Chapter Four - And The Walls Came Tumbling Down

Chapter Four

If anyone had suggested it, Jack would never have believed them, but he was starting to get fed up with the constant sunshine. It hadn’t rained the entire time he’d been at the farmhouse—not that he had any real concept of how long ‘the entire time’ was—yet the trees, meadows and crops remained green and lush. Admittedly, back home—in his own reality—it probably hadn’t been long enough to prompt tentative talk of hosepipe bans, but it just wasn’t right. He was used to life lived to the accompaniment of dripping drains, the enduring pat-pat of rain against his bedroom window…the noise of wet weather.

Nighttime here was disconcertingly quiet—only the occasional owl hoot or the distant rumble of falling limestone—and in the daytime, light streamed through the French windows brightly enough to give him a squint, although he only had himself and his failure to close the curtains to blame for that. Fortunately, the bed was comfortable, and much of the time, he was too tired to care. Given his enquiries about the weather, his constant exhaustion, or anything else, were largely ignored, it was probably as well.

What was worrying him was how his clothes—as in, every single garment from his bedroom, including an old school shirt, two pairs of never-to-be-worn patterned socks and a multitude of other gifts of Christmas Past he thought he’d thrown away—had suddenly appeared, neatly folded and stowed in the antique chest of drawers across the room.

Jericho wasn’t forthcoming with any explanations for that, either.

Maybe he waited for my poor, grieving parents, ha-ha, to pack it all up and send it off to a charity shop. I wonder if he got a bulk-buy discount? Or…maybe he stole it. Unlikely.

More likely, seeing as Jericho appeared to know everything in advance, he’d been spying on Jack for months and bought duplicates of all his clothes. But why go to the trouble? Twenty-one years’ experience indicated that he, Jack Davies, wasn’t that important. Besides which, the idea that someone had been watching his every move was more than a bit creepy, so he settled for his first guess and left it at that.

By now, his parents—his real parents, in his own reality—would believe he’d been killed in the accident, and they had a right to know he was still alive. However, Jericho had said it wasn’t safe for him to return until the cliffs stabilised. Jack was happy to accept that, but what if it took years?

Hey, Mum, Dad, guess what! I’m still alive.

“But I’m not still alive there…here…”

He really needed to talk to Jericho about this whole parallel dimension malarkey. Now he was this side, his own dimension was the alternate, where he had been rescued from certain death, yet everyone thought he was dead. Here, he had died, but he was still alive, which meant he kind of didn’t exist in either reality. What if I can never go back? Will I cease to exist here? Or is this now my dimension? It was breakfast time—7:45 a.m. precisely, every morning, including Sundays—and Jack decided. He was going to get a proper explanation this morning, whatever it took.

“Good morning,” he called cheerily as he entered the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffee pot.

Jericho was in his usual location, sitting at the table, tiny half-moon glasses perched on the end of his long nose, coffee mug in one hand and pen in the other as he pored over the matter in front of him—a book of some sort, and quite a small one, although all of his effects looked like minuscule props in comparison to the size of their owner.

“Ah. Good morning, Jack.” Jericho glanced up briefly and then continued with his reading. Alongside him on the table was a notepad, on which he presently jotted notes, frowning as he leafed through several pages, thoroughly engrossed.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Jack took the seat opposite, which had, during the past few weeks, become his.

“Oh, nothing of particular interest or merit. It is simply an account of the mining of limestone and quartz in the South of England during the middle ages. Marvellous what they achieved back then, with no large machinery. Pity they were so inventive, given the troubles of today.”

At primary school, Jack’s teacher had tried to enthral the class with the history of their town, but to no avail. What eight-year-old wants to know about mining, quarries and coastal erosion? Miss Upton was a young and fresh-faced new teacher, and they were her first class, but she soon cottoned on to their lack of interest and changed tack, instead telling them far more thrilling tales of smugglers digging out tunnels and hiding in the caves, pirates waiting offshore to intercept the smugglers—all highly exaggerated but the sort of stuff to coax the minds of small children in the direction of learning.

Jack idly twiddled a pencil that had rolled across to his side of the table. “Were there really smugglers?”

“Wherever there are caves and tunnels, there have always been smugglers.”

