Am I Dead?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  “James… you look great. It fits you well.”

  “And you look… amazing… “ I gasp back at her. I’m not lying. She looks… wonderful.

  A fantastic, elegant turquoise designer dress, with a diamond and sapphire necklace and bracelet with matching earrings.

  She is literarily sparkling. Incredibly attractive.

  And she knows it.

  There is a moment of slight awkwardness between us. I am still very attracted to her, but today… her news… and how I feel about being so reliant upon her…

  She senses it.

  “So, no kiss then? But that’s fine. I know you have a lot to think about.” She smiles, and signals for the security guard, who is also the driver, to move off. “Nevertheless, in spite of everything, I hope you will have an interesting evening. Not only will you be getting the chance to meet two world leaders over a private dinner, but the food will be incredible.”

  As it turns out, when we arrive at a private restaurant somewhere in Soho, her definition of private is quite interesting. There are about twenty other people there, all spread out over about ten separated tables. Amazingly, in spite of the fact that we are all…well, with the exception of me… important people, we still have to queue at the reception desk, take a quick test, and then wait for the result, which take only two minutes to be established.

  While we are waiting, there is a slight commotion ahead of us, as one of the German delegation fails the test and reacts with fear to the result. The man, an aide to the Chancellor, is quickly ferried away, and discussions are rapidly held to establish how much contact the Chancellor has had with the man in recent days. It turns out that the Chancellor has not really spent any time with him, or any of the others, and the aide had only recently flown into the city from Berlin, not as part of the advance group.

  It’s decided to go ahead with the dinner, and one by one we are tested and make our way into the restaurant.

  The Chancellor arrives last, together with the Prime Minister. It seems that they have both already been drinking together in another room.

  They join Caroline and myself, and another couple… the German Foreign Secretary and his wife, who are already sitting at our table. There are two empty seats, where the British Foreign Secretary is meant to be sitting, but has apparently been taken ill and is not able to attend.

  As the Prime Minister sits down with the Chancellor, he makes a joke, hoping that our Foreign Secretary hadn’t met with the Chancellor’s aide already. It’s not really very funny. Dark humour at best.

  The evening starts. Fine wine. Unbelievable food. And actually very interesting conversation from those at our table. Until now, I’ve only ever seen a few pictures or videos of the Prime Minister on the evening news. In real life, he’s smaller and more ‘round’ than I’d have initially thought, but he’s very likeable. He asks me questions about me, my work in the agency, my family…(I skirt around the truth here)…and he seems genuinely interested in my replies. He seems to care. Whether or not it’s a politician’s trick or it’s genuine, it works.

  We talk of many things. The PM is knowledgeable on a surprising number of topics, not at all like I placed him in my mind when I saw him playing politics on the news.

  At one point we wander onto the topic of authors and favourite books, and the PM tells me that his current favourite author is Ian Rankin. The author of the Rebus detective novels.

  This single sentence puts the biggest smile on my face of the whole evening: my mind is cast back to my meeting with Ian Rankin the year I first arrived in this world, in the Oxford Bar in Edinburgh when I went up to Scotland to try and find the Professor for the first time. At the time of our meeting, Ian had been working in a brewery, and in his spare time was drinking excessively. He had not yet begun to pursue a career in writing, and he was surprised when I recognised him, approached him, and then told him I knew about his books, which, until then, had never been published or even sent to an agent. I’d tried to convince him that he should really give writing a push, and that he was destined to be a success, if only he tried harder to get published!

  From what the PM had just told me, Mr Rankin had paid heed to my words, and was now famous!

  The conversation moves on, and by the time the meal is finished, and the Port and Cigars arrive, me and the PM, and the Chancellor of Germany are almost best buddies.

  About eleven o’clock, the evening draws to a rapid close. The German delegation has to leave…to actually fly back to Berlin tonight for an important government meeting the next morning, and quite quickly I find myself sitting in the back of the limousine with Caroline again.

  This time there is less awkwardness.

  We’re both a little drunk.

  She rests her head against mine, and holds on to my arm.

  “James, do you need to go home immediately, or can I treat you to an experience which I think you will enjoy and may even remember for quite a while?”

  I’m intrigued. I agree. And fifteen minutes later, our limousine enters the back of the park at Primrose Hill, and drives up to the top of the hill. The security guard assigned to Caroline helps her out of the car and into her wheelchair. He then pushes her over to a spot at the top of the hill from which we have an incredible view over the city of London.

  Hurrying back to the car, the guard returns with a blanket and some cushions, and then returns once more with some glasses and a couple of bottles of champagne.

  Caroline manoeuvres herself gracefully out of her chair, and I join her on the blanket on the ground. She dismisses her driver/ guard, and a few minutes later we are alone.

  Sitting on the ground, underneath the stars, on a warm summer’s evening, looking out over the city of London, its myriad lights sparkling like thousands of diamonds in the night sky.

