Above me, an expanse of off-white plaster. A hand is placed on my temple; my own, I realize, and I shut my eyes. When I open them again the plaster is still there. I turn my head: seated next to me is Nathaniel Parker, his liver-spotted hands folded placidly over his stomach, waiting.
"Feels good doesn't it?" he says.
"What's the date?" My voice emerges in a hoarse whisper.
"Why?"
"The date."
"The 17th."
"The 17th," I repeat, testing the sound of it, the weight. "So it just happened."
"What did?"
"He just died."
"Who?"
The question is like the slap of a hand; who died? I did, or else it was him. One or both, it makes no difference, and I force myself to sit up and put my feet on the ground. My feet or his, not that it matters.
"He was in the mines tonight," I start. "With a group of outsiders."
I'm not talking to Parker; saying the words is the only way to understand them, the only way to give them context, and as the seconds stretch on I can feel myself returning. I am here, sitting on a narrow, uncomfortable bed in a room crammed with fish tanks, and I go over everything again, the explosion and the fall, waking up in a stranger's apartment with a yellow line on my face. None of that was a dream. Or else all of it was. Either way it amounts to the same thing.
"You were in the mines?" he asks me.
"Yes. But it wasn't me. Not Isaac. Someone else."
"What happened?"
"They were trying to build a gate, a door to the other universe. The Institute was building it, but something went wrong. Their gate didn't lead to the other side. It just led back here."
I frown, trying to bring it back, and again a hand is placed on my temple; I work the fingers over the skin and the bone, trying in vain to sort through the confused impressions of another man's life.
"He fell into the gate and wound up in me," I say at last, laughing bitterly. "The poor bastard."
"I don't understand. You say this just happened? That line's been with you for days."
"I don't know. But if people are out there ripping holes in the universe maybe you've got to expect this kind of thing."
I stand up, a tension like a coiled spring in my legs and along the line of my back. The floor is a hard, precise thing, but the rest of the room continues to vibrate with a soft, nearly imperceptible hum; I'm still high, I think, but that doesn't matter. There's no reason to worry. Not anymore.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"10 in the morning."
"So long?"
"The newt is a deep one, I told you. Now, what exactly did you see? Where did you go?"
"Later."
I grab Nathaniel's chair by the handles and push him out of the room.
"Careful," he mutters. I can sense his frustration, but even if I wanted to answer him I don't have the words: a man fell through a hole in the world and a part of him wound up in me. What do you call that, a transmigration of souls? I don't know if I believe in a soul. I'm not even sure if I know what the word is supposed to mean; I'm both more and less than I was, that's all, and there's no time to go any deeper. Time is the only thing that matters now, the little of it I have left.
At the top of the stairs I lift Nathaniel out of his chair. He feels very light, as light as paper or a sack of cloth. His arms hang at his sides, his face turned away from me, and he stays that way until we reach the kitchen and I set him down in front of the table. Lauren is there, dressed in a red bathrobe and smoking a cigarette by the sink. Her hair is piled in a loose bun at the back of her head, and the skin beneath her eyes is raw and puffy, as if she'd spent the night crying
"You guys want some coffee?" she asks.
"Sure," I tell her. Nathaniel shakes his head. Lauren fills a mug with coffee and hands it to me.
"There's sugar on the table if you need it," she says.
"Any milk?"
"In the fridge."
I get it myself, conscious of Nathaniel watching me. Lauren seems not to be aware of either of us, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers, apparently forgotten.
"You alright?" I ask her, sitting down at the table. She shrugs.
"Rough night."
"Tell me about it."
"You too?"
"I've had easier."
Taylor and the bartender enter the kitchen. For once, Taylor isn't wearing his glasses, but his dark eyes are tired-looking and glazed. He falls into one of the chairs and the bartender puts his hands on his shoulders.
"Morning," Taylor says, in a voice like that of an old man.
"How'd you sleep?" Nathaniel asks him. Taylor shrugs.
"Intense dreams."
Lauren looks at him, and then at her brother.
"Both of you?"
The bartender nods. Nathaniel frowns, considering each of them in turn. The bartender begins to rub Taylor's shoulders with the flat of his palms.