“Cool. And were there pirates, too?”

Jericho took off his glasses and watched Jack for a moment or so, trying to decide on his intent. “And wherever there are smugglers, there are pirates. Why the sudden interest in my work?”

“I was thinking about our teacher, trying to get us interested in the history of the cliffs and why they were eroding so fast. She told us all these elaborate stories and we didn’t believe her, even though we wanted to. It’s much more exciting than hearing about people chopping up the cliffs to make mortar.”

“Well, you’ll be delighted to know that it was all true. In fact, the smugglers did far less damage than the quarrymen. Those old rebels are much maligned by conventional history, yet English culture would be a poverty without them.”

“You agree with smuggling and piracy?”

“What is disagreeable about pursuing one’s rights to import and export in an emerging free economy?”

Jack’s interest had waned, and he could feel his belly rumbling, conditioned as it was to the readiness of the day’s fresh loaf. Jericho must’ve heard it because he rose from his chair.

“Today, we have granary with extra rye,” he said, putting on his oven gloves. The blast of hot, perfumed air as the oven door opened was both overwhelming and comfortingly familiar.

“I’ll miss this when I go home,” Jack said as if it were an observation escaping aloud, hoping it would lead naturally into a chance to ask all the questions he’d rehearsed on his way down to breakfast.

“I’m sure.” Jericho placed the loaf carefully on the wooden board between them. It was the first time he hadn’t changed the subject when Jack had brought it up, so he pushed on.

“When I say home, I’m not sure where exactly that is anymore. Whichever side of the mirror I’m on, my family think I’m dead. I don’t know which is my reality and which is the alternate one.”

“Ah, I see your point. You have adjusted well to being here.”

Jack shrugged in partial agreement. “I’m not tired all the time, if that’s what you mean. And I’m getting used to the weather. Who knows? I might even take up sunbathing.” Jack grinned to make it clear he was joking.

Jericho shook his head and gave a low chuckle of amusement. “The sun is just as dangerous here,” he pointed out.

“Probably more dangerous, seeing as we never get any sun.” Rather than plough on, Jack buttered the bread Jericho sliced for him and drizzled honey onto it, keeping his eyes on the thick, golden liquid as he spoke. “Would it make any difference if I stayed this side? When you brought me here, you said the other you was probably more successful and married with a family.”

“I was merely speculating.”

“What if the other me had a totally different life? I couldn’t just step into his shoes, because I wouldn’t know anyone or how to do his job or—”

“I shall stop you there, before you talk yourself into a frenzy.”

“You know a lot more about him than you’ve let on, don’t you?”

“Tell me, Jack, why did you decide not to continue your education?”

“Because it was pointless.”

“But you are an incredibly intelligent young man. See how you have accepted so much that is strange and unbelievable? Not many could achieve such a thing.”

“That’s too much RPG.”

“RPG?”

“Role-play gaming on the computer—you know? Make-believe worlds, where you play a character and go on quests…”

Jericho nodded, but Jack could tell he didn’t really understand. Jack sighed and returned the dipper to the honey pot.

“Which, if I’m totally honest, is more to do with why I didn’t go to college. But then again, what can you do around here with qualifications that you can’t without—” Jack stopped as it registered what Jericho had asked him. “Hold on, are you saying the other me went to college? Did he have a good job? What did he do? I bet he was popular, successful…”

“Good Lord, no.” Jericho chortled and then, sensing Jack’s disappointment, continued more kindly, “I was simply trying, and failing, to refocus your mind on other matters. However, you are right. I do know more about your counterpart, but no more than you know yourself. He was very much like you.”

Jack was relieved to hear that, and perhaps a little bit sad. It had been nice to dream that somewhere, he had managed to be more than he was. Still, on the bright side, it meant he could make a go of living here if he couldn’t get back.

The rest of breakfast was undertaken in silence, whilst Jericho read and made occasional notes and Jack returned to contemplating how his parents would take the news that he was still alive. They weren’t exactly a close or expressive family, but surely he could assume his untimely demise would have had some effect on them? More pointless dreaming. He swirled around the rest of his coffee and gulped it down in one, collected the plates and mugs, and washed up without being asked.