  It’s an incredible view.

  I turn to look at Caroline and see that she is studying my reaction to it all.

  “I thought you’d like it,” she says. “And we’re completely alone here now. The streets are empty, we have the park to ourselves. This view is all just for us. I thought I’d bring you here and show it to you now, before the lock-ins are lifted and the city returns to chaos.”

  I nod.

  “Good choice. This is fantastic.”

  Caroline hands me a glass of champagne that she’s poured whilst I was busy soaking up the sights and the ambiance of the evening.

  “To the future, and the past, and whatever it may hold for either of us.” She says.

  “To ‘now’. Whenever that is, in whichever world it is.” I reply.

  We drink. Then sit in silence.

  Watching the skyline. Taking it in. Enjoying it.

  A shooting star bursts across the sky, and I laugh.

  “Did you organise that too?” I ask.

  She smiles, but doesn’t give me an answer.

  I have to admit to feeling very relaxed again in her company. It’s been a really interesting and entertaining evening, and there’s very little that could top this just now.

  We drink some more champagne. Get a little closer.

  Closer still.

  Then, the inevitable happens.

  We start to kiss. My hands start to wander. Caroline whispers something in my ear, and then, moments later, I am kissing her breasts under a starlit sky.

  Things don’t stop there.

  Somehow, I don’t quite understand how… our clothes seem to fall off… and then…in the moments that follow, I make love to the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom on top of Primrose Hill, looking out over an empty city, in the last few days of the lock-ins.

  We have the city to ourselves, and no one seems to mind.

  And once again, Caroline proves to be right.

  It is an evening that I will never forget.

  Chapter Fifty One

  The morning after the night before

  .

  When I wake up the next morning in my apartment, I am alone.

  Lucki
ly, although I was drunk when Caroline and her driver dropped me off at the front of the building, it would seem that I am going to be able to escape any hangover. My mind is surprisingly clear.

  So much so, in fact, that as I sit up in bed and drink the fresh coffee I have just retrieved from the expensive machine in the office, something dawns on me which I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on the night before.

  Caroline was drinking. A lot.

  And she is meant to be pregnant.

  This makes no sense.

  Caroline is a sensible woman. She must know that you should never drink alcohol when you’re pregnant. What is she up to? She could harm the baby!

  My reaction surprises me. I realise that for a moment I was concerned about the child… my child.

  Does this mean that I am beginning to care? Do I want the child?

  I don’t yet know the answer to that question, although I suspect that the answer is no.

  When I’m dressed, I wander down to the reception area of the building and walk across to the wall covered in bookshelves and books which residents are free to borrow.

  I scan the names of the authors for Ian Rankin, and find three.

  I borrow them all.

  Back in my apartment, I fetch another coffee and flick through the three books. I don’t immediately recognise the titles, but when I start reading the first few chapters of each book, I discover that they are the same classic crime thrillers that Rankin wrote in my world, just with different names and cover designs.

  The last of the three books I look at, turns out to be the first book which Rankin had published in this world. In fact, the copy I have in my hand seems to be a first edition. It’s tempting to keep it… One day, in this world, it will probably be very valuable. But that won’t make any difference to me. I won’t be here. My destiny is elsewhere.

  I hope.

  I’m just about to close the book when I notice the acknowledgement that Rankin has written on the first page.

  It says: “With thanks to Mr Quinn, a complete stranger who knew more about me than I did, and who quite literally, changed my life. This book, and all the subsequent books I write, are dedicated to you.”

  I swallow hard.

  And decide that I will steal the book after all.

  I’m a very naughty boy.

  --------------------

  Sitting down with my laptop at the office desk, I try to focus and get some work done for my advertising agency.

  I try.

  But fail.

  I’ve never really been depressed in my life before, but right now, and if I’m going to be honest with myself, I accept that recently a dark cloud has been slowly gathering over my head.

  Things all seem a bit pointless.

  I’m lonely. Probably desperately lonely.

  Every day is beginning to seem exactly the same as the day before. My existence in this world seems artificial. Beyond my control. And governed by the kindness of others – although whether Caroline is being kind to me or manipulating, I don’t really know any more.

  I’m living in a hotel, not a home.

  Sarah doesn’t want me, and she won’t let me see my son.

  The good news is that I’m going home back to my world…according to the evidence we got from James 2’s letter. BUT, and this is the big thing…I don’t know when.

  It could be today. Tomorrow. Or in ten years’ time.

  Yes, obviously, I could work hard and build a brand new life here. A successful life. I may even find someone new to love. BUT…what’s the point?

  What the FUCK is the point in building anything…overcoming any challenges….loving again…only to have it all ripped away from me one day when the carpet of time is pulled out from under my feet, and I’m cast back into my real world, where for all I know, my real wife has already married someone else or forgotten all about me?

