Time Is Broken (2 page)

He staggered along the clean white hallway to his apartment door and flinched at the elevator doors sliding closed behind him. He shook the paranoia and addressed himself to his apartment door inserting the key in the lock trying to make as little noise as possible. The key wouldn't work, no matter how hard he tried to twist it in the lock. He paused and checked the number on the matt black apartment door. Number 11. It
was
his apartment. He was about to try the key again. When  footsteps and hushed whispers came from beyond the door. Burglars?, he thought, a rush of panic. Couldn't be, the door was locked and the apartment was three storeys up.

He jolted backwards almost falling to the floor when the apartment door swung open. “Can I help you?” the voice stern and insistent.

“I, wait. I live here.” The man peered at him suspiciously, he was in his mid thirties, broad shoulders and a well toned torso, his short blonde hair ruffled as if he'd just climbed out of bed

“
Tony?” A woman's voice came from behind him. “Is everything okay?”

“
Just some drunk,” turning his head back. “He's got the wrong apartment.” Tony stared at him expectant. He looked passed him. The sleek black-on-white décor of his apartment had changed, now it was all wooden tones and pastel colours, wood and brown leathers, flowers, it looked lived in. He pushed past Tony and darted panicked looks all around the living room.

“
Who are you? What are you doing in my house? And where is all my furniture!” he demanded.

“
Look, I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but if you don't leave this instant you'll be spending the night in jail.” Tony approached him with powerful intimidating steps. He was too confused to notice. By the time he gathered his thoughts and was ready to form a reply he found himself being thrown back into the hallway again. He crashed against the wall and lost his footing. The door slammed shut as he lay on the floor. He picked himself up and banged on the door. There was no reply.

“
But this, this is my apartment,” he whimpered. “I live here.” He looked right along the hallway and saw one of the neighbours at the threshold of her door, peering out curiously and wary. He didn't know her. He'd made a point of not acquainting himself with his neighbours and he didn't even recognise her. “Excuse me.” he said and began to approach. The woman retreated back inside her apartment and locked the door firmly.

The screen display on his phone told him it was almost midnight, . Had these people hijacked his entire life? He tried calling the number that had previously sent him the termination message. He stood in utter perplexity as an automated voice told him the number didn't exist. He tried again, punching in the digits carefully, one by one, but again the voice told him the number did not exist. At least he still had some money in numerous bank accounts, all under various different identities. He would have to stay in a hotel for tonight.

He ventured out into the rain soaked city streets searching for a cash machine, his suit jacket thick with damp. He started with fear at police sirens close by and ducked down a darkened alley.

Had his whole life been some sort of dream, had the rug had been pulled from underneath it? What the hell was going on? He dismissed the thought and focused on the present. Find a cash machine, find a hotel. That was all that mattered, any other questions could be addressed in the morning.

He found an A.T.M on the adjoining street, the one he'd always used, buried in the wall between a jewellery store and a 24 hour supermarket. He keyed in the pin code and the screen and waited anxiously. He stared, perplexed when the screen told him- password incorrect. He then proceeded to try the ten pin codes he'd committed to memory for each card and each identity, all of them came up- password incorrect.  

Dismayed he checked his wallet to see how much hard cash he had, twenty pounds and change, not enough. At a loss, and with no friends, no parents, no acquaintances to seek the solace of, he wandered the London streets for hours, through the tumult of Leicester square and Charing Cross, along Northumberland Avenue and over the Waterloo bridge back to the Southbank and the London Eye. The sound of police sirens and traffic, a swirl of artificial light, whites, reds and blues assaulted his senses as he racked his mind for a plausible explanation, he grew ever more tired and ever more weary with thought and the dimming effect of the wine. Overwhelmed by his surroundings, he sought out a quiet back alley and found shelter from the hard falling rain underneath a black metal fire-escape that scaled the building wall. His eyes fell heavy and he checked the time on the watch he'd bought himself eighteen months ago, eleven minutes past eleven and eleven seconds. His watch had stopped working.

Everything would be okay in the morning, it would all work itself out, it was just a series of coincidental mistakes, he told himself as his mind drifted away. A flash of memory emerged as he comforted himself, it came unbidden, from nowhere, his real name.

* * *

The glass on the face of Jan Jansson's watch is cracked and broken, he peers at the hands with his tired watery eyes. It was definitely morning that much is obvious, the air is clean and fresh, apart from the stench of rotting food and rubbish in the nearby industrial waste-bins.