I can tell by the tone of her voice, that this is not the true reason, but I leave it for now.
“Right, now let’s get the Professor back on the View Portal. He wants to speak with you too!”
We move through to the lounge again, and sit down in a good position to see and be seen by the Professor when he appears on the video link.
When the technical side of things is taken care of and the link is established, Caroline thanks the lady from the front desk, and politely signifies she is no longer needed.
A picture of the room in the Professor’s cottage fills the screen.
The Professor is already sitting there, facing the screen. He looks concerned.
“James, good, you look much better. Much more like the James I prefer and know. We are worried about you. The drinking must stop.”
I feel myself turning a little red. I glance across at Caroline, sitting in her chair opposite me on the other side of a low-glass table that separates us. I can see the concern written on her face.
“James, my boy, please tell me what is going on in your head, and why the drunken two week binge?”
I cough. I need something to drink. Being sober isn’t helping anything.
“James?” the Professor asks again, and then saying nothing more, leaving the power of silence to pressurise me into replying.
“I…” The first words, struggle to be said. “I just don’t see the point anymore. Sarah… Sarah is married. What the hell am I here for? I’ve just given up fighting. I can’t do this anymore.”
The Professor nods.
“Okay, James. Caroline has explained to me all about the information she provided you with. I can see how you must be upset. But there’s something else going on here that you haven’t realised yet, and now is not the time to give up fighting. You have to carry on. To keep going. I understand that you’re upset, but how you’re reacting to the bad news is not really you. You are normally more of a fighter. You’re stronger than this…”
“I’m not. I can’t do this anymore, can you not understand?” I insist.
“You don’t understand James. This is not you. This is him. The other James. You’re becoming him. His DNA, his version of you is beginning to reassert itself over your physiology. James 2 is a loser. Not like you, who is a winner. James 2 gave up a long time ago and couldn’t cope. He became a drunk and dropped out of society. You didn’t. In a similar situation, you thrived. Even without any advertising experience, you transformed that agency you worked at and became a partner. You went from bad to far better, not from bad to worse. But James 2 couldn’t. He’s different from you in many ways. He couldn’t cope with everything that was happening and he started in a downward spiral. And now there’s a real danger that unless you get a grip James, unless you take control and fight back, you will become him.”
I hear his words. And even in the midst of my hangover, they are able to penetrate deeply enough into my brain for them to find some resonance.
His words scare me.
Could the Professor be right? Is this, all this, him and not me?
“He’s right, James.” Caroline says gently. “I know people. I can sense who they are. You and I initially instantly had a strong rapport. I sensed it even over the video link from the Professor’s house. But you’re changing. Quickly. I don’t find any of this, “- she makes a gesture of sweeping her hand across the trashed apartment, and then at me - “or you, attractive any more. Our connection is going. Dwindling. But it’s not too late,” she smiles and nods at me. “You must, and you, can fight back. We need James, you, not him.”
I am silent.
I hear their words.
But it is not so simple. I am me, not them. And I don’t feel the strength to fight anymore.
“James,” the Professor speaks. “I have asked Caroline to give you something. I would like you to look at it in a moment when we have finished speaking to you. James, you must fight. You’re here in this world for a very good reason. We don’t know what that reason is yet, but I can guarantee you that it must be important. Sober up, James, take control, and I promise you, together, we will find that reason.” He pauses. “James, as far as we know, you are unique. And it would be a shame if one of the most unique human beings in our history decides the best course of action is to drink himself to death. You’re a scientist, James, you know how special you are. Fight. For you, if not for Sarah, Keira, Nicole, and Kenneth.”
I look up at him on the screen. I can sense the emotion in his voice. We look at each other for a few seconds, then the Professor leans forward, hits a button and disconnects.
He’s gone.
Suddenly the apartment feels very empty. I turn my head away from Caroline and stare out of the window into the darkness beyond.
As I gather my thoughts, Caroline wheels herself over to me, lifts herself from her chair, and deposits herself beside me.
Her hand rests gently on mine.
“James...” she says gently.
I ignore her.
I feel her hand on my cheek, and a gentle pressure turning my face back round towards her.
She is looking at me now, not with anger, but with compassion.
She lifts her fingers to my eyes, and wipes away some tears which have escaped, then she leans forward and kisses me on the lips. The kiss lingers for a few seconds. It’s soft, and… wonderful.
“That’s for the James I know.”
Still holding my hand, she reaches across to the side of the wheelchair, and pulls out a brown envelope.
