The Realities of Aldous U

by Michael Lawrence

  In a coil of agony on the ground, the girl’s face swam into Ric’s mind. He’d never seen her before, he could swear he hadn’t, yet there was something about her that wouldn’t allow him to let Gus have his way with her. And she’d called him by his full name. The name no one knew here. She must be from the same place as him. From home. Maybe a girl from school he’d not noticed but who’d noticed him. There were things she might know, things he could have asked her given the chance. Like how to get back. But she’d gone. Seized her chance when Gus sprang at him. She wouldn’t return. Wouldn’t be that crazy. Which meant that his questions would find no answers and he would continue to be stuck here. And all because of that tosser, Gus.

  There’d been a degree of camaraderie in the group till Gus arrived. Must have been about three weeks ago, a month at most. They’d been sitting round the fire that night, the small pale flames their only light. A fire was rarely needed for warmth here – if nothing else the climate was equable – but it was comforting to loll around, especially shrouded in the blankets Scarry had brought back with the air of a conquering hero one day. ‘Inched ’em from the old geezer’s,’ he boasted. They hadn’t asked how he’d managed it. It didn’t matter. Having them was sufficient. There being only five blankets, there wasn’t one for Gus when he turned up, but sometimes, after the first week, he was seen strutting about with one knotted round his neck, billowing behind him like a cloak, and you knew that that night he’d still have it and one of the lads would be feeling sorry for himself under a heap of leaves.

  Gus’s first appearance had been as dramatic as it was unexpected. He’d simply stepped out of the darkness, into their flickering circle, dropped to his haunches, all teeth and bonhomie. ‘Hi. Gus. And you are…?’ They’d shared their food with him, little as it was, and over the next few days, ingratiating himself with Scarry, he’d become a fixture. Behind Scarry’s back he was a different person, however, especially with the youngsters, slapping them round the head on a whim, thumping their shoulders with a fist, tripping them for a laugh. At first he would throw a grin Ric’s way when he did something like this, expecting an amused response. Ric had made his disapproval plain once only, when Gus reached out and squeezed Jonno’s balls when the boy was just standing there. Jonno’s legs gave way. He fell to the ground, lay on his side, legs drawn up, hands between his thighs, unable even to groan.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’ Ric asked.

  Gus grinned at him. ‘Why’d you think?’

  ‘He’s just a kid.’

  ‘Just a kid.’ Gus’s gaze returned to Jonno as if this hadn’t occurred to him. A thin laugh. ‘Hey, you’re right, so he is.’

  That was the moment he and Ric became enemies.

  Little was known about any of them. Their former lives, friends, what sort of homes they’d come from. Discussion of such things was forbidden – an addendum to Scarry’s no-moaning-about-loss rule: ‘New place, clean slate,’ he said. But however little was known about the others, nothing whatever was known about Gus. He volunteered no details, dropped no hints, so, there being nothing to go on, they took him at face value. It was not a comfortable assessment for any of them. Surprisingly, given his volatile nature, Gus made few public complaints about the world he’d stumbled into, or the rough living, the absence of every kind of luxury. He shared their sleeping space, hunted with them sometimes, bowed to Scarry’s primacy, but no one doubted for a minute that he was anything but his own person. The nearest he came to group activity could be summed up in one of his more quotable invitations: ‘Going for a wank. Anyone care to join me?’

  Occasionally the six of them sallied forth to see if they could find an end to the forest, marking trees or breaking twigs to follow back, but it just went on and on in all directions but one: the river. There were no buildings, roads, footprints, any sign at all of recent civilization. The only other person in the vicinity was the man in the weird house. The first time Ric saw him was with Scarry. The man was on a ladder, fixing some of the slates on his roof.

  ‘Look at ’im,’ Scarry whispered, parting the leaves at the edge of the clearing. ‘Old twat.’

  The man must have heard the voice if not the words, for he glanced their way, saw Scarry’s face framed in the leaves, and waved. Scarry rushed Ric away without returning the greeting.

