by Brian Hughes
I grow—grew—up and have—had—a son. The same son who goes backwards in time and gets trapped. And so it goes on. Round and round in circles. I believe this is called recursion.
There was a drawing in red ink of a snake eating its own tail. Added to it in black, under some misunderstanding, were several drops of liquid squirting from its head.
Unfortunately, that makes me a bit of a paradox. My own son is also my own Great Grandfather. Thereforee, I am an anomaly. An anomaly in reality is one thing. But an anomaly in a fiction is another.
This was followed by several large red question marks, the final dot of which had been added so violently the rest of the paper contained puncture holes. These holes matched with the hole in the box lid.
According to mathematics if you add one negative to another negative you end up with a positive—coffee ring—The same happens with an anomaly in a paradox. It becomes a reality. Thereforee I was the only real thing in an unreal world.
Question?
In tiny red letters above the word ‘Question’ were the words, ’ ‘You don’t need a question mark here.’
Why were there dozens of glass balls everywhere?
In red letters, So that gypsies can see what’s coming?
Answer. They were paperweights brought by Samuel Foster. Actually he only brought one with him, which he handed down through the generations to Ben, who then gave it to me as a birthday present and the reason there was more than one was because—and this is a bit hard to understand—when another dimension is added it increases everything in volume.
Red ink: What?
Therefore one becomes many. Like a circle in two dimensions becoming a sphere in three.
The side of the page was covered with drawings of creatures climbing up the words and hanging from a cobweb in the corner. Curly black hair had been added to one along with the word ‘Ben’.
Question—Why was number 32 Old Bridge Lane so important?
Answer—It was Thomas Hobson’s home.—Before he died—And the place where Samuel Foster eventually hid his heart.
Question 4 -- What happened to one, two and three? -- How could altering the past, not affect the future? Wouldn’t the Universe being destroyed mean that Thomas Hobson could never have invented his time machine in the first place?
This was accompanied by a red stain, presumably tomato sauce.
Answer—Once the future has happened, it becomes the past, regardless of which direction you travel in time. The future was already the past to Thomas Hobson.
Question—Why didn’t Thomas and Samuel’s involvement in a fictional universe create an anti-reality explosion itself?
Answer—I haven’t got a clue. It’s a conundurudrum—Conundrum—isn’t it? And a condomrumnom—Conundrum—in a fiction becomes a reality. And a reality combined with their reality, becomes a fiction. It’s all sort of recursive.
All of this section was underlined twice and had another couple of spiders’ webs drawn across the bottom of the words.
To be honest, I still don’t understand. But that’s the problem isn’t it? What will become of little Thomas when he grows up? Ballet classes? Factory work? Anything but mathematics and science!
I suppose we’d better just wait around and see.
Drawing of a sideways face with an enormous nose. Probably also not relevant.
The more I think about this, the more difficult the explanations become.
But that’s it isn’t it? It’s all paradoxical. Every time a question is answered another one pops up.
Help, I think my brain is about to explode.
Drawing of a red brain exploding with the word, ‘BBOOOM!’ in the middle of it. It had been scribbled over in black.
Addenudum: -- Addendum—Why was Thomas Hobson’s book at the bottom of the Wambachs’ rubbish? And Thomas Hobson’s photograph found at Mrs Prunes?
Answer—Because originally number 114 and number 113 Applegate were all one house.
Red Ink: Thanks To Mrs Prune digging out the House deeds for that one.
Drawing that resembled a balloon with a boil stuck on it, accompanied by the words, ‘Mrs Prune’.
Addendum Addendum. (B) All of this gives rise to many more questions. How could Ben be out of phase in a reality that didn’t use time? Why didn’t Ben recognise the orb in Donald Oakseed’s house? Come to that matter why didn’t I? After all, I’ve actually got one in my box. Was there something we didn’t know about??? Why did Thomas become a Presbiterian…
This word was crossed out, rewritten and underlined.
…Minister? Why did my personal thoughts become reality? Was it because I was real and so were my thoughts,thereforeE
By this stage the writing had become extremely small and cramped. The notes concluded with the word ‘BOLLOX’ scrawled across the other words in big blotchy letters. There was obviously no more room left for further speculations.
Still, it makes you think doesn’t it?
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Dark and Distant Now
Brightness. An omnipotent wall of light, so bright that it’s blue. Crackling and twisting, spinning and falling. Then come the first splashes of colour. An explosion of yellow, an ink bomb of green. Semblances of watercolours, pale lilac and ocean blue, flowing down the inside of a rotating cylinder.
Down we tumble. Everything grows darker as we fall.
Then silence. Nothing but the blackness of pitch. Jess can feel it pressing against his face, suffocating in its intensity.
So close he can almost taste it. It tastes of dark.
He breathes slowly, feeling his chest rise and fall. Feeling his heart beating steadily. Feeling the air cram his nostrils. Where is he now?
From a corner of the darkness comes a familiar splutter. Not a human splutter of the sort made by a smoker waking up on a clammy morning, but a diesel sort of splutter. From the bus stop outside ‘Mrs Evesham’s Dancing School for Young Girls’ to be precise.
