No True Echo (8 page)

It was just a game for Angus.

‘It's good, this
I've been here before
stuff,' he said, chewing a meatball.

I had spent the morning making predictions about lesson subjects and who would get told off for what, but it was hardly proof.

‘I didn't fully get the thing you did in assembly, if I'm honest,' said Angus, ‘but it was still funny.'

‘It wasn't meant to be funny,' I said.

‘What did we talk about last time we were here, then?'

‘Meatballs,' I replied, ‘and how they want to be eaten.'

Angus laughed. ‘Hold on. Was that meant to be funny?'

‘I don't know.'

Angus skewered another meatball with his fork. ‘It's interesting, though, this whole act, because it kind of shows how predictable everything is.'

‘I suppose.'

Without Scarlett, the afternoon dragged until finally we reached the last lesson. English. I watched Cornish bustle around the room, and remembered the look of hatred in his eyes as he fired the gun.

‘Monsters,' he said. ‘I want us to name as many monsters as we can, comrades.'

I was surprised when I heard my own voice answer. ‘You.'

‘Are you calling me a monster, Eddie?' He sounded amused.

‘I  …  No  …  I meant humans.'

Cornish twisted around on his heel. ‘Interesting answer, Eddie,' he said. ‘Why?'

‘Because humans do monstrous things. Humans make guns. Humans shoot people.' I don't know what had taken control of me. What could I possibly hope to achieve?

‘It's true, guns are a monstrous invention,' he agreed. ‘They turn those who use them into monsters.'

‘So what would it take?' I asked. ‘I mean, for you to fire a gun at someone? For you to kill?'

‘I hope I never find out,' said Cornish, ‘but to answer your question, I would do all I could to avoid using violence, but if it came to it and if the cause justified it, yes, I think I would pick up a gun. Thankfully, we can choose not to be monsters. We have free will, which brings us to the book we will be looking at for the next few weeks.'

When he distributed the books I got the same copy with the picture of the yellow-faced old man on the cover.

‘Why are these books all different? Mine's falling apart,' complained the same girl as before.

‘Don't panic, comrades, they all have the same words on the inside.'

‘But we all know this story,' said Angus.

‘You mean you know what happens,' said Cornish. ‘That isn't the same as knowing the story, and I will want the books back at the end of the term, so please treat them with respect.'

He snatched the same book from the same girl.

‘So can anyone tell me this book's alternative title?'

‘
The Modern Prometheus
,' said a voice behind me.

For one hopeful moment I thought it was Scarlett, but I turned to find it was a girl called Rosi who had spoken.

‘Very good,' said Cornish.

‘It's printed on the front of my book,' replied Rosi. ‘Who's Prometheus, then?'

‘Prometheus is from Greek mythology,' explained Cornish. ‘He stole fire from the gods. You see, comrades, ever since we crawled out of the primordial sludge, humans have created imaginary monsters  … '

The rest of Cornish's speech was little more than background noise, drowned out by the confused thoughts racing through my head as I tried to understand what was happening to me.

Thinking back to that night in the hospital, it was difficult to remember the precise order of events. As far as Liphook could recall, Lauren Bliss was the first to come out of the coma. Her parents were still on their way, so Liphook went in alone to talk to her.

‘Where am I?' Lauren's blond hair had been flattened by the red wig. She looked scared and tired and extremely confused.

Liphook sat down by her bed and picked up the red wig on the side table. ‘You're in hospital. You're fine, but you have been shot.'

‘Shot? With a gun, shot?'

Liphook nodded. ‘Do you remember what happened?'

‘No.'

‘Do you remember why you were wearing this wig?' She picked it up from the bedside table.

‘No. This doesn't make any sense. Where are my parents?'

‘They're on their way. They'll be here soon.'

‘Where am I?'

‘Wellcome Valley Hospital.'

‘Wellcome Valley? That's not possible.'

‘You put on this wig and caught a train here. You pretended your name was Scarlett White. Are you telling me you don't remember any of this?' Liphook had decided against making notes but now she wondered if she should be treating this as an official statement after all.

‘I don't remember a thing,' said Lauren.

‘You don't remember stealing a car with your boyfriend?'

‘My boyfriend?' Lauren sat up in bed and looked at the boy lying in the bed next to her. ‘Who is he?'

‘His name is Eddie.'

‘The last thing I remember I was at home.'

‘But you have been to the valley before, yes? You came during the summer.'

‘Yes, Mum and Dad rented a holiday cottage. It was nice.'

‘Did you meet Eddie then?'

‘I didn't meet anyone. I don't think I met anyone. Maybe I did. I don't know. Every time I try to remember I get this burning pain in my head. What does it mean? What's happening to me?'

