Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  "But, I've tried everything else I know to get to meet her. Mary knows her. She can introduce us…"

  "And she might. Don't be so negative. She hasn't even got the letter yet and you're going crazy worrying about 'what if?'. Give it some time."

  "Okay…" I take a swig out of the can, and settle back in the chair.

  "Listen Son, if there was anything that I could do to bring you together with the woman who could make you as happy in your life as I have been in mine, then I would. I would do anything for you son, even if it was the last thing I did. You know that don't you? You're a good lad, and you deserve to be happy." He says, leaning forward and patting me on one of my knees. "But for now, just let it be."

  --------------------

  It's Sunday evening, and Jane listens patiently as I explain to her the whole deal about moving to PHI. She doesn't interrupt, and doesn't ask any questions. At the end, she doesn't say anything except, "You don't need my opinion. I think you have already made up your mind about what you are going to do."

  "Maybe…maybe not. I just want to know what you think?"

  "Does it matter?" she asks, quite openly.

  "Of course it does."

  "Why does it suddenly matter what I believe?" she asks.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, you never listen to my opinions. I tell you what I think, you ignore what I say, and always do just as you want. What difference will it make this time?"

  "I'm different now. Things are different. What you think does matter."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "What things are different. Name them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like I said, I want you to name what's different?"

  "My perspective on things, for a start. The importance I place on things. The way I want to lead my life. The way I want you to lead your life. Lots of things are different."

  "Why?"

  "Jane, what's this about?"

  "Who is Sarah?"

  "What?"

  "You dreamt about her again last night. You called out to her again. Who is she?"

  "Like I said the other day, I don’t know. Some woman in my dreams. I don't know who she is."

  "Are you having an affair with her?"

  Suddenly this conversation is going completely the wrong direction. I can feel Jane's mood changing. It's getting ugly.

  "No. How can I be having an affair with someone I've never met?"

  A good question.

  If only she knew I was married to her. Married to someone I have never met before.

  "Jane, I can't remember anything about the dream and I don't know why I was dreaming about anyone called Sarah. Don't you ever dream about people you just make up?"

  "Yes, sometimes…"

  "So, there. She's just a figment of my imagination. I can promise you, that never in this life have I ever met or had an affair with a Sarah. Honestly."

  Which is true.

  "Okay. Fine. But next time you dream about her, you ask her what she's doing in your dreams, okay?"

  "Agreed. So back to the conversation. What should I do?"

  "Like I said, you've already made up your mind. You know what you're going to do. So do it."

  --------------------

  I make the call from my mobile at 10.30 am, whilst walking from the office down to Charing Cross, on the way to Scotia Telecom. A short, but important conversation.

  "Helen? Hi, it's James."

  "And?"

  "Draw up the papers. Get them over to me on Friday morning. I'll read them over the weekend and sign them on Monday."

  "Excellent. You won't regret it."

  "Neither will PHI. Thanks for your help."

  "No problem. See you Friday morning, downstairs in the Stockpot at 11am? I'll hand them to you personally."

  "Okay. See you there."

  --------------------

  There are three tube trains showing on the overhead sign, no delays. All on time. A sure reminder that this world is very different from my own.

  I feel nervous. This morning I decided that from now on whenever I go up to the Scotia Telecom or the Dome offices, I'm going to take the Jubilee Line up to Marble Arch, and walk from there. The connection from my old world to this one has got something to do with the Jubilee Line. I know it would be insanity to spend hours every day zipping around on the underground, just staring at the station signs and hoping that they will change again, from Charing Cross to Westminster, or East Dulwich to Canary Wharf, or something else, especially since it may never ever happen again. But there is always that 'if', that slight possibility that it 'might'.

  Like Robinson Crusoe, I have to get on with my life…but just in case it might happen again, I've decided to make any excuse I can to travel on the Jubilee Line, whenever I can, to anywhere that's remotely near to anywhere I really need to go to in the normal course of everyday life. Just in case.

  So, with at least three meetings a week with Scotia and two at the Dome offices, that's at least six separate trips on the underground. Maybe even ten.

  --------------------

  The feeling I have while standing on the platform, waiting for the next tube is just like the feeling you get when you play roulette and you're waiting for the spinning ball to slow down and stop. Will it land in my number? Will this be the time?

  And then when the train arrives, another thought…should I get this tube or wait for the next one? Will this train be the one that does the jump from this world to the next? Or will the next train be the one?

