Chapter 18

A shiver ran down the spine of Simon as he walked down a cold, quiet corridor.

I was here, he thought silently, this is where I spent my coma.

He clung to the small, half-dead bunch of flowers that he'd hastily bought from the hospital gift shop and breathed deeply. He came to a halt beside the door and felt his palms beginning to sweat. He hated hospitals with a passion. He was bad enough as a patient but he made an even worse visitor. As a patient there wasn't much he could do - he just had to put up with being there - but when he was visiting something else all he wanted to do was turn and scoot back out of the nearest exit.

He remembered going to A&E with Robin after an incident with a lawnmower and a pair of open-toed sandals and being so nervous that he dropped the grapes on the floor, slipped on them and ended up in the bed next door with a twisted ankle.

He gathered his thoughts, took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. Opening it slowly, the enormity of the moment grasped him. He was about to come face to face with someone he'd met in some whole other place, some whole other time. He didn't know where 1985 was - an alternative reality, a parallel universe, some kind of time travel pit-stop, but whatever it was he knew now it was real on some level. It was as tangible as the world he stood in right there and then.

Now or never, he decided.

One last, deep breath.

Best foot forward.

He took a couple of steps forward and peered around. In the sparse room there was a bed where various machines surrounded a still, motionless body. A couple of chairs sat beside it, while on a small cabinet stood some wilting flowers and a photograph or two.

Swallowing hard, Simon stepped closer to the bed and saw for the first time the figure laying within. He gasped involuntarily, taken aback by his own reaction to seeing the face of the woman he'd met more than two decades into the past.

"God," he whispered, stepping a little closer. He peered at Alex, noting how peaceful her expression looked; a far cry from the harrowed brow she'd worn in 1985 as she watched Keats setting up her beloved Gene. Simon felt a little out of place - did he even have the right to be there? However well they may have gotten on in the past, in this world they had never even met.

"Uh… hi, Alex," he began to speak, surprised at how quiet his tone was and how much his voice trembled. He gently slipped into a seat beside her and stared at her peaceful features. "It's me…. It's Simon. You might not even remember me… hell, I know I'm easily forgettable…" He gave a nervous laugh and cleared his throat. "I feel sort of silly, talking to you like this… But I remember how important it was to hear messages from home, and hope maybe you'll be able to hear me too."

The silence in the room seemed to make talking to her even more difficult. He glanced around and saw a small TV. He wondered what the chances of finding the remote were and putting on the end of Cash in the Attic or some such show, but it didn't seem appropriate. Reluctantly, he decided to deal with the silence and turned back to Alex.

"I thought you were dead," he said, "I mean… you thought you were dead. You told me you were so you must have thought so… I was expecting to find a gravesite to lay flowers on for you, not to be able to bring them to your beside…" he looked at the moth-eaten flowers and gave a tiny laugh as he laid them down. "Not that these would look out of place in a cemetery - they're already mostly dead themselves! I'm sorry, I didn't have much time to find anything better."

He took a very deep breath and stared at the friend he never thought he would see again.

"I don't know how to thank you but… I think you saved my life." Memories of his final moments on 1985 came back to him and washed over him like the heat of the shower just an hour or two before. "I don't know what you did or how you did it but you saved me from Keats. You saved me from that… insane turd of a man, and sent me home. Back to Robin, my dad, my sisters, even to my guinea pig. Shit, Alex, how am I ever supposed to thank you for that? Saving a life… it's not an easy favour to repay."

One of the machines began whirring a little which caught Simon's attention and distracted him for a moment, but he soon turned back to carry on his one sided conversation. There was so much more he had to say.

"I don't know what that place was… is…" he shook his head slowly, "but I am so grateful I had another chance at life. Don't get me wrong, my return to the present hasn't been… without some problems," he knew that was putting it mildly, "but I'm alive. I'm breathing. I am living. And you are too. I never thought you could be. I know the others are dead… well, I know Malcolm is dead," he hesitated as he recalled seeing his friend in the newspaper a couple of days earlier, "but you've got another chance too, Alex. Please don't give up."

He reached out and gently took her hand. It felt a little cold so he tried to warm it up as he spoke.

"I think I met your daughter," he said quietly, "I didn't know who she was at the time but she looked so familiar. As soon as I found out you were still here, in a coma, I realised how much of a resemblance there was between you and who she must have been. I…" he paused, "I bought her a smiley biscuit. I hope that was OK. She was so down, it was all I could do to cheer her up. I think it was her birthday…"

A tear began to roll down his cheek. It surprised him. He hadn't even known it was there.

"I… I missed my dad's birthday too. I wish I could have been here for it but at least I have a chance t make that up to him. You'll get the chance too, when you wake up. I'm sure you will. I just know it. One day you'll get back to see your daughter."

He felt a lump rising in his throat and realised that the day had been one long emotional trauma. It was time, he decided, to wrap things up and leave before he ended up blubbing all over her hospital-issue sheets.

"I think I'd better go," he whispered, "I just wanted… just needed to see for myself. I can't believe you are here…. Alive!" he gently laid her hand back on the bed and stood up slowly. "I'll be back to visit," he told her, "when I can. Just so you know someone's here. Just so there's someone to remind you to open your eyes and wake up." he leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. He remembered the last time he'd tried to give her a friendly kiss and her mistaken assumption that it was a sign of something more. He almost laughed as he remembered his rushed coming-out moment. "Say hello to Hunt and the others from me," he whispered, "tell them…" despite himself he gave a smile, "Tell them shoe-shop boy sends his best regards."

"You can tell them yourself."

The voice came out of the blue and sent Simon jumping in the air with surprise. The voice was familiar, yet not enough to immediately know who had spoken. With a thumping heart and a racing pulse his gaze turned upwards and settled upon the doorway. The barrel of a gun had him clearly in its sight, and so did the man standing the other side of it.

"Keats," Simon's heart leapt into his mouth as the full gravity of the moment struck him.

One man in a long, dark coat gave him a small but perfectly evil smile.

"Well, well, Simon Shoebury," he began, "what a lovely speech that was. How very touching." he paused. "I almost didn't recognise you with your clothes on."

Simon swallowed.

"I… I'm surprised you recognised me at all," he tried to hold his tone strong and firm, "I believe you've mislaid your spectacles somewhere."

With his other hand, Keats reached into his pocket out pulled out a second pair.

"Good thing I went to Specsavers," he said.

"Oh," gulped Simon.

He was out of witty retorts. He was out of strength, too. And clearly, he was also out of luck. Of all the places he had expected a final showdown, by the bedside of Alex Drake was really not one of them.

"Finally, it's time," Keats' smile edged up a notch, "no one to save your pathetic arse now."

Simon edged backwards a couple of paces.

"Wh-what do you want with me?" he stammered.

"What's rightfully mine," said Keats.

"Which is?"

"Your soul."

Simon spat with confusion and fear.

"What do you mean 'my soul'?"

"The one I worked hard for," smiled Keats, "don't you know?" he took a step forward. "You're the one that got away," he took a step forward, "and I've been trying to track you down for a very, very long time…"