Stuck on You and Other Prime Cuts

by Jasper Bark

  The doors hissed and made to close. He leaped through them in a panic. The carriage shuddered and started to move. He didn’t dare look at what happened to the platform. He glanced at the diagram of the timeline. Nothing had changed. He was still heading back to the End of the Line.

  He didn’t understand. Hadn’t he evaded Daniel and avoided being murdered? Why hadn’t he altered the timeline?

  His stomach began to itch with an uncomfortable ferocity. He hitched up his shirt and saw a huge scar forming. He was certain it hadn’t been there before. It was made up of three ragged slashes that traced the perimeter of his stomach wall. The itching got worse and began to sting. The tissue was getting redder by the second.

  The skin on his throat started to sting. He put his hand to it and felt a thick scar appearing down the length of his artery. The wounds seemed to be un-healing themselves. The particles of his skin felt like they were unknitting and pulling away from each other.

  The pain got worse as tiny scabs began to form in the scar tissue, like crystals in a petri dish. As the scabs spread and replaced the scars, the pain became unbearable. He sunk to his knees and howled with agony as the carriages came to a halt.

  He got to his feet and staggered onto the platform holding his stomach. The scabs on the wounds became fresher and fresher and eventually started to dissolve into blood. What started as a trickle became a thick red gush and the wounds opened up completely.

  He could barely stay upright as the severed section of his stomach wall collapsed and his lower intestines spilled out in a great torrent of blood. They slipped through his fingers and hit the platform with a wet slap. He gave up trying to hold them in as the scab on his throat opened into a vicious gash and a fierce geyser of blood pumped out.

  His arms and legs became cold and numb as the blood drained from them. Multi-coloured blotches burst in front of his eyes. Everything went black and he felt himself falling

  falling

  falling without end...

  * * *

  He woke on the platform in a pool of blood.

  He peeled his cheek off the ground and blinked the blood out of his eyes. His footsteps echoed around the space as he stumbled along the platform. He stopped for a moment beside an old wooden door. The whispering voices called out to him.

  “Open the door,” they said. “Open the door.”

  “That’s where the answers are.”

  “Open the door. Open it now.”

  The urge to open it was stronger this time and before he realised he was gripping the handle. He couldn’t bring himself to turn it though. He was too afraid. It felt too much like defeat and he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

  A grinding, scraping noise came from the tracks. Three pre-war carriages emerged from the pitch black and pulled up at the platform. The central doors slid open with a hiss. The whispers became frantic and shrill.

  “Don’t board the train.”

  “Stay here and open the door.”

  “You won’t change anything, you never do.”

  He stepped onto the train and the doors slid shut behind him. He checked the dark crimson timeline once again. How was he going to change it this time and make sure he didn’t end up back at the End of the Line? Maybe he needed to travel further along the line and try to alter things earlier on, when events had yet to be set in motion.

  The first three stops on the timeline were ‘Job Interview’, ‘Start Post’ and ‘Meets Sinclair’. He felt strongly drawn to Sinclair. The third stop must be the first time they met. If he got off at that stop and found a way to warn Sinclair about Daniel then maybe things would turn out differently.

  At the top of the spiral staircase he found he was wearing chinos and a polo shirt. He also had a folder of documents under his arm.

  Around the sharp corner at the end of the staircase John stumbled onto a pavement. The bright sunlight dazzled him and he walked straight into someone. “Sorry,” John said, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “S’alright, mate,” said the guy. He offered John a tattered magazine. “Big Issue? It’s me last one.”

  “Sorry, I’ve err... got that one already,” John lied. He saw a sign that said ‘New Cross Station.’

  “Can I ‘ave your travel card if you’re done with it?” said the guy.

  John gave it to the man who added it to a pile in his pocket to sell. John flicked through the papers in his folder to see if they held a clue to what he was doing. He found a print out of an e-mail:

  From: Daniel Brown

  To: John Sanger

  John,

  Sorry to call you in on your day off but Mr Sinclair, our project sponsor, is coming in tomorrow to ‘inspect our premises’, and he’d really like to meet you. Without his donation to the university our project wouldn’t even be up and running, so I’m keen to keep him ‘on-side’ as they say.

  He’s due to arrive around ten thirty so I’d appreciate it if you could be here by ten.

  Many thanks

  Daniel

  John glanced at his watch and saw it was already ten thirty. The Big Issue guy gave him directions to the university but he had a hell of a time finding where he was going on campus. Twenty minutes later he burst into Daniel’s office.

  Sinclair was chatting with Daniel when John arrived. They both stood up. John was struck by the same feeling of intense familiarity as soon as he saw Sinclair. “This is my newly appointed assistant John Sanger,” said Daniel. “You’ll have to excuse his late arrival, we’ve all been working very hard to get things up and running.”

  “Not at all,” said Sinclair. “So, did you major in parapsychology too, John?”

