by Anthony Burn
It was surprisingly easy when I got home. Kee got up, all smiles, to hug and kiss me, but before our lips could touch I put my hand over my mouth. I raced to the bathroom like I was about to throw up. He tried to follow me, but I shut the door and locked it. He called through it to ask if I was okay. I made some retching noises, and asked him to get me some water.
By the time he came back I’d undressed and got into bed. He sat on the edge and stroked my head and asked what he could do. His face looked so concerned – all I wanted to do was smack it. I told him I felt awful and needed to sleep. In fact, it was true. Since breakfast, all I’d had was the antibiotics and the coffee. With those combining, and all the revelations on top, my stomach was churning. Kee tried to comfort me but I sent him away. He went reluctantly, but before he left I asked him to take my shift at the gallery the following day.
It was two hours before he came to bed. He tried to cuddle me but I groaned and moved away from him. I had to wait another half an hour until I was sure he was asleep. I got up and locked myself in the bathroom. Then I got back to the reading.
It was nearly four in the morning by the time I’d finished. By then the tears were streaming down my face again. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much despair. If it was true then I was living with the most evil monster I’d ever heard of.
If it was true.
I kept telling myself that it couldn’t be. Time travel wasn’t possible. Everyone knew that. He’d made it all up. It was fiction. It had to be.
Except something kept nagging at me. He’d written that I’d asked him about feeling the device in his pocket. I remembered that I had felt something there in the early days. I’d meant to ask him. It had slipped my mind and I hadn’t felt it again. After that I’d forgotten all about it. Was it his stupid time turner? Did it really exist? He said he’d hidden it away after that. If I could find the thing, it would prove the rest was true. I really didn’t want to look for it, but I knew I had to. I couldn’t resolve this if I didn’t.
I couldn’t bear to get back into bed with him. I went to the spare room, but I didn’t get any sleep. In the morning, I told him I had been tossing and turning and didn’t want to disturb him. He was full of concern and said he could stay home to look after me. I told him I just needed to sleep it off. I said I would call him when I woke up. He bent down to kiss me goodbye, but I turned my face into the pillow. He kissed the top of my head instead and as he did I rubbed his thigh. I was hoping he would think I was being affectionate, but really I was checking his pocket. He definitely didn’t have any device with him.
I heard him go and jumped out of bed. From the window I could see the waiting taxi in the street. I watched it disappear at the end of the road. Then I quickly washed and dressed.
I started in the bedroom, emptying his drawers and cupboards and throwing everything onto the floor. From there I moved to the bathroom cabinets, then to the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. By the time I’d been through every room, it looked as though a bomb had hit the place. I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to stay there anyway.
I finally found it after an hour of searching. As soon as I saw it I froze. It was exactly like he’d described it. I didn’t want to touch it. But I knew I had to. I reached gingerly towards it but pulled my hand away at the last second. I did that three times before I told myself not to be so stupid. It wasn’t going to bite me. Even so, I picked it up as if it might.
I walked with it carefully through the debris into the kitchen. I held it in my hand and stared at it. I only had to turn it to find out the truth. But I was too scared to do it. He said in his story that I’d done it before, but I had no memory of that. The way he described it made it seem like I didn’t feel anything. Nor did he when he used it. Yet I still had my doubts. Surely I would have to feel something. Was it going to be unpleasant?
That wasn’t what scared me most though. I was terrified of what it was going to tell me. If it really did turn back time, I was going to lose everything. There was no way I could live with a monster. And I wouldn’t be able to stay at the gallery either. All the work I’d put in to make it a success would have been for nothing. It was my dream job and it would be gone. Nor would I be able to stay friends with Amy. It was tearing me apart, just thinking about that possibility. How could I tell her that her future brother-in-law was a killer? Why would she believe me anyway? She would simply try to patch things up between Keegan and me. That was never going to happen.
What about if it didn’t work? If it didn’t turn back time, then he’d made it all up. He’d mixed stupid sci-fi with autobiography. Either way he’d been with someone else. Except if he wasn’t a murderer it was just an affair. I snorted derision as I thought of those words. Just an affair! As if that was some sort of fucking consolation!
I had been standing there dithering for about fifteen minutes. I’d tried several times to turn the device. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I grabbed the top of it once more. This time, Lauren, this time. I checked the time on the oven. It was nine forty-seven. I screwed my eyes up tight and took a deep breath. I turned the device just a tiny little way.
I couldn’t feel anything happen inside me. I slowly opened my eyes and looked around. Nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it was before I closed my eyes. I drew another deep breath and turned towards the oven.
Nine forty-three.
My legs buckled under me. I fell to the floor and howled. I screamed until my lungs were empty. I was shaking and gasping for air. I felt like I would wet myself at any second. I finally caught my breath, and then I howled some more.
It was ten minutes before I was able to pull myself together enough to get up. I got as far as my knees and saw the nasty little gadget in front of me. I didn’t want to touch it again, but I knew I had to. There was no way I was going to let the evil bastard keep it.