  Fuck.

  I know… I must try to be strong.

  I must fight.

  But…

  Or is this depression, this feeling of pointlessness, mundanity…is it just the pandemic?

  On the news it talks about the mental health issues that everyone is suffering just now.

  Am I suffering mental health issues too?

  Or am I just suffering from a bad case of “Timetravelitis?”

  It’s not even lunch time, so a drink is out of the question.

  Instead, I decide to call the Professor.

  I let it ring several times before trying again.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I order lunch, eat it, then try the Professor a few times more.

  No answer.

  Not being able to contact the Professor, the only person I can rely on in this world, adds to the mood I’m in now, and I soon can’t stand being in the apartment any more.

  I have to do something. Something else. Anything else.

  Unlike the rest of humanity in the UK right now, I am not restricted to the four walls of my building. I have a Bluey. I’m special. I can go anywhere I want to.

  But where?

  Where can I go where I will feel less lonely? A little more loved? Wanted?

  An hour later, after waiting for a special delivery I request from the front desk, I’m in the car. Driving: my own hands on the wheel, exercising the little amount of control that’s still within my power. I switch Sarah off. In fact, after ten minutes of driving I decide to delete the name from the Self-Drive system altogether. Sarah’s name now conjures up even more conflicting emotions than she did before, and frankly, I just can’t face them just now. Instead I rename it Ralph, after the fish that my Dad spent the last years of his adult life trying to catch.

  Why the fish?

  Why not?

  It was a random choice, and about as random as the control I currently have over my life.

  --------------------

  Twenty minutes later I park my car on the road in front of the house where en route to Kingston to visit my mother’s home the starving man had run out of his house begging for food.

  I open the boot at the back of my car and take out the five boxes of food I had demanded from the manager at the front desk of my luxury Whitehall apartment.

  I had told the manager that the food was needed for a meeting I was going to.

  I had lied.

  So what?

  With no questions asked, when I picked the boxes up, the manager had assured me that as requested, they contained a large, luxury banquet for thirty people, with beers, expensive wines and five bottles of champagne.

  As I carry the boxes up the footpath leading to the door of the man who was starving, I sense the curtains twitching around me. I am being watched.

  Good.

  When I put the last box down on the doorstep, I scribble a note on a piece of paper and stick it on top of the boxes: “Please share with your neighbours.”

  Then I ring the doorbell and leave.

  --------------------

  Another ten minutes later I am standing outside the gate of Castle Quinn.

  I ring the doorbell on the gate.

  I hear a voice talk to me over a speaker embedded somewhere in the wall beside me.

  “Hello Jane. It’s James.”

  The gate opens, and I step through into the driveway beyond.

  Coming here is a gamble. It’s the only place I could think of where I might see a friendly face. Where I might be wanted. Even loved. Possibly.

  But, now Jane has changed, perhaps she won’t be pleased to see me so soon after the other evening. She’s independent now. She doesn’t need me.

  As I stand on the doorstep, wondering how she will react to me when she opens the door, the irony of the situation hits me.

  It wasn’t such a long time ago when I was the strong one, determined to leave Jane, who was weak and needy.

  Now I’m the pathetic one, lost, lonely and very, very needy, and Jane is the strong one. A strength which has drawn me back here today. To see her. To be
with her. And to be loved by her.

  Jane opens the door.

  She sees the pain in my eyes, opens her arms, and I step forward into them.

  --------------------

  As Jane takes my hand and leads me upstairs to her bedroom, she assures me that the children are lost in a computer game in the lounge downstairs. “That’s them for the next few hours. They’ll only emerge when they’re hungry for their evening meal.”

  In her room, she closes the door. Undresses first herself then me, and then takes me to her bed.

  She senses the need within me, and she responds to it.

  No question. No explanations necessary.

  We make love.

  Which is surprising, because eight years ago, when I left this house for the last time, I would never have imagined this to be possible.

  I make love to Jane, and she makes love to me.

  Afterwards we lie in each other’s arms, or to be precise, I lie in hers.

  I can’t remember ever feeling like this before.

  Directionless. Pointless. Lost.

  I’m no longer in control.

  Jane holds me tighter.

  She strokes my hair.

  And my tears flow.

  I’m pathetic.

  Chapter Fifty Two

  .

  I stay for four days.

  In fact, I’m still there when the Government makes the announcement on the I-Vision that the lock-ins will end.

  On the second day, I meet the children. Supposedly my children. Fathered by the other me, but with whom I have never found any affinity.

  Jane has warned them that I am only visiting. Not staying. That I will be gone again soon.

  She tells them that I have come to settle some discussions on the divorce.

  At one point I hear Elspeth asking Jane in the kitchen why we are being so nice to each other, considering that we are divorcing. She asks if it’s not too late to stay together? She asks if Daddy has changed?