“These are for you from the Professor. He asked me to do some research for you. And… in the corridor by the door are several boxes of tests for The 18. As a Blue Pass holder you are obliged to take a test twice a day and report it online. It’s not just for your sake, it’s mainly for the safety of the other Blueys you may meet. Some of whom are very important people whose lives must be protected at all costs. And I have to tell you this too. You were a given a Blue Pass because of your unique status as a prime specimen of scientific interest involved in the Zero-PIK project. If you choose to drink yourself to death, you no longer qualify for the Blue Pass, and you’ll lose all of this, my protection, and will end up back on the street. Almost certainly, you’ll get The 18. You’ll probably die. And maybe that’s what you want. But that will be your choice.”
She smiles at me, squeezes my hand, and then manoeuvres herself back over to her chair.
I watch as she wheels herself over to the door, where she stops and turns back to look at me.
“You need to start taking the tests from tomorrow morning onwards. Twice a day. Register results on line. If you miss three tests, you lose the Blue Pass.” She pauses.
“I would like to see James again. He has my number.”
A minute later, I hear the door close, and she is gone.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Choices
.
I sit alone in the stillness and quiet of my room for a long time after Caroline has left.
I am thinking about their words, and about my actions.
And fighting the urge to drink.
To take the edge of it all, and make this world recede.
I look at the brown envelope that Caroline gave me.
The second such envelope she has given me, and I wonder, given the effect the last one had on me, what the outcome of this one will be.
I am scared to open it.
--------------------
I let the water of the shower cascade down upon my head, and I sit in the bath, my arms wrapped around my legs, hugging myself and holding me together.
I find it helps to forget the world, with the sound of the water rushing down over my ears. It also helps to wash away the sins of the past two weeks, wiping away the alcohol and toxins as they exude from my pores.
All the while, I feel the ominous presence of the brown envelope awaiting me on the sofa where I have left it.
I feel the pressure of it beckoning to
me, but before I do, I want to be fully compos mentis.
I need to be fully sober.
Eventually the shower water begins to turn cold, which surprises me because I would have thought that as the only guest in the building, I would have had a perpetual supply. Sadly, not the case. Maybe, as a drunk, my welcome has already begun to dry up.
I towel myself down, order some food from the front desk, and apologise profusely to the manager now on duty. I don’t promise to get better, just for my track-record to date. Thus leaving me with a further option of deliberate self-destruction, should I choose it.
Whilst I wait for the food, I watch the I-Vision, catching up on the world.
It seems little else is happening in the world, apart from infection, deaths, burials, and political fallout.
There is a short discussion on starvation. People are, allegedly, dying in their homes as result of lack of food. Some government ministers are demanding a return of the WFD scheme for Weekend Food Deliveries, bookable according to a random lottery and those with disabilities or special health considerations. There will be a further announcement made later this week.
Interestingly, for the first time, I hear a discussion about a future vaccine, and when it may be available. But the answer of three to five years speaks for itself.
The news doesn’t last long. Perhaps because of the lack of interesting things to report.
Curiously, the news is followed by the weather.
What?
Why?
Who cares?
No one is allowed to go outside. All outside life is on hold. Who gives a shit about the weather???
My anger surprises me.
My language alarms me.
It occurs to me now, for the first time, just how quickly profanities now spring to my lips.
Until I jumped to this world, I hardly ever bloody swore before. Now, I’m doing it all the fucking time.
Am I becoming James 2?
The food arrives. I wolf it down.
And I drink three bottles of non-alcoholic beer that came in a crate, which I didn’t order, but had a note on it saying, 'Just in case you’re thirsty, Caroline’.
After eating, I feel energy flood back into my body. It’s probable that I haven’t actually eaten anything solid in days. A liquid breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Or is it just that I am now rehydrated?
I sit at the expensive polished mahogany table in my dining room and arrange the brown envelop in front of me. I look at it for a while, sensing that its contents will be of significance. But I am nervous about what I will find, so hesitate.
Eventually it is the James that sits on my left shoulder that wins: “Open it up, James my boy! Have a laugh. But don’t believe a word of what it may have to say. You can’t trust anyone. Just trust yourself! And do what your body is telling you to, and not what the Professor says!”
So, taking a deep breath, I open it.
It’s a clear plastic folder containing numerous photographs of a boy.
Kenneth.
I recognise him immediately.
Almost bizarrely, but actually something which makes perfect sense, given that they are born of the same mother and father, I also recognise Keira and Nicole in the boy’s features.
He is handsome.
And now tall.
From the selection of photographs provided, he is also a good sportsman.
There is quite a selection of photographs here: a baby, some of a young toddler, then some at playschool and each of the years in primary school. Some photographs are from school. Others are private photographs. How Caroline got them all together at such short notice is curious, but given that she is the Home Secretary, and the Secret Service reports directly to her, I suppose it would be a fairly valid assumption to consider that she simply asked MI5 to hack into Sarah’s personal computer or mobile phone.
