by Peter Ward
“I know you,” Geoff said, rubbing his hands. He took a step back. “I saw you earlier today …”
The hooded figure remained silent and took a step forward.
“And you were in my dream,” Geoff said, taking another step back. “You’re the person I hooked out of the lake in my dream …”
The masked figure took another step forward, still saying nothing.
“You’re going to hit me, aren’t you?”
The figure gave a single nod and took another step forward. Geoff tried to compensate for this by taking another step back, but some idiot had decided to put a wall in the way. He was cornered. The figure took another step towards him, lifted the walking stick in the air, and struck him violently over the head with it.
Geoff thought this was pretty bad manners as his skull crunched against the floor.
Eleven
Geoff lay facedown in the muddy bank of his imaginary lake, his body aching as if it had just been released from a complicated yoga position. He had a splitting headache. He lifted himself up, spat out a dollop of wet dirt, and slowly rolled himself over onto his back, resting his head back down in the mud. Geoff looked up at the sky, trying not to think about the searing pain that ran through his body. The searing pain, however, had other ideas, giving off a sharp pang at every opportunity to remind Geoff that it wasn’t going anywhere.
It was nighttime in his imaginary world, the sky clear of clouds and full of stars. What the hell was going on? Who had attacked him? What was happening back in the real world? Was he in a coma? Was he dead?
All of a sudden something caught his eye—a blur of white gliding across the sky. He brought himself up to rest on his elbows and tried to focus on the blur, his arms weak and shaking as they supported the weight of his body. He looked closer.
It was a seagull. A big, white seagull soaring above him, its wings outstretched as it gracefully circled over the lake. Geoff followed it with his eyes as it descended lower—unless he was mistaken, it seemed to be heading straight for him. Within a few seconds, the seagull had slowed to a hover a few feet above Geoff, arched its wings into a landing position, and dropped down in one swift movement, neatly tucking its wings into its body as it planted its feet on his chest.
Geoff lay his head back down in the mud and sighed, his arms too weak to lean on any longer. The seagull pattered closer to Geoff’s face and looked down at him. It seemed to be holding something in its beak—a small pen and paper. Brilliant—this day had been weird enough already without him dreaming about a bloody seagull with a pen and paper in its mouth. This was probably the one that looked left instead of right, or up instead of down, or whatever it was.
“Go away,” Geoff murmured.
The seagull blinked.
“Scram!” he said, using the last of his strength to try and brush the seagull away.
The seagull opened its beak and dropped the pen and paper on Geoff’s chest.
“Stop it!” it said, ducking its head to avoid Geoff’s swing. “We haven’t got much time!”
Geoff raised his head up and looked at the seagull. Was someone in the real world talking to him? Had a voice manifested itself in his dream as the voice of a seagull, like when Tim was trying to wake him up this morning? Geoff couldn’t tell. In any event, he was in too much pain to start debating this anthropomorphic turn of events, so he decided to just accept the talking seagull for what it was and continue with the conversation.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“Look at the lake,” the seagull said, nodding its head in the direction of the water. “They’re already coming for you.”
Geoff did as he was told. Sure enough, the hooded figure was beginning to emerge from beneath the surface, making its way towards the shore.
“Who’s coming for me?” Geoff said.
“The person who attacked you,” the seagull said.
Geoff tried to get up, his arms slipping around in the mud, but it was useless—there was no feeling in his legs.
“What do I do?” Geoff said, still looking as the hooded figure got closer and closer. “I can’t move!”
“I’m not surprised,” the seagull said. “In the real world, you’re in pretty bad shape—the back of your head is split open, pouring with blood.”
Geoff looked at the seagull and felt the back of his head. It was wet, but he was sure this was just mud.
“No,” Geoff said. “It’s mud; look.” He brought his hand back round to show the seagull, which was indeed brown with mud.
“That’s how you’ve translated the injury into your dream,” the seagull said. “Mud is blood. Blood is mud. Get it?”
“You’re confusing me now,” Geoff said, spitting a bit more mud out of his mouth. “Mud is blood?”
“We don’t have time for this,” the seagull said, wandering around impatiently on Geoff’s torso. “Grab that pen and paper and write down everything Eric told you.”
“Why?”
“Because now that Eric’s dead, you’re the only one who knows how to fix the computer,” the seagull replied, “and that person coming out of the lake is going to try and make you forget what you know.”
“How can they do that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just write everything down, quickly! You’re the only person who can stop them!”
Geoff was in too much pain to write. He rested his head back down in the mud and shut his eyes.
“Hurry!” the seagull said, pecking at Geoff’s chest through his t-shirt. “They’re almost here! You’ve got to write down everything you know! If you write it down, it won’t matter if they make you forget. Your memory will be preserved on the paper.”
