Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  "No, nothing like that." I fiddle with the cup of tea in my hands for a moment, then put it down on his large oak desk. "Something happened to me, that I needed to talk to someone about, something very strange. And I think that you might be the person who might be able to help explain it all to me…I hope…"

  "I'll do my best, my boy. I'll do my best. So what are we talking about then? Have you been abducted by aliens?"

  I squirm in my seat, and distinctly feel my face beginning to glow. I must be blushing. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all.

  "No. I don't believe in aliens. But what I have to say is rather bizarre. Maybe even unbelievable, but I'll tell you the whole thing, and you can make your own mind up if I'm mad or not. But before I start, I would just add that I have already been checked out at the hospital, and according to the best medical science that BUPA can buy, I am perfectly sane. And I am a Physicist, so I do understand the fundamental physics behind most phenomena …it's just that I don’t understand this one…"

  "Which is what? What exactly are we talking about?" he asks, his interest now captured.

  So, for only the second time since I made 'The Jump', as it were, I start to tell another person the truth about what has happened to me. My father listened, but it was beyond his scope of understanding, and at the end of it, I don't think that he really believed me.

  As I speak, the old Professor switches on his desk lamp, picks up a pad, and starts to make some notes. A few times he stops me and interrupts, asking to go back over a particular point again, or asking more about something I just said. Occasionally, he looks up at me and mutters something to himself in Polish, his mother tongue, which I don’t understand, and once he gets up and walks over to a shelf, picking out a book, and looking at a few pages, before putting it back and then asking me to continue.

  I feel like I'm in a doctor's office, and I am telling him all the symptoms of my illness. I half expect him to turn round and tell me, that I either have terminal cancer, or that 'there is a lot of it going around' and I should just take two aspirins, three times a day, before he then shouts 'Next Please!'

  When I come to the end of the story, paying particular attention to both of the recent incidents on the Jubilee Line, he asks me to go over these two occasions again in greater depth, asking a lot more detailed questions on each of them.

  "And what time was this at?", "How long did it last for?", "Ah, so you said that afterwards you felt tired both times…that is most interesting!", "And you said that their bodies were solid, like statues?", "Can you remember any strange smells when it happened?"… he questions everything and anything that I say around these incidents. "And what was the weather like outside the tube station? Can you recall seeing or hearing any thunder or lightning?" Questions about my feelings and observations before I went into the tube station, and then also when I came out.

  "Did I notice any changes to my so-called 'new world', after these incidents, that weren't there before?"

  A good question, but one to which I had to answer no.

  "Any headaches afterwards?"

  Questions about my physiology, about my feelings, my thoughts…

  "I have been having a lot of dreams recently…" I answer.

  "So, tell me about them."

  I tell him a few, without going into great detail, and he nods and makes more notes.

  The two hours come to an end, and he gets up for a moment, excusing himself from the room. When he comes back, he explains that he has got someone else to take his tutorial scheduled for four o'clock, and he starts again from where he left off. Questions, questions, questions.

  By the time we get to five o'clock we are almost done. Then he asks, "And what changes do you say you have noticed in this world, that weren't there in your first world?" That takes us to seven o'clock.

  The time slips by and we seem not to notice it. We talk, and talk, but by seven thirty the questions have dried up, and the thick note pad is almost full.

  "So, now you are just waiting to see if Sarah will call you?" he asks, finally putting down the pen on his desk, and flicking backwards through the notes he has made.

  "Yes. According to her friend Mary, she's on holiday until next week, so I won’t hear anything until she gets back anyway."

  "And you think she may call you?" he asks.

  "I don’t know. " I reply. "I really hope so."

  We sit for a few minutes in silence. I am really nervous now, scared almost to ask him what he thinks. ---Is the prognosis fatal? Am I going to die?---

  "So," I bite the bullet, the silence just too heavy to bear. "Do you think I am mad or…?"

  "Or, what?"

  "Or… I don’t know. Maybe you believe me, and you can give me a physical explanation for what is going on, or what has happened to me?"

  The Professor gets up, and walks past me to the door, flicking the light switch on the wall. It has got surprisingly dark in the room without us noticing it. We can hardly see each other's faces any more.

  "The point is that you believe it. And you are, I would say, obviously still very sane. I am not a Professor of the mind….only of nature, the physics of existence. I try to stay clear of how our minds interpret and make us believe the things we experience around us. That is someone else's job. I just try to understand what IS around us, not what we THINK is around us…"

  "In other words, you don’t believe me. You think I may be mad…"

  "I did not say that. I think you are intelligent, and as I say, from what I can perceive about you now, you seem to be sane. The problem is that what you are saying is…well, it is very, very interesting…Except…". He sits down and picks up his notes, flicking back to something he wrote before. He mutters something in Polish again, and then chucks the notepad back onto his desk, shaking his head.

