Am I Dead?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  “I can’t give you anything, Caroline. I’m messed up. I don’t know what my future is. And I’m unstable. You’ve seen that…”

  “I’ve seen a man thrust into an impossibly difficult situation, and fighting to adapt and survive. I can see you James, and what I see, I like. A lot.”

  “Caroline… I…” I struggle to express myself, but decide honesty is still the best policy. “I don’t want to hurt you. Right now, I don’t know what’s going on with me. I can’t offer you anything, and to be honest, I don’t know if I want to offer you anything… getting involved with anyone just now is probably the worst thing that can happen to me. Plus my emotions are all over the place… I look at you… and, to be quite honest with you, I want to rip your clothes off and have sex with you, but… I don’t know if I want to make love to you, and there’s a difference…”

  As I speak, she lifts my hand up and moves it from lying on her stomach to her breasts, slipping it down her cleavage and inside her dress.

  “When was the last time you had sex, James. I’m guessing it was over eight years ago?”

  My fingers start to caress her nipple, and I feel it quickly swell and engorge.

  She moans, and I see her cheeks flush.

  “I haven’t touched a man since my husband died. And I haven’t let anyone touch me. Things can get very complicated, quite quickly. But you’re different. I know you might not be here tomorrow… you could, almost literally, disappear at any moment. But… while you’re here… and,” she moans again, as I slip my other hand around her shoulder and down the front of her dress, cupping her other breast. “…And… If you ‘fuck’ me tonight and don’t call me tomorrow, I promise not to have you arrested. It will be what it is, and nothing more…”

  She uses the word expertly, acknowledging the physical over the emotional, but also with a powerful twist of eroticism.

  Her eyes, which had temporarily closed, now reopen and fix on me.

  She’s beautiful. I’m turned on, drunk, about to explode, lost, screwed up, and desperate. Not just for sex. But to lose myself and be able to stop thinking for just a few moments. There’s been far too much thinking…

  And plus…. I’m just a bloody man.

  So, I pick her up in my arms and carry her through to the bedroom.

  “You promise not to have me arrested?” I ask, as I lay her on the bed.

  “I promise.” She replies.

  Which is good enough for me.

  At which point I switch from being a man of words, to a man of action.

  Not just once, but surprisingly, several times.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  A Date with Destiny

  .

  Caroline is the first women I have made love to outside marriage. Yes, I did sleep with Jane, but… I was married to her at the time. In fact, I probably still am. There were several times during the night I spend with Caroline where I feel intense guilt, but I force myself to push thoughts of Sarah behind me. I have accepted my new reality, and I know that by making love with Caroline just now… it is part of the healing process. As far as I know, I may be stuck in this world for the rest of my life, and I have to move on.

  However, the good news is that once I allow myself to move forward with my own life, I find that sleeping with Caroline is intensely pleasurable. She has a beautiful body, and she knows what she likes.

  Tonight she likes me, and she makes it very clear.

  When we wake together in the morning, we make love again. We share a bubble-bath. We breakfast together on the patio under a blue sky. And then she leaves. She has a country to help run.

  As she goes, she kisses me gently, and winks at me.

  There’s no talk of when or if we will see each other again. Or if she’ll call me.

  After she has gone, I sit alone on the patio with a cup of tea.

  I find that my mind is wandering from thoughts of Caroline, and Sarah, and Kenneth, to something that I can’t yet touch.

  Something is bugging me.

  Something to do with what happened in the shower last night, just before Caroline arrived – I think back. I remember my thoughts as I had noticed that my scar had completely disappeared, and the realisation that I had lost eight years of my life by jumping forward in time from a younger body to one which was eight years older.

  And now a new thought is brewing deep down somewhere in my subconscious, tapping somewhere at my conscious-self and demanding to be let out up to the next layer of consciousness.

  I know it’s important… I can sense it.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue… no… the edge of my reasoning… It’s…

  And Wham! Yes! Suddenly it’s there!

  The thought has two parts, not just one.

  Quickly, I grab a pen and some paper from one of the cabinets in the office area and

  I scribble down on the paper that time-travel diagram that the Professor and I developed the other day… well, actually, the diagram which the Professor pictured, not me.

  The tip of my pen then hovers over the point where James 2 left my body in W1 and jumped into my body in W2, inadvertently somehow forcing myself into James 2’s body in the future, and expelling James 2 elsewhere.

  Both the Professor and I perhaps suspected from the cryptic note and threat that James 2 had left with Jane for me, that James 2 had somehow been expelled from my body in W1 and forced back to his body in W 2, thus in turn expelling me from his body to a future version of himself in 2021.

  We knew that already. That’s nothing new.

  BUT, and this is the point that my subconscious just realised, definitively for the first time - I realise now that our bodies must always be occupied by a version of one of us. For our bodies to grow older, to exist, to continue, a version of James 2 or me, ‘James 1’ must exist within that body. So, when one consciousness leaves, another must enter. Our bodies are just vessels which house our… our… souls? Are we talking about ‘souls’ here? Or consciousness’s… or something else?