This much he had come to appreciate whilst staying with Jericho. At home, his parents had tried to impose household rotas, which had actually made it less likely he’d complete his allocated tasks. To stop them nagging, he’d race through the list with as little effort as he could get away with, a strategy that only served to infuriate his mother further. ‘Why can’t you do things properly, like Hannah?’ Because she’s Miss-Bloody-Perfect, that’s why.

Here, there was no enforced obligation for Jack to do his bit, but it seemed only polite, a way of showing his gratitude for Jericho’s hospitality, and it did help to pass the time. There was only so much of it he could spend walking through woods and taking in the warm, fresh air and delightful scenery. No computer, no games, none of his sci-fi novels…

So far, he had waxed and polished all the furniture, cleaned the inside and outside of every single window with vinegar-soaked paper, and chopped wood for the stove…probably enough for the entire of next winter…if they got winter here. He’d also climbed a very rickety ladder in order to pick peaches from the trees at the end of the orchard closest to the house, and they were delicious, as were the cherries, plums and lemons. He’d never eaten a whole lemon before and thought Jericho was having him on when he suggested it, but straight from the tree, they were so sweet and juicy he knew for sure they would be one of the things he’d miss when he got back home. If…

He’d even gone as far as counting the trees, grouping them by type and then calculating how much fruit was hanging off them. Based on his approximation that an apple weighed about four ounces, he estimated that the row of apple trees, come autumn—assuming they have autumn here, but why wouldn’t they?—would bear around one hundred pounds of fruit. One hundred pounds! What one middle-aged academic was going to do with all those apples was anyone’s guess.

For all his protesting, there was a place, at the back of the orchard, amid the hazel and chestnut groves, where Jack could while away the hours, far from the house and out of the sun. If he stayed completely still, he would see red squirrels, busily collecting seeds and grains. And what sensible squirrel wouldn’t choose to live right here, where the bounty that awaited them was vast and the dangers were virtually none?

After he’d put the plates away, Jack went up to his room to collect one of the books Jericho had lent him. The pile had remained on his bedside table untouched, but the conversation had got him thinking. Sure, he’d ‘chosen’ not to go to college and hadn’t done anything to stretch his brain since. He was quite content in his ignorance, but it couldn’t hurt to try to understand how he’d landed in this predicament. It might even help. He returned downstairs and was about to head outside when Jericho appeared behind him.

“Don’t go too far. We have an appointment to keep today and must leave in one hour if we are to be on time.”

Jack stopped exactly where he was, with the door part way open, but he didn’t look back. He’d been nowhere beyond the grounds of the house and surrounding woodland. He didn’t suppose he was a prisoner, was technically free to leave any time he wished, yet all speculative hints about doing so were met with the same tangential treatment. Jericho was reluctant to discuss why he should remain at the house. Thus, his suggestion that they were going somewhere aroused instant suspicion. It had to be a bad thing.

“Where are we going?” Jack asked, still with his back turned, although he sensed Jericho’s unease at being subjected to an inquisition.

“You will see when we get there. I shall, however, explain as best I can on our way. One hour and no more, if you please, Jack.”

A moment of motionless silence on both parts ensued; Jericho’s footsteps retreated up the stairs and into his room. Jack stepped outside and closed the heavy, oak door behind him.

Another fine day of hazy sunshine and practically cloudless blue sky. The smaller birds twittered, flitting between the hedgerows lining the lawn that stretched before him; larger birds swooped overhead, some silently homing in on their prey, others noisily chattering to their kind. A pair of wood pigeons hastily beat a retreat from their temporary perch on the orchard’s wooden gate, which clicked and creaked under the daily grind of Jack’s visits.

Fresh lemons aside, when the time came to leave, he truly would miss this, but nowhere near as much as he was starting to miss his tiny bedroom, his own bed, his own things, the familiar smells and sounds of his own house. He could almost sense the place around him, imagine it into being—the TV droning downstairs, his mother gossiping to his sister, the wailing of his nephew and the constant beeps and pips of his game. Perhaps it was a sign…

He supposed, at his age, he really should be contemplating settling down, moving away from the family home, but not to somewhere like this. He would never earn enough money to buy a house like Jericho’s. Then again, he’d never aspired to.

