Quantum Poppers Page 2

  'Harry? Harry Ellis?'

  'That’s right. My colleague said you wished to speak to me about...'

  'Harry Ellis. Here now.' This was almost a question. Harry and Steve exchanged a glance.

  'Yes, here now. In the flesh. How can I help you?'

  The man then smiled and shrugged off his apparent stunned demeanour with a laugh. 'How can you help me?' he repeated. 'Harry, I am here to help you. Is there somewhere we can go to talk, in private?'

  'Who are you? Has something happened to Claire? To Daisy?'

  'No. They’re fine, and they'll be fine. Can we please go and talk somewhere in private?'

  'Does it have to be? Anything said in this store can be said freely in front of Steve.'

  The man once again came close to a laugh, further attempting to shake free the awkward air between them. 'To be honest, no, it doesn’t have to be. At least, I don’t think so.'

  'Steve,' said Harry without taking his eyes from the man. 'Go out back and check off that delivery we received this morning of printer equipment.'

  'But it’s been signed off...'

  'Steve, go out back.'

  Without a word he left, his footsteps fading down the corridor, no doubt headed to the kitchen.

  'Thank you,' said the man. He approached the counter. 'I don’t usually make chit chat, but how are you feeling?'

  'How am I feeling?'

  'Yes. Disjointed? Somehow...removed? You have no idea how unique your situation is.'

  'I’m afraid if you have nothing to ask about electronic consumables then I will have to ask you to leave. If you must know, it was a long night, very tiring.'

  'I see.' The man reached into his jacket pocket. 'A long night. Quite the opposite I would suggest.'

  He then pulled out a device. Harry couldn’t quite make it out but it looked like an oversized and complex calculator with a larger than normal display. The man himself, on second looks, appeared to be as out of place as the device he now held. The head of thick black hair and wrinkle-free face gave Harry the impression that he must have been about his own age, but he somehow looked haggard. It was a combination of the oversized raincoat he was wearing and the ever so slight stoop to the man’s shoulders. Most of all it was the eyes. Whilst the rest of him could have got away physically as a mid-thirties male specimen, it was clear, even to Harry, someone with nary a psychological bone in his body, that it housed an aged soul. The weariness of the eyes appeared tired as he typed something into the device he now held.

  'Are you selling those? Is that why you’re here?'

  The man returned a stern look. He held the device up to his mouth and began speaking into it. He stepped back into the centre of the shop, twisting a dial as if trying to get a better signal. 'This is Bartley Robinson,' he said, keying information into the device.

  'What is that?' asked Harry and began to step around from the counter for a better look.

  '24791,' he continued. 'Subject plus 5.2 hours from plain. I repeat, that’s plus 5.2 hours from plain. Signal found.'

  'I have never seen one of them before. Some sort of mobile PDA device?'

  'Sort of.' He inputted a few more commands. 'Subject Harry Ellis. Co-ordinates secure, signal strong.'

  A hum had been building within the room, so gradual that Harry only noticed it had been there now that it had stopped.

  'What’s happening?' asked Harry. Suddenly the computers, mice and CDs appeared to lose definition. The floor, the ceiling, all life outside the windows began to noticeably blur, as if viewed through a camera losing focus. It was everything in fact, except himself and the man now stepping further away.

  'Don’t worry, everything will be fine.' He keyed in one final command.

  'What are you doing?'

  The man looked at him. 'Quantum popping.'

  Harry's world grew bright. All sound was sucked away to a point of clarity and all that was unfocussing around him glowed a brilliant white. A sensation of his own being collapsing was strong until it was finally cut short as the other man vanished. All went dark. And silent.

  But was that the pert-pop-princess echoing just out of reach...

  The sun was scything through the room like lasers shot from the slats of the blind. He stared directly at it as he sat bolt upright in bed - the way they only ever seem to do in the movies. He breathed deeply, registering the alarm clock flick over to 7.21 whilst playing out a song coincidentally similar to the one of which he had dreamt. To his left stirred Daisy. The song grew steadily louder as Daisy reached out an arm, virtually rolling on top of him in order to carry out his usual role for the morning - smacking the snooze button, hard.

