Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller

by Anthony O'Brien

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The un-imagined delicacy of the Rocky Mountains, with erect fourteen thousand foot peaks, are gently kissed by the breeze. This eternal beauty dwarfs the surrounding landscape. Below, at the foot of this great erotic backbone, lies the city of Fort Collins and the Colorado State University. This beating heart is cradled within contemporary architecture and the designs of the past, with its carefully crafted neoclassical oval. The architecture is comfortably surrounded by lush elm trees, and a beautiful collegiate expanse of green space, populated with the brightest of enquiring minds. Vast atria host libraries as inviting as treasure chests; books patiently waiting to be discovered and opened. It’s here that the key to unlock the burning questions in Jeff’s mind might be found. Time is precious yet envious, always running away from us. Together Eve and Jeff sit in the library, engrossed in literature.

  “It states here that ever since records began, it’s been recorded throughout all cultures.” Eve raises her eyebrows for effect. “That certain individuals have possessed the gift of second sight.”

  “You also have to be aware that they may have been delusional.” Jeff pauses; Eve notes he puckers his lips whilst in thought. “The voices they claim to have heard from spirits, Angels or God may have been the effects of herbal potions, or nothing more than the inner workings of schizophrenic minds.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that every miracle, religion, messiah, or prophet have all been built on schizophrenia?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. However we now know that it’s common place for people to have anomalous experiences.”

  “Yes, and just how common is it for people to accurately predict a future timeline of events; one you were personally involved in?”

  “It’s not that common.” He doesn’t like admitting defeat, although Eve does make a valid point.

  “Precisely. So let’s make a start with the sixteenth century French seer: Nostradamus. One of the world’s most widely known prophets, and has worldwide fame for his book Les Propheties.”

  “You’re correct he’s one of the world’s most widely known and read prophets. However, his quatrains have been retrofitted to match past events, not ones foreseen beforehand.” Jeff doesn’t mean to sound patronizing, however even he recognizes the tone of arrogance in his voice. “Vague observations don’t make worthy predictions.”

  “His supporters claim that Nostradamus had to write cryptically or the inquisition would have killed him.” Eve ignores Jeff’s arrogance, testing the strength of his argument as well as playing the devil’s advocate.

  “They’d have to claim that to perpetuate such nonsense.” He’s frustrated, and has to rationalize the discussion to calm the inner workings of his mind. “Let’s say for one moment, that he did predict the rise of tyrants, nine eleven and the atomic bomb. Then my question to you is, how did he do this outside of his own timeline?”

  “I don’t follow you?”

  “Nostradamus was famous throughout France for his predictions in his lifetime only. It’s only after his death that his predictions became vague.”

  “That’s almost an admittance from you that he did at least prophesize within his own lifetime.” She waits a moment for a response, and doesn’t receive one. “It says here that Nostradamus predicted his own death, and during the French Revolution his body was disinterred. However when the workers dug him up; they were astounded to find him wearing a medallion, and it was engraved with that day’s date on.”

  “So they say, but where’s the medallion now?”

  “I would presume still around his neck.” Eve frowns in thought. “Anyway what’s the difference between an engraved medallion and a date carved in wood?”

  “Yes, yes I take your point.” Jeff’s dismissive and doesn’t wish to take Eve’s comments on board.

  “And I state my case.” A small victory, she knows, but it feels good.

  “Hmm.”

  “You’ve already studied Nostradamus; have you found no credibility?”

  “I personally found no credence to his prophesies.”

  “I see.” Eve has a hunch. “The more I think about this, the more I believe it’s all directly connected to you.”

  “How?”

  “Is it coincidence that you’ve spent your life striving to find the very answers we’re seeking now? Coincidence that Casey specifically asked for you? Coincidence that the date carved in his mother’s cellar prophesized that you were to be there that day?”

  “That someone was to be there.” He dismisses the notion. “My name wasn’t inscribed.”

  “Oh Jeff.” Sometimes it’s like dealing with a stubborn child. “You were involved and that ties you in with Casey’s timeline; it was predetermined. The date was already in place, it’s undeniable proof of fate.”

  “I can’t accept the notion of fate.” His hands rise up, like that of a politician in debate. “If that’s the case then everything is predetermined, and we have no say in our future experiences. I’m not a mindless puppet and I have free will. If I choose to walk out of here now, that’s my choice, and if I choose to stay longer that’s also my choice. We give ourselves far too much importance. Why would fate, God or whatever name we choose to give our beliefs, be interested in mapping out and connecting each and every individual experience during the course of each person’s life?” Eve smiles as his hands thrust forward, bringing forth past memories of university, watching him stand behind the lectern. “That’s what we’re talking about here. Fate as a concept means that every single connection and interaction would have to be predetermined rather than a random event. I don’t believe a supercomputer could map out every single interaction for everything that coexists on Earth, and then Earth’s interaction with the universe.”

  “Well when you put it that way, I guess that random events make a more plausible explanation.”

  “Exactly.” At last she’s beginning to see sense.

  “But.”