More fruit was ready to pick, but he hadn’t brought a basket today, and it could wait. There was so much of it that there was plenty to share with the mice, birds and other small creatures, and Jericho had confessed he rarely got around to harvesting it before it fell, fermented and became fertiliser for next year’s crops. The orchard had come with the land, and Jericho had neither the time nor the inclination to tend to it, making for vast trees that were plentiful in spite of neglect.

Jack shut the gate and took a moment to view the house through the drooping branches of the peach trees. It was like looking at a VR oil painting. Jericho had told him the old farmhouse that had been on the plot before had collapsed in on itself—with only a little help from the bulldozer. The new house was bigger and would’ve been more imposing, but it was built of old bricks and blended perfectly with the scenery.

“Too big,” Jack said to himself. “Way too big for one person.” He turned on his heel and strolled through the avenue of fruit trees, down towards his favourite spot by the hazels and chestnuts. Small twigs snapped under his feet, alerting hiding squirrels, who dashed for cover or shinned up the nearest tree.

The ground beneath the large hazel was spongy and covered in fine moss that had stained his jeans when he first sat there. Rather than ruin another pair, he opted to sit on a hefty fallen branch that made an excellent makeshift bench. Taking a bite out of the peach he had picked on his way, Jack opened the book at the beginning of Chapter One: The Composition of Limestone. He scanned the first few lines of tiny, tedious print.

“Maybe not.” He closed the book again and inhaled deeply, checked his watch to see how much more time he had to kill—another fifteen minutes before his hour was up—and released the entire breath in one short huff of disbelief.

“That can’t be right.” He took his watch off, shook it and checked it again. It made no difference. “How…” He peered back along the path and scratched his head. The distance from the house to the end of the orchard was, at most, three hundred yards. Even his leisurely stroll couldn’t have taken longer than ten minutes.

Did I fall asleep again? It was a possibility. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d woken up in bed when the last he knew, he’d been sitting at the kitchen table. But he could usually tell he’d been asleep, and on this occasion, he didn’t think he had. Or maybe his watch was running fast. He was guessing.

Regardless, he needed to get back to the house. He wound his watch, just in case, put it back on his wrist and stepped off, fastening it on the move. The second hand was moving at a speed that seemed appropriate, and he decided to time the walk back, if only to prove to himself that it didn’t take forty-five minutes. Past the grove of apple trees, their tiny fruits starting to take on the appearance of what they would grow into, and still no change. Through the pear trees, the plums and apricots, with no further cause for concern. He was halfway through the orchard already, and it had taken less than two minutes.

And then it all started to get a bit strange.

One step forward, the second hand slowed to a virtual stop; one step back, and it returned to normal. He tried several further attempts, each with the same result: moving towards the house made his watch slow down, backtracking made it speed up again. Slowly, Jack moved forwards, eyes focused on the watch face. The second hand wasn’t moving in any way he could discern, but that was the least of his concerns.

In spite of a light breeze that should have raised a leaf or two, to his left and right, the trees were static. Weirder still, the birds were just, well, kind of hovering in mid-air, their wings beating so slowly he could see the motion of every feather. It was enough to have him running back to the house and arriving with ten minutes to spare. He flung open the door, threw himself inside and slammed it shut behind him, leaning back on it while he attempted to catch his breath.

Jericho appeared at the top of the stairs, fastening a bow tie onto his white shirt.

“There’s-something-freaky-going-on-in-the-orchard,” Jack pushed out the words as quickly as possible and sucked in another lungful of air.

“Freaky? In what way?” Jericho descended the stairs, still tying his bow tie.

“Time’s-all-buggered-up.” But that he could get his breath, he might even be able to articulate how it was buggered up.

Jericho seemed concerned, and puzzled, but there was little point in attempting to get any more out of Jack whilst he puffed like an old steam engine.

“Come. Sit down,” Jericho said gently. He led Jack to the kitchen and pushed him down into a chair. “Now, take your time, a few deep breaths.”

Jack did his best to comply while Jericho filled a glass with water and handed it to him. He nodded his thanks and sipped at the water between pants. He wasn’t even that unfit—he’d done rather a lot of walking recently—nor did he think he was especially easy to scare, given his calm acceptance of the reason for his improved fitness level.

