Quantum Poppers (17 page)

‘She’ll be
alright though won’t she?’

‘As best as can
be. She’ll blame it on something, come up with some excuse. I don’t know what.
She has no choice other than to accept the situation. But that’s not important.
What is important is that you believe. That, and you noticing the state of the
driver’s window.’

Looking again
Tony could see that the previously smashed window was back in one piece. The
woman walked around her car in a state of shock before getting back in behind
the wheel, oblivious to the increasing hoots and frustrated looks given to her
as cars passed by. So the car was not the exact same one, but really one on a different
strand of time? It sort of made sense. His wanting to believe was growing
towards acceptance by a selection of events that couldn’t be explained any
other way. If Bartley really was insane, then so too was Tony. The window,
coupled with the look of confusion in the woman’s eye before she had
disappeared in front of him, almost cemented his belief. The fact that a third
person had been brought in added a reality which was outside of Bartley’s
control. The woman who had vanished was real. Her look was real. That she now
sat across from them looking scared and with no doubles in sight almost put
Tony in the position of acceptance. There was just one more thing. He turned to
Bartley.

‘I still
haven’t asked the most obvious question of all.’

‘I was waiting
for this.’

‘Can I? I’m
guessing there are plenty of reasons why I couldn’t.’

‘Can you go
back and retrieve your friend from the past?’

Bartley looked
over Tony’s shoulder towards the subject. He too turned and watched as she
pulled slowly away. The traffic gave sporadic blasts of their horns as she
turned right onto Bute Street and out of sight. Tony turned back to face
Bartley.

‘You’re right.
You can’t. If you left the quantum plain to any strand in the past where she
was alive then that would be a ghost. It would look, act, and to all intents
and purposes be her but it would still be a shadow. Anti-matter. It is not
possible to bring her back. We cannot pop shadows, just the actual self.
Whenever you went back you would only see the quantum shadow, nothing more.
Besides, even if it was possible, whatever you may think – what was her name?’

‘Emma.’

‘Emma was
always destined to die when she did. No one could have changed that. Plus,
bringing someone back to the quantum plain who was already dead - admittedly
we’ve never done it, and never will - but it couldn’t be a good thing. That is
a prime candidate for contamination.’

‘I know it
would just be her shadow, but I need to see her one last time. If you want me
to believe and help in saving the universe, that’s the least you can do.’

They stared at
each other. The wealth of information imparted on him was suddenly muffled by
the potential of seeing her one last time. And if Bartley really could grant
that wish, then there would truly be no reason with which to doubt him.

With a frown,
Bartley said: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The undergrowth
tore through John’s jeans like jagged claws attempting to keep him at bay.
Rogue twigs tried to blind him as he pushed them forward to make enough room to
pass, just to be struck in the back of the head by them as he let go. This
physical harm seemed rather fitting for his journey home. The mental anguish of
what had happened to him had not quite been accepted, but he had learned to
live with it for the short term. And now, as he drew nearer to home, this final
barrier of pain came as relief; penitence to any past transgressions he may
have partook and one final hurdle he needed to endure before the safety offered
by the place he called home.

This he knew to
be bollocks. How could home ever offer sanctuary again? Even if the
disappearance of his double was a permanent fixture, surely Bartley would be
back. They must know where he lived - probably knew every detail about him.
There would always be that nagging doubt in his mind that he could never relax
and believe the mess of his life had been left in the past. Like a drilling
parasite it would gnaw at his conscious and never let go. And even if Bartley
arrived to give closure, and a half felt apology if not an explanation, things
would never be the same. He was a kidnap victim, hadn’t seen his wife and kids
for over a year, had no clue where he worked or how any other aspects of his
life had transpired over the past twelve months. There was no chance of
stepping back into this life and continuing as if nothing had happened. As far
as Caroline knew he had only been missing these past two weeks; he’d worry
about how to negotiate that particular hurdle when required.

After his
meeting with Kerry, he had spent the night in a bed and breakfast in Central
London, finishing off his depleting funds in one final transaction. It had been
a night peppered with sleep. Whenever he did manage to drop off he was haunted
by dreams of corridors and lifts opening to reveal a mirror image of himself.
Each time he would reach out to touch this man before waking up moments before
connection.

The journey
south was at least something he didn’t need to worry about financially.
Southern rail may have charged ridiculously high rates for tickets, but
wherever this money went it certainly wasn’t paying for cleaners, security, or
ticket inspectors; something John used to hate, but now found the freedom to
jump the train and exit only minutes from his house as a luxury to finally
appreciate.

