Quantum Poppers (12 page)

‘That’s it is
it, you’re just going to spew some stuff about shadow idents and time
extraction and then disappear. After the things I told you?’

‘For now yes.
I’ll be honest, I have no idea how your quantum alignment has been altered for
you to receive these sightings. Has a major emotional event occurred recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it trigger
these visions?’

‘No, they had
been happening before.’

‘Interesting.
Often emotional events are one of the reasons the sea of time gets disrupted
and jolts us off the plain. It seems it has altered your quantum alignment and
left you here. Although the fact they were happening before means another event
may have triggered them. One in the past, or maybe a major one still to come.’

‘And what event
is that?’

‘We cannot see
into the future and tell you precisely what will happen, that's pure fantasy.’

‘Yeah, that
would sound crazy,’

‘Don’t worry,
this is a good thing. We could use men like you.’

‘You offering
me a job?’

‘He might.’

‘Who, Bartley?’

‘Yes, I’m sure
he will pay you a visit soon and offer up more answers then I can.’

‘You’ve only
offered up more questions.’

He gave a
smile, as if confusing Tony further was for his benefit. Something to keep him
on his toes.

‘This Bartley,
he your boss of time extraction discrepancies?'

‘The extraction
department of time discrepancies. Yes, he is my boss. He holds the answers.’

He left Tony
outside his house with his head rolling in the information he had just received
- also shadowed in guilt at the fact he hadn’t thought of Emma for the last
twenty minutes.

He turned to
his building.

‘Oh, one more
thing,' Aaron called. 'Extraction department of time discrepancies may sound a
little complicated. Just remember, Quantum Poppers. Sort of a nickname we go
by. A bit more memorable.’

Tony nodded and
watched him leave. A stupid name like that wouldn’t make what was going on any
more memorable.

The room looked
almost identical to the one in which he had spent the last 367 days. This time,
instead of a vast grey canvas of nylon and plaster, magnolias and faded browns
sheathed the surfaces. The carpet was a curled shag, worn in places, but the
curtains were thankfully thick against the streetlight outside his window.
Abstract pictures of lakeside vistas and windmills were clamped to the walls by
visible bolts and the TV was padlocked atop the dresser complete with a menu of
channels and information on how to discretely order ‘additional content, 18+’.
If anything, this room was smaller than the one John had grown accustomed to.
The telephone stood as a beacon to the freedoms that had been withheld
previously and the window, whilst small, opened to allow however much breeze
John required. He revelled in the fact he chose to keep it closed. The greatest
difference which dwarfed the phone, the art, and the televisual options, was
the hotel room’s door. This he left ajar. Knowing that at any time he could
step out into the corridor and leave was a surprisingly powerful sensation.

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.