by Jasper Bark
Pa got the urn off and held her to his chest. She wasn’t moving. There was a big dent in the back of her head and her left arm was hanging all wrong. There on her middle finger was the little butterfly ring. She must’ve forgotten to take it off.
Her ma ran in and set to crying and hollering worse than her husband. Started crying myself then. Blubbering and screaming at the pa that it was all his fault. If he hadn’t moved. If he hadn’t been such a bastard to his daughter. If he hadn’t tried to turn her agin me.
Ma looked up from crying and I swear she caught my eye. Stopped me dead on the spot. I knew who she blamed for the little gal’s death.
And I knew she was right.
Got outta the room and tried to get through the front door. Was beating my fists against all the mud when the tiny fingers broke through and grasped my wrist.
Cold seemed to seep right outta the fingers and into my arm. Numbing me so I couldn’t pull away. Wasn’t only cold that seeped outta the fingers. I could feel sadness too. Like an ache in my bones, begging me not to stay. To break the cycle and stop punishing us both.
I got real mad then and that gave me the strength to wrench my hand away. I had to be punished. After what I’d just done I had to stay. Had no right to drag me outta all of this. Always striking when I’m too weak, when it’s all too painful. Had no right.
I’ve gotta stay here. I’m gonna be here forever.
* * *
Ever counted down your breaths till the last one? That’s where I’m at. Surprised I can even talk. Maybe I ain’t talking aloud. Maybe it’s in my head now. Can’t tell anymore.
Still see the ghosts from time to time. Whizzing past me like a film on fast forward.
Wait, something’s happening. There’s three of them now. The ma and pa and some other guy, wearing funny clothes like a... like... wait, he’s a priest.
Funny looking fucker with bulbous eyes and a beard. He’s carrying a bible and a big old crucifix. Keeps waving it around. Hah, they know I can’t leave, so they’ve brought in the good book and a bad priest to evict me.
He’s walking around the room saying some mumbo jumbo. Pa’s following him throwing water around. Must be holy I reckon. Lot of good that’ll do ‘em.
Priest keeps changing direction, turning his head like he’s trying to sniff me out. That’s right, over here. To your right, down a bit. There you are.
Last thing I ever see is the ugly mug of a priest who died a hundred years ‘fore I was born.
Time for me to slip out. I know how this one ends. No point waiting for the credits.
* * *
Can’t tell you what a relief death is. Feels like a deep contented sigh, no more pain, no more hunger.
Don’t see nothing at first. Then I find the Light. It’s so bright it burns right through me. I feel purer just by looking at it. So perfect it lifts me up and drags me towards it. I can’t stop myself. I wanna reach it so bad.
But the closer I get the smaller it looks. Like it’s at the entrance of a tunnel. A tunnel made out of all the bad things I ever did. I’m pulling them to me as I move towards the Light.
Like thick black mud every wrong move I ever made is coming down on top of me. Keeping me further from the light till finally it blocks it out altogether.
* * *
I’m digging away with my bare hands. Trying to reach the light. Shifting great wet clods but it’s never enough. There’s just too much mud on top of me. It’s too narrow. I’m all closed in. Trapped in this tiny little space. Can’t make it any bigger cos my fingers are too torn up and my arms are so tired they’re shaking.
Then I feel something in the dirt just above me. Something soft and gentle but colder than death itself. It pushes through the earth and takes hold of my hand. Tiny fingers grip mine, chilling my whole arm.
And there on the middle finger I feel a little butterfly ring. It’s the little gal. She wants me to come with her towards the light. She knows the way. She can take me away from all this.
She’s been waiting for me this whole time. I knew she’d be my salvation. She’s begging me to leave with her, to break this cycle. She’s trying to tell me I got a choice. I can feel it in her touch. It’s pouring outta her fingers. But I can’t do it.
I need to be punished. If I have a choice then I choose to go back. Even though she can’t leave without me. I’ve trapped her here with me.
I go rigid. I can’t face this. I wrench my hand free and crawl back down the tunnel. Back through the shattered window frame and into the room. Every time I think I’m going to make it and I just slide back down here, ready to do this again and again.
Prison chaplain once told me every man builds his own private corner of Hell. This one’s mine. I ain’t getting out today.
END OF THE LINE
He woke on the platform in a pool of blood.
It was congealing round the side of his face. He peeled his cheek off the ground and blinked the blood out of his eyes.
It was dark and quiet. His eyes took a while to get used to the gloom. He was in a Tube station, but not one he recognised.
His legs shook as he stood. He put a hand against the wall to stop himself falling. His fingers met ancient fraying paper. He peered at it as his eyes became accustomed to the dark. It was a poster for Ovaltine. ‘Isn’t it ‘licious Mummy?’ said a cherubic little girl clutching a golliwog and holding up a glass of murky brown liquid. It was obvious the station hadn’t been used for a very long time.
Everything smelled dank and musty. The air hadn’t been disturbed in ages. His footsteps echoed around the space as he stumbled along the platform. Off in the distance he could hear rats skittering in the tunnels.
