Quantum Poppers, page 11
The alley down which he had fled from Bartley, the complex, and the crashing sounds of metal on metal, had opened out into a car park. It was a vast desert in comparison to the close quarters he had been used to - a concrete wasteland bordered with huge signs indicating furniture and electrical discount stores of the nearby shopping estate. He had run. At first the sense that he was being followed was great. Some would have been distracted and caught up in the aftermath of the crash, but most must have seen him flee. The gunshots had stopped as he emerged amongst the public setting of the car park where families out for a weekend shopping trip broke free from their vehicles like butterflies from cocoons. But he could still hear the sound of chasing feet and calls of his name. He had aimed for the most populated area of the shopping estate. It swarmed with cars and trolleys, but he didn’t trust the sanctuary of any shops. Most of the people ignored him; something he wasn’t used to. Constantly being watched had been such a factor of his day-to-day life that the possibility of being relaxed in front of others became a concern. It was also as he passed these people, hurtling down a gap between an electrical store and carpet shop, that he had realised where he was.
As he moved into open space, the rain stopped. At first, whilst captured, the question of where he was being held seemed irrelevant. It had then grown to acceptance that he was far away from home. Notions that he’d been smuggled out of the country were ridiculous (he had remained fully conscious so knew no great distances had been covered) but still, as he fled the back exit of Bressingham Retail Estate he realised he was only twenty-five miles from home. Before him lay the A433, a dual carriageway on which he had driven many times, each time muttering promises to his children and wife that they would one day stop at the Retail Park on a day out. John couldn’t think of a worse thing he would rather do.
He still couldn’t rest to see who was following and with one more jump for the unknown he had fled out into the heavy traffic. He crossed the first two carriages with ease. He hopped over the barrier and saw two suited men about to cross the road after him. He stumbled but got to his feet and continued over the remaining carriages. Knowing where he was brought new vigour to his attempt at escape. Had he really given up all hope only minutes ago and to accept death by jumping those unknown stories? He would kid himself into thinking that he knew all along it was only one story and a jump worth taking. Now though, with renewed hope that he might be able to see his family once more (something he had never wanted so much in his entire life), he strove on. Clarity struck, Bressingham train station was close by and the tracks themselves lay in the field ahead.
The traffic was drowning out any attempt to hear if he was being called and the sound of footsteps could not compete over the roar of the passing vehicles. He scraped through some trees and climbed a sharp embankment before hitting a wire fence. This was all the barrier which separated him from the train track; the path to freedom taunted him through the rusty fence. It was clear that groups of kids hung out around these parts. Probably playing games with their lives by playing chicken with oncoming trains. There were holes along the fence large enough for a grown man to fit through, each marked by beer cans and crisp packets. He passed through and stepped onto the one track. Between Bressingham station to his left and Newham some way to his right, the tracks merged to only one line. He paused for a second and risked a look round. He could not see through the thick trees but had no doubt that his captors were still on his trail. He looked right, knowing his family were out there, but were they waiting for him? They don’t think you’re dead, reverberated around his head. That seemed the obvious route to take, and for that reason he turned left and headed away from home, following the track away from his family and towards the nearer station of Bressingham.
From then on things began getting suspiciously easy. Five more minutes of constant running had brought him to the station. As he drew near he could feel the rumble of an approaching train behind. John jumped off of the track, entered the guard-less station and leapt straight onto the train. He literally dived through the door, as if his life depended on it. He had hit the floor as the doors closed and there had been a silent few seconds as he lay there, staring at the closed door, praying the train would move, expecting any second for suited agents to smash down the door or notify the driver to remain in the station. It wasn't until the train began to move - in the opposite direction to home - that he realised he had been holding his breath. He remained sat on the floor, breathing heavily, his head in his hands, his long straggly hair falling into his eyes.
He stared into the hotel room's mirror, running his hand through his freshly cut hair. The cheap scissors and razor blades had done their job well and he was now looking at a freshly shaven John Johnson, resident of room number forty-two, Holiday Inn, Great Looley.
