I'm really here...

I have but a moment to stand in awe before a honking horn alerts me that I'm in the middle of a street. I turn and an angry, bald man in glasses is beeping at me from the seat of his plush personal car. His face is reddening, and he almost looks ready to come out to me. I get my bearings enough to find my way to the footpath. The driver motors on, eyeing me petulantly through his driver-side window.

I then have a moment of realisation. I pat at my jacket until I find the phase-shift device in my inside pocket. Holding it in my hand, I stare at it intently and then glance around. I am on a side street in an intact city, untroubled by strife and war, in another reality. I am really, actually here and moreover, I have been seen.

I reach out and place my hand on the brick wall of a nearby building. I feel its texture. I feel the gap where the brick gives way to mortar. I push against it, and it resists. I am not immaterial or some kind of spectre who can only observe. I am real, not just present. I allow myself a smile, a real one. I can remember clearly the last time I did that, enjoying a beautiful day with those I love, right before the bomb dropped.

I retreat from the memory. There is no further need to torture myself with it. I will never truly forget, and I shouldn't, but somewhere in this world, there is an opportunity for me to be happy again, and I intend to take it.

I scan my surroundings with greater scrutiny. This street adjoins two others and has no shop fronts, only the rear of businesses. I know because of all the non-descript doors and the rubbish skips that occupy most of the scant pavement. There are a few vehicles parked here. I note a few personal cars and a van. They are all far more extravagant models than would be typically available to citizens of the UFE. Up ahead, there is considerable pedestrian traffic, and more cars passing by. I stroll in that direction, disconcerted that I still can't get my bearings in a city I should know like the back of my hand.

A woman turns off the main street ahead and passes me by. Her eyes linger on me with bewilderment but then, she continues on without changing her pace. I don't quite get it, at first, but then as I emerge onto the pavement by the main street, I get few more odd stares from passersby, as they go about their business. It occurs to me that my attire might be what's drawing their attention. I am still wearing the standard Institute uniform of an engineer, which is all I've worn for seven months. I'd forgotten what it was to dress in anything else, and not just from lack of caring for appearances. I just chose this getup in the beginning because it seemed like the most functional but now, I guess it looks a little costumey.

I try to act casual as I walk down the street, ensuring not to make eye contact with any onlookers. I come to a four-way junction with pedestrian crossings on every converging street, each flanked by automated traffic lights. Every street front is some kind of department store, or restaurant, or café. Many people come and go from each with paper bags filled with purchases or with copious amounts of food. It all seems so frivolous and thoughtlessly wasteful. Such behaviors would have been frowned upon in the UFE.

Nearly everyone has some manner of device in their hands, even people in groups are just standing together whilst staring zombie-like at their screens. The Limerick I remember was at the forefront of a naval cold war. It was where all North Atlantic operations were headquatered. As such, it was a military city, prepared at any time for conflict to erupt and so, there was discipline and patriotism, but also pride and camaraderie. This place seems like some expansive open-air mall, akin to what they had in the United Americas before the final war. I am surrounded by people, a bustling city, yet it all seems so bleak and purposeless.

I wait for a traffic signal to allow pedestrians to cross. That's when I notice the bridge, and I begin to understand where I am. I'm looking out on the Ennis Road Bridge that crosses the Shannon. In my reality, this shopping district would have been a place people would come to get their assigned rations and whatever other provisions were available, depending on what specific needs they had. Naval Headquarters would be an extensive facility occupying most of the opposite bank with docks further downstream in the deeper waters of the estuary. As I half-jog to the riverside, all I see are hotels and townhouses. On the water, there are more swans than boats when normally, patrol boats would pass without cease.

I continue on down the river-walk, buried in my thoughts. In my reality, we were never officially at war with the USSR, nor any of its Soviet satellite states, but there was always a conflict raging underneath. There may have been little in the way of open warfare beyond occasional border skirmishes, but there were proxy wars in parts of Africa and Asia where the Russian bear had still not fully extended its reach. There was a constant exchange of fire in the form of covert ops. Espionage, sabotage, attempted assassinations, it would all go on mostly out of sight of the public, except where one side or another scored a major hit.