  John had no idea. Daniel came to his rescue. “John’s currently doing his PHD on the history of poster art on the Tube. I hired him because he’s actually a highly talented telepath and administrator.”

  “Poster art on the Tube,” Sinclair said. “Is that right? I know of something that might interest you then. I imagine Daniel’s told you that I run the UK’s leading Electrical Installation and Maintenance group. We do a lot of work for the Underground so I have access to several disused stations on the Metropolitan line. They haven’t changed since before the war, old posters on the wall and everything. You’ll have to come and have a look sometime.”

  “I’d love to,” said John.

  Before he could give any more thought to Sinclair’s disused station Daniel said, “I’ve just been telling Mr Sinclair about the plans for our little group of time travelers or ‘Chrononauts’ as we like to call them.”

  “Fascinating stuff,” said Sinclair. “As soon as I came across Daniel’s paper on Group Minds and Past Life Consciousnesses I knew I had to give him the funding for this project.”

  “I’m pleased to say Mr Sinclair’s as passionate about our research as we are,” said Daniel.

  “I’m obsessed with time travel,” said Sinclair. “I’ve read all the scientific and occult theories on the subject. This project is the closest thing I’ve seen to making it a reality. Looking out at the world of the past or the future through the eyes of someone who actually lives there. I’m not a telepath myself, but I envy you that opportunity.”

  “Do you mind me asking what’s behind your interest in this field?” said John.

  “No I don’t mind at all. It’s my legacy to future generations. I’m afraid I won’t be around to see the fruits of your research. A few months ago they found a tumour in my intestines. It’s not operable. I have about a year left.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise or I...”

  “That’s alright, you weren’t to know. The worst part is the feeling that you’re trapped by some inescapable fate that you can do nothing to alter. That’s why I’m interested in time travel. To conquer time is to master our own destinies. To transcend the boundaries of space and time so that no-one has to feel trapped by their fate again. Today I’m dying from a co
ndition they’ll be able to cure in the future. If we had time travel I’d be able to travel forward and save myself. When you think of the lives that your research might eventually save, you begin to see how important this work is.”

  “That’s quite humbling,” said John. “I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “Mr Sinclair’s extremely well informed in this area,” said Daniel. “He was telling me before you came that time travel has a longer history than we realise.”

  “Many ancient civilisations believed there were hidden paths beneath time,” Sinclair said. “That’s why they built underground labyrinths and catacombs. They were a key to understanding these paths and a way of opening them. The druids practiced ritual disembowelment deep underground for just that purpose.”

  “Well I’m not sure the faculty will let us disembowel anyone,” Daniel laughed. “Unless the Bursar’s in a particularly bad mood.” Sinclair laughed too and slapped Daniel on the back. It seemed like a friendly gesture but for a second a predatory look passed across Sinclair’s face.

  In that moment everything fell into place. John knew now why Daniel had panicked when they went to Sinclair’s club. He’d worked out what Sinclair was doing. He hadn’t threatened John outside the club, he was trying to warn him. Daniel wasn’t the killer, Sinclair was.

  Sinclair knew they were going to encounter a sub-dimension that ran beneath time. He planned to use it to travel to the future and save his life. He was going to sacrifice all of them to do so, down in his disused underground station. John had to find a way to stop this.

  “I’m sorry,” John said. “But I can’t be a part of this any longer. I’d like to tender my resignation.” He picked up his folder and left the room.

  Daniel caught up with him in the corridor. “What on earth is going on?” he demanded.

  “It’s Sinclair, you’ve no idea how dangerous he is. He’s going to kill us.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Look John, you’ve obviously been working harder than I realised and I think the strain is beginning to show. Why don’t you take a few days off and just rest up? We’ll talk about this later.”

  John realised that nothing he said would convince Daniel. It all sounded too preposterous. He didn’t have any proof, because nothing had happened yet. He suddenly felt powerless. He turned and ran from Daniel without saying another thing.

  He got lost in the building again and ended up in the underground car park. He spotted the exit and made for it. He had to get out of the city and hide. Then he could try and expose Sinclair. It was the only way to stop it all happening again.

  Complete silence settled on the car park. The lights at either end started to go out. John went cold. “No, not here,” he said. “It shouldn’t happen here. I haven’t had enough time.”

  Rail tracks appeared in front of him and he heard the familiar screech and grind of the carriages coming into view. He pulled a piece of paper out of the folder and tried to write himself a note of warning about Sinclair, but the dark nothingness was eating up everything around him.

  The doors opened and he boarded the middle carriage. The folder disappeared and he was back in a blood stained shirt and trousers. He glanced at the timeline. Nothing at all had changed. The futility of his efforts began to dawn on him. As soon as he climbed back on the carriage his old unwitting self would be back in charge of his life.

  If he had left the city he would only have turned around and come back to his old life. If he had written a note he wouldn’t have understood it. He would probably have put it all down to a temporary lapse of sanity.

