Chapter 8

It was the first nightmare he'd had in days and days. He was unprepared for it. Even after the events of the previous day he'd gone to bed as normal, not a second thought about what would happen after he closed his eyes.

The darkness seemed to go on forever. It was a dense blackness, there was nothing to see, no chink of light in the distance, no hope amid the despair. There was an ache in his chest as the air once again proved too thick to breathe and he struggled to take in any oxygen.

"Alex?" he cried out, "Alex? Are you here?"

This time there was no reply, no voices, no cries for help.

"Alex!" he tried desperately, "Alex, I want to help you but I don't know how!"

"And you never will," Keats hissed angrily, appearing in front of his face from thin air.

-x-

Simon screamed, woke up and sat bolt upright in bed. He panted and gasped, terrified of the man who was haunting him once again. He looked to one side and saw Robin still fast asleep. How had he slept through Simon's anxious wake-up call? There was a part of Simon that wanted to wake him up, to be held and comforted, and a part of him that was glad he wouldn't have to explain that the nightmares were back.

He laid back down and closed his eyes. He really hoped that he could fall back to sleep and end the night peacefully but all he could think about was that evil face and the sneering voice. He tried turning over in bed a few times but started resembling an egg whisk and decided to stop tossing and turning.

He got to his feet and tiptoed to the lounge. Switching on a small lamp, he blinked to adjust to the light and pulled out the paper again. He traced his finger around the edge of the photograph. It was real, as real as his reflection in the mirror, as real as the socks he wore on his feet, as real as the ticking of the clock beside him.

For all he had said to Robin earlier he realised that he was increasingly convinced that Malcolm was not the only person he met who was a part of his own world. The others had to be real too, there was very little doubt in his mind.

"Maybe I was supposed to die," he whispered to himself. Why else would he end up in some kind of parallel universe with one confirmed dead man and countless other possible ones too? Perhaps he wasn't supposed to wake from his coma. Had he cheated death? Had he pissed death off good and proper?

He thought about Keats and the angry words from his nightmare. That was someone who he had definitely pissed off, no doubt about it. Keats had tried hard to take him for his own purpose in 1985, whatever that might have been. Now, Simon wondered, was he still in pursuit of the one who got away?

"You're not getting me, Keats," he said out loud as though to reassure himself, "it doesn't matter what you do."

It could have been the whisper of a breeze in the air outside but just for a moment Simon felt sure he heard an angry growl of disagreement.

It took an hour for Simon to fall asleep in an armchair, then another hour after that to wake up with a crick in his neck. He muttered to himself under his breath and crept to the window where he opened the blinds to reveal the beginning of a sunrise. It was clear that was as much sleep as he was going to get that night.

An early breakfast followed. The washing up came next. Then there was a lot of pottering. Finally Robin appeared and found breakfast already made for him, along with his clothes ironed, packed-lunch made and wallet and keys placed ready on the table.

"Wow," he said with a little smile, "what's all this in aid of?"

"I couldn't sleep," Simon yawned, "so I thought I'd make myself useful."

Robin slipped into a chair and found a stack of toast placed in front of him, along with two boiled eggs which were ready and waiting.

"I'm sorry you didn't have a very good night," he said gently, "but I'm more than happy to eat the evidence!"

Simon slumped into a chair and watched Robin tucking into his breakfast. He felt too tired to make conversation. Besides, he had so much going through his mind that he couldn't get his thoughts straight.

On one of the many read-throughs of the newspaper article he'd undertaken in the last few hours he had noticed a small ceremony was to take place that day in tribute. Malcolm's body wouldn't be released for burial for a while so his work colleagues were holding a small celebration of his life which his family were also attending.

Simon couldn't get the thought out of his mind. He'd only known Malcolm for a short time but he still considered him a friend and colleague. He felt as though he had as much right as anyone to say goodbye, so when Robin had finished eating and set off to work he made the decision to don his smartest suit and attend.


There may have been no body but the ceremony still felt like a funeral. As soon as Simon crept into the community centre he was greeted by a mass of black ties, sobbing guests and distraught friends and relatives. He began to feel out of place and wondered for a moment whether he had any place to be there, but Malcolm had seemed like such a nice person, he wanted to learn a little more about him.

At the front of the hall was a big, smiling photograph of Malcolm, donning his smart uniform. Underneath it the dates read; "1987-2010". Simon's heart sank. He was so young. He'd had his whole life ahead of him. He scratched his head as he thought about the young copper he met in 1985. Maybe, back there, he still had a whole life to lead. He took a seat at the back and tried to stay in the background.

"What am I doing here?" he whispered to himself.

A woman in a black veil slipped into the chair beside him which made him feel a little uncomfortable. He tried to shuffle to one side and slid down in his seat a little. As he busied himself hiding his face from the crowd someone stood up and began to speak. He watched as the bead of Malcolm's shift began to talk about the eager young recruit that had touched so many lives. It seemed so strange to hear someone else talking about him. The same person, but a while different world. It made Simon shudder.