  Realizing that if I'm not careful this whole thing could spiral out of control and become a stupid obsession, a weird compulsive behavioral disorder, I step onto the first train to arrive. If it's ever going to happen again, this train has as much possibility as any other one for making the jump. The jump. That’s what I'll call it from now on.

  'The Jump.'

  From one world to another.

  I try to stick close by the entrance door as the other passengers pour on, but am pressed backward by the sheer number of people eager to get on. I end up on the other side of the carriage, squashed against the opposite set of doors, a wall of people between myself and the doors I just came through.

  My heart is going crazy. Beating faster and faster with anticipation.

  I find the sign on the wall outside the tube carriage. Blast, someone has moved just in front of me. I can't see it clearly anymore.

  I duck down a little, my face almost level with the shoulders of the person in front. My head is at an angle, and the people around stare at me, wondering what I am doing.

  The doors begin to close.

  I look over at them, and blink. I turn again to stare at the sign "Charing Cross" on the wall. I blink again. I cannot find it. It is gone...

  My eyes scan quickly back to the doors. They are still closing. Beyond them the station is shimmering. Fading in and out.

  It's happening.

  Shit…It's really happening.

  Quick, I must jump off, I must force my way to the doors. Make the jump back to my own world.

  I push against the passenger in front of me, desperate to get by.

  "Excuse me, let me off!" I shout.

  My shoulders meet with a rock solid object, the person now as hard as stone, a solid, immovable barrier that refuses to give way. I blink again, everything happening so slowly… so slowly. As if time itself is slowing down around me.

  I push hard again, this time on another woman to my side.

  She is smaller than me, thin, half my body weight, but she is glued to the floor. Stationary.

  I look at her face. There is no emotion. No signs of life. Her blank eyes stare past me into space. Her skin like wax, the dull light in her eyes, her mouth half open, frozen in the act of breathing, her body one solid, immovable statue.

  I am trapped. Hemmed in by people like metal bars in a prison.

  My reactions are slow, but I can move. Unlike the human m
annequins and statues around me.

  I stare out onto the platform outside.

  For an instant, just an instant, the shimmering stops, and the platform solidifies. I see people walking past, real people, not mannequins, people oblivious to the scene aboard my train, and the situation all around me.

  On the wall, directly outside the doors, I see a sign.

  "Westminster."

  I push again against the wall of people surrounding me. I have to get out of the train.

  I have to make the jump.

  But already it is too late.

  The doors are beginning to close, the view of Westminster station is beginning to shimmer, to fade away, to be replaced by something else.

  And then it is gone.

  The doors close.

  Instantly, the lifeless statues around me return to life, their rigidity being replaced by soft supple bodies. Still pushing on the person in front of me, I immediately fall forward. The woman shouts something, and in turn falls against the person standing beside her. I stumble, then topple forwards again, but a hand reaches out and grabs me, pulling me back up. I stagger a little, but recover my posture, apologizing to those around me and thanking the man beside me who owned the helping hand.

  The tube accelerates away.

  Another chance gone.

  But proof once more, that for some reason, my world and this are still connected.

  And that there is hope.

  Like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island, I have to make plans.

  ------------------------------

  I spend the next thirty minutes travelling back and forwards through Charing Cross, hoping that it will happen again, but to no avail. I am twenty minutes late for my meeting, apologizing that I was stuck on the tube between stations for a while, an excuse which everyone accepts easily.

  I find it hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon.

  My thoughts are dominated by what just happened on the tube. I think about it constantly, replaying it over and over again in my mind. That is the second time it has happened. Although this time it lasted for longer, seeming to stretch itself out and last for seconds. An age.

  In my mind's eye I remember being able to look out onto the platform outside and notice people walking around, back and forth past the entrance to the tube doors. I remember the feeling of pushing against the people about me, struggling to get past them, wanting desperately to leave the train and step out onto Westminster beyond, but being prevented by solid, immovable, seemingly lifeless-bodies. Why was it that I could move but they couldn't?

  When I catch the Jubilee Line back down to Charing Cross later that evening, nothing unusual happens. Again, like before, I ride the train back up to Green Park, and then again down to Charing Cross, but without incident. Whatever it is that happens down there on the Jubilee Line seems to be entirely random.

  Except there is one thing I have noticed. On both occasions, afterwards I am left feeling tired, exhausted. Even a little sick. Whether from the excitement and the adrenaline rush, or something else, I cannot tell.