Jess lifts one heavy eyelid. He looks out with a watering eye onto a brave new world.
At first everything was blurred, as though Jess was viewing it through the bathroom window.
But slowly the room began to take on substance.
Recognisable shapes came into focus. The bookcase with its shelves crammed with multicoloured books. Dust motes spinning in the weak slice of daylight between the curtains. All recognisable objects that told him he was finally home.
There was the sofa, a creaky arrangement of springs and foam. It was occupied by Benjamin who was snoring loudly.
Ben stirred, muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and licked his lips.
Then the memories started to return one by one.
Jumbled and confused.
Some obvious and brightly coloured.
Others vague and unrealistic.
One said that Benjamin had been his partner and had died.
The other said that Benjamin Foster was Benjamin Hobson, the younger brother he had cared for since his mother died.
Jess himself was in his armchair, gripping the arms as if they were about to take off. His legs were stretched out before him. His boots were on the table.
So this was reality? Subtly different, but somehow, more of the same.
It was altogether more sober.
Jess remembered having a nightmare once in which every time he had a beer, instead of making him drunk it made him more sober. This was remarkably similar and he wasn’t sure that he approved.
114 Applegate. Upstairs in the attic.
An old woman with her grey hair in a bun was fast asleep in her armchair.
She was dreaming a dream of a childhood long ago.
The clock on the mantelpiece announced the hour.
Mrs Prune blinked, accidentally dislodged the knitting from her knees and yawned. Her false teeth almost came away from her gums.
She was just an old woman who was having trouble these days climbing the stairs. She really ought to reach an arrangement with
the folk on the ground floor. The Wambachs or the Wotsanames. The middle-aged couple with the cute little boy. She must have words with them anyhow, about swapping the rooms over. All those stairs were no good for her aching back. She didn’t seem to have enough energy left these days.
Mrs Prune also has two sets of memories.
One set, bright and clear, concerned ordering an extra pint of milk and a packet of rice from Mr Gordon. She’d planned on making the boys downstairs one of her famous rice puddings today. Jess and Benjamin always liked that. Well, you’ve got to do y’ bit, ’aven’t y’?
But another memory skulked at the back of her mind.
A memory half-hidden by the daylight, concerning a strange and wondrous place outside of time.
A place where she could recall holding the frightened hand of a lonely girl.
A girl called Jannice.
A place of choices where life and death combined.
Perhaps it had all been a dream. After all, how could she have been a fictional character? Pah! It didn’t make sense to contemplate the damn thing.
One memory, however, appeared to be quite strong.
It involved Benjamin being tossed into a column of light.
Accidentally the glass orb that Ben had become had bounced off Mrs Prune’s fingertips. Benjamin had been sent spinning to his death. But she knew he wasn’t dead. The accident had saved him. Pushing him from the fictional world, through a rip between realities.
Then the memory subtly changed. And the way that she remembered it now was that it hadn’t been an accident at all but a deliberate action.
Because some characters are larger than life.
Larger than fiction.
Mrs Prune was one such character.
She leaned over and picked up her knitting needles, watching the wool unravel across the carpet.
Then she sat up straight and clutched her back, puckering her lips into the shape of a chewed up fruit pastel.
Here is the kitchen.
Familiar, warm and inviting.
But a strange greasy feel to the air and a dry little noise have set it slightly on edge.
Jess opened the cupboard doors and stared into the gloom beyond.
He watched the column of crackling light inside.
The last remnants of a gateway to another dimension.
He made a mental note. ‘Better get a lock fixed on that tomorrow. Wouldn’t want anybody opening it by mistake. Better make it a big lock and throw away the key.’
He closed the doors, filled the kettle and thought about everything crowding his head.
He thought about Mrs Prune. What a sod he’d been to her. He’d have to treat her with a bit more respect from now on. She was getting on in years and he was fond of her really, deep down.
And Benjamin, his little brother. He’d spent too long ignoring him. Starting tomorrow he’d become more involved with his business plans. Live life a little more. Become an altogether better person.
Then there was Jannice. Perhaps he ought to call her. He’d judged her rather harshly in the past. Somewhere deep inside all that feminist mess was a frightened little girl just wanting to be loved. Yes, tomorrow he’d go round there with a dozen roses and try to make amends for what he’d done.
Benjamin grunted in his sleep, turning over onto his side with his arms folded across his chest. Jess walked slowly through the kitchen door and back to his favourite armchair. His mind was tired and his eyes were still heavy.
He settled himself down with a book on his knee. One of Benjamin’s books. About quantum mechanics and VCR units.
He would try to read a little more from now on. Indulge himself in the odd novel, half a chapter a day. He turned the book over in his hands, squinting at the minuscule print. All right, just a couple of pages perhaps. For the sake of his eyes. His sight wasn’t what it once was.
There was much he didn’t understand about what had happened but some questions are too great to be answered all in one go.
Besides, there are always questions in life. There wouldn’t be much of a future if we already knew all the answers before they happened.
Well, would there?
He opened the book at page one and started to read.
Tomorrow he’d be an improved man.
A kinder, simpler, more tolerant man.
Ah...But there’s the rub.