He listened to stories of Malcolm as a child from his mother, of Malcolm on the beat from his colleagues and of Malcolm as a person from his friends. It was the most surreal moment of Simon's life, and that included waking up in 1985.

An hour passed. Two hours. Finally the service came to an end and Malcolm's nearest and dearest were dismissed to go and munch on sandwiches for the rest of the day. Simon noticed for the first time that the woman beside him had disappeared. How had he not noticed her leaving? He must have been so absorbed in the ceremony that he'd zoned out for a while.

He got to his feet and his eyes scanned the room. There at the front of the hall stood Malcolm's mother, adopting a false smile to thank those who approached her to offer their condolences. There was a part of Simon that felt wrong about doing what he was about to do but a bigger part of him that wanted to speak to her in person, so he slowly made his way to the front and stood just behind the group of men in uniform who were all nodding politely and paying their respects.

As they left he sidled up to her and gave a thin smile.

"Uh, Mrs, erm…" he realised to, even though he'd read the article many times, he had still not taken in Malcolm's surname, "uh… I wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

Malcolm's mother gave yet another forced smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "did you work with Malcolm?"

"Uh… kind of," Simon said honestly, "I only knew him for a short time but he was such a nice guy. He looked after me when I broke my toes, make sure I always had a chair to rest my foot on, brought me cups of tea."

The woman nodded gently.

"That's my Malcolm," she said quietly.

Simon could see the pain in her eyes. It broke his heart to see. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing a son, especially when his life had just begun. He wished she could see for herself that Malcolm had a whole new life starting. He wished that he could tell her what he'd seen. He bit his lip nervously.

"Uh… I know this is going to sound trite," he began quietly, "but Malcolm… he's in a good place."

The woman closed her eyes. She bristled visibly.

"Oh, please don't give me the God talk," she said crossly, "I'm an atheist at the best of times. I can't see that any kind of god would let a mother have to mourn her own son."

"No, no," Simon shook his head, "I don't mean heaven… goodness, no, I'm an atheist too… I just mean…" He closed his eyes. Why had he started this? He knew there was no good way of ending that sentence. "I mean… he…. I saw him."

The woman frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I was in a coma, OK," Simon's heart began to race, "and I went to this place… in the past… Malcolm was there. He's OK."

What followed Simon's ill-thought out words was silence. A long, deathly silence. He didn't know what else he had expected, really. He tried to put himself in Malcolm's mother's place and imagine what he might have said, but he couldn't. he looked at her expectantly, hoping she would reply but silence prevailed. Finally, when it seemed that no one would ever speak again, the woman slowly opened her mouth and began to speak.

"I think," she began dryly, "that I am going to call the police and tell them there is a mad man at my only son's funeral!"

"N-no! No!" Simon protested, "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right…"

"How else could it come out?" the woman cried, "You've just told me you visited my son in the afterlife! You're crazy! Where are you from? One of the papers? The TV? A news channel? Just a freak who's wandered in off the street?"

"No, I'm not, I promise," Simon faltered, "I'm sorry, I'm just telling you the truth. I thought you'd want to know that I've seen him and he's… he's doing OK."

The woman swallowed hard to stop herself from producing a river of tears. She looked Simon directly in the eye.

"My son," she began quietly, "is laying in a mortuary, on a slab somewhere, while a coroner tries to decide which bite was the one that killed him. I had to identify his body. I had to see the marks and the blood and the…" she flinched, "the horrible, gaping wounds. I'll have to remember that for the rest of my life, while you'll go home and have a good laugh at my expense. Now, I suggest you leave before I ask one of the many officers of the law to remove you."

Simon opened his mouth to reply. He didn't know what he was going to say. Defend himself? Repeat what he'd already said? Show her his badge? None of them would do any good, he was sure of that. Eventually he hung his head. He wished he'd never started this.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I just… wish I could explain it better."

"Out," The woman hissed.

Simon took a deep breath and gave a slow nod. He turned and walked quickly from the hall. He was angry with himself for even attending, even more so for speaking to Malcolm's mother, but also angry with her for not understanding.

No one understood. No matter how hard they tried, no one could understand - unless they had been through it too.


That miserable realisation was the thought that ran over and over in Simon's mind as he took himself home. He couldn't think about anything else, just that his time in 1985 had changed his whole world and he could never quite return to being the man he used to be.

As he stepped through the front door the bottle called him again. He remembered seeking refuge under the blanket of alcohol the day before, for the first time in his life. He'd only managed to take a small amount of the foul-tasting liquid into him before Robin arrived him but the numbness that followed had been a blessed relief from the pain he felt after his discovery.

Although it was only midday he poured himself a glass and downed it with speed. He gagged a little at the taste, but found it easier to take than the day before. He knew deep down this wasn't going to solve anything but he was desperate to forget the events of that morning and to put it behind him, just as he'd tried to with every aspect of his coma experience.

Just one more, he thought. One more glass, one more taste, and then everything would slip away. One more glass followed another. A fourth followed their tail. Before too long, Simon could hardly remember his own name or the colour of the sky, but even so the pain of that morning remained. What would it take to truly forget? Short of another server in the head, Simon had no idea.