  He stared at the timeline and considered each of the stops with dismay. He could visit every one without significantly changing a thing. He would still end up stuck on this train speeding towards the End of the Line. He was trapped by an inescapable fate that he could do nothing to alter.

  The walls of the carriage moved in on him. A vein throbbed in his temple and sweat soaked into his blood stained shirt. He tore the front of his shirt open, scattering the buttons. He roared and kicked the scuffed seats then punched the windows. If he could just shatter the glass he could at least try and jump off, but the glass wouldn’t break and his knuckles were too sore.

  “Stop the train,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? I said stop it you fucking bastards STOP! Stop... stop it... please... please stop it please...” Tears spilled out of his eyes and his chest started to heave with sobs. “Just tell me what I have to do... please... just tell me...”

  His stomach began to itch with an uncomfortable ferocity. He looked down and saw a huge scar forming.

  * * *

  He woke on the platform in a pool of blood.

  He peeled his cheek off the ground and stumbled along the platform. He stopped beside the old wooden door. The whispering voices called out to him.

  “You couldn’t do it could you?”

  “You tried and tried but nothing changed.”

  “You’re trapped here and you can’t do anything about it.”

  “Open the door.”

  “Open the door it’s the only way out.”

  He took hold of the handle and the fear overcame him again. Fear of failure, of being unable to set things right, of having to admit this to his peers. But he was too tired and too beaten to fight the voices. The door opened inward with a screech of rusted hinges.

  The stench made him gag, spoiled meat and blood wafted up. His eyes took a while to adjust to the dark and he didn’t make out the corpses at first.

  There were six of them piled up against the far wall. Each one had its stomach torn open and its intestines pulled out. He peered through the gloom and saw that the intestines were all hanging from metal pegs hammered into the wall.

  The thick pink tubes were stretched out into straight lines that occasionally curved back on themselves, formed loops or crossed one another diagonally. In places the glistening flesh was torn and leaked blood or pus. Something about the shape they made was familiar. Then it hit him. The intestines were forming a crude replica of the Tube map.

  He looked down at the corpses and there in the middle of them he saw the body of John Sanger wearing a blood stained shirt and torn trousers.

  But that didn’t make any sense. How could he be looking at his own corpse?

  “You aren’t,” said John’s corpse. “You’re not John Sanger and you never have been.”

  “Then who am I?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious,” said a corpse he recognised as Michael Sayles. “You’re the one who’s responsible for all this.”

  Wait, he was Sinclair? Yes of course he was. It was all coming back to him. He was Sinclair and the corpses...

  “... are your handiwork,” said John’s corpse. “Your first attempt at time travel. But it didn’t go so well. You knew you needed a group mind to find the sub-dimension and a group sacrifice to open it. What you didn’t know is that the tunnel won’t lead anywhere without the group mind to guide you. You didn’t transcend time and space, you erased yourself from them. You’re trapped and you killed the only people that could save you.”

  “Not that you’d listen to us anyway,” said Daniel’s corpse. “You never do. Even now you’re trying to use the spell to go back into our lives and change them so you can alter the outcome and get to the future.”

  “It won’t work,” said John. “It never does. As soon as you get inside our lives you lose all perspective. You forget who you are and what you’re doing. You make the same mistakes over and over again.”

  “You didn’t conquer time, Sinclair,” said Daniel. “You’re not the master of your own destiny. You’re trapped by the fates of your victims and all you can do is relive them time and time again.”

  Sinclair ignored their prattling and concentrated on the intestinal tube map. He didn’t need their guidance to fix this. He’d already proven how superior he was to all of them. The map was a key to the sub-dimension. He remembered now. It was also part of the spell th
at kept the corpses reanimated. Sadly he needed them in this state and he hadn’t found a way to silence them yet.

  He just needed to change the right moment in the right victim’s life to change the working and get to the future. Sinclair studied the intestines and picked another victim. He focused his will on entering the victim’s life and slipped into a trance.

  He let go of his consciousness. He let go of his identity and found himself falling

  falling

  falling without end...

  He woke on the platform in a pool of blood.

  DEAD SCALP

  CHAPTER 1

  “Okay,” said Clem. “Y’all have heard the charges agin Charlie McKinnell, made by the Judge himself—Big Bill.”

  Big Bill, who was tall, fat and had a streak of meanness even longer than his massive beard, grunted impatiently. He was warning Clem to move things along.

  “Charlie stands accused o’ peddling swamp root tonic behind Big Bill’s back. Anyone gonna speak for the defense?” Clem scanned the bar of Big Bill’s saloon. Nearly the whole of Dead Scalp was gathered for Charlie’s trial. Not a one of ‘em spoke up. They pulled at their beards and stared at the floor, trying not to catch Clem’s eye.

  All except for Tom Hill, who stepped away from the bar. Nat Mullens put a hand on his shoulder but Tom shrugged it off. “I will,” said Tom. Bart Sommers, the only man in the room taller, fatter and worse smelling than Big Bill, grabbed Tom by his ginger beard and yanked him forward.