  ‘He didn’t seem unfriendly,’ Ric said as they went.

  ‘They never do at first. He’ll turn, they always do.’

  But even Scarry hadn’t been too proud to accept the provisions the man began leaving for them shortly after the kids arrived. Every few days they found a box of groceries on the wall beside the gate – things to cook and eat with too, and the matches that had made such a difference. Ric and the boys were thrilled to sink their teeth into real food for a change, and eat off plates, use forks, though none of it was good enough for Scarry. They returned the box each time under cover of darkness and it was refilled in a day or two, but never did they approach the man or his house. When Ric said that it might not be a bad idea if they thanked him for his kindness, Scarry sneered.

  ‘No one does no one no feckin’ favors. He’s after summink.’

  Ungrateful as he was, when the man disappeared for a few days every so often, Scarry was the first to complain about their having to go hunting for additional food. When the man was absent for almost a fortnight, Scarry talked of knocking the house down. He didn’t knock it down – it would have taken a bulldozer to do that – but he did try to break in: a vain ambition with that hefty padlock on the door, and windows both secure and unbreakable. He got the kids to help him kick a portion of the wall down instead, then personally stomped over the few decent flowers and the vegetable patch. Ric pointed out that they could have eaten some of the vegetables, but Scarry said the only veg he liked was spuds, so leave ’em. He did like chicken, though, and ordered the seizure of three of the five hens pecking around the yard, along with all the eggs they could find. He kept some of the eggs, but lobbed the rest at the windows. It further angered him that the hens had been left food and drink while he and the others had not, overlooking the fact that the hens dined on meal and grain distributed by a feed hopper and their liquid sustenance came from their usual plastic water fount. The cats were also catered for, by different methods and devices. There seemed to be five cats, but the tortoiseshell was the only one that didn’t scoot when approached. The tortoiseshell was obviously the man’s favorite. They’d seen him petting it while merely feeding the rest.

  Perhaps because he was of a different generation, or because he had a roof over his head and they didn’t, when Gus joined them he developed an immediate antipathy toward the man, beside which Scarry’s paled. The killing of the cat was a deliberate strike against him. Only Gus and Scarry had partaken of the cat’s flesh that night. The boys had eaten nothing, crouching silently together at the outer edge of the firelight. Ric had nibbled a squirrel haunch for a few minutes before also losing his appetite. While they were tucking in, Gus said: ‘I’d like to see him on a spit.’

  ‘Who?’ Scarry asked.

  A nod in the direction of the house. ‘Or maybe his head on a spike. Yeah, that’d be good. Shove an apple in his gob – if there were any apples in this shit-hole.’

  ‘What’s he done to you?’ Ric asked.

  Gus turned to him. ‘Why, soft spot for him, Priscilla?’

  Ric had not responded to this and the subject had been dropped, but some days later, beaten and abandoned in the forest, he realized that Gus was capable of carrying out any threat, indulging any dark desire, for no other reason than that it amused him.

  25: 43

  The interior of the building Alaric had been hurled into was a fair match for its exterior. There was a very unfinished air about it, with the floor the only consistently flat surface. The boulders and rocks of which the walls were composed had not been smoothed or curtailed on the inside, so that they intruded significantly at several points. The furnishings were not much more sophisti
cated – a sagging old armchair beside a rough stone fireplace, a couple of rickety cupboards, a plain pine table under one of the windows, with a pair of equally plain chairs. On the table stood a typewriter that belonged in a museum. Several unlit oil lamps were placed more or less strategically, and over to one side there was an untidy kitchen area with a small stove. Unremarkable ornaments were lodged on many of the walls’ protrusions, along with a number of framed photographs, prints and drawings. The walls being far too uneven to allow shelving, books – a great many books – were piled wherever there was floor space. Also on the floor were three colorful rugs, one of which Alaric sat up on, more worried about what was going on, or about to go on, than he wanted to admit.

  ‘Stay put or I’ll flatten you,’ the man said.