He had no idea what he was doing there or why he was covered in blood. It had soaked into both his shirt and trousers. He felt himself for injuries but couldn’t find any. He tried to recall his name and where he lived but drew a blank. He had no memories at all.
He could feel the panic rising inside. He stopped for a moment beside an old wooden door. Its paint was peeling and distressed. It probably led to a store cupboard. There was a rank smell like rotting meat coming from behind it.
He stepped back and his foot skidded. There was a puddle coming from underneath the door. A thick, viscous fluid that might be blood or pus, he couldn’t tell in the dark. It was clotting in places and growing mildew.
He could hear rats behind the door. No, not rats, it was something else. It sounded like someone stirring in their sleep. Was that breathing he heard? No, not breathing—voices, whispering voices. The voices called out to him.
“Open the door,” they said. “Open the door.”
“You want answers?”
“Open the door.”
He backed away in fear. Part of him desperately wanted to open the door, but he wasn’t ready to go there. A grinding, scraping noise came from the tracks. It was followed by a clattering inside the tunnel.
Three pre-war carriages emerged from the pitch black and pulled up at the platform. Only the middle carriage was lit. A single bulb flickered inside an art deco light fitting. The central doors slid open with a hiss.
“Don’t get on the train,” said a voice. “Don’t get on the train.”
“Stay here.”
“Open the door.”
That was enough to make him board. The doors shut behind him and the train started with a jolt. He caught a chipped Bakelite grab handle to stop himself falling. The patterned seat covers were worn and fraying, showing the horsehair and springs beneath. The wooden floors were riddled with scuffs and scratches, the polish long gone.
He checked the overhead line diagram. He didn’t recognise the line. It was dark crimson and called simply John Sanger. The stops had names like ‘Chrononauts’ ‘First Excursion’, ‘Tunnel Premonitions’ and ‘Police Visit’. Rather ominously the final stop was called ‘End of the Line’.
Had he stumbled on some disused line? Why were they running services? There was something ab
out the line diagram that was incredibly familiar. He felt as though he’d ridden it before. No, not ridden, lived it. He was John Sanger. This was a timeline of the last six months of his life. He didn’t know why but he was certain of it, even if he couldn’t recall any of the names or events.
He stared at the timeline as the carriages rattled along in the dark. What did it mean? Could the train really take him to these points in time? If it could, then would he be able to change things so he didn’t end up back on the platform in a pool of blood? Was that the purpose of the train?
Even if it was, how would he know what things to change or how to change them? With no memories all he could do was guess.
The carriages stopped and the doors wheezed open. The platform outside looked as old and unused as the last one. A rusting tin sign said ‘Brief Sinclair’. This was the last stop before the ‘End of the Line’. Whatever happened to leave him on that platform must have occurred at this stop. If he could alter things here he might just save himself.
He stepped out onto the platform. A single overhead light lit a small section of the station. The rest was in total darkness. The carriages pulled away and left him.
A ‘Way Out’ sign pointed to a spiral staircase. There was a sharp turn at the top. He stepped round it and found himself on a pavement at night. In the street lights he saw that the blood stains were gone and he was wearing a freshly washed shirt and trousers.
A woman pushed past him on her way into the station. He turned round to warn her and saw that all trace of the station he’d just left had vanished. In its place stood Leicester Square tube station.
A tap on the shoulder made him start. “Day dreaming as usual?” said a tall man, wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. He had sandy brown hair that was greying at the temples. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.”
The man led him into a maze of Soho backstreets. He’d lost all sense of direction by the time they entered a discreet gentleman’s club. “Can you tell Mr Sinclair that Daniel Brown and John Sanger are here to see him?” the tall man said to the person on reception.
So his name was John Sanger. He was here to brief a man called Sinclair. The names on the station and the timeline were becoming clear. A member of staff showed them to a private room where Sinclair was waiting.
Sinclair stood up when they entered and shook both their hands. He was as tall as Daniel but more thick set. His bald pate was ringed with close cropped grey hair and he wore an expensive suit. The minute John saw Sinclair he felt a strange but intense familiarity. “I took the liberty of ordering a little wine,” Sinclair said, steering them into plush leather armchairs. “It’s a ‘95 Chateau Margaux, well worth trying.”
John sipped the dark, fragrant wine and hoped no-one asked him a direct question. Luckily Sinclair fixed Daniel with his fierce blue eyes. “So, how are my Chrononauts?” he said. John recognised the strange term from the timeline diagram.
Daniel became agitated. “Not too good actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about. I need you to have a word with the university faculty, they’ve gotten jumpy and they might try and take our offices away.”
“Are they still sceptical about the existence of past life consciousnesses?”
“No, we’ve amassed an impressive amount of evidence, under laboratory conditions, that prove the existence of past life consciousnesses. And we’ve made contact with three. We’ve even been able to sustain the connection for up to twenty minutes experiencing everything they experience. That means seeing, hearing and feeling what it was like to be alive hundreds of years ago. We’ve even identified some landmarks that are still visible today.”
“So what’s the faculty’s problem, I thought they were impressed by your findings on group minds.”