As he had drawn
nearer to home, dragged towards the inevitable, he envisioned battalions of
unmarked police cars, the media, and crowds of people flooding his front garden
and the streets. There would be questions, some in order to get the scoop of
his story and others to clear up his kidnap litigation, and it all directed by
one man: Bartley Robinson.

Brooking Lane
was a turning off of the busy Manor Road, but it itself was relatively quiet.
It was as if a magical force barred all noise (and 90% of the traffic) from
penetrating the lane. From half a mile he could tell that the envisioned crowds
were nowhere to be seen. But it was time to play things safe. A couple of cars
were parked near his house. They were no doubt the neighbour’s, and whilst he
didn’t recognise them (admittedly from a hefty distance), a lot of things could
have changed in a year. His neighbour, Graham, could finally have upgraded his
Micra, and that teenage kid across the street, the one who seemed to go nowhere
without a skateboard and a stereo, may finally have joined the automobile
revolution and purchased a car - meaning his dad had given in and bought it for
him.

But he couldn’t
take that chance. Someone had to be watching this place, and even if it turned
out to be wishful thinking on John’s part - that he was involved in something
on a larger scale - he could not risk the chance of being captured once again,
not so near to home. He’d have to find a back way in, and the only way he could
think of was through the bramble bush.

Growing up he
had been blessed with a large garden. It was at least 150 feet long and
extended out of sight beyond bordering bushes and fences. It even continued out
beyond the family’s rarely used shed. As far as his parents were concerned the
garden ended at the strawberry patch where a knee high white privet fence had
been erected along the back to signify the boundary of the garden. But it was
what lay beyond that fascinated John. Beyond the fence was a plain of gravel a
metre wide used for dumping plant pots and storing their rusted wheelbarrow,
its upturned black tire still rotated in the wind on particularly stormy
nights. Behind this was a barrier consisting of six-foot high mulberry bushes,
and behind that a ditch. This crossed along the backs of all his neighbour's
gardens, leading west towards the old Frankton woods where it opened up into a
small lake known mostly for its foul smell and the fattest ducks south of
Teyminster. At the back of John's house though, and as it continued east, it
was no more than a sludge-filled track about two feet deep and three across. To
his parents it was an eyesore, something unfortunate you ignored. Luckily the
vast garden which preceded it buried the ditch to obscurity. They could put up
with it as they never had to see it. John on the other hand was fascinated.
This hidden path figuratively led to brave new worlds. Despite threats from his
dad (Bob Johnson had always been against any sort of fun) John would often
sneak down for a look and follow it either east or west as far as he could go.
West eventually opened out into to the woods whilst east, after only six
houses, got so clogged with brambles and weeds that it was impossible to
continue. Only his imagination could conceive what lay beyond this dark and
meandering track. The thought of its history and its potential to worlds of
fantasy fascinated him. It was a road that led to wherever his imagination
could take him. This small piece of history and adventure at the end of the
garden was the coolest thing you could possibly wish for. It was even worth
playing there despite the harsh words of his parents once he returned to the
house, complete with wellington boots caked in what he hoped was thick mud.

And then, when
he and Caroline were searching for their first home together, it had been a
similar attraction which caught his attention. He pretended that it was the
close proximity to schools and spacious driveway that was why he wanted the
house, and hadn’t told Caroline that it was really the hidden path that
stretched its way along the back of the garden through brambles and thickets.
If they ever had kids then he would let them explore, free of all the derision
and complaints he had received from his own parents.

Perhaps there
were cars now outside the front door. Perhaps Bartley and his crew had rigged
up cameras and other security systems. But he had to get in, and the only way
he could think of was through the secret back path which Jessica and Jennifer
never spoke of, but which he knew they too found a fascinating pathway to all
their own unexplored adventures.

He pushed
another six-foot weed out of his face and stepped over fallen branches that
almost appeared purposefully set as traps to ensnare trespassers. Like his
childhood ditch, this forgotten path also ran parallel to the back of his and
his neighbour’s house, opening either end into Magnolia Crescent. He passed the
back of the Morely’s place and finally reached his own. A wooden gate, again
hidden by thickets and barely held upright by one rusty hinge, swung open into
the garden. He appeared from the shadows under the mid afternoon sun which
peaked from its own hiding place of thickening clouds.

It was good to
be home. He took a moment to take it all in. The sight was foreign to him.
Someone else had lived here, in his place. Memories that were not his own had
been conceived here which tainted the air. Life had continued without him. But
it was still his home. The garden, a lot shorter than his childhood’s, remained
unchanged. A child’s tricycle lay on its side by the shed which he and Caroline
had erected four months into moving. The washing line swung in the breeze,
naked but for a peg bag. A trestle of various plants grew along the eastern
fence. Caroline had purchased the bag of seeds but it was he who had spent too
many evenings after work, mud up to his elbows, planting, maintaining, and
watering them. Thankfully these memories could never be taken away and it was
these which drove into him the belief that this was where he belonged.