This didn’t quite make sense. Surely if this was a dream, he wasn’t really writing anything down—the paper only existed in his imagination. By now though, the hooded figure was stepping out of the lake and onto the muddy shore. Using the last of his energy, Geoff leaned over, grabbed the pen, and scribbled down everything Eric had told him about the loophole as fast as he could.
“There,” Geoff said, slumping back down in the mud in relief. “That’s everything.”
“Thank God,” the seagull said, jumping down to Geoff’s side. “I’ll look after this until you’re ready to remember again.” It picked up the piece of paper with its foot and took off, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the hooded figure, who was now standing directly over them.
“Damn,” the hooded figure said, looking up at the bird as it disappeared into the night sky. “Almost had it.” The voice seemed familiar, but Geoff couldn’t quite place it.
“Hello Geoffrey,” the figure said, crouching down at Geoff’s side. “How are you?”
“Err … Not too great, actually,” Geoff said, trying to avoid looking directly at the hooded face. He was scared. “I’m in a bit of pain.”
“I know. And there’s one more bit of pain I need to inflict on you.”
“There is?” Geoff said. He could feel his heart beating faster.
“Yes,” the figure said, pulling out a knife. “Hold your hand still.”
Unfortunately, holding still wasn’t going to be much of a problem. Geoff barely had enough energy to blink at the moment, let alone move his hand.
“What are you going to do?”
The hooded figure said nothing.
“Does it involve that knife you’re holding?”
His question was soon answered by the intense pain he felt in his right hand. Looking down his body, he could see that the hooded figure had jammed the knife deep into his right palm, twisting it through to the other side. Geoff screamed out in agony. He would have preferred a simple “Yes.”
“Now,” the hooded figure said, standing up again. “You’re almost ready to wake up. I just need you to forget everything that happened here. Forget everything Dr. Skivinski told you about the loophole in his algorithm. And forget everything about that seagull.”
“Why should I?” Geoff said, trying to move his hand. “Why should I forget?”
“Because you’re in pain. Your head is bursting with pain, and every memory you have of this evening is the cause; every memory is tearing through your mind like a bolt of lightning. If you forget, the pain will stop.”
Geoff’s head really did hurt, exactly as the hooded figure had described. It was unbearable. He looked up at the stars and tried to relax, letting the gentle sound of crickets envelop his thoughts as he emptied his mind of all the things that had been bothering him—hooded figures, algorithms, loopholes, seagulls; he let it all drift away into the comforting sound of the night, his head feeling better with every thought he discarded.
“That’s it,” the hooded figure said. “Can you feel it? Can you feel the pain disappearing?”
“Yes,” Geoff said, breathing deeply as he let a soothing wave of amnesia wash over him. “I’m feeling much better…”
“Good,” the figure said. “Very good. Now, there’s one thing I do want you to remember before I go: something very important. Are you ready?”
Geoff nodded submissively.
“Very soon the sky will turn red. When this happens, you will get down on your knees, place your palms on the floor and wait. In time, one of my brethren will appear before you. When he does, you must say these words: ‘I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.’ Do you understand?”
“What?” Geoff said.
“You heard me! Do you want me to bring the pain back?”
“No!” Geoff said. “No … no please …”
“Then repeat after me: I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.”
“I … I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert?”
“Good,” the hooded figure said.
Geoff remembered what Eric had said about the Varsarians—about certain words and phrases being particularly important to them. Was his person … an alien?
“Who’s Tringrall?” Geoff said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. My brethren will understand. So remember—when the sky turns red, get down on your knees, place your palms on the floor, and wait. My brethren will recognize the ancient position you have adopted and come looking for you when they see it.”
“I see,” Geoff said, not seeing at all. “Is there anything else? Would you like me to start break-dancing when the sky turns blue again, or something?”
“The sky will not turn blue again for thousands of years,” the hooded figure said. “Not until the year of Dranculees.”
“Ah.” Geoff said.
“So, repeat after me, one last time: I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.”
“I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.” Geoff said. He knew this was all quite sinister, but he couldn’t help but feel a little bit stupid.
“Good. There is one more thing. Once you hear yourself say these words, you will remember everything that has happened here. You’ll remember what Eric told you, you’ll remember the seagull, and you’ll know just how your pathetic race was fooled into extinction. But by then, it will be too late for you to do anything about it. Until that time, you will have no memory of this conversation.”
“What conversation?” Geoff said.
There was no answer. Geoff strained his head up to look around. There was no one here. Had he been talking to someone? Confused at why he had randomly chosen to say “what conversation?” Geoff rested his head back down on the ground and stared up at the stars. A seagull was hovering far above, gliding across the night sky like a lazy comet. Relaxed, he shut his eyes and immersed himself once again in the recurring chirp of crickets.
Or was that a recurring beep?
Twelve
“Right, I’ve hooked him up to a life support machine to monitor his heart rate,” a voice said. Sounded like Tim. “He should be OK from here.”
“Can you turn that beeping down?” another voice said. “It’s driving me mad.” Was that … Mr. Knight?