  He stayed put. His captor began pacing the room, fists clenched, darting furious glances at him as he stalked this way and that.

  ‘I would have helped you,’ he growled. ‘I did help you, dammit. I left provisions for you and you accepted them. I left blankets by the gate, you took them. I didn’t get any thanks, but I didn’t do it for thanks. You were lost, scared no doubt, glad of anything you could get. I understood that. But then you stole from me. Even that I could forgive, food’s not laid on here, but you trampled my garden too, my vegetables, which are very hard to raise in this soil, took my chickens, smashed part of my wall. What had I done to deserve such treatment? But even that was nothing compared to what you did to my cat. You burned him. You stripped the flesh away. You hung the remains on my door to taunt me. That I will not forgive! You’ll get nothing out of me now except…’

  He broke off. Ceased his pacing. His eyes, having adapted to the feeble light seeping in the window panels, saw what they’d missed before, even outside. He stepped closer; bent to examine Alaric’s face.

  ‘Have I made a mistake?’

  Alaric glared back at him. ‘Bloody right you have.’

  ‘You’d better get up. Chair over there.’

  He got to his feet and went to the armchair by the unlit fire. Aldous U retreated to the table. Sat on a corner of it, one leg dangling.

  ‘How long have you been in this reality?’

  The question surprised him almost as much as the attack that had ended with his sitting here. But there was no point in pretending he didn’t understand.

  ‘Not long. Half an hour maybe.’

  ‘Your first visit, or…?’

  ‘First and last. Some welcome.’

  ‘Have you visited many realities?’

  ‘This is my fourth. Apart from my own.’

  This evidently surprised his host. ‘Your fourth? Well now.’ He paused. ‘Is your mother alive?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m trying to place you. Is she?’

  ‘No.’ Hard to admit, even after all this time.

  ‘Does the name Kate Faraday mean anything?’

  ‘She lives with us. What is all this?’

  ‘And do you know someone called Naia?’

  ‘Look, before I answer any more qu – ’

  ‘I see that you do. When did you last see her?’

  ‘Just before I came here. But – ’

  ‘Where? Your reality, hers, some other?’

  Alaric sighed; gave up. ‘Mine. She seemed to think it was hers until Kate came along.’

  ‘She didn’t expect Kate to be there?’

  ‘Don’t know. But she shot off after that.’

  His inquisitor relaxed. Noticing Alaric massaging the knee he’d fallen on when flung into the room, he said: ‘Sorry. Bit edgy today.’

  ‘A bit! Can I go now?’

  ‘Certainly. But isn’t there anything you’d like to ask me?’

  ‘I just want out of here. I don’t like being kicked around.’

  ‘I have apologized. But there’s the door.’

  Alaric got up and went to it; bent to draw the first of the two bolts.

  ‘The way back is along a path which starts about ten paces to the left of the gate,’ Aldous U told him. ‘It’s pretty well concealed. Old habit. If you’d met some of the people I have, you’d want to cover your tracks too.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Alaric asked, drawing the other bolt.

  ‘Seven years, give or take. Not much longer, though. It’s fading fast.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This reality. I say “fading”, but the signs are that it’ll end with something more than a whimper.’

  ‘I didn’t know realities could just end,’ Alaric said, straightening up.

  ‘With experience of just four there’ll be quite a bit you don’t know.’

  ‘There are a lot then.’

  ‘A fair few.’

  ‘Are all of them… normal? Apart from this one.’

  ‘Define normal.’

  ‘With people in them.’

  ‘I haven’t visited them all. I couldn’t possibly visit them all, no one could. I have come across the odd nonstandard one, though. Societies, cultures and residents very like ours, but with different technologies, kinds of aircraft, skin.’

  ‘Skin?’

  ‘Of a green or gray hue.’

  ‘Oh, come on, pull the other one.’

  AU’s mouth twitched. ‘What, too much like science fiction for you? Unlike visits to alternative realities, of course, which as anyone will tell you is a perfectly normal everyday activity.’

