CHAIN REACTION
By Richard Banks
It was
one of those meaning of life discussions in the early hours of the morning when
everyone has had too much to drink and are talking half baked notions that
hopefully, no one will remember when they sober up.
With Amber it’s about fate; there’s
no rhyme or reason with fate, it just decides on a whim what you should do and
how, and then makes it happen. Free choice is an illusion. We are like passengers
in a driverless car that has set its own co-ordinates.
Lena
disagrees as we knew she would. She’s a ‘New Ager’. For her, there’s a deity
called Althea who’s sending out subliminal messages that we can do nothing else
but obey. Some of us do good things, some of us bad, but even the bad is good
because it’s all part of a great plan that she will reveal to us on the 1st
April 2064. As this is less than a year away we don’t have long to wait. On
that day I won’t be the only one shouting April Fool, but maybe not before
midday.
Ash is next to give us the benefit
of his wisdom. He’s never read a book in his life but he’s seen every sci-fi
film that’s ever been made. His theories invariably involve aliens from other
galaxies, and tonight is no exception. According to him, the earth is no more than a
computer simulation designed to test the social and political assumptions of an
alien civilisation. Through us they sort out what works from what doesn’t
before trying it out in the real world. That’s theory one. Theory two is that
we’re all part of a TV reality show that’s being beamed across the cosmos. Ash
is about to move on to theory three when he is brought to a halt by Costello
who tells everyone that they are talking the biggest load of hogwash he’s ever
heard.
If Costello has an imagination he
keeps it well hidden. His world, he tells us, is the real world and, whether we like it or not, we’re stuck with it.
Things happen because people make it happen. It’s cause and effect, a chain
reaction, one action impacting on another. There’s no fate, no Althea, no
aliens, nothing but ourselves. Even the weather does what we tell it to.
“But how can you be sure?” says
Amber. “Maybe there’s more to life than what the five senses are telling us.”
“And don’t forget the sixth sense,”
squeaks Lena, “that’s the most important one
of all.”
Costello takes a deep breath. He’s
tired and his new leg is chaffing the stump that was once connected to his
right knee. He’s looking forward to unstrapping it and getting off to bed.
Normally he would tell us to bugger off to our own homes but for some reason,
that’s not yet apparent, he wants the debate to continue.
“It’s like this,” he says, “a man
takes the morning off work so he can visit his GP for a viro- jab. He
oversleeps and leaves himself ten minutes for a hike into town that takes
fifteen. If his car wasn’t at the garage he would drive there but, no matter,
providing he arrives within the ten-minute slot allocated for his appointment
he should be OK. At the top of his road, he turns right instead of going
straight ahead, reasoning that the next turning on his left offers a slightly
quicker route to the High Street where the doctor has his surgery. When he gets
there the road’s busy with people going to their work and the local primary
school. Normally he would cross the High Street at the traffic lights but he’s
past these now and needs a break in the traffic to get to the other side.
Several minutes pass by but he can’t get across, then he sees a gap, but the car he thought was slowing is speeding up, and ….”
He can’t say it, so Amber does. “You
got hit and lost your leg.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
Costello brushes aside an angry tear and continues. “So, why did it happen,
what put me in harm’s way? Nothing but me. I should have got up with the alarm
instead of dozing off again. I could have collected the car from the garage at
half-past eight, but I didn’t. If I hadn’t changed my route I could have
crossed safely at the lights. If I had been thinking clearly I would never have
rushed out into the road. Everything I did that morning contributed to what
happened. It was a chain of events. If that chain had once been broken the
accident would never have happened. So, that’s my theory. Am I right? You bet I
am and I’m going to prove it, but I’ll need your help.” He looks directly at
me. “I mean you, Scott.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Have you heard of the TimeWalk
project?”
“Of course,” I say, “who hasn’t.
It’s the biggest conspiracy theory since Kennedy. No one in their right mind
believes it.”
“I do,” says Ash.
“And so do I,” says Costello. “It’s
been going for seven years in a Government laboratory that doesn’t officially
exist. The word is that they’re using it to unpick the Eastern Federation.
Nothing too dramatic, just a bit of tinkering that will stop or alter the
events of ten years ago. But the good news or the bad whatever way you look at
it is that the genie’s out of the bottle. Someone’s sold out to the Mafia and
now TimeWalk technology is on the dark web for whoever can pay the big bucks -
journeys back in time to wherever you want to go”.
“So you’re going back to undo the
past.”