“Sure,” Tim replied. The recurring beep that Geoff had only just begun to notice faded away into the background.
“How long were they operating on him?” another voice said. Female. Ruth?
“A long time,” Tim replied. “He took quite a blow to the head, and his hand’s been messed up pretty bad. He won’t be able to use it for months.”
“Why his hand?”
“I don’t know—it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Either the attacker wanted to stop Geoff from playing his computer games, or they wanted to stop him doing something else with his hands. Let’s not go there, shall we?”
“But why?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Mr. Knight said, sounding a little stressed. “The Defence Minister will be here any minute. What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Ruth said.
“But he’ll shut us down for sure!” Mr. Knight replied.
“I don’t really think we have a choice,” Ruth said. “A Time Rep has been attacked, Eric is dead, and the loophole in his algorithm will never be fixed. We’re finished.”
“We do have a choice,” Tim said. “We can try and catch whoever was responsible for this.”
“Yes!” Mr. Knight said. “You see Ruth? Why can’t you be more positive? Maybe young Geoffrey knows something. He was with Eric just before he died. Can you wake him up?”
“We should really let him rest,” Ruth said. “If you wake him up now, it might be a bit of a shock to his system.”
“Waking up is always a shock to his system,” Tim said. “But I agree. He was hit pretty hard over the back of the head—his synapses need time to heal properly. If we wake him up now, his brain might not be able to take it. Any questions we ask him now could be met with complete gibberish.”
“I don’t care,” Mr. Knight said. “Wake him up. We’ve got to piece together what happened last night. It’s our only chance to avoid closure.”
“I’m already awake,” Geoff said, opening his eyes. He appeared to be lying in some sort of hospital bed. The sheets felt like plastic, the air smelled like disinfectant, and his pillow was thinner than a water biscuit. Ruth, Tim, and Mr. Knight were all looking down at him.
“Where am I?” Geoff said, sitting up and having a look around. “What happened?”
He appeared to be in a hospital ward. The ward was very long, very beige, and very clean, with a large set of double doors at one end and two windows at the other, framed by a pair of curtains so bright they wouldn’t have looked out of place if someone had worn them as a cycling vest. A few rubber plants were placed at equal intervals along one wall, presumably to provide some sort of decoration. Other than that, the only other furniture he could see were a number of other beds identical to his. They were all empty though, as if this ward had been reserved just for him.
“You’re in hospital,” Tim said, picking up a chart from the foot of the bed and making a note on it.
Geoff didn’t like hospitals. Horrible places. He always had the suspicion that whoever designed them had a secret vendetta against anyone who needed to visit one. Why were the magazines in the waiting rooms always about bloody golf? Why were the toys only provided for children in the waiting rooms? And why were all the notice boards crammed with scary posters, taunting you with all the other illnesses you could get? It was almost as if they were trying to encourage people to start a collection. Geoff had once gone into a hospital with an ingrowing toenail only to emerge five hours later worrying about cancer, Alzheimer’s disease, whooping cough, and genital warts. He was only six!
“Do you remember anything about last night?” Tim asked, resting his glasses on top of his head and looking up from the chart
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br /> “Last night?” Geoff said, looking up and down the ward again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but a group of armed guards were standing by the entrance, their weapons drawn. “Am I in some sort of trouble?” he said.
“No, Geoff, you’re fine,” Tim said, looking over at the guards. “They’re here for your protection. Now tell me: Do you remember anything about last night?”
“Of course I remember last night,” Geoff said, a little unnerved by the two small plastic tubes he’d just noticed coming out of his nose. They were hooked up to a large gray machine to his left, which had lots of flashing lights and buttons dotted all over it. “There was the party. Roman decorations. All of us were there.”
Tim raised his eyebrows in surprise. “This is quite encouraging,” he said to the group. “I would have expected him to show at least some signs of mental trauma, but he appears to be …”
“I like cheese,” Geoff said.
“What?” Tim said.
“Cheese,” Geoff said. “I like cheese.”
“I take that back,” Tim said, dropping his glasses back over his eyes and making a note on the chart. “Clearly he needs more time to rest. I’ll get something to put him back to sleep.”
“Parmesan cheese,” Geoff said. “I like that on my spaghetti.”
“Wait!” Mr. Knight said, holding his arms out. “At least some of the things he is saying appear to make sense. Can’t we just ask him a few questions and try to filter out the nonsense?”
“Sir,” Ruth said. “I don’t think …”
“Geoffrey?” Mr. Knight said. “Look at me, Geoffrey. Tell us: What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I remember … talking to Ruth about being Time Rep,” Geoff said, struggling to form his words properly. He felt a little drunk. Had he been drugged?
Ruth nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “We did speak, briefly.”
“Anything else?” Mr. Knight said.
“I remember … going down to Eric’s lab …”
“Good …”
“… And I remember going up in a hot air balloon.”