Money had been his first concern, closely followed by where to stay. He trusted his first instinct in not heading straight home. He was a hunted man; it was pretty obvious where they would search for him first. Lay low and contemplate, that would be his plan. But where? He had been allowed to keep his wallet whilst trapped in the complex; it contained cash, credit cards, a passport picture of his wife (an unfortunately stern look that made him feel guilty whenever he got out his wallet to spend some money) but they had been laying in the dresser draw when he had been summoned to stroll with Bartley. If only he’d had it in his pocket when he had fled then some of his problems would be solved, at least in the short term. He had been on the run, homeless, penniless, and wearing a damp tracksuit that wasn’t going to be getting drier any time soon. He had disembarked the train at Dentom, the penultimate stop in case anyone was waiting for him...seventy miles from home, thirty miles east of London. He had slept rough the first two nights in a shop doorway followed by a subway the next. He begged for change which a surprisingly high amount of people had parted with, he really must have appeared in a desperate state. He had made almost £70 by the third day and blown half of it on food, drink and razor blades, just on the off chance he’d have a moment to tidy up. He had prayed that this would coincide with a warm bed. He was stunned by how quickly the money built up from simply asking people to part with it. He had never given anything to a homeless person himself, often wishing people would give it to him just for asking. And now they were. Within five days he had amassed over £100 from begging and washing cars at five pound a pop – it appeared his luck was changing.
A week later the comfort of a warm bed was a necessity he could no longer live without. He had found a Holiday Inn in the centre of town and booked out a room for two nights. He had managed a haircut and a shave, bought the cheapest set of clothes he could find (thanks to a sale at TopMan) and acted as though he were thoroughly in control of his thought process when checking in. No questions were asked; he paid the hotel money up front and was in.
The burning hot shower he had taken as soon as he got to the room was like a rebirth. He blasted off the scum of the last twelve months whilst tears mixed with the hot flowing water before they too were washed away. That had been the previous night, and now he stood staring at himself in the mirror. All lights were off, and an early rising sun bathed the room in an orange glow as his next plan of action began forming in his mind.
He had one simple goal: see his kids. This was a higher priority than long-term survival or even seeing his wife. He needed to see his children, they were the anchor he craved to cement his return to reality. He tried thinking as little as possible of his contradictory captors whom at once were friendly, as if they were doing him a favour, whilst supplying no answers and no hope – apart from that which he had grabbed himself. And then there was the ultimate question: why had he been taken at all? The facts were simple. He had been at work, had got out of the lift and seen a group of people, one of which couldn’t have been who he thought it was, before being ambled away in a car. Kidnapped, with no explanation – just endless apologies and words as to how this was all for the best.
He could put off the call no longer. He needed a visual connection, but for now, any connection would do. After the delaying tactics of shaving and washing, he grabbed the phone. He pulled it quickly from its cradle before he could change his mind, keyed in the number, and waited for the digital rings to be silenced.
‘887451, hello?’ It was Caroline, and she sounded panicked. ‘John, is that you?’
At first he couldn’t speak. Just hearing her voice after all this time triggered something within, but it wasn’t the outburst he was expecting. He suddenly felt calm, he wanted to cry and he wanted to smile. Suddenly every part of the last twelve months collapsed with this simple connection to home. He felt a sense of peace.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he whispered.
‘Oh John, where have you been? We’ve been so worried. I’m not angry John, just tell me if it’s something I've done and come home.’ Panic had risen at the other end of the line and she choked as if failing to control tears.
‘It’s nothing to do with you princess. I don’t know how to explain but I’m coming home.’
‘Now? Where are you?’
‘I don’t think I can come home just yet. I need to, clear a few things up first.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No, everything is fine. Just know that it’s not my choice that I’ve been away. I’d never leave you if it was up to me.’
‘So what happened?’ She was calming, and if anything a note of anger was beginning to form.
‘I really don’t know, it’s been horrible, but I’m fine, healthy. How are the girls?’
‘Well, they’ve missed their dad. It seems they suddenly have so much they need to tell you now that you’re not around.’
Something about this struck John as odd, he let it go.
‘And I’ve missed them to, and you of course.’
‘Thank you; but John, what has happened? I reported you to the police after you’d been gone a few days. I know in the past we’ve had our differences but we’ve never parted for so long.’
‘We certainly haven’t,’ a smile rose on John’s lips. They had never parted for so long - was she trying to make a joke? Of course they hadn’t ever parted for so long. Twelve months of a ten-year marriage. Their relationship had been rocky the first few years, especially once Jenny and Jessica had arrived. Several times John had snapped and in a rage simply got up and left, only to return after twenty-four hours with the knowledge that however much Caroline might piss him off he loved her and simply couldn’t operate without her.
‘I suppose I should report to them that I’ve heard from you.’
‘I’m surprised they haven’t officially given up by now.’
‘No, I think they have to at least pretend to look for you for a couple of months.’
‘That's what I mean.’ There was silence. He sensed Caroline trying to decipher the meaning of what he had just said. And now too was he. Something hadn’t set right about an earlier comment she had made about the kids, and now this. The image of the man he had seen at work on the day of his disappearance flared into his mind.
‘John, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Thought I’d lost you again.’
‘No more, I promise. Caroline, when exactly did you report to the police that I was missing?’ He held his breath and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
‘As I said, about seventy-two hours after you vanished.’ He continued to stare at his reflection. ‘That would have been last Tuesday.’
