Summerhouse Land

by Roderick Gordon

  ‘First things first. Let me show you this,’ older Sam replied, swiveling his chair round to the three screens and typing on the keypad. ‘By the way, what did you think of those nifty little messages I left for you. In the library book and behind that stupid oaf, Big Ed, in the Annex? There were more, but you missed them. I had to play it a bit carefully because I didn’t want anything to knock you off reaching Summerhouse Land.’

  ‘That wasn’t you!’ Sam snapped, bristling at the mention of something so close to his heart as Summerhouse Land. ‘I leave them for myself.’

  ‘Really? So where do you think you end … and I begin?’ older Sam asked, narrowing one eye at Sam. ‘We don’t, because we’re continuous.’

  Sam frowned at this.

  ‘You just got to get with the paradox, son,’ older Sam added, then jabbed the keypad.

  Something flashed up on the three screens. It was another article from the local newspaper, but this time not about Sam’s death. Occupying far more of the page than his original article had, it was dominated by a large photograph.

  ‘That’s us!’ Sam exclaimed, as he recognized the shot of his family, remembering the Saturday morning when his father had booked them into a portrait studio in Hampstead to have it taken. ‘But what’s this about?’ Then his gaze settled on the headline.

  Double tragedy as family loses second son.

  He spotted a name in the text below the photograph. ‘Jesse?’ Sam was dumbstruck all over again as it sank in. ‘Jesse’s dead? What happened?’

  ‘I … or, rather … we … killed him,’ older Sam replied flatly.

  The room was silent as Sam pulled his shocked eyes from the article to look at his older self. ‘Why? How?’

  Inside, the house is drained of color and there’s not a sound as Sam climbs the stairs. Lingering for a moment on the landing, he enters his old room. In the dawn light he can see something has changed. There are half-filled boxes on the floor and he notices that the shelves have begun to be emptied of his possessions. And there’s a row of plastic bin bags by his wardrobe.

  Sad because what’s left of his former life is being dismantled, he goes to the nearest bin bag. Opening it isn’t easy, not unlike folding back sheets of roofing lead, then he peers in. On top is a T-shirt, but he can’t tell which one because it’s light gray and there’s no color to go on. He heaves it out and levers it open.

  ‘Charlie Brown,’ he says, smiling fondly at the cartoon character printed on the front with its trademark zig-zag jumper. He remembers the bright yellow T-shirt only too well. He wore it so often after his family brought it back for him after a holiday in the States. Sam had always longed to go there, but couldn’t because the medical advice was that flying was out of the question. The neurosurgeon had concerns about the effect of low pressure on the cavities and blisters of bone in Sam’s skull, telling his parents that it would be like tubes of toothpaste bursting open.

  So Sam stayed with relatives while the rest of the family went away on a holiday that he would have died for. Literally.

  And when they returned, this T-shirt was one of the presents they brought back for him. As if anything could even begin to make up for what he’d missed out on.

  Sam heads toward his bed, noticing too that it has been stripped, his bare duvet folded up. Nevertheless he makes his way over to it, careful not to step on the darker gray patches in the carpet where they’ve tried to clean his blood from it. He sits down on the mattress, which is rather hard and unforgiving in this transitory phase.

  And Sam holds his weightier than usual T-shirt to his chest and weeps. Because time hasn’t resumed properly yet, the tears drain only very slowly from his eyes and won’t detach themselves. This makes his vision blurry and he has to wipe them away. As he’s doing this he glances across the room, expecting to see the night light that had been his constant companion through so many years of illness, but it isn’t there. Discarding the T-shirt, he immediately goes to the corner to investigate, but there’s no sign of it anywhere.

  Sam peers at the boxes, wondering if it has already been packed, but a sneaking suspicion is growing in his mind. He leaves his room and makes straight for the one on the opposite side of the corridor. Sure enough, there it is in his brother’s room, the light burning away like it had always done for him. When he was much younger and Jesse’s animosity toward him less intense, his brother had often come into his room to admire the light, saying he wanted it for himself. But it meant too much to Sam – it was his lifeline to the morning through the pain of so many headache-racked nights.