He approached
the house, always vigilant for movement in the peripheral of his vision.
Caroline should be home, and the kids should be at school and he, whoever that
exactly was right now, would have been at work if not missing himself. If there
were signs of anyone else then he was prepared to flee.

He crossed the
patio and peered through the doors, cupping his hands to block out his
reflection. There had been minor changes. The sofa and TV remained but a new
coffee table, complete with empty purple bowl was new, and various toys were
piled up by the far wall. He couldn’t have remembered all his kid's toys but
some of them certainly seemed recent additions, further confirmation that a
semblance of life had continued without him. He paused, taking in the enormity
of his situation, and with one final flash of a memory of Bartley and the
prison in which he had been held he knocked upon the patio door. A weakness had
strode over him and he could barely hear the knock. He breathed deeply and
knocked again, this time loud enough to rouse whoever may be within.

He could sense
her approaching by the shift in the light that shone into the lounge. From his
position he could see the black tiled kitchen floor, and the first glimpse he
caught of her in over a year was reflected in those tiles as she hesitantly
strode forward. The reflection slowed as it neared the lounge and John realised
why; it wasn’t often people knocked on your patio doors at two-thirty in the
afternoon. He willed her forward. She peered into the lounge to see John
standing on the patio, still dressed in week old clothes, but at least freshly
shaven that morning. But it wasn’t his physical appearance she would be
questioning. He would have as many questions to answer as he would have to ask,
and he wondered exactly what she was reading within his eyes. He couldn’t tell
by her look whether it was anger or relief to see her husband finally returned
- knowing her it would be both. She had relaxed at seeing that her visitor
wasn’t a stranger and approached the patio doors. She was wearing a bathrobe
and her hair was damp as though she had just got out of the shower. She still
wore the white slippers which were two sizes too large and to John’s great
surprise could even see the years worth of ageing she had done over the last
twelve months. Her blonde hair stuck close to her face and he had an urge to
touch her lips with his own. How could he have ever have strayed with Kerry?
Everything he needed was under this very roof. And for now, all appeared
welcoming within.

‘John, where
the hell have you been?’ Relief filled her words yet the stern tone of her
voice indicated that anger was simmering, he needed to get this under control
and quickly. She opened the doors and reached out to hug him; his reflection in
the glass vanished.

‘I’m here,’ he
said, assuring himself that this was real and that all which had come before
had been a dream. He really was home; John Johnson, back where and with the
people he belonged. ‘I’m here.’

‘Where have you
been?’ They broke apart - he still outside on the patio, her on the raised step
of the house looking down on him.

‘Here.’ Again
he spoke mostly to himself, uncaring whether or not Caroline heard. His
nonsensical words no longer mattered, all that mattered was his final
connection with the woman he loved. ‘Can I come in?’ This he asked directly and
as he spoke he realised how much of a stranger he was in his own home. It
wasn’t natural to ask his wife whether he could enter, even after two apparent
weeks of being missing. He was a stranger here. The first signs that he didn't
quite belong begun seeping in like poisonous fumes.

‘Of course, of
course. But please John, tell me everything. What happened? How could you do
this to us?’

Caroline
stepped back and allowed John to enter. The one overriding certainty before he
finally had to explain himself was: it was good to be home. Whether this air of
being a stranger would continue or not, he was home, and it felt good.

‘It’s all me,
it’s all my fault. I never meant to scare you or the kids. You know I’d never purposefully
hurt you.’

‘So, you were
taken against your will?’

‘Of course not.
I’ve done some crazy stuff in my life and I suppose I just needed to get away
and clear my head. Rest and return to you a whole new man.’

‘What are you
talking about?’

‘I wish I
knew,’ he said and reached out, touching his wife on the shoulder as if this
gesture answered everything. ‘How are the kids?’

‘How do you think?
They've missed their dad. For the first few days they seemed to accept your
disappearance. We all know this wasn’t the first time. But, come on, we hadn’t
heard a thing, and you still haven’t explained where you’ve been?’

‘They missed me
though right?’

‘Of course they
did. They love their dad. You didn’t do all this as a test to see if they, and
me, would miss you did you?’

‘Of course
not,’ said John. Although the fact filled him with the one positive notion that
had come from his capture: proof, as if it were needed, that the people he
loved, loved him in return.