  “Here we go.” Jeff rolls his eyes.

  “It says here that within his own lifetime many believed Nostradamus was either the servant of the Devil, or was just plain insane. It states that in 1555 Catherine de Medici, the wife of King Henry the second of France, summoned Nostradamus to Paris after reading one of his almanacs. Inside she had read of future potential threats to her family.” Eve clears her throat, and is hopeful that Jeff’s listening; so far he hasn’t interrupted. “Nostradamus drew up horoscopes for her children and reassured Catherine. This procured his future, and he went on to become Counsellor and Physician-in-Ordinary to the King’s court. It was here Nostradamus explained another prophesy that referred to the King.”

  “The young lion?”

  “Yes. The young lion will overcome the older one, on the field of combat in a single battle, he will pierce his eyes through a golden cage, two wounds made one, then he dies a cruel death.”

  “It’s one of his more successfully fulfilled prophecies.”

  “It would appear Henry ignored all of Nostradamus’s warnings, and participated in a jousting tournament. The opponent, the Comte de Montgomery, was six years younger than Henry, and both their shields were embossed with lions. Montgomery’s lance shattered when he failed to lower it in time to prevent it from hitting Henry's visor. First a splinter pierced the gilded visor and destroyed the king’s eye, and there was another mortal wound entering the side of his temple. Two wounds. Henry died in agony through infection ten days later.”

  “He wasn’t the first man and I’m sure not the last to die through pride.”

  “What’s a man without pride?”

  “Indeed.” In response Jeff straightens his posture. “Anything else?”

  “The Kennedy assassination.”

  “Yes.” It’s with sadness that Jeff nods his head.

  “The ancient work will be accomplished, and from the roof the evil ruin will fall on the great man. They will accuse an innocent, being dead, of the deed, the guilty one is hidden in th
e misty copse.”

  “The truth of that day is lost to time. The quatrain is simply as I have stated retrofitted. Nostradamus could have stated his name without persecution.”

  “Maybe.” Eve’s beginning to lose her enthusiasm for Nostradamus.

  “Death is always prophesized for the Presidency. President Lincoln had precognitive dreams throughout his life, and one now famous dream he’d recited to his cabinet. In this dream he saw hundreds of people mourning in the White House grounds, and asked a young guard at the gate, what had made all these people so sad? The young guard replied ‘Don’t you know sir? The president has been assassinated.’ And that was a week before Lincoln was assassinated.”

  “Is that evidence or coincidence?”

  “I would say circumstantial evidence. Another point worth noting is that John Wilkes, the man who assassinated Lincoln, was surrounded by dark omens. As an infant his mother lay by his cradle and dozed; dread filled her as she became drawn to one of his hands, and watched it grow into the paw of a grotesque monster. She wrote a poem called “A Mother's Vision”, the first line being ‘Tiny innocent baby hand, what force, what power is at your command, for good or evil?’ She lived to see what that hand was capable of.”

  “How awful.” Eve sympathizes for his mother.

  “Wilkes himself was told by a gypsy ‘Oh you have a bad hand, it is full of trouble and sorrow. You’ll die young and you’ll make a bad end. Young sir I have never seen a worse hand.’ There’s always coincidences interweaving throughout people’s lives. His mother, and the gypsy made the connection for themselves the night he pulled the trigger.”

  “What if it’s no coincidence? John Wilkes may have been born with that destiny, and within their own lifetimes these people had insights into his inevitability; he simply fulfilled his conclusion.”

  “As I’ve already stated that means we have no say, no free will in our future. It has to be coincidence.”

  “Then why are we here?” Eve’s testing his motives.

  “To find answers and disprove what’s been happening.”

  “Or find the truth.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Whenever a presidential calamity occurs, there are always those who will come forward, after the event, with manufactured premonitions. These supposed forewarnings usually correspond to the data, but only once the details have been released to the press.”

  “But we’ve seen for ourselves what Casey is capable of.”

  “We can’t jump to conclusions.” His voice softens. “We have to work on our research and keep an open mind.”

  “Best get on with it then.” Eve speaks with determined resolve.

  “Excellent, but first I’m just going to visit the gents.”

  Jeff stands and leaves Eve sat at the desk. Alongside her is a pile of books, ranging from the religious through to the supernatural. Walking out of the library, Jeff’s surrounded by its clean, open plan and beautifully designed structures.

  Inside the gentlemen’s room he notes the cleanliness of the modern chrome and cream washroom. A student smiles as he passes and walks out. Jeff steps inside the toilet cubicle, and reaches for some tissue to blow his nose. The instant he does he’s blown off his feet, plunged into the wall, felled by a mighty blow. Raising his hand to his head, he stands to his feet. Dazed and confused, he takes a moment to compose himself. There’s blood on his fingers; he realizes the air is filled with shouts and screams. He’s in no doubt that there’s been an explosion on campus. Yet the full horror of his situation is realized only when he steps outside the toilet cubicle. Around him is pandemonium. Men, both young and old are rushing around the room, many with blood on their hands and their heads.

  “Shit.”

