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Chapter Six
I lay on my bed. Framed in the window The Keep’s elongated shadows crept across its neat Victorian gardens, momentarily tricking the sculpted topiary animals into life, while the setting sun blasted holes of light through its crumbling walls.
I’d left Trans-Port impotent with rage. That had been three long days ago. I’d spent the intervening period catching up on daytime television whilst drinking some of the awful lager I thought I’d dragged back from Magaluf but had probably purchased from Sainsbury’s in the High Street. Was that how things had worked? What else had I done under Trans-Port’s mind immersion techniques, what other tricks had they pulled? Getting me off with Amelia, obviously. That must have taken spectacularly little effort on her part seeing as I was a pushover for any smidgen of emotional comfort going. My thoughts were those of a bitter man, plus I was still physically recovering from the Sending Dish experience. Maybe I was suffering from Projection Lag?
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I’d reacted badly again. Carver wouldn’t give me any more information until I agreed to take part in another Projection. There was more to come but only if I signed a compliance form that I’d do the farcical task they required. I said I needed time to think about it. It wasn’t discussed what they’d do if I refused apart from never telling me anymore about dad. Maybe they’d wipe my memory and start again from scratch again? I’d arranged to see Amelia again that evening at her posh River-way flat. I had the afternoon to kill so decided to take a look at that mysterious old guy’s house properly, the one glimpsed when I’d helped him home on Sunday evening. The grand old place towered above me as the sun cast its shadow down the steep road. I lifted the large brass doorknocker then let it drop. After a minute there came the sound of a handle turning. “Yes, can I help you?” A small grey-haired woman gave me a querulous smile. “Have you made a booking, what’s the name?” She
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I hesitantly opened my eyes, wary of what I might see. For a moment the dazzling light seemed no different from the Projection beam that had bored into my optic nerve. Had this second jump ended in failure? But then came the realisation that this was a mere sunbeam blinding me. The turgid mess of the Sending Dish no longer clung to my face; now a warm breeze caressed it. There was a bright cloudless sky above and to either side of me grassland, only this time the grass was dry. And it was daytime. Head spinning, I sat up slowly and took stock of my surroundings. The cathedral’s sheer wall and square tower loomed above me just as it had before, the whole unlikely edifice giving the appearance of a pile of vast bricks reconstructed by a five-year-old child. On top of it I could still see the angel pointing across the valley, her solid golden sheen now reflecting natural sunlight. There came an abrupt realisation of something I’d missed in the sheer overwhelming terror of the p
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I trudged through the housing estate in what I knew to be the town’s general direction. My extremely brief visit to the offices of SES had established beyond doubt that the two worlds were indeed very different. For a start we’d got the name of this place wrong. It wasn’t Capistrano Two, or Capistrano anything. No matter what it called itself I had to get organized. The crappy glowing suit had begun to decompose as wisps of it floated in the air around me. I looked like a human Dandelion. A police car slowed to observe me before moving on. Perhaps Jervis had made a report about some eccentric turning up for a non-existent interview. They’d probably be back and I obviously had no ID on me. Camouflage was needed quickly. I began to jog into town whilst attempting to hold the remainder of the suit together.The first thing I did when I got there was to find more suitable clothes. I bought something called a Smartwatch, some casual clothes an
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Claire invited me round for breakfast. The fact that her flat appeared smaller than mine was solely down to it containing twice as much clutter. Overflowing bookcases and piles of magazines climbed walls plastered with art nouveau posters and moody black and white stills from old films. A large wooden desk holding notes scribbled on jotter-pads and a thin and rather battered machine, what I took to be some sort of mini-computer, was crammed into the bay window. There were newspapers everywhere. Mugs of crystallizing coffee dregs perched on various surfaces.I took a peek into her bedroom while she made us toast; same deal, half-open drawers and clothes spread randomly over chairs and duvet. A bulging wardrobe’s door hung half off its hinges. Trans-Port Claire’s attitude had seemed neat and professional. I hadn’t seen her at home but she couldn’t have been as sloppy as this. Here was another difference between the two Claire’s despite their identi
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Just for a moment I was nowhere. Then colour and light and noise invaded my senses. It was a typical valley day in June without a hint of relieving breeze along the canal. Nothing to push the lingering heaviness away from the dusty hilly streets of Capistrano town. I attempted to wipe my glasses with one hand whilst steering the little red Vespa with the other. I was making a clumsy job of it. As the tiny wheels rattled on the old High Street’s cobblestones I presented a curious sight to the Friday morning shoppers in their vehicle-free zone. I managed to dodge a startled couple and swung right towards North Street and the bridge over the Riverway. The short cut was necessary. I had to be at least vaguely on time for the ‘most important interview of my life’, Mike’s description not mine. I gave an inner sigh because I’d heard it all before. That’s why I worked at the library; I’d had enough of ‘making something of myself’. My fellow grad students had accumulate
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