"James…?" Jane says, "What's going on?", pulling herself upwards, and pushing out her chest and breathing deeply as if she was just waking from a hundred year sleep.
"Nothing, I tripped."
I sit up beside her, and she snuggles up again, eyes immediately closed, and asleep by the time we pull into Embankment tube station.
Close to tears, I bite my lip, and count.
That was the third time it has happened.
Which means that I have only one more chance.
One more chance to cross back to my world.
Or be trapped here for good.
Chapter Forty Four
Paying it Forward
.
The irony of it all is not lost on me as I spend the next few days repeatedly going over the whole event in my mind. Over and over again. And then some more.
I was free to leave…the door to my world was there, right before me. But Jane held me back. My wife in this world prevented me from going back to my wife in the other.
I can't help but feel some inner anger at this, even though I know it was not really Jane's fault. She didn't know. It was just an unfortunate turn of events.
Still, the anger boils over a few days later, and Jane and I end up having a massive row. The children hear us and dissolve into tears upstairs in their bedrooms, and Jane doesn't speak to me for a week.
I feel bad.
It wasn't her fault. So why do I take it out on her?
--------------------
The silence in the house becomes unbearable. Jane's children,…Jane's children…want to speak to daddy, but their loyalty to their mummy zips their mouths closed, and they trail around the house after Jane, following her from room to room, avoiding big bad daddy, but really not understanding why they must.
Walking the empty streets of Thames Ditton, Hinchley Wood and Surbiton at night seems an easier option than hiding in one of the rooms at home, and it gives me the chance to think. I seem to have lost control over everything in my life, and my mind is in turmoil, perpetually dredging my subconscious for the links that will pull it all together and help it make sense.
There is so much to think about…so much…The recent events on the tube, the search for Sarah, and the aftermath of the memory I forced myself to relive at Martha's grave…
It scares me. I am an emotional mess.
The next night I am returning from work, and a woman and young boy get on the train at Clapham Junction. Sitting down opposite me, the blonde boy, probably not more than four years of age, plays with a little plastic soldier for a while before closing his eyes and resting his head against his mother's arm. A moment later he is fast asleep, his mother gently stroking his face as she stares vacantly out of the window.
His hair is soft, and there is a little scar above his left eye, freckles on his nose, and a scratch on his knee. Without realizing it a tear forms and slowly rolls down my cheek.
The woman opposite me turns from the window and starts to watch me.
"Are you okay?" she asks, gently.
At first I do not notice that she has spoken to me, but when she asks again, I blink and turn my head slightly to return her gaze.
"Yes…Thank you…I'm fine…" I reply quietly, but then continue, feeling compelled to explain further to this mother…"I'm sorry. It's just that your son,…he…," I mumble. "...I've always wanted a son…and your boy looks just like what I thought my son would look like…if…if..."
The little boy stirs, his hand rising involuntarily to rub the tiredness in his eyes.
I feel uncomfortable, embarrassed, and dangerously close to the edge. Time to leave.
I rise quickly to my feet, muttering something more to the woman before walking along the train to the next carriage.
I find a seat and sit in silence for the rest of the journey home.
--------------------
Two days later I arrive at work to find that Claire, my ex-PA is waiting for me in reception.
"I have a job for you, James. I want you to handle the advertising and marketing for ‘Find-A-Friend!’ We are launching in two month's time, and we want you to manage it."
I'm pleased for her. I honestly am. It's exciting. I agree to the job, and we even quote her a 'special' price. After all, Cohen’s looks after its employees, past and present.
Later that afternoon I call Professor Kasparek up in Edinburgh and tell him about the incident on the tube a few days before. One of my parting promises to him when I visited him up in Edinburgh, was that I would keep him up to date on anything else that might happen to me. We had both joked, that if he never heard from me again, then I must have done the jump.
He is excited, and listens in great detail as I explain to him what has happened. I can hear him furiously scribbling down notes, and I can tell he is genuinely concerned when I explain how the opportunity was there, but how I was prevented from taking it by Jane hanging on to me, anchoring me to this world.
He also finds it particularly interesting when I tell him how there was a complete absence of any sound, except for my own breathing. He hadn't expected that, but as soon as I mention it, he agrees that it makes some sense.
Equally exciting to him is my observation that although time had seemed to stand still on my side, I could see movement beyond the doors on the Westminster platform: people walking past the doors normally, time passing for them at the same rate that I alone was experiencing it in the other world.
We talk for an hour, and I tell him about my father, the graveyard, and finding Sarah's mother's grave. When we finish, I promise to call him again in a few weeks' time, after I have been to the graveyard to meet Sarah. Before we hang up, I ask him if he can check his calculations again. Is there really only one more chance for me to cross back to my world? Please can he verify it?