  Whatever…

  The point is that, in W1, or W2, the bodies continue to grow old and age, regardless of the conscious that occupies it. Yes… as we saw from the scar disappearing... aspects of the physiology can change… the ‘template’ may alter slightly… but the physical continuation of the vessel is contingent upon a consciousness being present.

  “Wow!” I exclaim, my pulse quickening. My breathing accelerating.

  Suddenly, the implication of this new revelation is obvious.

  When James 2 left his body to jump over to W1, it means that his body was definitely immediately occupied by another version of James.

  He was either forced out by a version of one of us entering his body, or as he left, his body would have created a ‘consciousness vacuum’ and then demanded that vacuum to be filled, thus sucking another version of James from somewhere to fill it.

  After all, nature abhors a vacuum. Physical, virtual, or ‘imagined’ - at the conscious level.

  In other words, when he left, I must have filled it.

  In other other words, at some point in the future - I don’t know when, and I don’t know how - I must be destined to travel back in time to my world, to fill the void that James 2’s jump back to W2 created!

  I spring to my feet, and do a massive fist pump in the air.

  I’m going home!

  At some point in my future, I’m going back to 2012.

  Back to a younger version of me, where I will not have lost eight years of my life, and where I can once again reoccupy my younger physical version of me! Where I can regain my youth!

  But most importantly of all, I will be travelling back to Sarah, back to Keira, and back to Nicole!

  To when they were younger, …which means that I will not have lost another eight years of their life as they grow up.

  I do another fist pump in the air, and dance around the apartment, laughing.

  I’m going home!

  ‘James, my boy,” I shou
t aloud, “You’re going home!”

  There is, of course, just one question outstanding, that I can’t answer, yet.

  When will it happen?

  When will the portal between W2 and W1 open, and when will it happen?

  I pace around the room. Fast. The news is brilliant. Excellent.

  Fantastic!

  But…

  I swallow hard, the excitement still very much there, but now tinged with a new realisation…

  If I’m going home, how much longer will I have in this world to get to know my son?

  Will I ever get to see him and spend time with him?

  Will I be here long enough in this world to get the son I’ve always wanted, or will once again, fate play another cruel trick on me, and swipe me back from this world to my own, before I can fulfil that dream…before I can experience that reality?

  My head is spinning.

  The positives. The negatives. The good. The bad.

  Excitement at getting to go home to Sarah and my daughters, versus sadness at the realisation that I will after all, be leaving Kenneth in this world.

  Once more I realise that my life is not controlled by me, but by fate. And something else that neither I or the Professor yet understand.

  I am but a pawn in the time-travel game.

  I put the pen and paper down and look out over London.

  There are now but two real questions:

  When am I going home?

  How much time will I have with Kenneth before I lose another son?

  --------------------

  Although I cannot control when I may be sucked from this world to the other, I believe that I can control my own fate while I am still here. And I can think of no better way to distract my thoughts from drifting back to Sarah - or just how soft Caroline’s breasts were! - than by getting my old job back from Richard.

  Using the private number which Caroline gave me last night, I call Richard at eleven o’clock.

  He answers almost straight away.

  “Richard Cohen, hello…”

  “Richard, hi, it’s James.”

  There’s a moment’s silence. I can hear the cogs in Richard’s brain swirling.

  “How did you get this number? I thought we agreed you’d never call me again!”

  “I’m not that James, Richard. I’m the one that you gave the partnership to. The one who brought you the Olympics deal. Scotia Telecom. The Dome?”

  “What are you talking about… are you still taking drugs?”

  “Richard, please, listen to me. I don’t know what happened between you and the James who took my place, but that wasn’t me… Listen, can we meet and talk? I want to clear the air and explain what happened, and find out how much damage the other James did.”

  “What the HELL are you talking about? You’re high just now, aren’t you…?”

  “Richard, no, please listen. At some point today you’ll hopefully receive a call from Caroline Pearce. The Home Secretary. She will explain to you that at some point in 2013 an impostor took my place and lived my life until about four weeks ago. But I’m back now. She won’t explain any details. It’s all classified information. Only a need to know basis. And for now, Richard, all you need to know is that the man who worked with you for a while after 2013 was not me. He was, as I just said, an impostor. So… after the Home Secretary has spoken with you, could you please call me back on this number? If possible, I would like to meet with you today.”

  “The Home Secretary? An impostor?… Are we talking about spies here? Did I have a spy working at the agency?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s all been sorted. Just call me, please, when you’ve spoken with Caroline.”

  And then I hang up.

  Next, I call Caroline.

  She picks up immediately.

  “You want more already? I’m still getting my strength back!” she laughs.

  “Lightweight. Maybe later. Or another day. If you’re lucky…” I joke, “but for now, please can you call Richard Cohen and tell him that an impostor took my place from 2013 till a month ago. You might imply that it has something to do with spying… Richard is ready to believe that line… and don’t give any more details beyond that. I just said, it was on a need to know basis, and he didn’t need to know!”