I found my feet and opened the door to the roof terrace. With my hands still trembling, I picked up the device and took it outside. It took all of my willpower to get a firmer grip on the thing. I threw it as hard and as far as I could into the Thames.
Then I got the fuck out of there.
Thirty-two
My concern for Lauren grew steadily with the length of time that I couldn’t reach her. She had been complaining of stomach pains for a few days, and although I knew she’d been to see the doctor on Monday afternoon, I was startled to see that, if anything, her symptoms were worse by the time she’d arrived home the previous evening. I’d felt helpless while I listened through the locked bathroom door to her throwing up, and disconsolate that I was unable to do anything for her other than bring her a glass of water when she went to bed early.
Waking to an empty bed the following morning, I suffered a few moments of apprehension before I found her in the spare room, complaining of a sleepless night while voicing her consideration in not having wanted to disturb me. My immediate thought was to take the day off in order to nurse her and provide company, but she insisted that all she needed was sleep, saying she would call me when she awoke or if she wanted me to come home.
Reluctantly, I’d left her alone to take her shift in the gallery. All morning, I’d been anxious about her condition and unable to concentrate on my work. I’d heard of ‘female troubles’ laying women low for several days, but Lauren had not suffered badly in the time I’d known her, and I worried that I’d caused her problems by being too rough with her. She hadn’t complained after our last bout of lovemaking and I didn’t think I’d been especially vigorous, but I resolved to be gentler on the next occasion. In the mean time I would take care of her until she was feeling better, and I would pamper her in every possible way.
Christa and Ashley had gone to appointments soon after I had arrived at work, and by the time they had returned in the middle of the afternoon, my concern had given way to agitation. I hadn’t attempted to call Lauren during the morning, for fear of waking her, but by lunchtime I felt sure she should have been up, so I
’d tried her number. When I got no answer I’d assumed she was still sleeping, but the thought crossed my mind that her illness may have worsened, and I’d begun to brood on the idea that she might be in urgent need of my help. After several more attempts with the same outcome, I was so close to panicking that I greeted the others with a rapid explanation, met with nods of approval from Christa, as to why I was immediately going home.
I arrived at the apartment to a scene of total devastation. The front door was wide open, and every cupboard and drawer had been ransacked, with our belongings strewn across the floor. My disquiet over the condition of my girlfriend was compounded with the incredulity that, on top of everything else, we’d been burgled. The problem of how they had penetrated the building’s security briefly flitted through my mind, but I quickly dismissed it as, uncaring of the mess, I raced from room to room calling out to Lauren.
The silence that came in reply only served to heighten my tension. The devastating possibility that she had been abducted entered my head, and I became overwhelmed by the thought of her being trussed and beaten while she was being held for ransom. I tried to tell myself not to be ridiculous, but couldn’t let go of the premise that, with our wealth, it was not unreasonable for us to be the target of kidnappers.
I knew I had to call the police, but first I tried Lauren’s number again in the hope of a more rational explanation. Almost immediately I heard the sound of her mobile in the lounge, and breathless with relief I rushed to greet her, assuming she had just arrived home. My solace was short-lived and my uncertainty returned when I found the living space as empty as when I had left it a moment before.
Lauren’s mobile was sitting on my desk, next to the computer mouse. I didn’t take time to wonder why it should be there without her. I grabbed for her phone and in doing so, I pushed the mouse. The movement caused my computer screen to come out of stand-by, displaying an open document with my name at the top of it. I cancelled the call unconsciously as I began to read the most distressing message I’d ever received:
Kee.
You sick, twisted piece of shit. I can’t believe what you’ve done. I’ve read your story and it makes me feel ill. You’ve totally ruined my life. I wish I’d never met you. I can’t believe you fooled me for so long. I can’t believe I ever loved you. I hate you now.
You’re wrong about people. Your cod philosophy and moralising about human nature is complete crap. People aren’t always aggressive. People are kind. They always rush to help if others are in trouble. Only a sick psychopath would think that everyone else would turn out the same as you if they had your device.
Yes, I found your fucking device. But you will never find it now. Not unless you pump out the Thames. You’ll never be able to hurt anyone else and get away with it.
My whole life is over, thanks to you. Don’t bother to look for me. You’ll never find me. Even if you did, I will never speak to you again.
By the way, you’ve got chlamydia. And you gave it to me, you bastard. I hope you fucking die from it.
I hate you.
Lauren.
I read and re-read the message three times, my desolation growing as I took in the vehemence of her words. When I couldn’t bear to read it again, I dropped my head into my hands, unable and unwilling to believe either that I’d been found out or the totality of her reaction. I would have thought she would want to scream and shout at me before making such a significant decision. I would have hoped she would have given me a chance to say something in mitigation.
I’d arrogantly assumed that the time turner made me bulletproof; that no matter how big the argument, I could fix it with a twist or two of the device. As I wrestled with the realisation that the situation had progressed beyond repair, the pieces began to fall into place. Lauren had been to the doctor on Monday afternoon, but she had still been fine with me that evening and the following morning. She’d been expecting the results of her test after I’d gone to work, so I guessed that was when she had found out about the STI. How that led her to finding my story and cracking the password I had no idea, but I assumed she’d been reading it instead of keeping her appointments. The carnage throughout the apartment had nothing to do with burglars; she’d obviously made the mess in her search for the time device. According to her note, it was at the bottom of the river with no chance of retrieval.