What had the most profound impact, though, was not the wars of influence, or the cloak and dagger attacks, but the wars of trade. Naturally, the UFE and the USSR did not engage in any mutual trade, and both sides saw fit to embargo each other's allies. With the Soviets able to continue to trade with the Chinese via land and the Americas via the Pacific, it left Europe at a disadvantage, bordered on all sides by hostile nations, except for the Atlantic frontier. However, even here, covert Soviet naval operations would attempt to frustrate Trans-Atlantic trade, and operatives would board vessels to foul cargo or sink them altogether. This left the UFE mostly isolated and self-reliant.

I remember times when crops would fail in the breadbaskets of Europe, and everyone would go without, surviving on meagre rations. Two years prior, a poor wheat harvest combined with a widespread potato blight meant half rations on each for months until new crops could be sown and the blight eliminated. My wife and I made the choice to halve our own rations again, so our little girl wouldn't have to go without. Life could certainly be hard in the UFE, but we made the best of it.

Being in this world is therefore understandably jarring. When I surveiled her, I believed I'd come to know this version of my wife, that I'd come to understand her life. Yet I've been here for a scant few minutes, and I feel blindsided. Was I really paying attention? If this is the world she grew up in, surely she would live the same as all these other people. When I think back on all those hours spent in the sensoria, yes, I was paying attention, but to her and her alone. I was looking for my wife in her.

Certainly, there were many similarities, the way she smiled disapprovingly when our little Emily did something particularly sassy, or how she would read her bedtime stories right until the end, even if Emily fell asleep by the second page. There were lots of little things that I mostly only saw when she was with her daughter. Outside of that, in the long evenings and many sleepless nights I observed, she was troubled, I could see that much. This Sheila is different. She is withdrawn, fragile. I never tried to learn why, I realise now. I never learned why she was always sad, why she was scarred, what had happened to the version of me in this reality. All I was focused on was getting to her, and maybe making her happy again. Maybe if I could, she'd be more like the Sheila I remember.

I remember now, too, that I never saw her going out much. She brought her daughter to school and collected her. She spent most of those hours between on a personal computer, working from home it seemed. Occasionally, she would bring Emily out somewhere, but never into the city or any other urban area. She always took her out into the country, more often than not to the park that we share in common, though I don't know what her reasons for going there are. For me, it was where I proposed to Sheila, at sunset on the steps of the old manor house under the guise of an evening picnic date. There had been some bountiful harvests that year, including of grapes, so I managed to get a small bottle of wine. My Sheila brought me back to that exact same place again two years later to tell me she was pregnant.

So, I hadn't paid enough attention, and she limits her exposure, and by extension her daughter's, to life in general. I'm an intelligence operative and yet I neglected to familiarise myself with this world and instead hurled myself headlong into it. I didn't have a choice about the manner of my arrival, but I could have at least become informed about this realm. I know nothing of its culture, such as it is, and If I'm to gain this Sheila's trust...

What am I even thinking?

Her husband is gone, that much I know. If I just suddenly appear on her doorstep, there are going to be questions, obviously. I was never going to be able to deceive her in any way. I don't even know the circumstances of my counterpart's death. I'm just going to have to tell her the truth and hope she buys it. It's no longer important, all these contrasts between this world and mine, it is merely a distraction. I'm scared, so I'm analyzing everything because it's holding me back. I have to go to her now. She is mere miles away, finally within my reach. I want to hold her and Emily, take their pain away, make their lives whole again. Everything else is just trivialities that I can get accustomed to.

I return to the main street and see a series of public buses parked up in front of one of the bigger department stores. One is boarding and bears the name of the place I want to go in a digital display at the front. A man in a business suit is coming my way, as I walk towards them. I deliberately collide with him, mutter an apology, as he hollers to watch where I'm going, and swipe his wallet from his jacket pocket. I take the cash and drop it by the curb before getting on-board. The engine revs up. The bus moves off.

I'm going home. Sheila, Emily, I'm coming...

The bus stop is not far from her home, my home. Out here, in the suburbs, things aren't so different. The homes are certainly less plain, a lot more varied, but I recognise things. There are tall trees and neatly trimmed hedgerows exactly where I expect. Across the road from my neighbourhood is a series of shops, a barbers, and a post office. The shops would have been local ration dispensaries, but that doesn't matter. The layout, the shape, the feel of the place is familiar, and I don't feel so lost anymore.