  ‘You little creep,’ Sam fumes, seeing his brother asleep in bed. ‘How dare you take my things!’

  He unplugs the light and lifts it from the table. It’s so much heavier than normal, but this isn’t what makes him stop to marvel at it. Although the electricity has been cut off, it’s still miraculously burning away, as if the loyal beacon through all his suffering is refusing to go out. There isn’t even the slightest flicker.

  ‘No way you’re getting this!’ Sam says to his brother, and swings his arms to throw it against the wall and break it. Of course, it’s useless. As soon as he lets go of the light, it remains where it is, suspended in mid-air.

  Still gripped with anger that his brother would have dared to do such a thing, he notices the open window. Sam knows he could position the light outside so that when time resumes, it will fall to the ground and be ruined.

  But he doesn’t do this because he’s now staring fixedly at Jesse’s slack face as the boy sleeps. Sleeps the sleep of someone who has such an easy time of it, and yet made Sam’s life so difficult. Someone who poured venom into Sam’s open wounds and stood there enjoying it.

  Sam puts the light back, then goes over to his brother. It’s hard enough to lift aside the duvet, but moving Jesse is even harder. Sam is covered in sweat by the time he’s heaved the body over to the window. It’s like trying to move a statue, but one that doesn’t want to move.

  As he takes a moment to recover from the exertion, Sam looks at Jesse in his frozen attitude of sleep, his arms at random angles and his mouth open as if he’s just about to draw breath, and has second thoughts.

  But Sam can’t forgive him. He remembers too much, so much. And, besides, there’s something so clean and clinical about this. No blood, no screaming, just cold physics to take care of the deadly finale.

  He struggles to get Jesse over the windowsill then, bracing himself against the window frame, he uses his legs to edge the gray body farther out into the open. As he pushes it bit-by-bit, inch-by-inch, it occurs to him that this is similar to what Jesse did to him that fateful night when he kicked him off the bed. Sam smiles and any lingering doubts are gone, because if anything is poetic justice, then this is it.

  ‘I concocted a suicide note to make sure no suspicion would fall on Mum and Dad, and when time restarted again, there’s the outcome,’ older Sam said, indicating the screen with a wave of his hand. ‘Those gray-out phases become pretty tedious after a while, so it was good to find something practical to get on with.’

  ‘But you killed him?’ Sam said, stunned. ‘I would never do anything like that. I just wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh come on. It occurred to you even that very first time you went back to our house and sabotaged Jesse’s burger,’ older Sam countered. ‘You were thinking about how he messed with that Big Mac and fries of ours in the hospital. That’s why you considered picking out a nice juicy Maxie turd from the garden to put in the bun, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Then you went further. You remembered the rat poison that Dad kept in the basement.’

  ‘No …!’ Sam burst out.

  Older Sam was looking at him with knowing eyes. ‘You were asking yourself why Jesse should be allowed to go on with his life when you’d been reduced to nothing more than a ghost, flitting ineffectually from room to room and unable to communicate with Mum and Dad. Admit it – even then you were aching to get your
own back on the evil little creep.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Sam protested, but there was a slight tremor to his voice.

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I’m the one person you can’t lie to. There’s nothing that I don’t know about you, even your thoughts … I remember them all so clearly,’ older Sam said.

  As Sam held his older counterpart’s gaze, he felt powerless and vulnerable, as if this doppelganger was looking inside his head. How could he triumph against someone who would always be one step ahead?

  ‘You see, over time, injustices begin to rankle, to fester like sores,’ older Sam continued. ‘You can’t stop thinking about them, but the big difference for you and me is we can do something about them.’

  ‘But I couldn’t do that to Jesse,’ Sam mumbled.

  ‘You do do that to Jesse,’ older Sam said.