  "Listen," I say, getting up from my chair and wandering over to the window behind his desk. From here you can see across the fields behind the science campus on the edge of Edinburgh, on and up to the Pentland Hills, the lights of the man-made ski-slope now beginning to shine like fairy lights on the edge of the mountain range, "I asked you earlier if you had been to any of the Physics Society alumni reunions. You said no. Well, in my real world, the physics society organized hill-walking weekends, up at the university outdoor pursuits centre in Firbush, for graduates and alumni. You went to a lot of them, ...at least all the ones I went to. One was in 2007, and the first one was back in 2002. At the meeting in 2002, we got on really well, and then in 2005, you invited a small group of us to your house in Skye for a week of walking in the Cuillins…"

  I am watching his face now, looking for any telltale signs of recognition.

  "Go on…" he says, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair with both his hands arched together and touching his fingertips in front of his face, as he prepares to take in every word I say.

  "On the trip to the Cuillins, you drove us there in your Land Rover. There were four of us, and you. We arranged to meet in your house. You were still living with your ageing mother then, up in Ravelston Dykes, who, you did explain at the time, was quite rich. Your father was something to do with importing and exporting steel from Poland to the States. He died in America, and left your mum comfortably off. …by the way, she died a year later, which would make it 2006. Bad kidney. You told us that later on my second trip to Firbush…anyway, I digress. In a room at the back of your house, you gave us something to eat before we left. You play the piano, and have a Steinway Grand there. It used to be your grandmother's piano. It's very old."

  His face has turned white, his mouth now half open. The hands have sunk down into his lap, and he is transfixed by my words.

  "We left about six o'clock, and drove up to the house in Skye. It’s a lovely house, an old Victorian house, which you bought a few years after you came to Edinburgh University. You go there a lot. You like to escape up there…you paint a lot …watercolors…and your house is covered in your pictures. Which, are, incidentally, very
good."

  He smiles, the color briefly returning to his cheeks as he takes his turn to blush.

  "One night, we all got quite drunk. Very drunk. Too much Glenmorangie whisky. Your favorite. I drink it all the time now, a bad habit that I picked up from you. Anyway, as I was saying, we all got really drunk, and you and I end up in this big, big discussion about life. And our lost loves…"

  I see him visibly shift in his seat, suddenly getting a little uncomfortable.

  "I told you all about a woman, Sarah, and you told me something that you said you have never ever told anyone else about. You told me about a woman, …I'm sorry, I can’t remember her name, …but I do remember that she was an artist too…that's right, I remember now, you pointed to one of the paintings on the wall, and said that that one was painted by her…"

  "What was it?" he suddenly speaks.

  "It was a rose. A big, red rose!" I reply, clicking my fingers in excitement as I recall the picture on the wall.

  "You're right. It is a rose." he says quietly, his voice quivering. "After her. Her name was Rosa."

  I look at him, and notice that he is crying. Quietly. A few silent tears running down the edges of his cheek. For a moment I wonder if I should go on, but when he says nothing more, I do.

  "It was only me you told it to, so no one else knows, but you told me then that you had loved this woman,…remember we were both very drunk…, and that she was your fiancée. After your parents came to Scotland, you went back to Poland to university, and then you both spent some time together later in another of the Eastern European countries…"

  "It was Czechoslovakia. I did my Ph.D. there…in Prague…" he interrupts.

  " …Then you told me that your fiancée was killed in the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. She was part of some student movement in Prague, or something like that…I'm sorry, no disrespect meant, but it was a long time ago, and I can't remember all the details….I can just remember that afterwards that was the reason you left there, and came over here to live with your mother, and why you never married after that. You have always loved her…"

  "How do you know all this, James?" he suddenly asks, his voice very serious. "How do you know so much about my personal life?"

  "You told me."

  "I did not. I have never told anyone about Rosa. It…it is my secret."

  "You told me. In another world. My world." I insist, walking back to my seat and sitting down again. "Professor Kasparek, you told me all of this, …and more…, over the years. To me this is all true, and it is knowledge that I have picked up about you from the other world I live in. The question is, is this knowledge based on fact, or is it garbage?"

  "It is true. All true…"

  "So, unless I am a psychic, which I can assure you I am not, then ipso facto this proves that the rest of the story that I have told you is also true!"

  Silence.

  A clock ticks loudly on one of the shelves, and I wonder why I have not noticed it before.

  My words have obviously stirred some painful memories within the Professor's mind, and the rekindling of them has had an incredible effect on the old man. He seems sad, withdrawn, and very pensive.

