Quantum Poppers Read online




  Quantum Poppers

  by

  Matthew Reeve

  Copyright © Matthew Reeve 2013

  The Author asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work, not to have this work altered in a prejudicial way and not to have authorship of this work falsely attributed.

  @MetaNyne

  Quantum Poppers

  A PW publication: 2013

  All rights reserved

  By the same author:

  Hammerton

  The Slaughter at Badge Hall Gardens

  Hatman

  Candy Cane

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Dixon’s Journal

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 1

  The deluge striking the car vanished as she cut the engine; the Fiesta rumbled to a standstill. With the headlights no longer reflected off of the garage door, all that remained was the sound of rain crashing against metal. It had been dry when she had left Lisa’s house, where the day’s light had lingered later than expected. Now, at 9.45pm, night and rain had doubled up on her to produce a cold black barrier through which to traverse. With one last look at the thunderclouds looming overhead, she ran for the front door, using her handbag as a makeshift umbrella. Within the few feet from car to house she could tell that water had penetrated the bag through the fake leather. She might as well have stuck it up her top to protect its now soaked contents; she herself was as wet as she would have been without it.

  ‘Hi Mum,’ she called, opening the front door and allowing the runoff to pool upon the doormat. She flung her coat over the knob of the banister, dreading to think what all that water was doing to the wood.

  ‘Hi. Nice evening?’ Her mum stood in the kitchen, bathed in light with knife in hand. She was slicing what appeared to be ham, yet processed into a shape she couldn’t make out.

  ‘Yeah, girly chat. TV and boys, the usual stuff.’

  ‘And the results?’

  ‘We love TV. We’re still weighing up the uses of boys. Kristy reckons they’re only put on this earth to test us. Define exactly who we are.’

  ‘Sounds a little deep to me.’

  ‘Yeah, I kind of tuned out. What is that?’ She pointed at the pink slab of meat her mum had laid atop a bed of bread, lettuce and butter.

  ‘The packaging suggests some kind of vehicle; I can’t see it myself.’

  ‘Bobby should be doing that himself. When I was his age…’

  ‘At your age you didn’t want me to. Until he’s eighteen I will do whatever he wants. You may be analysing the use of boys, but the use of mums is to do whatever their children want. Within reason.’

  ‘I hope he appreciates it.’ Her mum shrugged, they both knew her brother would never show it.

  ‘When’s Dad going to be home?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long. I think the recovery and changing time is now longer than the actual games of squash. You off to bed? Shall I send him up?’

  ‘Yes please, just to say good night.’

  ‘He’ll want to hear how the interview went.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to give him the in-depth summary.’

  ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Goodnight Mum.’ She left as the finishing touches were made to Bobby’s lunchtime sandwiches.

  She would have her lay-in in the morning before heading off to college for the three hours she was required to show her face. Won’t need to be out of bed until nine. Still, it was nice to get to bed earlier than usual and would be easy to fall asleep now that the nagging worries of the day’s job interview had passed.

  She headed upstairs towards the muffled sounds and suspicious smells emanating from Bobby’s room. Explosions and gunfire fuelled her brother’s evening viewing, and it would be to this to which she would have to fall asleep. She knocked on his door before opening it enough to peer inside.

  ‘Keep it down.’ Her brother was sat up in bed. The TV was to her right, facing away from her. The volume seemed to increase and she could see the images reflected and doubled in her brother’s glasses. He didn’t move. ‘Turn it down,’ she said, half-heartedly.

  Without taking his eyes off of the screen he pressed the volume button on the remote which lay on his lap. The sounds barely lowered, and she could even see the television vibrate as another explosion rocked the room.

  She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner, stepped back, and closed the door. As she did, a well aimed sock flew through the gap like a guided missile, just missing her, hitting the wall and falling to the floor.

  ‘Idiot,’ she said and pulled the door completely closed with a bang. She kicked the sock against the wall and headed towards the bathroom to clean her teeth.

  It was after 11pm when the door to her room opened to allow in enough light to see the silhouette of her father. The room swam with images from the TV but her mind had switched off and the words were incoherent, no longer connected to the visuals which had hypnotised her to within an inch of sleep.

  ‘Good night sweet pea,’ said her dad.

  ‘Good night,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you want me to turn the TV off?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it in a bit. How was squash?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be aching for six days, then recover in time to play again next week. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Good,’ she said although by this point she could have been dreaming again. The figure let the door close and the sounds and images in the room began to fade as sleep nestled in its claws to drag her down, pinning her physically for another subconscious driven night.