Since the beginning of time no matter what lessons have been learned, it always comes back to the concept of tomorrow, never today.
Six months down the road tomorrow has long been forgotten and everything is as it was.
Underneath the bed there was a box.
The sort of box that people who work in offices use to keep files inside. This one was tied up with a shoelace. It didn’t belong in this world. It was a fictional object filled with unreal things. But there wasn’t an explosion. Just the odd fizzle here and there.
Reality, when all is said and done, is much stronger than fiction.
It’s more important. It can withstand a few knocks and a few bruises.
But the contents of the box were important enough for Jess to have brought them all this way. A box out of time. Out of place. Out of mind. The last remnants of the universe. The only things left to remind them of the end of their world.
A box full of junk.
BOOK THE SECOND: PATTERNOSTER ROW
Prologue
It isn’t often that an author must ask his readers to remain patient at the start of a book. But there it is I’m afraid. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Before embarking on this second Greyminster Chronicle some background information is necessary. Accordingly there follows an extract from Amanda Duck’s private journal, dated several weeks after this volume concludes. The document was kept in a folder marked with the words:
‘Dr. Duncan O’Leary’s Personal Files. Do not read.’
Exactly what this said about the trust between doctor and patient was open to debate. Nonetheless, the file was criss-crossed in Dr. O’Leary’s handwriting with references such as ‘Displays tendencies towards psychotic behaviour,’ ‘Jungian archetype,’ and ‘Amanda is fit! Pity she’s a nutter.’ These were complemented by drawings of phalluses and rabbit’s heads. Don’t ask me why but almost all doodles involve rabbits at some point or other.
Amanda’s handwriting was so erratic that it was barely legible at all. This is roughly what the first few passages amounted to:
October Second: It’s raining again. The psychiatric wing of Greyminster hospital is an awful place to be when it rains. It’s full of old people all shuffling about and muttering obscenities. And it smells of damp animals.
I, Amanda Duck (aged thirty-four) have started this diary on the suggestion of Doctor O’Leary. He claims it’ll help me come to terms with whatever traumatic experience affected my memory. It will be a personal record of the events throughout these troublesome times.
October Third: Must remember to get fish food. Auntie Mildred’s birthday coming up. Take sock bag down to launderette. The cupboard is starting to smell like a Danish blue cheese.
October Fifth: Must excuse handwriting. Still suffering badly from jitters. Have been attending behavioural-therapy sessions. Decided to have a go at basket weaving. Wasn’t very good I’m afraid. Ended up weaving my fingers together.
Following pottery my ‘Hands-On Sessions’ have been revoked. Sister Richards is expected to make a full recovery in due course. Dr. Duncan thinks I’d be better off pursuing some less creative hobby, such as watching television.
October Ninth: Had another nightmare last night. Dreamt I was stuck on a spider’s web. It was massive. Lots of old people were caught up in it too. They were screaming. A giant spider bit off their heads. Woke up when it bit off mine.
Not altogether sure what significance this dream has. Dr. Duncan thinks it represents some repressed childhood recollection. Whatever it meant, I can’t pass any of the old women in the ward now without wanting to gnaw off their heads.
Sister Richards says that’s perfectly normal and she knows how I feel.
October Tenth: Managed to escape. Disguised my hospital robe beneath an overcoat. Went down to the police station to make enquiries about my previous address. Sergeant Partridge was reluctant to discuss the matter. I’m beginning to suspect there’s a cover-up going on. Unfortunately the hospital staff caught me and brought me back.
Duncan reckons the ‘Conspiracy’ idea is detrimental to my recovery. I’m not so sure. Said he might try me on flower arranging tomorrow so long as I don’t attack the sanatorium personnel again.
Attended hypnotherapy this afternoon. Dr. Schweiss speaks with an odd foreign accent. Had an urge to build a nest inside his beard. Can’t remember a thing about going under. But when I came to Dr. Schweiss was looking at me with a frightened expression. He said there was nothing the matter. Just ‘A touch of hay-fever.’ Didn’t believe him! He seemed relieved when it was time to depart. I am more convinced than ever now that there is some terrible truth out there.
October Twelfth: Irene Pootle dropped her falsies in her chamber pot this morning. During the commotion I nabbed the overcoat. Crept out of the hospital and snook off to Patternoster Row (sic). At least, what used to be Patternoster Row!!! There wasn’t much left. How on Earth could a whole street just disappear like that? Without anybody noticing? There’s something sinister going on around Greyminster, I’m sure of it.
I shall try to conduct some enquiries behind Dr. O’Leary’s back. Repressed traumatic experiences my left foot!!!! I don’t want that idiot getting involved! Thank goodness the balding little ape has no idea where I’m hiding this journal. Or else I would be in trouble!
Having reached the end of this part of her journal, we could easily speculate that Amanda Duck was totally mad. After all, anybody who used four exclamation marks to follow such an innocuous comment as ‘My Left Foot’ can’t be considered completely rational. However, this hardly seems justification to keep her locked away with all the other ‘Vegetable matter.’ Please don’t blame me for that politically incorrect remark. This was how Dr. O’Leary himself referred to the other inmates of Greyminster hospital.