by Anthology
MacGuffin is all smiles and he hands me one of the grips again. Same flash of lightning as before and hey presto, I’m back in my own body. Soon as I get over feeling queasy I look at him and I have to admit there’s one problem.
“I got no cash for a stake,” I say.
“That’s okay,” says MacGuffin. “You do the hard work on the golf course; I stake us both with the bookies. Fair division of labour?”
Well, to cut a long story short, we handle the whole thing exactly the way he said. MacGuffin had been leading amateur in one of the minor qualifying tournaments. He’s last man in the draw, so he’s scheduled to tee off at the crack of dawn in the first round on Paradine. Not exactly what I’m used to, but at least there are no spectators that early to wonder why MacGuffin’s using Massimo’s clubs.
By the time Massimo tees off four hours later MacGuffin’s already back in the clubhouse, in a three way tie for fourth place with a nice quiet two under par. Nothing suspicious there; we’ve all seen one round wonders before. They always fall back when the pressure’s on.
You know I’m sure that clock’s fast. I don’t believe we’ve been talking for an hour. Do you mind if we speed this up? You will speak to the Governor for me, won’t you? You’re my only hope, Mr. Latour; persuade him to grant a stay of execution until we can trace MacGuffin—that’s Massimo, I mean, or the guy who looks like Massimo. I can’t die this way, Mr. Latour. Say—you wanna come a little closer to the bars? My voice is getting kinda hoarse.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the first round. Well Massimo cards one over. That’s my worst opening round for five years, or would be if it was actually me, see? MacGuffin handles the press conference well; gracious congratulations to the surprise leaders; blames spaceship lag and tells them to watch his smoke the next day.
Only the next day he’s bunkered twice and takes a double bogey sticking him in the sorry half of the pack. Big news! Rumours go around that he’s sneaking drinks between holes. Meanwhile I’ve edged my way into second. I’m playing like crap by my standards, but you’d be surprised how long it takes to get used to driving another man’s skin. It’s not all bad though; less suspicious this way. By the time I’m standing on the eighteenth tee for the fourth time, two days later, I could take a bogey and still win.
So I collect the trophy and hundreds of photographers take my picture and then I head for the hotel room so that the identity switch back won’t occur in public, see? Only there ain’t no switch back, is there? And there ain’t no MacGuffin neither.
Front desk tells me Massimo left a message. He’s making the rounds of the bookies whilst he still remembers who they are. Well it don’t look good for Massimo to go collecting in person after betting against himself but I can hardly argue, so I go back to the room and wait. Then I have dinner and wait some more. Still no switch back and still no MacGuffin.
Just as I’m starting to get really upset, there’s this knock on the door of my room.
“Room service for MacGuffin,” a voice calls. Nice voice. Nice blonde, curved in all the right places and almost wearing a maid’s outfit. I know I didn’t order room service, or any other kind of service come to that, but I figure maybe MacGuffin did and he probably intended it for himself after the switch back.
Okay, I’m pretty pissed off with MacGuffin by this time, but I’m still expecting him to turn up full of excuses. I figure he now owes me extra for my trouble and it would be a pity to disappoint this nice young lady who’s already down to her underwear without any unnecessary preliminaries. Let’s say the next few hours do not drag like the previous few. I don’t remember worrying about MacGuffin once.
In the middle of the night I wake up, thinking I hear a prowler outside, or maybe it’s MacGuffin. The girl is still sleeping next to me. She hasn’t been disturbed; just as well because she ought to be pretty tired. I roll out of bed as quietly as I can, grab my three iron and sneak over to the door. Then I whip open the door and swing back the iron all in one movement. No one there, but I catch sight of a shadow at the far end of the corridor. I figure maybe a guy’s hiding around the corner.
So I leave the door open and I tiptoe down the corridor, ready to do damage if some creep steps out, but I don’t want to hit MacGuffin, see, on account of I still think I’ll soon be feeling the bruises myself if I do. When I reach the corner I nerve myself to jump around it in one bound. For a split second I’m gonna take a swing at this guy and then I realize it’s not a guy. It’s a life-size bronze statue; it’s all swathed in bubble wrap and the only thing I can make out is that it has my face. That’s MacGuffin’s face, right?