I carefully tread the pavement, slowly making my way through, taking it all in. I can name all my neighbours for up to two blocks in every direction. I made a point of getting to know them all, their routines, their habits. Some of it was my training seeping into my personal life but like I said, my Limerick was a grand community. We all had to stick together and work hard to keep our city safe and functioning, playing its integral part in our great conflict with the Soviets. Civilian and naval vessels that had been the victims of sabotage or a covert strike would often limp back to port along the estuary, and their wounded would be tended to in our hospitals. Our critical position meant we were also under constant threat of Soviet-sponsored terrorism and despite our vigilance, some succeeded in hurting us.

Those were the truly difficult times, when we watched a plume a smoke rising from somewhere in the city through our windows, feeling guilty with the relief that it wasn't us. However, we would all come together, to repair the damage, help the afflicted, and help the authorities in any way we could. It was always the way of things. Everyone helped everyone in our frontline city, and I imagine they continued doing so until the end finally came.

I take a left into a cul-de-sac that is separated from the busy main road by a strip of well-mowed grass. The footpath continues along it and parallel to the road in front of the homes that face out upon it. Three doors down, I see what I came here for.

When I first lay eyes on it, I have to catch my breath. I know already what it looks like from viewing it on the sensoria but to see it in person, to look at this place that is almost a perfect replica of the home I remember. Tears well in my eyes. I could have it all back. I just have to do this next part right.

I am still clueless of what to say. I know only the truth will make sense but even thinking it out in my head, it seems just laughable. Yet I have no other options. When I first viewed this realm and noticed my counterpart's absence, I only searched for his whereabouts and was promptly informed by the sensoria display that the person I sought was deceased. At the time, I was so completely overwhelmed by my discovery that it never crossed my mind to look into how he died. To be honest, that wasn't the only reason. I was so embittered by having to review the profiles of so many failures and in contrast, so many happy versions of myself that I refused to investigate another.

All I needed to know was that he wouldn't get in my way.

I realise I've been standing in the same place, staring, for a good few minutes. I know there's nothing else for it. I must do this and hope for the best. Just as I'm about to take a step forward, the door of the nearest house to me opens and out emerges an elderly woman, carrying some fabric bags and a set of keys. She's dressed in a rather garish flower-pattern dress and a relatively plain, lavender cardigan. She's about to turn to lock her front door when she catches sight of me. She squints for a moment, realises her glasses are hanging from her neck, puts them back on, and then...then her face drops. She looks pale, shakes her head slightly, and then, before I can say a word, hurries inside and slams her door behind her.

I'm a little taken aback by her reaction but then, I try to imagine what it would be like to see a dead man standing before you. I shake it off and put one foot in front of other. I'm going to do this. It's all I've been waiting for for the better part of seven months.

Standing before the front gate, it's even more remarkable to behold, just how similar this house is to my original home. It is painted white while the window sills and verges are a light blue. The front door is sheltered by a small porch supported by smooth wooden pillars, also stark white. The gate and perimeter walls follow the same colour scheme, and the front garden is merely a footpath dividing up a neatly mowed lawn. It's all very simple, something Sheila always yearned for. I, myself, had no designs on styling our home, even with the limited options available to us. It brings me a certain calm and even a small feeling of joy that the woman who lives in this house shares that with my wife. Some part of her, whether a few shared traits or a nearly indistinguishable person, still lives on.

I open the gate, fumbling with the latch, and it swings slowly with a familiar whine. I take each step slowly, as I approach the door. I can't will myself to go any faster, though I know one way or another, I'm going to get there, that this is going to happen. I reach the porch, take the step, and force my hand up towards the doorbell. My finger hovers a centimetre from the button. Just when I've worked up the last of my will to push it, the door swings open. A woman stands before me, but she is not Sheila.

She is blonde, brown-eyed woman, probably a few years younger than myself. In her hand is a set of keys, one for a car. She was obviously just leaving, and I startled her. She takes a step back inside the threshold and asks, "Can I help you?" Her voice sounds Eastern European, Polish I believe.

I stutter over my first few words, but then I manage to say, "I'm here to see Sheila. Is she home?"

"Sheila is out running some errands. Do you want me to tell her you stopped by?"

"Will she be long?"

"I suppose not. She's gone as far as the shopping centre, but I must go now to pick up her daughter from school."

"Are you a housekeeper, childminder?"

"Just a friend. I live three doors down. Our daughters go to school together. We help each other out when we can."