  Unsure how much of what this man said was true or thrown in for effect or his own amusement, Alaric said nothing for a while; until:

  ‘Where will you go when you leave here?’

  ‘Back to my original reality. And, all being well, to a proper Withern Rise.’

  ‘A “proper” Withern Rise?’

  His host left the table and went to the door. Alaric stepped aside to allow him to open it; was beckoned outside to look at a plaque on the wall. He stared. ‘You call this Withern Rise?’

  ‘Why not? The position’s about right.’

  They went back inside. Alaric remained by the door while AU seated himself on the chair at the typewriter end of the table.

  ‘Did you build this place yourself?’ Alaric asked.

  AU laughed. ‘Do I look like Superman? No, it was already here. There was no lock on the door – I only started to feel in need of security a couple of months ago – but all the essentials were in place: the bed, stove, table, chairs, many of the books. And what seems to be a unique lavatory; I’ve not come across another like it anywhere: no plumbing or chemicals necessary. Very handy in a reality like this.’

  ‘So who...?’

  ‘There was a note on the table. “It’s all yours,” it said. “But watch the sky.” So I moved in and have been watching the sky ever since.’

  ‘Why watch the sky?’

  ‘As the eye mirrors the soul,’ AU said, ‘the sky reflects the health of the reality. Often, anyway. It certainly does here. This is a “fast” reality, evolving many times more rapidly than most. It would take several millennia for a standard reality to age as much as this one has in seven years.’

  ‘The note,’ Alaric said. ‘Was it signed?’

  ‘No. But I knew the handwriting.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘It was my own.’

  ‘You own?’

  ‘Yes. And before you ask, I have no explanation for it.’

  ‘You think a version of you was here before you?’

  ‘It seems likely, but I can take it no further than that. A conundrum I’ve filed away with a great many other mysteries I’ve stumbled across in and out of the realities over the years.’

  ‘The Withern Rise you plan to move to,’ Alaric said. ‘Do you own it?’

  ‘Not yet. But I expect to.’

  ‘Who lives there now then?’

  ‘An Alex and an Ivan.’

  ‘Naia’s parents?’

  ‘Not exactly. These days.’

  ‘These days?’

  ‘Never mind. The point is, they’re
selling and I hope to buy.’

  ‘Won’t it be a bit pricey?’

  ‘For someone who lives in such squalor, you mean?’ AU grinned. ‘I’m not as hard up as I might seem. Over time I’ve accumulated substantial funds thanks to some realities being a little behind others, a day here, a day there: a few dropped seconds per year over eons, perhaps. Just enough time-differential for me to see where the markets have gone in a reality that’s a fraction ahead and capitalize on the information in one or more of the laggers. I’ve spread my profits across several realities so as not to arouse suspicion and can gather them to me whenever I wish. I could have made much more, become very wealthy indeed, but I have no heirs, and my requirements are few. I realized quite recently that all I’ve ever really wanted, materially, was my own Withern Rise. Why don’t you come and sit down? I think we know by now that we’re not enemies.’

  Alaric took the chair at the opposite end of the table. ‘Do all realities but this have a proper Withern Rise?’ he asked.

  ‘Not all. But most.’

  ‘And is there always an Alaric or a Naia in those that do?’

  ‘Only in those to which the family returned in 1963. Other families occupy the rest.’

  ‘I went to one yesterday where there were no Underwoods. This woman rattling around there on her own. Just her and her lousy dog. Garden was a bomb site. Crummy old fences instead of brick walls.’

  This caught AU’s interest. ‘Fences. There aren’t many with fences.’

  He got up and went to one of the cupboards, at which he knelt to remove a large green book, rather like a Victorian moneylender’s ledger. Kneeling, turning the pages, he asked Alaric if he’d gone to the village of that reality.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spot anything unusual?’

  ‘You mean like too-tall buildings, triple green lines instead of double yellows, traffic driving on the wrong side of the road?’

  ‘Mm, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And the shop,’ Alaric said.

  ‘Which shop?’

  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Paine’s.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’