So I remember the winner of the inaugural Paradine Open is to have his statue set up outside the clubhouse. The thoughtful organizers seem to have brought the thing round to my hotel for approval first. Only they don’t want to disturb me during the night so they’ve left it in the corridor until morning. Nice gesture, huh?
I rub my eyes and make my way slowly back to my room. The door is still open. Inside, everything is just as I left it, if you don’t count the guys with guns pointed at me. One of them switches on the lights. I consider that me and a three iron against three guys with shooting irons is not a fair contest. I don’t put up a fight. The girl is sitting up in bed and already handcuffed. They haven’t found it necessary to let her get dressed first.
Behind the frosted glass door of the bathroom, there’s the profile silhouette of another man. The shape seems familiar. A moment later the door opens and this balding, chubby, old guy comes into the room. It’s the same guy we encountered casually, as I thought, in the Cary Grant bathroom.
“Good evening, Mr. MacGuffin,” he says. He has a lugubrious way of speaking, like a recording running slower than intended. “Such a pleasure to meet you at last. How very thoughtful of you to have your photograph beamed to every planet in the known universe. It does so speed up a manhunt for a murderer.”
“Murderer? What murder? I won a golf competition, is all. Nobody died.”
“Not on Paradine, no, Mr. MacGuffin. But two weeks ago on Tenochtitlan the Governor’s wife died. You’ll remember her perhaps? A very nice blonde lady; not unlike this young lady here in fact. Here, my dear, cover yourself up.” He hands the girl a bath towel and she tries to drape it over herself, struggling with the cuffs.
“I’ve never been to Tenochtitlan.”
“No? How strange that you were photographed there so many times. Frequently in the company of the unfortunate lady herself, in fact. By the CCTV in her bedroom, standing over her body, for example. If you hadn’t had your own spacecraft we’d have caught you back then. I was pretty sure it was you last week in Los Angeles, but I couldn’t figure out what somebody like you would be doing with Mario Massimo. Then I lost you in the crowd and I didn’t know which flight you’d taken after all the confusion with the flares.”
By this time I’m panic stricken. If MacGuffin has his own spacecraft you can bet he’s long gone, taking my body and all the loot with him. I’d been a fool to believe him when he told me the switch back was automatic. I should have made him prove it. He’s played me for a sucker. Not only am I framed for a murder that he’s committed but I’ve funded his escape and provided him with a new identity.
Of course I try to explain to the chubby guy that I’m not really MacGuffin, don’t I? He just smiles and nods his head. Then he looks at me with those sad eyes and says, “Never mind. I understand that the pain only lasts for an hour or so. Then there’s a whole new life of useful service to look forward to. Everyone appreciates a doormat.”
Nice huh? Well that’s about it, Mr. Latour. They bring me straight here to Tenochtitlan in a police cruiser. Then there’s this travesty of a trial where nobody will listen to me and nobody is willing to go find Mario Massimo and make him testify. If we can only get him here, Mr. Latour, I swear I can prove he’s not the real Mario Massimo. That guy ain’t gonna know half of the things about my life that I know; how could he?
Get my mother here. Get my girlfrie
nd. They’ll be able to tell who I am. Only none of them will be able to help me if you let them turn me into a doormat. Truly Mr. Latour, you gotta believe me. I’m Mario Massimo; I’m not MacGuffin. I shouldn’t have to die for another man’s crime. In the name of all that’s holy Mr. Latour, you gotta help me.
What’s that? The identity transfer equipment? Yeah they found it in Massimo’s room. My room. No, I mean MacGuffin’s room, of course. He didn’t bother to come back and pick up his stuff—my stuff. Well, he didn’t come round and pick up his own stuff either. He beamed the hotel an apology and the credit as soon as he arrived back on Earth. Said he’d just been too upset and distracted after losing; hadn’t meant to leave without settling his account. Told them to donate all his clothes to charity. My clothes, the bastard!