At the time, Liphook had thought nothing of it. Memory loss was unsurprising give the circumstances. Now, when she looked back on this moment, she realised that it wasn't memory loss that she had been witnessing.

It was memory theft.

Maybe I had been looking at things the wrong way. Instead of trying to spot similarities, should I have been looking for the differences? How was this Thursday different from the last one? Apart from Scarlett's absence, the main difference was my behaviour. If I tried to do things the same as last time, maybe I would be able to see what else had changed. So when Cornish asked me if I wanted a lift home I said, ‘Thanks.'

‘How about you, Angus?' he said.

‘I'm getting picked up by the noise-mobile,' replied Angus.

‘Just you and me, then, Eddie,' he said. ‘I'll see you by the car once I'm done here.'

I followed Angus out into the drizzly car park.

‘So what happens now, future man?' he asked.

‘Your mum comes to pick you up. She parks outside the gates and flashes her headlights. One of the twins opens a door but she yells at the wrong one while the baby screams his head off. After you've gone, Cornish comes out, only he's forgotten who I am.'

‘That sounds like a fun trip home for the both of us, then.'

‘Last call for anywhere but here,' yelled Bill, closing the bus doors.

‘Never gets old,' said Angus.

The car lights flashed and the door opened, releasing the noise from within. Angus looked impressed. ‘I'll see you tomorrow,' he said. I watched him run to his car.

The other thought that had occurred to me was that this was a dream, but it didn't feel like a dream. It was too plodding. Too slow. Too real. All of which left only one explanation. I had travelled back in time.

‘Hi, Eddie.' Mr Cornish jangled his keys. ‘Get in, then.'

I stared back at him. ‘You remember you're giving me a lift, sir?' I said.

He laughed. ‘I'm not that old,' he replied.

I got into the car.

‘You were quick with that monster question,' he said. ‘I was expecting a whole list before we got to humans.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

He laughed. ‘Don't apologise for being smart, Eddie.'

There was no confusion this time as he slipped the car into gear and reversed out of the space.

‘Sir, can I ask you something? Do you believe in time travel?'

He thought before replying. ‘I certainly believe that books can transport us back in time, yes. I think that memories can be triggered by our senses. I have experienced déjà vu – that's thinking you've visited a place before when you haven't. But do I believe it is possible to transport a human back in time? No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because if anyone had invented time travel, someone would have come back and told us about it.'

‘Perhaps they're not allowed to. Perhaps there are protocols.'

‘Protocols,' repeated Cornish with a smile. ‘I like that. Are you writing a story about this?'

‘No.'

‘Maybe you should. Writing helps, you know.'

‘Helps what, sir?'

‘It helps you tackle problems. It helps you figure out how you feel.'

I didn't know what to say to this so I didn't say anything.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I don't mean to be insensitive but you should understand that feelings are complicated for everyone. It's all right to feel sad sometimes. I know you like to make jokes and pretend everything is fine but you can talk to me about things any time you want.'

‘You're talking about Melody,' I said.

‘You can tell me to shut up if you like.'

‘Actually, I think this does have something to do with her.'

‘The time-travel story?'

Cornish hadn't attempted to turn the radio on this time so the only sound, apart from our voices, was that of the wheels on the road, the rain on the roof and the swish of the windscreen wipers.

‘It's not a story. It's something real that is happening to me and I think it has something to do with her.'

He considered this. ‘Emotions are real.'

‘I'm not talking about emotions. I'm talking about the fact that I've lived through this day already and I'm scared about what it means.'

‘Life can be scary,' he agreed.

There was no point. No one was going to help me understand.

‘Are you going to try to read the book, then, do you think?' he asked.

‘I might. Do you know which chapter has Frankenstein making the monster?'

‘Chapter five,' he replied. ‘Why?'

‘I was thinking I might just skip to that bit.'

He laughed. ‘Why on earth would you do that?'

‘Because, that's where it gets interesting.'

The first thing I did when I got home was go into the kitchen to turn off the hob, then pick up a dustpan and brush. I went into the living room and switched on the light.

‘Too bright,' said Ruby.

I cleaned up the glass, then carefully tipped it into the bin and sat down at the kitchen table with the photograph. All my life, this picture had been my only window into the past. I knew every detail of it, from the watchstrap on my mother's wrist to the missing button on her dungarees. I stared at that closed green door – not of some far-flung holiday cottage but of an old farmhouse right here in the valley. Finally, I had stepped into this picture, so why was I even more confused than before?

Ruby joined me in the kitchen and looked at the photograph in my hand. ‘Sorry, lad. I had one of my moments.'

‘You always said you didn't know where it was taken,' I said.

‘Yes. Maybe she was on holiday.'

‘Who with?'

‘Oh, Eddie, I can't remember.' Ruby held her hand to her temple to show that I was giving her a headache.