When I leave work that night, my mind is alive. Full of thoughts, and worries.
On the negative side, I am worried sick that the next time it happens, I won't make it in time to cross over. What if something else prevents me like Jane did this time. I kick myself for ever having relaxed my vigilance, for sitting with Jane and letting her hold onto my arm. It was the alcohol that relaxed me, and the fact that I had ridden the tube a million times without incident. I had got complacent. I think about how in future, I must take every precaution when riding the Jubilee Line. I even consider giving up drinking alcohol, and joining a gym, just to ensure I am as strong as possible, and fit and sober, whenever the next time occurs.
I am convinced now that it will happen again. I can feel it in my bones. I promise myself, no I swear to myself, that I will not make any more mistakes.
The next time it happens I will cross over. I will react instantly whenever the opportunity presents itself, and I will not delay by thinking about anything else when it does. The moment I see the doors slowing down, the moment time starts to grind to a temporary halt, I am jumping through those doors. I'm out of here.
Buoyed up by my new found self-determination and courage, I turn my thoughts to Sarah, and I start to plan for my meeting with her on the 4th June.
Only a couple of weeks away.
--------------------
The days tick slowly by, and my nights become increasingly more restless. I toss and turn, and cannot relax. My dreams become confused, and I dream over and over again, about what will happen on the 4th June.
There are basically two different dreams. In one of them I am driving to the graveyard, when my car breaks down. I try to fix it, but cannot. So I abandon the car, and start to walk. Although in real life I know exactly how to get to the graveyard, in my dream I become hopelessly lost. I am walking through streets I don’t recognize, going round and around in circles. I ask people where the graveyard is but no one has ever heard of it. The hours begin to pass, and I begin to panic that I won't make it. By the time I get there she will have come and gone…I will miss her! I become more and more desperate. I start to run, faster and faster, but I get nowhere. A f
eeling of dread permeates the dream, and eventually I break down in tears in a street I do not recognize.
As I am standing in the middle of the street, I look up and I suddenly find myself in front of the gates to the graveyard. A car is coming out of the entrance, and as it passes me I see the faces of Nicole and Keira peering out of the windows from the back seat. Sarah is driving the car. And another man is sitting in the passenger seat. I hear Nicole shout at the man, and the words "Daddy, please can I have an ice-cream?" come through the window.
Daddy?
But the man in the front seat is not your daddy… I am!
I try to wave the car down, but I cannot move. My body is frozen solid, like the statues on the tube when time slows down. As the car sweeps past me, Nicole and Keira press their faces against the windows and make a face at me. They do not recognize me.
And then the car is gone.
I always wake up sweating, the bed drenched through, and twice I have had actual tears rolling down my cheeks.
Once, Jane is sitting on my bed, watching me.
"Who is Sarah?" she asks when I open my eyes. "Please tell me…"
--------------------
The other dream is altogether much more pleasant. I drive right into the graveyard in my car…which curiously enough is my old car, the trusty Ford Mondeo, …and park near Sarah's mother's grave. Sarah is already there. Her back is turned to me, but as I get out of the car and walk towards her, she turns, sees me and smiles.
We rush towards each other, hug, kiss, and make love.
I prefer the second dream.
--------------------
Give credit where credit is due, and praise those that deserve it. That's my maxim.
So, in all this time, why haven't I personally contacted John, the taxi-driver that showed me such a friendly helping hand on my big 'C' day?
No excuses.
But today, I'm going to rectify the situation. Something has come up, that could just be the way to say thanks.
Breezing into reception, surprisingly happy and chirpy, June 4th only one week away, I walk up to Alice behind the reception desk, and greet her with my best smile.
"Morning wonderful. How are you today?"
"Good. And you? And what do you want?" she says, cocking her head to one side, a playful smile on her lips.
"Oh, nothing. Just wanted to see how you were." I protest.
"Rubbish. I know you. I'm Alice, remember. So, what do you want?"
"Okay, okay. Can you remember last year I gave you the card of a taxi-driver, and asked you to use him as much as possible? Have you used him at all?"
"John? Yes. Lots. He's very reliable, and very popular. Richard likes him especially. Why?"
"Good to hear, but it doesn’t surprise me. Can you do your best to get him for me this morning. I need to go up to Hyde Park. Anytime between 10 and 11am. Just let me know when, but try to make sure it is him."
--------------------
At 10.32 am I walk out of the office and get into the back of John's cab. John turns around when I climb in, and starts to say "Hyde Park, Marble Arch end or Buckingham Palace end?", but when he sees my face, he bursts into a broad smile.
"Morning, guv’nor…Excuse me for saying so, but don't I know you?"