  'Come on hun, you’re usually quicker than that,' she said before letting out an enormous yawn and rolling out of bed.

  Harry watched her in silence as she crossed the room. Conflicting thoughts warred in his mind - those about heightened reality dreams crumbling in an instant. Visions of a morning routine already played out were collapsing upon foundations as that of a dream. Yet there was a face...a man so vivid, but at the same time so ghostly. It faded to a bright white light. A slipper landed in his lap, he looked up to see Daisy leaving the room. 'Time to wake up.'

  He stretched and got out of bed more wide awake than he'd ever felt at 7.25 before. Deja vu tore at him as he headed for the bathroom. Every day may well have seemed exactly the same but this sentiment was truer than usual today. Perhaps it was the dream, both vivid and faded. No, unfocussed was the word that best matched the world he had inhabited whilst asleep last night.

  The bathroom blinds were pulled. He had no intention of opening them even slightly, not wanting a stark look at his reflection. As he crossed the room the notion that something wasn’t quite right intensified, even the wooden seagull perched on the side of the bath appeared to follow him with an ominous gaze. This is ridiculous, thought Harry. He turned on the cold tap, gave himself a fleeting glimpse in the mirror before splashing handfuls of bitingly cold water into his face. It was a welcoming sting. With both hands clasped either side of the sink he allowed himself to stare at his reflection. Beads of water trickled down his face, matted by wet black hair. He smiled at himself, even managed a small laugh. Dreams were dreams and wooden seagulls never gave ominous looks. He wiped a sheen of water from his face as in the reflection, slowly pacing by the open door, walked Claire. She said nothing, just passed by with her shoulders slumped, wrapped in a black robe. Harry watched her pass within the mirror and heard her solemn steps descend the stairs. The rising smell of bacon and eggs took her place on the upper floor.

  He paused now by the landing window. The morning sun was still bright which brought with it streams of subconscious that woke forgotten memories and a nagging repetition of how real his dream had been. He took a few more steps down before what he heard triggered deja vu so strong it almost knocked him off his feet. The kitchen door stood ajar and Harry clasped the banister for some physical connection to root him to the here and now.

  'I can guess,' he heard over the sounds of the morning’s routines. The words came to him upon clouds of grilled bacon and fried egg.

  'Well then,' replied Claire.

  'Well what,' said Daisy.

  'Do I have to?'

  Harry sat down. Buried images came into focus, flooding his mind like a tidal wave. The most distinctive being that of a man and some sort of device Harry had not been able to make out.

  'Have to go to school,' he heard his wife and daughter say. He stood and made his way to the kitchen door. A conversation, which at some level he had already heard, continued to play out. He watched Claire, whose exaggerated expression of gloom heightened the aura that all was not well. With a hesitant hand he pushed the kitchen door open.

  '...I made you go on the one day you actually enjoyed.'

  'No I won’t,' said Claire. She stared down at the breakfast as he looked at his own waiting to be devoured. But he couldn’t move. First Claire glanced up, and then Daisy turned to see Harry
staring vacantly at his fried eggs.

  'Hun, everything ok?'

  'I say something about slippers now,' he said, his eyes not off of the breakfast.

  'Pardon?'

  'And something about not going to work.'

  'Are you ok?' Daisy stood.

  Harry glanced around the kitchen. The feeling that all this was a dream grew strong; he needed to clasp something substantial to anchor him to its reality. A fear that all around him was somehow not secure, and ready to fade to white at any time, intensified. His breathing grew heavier, he gripped the kitchen counter tightly.

  'Darling, you’re scaring me,' said Daisy.

  She began to approach him as Harry whispered one last fragment that had now excavated itself from his dream. 'Quantum popping,' he whispered.