  Through his clearing vision, he can see that the washroom is now a gilded first-class washroom elegance defined. Chandeliers mysteriously sway, and the wall’s built from Georgian style, hand carved mahogany panels. Polished beams and carved wood columns hold the ceiling. He’s dizzy; the room appears to roll, and his legs are unsteady. The men are dressed in early twentieth century fashion. They maintain a stiff upper lip; yet many, if not all, are clearly distressed. The valet wears a dark blue and gold uniform, and tries his best to maintain order in the chaos. Jeff walks towards him, excusing himself as he rubs shoulders with others.

  “Gentleman.” The valet shouts above the noise. “Please remain calm, everything is in order.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Where am I?” Jeff’s feels as if he's in a dream.

  “The gentlemen’s room sir. You appear to have taken a blow to your head.”

  The valet reaches for a small white hand towel and presses it firmly against Jeff’s forehead.

  “Hold this sir, it will stem the bleeding.”

  “Thank you.” Jeff’s no idea or concept of where he is. He becomes aware of a man who’s standing by his side, speaking loudly over the chaos, with panic in his voice.

  “I had a premonition that my daughter was left on the dock in Southampton. Crying that she’d had a dream, and wouldn’t see her father again, because of this voyage.”

  “Let’s not get carried away sir.” Jeff can see the pride of the valet as he states. “We’ll be back on full steam in no time.”

  “Voyage?” This doesn’t compute or make any sense to Jeff.

  “Yes sir. You have hit your head hard, haven’t you? You’re aboard Titanic, sir.”

  No sooner said and Jeff finds himself back in the toilet cubicle, staring at a piece of tissue in his hand. Closing the door and sitting down, he holds his shaking hands out in front of him.

  “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Meanwhile Eve’s beginning to worry; Jeff’s taking a long time. Then she spots him.

  “At last.”

  Jeff walks into the library. His walk is not his usual confident stride. Eve looks for recognition from him; she receives no smile, just a vacant look as he sits back down.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve just had another anomalous experience.”

  “What happened?” Eve was right, something was wrong!

  “I’m not sure. It was so real, as real as I’m talking to you now.” He looks exhausted.

  “What was?”

  “Eve, please.” She waits. “Would you find some books on the Titanic?”

  “The Titanic?” Now she’s concerned. Is he really losing it?

  “Please, it’s just a hunch.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, don’t worry about me.” He rubs her shoulder. “I’ll explain later.”

  Although concerned for his welfare. Eve as requested finds the maritime history section. Ten minutes later, she returns with a handful of books, and apprehension.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better, thank you.” Jeff has physically shaken his experience off. “It’s amazing what tricks the mind can play.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Reports of any premonitions before the disaster.”

  Scanning the records and books for any premonitions feels fruitless; that is, until they find them. One of the most interesting is a publication by Morgan Robertson: Futility, often referred to as the Wreck of the Titan.

  “Robertson claimed he was psychic and foresaw the impending doom. He wrote his book nine years before the Titanic went down.”

  “And the similarities?”

  “Uncanny. Both ships had similar names, were British and sailed in April. They had similar length, displacement, capacity and speed. Both had three propellers; both hit an iceberg on the starboard side, and had insufficient lifeboats with massive loss of life.”

  “Interesting but still coincidental. Anything else?”

  “It appears that there were a number of people who did confirm passage and received tickets; however they didn’t sail. But it was only after the event, did they report that they had received premonitions.”


  “It’s always after the event. Do we have any photographs of the crew?”

  “Yes.”

  Jeff scans through the monochrome photographs; one catches his eye. The staff are lined up on the dockside like an old school photo, with Titanic’s hull as the photographer’s backdrop.

  “It’s hard to comprehend they’re all gone now.”

  “It is.” Old photographs fascinate Eve. An era, and a world full of people, gone.

  Jeff’s eyes fall on the valet. The bathroom attendant smiles out of the photograph, wearing the same uniform. Jeff lets out a gasp.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sits in silence and shakes his head for a moment. Bringing his hands up, he rests them under his chin, and pauses to collect his thoughts before answering Eve.

  “I’ve seen that man.”

  “What?” He’s not making any sense.

  “I spoke to him in the toilets.”

  “The toilets?” Eve shakes her head.

  “He was the bathroom valet on board the Titanic.”

  “Over a hundred years ago, Jeff.”

  “I know, I don’t believe it myself.” Jeff looks up from the photograph. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Later. We have limited time.”

  “Okay, but we’re going to have a serious discussion later.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He dismisses the event. “Let’s turn our attention to all the major disasters of the twentieth century, and see what we can unearth.”

  Before long, they are faced with numerous examples of premonitions. People who didn’t turn up at work, at a location, or take a journey due to dreams or feelings of impending doom. Foreseeing a death in the family, winning the lottery or meeting a long term partner. Even claims of knowing when to move in or bail out of the financial markets. Many of these hunches or visions had saved lives, or had become a chilling task for those who had experienced these forebodings of death; the unpleasant task of trying to warn others.