  --------------------

  I grab a pizza on the way back to the office, and pick up a fresh cup of coffee at the local deli. By the time I lock myself in my room, and sit down in my large, welcoming, chair, it's 6.30 pm. I'm meeting Stu Roberts at 8 pm.

  The pizza is a little cold, but I am hungry. The warm coffee helps to wash it down, and soon it is all gone. The box empty, and in the bin.

  It's ten past eight when I finally get to Waxy's.

  So what does Stu look like nowadays? It's been years since I last saw him. As I walk into the busy bar I examine all of the faces around me, hoping to spot one that is familiar. Hoping that over the years he hasn't changed, become bald, and fat. Unrecognizable.

  "Hey, James!" A hand on the elbow, a voice from behind.

  He's just come in the door behind me and still looks almost exactly the same as when I last saw him. Slim, energetic, good looking…all his own hair. Has no one told him that he's meant to age? To get old!?

  "You look great!" I stammer. "What on earth are you taking?" I ask.

  "About three hours of exercise every day, nutrients, fruit juices, and lots and lots of sex," he jokes, steering my elbow towards the bar. "And lots of beer. What are you drinking?"

  We talk about old times, about our fun days in the college bar, but very soon the conversation gets round to my concussion.

  "You've forgotten everything? Permanently?"

  I reply, rattling off the same speech I've given a thousand times to others.

  Then I ask him about the Olympics, the 400m and his Gold Medal, and then eventually we get round to the reason we're here.

  "Fourteen million euros? It's a big deal. How come you're not putting it out to tender?" I ask.

  "Politics. And a few other reasons. Which we won't go into. The fact is that you and I have talked a lot about this already, and from what we've gone over together, you've already convinced me that Cohen’s is the agency to do the job for us. I know all about your track record. What you've done. We don’t need to go into it all again. Apart from one concern, the business is yours. Take it or leave it?"

  "Of course, I'll take it. But what's your concern?"

  "This is a high profile deal. What with your concussion and lack of memory and everything, please forgive me for asking, but I have to,…I would be wrong not to worry about this…but, are you up to the job now? I mean, you will be leading the team, heading up the project? Are you well enough? Have the doctors said anything about your condition that might cause a problem later on? And, honestly, has the concussion affected your ability to create the best advertising and marketing campaigns on the planet?" He reaches out, his hand on the side of my arm, concern showing in his eyes. Concern for my health, for me, but also concern for the project and the work he has the responsibility of handing out.

  "Stu, I'm fine. If anything, I'm even more creative than before. I've got a whole new vitality to my work. It’s a fresh approach, and its going down well. Did I tell you that I've been promoted to Partner…since I had the concussion? And that I've won two major deals…the contract for promoting the Millennium Dome, and one for a very large Telecommunications company, that is going to launch the first, truly safe, mobile phone network in Europe and the Middle East?"

  "Yes, I know. I did some background work. Listen all you have to do is tell me you're up to it, and I'll believe you. But don’t bullshit me. Me worrying about your ability to deliver is as much for you as it is for me. If you fail on this, it'll be so high profile, it'll hit you hard. But if you do well, the whole world will see your work. I mean, it's the Olympics… You can't get better than that!"

  When I leave the bar, probably a few worse for wear, the deal is done. A contract, signed, and witnessed by the barman and manager of Waxy O'Connors. Unconventional, but then again, Stu was never conventional. Ever.

  I decide to walk back down to Waterloo, crossing the bridge over the Thames, and stopping to admire the view. The best view in the world.

  I steady myself against the rail and look out towards Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, England's most historic buildings glowing orange in the floodlights, and casting long, jumping shadows on the turbulent water below.

  A boat passes by underneath the bridge and I look down onto the deck, the sounds of a discotheque, and flashing lights pouring out of the windows. A couple are standing at the back, arms around each other, leaning against the rail.

  They look up at me and wave.

  And I wave back.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Friday

  Resigning

  .

  On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I spend a lot of time working on the Dome and Scotia Telecom deals. Personal attention, ensuring that the clients know that they are my top priority. Cultivating the bond. Making sure they are well and truly cemented to me. And not to Cohen Advertising. Preparing for the move from Cohen’s to PHI.
<
br />   In total, this gives me the opportunity to make ten separate journeys on the Jubilee Line, but nothing unusual happens. There are no repeats of the incident on Monday.

  On Wednesday morning I interview three candidates from an agency, and select one of them to replace Claire. A twenty-five year old woman called Tracy with an impressive CV. She accepts the job and agrees to start the next Monday.