  Chapter 3

  The room glowed a warm shade of orange, as though it were viewed through a veil of honey, muting all colours to a natural hue accentuated by the roaring fire. Shelves of books walled the study, most bound in brown and green leather, which coupled with the oak furnishings heightened the aura of earthy tones within which Dixon sat. Two large oak chairs, throne-like yet cushioned (comfort was still an important factor within his sanctuary), faced the warming glow of the fireplace; there was no television within the room to face the furniture towards as so many others would do.

  Dixon raised the glass of whiskey to his lips and took a minuscule sip of the burning liquid. Eleanor would not let his supply drop too low. This was his room - a place to sit and think and be alone - but he would never stop his wife from maintaining the alcohol supply, especially that of his treasured 1965 Bowmore. No matter what was on his mind, or the reason for needing solitude in this particular room, a dash of the old liquor slicker always smoothed the jagged edges of his thoughts.

  The fire spat shards of wood against the grill. Dixon stood and crossed the room, hunched beneath the weight and worry of age. He stoked the fire, enraging the beast, and looked into the settling flames. It wasn’t just for himself he was making the room a comfortable 72°F; his guest would be offered ultimate comfort for alleviating some of the stresses that had burdened him for enough of his years. His golden robe, another gift of Eleanor’s, sparkled against the flames, as did his crown-like halo of silver hair. He was physically at ease for the inevitable news his guest was sure to bring and took one more sip of his drink to calm the dark thoughts it would no doubt ignite.

  The doorbell chimed throughout the house and he heard murmurs of Eleanor greeting their guest from down the corridor. Dixon closed his eyes as the approaching footsteps grew louder, as did the ongoing thoughts that it all - everything that was happening and ultimately would happen - was his fault. There was a knock at the door and he called for his visitor to enter.

  ‘Bartley,’ said Dixon. He stood, weakened arms pushing him out of his chair. Even the simplest aspects of life such as this required that extra effort these days. The door opened inward and Bartley stood framed, hesitant of foot but an expression not hard to read. His mouth formed a smile; the eyes told of hidden agendas.

  ‘Dixon,’ he said. ‘It's great to see you.’

  ‘It's been too long. Come in, come in. Take a seat, I’ll pour the drinks.’

  ‘Nothing for me thanks.’

  Without hesitating Dixon began to fill the empty glass. ‘We both know you don’t mean that. We’ll definitely be needing one by now I presume.’

  Bartley nodded and approached the vacant chair. It looked almost alive as its leather sheen rippled in the fire’s glow.

  ‘How long has it been? Three, four years?’ asked Dixon. He passed Bartley the extra large helping of whiskey.

  ‘Almost five.’

  ‘To the future,’ said Dixon, raising his glass in toast.

  ‘I’ll stick to the present for now,’ replied Bartley. They chinked glasses that broke part of the portentous atmosphere Bartley had brought in the room with him. As Dixon took a sip from his drink he could not help shake the realisation that this heavy atmosphere had already been here waiting for him.

  ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘Quite a place you’ve got here,’ said Bartley as they both sunk into the double arms of the chairs.

  ‘Our line of work did pay rather well. I suppose there had to be some advantages to our service.’

  ‘We no longer refer to it as a service,’ said Bartley. ‘Service implies we have a choice.’

  It was Dixon’s turn to remain silent. He nodded, drank and watched the ever-changing patterns of flame mutate behind the grill.

  ‘Eleanor looks well,’ said Bartley.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dixon, a memory being triggered. ‘That would have been the last time you were actually here.’

  ‘The wedding, yes.’

  ‘She was certainly worth the wait.’ He savoured the thought whilst searching a name. ‘Catherine wasn’t it?’

  ‘That came to an end.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Worth a try I suppose.’

  ‘Relationships are always worth a try. I often wish I’d tried settling down with Eleanor earlier. But we both know that wouldn’t have worked. I’m jealous you even tried settling down at your age.’

