? You can certainly read well. Your eyes seem to be fine.’
‘Are you a real doctor? Aren’t you supposed to look into my eyes with a light or something?’
‘We checked you last night, Mr Gowan.’
‘So, then, what about this newspaper?’ John looked down at the title: ‘Blanworth Express’. This was the normal local paper alright, but what the hell was this article! He glanced elsewhere on the page, looking for something that might give him an answer. Date: ‘October 28th [Year]’ John froze. The date on the newspaper was not the real date. The real date was March 15th [Year] – three years earlier. John looked up at him: ‘What the hell!’
‘What’s wrong, Mr Gowan?’
‘What’s going on? The date on the newspaper says…’
‘What date do you think it is?’
It had to be a typing error, a misprint: ‘The date on the newspaper says October 28th [Year].’
The doctor nodded: ‘Is there anything wrong? Don’t forget that’s yesterday’s newspaper, so it’s yesterday’s date. What date do you think it is? Please don’t be alarmed if you’re a couple of days out. You have concussion and that’s perfectly normal.’
A couple of days out! This loon and this newspaper were saying it was three and a half years in the fucking future!
‘I…’
John felt very afraid. Both the newspaper and the doctor couldn’t be wrong. He closed his eyes and tried understanding what was happening to him. He needed time to think. He needed space on his own. What the hell was happening? Was he living in the future? How could that be? With immense effort, he tried to be calm and show the doctor that he was fine, just so that he would go away and John could think.
‘I’m fine, actually,’ he said, opening his eyes.
‘What date do you think it is?’ the doctor repeated.
With as much composure as John could muster, he said: ‘It’s yesterday’s newspaper, so today’s date must be October 29th, of course.’
The doctor stared at him a moment, clearly unconvinced, but then a smile suddenly beamed across his face: ‘Oh, I understand. It’s only now you’ve remembered the importance of this morning, is it? You want to get out of here and back to the site, do you?’
The doctor was now saying something else that didn’t make sense. John couldn’t take any more; the confusion of the moment was too overwhelming: ‘Please, I just think I need some rest.’
‘Good idea! I’ll get the nurse to pull the curtains and perhaps bring you some food and drink. Would you like that?’
‘Sure.’
‘But I can’t have you going to the site today. You need rest. There is no way I’m letting the great John Gowan go to the Zenith site. What do you think would happen to me if I said you were fit to go the day after concussion? The press would destroy me! I’d lose my job, my reputation! We can’t have that, now can we!’ The doctor cackled and his white teeth gleamed demonically.
‘No…’ John said, trying hard not to think or question what the doctor was saying from sheer fear. ‘We can’t have that.’
The doctor thrust a pen in front of John’s face: ‘Please, though, if you don’t want to keep the newspaper, sign it before you go.’
‘What?’
‘Oh please, it would be for my son, you see. He’s crazy about the new Zenith building.’
What the hell…? What new Zenith building? John’s mind raced, trying to piece together the facts: he had wanted to design the next Zenith building in the moments before he crashed his car; he was now living three and a half years in the future; and the doctor wanted him to sign a newspaper about a new Zenith building. Was John the new Zenith architect? Had he really gone on to design the next Zenith building, and had Zenith accepted his designs?
‘So, will you sign the newspaper for me? It would be great, because nearly all of this newspaper is dedicated to your building, as you will know, including the terrorist story which is linked, of course.’ He paused and sighed. ‘Poetic justice, isn’t it, that they were sentenced yesterday, the day before construction began? I think you’re on page 4 and 5, a double spread.’
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was all too much. He could hardly breathe. His heart raced whilst his body stiffened with shock, which was probably why he looked normal to the doctor.
‘Please, I just need a little space,’ John said, with a voice barely audible. ‘Can you leave it with me?’
The doctor sighed. ‘Okay then, but I expect it to be signed by the time I come back!’ With that, the doctor smiled, turned and walked away through the small gap in the curtains.
Frantic images of the speeding road last night appeared to him. It suddenly seemed a mystical experience: being sure of becoming the next architect, crashing his car in his excitement and waking up three and a half years later to learn he was the new architect. It was the perfect elapse of time from deciding to become the next architect and crashing his car, to waking up on the first day of construction, having designed the building. What was happening? Why was it happening? Was he dreaming? He hurriedly swiped the pages open to page 5.
A picture of him smiling serenely with sunglasses was on the page next to the caption: ‘The Freedom Building’. Beneath, it read:
‘Three and a half years ago, after the destruction of the old Zenith Star building, the little-known architect John Gowan had a dream to design a new building that might not only restore Blanworth’s c
ity skyline but revolutionise it. With only this dream and with fierce competition from across the globe, he designed a building that Zenith immediately accepted. In a recent interview for this newspaper, Mr Wilkinson the CEO of Zenith said:
“When I saw the design of Mr Gowan’s new building, I immediately knew that this would be it. It was so different to any building I had ever seen in my life. Its innovation, its grandeur, its sheer audacity was thrilling to me. All I needed was the council’s and shareholders’ approval to put this dream into action!”
And, indeed, Mr Wilkinson was allowed to put his dream into action. With the approval of everybody, Mr Wilkinson didn’t wait long to get moving on the project. Here’s Mr Gowan speaking last year:
“I’m very pleased with the speed at which things are happening. There is a popular will to make it happen. It’s almost like the early days of architecture when there was far less red tape. Construction will begin next year.”’
John was impatient to see the design of the building, so he stopped reading and flicked to pages 2 and 3. On page 3 were lines of an object that cut into a bluish, cloudy sky, and he ascertained that it was a computer-generated picture of the future Zenith building, but his vision immediately began to blur as he looked at the picture. He tried tensing his eyes to see it; but the harder he tried, the more he seemed to lose a sense of what he was looking at and, indeed, what he was doing. The headache, emanating from his forehead, became worse too, and he felt his blood pumping into the area above his nose. He closed his eyes, let go of the newspaper and consoled himself with the thought that he would look at the building later – after he had rested. The day was overwhelming, and he suddenly began to feel faint.
He awoke to find the curtains drawn back to the wall, revealing a large room. A few people in beds along the opposite wall and on his side were looking at him. In the centre of the room was an aisle where nurses walked. By the side of his bed was a trolley with food. John wondered whether the meeting with the doctor was a dream. Were people staring at him on this ward because he appeared odd to them, and not because he was the new Zenith architect? A nurse passed and John lifted his hand: ‘Nurse!’
The Freedom Building Page 2