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Please  … '

‘You have one photo of your daughter. Just one. And you don't know where it was taken or who took it.'

‘Photographs aren't real. They only show —'

‘What things look like on the outside,' I interrupted. ‘Except that's not true. This shows more. I'm on the inside in this picture. You can't see me but you know I'm there. You also know that there must be someone holding the camera. Who is she smiling at? Who took it?'

‘I'm sorry, Eddie. I can't do this now. Not today.' She turned to leave.

‘I've been there. I've seen this door.' I could feel the anger simmering inside of me.

She stopped but avoided my gaze. ‘Was he there?' she asked quietly.

‘Who?'

‘It doesn't matter. Don't go back, please.'

‘Why? Who lives there?'

‘There's nothing for you there. I imagine he's moved now, anyway.'

‘Who?'

‘No one important.'

‘Who?'

Tense music played from the living room as a contestant reached the final sudden-death round.

‘Please stay away from there,' said Ruby. ‘Please. For me.'

‘Who lives there?'

‘I can't  … '

‘What was his name?'

I had lived through enough of Ruby's down days to know how to make her answer. Once my insistent nagging had worked its way inside her head and become a part of the pain that was already there, she would do anything to make it stop.

‘His name is David Maguire. He was your mother's lecturer at university, but that was a long time ago. Can we drop this now? It's history.'

‘You say that like history doesn't matter.'

‘Of course it matters, but there's nothing we can do about it.' Ruby sighed. ‘I understand that you want to find something else. I know ours is not much of a life. Maybe we'll do better next time, eh, lad? But you won't find any solutions buried in the past.'

She walked back to watch the end of the quiz show, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I unplugged the phone before leaving the house because, although I was wearing my uniform and carrying my bag, I had no intention of catching the bus that morning and I didn't want Ruby to worry when the school called home.

It felt good to take matters into my own hands. If I had to relive this day, I would do it on my own terms. I had slept badly the previous night, having been kept awake by my endlessly spiralling thoughts. I cycled up the hill, losing myself to the turn of the wheels, the coldness of the rain, and the burning of my leg muscles. I took the same route to the farmhouse that I had taken with Scarlett. As I wheeled my bike along the muddy path, it struck me that Scarlett had said there was probably a better way to get there, but it was too late to turn back.

At the end of the field I found a safer way down. I was in no rush this time. My head was filled with the dark, bloodstained memory of the last time I had been there, but how could you remember something that was yet to happen?

I stopped outside the door. The rain was still coming down hard so I had to be careful taking out the photograph from the book. I held it up but I didn't need proof. I knew it was the same one. The photographer had stood on the other side of the stream, while my mother squinted in the sunlight. It was such a stark contrast to the dark skies above me that it felt like another world entirely.

I knocked on the door.

‘Who is it?' shouted a voice.

It was a simple enough question, but what was my answer?

‘My name's Eddie,' I said.

‘If you are here to sell something, I'm not interested.'

‘I think you knew my mother, Melody Dane.'

There was a pause, followed by the voice saying, ‘Hold on.'

I heard locks being unlocked and bolts sliding to the side. When the door opened, it caught on the uneven floorboard.

‘Give it a push, will you?'

I pushed and the door swung open to reveal a messy-haired man wearing a white lab coat. I had seen him before, only the last time he had been lying on the floor, dead. Very much alive now, his keen eyes narrowed with interest as he inspected me.

‘You're Melody's son?' he said.

‘Yes,' I replied.

There was something unnerving about the way he looked at me. In spite of the rain, he didn't ask me in.

‘Are you David Maguire?' I asked.

‘Er, yes  … '

I showed him the photograph. ‘Did you take this?'

He stared at it for a couple of seconds, then nodded, although I had to wonder if he was responding to me, or to some other unheard question. ‘Why are you here?' he asked.

‘Can I come in?' I said.

He moved out of the way and I stepped into the room full of books. I placed the photograph back between the pages of
Frankenstein
and dropped it into my bag.

‘You taught Melody at university,' I said.

‘Yes, your mother was very bright. The brightest. Her death was, well, it was unfortunate.' He bent down to pick up one of the clear plastic mousetraps and check whether it had caught anything. Finding it empty, he placed it back on the floor.

‘Can I ask what you do here?' I said.

‘Nothing you could possibly understand,' he replied. ‘Sorry, why are you here?'

‘I've been here before,' I said.

‘I know. She brought you here as a child.'

‘I don't mean that,' I began. ‘Hold on, I thought Melody dropped out of university after she had me. Why would she come here?'

‘She came here to help out with my project, but this is all a very long time ago. I fail to see what it has to do with anything.'

‘The last time I came here was next Saturday,' I said.