"Well," I say, finishing what's left of my coffee. "Thanks for the hospitality."
Lauren nods listlessly.
"You're leaving?" Nathaniel asks me.
"Have some things I need to do."
"Got what you came for and you're gone, is that it?"
"That's it."
He chews on his lower lip as he searches for words.
"I wonder if you wouldn't mind meeting me later," he says. "I still have a lot of questions."
"I'm likely to be busy."
The old man regards me flatly.
"I know what it's like," he says. "I know. You feel new. New thoughts, new way of thinking. It's nice. Most people never change their minds about anything, their politics, the kind of women they enjoy sleeping with. But now you know what it's like to really change. Besides, you owe me that much. Those newts aren't cheap."
"Alright," I say, giving in. "What time?"
"There's a bar at the corner of 4th Bridge and Nascent. I'll be there from 8 o'clock tonight."
"I'll do my best."
Lauren and the bartender nod at me. Taylor waves his hand, but makes no move to get up; the bartender leans down to whisper something in his ear. In the hallway I grab my jacket from the hook on the wall and step out into the cold.
The bar is a single room built into the first floor of a mid-level office building. A counter runs the length of the right wall, all but one of the stools occupied by men in suits. None of them look at me as I enter, but the bartender removes himself from behind the counter to intercept me at the door. He is a tall, thickly-built man with broad shoulders and forearms lined with veins like strung wire.
"Isaac?" he asks, eyeing me coolly.
"That's right."
He considers that, as if searching my words for a lie, and then he nods and leads me to a booth in the back of the room. Nathaniel is there waiting for me.
"I wasn't sure if you'd come. Sit down."
I slide into the booth opposite him.
"What'll you have?" he asks me.
"Beer," I say.
"Two beers," Nathaniel tells the bartender, who nods again and leaves us on our own.
"The owner here is a friend of mine," Nathaniel informs me. "Worked in the mines together. I asked him to keep his eyes out for you, and anyone in a black coat."
"Wise."
Nathaniel regards me from across the table. His eyes are large, dark things, staring.
"It's beginning to fade," he remarks.
"The line?"
He nods.
"I noticed that myself."
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine. I'm not sure. At least the high's worn off."
"Could you tell me more about what you saw?"
"I'm not sure I want to talk about it."
The bartender returns with our beer. Nathaniel thanks him, taking a small sip before setting his glass down on the table.
"Your voice is different you know," he tells me.
"Is it?"
"There's something
of Northside in it now."
I shrug.
"Funny how life works out."
"Well - " he starts, before my cell phone interrupts him. I reach into my pocket to answer it.
"Hello?" I say.
"Hey," comes Hazel's voice. "Where are you?"
"In the back," I tell her, and she hangs up.
"I asked a friend to meet me," I inform Nathaniel, replacing my phone in my jacket. "Hope that's alright. I've got a lot to do and there isn't much time."
Parker is about to respond when Hazel rounds the corner; the old man's voice curdles in his throat, his jaw dropping. Reflexively, he reaches for his beer.
"You alright?" I ask, and he shakes himself, tearing his eyes away.
"Fine," he says unsteadily, pausing long enough to drink. He extends a hand to Hazel.
"Hazel," she responds, shaking his hand. Nathaniel clears his throat.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he manages.
"Likewise."
"What do you do?" he asks, gazing at her with an odd intensity; Hazel looks away, uncomfortably shifting in her seat.
"I'm a graduate student," she answers. "I'm here on exchange."
"Not a model?"
She laughs nervously, and I frown; it's like the old man is in shock. I watch him as he downs another mouthful of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I'm afraid I'm not feeling well," he mutters, attempting a smile.
"Alright," I tell him. "We can talk later."
He makes some mumbled, off-hand remark and moves to pull his chair from the table. I get up to help him.
"I wonder if I could ask you a favour," he says.
"What is it?"
"Could you help me get home? It's just around the corner. That's why I chose this bar."
"Yeah, no problem."
"I need to be going anyway," Hazel says.
"Nonsense," states Nathaniel flatly. "You just got here. It'll only take a minute, and then the two of you can come back here, or go wherever you like. I'm sure Isaac has some things he'd like to say to you."