Finally, when he had enough breath to speak without fainting, he attempted an explanation.

“I walked down to the end of the orchard, then checked my watch. It said it had taken me forty-five minutes, and I knew it hadn’t. So I started walking back and kept an eye on it, and everything slowed down. The birds…I could see their wings flapping, and the trees were dead still. It freaked me out.”

“That is most interesting, and also novel. Let me note this in my journal lest I forget.” Jericho marched over to a drawer and pulled out an ancient, black leather-bound journal.

“Well, I won’t bloody forget, that’s for sure,” Jack snapped, irked by Jericho’s lack of reaction. “Why did it happen?”

Jericho frowned and didn’t answer. He scribbled at speed, right down the page to the bottom, finished off with a flourish and turned to Jack. “But that I knew for certain.” Still frowning, he smoothed his chin in consideration as he continued. “I would hypothesise it is related to your presence here, although quite why it should only now have had any effect I am unsure. No matter. It will all become apparent in time.”

That made Jack laugh, not because he found it amusing, but it was the tipping edge of a hysteria that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the day in the fish and chip shop with the sausage he’d sold but hadn’t, and the boulder that killed him but didn’t, and now he was struggling to contain it.

Jericho immediately gathered his belongings. “Come, now, there’s no need to fret. Let us meet with others who have some notion of your confusion. It will be a comfort to both you and them that none of you are alone.”

Not knowing what else to do, Jack obediently followed Jericho outside and got in the four-by-four. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d stopped noticing how significant a man Jericho was. Now, as he watched him struggle to lift a knee clear of the steering wheel in order to depress the clutch, Jack recalled his astonishment—and rude staring—at the impossibly tall stranger who walked into his shop. It seemed like an eternity ago, and still Jack had no idea how he had ended up here with Jericho, or even whether Jericho was telling the truth that it was an alternate reality. It still held as the most acceptable explanation for the vision that haunted him, of his own corpse lying on a hospital bed. Without that belief, and a penchant for science fiction and fantasy gaming, he was certain he’d have cracked up completely.

The car swung out onto a country lane much narrower than the driveway and with sharp bends that Jericho was taking at a fair old rate. The turbo roared as they accelerated out of dips and around to the left, then right, none of the landscape or their route through it remotely familiar to Jack. He’d passed out on the way from the hospital, and he had no real idea how far from the coast they were, but they were definitely heading in that direction, which made no sense at all. He probably should’ve recognised where he was, but he spent his leisure time glued to a computer screen. He wasn’t sure he’d recognise that coastline if his life depended on it, and that was before the drastic landslide that killed him. The other him.

“Why are we going to the cliffs? You said it was too dangerous.” He found himself asking the question without meaning to. One thing he’d learned in the past however-many long days was to carefully plan out his queries so they were specific enough to warrant a response. If he didn’t, Jericho would either bombard him with questions or change the subject.

“You misinterpret my words, Jack. It would be…hazardous for you to return to your original version of reality. However, the cliffs themselves present no immediate danger to you or me.”

“Oh. OK. I think I understand,” Jack mumbled, which he did, kind of, but it was easier to believe it was the falling rocks he should be afraid of, rather than some kind of portal to another dimension. He didn’t want to be the guy in the red shirt who volunteered to test the wormhole before the rest of the crew went through.

I’m never going home. The words circled around his brain, spiralling outwards until they were ready to spill from his mouth, but Jericho spoke first, confirming Jack’s fears.

“I must admit, I am uncertain as to whether you can ever safely return to what you conceive of as home. That is not to say I will stop trying to find a way to help you do so. It is with some regret that I accept partial responsibility for bringing you here in the first place.”

Jack didn’t know what that meant, but right at that moment, his more pressing concern was why his watch was playing up again. He needed to tell Jericho and was still trying to get his mouth to cooperate as they rounded a corner and Jericho slammed on the brakes. The engine screamed, and Jack was pinned to his seat, the forward momentum of the last dip carrying them towards the transit van. The gears crunched, Jack closed his eyes and braced for impact. Stop, stop, stop, stop….

Seconds passed. Minutes, even.

Jack opened his eyes again, and the two vehicles gently touched bumpers.