  She laughs. Agrees to do it. And then reminds me I’m her Plus One for dinner with the Prime Minister in a few days’ time. It seems she wasn’t joking after all.

  The Home Secretary, a Nobel Prize Winner, the Mayor of London, soon the Prime Minister… who else shall I be befriending in this world? The Queen?

  Richard calls me back exactly five minutes later.

  I can hear the amazement in his voice. He’s excited.

  “I can’t believe this… you’ve got to tell me everything…”

  “Not on this line, Richard. We can’t talk about this on the telephone. We need to meet.” I caution him, playing up the spy angle.

  “Oh.. yes, I see. Sorry… Absolutely… well, what about the Town Hall? Lunch? Or have you already eaten?”

  “Lunch at the Town Hall? Sounds good! Shall we say, One O’clock?”

  “Will you look like you, or have you had plastic surgery, or anything? Will I recognise you?” Richard asks.

  I laugh.

  “One clock.” I simply reply, “I’ll meet you outside at the wall on the bank of the Thames.”

  --------------------

  Richard is beaming when he sees me by the river, and he approaches me rapidly, almost knocking my arm off with the enthusiasm with which he delivers his elbow bump. For a few seconds, I was even worried that he was going to embrace me.

  “You never fail to amaze me, James. Nothing is ever boring around you. An impostor taking your place? A spy? Bloody hell… I couldn’t believe it when the Home Secretary explained it to me.”

  I smile.

  “I asked her to explain the situation to you, and she agreed, but that knowledge must go no further. I’ll prove to you that it’s me, here now… and then we’ll never mention this again. But before we discuss anything else, I want to profusely apologise for any hardship or grief that may have arisen to you, the firm, our clients, or our employees from what happened. I am sorry.”

  Richard’s face goes blank. I can see he is studying me, accepting the sincerity of the apology. And I know that when he accepts it, that will be it. The slate will be wiped clean. Such is the type of man he is.

  “I don’t know what happened, James, but I’m glad you’re back!” he pats me on the shoulder, then ushers me towards the entrance to the town hall. “I think it would be prudent for us to go and get some lunch, and have a few glasses of wine to celebrate the return of the prodigal son… no, the prodigal partner.”

  As we start to walk, I ask the obvious, direct question. “Is there any obstacle to reinstating me as a full partner?” I ask.

  “James, let’s talk first. We’ll cross that bridge in a few hours’ time. But first food, and a good Rioja. Sound like a plan?”

  --------------------

  There are only two other tables occupied. I notice that everyone in the restaurant is proudly displaying their blue card on a lanyard around their neck. For the first time I feel an element of pride as being part of this group. I wonder who the others are. What contribution to society are they making that they are deemed worthy of such an honour? Are they heart specialists? Medical scientists? Hopefully not piss-artists like myself. Somebody who has so far had nothing to contribute to the greater good of mankind but is meanwhile living like a king in one of the greatest penthouse flats in the world.

  We are just about to start our soup when I recognise two people coming into the room and sitting down on the opposite side of the restaurant. One is Andrew Lloyd Webber. Perhaps one of the world’s most gifted popular composers. The other is a top writer… a philosopher… annoyingly I can’t remember his name, but I know his face instantly. He’s always appearing on TV chat shows, or on the front cover of ma
gazines. A true intellectual,… world famous… I feel excited and nervous and flustered just seeing them. It’s slightly unreal.

  There’s them.

  And then, there’s me.

  For the first time, I begin to feel extremely guilty for having the Blue Pass. Perhaps it’s very wrong.

  Perhaps I should hand it back, and admit that to the scale of idiocy that I have been gifted by my parents, and apologise for all the champagne, and really nice expensive cheese that I have consumed at the taxpayer’s expense.

  “The company is never boring here,” Richard comments, noting that my attention is now distracted. “There’s only about four or five places where you can take guests and reliably get a good meal during lock-in. This is one of them, and sometimes when it’s full, it’s like a who’s who of top society. It’s amazing. I love to just come here and hang out…”

  “But you’re the Mayor! You’re one of them. A celebrity. Someone who is a public figure recognizable throughout the world! They probably like to hang out with you as much as you’re impressed by them.” I argue back. “But isn’t this all a little wrong? A bit like Nero fiddling while Rome burned? Everyone here is having a fantastic time, whilst others are locked up at home, and some are starving to death?”

  “What are you doing here then?” He frowns at me, making a point. “It’s partially true, what you say. In some ways it’s wrong… I get that… but in others it’s not. I’d say that most of the people who meet up in the permitted restaurants are doing so as part of their responsibilities they have on various pandemic recovery committees. For example, those two…” he says, gesturing towards Andrew Lloyd Webber and the famous writer, I still can’t place… “are part of the committee tasked with discussing how to open the theatres and arts venues, post lock-in, and get back the tourists and public into theatre venues. If at all possible.”

  I nod.

  Anyway, his other point about me being a hypocrite has struck home successfully. Who am I to criticise?