by Morton Bain
We all eat lunch together – sausage and baked beans for the kids and a salad and fruit for Chanda and myself. After we’ve finished eating I clear my throat and address the kids: ‘Daddy’s got something to tell you,’ I say. Ben and Chloe look at me expectantly. ‘Daddy’s going to be going away for a while. Not far away, and you’ll be able to visit me every week if you like, but I need you to be good for Chanda and your grandparents.’
‘Where are you going?’ Ben asks.
‘I’m going to be going to a . . . special hotel. I’ll be quite safe there. All my meals are provided, and I’ll have my own room with a TV.’
‘Why are you going there?’ Chloe wants to know. ‘Why can’t you stay here with us?’
‘It’s a long story. One I’ll explain to you when you’re a bit older. I know it’s going to be tough, especially as mummy’s not with us anymore, but like I said, we’ll be able to see each other quite often.’
At just after two o’clock I call a cab. I’ve briefed Chanda. She’s been given a bank card. When the doorbell rings, I give hugs in this order: Ben, Chloe, Chanda. Chanda and Chloe have tears in her eyes – Chanda based on the facts she has, Chloe through an intuitive sensing of what’s happening.
I pick up my bag and walk to the front door. The moment my hand touches the door handle it happens again; consciousness splits, this time into three. I curse thrice. In two realities I open the door and step outside, whilst in the third I drop my bag and run upstairs.
Upstairs I dash into my bedroom and dive under the bed covers, cowering like a feverish prison escapee. In this reality I opt out of making any more decisions. I’m not going to go anywhere or do anything. Things can happen to me. I’m going to spend as much time as I can with the kids and Chanda, and if the police or Joey or Jake want me, they can bloody well knock the door down and lift me out of bed.
Meanwhile both of the other mes are getting into the cab I called. One of the Adams is giving the driver the address of the nearest police station, whist the other one is asking for Heathrow airport – yes, I know I didn’t book a cab to the airport, I tell the driver – change of plans. The me that’s going to the police station is pretty pissed off. It’s overcast outside with the occasional spot of rain, and the weather is reflecting my mood precisely. The me that’s heading to the airport is excited. This me is also looking out of the window at heavy cloud cover, and its cold enough for condensation to be forming on the car’s windows, but I’m contrasting this with the sunshine I’m expecting to be basking in in a few hours. This Adam is going to buy a ticket shortly to Cyprus. Hopefully Nicosia in Northern Cyprus, which doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.K., but if need be Southern Cyprus, which will only be an expensive cab fare from safety in the North. South or North, I’ll be in a T-shirt soon.
Stay-in-bed-Adam, meanwhile, has fallen asleep. Or has this reality just faded out? It’s hard to tell. The Adam that’s on the way to the airport hopes so; the one that’s going to the cop shop doesn’t really care.
Cop Shop Adam arrives at his destination. He glances longingly at Cyprus Adam. Lucky fucker. He’d give anything to switch places with him. Cop Shop Adam walks into the police station, ready with his spiel about wanting to hand himself in over the murder of several people. He feels deflated when he sees there are several people before him in an ill-formed queue for an officer’s attention. There should be a priority queue for murderers wanting to hand themselves in, this Adam thinks. The person talking to the officer is some dipshit moaning on about being mugged for his iPhone. The officer looks thoroughly disinterested as he takes the guy’s details.
Heathrow Adam is buzzing. His car’s on the M4 now, and making good progress. This Adam thinks of anything that could go wrong and realises there really isn’t. Despite any suspicions the police might have, they haven’t charged him with anything, so immigration at Heathrow won’t have been instructed to deny him boarding rights. He doesn’t know for sure how many flights there will be left to Cyprus that day, but it’s not late and Heathrow is a bloody busy airport – he’s bound to get a flight if he doesn’t mind paying top dollar for it. Even if there aren’t any seats on a Cyprus flight, he’ll fly to Israel or Greece, somewhere that isn’t England and is nearer his ultimate destination. He’s got plenty of credit cards on him. He’s used some of the cash he’s been accumulating recently to overpay some of the cards, so that with two Visa cards and a Mastercard he’s actually carrying a big positive balance. He could survive comfortably for a year or more. If Joey rings and asks him what’s going on he’ll tell him to check with the cops – I think you’ll find I’m handing myself in as we speak, he’ll say. If you’re not happy with that, go over to my place and take the me that’s asleep. He won’t put up much of a fight.