“Some of them are, others are determined to close their minds to parapsychology. Even though we’ve demonstrated how effective our program of telepathic exercises is. All the project members can synchronise their thoughts now. It doesn’t give you much room for privacy though. The gossip is horrendous.”
“I have to say we were all concerned when you suspended the project for a week. This sub-dimension you say you encountered, you’re sure it’s more than just a theory?”
“Oh it’s real enough, and we’ve encountered it again. John can verify that.”
Both of them turned their gaze on John who nodded to hide the fact that he had no idea what they were talking about. From what he could make out he was involved in some project to contact people’s past lives using a group mind.
“I just can’t understand where it’s coming from,” said Daniel. “I’ve checked every stage of the procedure. We slowly built up the group mind, just like we always do. Then when everyone was synched we sent Michael into a deep regression.”
“This is Michael Sayles,” Sinclair said. “The one who was a middle-eastern shepherd two hundred years ago?”
“That’s right, he’s been making direct contact with this past life consciousness for two months. This was the second time the group had attempted mass contact. Once Michael was inside the mind of his past life he opened the door to the rest of the group. We were all looking out of the shepherd’s eyes and sharing a direct experience of the past when it happened.”
“What triggered it this time?”
“We were searching for a lamb in a mountain cave. Suddenly we all had this feeling of incredible vertigo and this fissure opened up.”
“In the cave?”
“In time itself. We all saw it. It was like looking into a tunnel that ran beneath space and time.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Theoretically, yes it is. If you think of time as the fourth dimension, it’s like a huge plateau where the past, present and future occur simultaneously. It intersects many dimensions other than space and this creates sub-dimensions, hidden sub-terrains that no human mind is supposed to explore.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s bloody terrifying. It’s too much for the human mind to take in. The shock was so immense we had to drop the connection and splinter the group mind. One member went into catatonic shock and two others entered a fugue state following premonitions of violent death.”
Sinclair looked concerned. “This is what made the faculty jumpy?”
“The police are what made the faculty jumpy. They came to see me yesterday after two of our group members, Joanna and Michael, went missing. Full of innuendo they were too.”
“Do you think their disappearance is linked to this sub-dimension?”
“Days before it happened both Michael and Joanna told me they’d been having dreams about falling into the tunnel we saw.”
“Is that where they’ve gone? Can someone physically enter this sub-dimension and leave time all together, or explore it from below?”
“I don’t even know if that’s possible. We only encountered the sub-dimension by accident. How would you open a doorway?”
“Murder perhaps, I hear the ancient Druids used to practice ritual sacrifice for similar ends.”
A look of complete shock, or was it panic, ran across Daniel’s face. He put down his wine glass and stood up. “Yes, well anyway, I know you’re busy so I won’t keep you any longer. If you could have a word with the faculty like I asked I’d be very grateful.”
“Won’t you stay for another glass?”
“No, no you’re very generous but John and I have far too many things to be getting on with.”
Daniel dragged John out of his chair and propelled him towards the door. “Before you go, John,” Sinclair said. “I ought to let you know that I’ve sorted out that little offer I made. Let me know when you want to take me up on it.” Daniel pushed John out of the door before he could answer.
“You’ll forget all about that little offer if you know what’s good for you,” said Daniel when they were outside the club. He gripped John’s arm and leaned in close. The look in Daniel’s eyes unnerved him. “We need to tal
k, but not here, there’s something I need to check out first. Meet me at Leicester Square station in an hour, we can go back to my place.”
Daniel let go of him and charged off. John tried to retrace the route they’d taken. There was so much to take in and he wasn’t sure he entirely trusted Daniel. Why had he panicked when Sinclair mentioned ritual sacrifice? Was he afraid Sinclair had found something out? Why had he threatened John about Sinclair’s offer, what did he think Sinclair was going to tell him?
Could this sub-dimension that ran beneath time explain what was happening? Was that how he was able to travel back to past events? This was the last stop on the timeline before the End of the Line, whatever caused him to wind up on a platform in a pool of blood was just about to happen.
It had to be Daniel. Seeing the sub-dimension must have sent Daniel over the edge and now he was murdering the other members of the project. That’s why the police had been to see him.
John turned a corner and found himself on Oxford Street. He could see Tottenham Court Road station. He had no idea where he was going. He couldn’t even remember where he lived. He just knew that if he wanted to stay alive he had to get as far away from Daniel as possible.
The platform was crowded with late night commuters. John stared at the tube map, trying to remember what route he took home. He was hoping one would just spring out at him, but it didn’t. Oddly Sinclair appeared in the crowd and nodded to him.
At that moment a complete silence settled on the platform. John heard a familiar grinding and screeching from the tracks and the three pre-war carriages trundled into view. Lights began to go off on either side of the platform, plunging both ends into darkness.
The overhead display read: “Please board immediately.” A voice on the tannoy said, “Passengers are advised to board while the station is still in existence.” More lights went out and John realised it wasn’t darkness creeping along the platform so much as an all-encompassing nothingness that was swallowing everything in its path. He knew that if the nothingness touched him he would cease to exist like everything else it consumed.