  Chapter 2

  The sound of the year’s pert-pop-princess-of-choice lynched Harry back to reality. This was far from his preferred mode of waking so early in the AM - one brain-stirring step at a time was more his way. Neil the milkman, accompanied by electric hum and clank of glass upon the potholed street, would usually initiate phase one. Harry’s eyes would not always open at this point but the subconscious would be torn from its dreaming void, a place it would gradually have sunk back to around the time phase two initiated. Forty-five minutes after the departing sounds of Neil’s calcium wagon joined the distant drone of singing birds and the occasional over-revved commuter car, the sixty-degree angle of the slatted bedroom blinds matched that of the early rising sun. An instantaneous stream of light cut through the room, illuminating flying dust mites before further dragging Harry away from sleep. However much he screwed up his eyes the light would find him, intensified by the endless reflective surfaces of the bedroom. Usually, by the time 7.30 arrived and the alarm kicked in to allow the partially invited banter of Calm FM’s breakfast DJ to enter the room, Harry was rarely asleep. On cloudy mornings when the light was less penetrative, or when Neil managed to avoid most of the road’s unsightly blemishes, Harry may have been tipping back into a doze - the click of the alarm switching on being all it took to bring him back to life. He would be up, out of bed, and halfway towards an awaiting breakfast before having to face the pleasant music his wife demanded t
hey tuned to.

  Today however, with bright sunlight occupying the room like an intruder, something was different, and whilst he couldn’t pinpoint how he had arrived at this conclusion, something was also most definitely wrong. He had not had his seven hours regulated sleep. Couldn’t have. He knew time had a strange way of playing tricks on the mind, particularly at night, but a groggy shroud blanketed him as he waved his arms blindly in order to bring an end to the processed wailing and rapid beats. He brought his fist down first atop his book, then atop a coffee mug, before it collapsed upon the alarm clock, bringing the sound of electric silence. His groggy shroud grew heavier as he returned to the land of snooze.

  An unusual fourth waking procedure finally roused him. In a fragmented dream, which began to unravel as soon as his eyes closed, he witnessed items falling on top of him. He couldn’t see what they were but they rained either side and all around as he lie prostrate within a vacuum of black. He could almost sense the self in the dream begin to fall asleep when one of the items struck him in the stomach. He was winded and brought back to reality, shooting to an upright position in an instant. That’s when the second item struck: a slipper to the chest. Daisy stood in the direction it had come from, her side of the bed somehow already made and herself now by the bedroom door with an unimpressed look upon her face. She was armed with a third slipper.

  ‘Time to wake up,’ she said, before lobbing the slipper high into the air. She left the room as the radio kicked in once more - this time a boy band proclaiming vague and marketable sentiments. He turned to the radio as the descending slipper struck him on the head. He was certainly awake now.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes dear?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Do you have to what?’

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘You said you knew what?’

  ‘I said I could guess.’

  ‘Well, do I?’

  ‘If what I can guess is what you want then no. If it isn’t then you'll have to tell me won’t you.’

  ‘Do I…’

  ‘…have to go to school?’ Both Daisy and Claire completed the inevitable in unison.

  ‘My guess was right. Who'd have known?’ Daisy broke three eggs into a sizzling pan where splashes of oil exploded in defeated futts. The kettle was boiling and the comforting smell of toasting bagels began to fill the kitchen. On top of this hissed the grilled bacon which by now should be entering the perfect threshold of crispiness. She could sense her daughter’s hard-edged stare piercing the back of her head from the breakfast table. Her bottom lip would be forced out and all willpower aligned to maintain a maximum sulk mode.

  ‘Oh Mum! Nat and Becca's mums aren't making them go to school today. Why do I?’

  The bagels popped from the toaster and Daisy poured out two steaming cups of tea. She turned and gave Claire her morning glass of juice. ‘I doubt their mums are letting them stay at home.’

  The eggs were now done and she began buttering the toast and loading them with the sunny sides up.

  ‘But it’s the last day of term, we won’t do anything anyway.’

  ‘Mores the reason to go.’ Daisy loaded up three plates, flanking the toast with bacon, and placed them at the breakfast table. Claire gave a look as though fried eggs on toast was the last thing she’d be wanting - although Daisy knew Fry-day Friday was one of Claire's favourite times of the week despite the ever-growing frown and down-turned lip. ‘You’ll look back on this day in a few years and thank me when you realise I made you go on the one day you actually enjoyed.’

  ‘No I won’t,’ said Claire who crossed her arms and turned her head away from her mother.

  Daisy was impressed by her daughter’s ability to not let slip any glimpse of a smile through the sulky façade. It was a look she herself had mastered as a child and wouldn’t accept anything less on this bright Friday morning - the eve of a whole forty-two days without school. Claire poked her yoke which bled out across her plate. A look of fascination simmered on her face.

  Daisy could hear Harry's bare feet slapping across the kitchen floor, he kissed the top of her head and fell into the vacated seat where his breakfast waited.

  ‘Morning all,’ he said and took one large mouthful of his cooling tea. ‘Think I might need something a bit stronger after the night I’ve had. Thanks for the wakeup call dear. You should patent your slipper-throwing device. A smack on the head seems to do the trick.’ He yawned, raising his arms wide above his head and arching his back, before rubbing the spot where the slipper had struck.