Yeah, they let me keep the transfer equipment to humour me. They prefer it when I’m not shouting and screaming that I’m not MacGuffin. I’ve spent every hour of every day since the trial trying to figure out how to make the damn thing work. No dice. It just sits here like a useless piece of junk. The Tenochtitlans think it’s a kid’s toy. It beats me. Maybe MacGuffin disabled the power source. Maybe it’s only good for three transfers and now it’s exhausted? I don’t know; what do you think? All I know is that blasted clock is fast.
Look, you take the equipment. It’s no use to me. Take it with you to the Governor. Tell him if he gets MacGuffin here—I mean if he gets the guy who’s pretending to be Massimo here—he can force him to make it work. It’s worth a try isn’t it Mr. Latour? Here, take it. It’s gotta be worth a try.
***
Well, I’m glad now you see things from my point of view. Don’t look at me like that. You’re there behind bars for a heinous crime. Quite sorry about the doormat thing. You can try telling them that you’re not MacGuffin, if you like. Tell them your name’s Andre Latour. It’ll make a change from telling them you’re Mario Massimo.
Oh, you can keep the equipment. You have about four hours to figure it out. Maybe you can exchange with one of the guards.
I have to go now. There's a private spacecraft waiting for me here on Tenochtitlan, you know? No, just the one. That's right, MacGuffin’s. Well now that you mention it, I guess it is odd that Massimo would run to MacGuffin’s ship after all that, isn’t it? Farewell now. It’s been a pleasure talking to you. You have a nice day, Mr. Latour.
The Waiting Room(Short story)
by Philip Brian Hall
Originally published by Flame Tree Publishing in 'Chilling Ghost Short Stories', September 2015
To a man utterly lost, walking forward seems preferable to standing still; somehow movement gives purpose to a stateless existence.
Around Harold, the darkness was Stygian; neither moon nor star illumined the blackness. For all his eyes could tell him he might have been entombed within the bowels of the earth. Carried on the stiff breeze that flapped a long trench coat around his unsteady legs was the sweet smell of decay, suggestive of manure recently spread over the fields. He felt rather than saw tall, spiky, hawthorn hedgerows that bounded on either side the narrow country lane along which he tentatively groped his way.
Although it was bitterly cold, Harold was grateful for the wind; its buffeting helped him maintain a sense of direction as he stumbled along. All his being was focused within himself, shrinking back from an external world of which his data-deprived senses could form no coherent picture.
He walked. Therefore he was going somewhere. Strangely he could not remember where, but he supposed he would know it when he arrived. It was not the first time he had been forced to navigate by instinct.
Nevertheless, it was with relief that at length he discerned a tiny point of yellow light in the sepulchral gloom ahead. Artificial light must mean human habitation. His step became surer. He strode on determinedly through the darkness towards the light.
In due course the point grew larger, assumed a rectangular shape and revealed itself to be a window. He made out the silhouette of an isolated country railway station, distinguished from the blackness of the sky and the blackness of the ground by a feeble and diffuse glow emanating from the platform beyond. He discerned a bridge over the line and an old style semaphore signal. As Harold walked up to the dark exterior of the buildings, the light from the window spilled out across the station approach like a welcome mat, enabling him to see the ground beneath his feet for the first time.
Embossed lettering on the window panes informed him he had arrived at the improbably-named Half Way Halt. Since it offered him a haven from the cold and dark, for the moment it was enough that he had arrived somewhere. He stepped through the door, entering a room that was comfortably warm, with a real coal fire burning in an open hearth.
Closing the door quickly behind him, Harold rubbed his hands vigorously together as he glanced around. Clean, upholstered chairs, tables for waiting travelers to put down their tea, the tea itself served as it should be in proper earthenware cups with saucers.
On the walls were beautifully framed colored prints of hand-painted tourism posters. Into each the artist had introduced a picturesque steam engine puffing along ahead of three or four liveried carriages, somehow enhancing the scene.
Strangely there was no timetable on display, though a traditional round, white-faced, wooden-cased clock on the wall ticked loudly and regularly. Its black, Gothic hands indicated ten minutes to midnight. Harold was rarely out so late.