He wanted to drop the phone. He wanted to find Bartley and politely ask what the hell was going on - after he had punched him in the face. He stared at his reflection. He wanted to find the man who was staring back at him, the one who had been in that corridor when he was kidnapped. They replaced me. He let out his held breath as the reflection did the same.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘Sounded like you said something about placed me.’
‘No. When did you see me last?’
‘Would have been when you left for work last Tuesday. John, what’s the matter? Please, come home. No more questions, please.’
Last Tuesday John was fleeing from a prison cell. Fleeing from gunfire. He wasn’t going to work, hadn’t done anything remotely normal for a whole year. Someone else had been sleeping with his wife, kissing his kids goodnight, and going to work in his place.
‘It’s ok, I’m coming home. It might not be for a couple more days though. But I’m on my way, and I’ll explain all that I can.’ He needed to learn how that man she had kissed goodbye to last week wasn’t him. How he had been away a whole year, and yet no one had realised until last week. Any form of peace and closure he had gained from initial contact with his wife now vaporised into a whole cascade of additional questions. Bartley needed to answer, but he couldn’t return to a prison he had been praying a release from. They had fired at him when he left, they clearly wouldn’t be open armed and welcoming if they saw him headed back to the scene of his miraculous escape. Which, thinking about it, had been a little too easy.
‘John, I need you.’
‘And I need you too. I love you, tell the kids I love them too. When I get home, I will never leave you again.’
‘Promise,’
‘I promise.’
He said I love you one more time, hung up the phone, and collapsed backwards onto the bed. It wasn’t Bartley he needed to find now, it wasn’t even his wife and kids he wanted to track down. There was only one person he needed to locate, to see, to speak to. Maybe that person held no answers, but it seemed the most obvious path to take.
He needed to find himself.
Dixon’s Journal
3113.11
I can’t believe it’s been six months since that initial test. These journal entries are racking up quicker than I expected; over three-thousand now, and so much work still to be done. I'd make a quip about how time flies, but the connotations of that phrase when uttered in the context of my work is an additional confusion best steered clear of.
4598.25
I doubt Bartley’s parents will be happy. He visited me today with the news he has dropped out of school. He only had a few months remaining of compulsory education yet I can’t deny the guilt I currently feel at his decision. He wants to join me full-time. And I want him to, perhaps as tea boy, he can work his way up. I’ll give him my own personal helping hand in his rise within the group. He is already my right hand man, even at his age, although I should probably leave it a few more years before we make anything official. I hope his parents don’t realise I am most likely the cause for this drastic decision, but like myself, once the concept of all this draws you in, it never lets go. It’s a mission we now undertake, and one you wouldn’t want any other way.
3141.9
The present needs a new name. I will refer to it from here on as the Quantum Plain. A base. A prairie from which we all remain constant. It carries us all, except for when I journey away from it to the strands I am creating. This is how I now visualise it. The present as a large basin containing everyone, and little old me riding ever so slightly behind on my own strand of time.
5027.5
After all these years, the university have shut us down. It’s time to approach a more authoritative contractor. I can’t keep these findings quiet any longer. There is only one place to go. They will have to believe. I have proof. Maybe I’ll openly threaten to go public with my findings if they refuse, see how they react to that.
But who can be trusted?
Who can be trusted?
Chapter 13
‘And the award for most fanciable male goes to,’ there was hushed silence as the envelope was opened and from it a card was pulled. ‘Jason Read.’
Applause rang out and a few sarcastic whoops joined it as Jason went to collect his prize. He waved his arms in the air, clasping his hands together aloft in acceptance of this glorious victory, and took the bottle of Eau de Florence from Louise. John didn’t care, Jason always won this particular award - being under twenty-five and flashing your six-pack at the end of each staff drinks night would guarantee that.
The Alfred and Sons annual quiz/drinks/awards night had been Louise’s idea. She had joined the firm around four years ago, a personal assistant to the board. In an attempt to boost the team’s morale and introduce a little forced sociability to the group she had decided to crowbar in an awards ceremony as part of the company’s annual end of summer drinks. Each year, around the time when everyone had drunk enough and wanted to go home, the awards were announced, voted for by each of them in a mad rush that very morning despite Louise’s months of emailed reminders to get the votes in quick. Most fanciable male was always won by Read but there was most fanciable female (always the most recent female employee under twenty-one), funniest moment (something that had happened the morning of the voting), maddest employee (slightly un-PC award and a tossup between kooky Lucy from accounts and loner Charles from IT), plus the obligatory employee of the year (a moment for the bosses to pretend they had been paying attention to the worker's efforts).