  ‘You were supposed to catch the last one. Don’t blame me.’

  ‘Not blaming you, it was 2 Cool 4 Pops fault, or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘Cool 2 Pop,’ muttered Claire who kept her head bowed and sulky expression intact.

  ‘That’s it Cool-Co Pops. Distracted me. Something about living every day and loving every night.’ He then took a slice of his toast and stabbed the yolk with its corner. It pulled away leaving a trail of yellow goo connecting egg to toast like a vein. ‘Mum?’ said Harry in an overly sulky tone of his own. He looked to his wife, stuck out his lower lip in perfect mimicry of his daughter and said: ‘do I have to go to work today?’

  Daisy raised an eyebrow and drinking down some of her own morning tea couldn’t help notice the hint of a smile creak across Claire's lips.

  Two hours later, with Claire finally off to school (he wasn’t sure whether it was Natalie’s or Rebecca’s Mum who had taken her today), Harry sat reclined in his office chair, his feet resting on a stacked pillow of Wired magazines and electrical wholesale catalogues. He held in his hands a mug of black coffee that teetered in his lap as heavy eyes began to fall. Neither the heat or the caffeine flowing through him was enough to keep him awake. Sleep crept closer, he felt himself being taken by it. Once more his eyes closed and sleep gripped tighter. Vague dreams of pert-pop-princesses and flying slippers claimed him, each being dwarfed by the next. His mug came close to falling, his subconscious registered this and once more his eyes grew wide. He yawned as sheer disbelief as to how quickly the previous night had sped by flirted with his mind. Nights were only supposed to fly by when you were dreading the oncoming morning (the opposite was true when you actually wanted the next day to dawn), not when all you faced was yet another day assisting the public with which hard drive to purchase. He shuffled in his chair, settling down to make himself even comfier. Sleep came quickly this time. Again he dreamt of a void, himself its only inhabitant. It was comforting yet at the same time he couldn’t shake the notion that he was truly alone. Distant voices were calling. He didn’t belong and someone was beckoning him to return: Harry. There was something else. A physical sensation. He couldn't tell whether his hands were freezing or on fire, they simply stung. Harry. That voice again, not Daisy. Harry, this time it was louder and with it the realisation of the sting.

  'Harry!' He awoke. A splash of coffee spilled onto his hands (thankfully none on to his clothes) and he whipped his feet from the desk. It took a couple of drawn out seconds for him to register where he was. He had never napped at work before, but at least he was in his office, no larger than four phone boxes clamped together, and a Newton’s Cradle playing out its prolonged hypnotic rhythm. He put his mug down on the desk. 'Sorry Harry.'

  At the door stood Steve, a sixteen-year-old robed in the Brewer’s Electrics uniform of black trousers and red t-shirt. He stood half in the office and half out with his left arm across his body touching his right elbow.

  'That's fine,' said Harry. ‘Just resting my eyes.'

  The kid gave a feeble laugh and hovered as to whether or not to enter or exit the room. 'What is it?' asked Harry.

  'There’s someone here to see you.' He stepped out into the corridor.

  'Who?'

  'I didn’
t get a name but he asked for the manager.'

  'What does he want?'

  'I don’t know, but he also asked for you by name.'

  'Ok.' Harry stood. 'Next time, ask these people what they want. You can probably help them yourself if you delve a little deeper.'

  'Yes, sorry.'

  Harry crossed his office as Steve turned to leave.

  'Hang on,' said Harry. 'Is Damien in yet?'

  'Not yet.'

  'So you left your position unattended?'

  'Yes. Sorry.'

  'Steve, Steve, Steve. Never leave your position unattended. This guy could be a decoy for god knows what.'

  'Sorry,’ he hastened his pace along the short corridor before the shop floor honed in to view.

  'These people will take anything these days,' Harry muttered to himself. 'Anything that's not screwed down.'

  Stacks of desktop machines stood like pillars throughout the shop floor, and keyboards bordered the room like a secondary interior wall. Arrangements of joysticks, mice and speakers each stood sentinel around the shop as CDs, hung from string, reflected light like pathetic two-dimensional disco balls. This had been area manager Nigel's idea, something about bringing a futuristic aspect to the shop through the diffraction of light. They were occasionally effective when the sun was in optimum position (about 2pm on extremely bright and cloud free days) but otherwise, like right now, it just looked ridiculous - as though the staff of this electrical supplier hadn’t quite worked out what these reflective discs were actually for. Did these 'experts' not know they weren’t decorations?

  The corridor came out behind the counter and Steve sidled up to the till. He glanced towards a man who stood stationary in the centre of the shop. For a second Harry thought the stranger would collapse. His intent stare took Harry in and he puffed his cheeks as if seeing something he could not quite believe.

  'Can I help you?' asked Harry. The man stood silent and took one hesitant step forward.