-1Chapter 7

"Hello? Simon?" Robin called cautiously through the flat, "are you home? Guess what I brought? Fish and chips!" There was no reply. "Si? Where are you? I brought us a treat for your first day back at work."

He reached the lounge door and peered around. Simon was sitting in silence, a glass of something he'd never drunk before in his hands. The sight shocked Robin and he faltered for words.

"Uh… what are you doing?" he asked quietly, "y…you're drinking. You hate alcohol."

Simon barely looked up.

"I've had a bit of a shock," he said quietly.

Robin slowly made his way across the room and sat down beside him, leaving the fish and chips on the table.

"What's happened?" he asked.

Simon lifted the newspaper and handed it to Robin.

"I've lost a friend," he whispered.

Robin took the paper and scanned the headline.

"I heard about this," he said, "it was on the news yesterday. It's so sad… I didn't realise it was someone you knew."

Simon bit his lip. How on earth was he going to explain this?

"He was a… a colleague," he began.

Robin gave a little gasp as he remembered their brief conversation on the phone that morning.

"Oh, Si, I'm sorry, I forgot all about that," he began, "when you told me about it earlier you seemed… OK though."

Simon flinched for a moment. He'd forgotten about his Superintendent. He felt a little guilty.

"That… that was actually someone else," he said. He gave an ironic laugh and rubbed his temples. "I guess I've lost two colleagues."

Robin gave a deep sigh and rubbed Simon's shoulder gently.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, "no wonder you're in shock. Do you want to talk about it?" he paused. "What happened this morning?"

Simon stared into his glass. Start with the Super, he thought. At least that wouldn't make him sound crazy.

"When I got to work this morning," he began, "I found out my Superintendent died while I was on sick leave. It was some kind of golfing accident… wild animals were involved…" he sighed. So much for not sounding crazy. "I don't know the details. I thought it best not to ask."

"Oh Si, I am so sorry," Robin shook his head slowly, "I can't believe nobody let you know at the time."

"I suppose they didn't want to make things worse for me while I was recovering," Simon guessed.

Robin looked at him sympathetically.

"What about…" he scanned the article for a name, "Malcolm? How did you know him?"

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a lump in his throat as he struggled to know where to begin.

"Please don't judge me," he whispered.

Robin moved back slightly. Those words didn't sound good.

"Simon, what's wrong?" he asked, "you're starting to worry me."

Simon took a deep breath.

"I met Malcolm in nineteen eighty-five," he said.

Robin froze. He wasn't sure what to say to that. It had been the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"You… haven't even mentioned your coma for days," he whispered, "where has this come from?"

"It's not 'come' from anywhere," Simon shook his head, "this isn't a nightmare or a dream or any kind of hallucination, this is the front cover of the local paper!"

"But… but this was a young man!" Robin protested, "he couldn't have been in nineteen eighty five. I don't think he was even born yet!"

"I don't know how to explain this to you," Simon told him, "I met him when I was in that… strange, strange place. I thought my mind made it all up. I thought it was a dream I had while I was unconscious. But it wasn't. Malcolm was there too. He died, and he went back in time, just like I did."

"But this guy only just died," said Robin, "Your accident happened months ago."

"I didn't say I could explain it!" Simon protested, "why do you think I'm sitting in silence, drinking something that tastes like vomit, trying to work the damn thing out?"

Robin sighed and blinked slowly. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Si…" he began quietly, "there must be… hundreds of Malcolms in the world. It's not that unusual a name."

"What, you think it wasn't the face I recognised?" said Simon, "Rob, I knew this guy. He was sweet and funny, really helpful, a bit naïve… never knocked before entering a room, spoke first and thought later… but he was just a really nice bloke."

Robin hesitated.

"Maybe… maybe you'd seen this Malcolm around somewhere at work," he said, "and when you were… asleep your mind just recreated him because you needed people to dream about."

"He's not from our station," Simon shook his head, "and besides, how would I know his name?"

Robin was out of ideas. He was the kind of man who liked to find a logical explanation for things, even ridiculous things like Noel Edmonds' old jumpers. This was one time he had drawn a complete and total blank. He looked directly at Simon and took his hand.

"OK," he said quietly.

"OK?"

"OK, something strange has gone on here," Robin agreed, "I don't know what it is and I really can't explain it. I want to find an explanation for you, so you can carry on making great progress and put your accident behind you, just like you had been doing until today. But I can't tell you how you met a man in the past who you didn't really know existed until today. And I can't explain why one dead guy and one dying guy ended up in the same dream or whatever it was you had. I don't know, Simon. I wish I did because I hate seeing you like this, but I don't."

Simon started to feel a little guilty. He didn't know what more he expected from Robin. He'd already stood by him through some very turbulent months and put up with his nightmares and freak-outs. He'd done everything he could to help Simon get over the experience he'd been through and yet Simon couldn't thank him by standing up and saying, yes, 1985 was just a dream.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I can't explain this to you any better because unless you've been through it you'll never understand how real the world was to me. Now I've found out someone I knew in that world is… was… as real as I am. I can't say for certain that the others aren't real too. Maybe they died… maybe they're going to die. Maybe they're stuck somewhere between life and death. I don't have it in me to find out. It's too much."

Robin hesitated.

"Do… do you want me to find out for you?" he whispered.

Simon hesitated.

"What?"

"I could look for you," Robin said quietly, "and then you could decide if you were ready to know."

Simon swallowed.

"You'd do that for me?" he asked.

Robin gave a tiny shrug.

"I want to help you," he said, "and I think finding out what's real and what isn't will be the only way to do that."

Simon took in a very deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn't sure what to say, he wasn't even sure what his answer was. Finally he began to speak.

"Robin," he began quietly, "that means the world to me. It truly does. But I'm not sure I'm ready, for either of us to know. I just lost a friend today… however real or otherwise nineteen eighty five was, Malcolm was a genuinely lovely guy. I don't want to lose Alex and Susannah and Webber as well."

Robin sighed deeply.

"I can understand that," he said. He took the glass from Simon and sat it on the table. "Listen," he began, "I know I wasn't there, and I know that I'll never understand what that world meant to you but I am always here to listen. So any time you're ready to find out… any time you want to know for sure… I'll be by your side. OK?"

Simon have a thankful smile.

"OK," he said quietly.

Robin slowly got to his feet.

"Are you ready for some fish and chips?" he asked gently.

Simon wasn't really hungry but nodded anyway.

"Yes please," he said.

He watched Robin lift the bag and carry it through to the kitchen to serve out their treat, then glanced back at the newspaper Robin had left on the arm of the couch. Malcolm's smiling face looked back at him.

"I never even got to say goodbye," he said sadly.

That was one of the hardest parts of the situation for Simon. He'd never had a chance to say goodbye - to Malcolm, to Alex, or to 1985. It was no wonder he still felt like he was in limbo.

"Simon! Chips!" Robin called as a reminder.

Simon sighed and lifted his glass from the table, downed the rest of the whiskey and pulled a face. It still tasted of something awful but he needed something. Since he didn't have any of his favourite blue and white pills from 1985 the foul-tasting liquid would have to do.