On the far side of the room was a ticket desk. A clerk sat behind it, smartly attired in a dark blue uniform, waistcoat, blue and white striped shirt and maroon tie. He was wearing a peaked cap and looking alert despite the hour.
Into the opposite corner was squeezed an open serving-hatch, giving access to a little kitchen. From this a large, florid brunette in a white pinafore, clearly well versed in the role of ministering angel, dispensed the tea.
Pleased to have gained sanctuary, Harold did not immediately question his surroundings. Had he done so it might have occurred to him to wonder how such an old fashioned station had survived to the turn of the twentieth century. He might have thought Half Way Halt stuck in a time warp.
Walking up to the ticket desk, he reflected on his good fortune to find it staffed in the middle of the night. It was not until he stood there, looking at the clerk, that he realized he had no more idea of where he was going than of what he was doing there. The clerk looked up expectantly.
"I seem to be lost," Harold said. "I suppose I couldn't just rest here for a while?"
"Are you waiting for someone?"
"No. I've no one to wait for."
"Then you need to get on the train. There's nowhere else to go from here. They'll be expecting you."
"They will?"
“Of course. One single.” He passed a thick piece of card across the counter.
Harold studied it hesitantly. “It doesn’t say where to.”
“No. It's a single track line, just a terminus at each end and us here in the middle.”
“But I don’t even know which direction I'm supposed to be traveling.”
“Only two directions: up and down.”
“I see. Well then, how much is the ticket, please?”
“You’ve already paid,” said the clerk.
“Have I?” Harold asked. “My memory must be worse than I thought. So, could you perhaps tell me when the next up train is?”
“That’s not how it works,” said the clerk. “You just get on the first train, whichever direction it's going.”
Like all seasoned railway travelers, Harold was used to ignorance of when such unpredictable occurrences as the arrival of trains might be expected, but ignorance of its direction seemed preposterous. Nevertheless, the prospect of turning around and leaving was daunting. The night had been dreadfully dark and he was unsure how to get home.
“Which way was it going when it passed through here last?”
“That, I’m afraid, I couldn’t say,” replied the clerk.
“But good
God man, it's your job! You must know!”
“Please mind your language,” said the clerk sternly. “You'll offend other passengers.”
Harold had paid little attention to the room's other occupants. Standard equipment for waiting rooms included people waiting. He turned around and surveyed his companions. There were five, assuming you counted as two a young mother who sat gently rocking a child asleep on her knee. She wore a long coat and a cloche hat from beneath which long red hair hung down below her shoulders, screening her face from Harold's gaze as she bent forward over the infant.
Sitting on his own was a blond young man, perhaps a motor cyclist. He wore a leather jacket, padded trousers and calf length boots. On his knees he clutched a cardboard folder. The edge of a map peeped out from one corner.
A dark-haired, middle-aged man was wearing yellow oilskins and sea-boots, for all the world as though he had stepped straight from the dockside. Under his sou'wester his eyes were red-rimmed and his face caked with salt. A faint odor of brine wafted across the room.
Lastly, sitting on his own in a corner, was a young soldier in camouflage, his head bandaged. There were stains on his uniform that might have been dried blood.
“Tea, dear?” Harold heard the large lady speaking to him from behind the hatch.
“Yes please,” he replied, “I could do with one. It’s b——, I mean, it’s very cold out there tonight. How much?”
“You’ve already paid, dear,” the tea lady replied, flipping the tap on her urn and holding a cup underneath it. “Milk and sugar?”
“Milk please, no sugar,” said Harold. Had he twice in the space of a couple of minutes forgotten handing over money? She handed him the cup and saucer and Harold thanked her, taking a sip as he walked over to a chair beside the young soldier.
“Anyone sitting here?” he inquired, in the arcane way the British always do in order to be polite.
The soldier shook his head and grimaced, but said nothing. He looked in pain. There was an unpleasant smell about him that Harold recognized only too well from long ago. Gangrene. Why was the young man not in hospital? Harold sat down and placed his cup and saucer on the table between them.