Maguire looked at me with curiosity. ‘Next Saturday?'

‘I can't explain it, but I've lived through this day.'

‘Oh I see,' said Maguire. ‘This is a joke, is it?'

‘No.'

‘I'm afraid you have got the wrong end of the stick, young man. I may tick all the boxes required for a crazy rogue scientist inventing a time machine but you have obviously failed to grasp the complexity of my work here.'

‘Your work?'

I followed Maguire into the lab, careful this time to avoid the stacks of books as I entered the brightly lit room filled with computer screens and scientific equipment.

‘What is all this stuff?' I asked.

‘It's a particle accelerator,' he replied. ‘It isolates subatomic particles and enables me to manipulate them. It has been built with the specific purpose of studying the time particle, which is presumably the reason for your time-travel joke.'

‘What's a time particle?'

‘To answer that, you must first ask what is time.'

‘I don't know,' I said.

‘Of course you don't. Physicists have wrestled with this question for many years. The general belief is that time is a dimension that we travel through, but this is incorrect. Time is a force that acts upon us, like gravity. It is a physical law that we must obey and the things that govern that relationship are known as time particles. They exist within us and all around us. They regulate our relationship with time, ensuring that we move forward at a constant rate.'

I was trying to keep up but Maguire didn't seem especially interested in whether I was following or not.

‘Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years are the measurements we use for time, created in accordance with the specific movements of our planet and sun. The time particle, however, is not unique to our position in the galaxy. It is a universal necessity. It is a requirement for existence, just as water is a prerequisite for life.'

‘So what's it look like?'

‘It doesn't look like anything. We are talking about something so small it couldn't be seen even with the most powerful magnification. This equipment enables me to monitor these particles, not see them. It stands to reason, you see, that if the time particle can be isolated, it can be manipulated, and thus our relationship with time can be altered.'

‘But aren't you talking about time travel?'

‘No, I am not,' he snapped.

‘But —'

‘Let me explain it.' Maguire grabbed a clipboard and blank piece of paper. He drew a line. ‘Look. We know that time moves in one direction, which is why we remember the past but we do not remember the future. In that sense, we are all travelling through time, because we are travelling forward at a constant rate governed by the time particle. To travel backwards, however, would involve moving to an earlier point.' He drew a loop to indicate this.

‘Yes, exactly —'

‘But the very act of making this jump would necessarily cause a split in the timeline.' He drew a second line coming off the first that connected with the loop. ‘However, the first line would also have to remain for the jump to be possible. This would involve the duplication of every molecule in the universe, creating at least two separate strands of existence. There is no evidence to suggest that this is possible.'

He hastily scribbled over the lines, tore the paper off the clipboard, screwed it up and threw it away.

‘So what is all this stuff for, then?'

‘The isolation of the time particle will enable an alteration of our relationship with time.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Imagine if you could slow down time so that a second lasted an hour or speed it up so that a day vanished in the blink of eye. Time particle acceleration will change how we experience time, much in the same way that the invention of the steam train or air travel altered our relationship with distance. The development of faster transportation made the world a smaller place. My invention will do the same for time. We will be able to control time.'

‘But what's all this got to do with my mother?'

‘Melody was instrumental in the formation of this idea. She believed in me when others did not. If she had lived, I have no doubt she would have remained involved with this project. I owe her a great debt, and finally, after many years, I am almost at the point of completion.'

‘You mean you can now slow down time?' I said.

‘Any day now. What a coincidence that you should show up now at the final stages of the project your mother helped start, but I suppose it was inevitable that you would turn up at some point.'

‘Inevitable how?'

He didn't answer the question, instead finding a computer screen that required his urgent attention.

‘Look, I'm not very good at this sort of thing. Feelings and  …  you know  …  emotions.'

‘What are you talking about?' I asked.

‘What has Ruby told you?' he said.

‘Very little except to stay away.'

‘She said the same to me. She made it very clear after your mother's death that I was not welcome. I suppose she blamed me.'

‘Blamed you? For what?'

‘For Melody's death. It was my car she was driving, you see, and if we hadn't argued, she would never have been out on such a stormy night. Perhaps Ruby was right to hold me responsible.'

‘I thought her argument was with Ruby.'

‘Your mother was capable of arguing with more than one person at a time. She was very intelligent but she was not the easiest of people.'

‘What were you arguing about?' I asked.

‘I told her that she should go back and finish her degree, that she shouldn't let a child get in the way of her career. She thought I was  … ' Maguire looked at me and his words faded away. ‘Anyway, she shouldn't have been driving that night. Especially not with a child in the back. It was typically irresponsible of her.'

‘What child?'

‘You, of course,' he said plainly. ‘Oh, you didn't know? I'm sorry. I did tell you that I'm not much good at this sort of thing.'