Whatever.
The point is that somehow she has successfully amassed an incredible selection of photographs that illustrate the path of my son’s life to date.
My son.
Kenneth Quinn!
“Fuck, I need a drink!”
I utter the words aloud as I stare at the last of the photographs. When I hear myself say them, they shock me. For a second I am stunned.
Whose voice is that? Mine, or James 2?
The choice of words actually scares me.
“This is NOT me!” I say. “NOT ME!” This time louder.
As I pick the photographs up from the table to look at them again, a small red post-it drops out from amongst them. I pick it up and read the few words scrawled on it in pencil.
“James, now choose. A life with your son, or a life with the bottle. Which James are you?”
Chapter Forty
Epiphany
.
The photographs are all of a young, healthy, happy boy. Growing up fast.
Without a father.
As I look at the photographs I have very mixed feelings. First of all, I feel joy. And pride. He is my son.
The joy comes from the two sources…the natural spring of joy that arises when any man becomes a father and has a son. And secondly, because, after Sarah and I lost our son in our world, ‘W1’, I never thought that I would have a son. The loss of our son, and the inability to have another one, affected me deeply, something which I probably only finally came to terms with during my first year in ‘W2’, just before I met Sarah in this world.
But as I look at the photographs I also feel anger. Or is it frustration? Certainly sadness and disappointment.
The photographs show me the life of a growing boy. The boy I never thought I would have. And now his childhood is half-gone, and I missed it!
Why is fate playing these cruel games with me and my emotions?
One moment I can’t have more children, or a son. Then I’m whisked to another world, meet my wife all over again, get her pregnant, and ‘voilà’, it’s a boy.
Then two seconds later - literally within seconds of discovering my wife is pregnant - I’m whisked off to the future, and I discover my son has been born, and is half-grown up. And then, almost immediately, I then discover my wife is now married to someone else. And my son has another father, replacing me before he has even met me!
STOP! Slow down. Give me a chance to meet him and enjoy him. And LOVE HIM!
Why is fate so determined to stop me from having any form of relationship with my son!??
I get up from the table and go through to the drinks cabinet.
Surely, Caroline hasn’t really taken all the alcohol. She must have left something. But there’s nothing to be found. Anywhere.
I call the receptionist, but there’s no answer.
Anger surges within me.
I slam the telephone down on its cradle, cracking the side of the mouthpiece, a piece of it falling to the ground.
Ouch…
Bending down to pick it up, I try to see if it will fit back into where it came from. Perhaps I can glue it back, and no one will notice.
Realising that won’t be possible, has a strange effect on me.
I feel guilty. Bad. I’m going to be in trouble.
Will someone report it?
Will I get kicked out?
My temper is getting out of control. This is not me.
And then it dawns on me.
I am changing.
Fast.
And it scares me.
--------------------
I return to the table and sit back down, taking deep breaths, calming myself.
I feel really on edge.
I need a drink.
No, I don’t need a drink.
And that’s the whole point isn’t it?
James 2 needs a drink, but I, James 1, do not.
This is not me. This is him.
And I will not let myself become him.
One of the photographs of Kenneth scattered on the table catches my attention. In it Kenneth is about five years old. He
is looking straight at the camera - straight at me - expressionlessly. His eyes are empty. He looks so lonely.
Lost.
My heart goes out to him.
I want to cuddle him.
To let him know that his father is out there, searching for him, determined to find him!
‘Determined to find him?’
Is that true?
Is that really true?
If it is, what the fuck… sorry, what the… what… what on earth… am I doing drinking myself to death?
I push back in the chair, and close my eyes, seeing for the first time in days.
Suddenly it is all so clear.
Fate is not fighting me. Fate is guiding me and protecting me.
When I had first heard that Sarah was pregnant with Kenneth, I had immediately stepped through the portal and attempted to cross over back to W1 – LEAVING Kenneth behind.
Instead, Fate had taken hold of me, picked me up, thrust me into the future, and dropped me off here, now, close to Kenneth.
Fate has given me a Blue Pass, and my relationship with Caroline - the Home Secretary – one of the most powerful people in the country, and in spite of the pandemic, fate has granted me powers and the freedom to go wherever I need or want to go, and to be given access to everything I need…
Everything I need to find my son.
Tell him who I am.
And to promise him I will never leave him again!
Chapter Forty One
Sarah
.
It’s 3.30 am.
I call Caroline.
It goes to voicemail.
I leave a simple message.
“Hi, it’s James. James 1. I’m back. Thank you.”
--------------------
My mother always used to clean the house when she was stressed, had had an argument with my dad. Or had PMT.
I’d come home from school and she would be cleaning.
“Where’s Dad?” I’d ask.
Am I Dead? Page 26