She looks at me uncertainly.
"Come on," I say. "And then I'll walk you home. Or to the bus, or whatever."
Finally she nods.
"Excellent!" Nathaniel bursts out. "Excellent. Then let's go."
I push him from of the booth, stopping at the register next to the counter. Nathaniel insists on paying for both of us, making a big show of pulling out his wallet and counting the bills into the bartender's hand. We find Hazel at the front holding the door, and the three of us exit the bar.
"You're sure it's safe to be at your place?" I ask Nathaniel. "The agents haven't found it?"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I think that's unlikely. The apartment isn't listed in my name. It belonged to a friend. She's dead now."
A brief silence follows, only partially filled by the sound of a passing car.
"I'm sorry," says Hazel lamely.
"It was a long time ago," he answers.
After that we stop talking; Nathaniel's chair is not easy to manage in the snow, but at last he directs me onto a narrow street lined with two and three storey buildings, and from there to a solidly-built apartment complex. The lobby is deserted, and the small elevator is horribly cramped with all three of us inside it. I listen to the sound of Nathaniel's ragged breathing, my eyes on the reflection of Hazel's distorted profile in the metal doors.
On the 3rd floor we follow Parker down the length of an exposed hallway overlooking the shingled roofs of neighbouring houses. A misaligned heating pipe attached to the near wall issues a faint column of steam into the cold air. Nathaniel's door is at the far end. The old man fumbles with his keys, cursing as they fall to the concrete. I stoop to pick them up.
"Thank you," he mutters, getting the door open. "Just take your shoes off once you're inside."
"Oh, I should really be going," Hazel interjects.
"Have a drink with an old man," he tells her. "Ease your conscience. There's something I want to show you anyway."
She looks at me, and I shrug, holding the door for her until she sighs and enters the apartment. Ahead of us, Nathaniel switches on a light and disappears around a corner.
"We won't stay long," I say to Hazel in a low voice.
"One drink."
She walks ahead of me.
"Honestly," she continues. "It's ridiculous how often I drink in this town. Must be because - "
Her words are cut off in a strangled cry; inside the next room is Nathaniel, sitting with his head lowered and his hands working nervously in his lap. Beside him, on a low, cushioned chair, is Kelly.
"What is…"
Hazel stops, pressing a hand to her mouth. Nathaniel looks from her to me, and then turns away, grimacing. He rests a hand on Kelly's bare forearm. She is dressed in a maid's uniform, and her eyes are dead.
"A doll," I say.
"What's going on?" Hazel manages, turning to me. Her face is very pale.
"It's why I asked her if she modeled," murmurs Nathaniel. "I thought maybe she posed for this company. Maybe they modeled the doll on her."
"What company?" Hazel asks him.
"It's a sex doll," Nathaniel says. From somewhere comes the hum of a machine switching on – the apartment's heating unit maybe, or water-softener.
"This is sick," says Hazel. "Sick."
"You have no right to judge me," snaps Nathaniel, but his hand falls away from the doll's arm. "I didn't plan this. I didn't know you were real."
"Real," she mutters, closing her eyes. A thin burst of laughter escapes her lips. "He didn't know I was real."
She shudders, and then steadies herself, breathing deeply. She takes one step forward, and then another. Frozen, I watch as she moves toward her mirror image: the only difference between them is the stillness of the doll, the perfect immobility of its plastic features.
Nathaniel stares into his lap, one of his hands twitching feebly over his leg.
"Sarah," he says weakly. "Forgive me."
He looks away as Hazel picks up the doll, slinging it over her shoulder and moving awkwardly to the window. She works the latch free with one hand; the click of the window as it opens causes Nathaniel to moan. Hazel lifts the doll up, and for an instant its eyes are level with my own. They rest on me, lifeless and unseeing, until Hazel shoves it from the ledge.
4
The Last Day
One! Two! Three! Four!
Jump this way, jump some more!
Five! Six! Seven! Eight!
Do it now, don't be late!
The day is ending, the day is done
but we'll keep jumping 'til it's gone!
- Children's skipping rhyme