  ‘Wasn’t meant to be, I suppose I’ll have to wait until my own retirement before I attempt that elusive settling down.’

  Both men nodded and acknowledged what didn’t need to be said. If Bartley made it to retirement age, at least thirty or forty years from now, then they would have been extremely lucky.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’ said Bartley. Both men made direct eye contact and Dixon rested his drink upon the table before him, the only sounds were the crackling flames, like distant gunfire shot in erratic bursts. Dixon noticed the white of Bartley's knuckles as they grew tighter around the glass. Dixon nodded.

  ‘Glad you got that drink now?’

  ‘Definitely. We haven’t stopped for a second. You don’t have to worry about that. We do what we do and draw closer to an event I don't think we can stop. The threat’s more real than ever.’

  ‘The threat is avoidable, just keep reading the signs.’

  ‘I think we reached that sign - neon emblazoned. Point of no return.’

  ‘Someone went forward.’ Dixon had almost turned this into a question but before he finished speaking knew it was undeniable fact.

  ‘Someone went forward.’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘Irrelevant. He was spotted the usual way, retrieved by myself. As far as he’s aware all is back to normal. I’m sure he’s a little disorientated but that’s the least of our worries for now.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘That plain?’

  Dixon nodded, nobody had connected to a plain the way Bartley now had. As far as they knew, one had never even existed before.

  ‘Stable. Subject’s readings were normal. But this indicates we are growing closer to...something.’

  ‘Something,’ said Dixon. ‘That is an understatement.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we're all aware of the severity this represents.’

  ‘I know you are, I just wish we had a clearer idea of what this something that causes so much disruption could be.’

  The two men resumed their drinks and Bartley joined Dixon in staring at the unpredictable patterns and formations the ever-changing fire was portraying. As the fire died and the drinks were drained they talked of missions passed.

  The regret of how their work and responsibilities had taken over their lives was kept to a minimum. Dixon and Eleanor were finally happy; Bartley did what he needed to do. Despite the two hours Bartley remained, he managed to make his drink last. He would after all be driving and they both realised that the alcohol was simply a loosener of tongues; when they got started, lives, memories, and events to come flowed freely between the two.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s got so late,’ said Bartley. He looked at his watch. There were no clocks within the room. As a matter
of principle Dixon kept timekeeping at a minimum, there were only clocks where his wife necessarily needed them.

  ‘Time to go?’

  ‘Always.’ Bartley stood and Dixon slowly joined him. He held out a hand.

  ‘It's been good to see you,’ said Dixon. ‘Whatever the circumstances.’

  They shook, but it soon instinctively turned into an embrace. Dixon was dragged into the open arms of the man which so much rested on. He sensed chocked breaths close to his ear.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ said Dixon. ‘Everything is meant to be.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ They broke apart. ‘I promise I won’t leave it another five years. And I won’t come baring apocalyptic news.’

  Both men chuckled at this. It was all they could do faced with such genuine possibilities.

  An hour later, Dixon headed up to bed. He had sat alone in silence. The fire had all but died and the absence of a ticking clock had been notable now that Bartley had mentioned it. He had finished his second drink and after much internal debate over what must be done he headed to bed. He concluded that ultimately, not much could be. The right man was now in charge and as he said: everything really was meant to be.

  Eleanor was already in bed by the time he had donned his pyjamas and got under the covers. She put down her book (her good book, as she called it, she only read good books) and looked at him over her reading glasses. She couldn’t hide the reluctance at wanting an update, as if it were the last thing she needed to hear before sleep.

  ‘Will everything be ok?’ she asked as he sidled up to her. The warmth of her body beneath her nightclothes invigorated him more than the alcohol.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Please, tell me I’ve made the right decisions through life.’

  ‘You have made the right decisions. You’re here now, with me, it worked out for us.’

  ‘What about everybody else?’

  She removed her glasses and kissed him on the lips. He held her hand.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you to.’