After waiting for about half an hour, Cop Shop Adam is finally ready to proffer his wrists to a copper for cuffing. ‘Can I help?’ PC Somthingorother asks Adam. ‘Yes,’ Adam replies. ‘I’ve killed quite a few people over the last year and thought you might like to arrest me.’ The copper looks at him with an expression that says ‘nutter’, and asks, ‘So who exactly have you killed?’ ‘My first victim was a girl who I followed from a cashpoint machine,’ Adam says. ‘Her name was reported in the paper, but I can’t remember it off the top of my head . . . Next up was . . . er, actually who was number two? Look, why don’t you just arrest me and then I can at least be seated while I give you my confession. It’s going to take a long time . .
Joey meanwhile, decides to ring. He rings all three Adams. The sleeping Adam doesn’t hear the phone and it’s the same story with the Adam that’s in the police station. The Adam on his way to Heathrow does hear the phone but decides not to answer it. Joey curses and rings Adam’s landline. Chanda picks up the phone and says, ‘Yes?’
‘Joey here, where’s Adam?’
‘Oh, hi Joey, Adam’s grinkulmsisnro.’
‘What?’
‘He’s grinkulmsisnro.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bitch?’
You see, the first bit of Chanda’s reply came out okay, but when she came to actually saying where I was some kind of physics thing stopped her from being intelligible. What do you get when you combine ‘asleep’, ‘on the way to the police station’ and ‘on the way to the airport’? That’s right, you get ‘grinkulmsisnro’.
‘Has he gone to the police?’ Joey asks.
‘Nes,’ Chanda says.
‘No or yes?’
‘Yo,’ Chanda says.
‘Listen you grubby little whacko whore, tell me where Adam is, or I’m going to come over and stick the barrel of a gun up your cunt.’
Chanda laughs gaily and puts the phone down. Joey tucks a gun into his belt and goes out to his car.
Joey gets stuck in traffic and it takes him about twenty minutes to get to Adam’s place. By this time Cop Shop Adam is making some progress in convincing the cops that he’s a murderer. He’s mentioned enough specifics about his murders to have been placed under arrest, and is waiting in a cell. He’s been promised a murder detective will be along within a couple of hours to question him. Heathrow Adam by this time has arrived at Heathrow, and is talking to a woman at the Cyprus Airways desk. He’s established there’s a flight to Limassol in two hours time, though a single will set him back £289.
Joey barges past Chanda after the latter answers the door and storms into the house. After failing to find Adam in any of the ground floor rooms he runs up the stairs and finds him asleep in bed. He pulls out his gun and aims it at Adam’s head.
Heathrow Adam punches his pin number into the POS machine and after a six second wait the machine spits out a receipt. His ticket to Limassol is paid for.
Detective Connor opens Cop Shop Adam’s cell door and steps inside. ‘So Adam, you claim to have killed several people recently?’ he asks.
Seconds before Joey pulls the trigger a streak of white like a chalk mark smears the sky, as Meteorite Aldous burns through the E
arth’s atmosphere. At the tip of the streak is a glowing ball of fire. The noise is deafening as it closes in on East London, breaking the sound barrier. At the moment Joey pulls the trigger it impacts at the corner of Connell and Wilshire streets, creating a deafening sound that can be heard up to fifty miles away. The police station that Adam has recently walked into is obliterated, along with approximately two hundred buildings in the surrounding area. The noise is so loud it drowns out the sound of Joey’s gun’s report. The house shakes as Adam takes a fatal shot to the head.
Heathrow Adam hears and feels the meteorite strike. At the moment it hits he’s lifting a glass of lager to his lips, and the tremor almost causes him to spill some beer.
Don’t forget to check out Morton Bain’s new book ‘Prisoners Go Free’. Available now!