"Yes, you do. Morning John. About eight months ago you came to my aid when I was throwing up outside Waterloo, and you took me to Canary Wharf, and then up to Portman Square?"
"Yes…Yes.. Now I remember. Hey, you look a lot better today than the last time I saw you," he replies, already driving down to the Seven Dials monument and turning towards Tottenham Court Road. "How are you?"
"Fine. Very good in fact."
"Sorry, I can’t remember your name, but you've remembered mine. What is it, mate?"
"James."
"James. Say, James, do you work at Cohen's then?"
"Yes, I do."
"Right…Now the penny's beginning to drop. You wouldn't have anything to do with all the business I've been getting from them, would you?"
"Maybe, maybe not. I just gave your card to our receptionist and asked her to use you whenever we could. You seemed very reliable to me, and from what I hear, you are."
"Thanks mate. It's amazing. Cohen's have practically adopted me, and I get lots of calls. A lot of business. You guy's sure do spend a lot on taxis. But how come I haven't seen you at all then?"
"Oh, these days I mostly go by tube. It's much quicker." I reply, but move quickly on. "John, do you mind me asking, do you work for yourself, or for a company, or taxi-firm?"
"I used to. But when they changed the taxi license laws, way back then, I bought my own black cab, and nowadays drive for myself. Hence the card…"
"Good. I thought so. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Listen John, I can't explain why, but that day when you came to see if I was okay at Waterloo, and the way you showed genuine concern for me afterwards, it really meant something to me. I, …let's just say, I was going through a pretty bad patch then. Things weren't exactly going well for me that day. You could say, in fact, that it seemed as if my world had just come to an end…Anyway, the thing is, you did me a big favour and showed me some real human kindness at a time I really needed it…so I want to thank you. The point is, Cohen’s is an advertising, PR and marketing agency, and next month we are running a full page ad in the Sunday Times. It's already paid for, along with the cost of the artwork, although that has not been created yet. The only thing is the customer who paid for it has just gone bust. It looks like the space is just going to be wasted."
John is listening. I have his attention.
"So… since I owe you a big favour, I was thinking maybe that I could run an ad for you?"
"What do you mean?" he asks, sounding a little nervous.
"I mean a full page ad in the Sunday Times, saying anything you want it to say. How about something like: 'Need a friendly taxi? Reliable. Discreet. Respectable rates. Call the Personal Cab Company on blah blah blah', or something like that. Or anything else you want it to say. It’s your ad.. So you tell us what to print and we'll do it. The way I see it, this is your chance to get a lot of business, maybe even start your own company, or just do it for a laugh, if nothing else. The thing is, the space is going to go to waste, so I thought you might want it?"
"Are you serious? It's not April the First is it?" he laughs.
"Totally serious. All you have to do is say yes, and then come into our office next week, and tell us what wording you want in the ad and we'll do the graphics and the layout for you for free."
"You're not kidding?"
"Nope."
"Blimey…"
It's the first time I've heard him speechless. That's a first. A taxi driver with nothing to say.
Chapter Forty Five
Sarah
.
I wake up early on the 4th June, both excited and scared.
Today is the day.
If Sarah turns up at her mother's grave, and we meet, the path of my future in this world will change. Either for good, or for bad. And the latter is not something that I can contemplate.
But, if she doesn’t come today, then I am destined to wait for another whole year, another 365 days of thinking, wondering, hoping. My life on hold for another twelve months.
For now though, there is only one possibility that I focus on. Sarah will be there.
It is a Tuesday, and officially the office believes I am on a speculative visit to a new client. My mobile will be switched off. I will not be contactable.
I arrive at the graveyard at 8.55 am. The gates open at 9.00 am. On the way over, I stop at the flower seller in the middle of Surbiton High Street, and buy several bunches of flowers, including one of irises.
Last night, I put several garden tools into the back of my car, and when the cemetery gates open, I drive close to my father’s grave, unload my tools, and slowly start to clean up the plot, cut the grass, and do anything I can around the grave to drag out the
time: I don't want to be arrested for loitering with intent, so I need some reason to be here for as long as it takes.
All the while, I am keeping a keen eye out for anyone approaching Sarah's mother's grave, which is only about twenty yards away.
By eleven o'clock, it's starting to get really warm, and I strip off down to a t-shirt. I take another break, probably my third so far, and pour myself a cup of tea from my flask.
By three o'clock, I've had eight breaks, have eaten all my Mark's and Spencer's sandwiches, drunk all my tea, and I'm in imminent danger of completing everything I can think of doing around my dad's grave. One thing's for certain, it's got to be the cleanest grave in London.
Who Stole My Life? Page 36