  "James, I need to think. There is much to ponder. What are your plans for this evening? Can you stay in Edinburgh until tomorrow, or must you catch the last flight back to London?"

  "I can stay. That's not a problem. Listen, I'm sorry if what I've said…" I start to apologize.

  "No. Don't. But for now, I need to think, and I would like to be alone. Can we meet again tomorrow? At my house? I still live at the same place you mentioned. Will you be able to find it again?"

  "Yes. I will."

  "Good. Then tomorrow morning at say, eleven?"

  I take the cue to go, and to leave an old man to his thoughts. His memories of a lost love. I'm just leaving the office when the Professor asks one last question...

  "Oh, by the way, James....how heavy are you?"

  "80kg. Why?" I ask, surprised.

  "Just wondered. Just wondered, that's all...Tomorrow then. At eleven o’clock..." And with a smile, the Professor closes his office door and is gone.

  I am just getting into my car in the car park, when my mobile rings.

  It's Helen.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Explanations

  .

  "James, where the hell are you? I've been calling your office all day. I've left you about twenty messages already!" She seems a little upset.

  "I'm in Edinburgh. Something came up unexpectedly over the weekend, and I had to drop everything and catch a flight up here this morning."

  "Is everything okay?" she asks, the edge of anger in her voice, not so pronounced as before.

  "Yes, but I had to forget about work for a few days. Something personal that demanded some immediate attention. But I'll be back in London tomorrow night."

  "Good. Have you signed the contracts?"

  "Yes, I’ve already done it. I read the contract and I like it. It’s fine. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something really interesting that came up last week…I’ve been thinking about it, and I came up with a brilliant idea. I've already spoken to a few people about it, and we're setting something up for Thursday."

  "What? What are you talking about? And what’s happening on Thursday? I don’t particularly like surprises." She sounds a little concerned.

  "Okay, since you don't like surprises, I'll give you a piece of the good news now then. Have you heard anything about the bid for the Olympics campaign?" I ask innocently.

  "No. The Olympics? What do you mean?"

  So it's true. She's lying. From what Claire told me, she knows everything about the Olympics deal.

  "Well, what would you say if I told you that I'd just won it…"

  "You're kidding... I mean, you're joking, right?" she feigns a little joyous laughter, as if she was really happily surprised. "Wow, the other Partners will love this. You couldn't be bringing a better piece of business to us if you tried. They've been dying to get that deal for ages…"

  "I thought you said you hadn't heard about it?"

  "I haven't, I mean, of course I knew that it would be coming up, and I knew, obviously that one of the other Partners was sniffing around for it. But when I tell him it’s going to be ours after all, and that you're bringing it to us when you join, he'll be over the moon. Well pleased. That's fantastic news James. Brilliant!"

  What a cow.

  "So do you want to hear about my plan for Thursday?" I ask.

  "Yes…great. What's happening?"

  "I've arranged an impromptu Press Conference. Some of the Olympic Committee are coming along, and they'll do a formal announcement that they are handing over the business into my safe hands, and to PHI. I couldn't think of a better way to announce my leaving Cohen’s than this. It'll be great! Can you imagine the look on Richard's face, when he reads about it in the papers and sees the pictures in the rags next week?"

  "Fantastic idea. Oh James, you are evil!" she says, laughing again.

  Not half as wicked as you, my friend.

  "So, I'll see you there then. The Savoy Hotel, the Osprey Rooms, at 11 am. And to get the maximum publicity, bring the other Partners with you."

  "It's a date. I'm looking forward to it already."

  So am I, Helen. So am I.

  --------------------

  Another night, another dream.

  This time I am on a balloon flight. I'm in the basket with a co-pilot that I cannot see, a hood covering his face and hiding it from view. In the distance we can see another colorful balloon coming towards us. As it gets closer I begin to hear voices, and soon I recognise that they belong to Keira, Nicole and Sarah.

  We are coming very close to each other, and I shout to them. They hear me, and all three reach out to me from within their balloon basket, leaning out perilously far in an effort to reach me.

  I see that they are alone, being blown along at the mercy of the winds. Out of c
ontrol.

  We are close now. Very close. We stare at each other, and I can almost touch the fear and the longing crying out from Sarah’s eyes.

  She is holding a bundle in her arms, and as we draw closer she reaches out to me, imploring me to take the bundle from her.

  I stretch out to her, preparing to accept what she wants so desperately for me to take.

  We are tantalizingly close. My fingers touch the cloth on the edge of the bundle, but I cannot yet quite reach it.

  I look down, and see the ground miles below. There are small white clouds dotted around beneath us, between us and the lush green English countryside. I look back at Sarah, and now climb up onto the edge of the basket, ready to try once more to take the bundle from her as soon as the two baskets are a little closer. Just another second…one more…