“No can do,” he says. “Two men in
the same place isn’t allowed. What would happen no one’s sure but it could be
terminal. I want you to go.”
“But suppose I bump into myself.”
“You won’t. Don’t you remember? On
the day of the accident, you were in Putingrad. You will be fine. Thirty minutes
in the year before last, that’s all I’m asking. Thirty minutes. It’s all I
could afford.”
“So, what do I do in those thirty
minutes?”
“Break the chain. Make sure that I
don’t cross that road when I did, delay me, make me cross at the lights, bat me
over the head if you have to. Just make sure that at 9.05 I’m not on the tarmac
in front of that car.”
Costello’s trembling with emotion,
he reaches across the table at which we’re sitting and grasps my hand. He’s
desperate and I’m his best friend; of course, I’m going to do it.
Two days later he takes me to a cafe
in Brixton to meet ‘the people’ as he calls them. He gives them a bag full of
notes, they check it, he leaves and I’m put in the back of a van with blacked-out windows. I’m expecting to be driven to some secret laboratory but that’s
not the way it works. I’m given a preprogrammed wrist band. There’s a red
button and a green one. Press the red one three times and I get to go to the
time and place that’s been agreed. Press the green and I return to the van. If
I don’t press the green within thirty minutes they will abort the transmission which,
they say, will not be good for my health. I act like I’m not concerned.
“See you later,” I say. I hit the
red button and in the blink of an eye, I go from the van to the lounge diner in
my flat. It’s 8.45. I have a plan that doesn’t involve batting Costello over
the head. It’s simplicity itself. I drive down to his house, park up a few
doors along and when he rushes out, red-faced with annoyance, I follow him to
the top of the road where I sound the horn and call out his name.
“Want a lift?” I say. Of course, he
does. He sits down in the front passenger seat.
“Can you get me to Ali Brown’s
surgery in the High Street? I’ve got an appointment at 9.”
“No problem,” I say. “We should just
make it.”
“Thought you were in Russia,” he
says.
I tell him that there’s been a mix
up over flights and that I won’t be going until tomorrow. I have a childish
impulse to tell him about TimeWalk but I don’t. The contract I signed with ‘the
people’ forbids it, and anyway, how would it benefit Costello to know about
future events that will soon be null and void.
My mind’s too full of thoughts and I
don’t notice the car in front of me slow down and stop. I slam on the brakes
just in time. Costello jolts forward and almost hits his head on the
windscreen. He looks across at me like he’s going to chew me out, then he
remembers I’m doing him a favour and settles back in his seat. We get to the
High Street and I insist on turning right across the carriageway into an alley
that’s adjacent to the surgery. He jumps out, says “cheers mate” and strides
through the side door into reception.
Now it’s time to save myself. I
drive home, park the car and hurry up to my flat. It’s 9.10. I stand on the
exact bit of carpet on which I arrived and press the green button three times.
To my relief, I’m back in the van and one of my minders relieves me of the wrist
band.
“Station?” he asks.
I nod my head and within minutes I’m
ushered out of the van within sight of Brixton Central. I take the hydrorail
and get back home, mid-afternoon, hungry and tired. I’m desperate to go round
to Costello’s, to see him standing on two good legs but at this time of day he
will almost certainly be at his work; best to go there in the evening after 7.
I cook myself an omelette and have all but eaten it when my mobile rings. A
young woman asks if I’m Mr Barkley. I confirm that I am.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m Geena
Grant from the Echo. I wondered if you could give me your reaction to the trial
verdict.”
“What trial?” I say.
She seems surprised by the question.
She begins a sentence, then abandons it. She starts again. “The trial of Dr
Brown for manslaughter. He’s been found guilty. I thought you knew.”
I tell her no, that I’m on the books
of another doctor.
She apologises. “I’ve obviously made
a mistake. I thought you were Mr Scott Barkley of Medway Gardens.”
“There’s no mistake, that’s me.”
“Then you must know Mr Costello.”
“Yes, of course, I do. What has he got to do with this?”
The girl sounds as confused as I am.
“Mr Costello died eighteen months ago as a result of a contaminated injection
administered by Dr Brown. I understood it was you who drove him to the surgery.
I’m sorry, I thought you knew all this. Is there anything you would like to
say?”
I’m in shock. When I speak it feels
like someone else is talking.
“Don’t ever mess with time,” I say,
“who knows what it will bring.”
© Copywrite Richard Banks
By
Shelley Miller