  Aware that Curtis’s eyes were on him, Sam stared guiltily at the floor. He felt as if he’d just confessed to the crime himself, because older Sam was right – he had considered doing all those things when he’d tampered with the burger. Perhaps it was true, maybe he would be capable of killing Jesse at some point in the future if the opportunity presented itself. ‘When did you do it?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘Centuries ago, but if you mean when did it happen in the world – a month after we died,’ older Sam replied. ‘It was a spur of the moment thing, done completely on impulse, and I have to say I felt some regret for a while. But it passed.’

  ‘What about Mum and Dad? Did you think about them when you killed him?’

  ‘Yes, and I was sorry to put them through it all over again,’ older Sam said, ‘but if you’d seen the monstrous things Jesse did in his adult life, you wouldn’t have held back either.’

  ‘What things?’ Sam asked.

  ‘That’s not relevant now,’ older Sam replied. ‘Look, if I hadn’t offed Jesse then, it was only a matter of time until I got round to it. I felt too bitter to let him go scot-free. I couldn’t allow that. And if you’re wondering why Curtis over there hasn’t mentioned anything about Jesse’s untimely end, it’s because he was only searching the archives for our death. He didn’t look any further.’

  Sam glanced at Curtis, who nodded.

  ‘Even if he had spotted it, he might not have put two and two together,’ older Sam said, taking a breath as if he was girding himself for what he was about to say.

  Sam held up a hand as though he was back at school.

  ‘What is it?’ older Sam asked.

  ‘You did this to Jesse, not me,’ Sam said, sitting up in his chair. ‘And I don’t understand why you owned up to it. You could have kept quiet and I wouldn’t have known.’ He sat up even more as his resolve hardened. ‘But if you really are me … if I really do turn into you …’

  ‘Yes, of course you do,’ older Sam said with a small shrug, waiting for what was going to come next.

  ‘Then I’ll make sure I never hurt Jesse. If I swear on everything I believe in that I’ll never do what you did, then I will never be like you. I don’t have to turn out like you.’

  ‘Go on then. Give it a try,’ older Sam said with a smirk.

  Sam hadn’t finished where his thoughts were taking him. ‘No, I can do more than just try. I can change things right now, so you’ll change too.’ He closed his eyes, squeezing his eyelids shut while muttering something to himself over and over.

  ‘You’re not actually saying never, never, are you?’ older Sam inquired, grinning at his younger self.

  Sam opened his eyes to check the newspaper article on the screens, then began to scrutinize older Sam.

  ‘Sorry to tell you you’re wasting your time,’ older Sam said, without the slightest suggestion that he was sorry. ‘One way or another, Jesse still croaks. And I’m not going to change either.’ He laid a finger on the second control box on his crown. ‘This little addition the future Curtis dreamed up had an unintended benefit. As long as it’s active, everything I am when I’m outside my time in the valley is protected … preserved, if you like.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘And as I’ve been wearing the crown for centuries anyway, I have no intention of removing it now. Nor do I have the slightest intention of going back to my time.’

  Sam looked crestfallen. ‘So nothing I can do, or will do, alters you?’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ his older ego said, as if he wanted to draw a line under the subject. ‘I get some new memories – that’s all.’

  ‘My memories?’ Sam asked immediately.

  ‘Yes, in addition to my own. That’s why I told you about Jesse, because just as you have no secrets from me, I want you to know everything I know. It won’t work between us unless there’s total trust.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And while we’re talking secrets, there’s one that you need to know.’ He took something from a pocket in his cassock. ‘And this one’s a real humdinger.’

  Sam thought he recognized the object. ‘Is that Dad’s video camera?’

  ‘He never does figure out who walked off with it,’ older Sam replied with a chuckle, then swiveled his chair ninety degrees. ‘Curtis, can you link this up for us. I think you’ll be interested in what’s on here too.’

  Curtis didn’t reply or make a move to help.

  Older Sam’s voice was hard and full of threat. ‘Um … Emma and Jane, would you be so good as to go and check on Joely. We want her to be comfortable, don’t we?’

  Curtis was on his feet in an instant. ‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said, watching with trepidation as the two cadaverous forms shuffled from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘You haven’t worked out yet who it is in that grave Pain showed you?’ older Sam asked, as Curtis obediently came over to deal with the camera.