"Well, I can wait till everybody's back. It was nice meeting you."

"Thank you..." Her mouth moves to say something else, as she scrutinises me a moment, and then she walks past me back the direction I came.

As I come back to the gate, I notice she quickens her pace and takes a furtive look back at me, as she rounds the corner, out of sight. I noticed, as well, while she did a good job of keeping her voice even, her body and face gave away how tense she was in my presence. Maybe it isn't something the average person would pick up on, but my training makes me very aware of conspicuous behaviour in those around me. My professional side is throwing up red flags that I should be concerned, especially given the elderly lady's strong reaction to me, as well. Yet, my heart, my grief, my yearning, they all suppress my better judgement.

I wander away from the house onto the thin strip of grass separating the pavement from the main road. Traffic is picking up, probably for the school run and the beginning of evening rush hour. I hear sirens in the distance. The sound seems to be drawing nearer. Then I hear footsteps behind me.

I turn and standing at the corner is the woman I love.

"Sheila..." I utter.

She is radiant. Her red hair glistens in the afternoon sun, as strands waft in the slight breeze. She wears a simple white dress, cinched at the waist by a brown leather belt, with a pale grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her sapphire blue eyes are welling with moisture. Is she on the verge of tears? Her expression doesn't look sad to me. Confused perhaps? I'm too in awe of being in her presence to think straight. Without speaking another word, I almost, on autopilot take a step forward. I want to go to her, to hold her again.

She gasps and retreats. In that moment, it is undeniable. She is afraid.

I wonder what my counterpart from this reality could have done to inspire that reaction. My moment of near euphoria evaporates to be replaced by a mix of rage and an unreasoning feeling of shame. In my distraction, I don't notice for a second that Sheila has run. She races right past me and through her gate before I can even react. She frantically rams her house key in the lock and swings the door open.

I come back into the garden and shout after her, "Sheila, wait, please, let me explain."

She answers with a gun.

It's a standard nine-millimeter pistol. Anyone in the UFE could get one for personal protection, and people were free to carry them openly but not concealed, as not to make it easy for the Russian operatives. However, to see one in her hands, her shaking hands. Tears escape her eyes. She's holding it all wrong, and her aim wavers up and down. Nevertheless, at such close quarters, she'd be unlikely to miss.

I consider my options. She's clearly terrified, panicking. Any false move on my part could lead her to fire. I raise my hands slowly but even that action causes her to tighten her grip on the pistol. Her eyes are wild. Just a little more pressure on the trigger, and she'll shoot. I gulp slightly, readying to speak, hoping saying something will diffuse the situation. "Sheila, I can explain everything. Please put the gun down."

The gun still aimed squarely at my chest, she breaks down crying, the tears streaming now. Through sobs, she utters, "No...why, why did you have to come back?"

"Sheila, I'm not who you think. I'm someone different. Let me..."

"NO!"

Her scream accompanies the gunshot. I had been trying to edge gradually closer in the hopes of disarming her, but I fell perhaps a foot short of were I needed to be. The tightening below my right shoulder is my first clear indication that I'm hit. Then I glance down to see the blood spreading through my t-shirt. I stagger back towards the entrance, remembering to put my hand on the wound to apply pressure. My head is spinning a bit. It takes me a minute to realise that Sheila has gone again. I half fall towards the gate, bracing myself against it, and open it in a daze before stumbling out into the grass, staring about me in confusion.

I'm not sure if it's just the gunshot wound that has me completely addled. Despite my grievous injury, I just can't comprehend what has happened here. This was supposed to be the answer, to my pain, my grief, and just as importantly, I thought I'd be the answer to hers, too. I had fixated on her and this place for months, this reality that seemingly cancelled out the loss of my own. Yet now I find myself on the verge of death at the hands of the woman I had come to save, to heal, to love.

I fall on my knees. The bullet hit something important for sure, as the blood is seeping through my top and between my fingers. My vision is blurring now. My thoughts are becoming muddled. Is this really how it ends, after everything I've been through? I may well be the last living person from my reality, and I'll die here in obscurity, just a story of a man killed by his wife, and I won't even know why.

I should have learned why.

I want to close my eyes. The last thing I remember seeing are flashes of red and blue, sirens perhaps, and the blurry image of a redhaired woman, standing at a distance, the arms of another woman draped about her shoulders.