And yet, there was a small chance of salvaging at least a small amount from the wreckage. It was all dependent on timing. I closed her note and examined the details in the folder list; she had saved it at eleven thirty-two, which gave me a small window of opportunity.
On the day after I’d originally found the time turner, two years ago, and following my eventful night at the hotel with the woman who’d tried to rob me, I’d bundled my old clothes from the bathroom floor into the suitcase I’d ‘acquired’, together with my equally ill-gotten new attire. It was only when I’d been unpacking the next day that I’d discovered another time turner in the pocket of my jeans. It had taken me a long time to work out that, having retrieved the device, I’d gone back to a time when it was still in my pocket and thereby created a duplicate. After my near hysteria at having thought it had been stolen along with my other possessions, I’d decided to keep the spare in a secure place in case I ever lost the original. Having considered and dismissed several hiding places within my flat, I’d eventually taken it to a bank in the city and locked it away in a safety deposit box. It had remained there ever since.
If I’d come home from work earlier I would have had time to retrieve the spare device straight away, and I may even have prevented Lauren from reading my story, or at least some of it, but that opportunity had passed. It was too late to get back into the city before the bank closed; I would have to wait until the morning. If I went to the safety deposit box as soon as they opened, then I should have time to come home and turn back a day to stop her finding the device. I couldn’t think that it would have taken any more than ten minutes for her to write her note, and there was no reason to assume she would have waited before starting it, so I guessed she must have found the time turner no earlier than eleven. As long as I was home by no later than ten forty-five, I could tell her there was nothing to find because what I’d written was fiction.
That still left the problem of what to tell her about the chlamydia, but I had the rest of the night to come up with a plausible excuse.
I was in the city early the next morning. After a sleepless night, made worse by the unaccustomed lack of Lauren’s presence, I’d showered and dressed and was ready to leave the apartment before seven-thirty. There was no point in setting off that early so I forced myself to have a cup of coffee and some breakfast, which I made but couldn’t eat.
The previous evening had been long and miserable. I’d tried to take my mind off my problems by tidying away the things Lauren had thrown everywhere, and I’d researched in vain for any way I might have been infected by accident. It turned out there was no possibility of contracting the STI without sexual contact, and even less chance of dying from it, despite Lauren’s fervent wish that I would, so I’d devised a number of potential excuses, but each new one I came up with was lamer than its predecessor.
With time to kill before the bank opened, I’d walked along the river path and into the city, arriving at my destination just before nine. I waited patiently for the huge wooden doors to be opened, but after several minutes of inactivity, and with no sound of movement from within the building, I went to one of the windows to see if I could attract someone’s attention. It was there that I found a sign displaying their business hours, which showed they didn’t open until ten on a Thursday, causing me to swear so loudly that a guy walking past jumped sideways in shock. I waved an apology and he nodded his understanding before he went on his way, leaving me staring vacantly at the street trying to decide what to do next.
I couldn’t stand on the doorstep for an hour, so I found a coffee shop and bought a double espresso; the black bitterness of the liquid mirr
ored my temper as I glared out of the window and brooded over what possible reasons the bank could have for such inconvenient business hours. I’d hoped that by getting there early I’d be back at the apartment to catch Lauren long before she found the time device. With this delay, I was going to be cutting it fine.
I considered the possibility of turning back the full day as soon as I took the spare turner out of the deposit box. It would mean I could turn back to the same time again when I got home, giving myself an extra thirty to forty minutes, but I couldn’t be sure there had been nobody in the vault the day before. Even if I didn’t end up melded with another person, I would still have to account for my inexplicable appearance to the security staff, which could take longer than the time I saved. I simply couldn’t take the chance, so knowing I would have to wait until I was at home before I could safely turn the device, I continued with my dark thoughts about the bank and the people who worked there.
Despite my pleas for urgency it took fifteen minutes to complete the paperwork, go through their security checks and retrieve my spare device from the safety deposit box. I returned to the street more desperate than ever to get home as quickly as possible. To my relief I was able to flag down a taxi straight away, but my consolation was short-lived; we’d barely reached the next street when the traffic slowed to a crawl, and then to a complete stop as the road ahead was blocked by a large truck delivering supplies to a building site.
With mounting frustration I watched the time tick away, while the builders appeared to be in no hurry with the unloading of the vehicle. By ten-thirty, and having checked with the driver that there was no alternative route, I paid him and jumped out to make my way on foot.
I rushed towards the blockage, planning to walk past the truck and hopefully pick up another cab on the other side, but as I approached the building site my path was blocked by a burly guy in a hard hat and high-visibility jacket, who told me I couldn’t pass until they had finished. My protests were met with a stream of abuse, and my insistence was thwarted by the arrival of a second workman, who issued dire threats if I didn’t move back. I quickly yielded in the face of such intimidation, and doubled back to the nearest side road before rushing down towards Lower Thames Street.