  ‘Someone called T?’ Sam remembered, but older Sam simply inclined his head as if he was waiting for more.

  ‘Unfair question. It took me a good few centuries to join the dots,’ he said.

  ‘Ted,’ Curtis volunteered, as he examined the connections on the camera.

  Older Sam nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. His name was Ted. But what about his surname?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It was so long ago,’ Curtis answered as he produced a lead from under the desk where older Sam was sitting. ‘Actually I’m not sure I ever knew it. He was only here for such a short time before he combusted.’

  ‘Come on, Sam, why would I ask you about this?’ older Sam urged the boy. ‘Make the jump. Ted was only his nickname … Ted … Ted … Theodor.’

  ‘Theodor White!’ Sam exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, our great-grandfather,’ older Sam confirmed.

  Curtis had stopped what he was doing and was gazing thoughtfully at the future version of Sam. ‘So Ted was a direct antecedent of yours. How fascinating.’ He handed the camera back to older Sam. ‘It’s ready.’

  Everyone in the room watched as older Sam pressed the playback button on the camera and an image appeared on the screens. It was highly pixelated because the scene was so dark, and was drifting in and out of focus as the camera hunted for a subject. When the picture finally settled down, a strip of light from an open door could be seen as it fell across something in the corner of the small room.

  ‘The action doesn’t start for a bit,’ older Sam said, as he fast-forwarded the film, but when he stopped the scene was precisely the same.

  ‘What is this? Something to do with Theodor?’ Sam asked, not sure if he really wanted to know after the revelation about Jesse. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘Indirectly, yes. Keep watching,’ older Sam said. ‘Should be about now.’

  The image still hadn’t changed but Sam heard the murmur of voices. As he continued to watch, the door opened so that the strip of light broadened, making it easier to identify what was in the room.

  ‘Is that a crib?’ Sam asked. Then, as he took in the different animals hanging by its side, it hit him. ‘Jeez, I remember that mobile … with the frog and the rabbit and …’ he tailed off. ‘I know where this is!
It’s the nursery … before Mum and Dad changed it into their dressing room.’

  Two people – men – moved into picture. ‘Don’t wake him. We don’t want anybody to know about this,’ one said. Although he was wearing a jacket, he appeared thinner than his companion and his shoulders more hunched. The second man, who was in shirtsleeves and clearly younger than the first, now spoke.

  ‘How often is it necessary?’

  ‘Just repeat the process every couple of weeks until there’s no more,’ the man in the jacket replied, as they both leaned over the crib to look at the baby. ‘Keep passing it over.’

  ‘He’s so tiny and defenseless. Doesn’t feel right doing this to him,’ the man in shirtsleeves said, his voice full of misgiving.

  ‘Didn’t do you any harm, did it?’ the man in the jacket assured him.

  The younger man mumbled something and looked away from the crib for a moment so that the light from outside the room revealed his profile.

  ‘That’s not Dad, is it?’ Sam whispered.

  ‘Yes, with his father – the grandfather we never knew,’ older Sam answered. ‘Now watch carefully. This is the money shot.’

  Mr White stepped to the head of the crib and very gently slipped his hands under the baby’s head, raising it an inch from the mattress. The baby didn’t wake.

  ‘And that’s me, isn’t it?’ Sam asked, his voice barely audible.

  Older Sam gave a single nod. ‘Yes, that’s us.’

  Where Mr White’s hands came into contact with the baby’s cranium as he cradled it, there was an unmistakable glow as if his palms were somehow suddenly luminous. Simultaneously the picture on the screens was disrupted by jagged diagonal stripes rippling down it.

  ‘The energy transfer interfered with the recording,’ older Sam explained.

  Mr White continued to hold the baby until the glow seemed to ebb away, and in tandem the interference to the picture grew less marked, then disappeared. Mr White laid the baby’s head back down on the mattress. ‘He’s a good sleeper,’ he said, tucking the blanket around the small form. ‘I just don’t feel right doing this. We don’t know what it is.’