Transition (24 page)

I unlocked the front door and put the key back under the flowerpot where I had found it. The last thing I did was break the
window in the spare room from the outside to make it look like I’d come in that way. I’d left enough of a clear area on the
carpet beneath the window for it not to be obvious this had happened after the ransacking. I got home and back into bed, unseen.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next day I went for a walk in the woods. I took the rucksack with all the clothes I’d worn that night, far into a dense
plantation, and burned it. Then I dug a hole nearly a metre deep and buried the ashes.

A business colleague of Mr F found him two days later, the day before GF was due back from the camp. Relatives came to look
after her and took her away for nearly a month. The police said they were looking for one or two burglars and announced that
it was probably a robbery gone wrong. Everybody in town apart from myself slept very badly for the next few weeks. I slept
like a baby. All I had to do to cover my tracks was keep the swagger out of my walk and the sneer from my lips. I knew what
I had done, and felt proud and manly and in control. I was even more proud that I had been able to see through to the end
what I had done to Mr F than I was of getting away with murder.

When I heard they were fingerprinting all the men in the town I went along to the police station without grumbling; not one
of the first to go, but not reluctantly either. I was never even questioned. The police concluded the ghastly crime had been
committed by an unknown person or unknown persons from out of town and gradually life returned to normal.

Nevertheless, what I had done had been amateurish and out of control and I had acted like policeman, jailer, judge, jury and
executioner. I admit that this did seem wrong to me. I had discovered something that I was good at and even – in a sort of righteous
but I hope not perverse way – had enjoyed, but this was not altogether right. There have to be limits, there has to be some
sort of apparatus of judgement and rightful jurisdiction, an oversight, if you will, that gives the torturer proper authority.

I had got away with what I had done but if I hoped to do anything like it again then I felt I could not repeat my actions.
I certainly was not about to start murdering people in their cellars like some seedy serial killer. Mr F had deserved what
had happened to him and I had been the means of delivering justice to him, but that was that. I had to accept that through
sound preparation, good judgement and good luck I had succeeded in my mission and been able to walk away.

GF came back and stayed with one of her aunts in a town-centre hotel until the funeral. I left a message and we met in our
usual café. She seemed distant and yet relaxed and I realised she was probably on some sort of medication. She no longer wore
the braces on her teeth and said that she had missed me and had stopped cutting herself, for now at least.

I didn’t go to the funeral; she didn’t ask me to.

She started at the same college I attended and got a flat with another girl. I moved into a place nearby with a couple of
guys. GF and I started going out again and soon became intimate once more, though neither of us ever again suggested any bondage
games.

She never talked about her father, but then she rarely had.

One day we both had time off and had gone to bed in my flat.

“Remember these?” she asked, producing a packet of Sugar Cherries from her bag. “Confiscated them from a Junior Forester.”
She popped one into my mouth and another into her own. We chewed on them noisily for a while. I tried to remember the last
time I had eaten one. “I used to love these,” I said.

Then she sat upright in the bed and stopped chewing and looked down at me, her face looking drained. One of her hands stroked
her other wrist and forearm, where the old marks were. She got out of the bed and took the sticky mess that was all that was
left of the Sugar Cherry out of her mouth and threw it into the waste bin. She started to dress.

I asked her what was wrong.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head. I could tell that she was crying. I kept on asking her what was wrong but she
would not reply and left soon afterwards.

We were never intimate again and she refused to engage in any proper conversation thereafter, not quite ignoring me but treating
me very coldly.

Had I written this two or three years ago I would have concluded by admitting, genuinely mystified, that I never understood
why this happened, why she suddenly left me. However, now I think that I do know why: I was betrayed by a remembered taste.
(No, I must be honest; my betrayal was revealed by a remembered taste.) Considering all that I have seen and done, it is remarkable
that it is this – such a tiny, trivial thing, so many years ago, before our relationship had even properly begun – that brings
a blush of blood to my face when I think about it and makes me feel ashamed. I have done things most people would be ashamed
of and watched things done I would be ashamed of, yet it was for the taking of one sweet – not even that, perhaps; for not owning
up to that petty theft, and the implication that it had been me who had stolen her pencil-sharpener blade as well – that I was
condemned then and still feel soiled now.

I joined the army later that year and was posted abroad, becoming a military policeman after much study. The hardest bit was
passing the psychological test. They didn’t really want people who had done what I had done to another human being in the
force, at least not then, anyway, but I was smart enough to know what they wanted to be told, and told them what they wanted
to hear. Knowing how that process works, from the inside as it were, is in itself an important part of my line of work, so
even then I was learning, and adding to my skill set.

Patient 8262

M
ost worlds are Closed, a few are Open. Most people are not Aware, a few are Aware. An Open world is one in which most people
are Aware and there is no need to dissemble regarding the business of flitting or transitioning between worlds. Where I am
now, lying in this bed in this clinic, is a Closed world, a reality where possibly nobody except myself knows that the many
worlds exist, let alone that they are connected and that travel between them is possible. This is as it should be, for my
purposes. This is what I wanted when I came here. This is my protection.

I opened my eyes to find the fat bald man sitting staring at me; the same man with the bad skin who makes a habit of sitting
beside me in the television room during my rare visits there and talking continually in his incomprehensible dialect or accent.

There is mist outside and the weather feels cold for the first time this year, though I am still warm inside my hospital bed.
The fat man wears the same white and pale blue pyjamas that we all wear, and a faded blue dressing gown that has seen better
days. He is talking to me. It is mid-morning and the usual mid-morning cup of fruit juice is sitting on my bedside cabinet.
I was not aware of the orderly leaving it.

The fat man is talking quite animatedly to me, as though he expects me to understand what he’s saying. Actually he may be
making an effort for me; I get the impression he is trying to talk more slowly, at least initially. Also, his skin condition
appears to have improved recently too. He may be talking more slowly than usual, but he seems to be compensating by talking
more loudly and with greater emphasis. He gestures quite a lot, too, and his upper body moves as he does so and I can see
tiny specks of spittle arcing from his mouth to fall on the bedclothes between us. I am a little worried that some of his
spittle might land on my face, even on my lips. I might catch something.

I frown, sit up in bed and cross my arms, enabling me to put one hand up to my mouth so that it looks like I am listening,
or at least trying to listen, to what he’s saying, but really I’m just shielding my mouth from any errant spit. I frown some
more as he jabbers on, I put a pained expression on my face and sigh deeply, generally trying to give the impression of wanting
to understand what he is saying, but failing. He doesn’t appear to be paying much attention anyway, frankly, just talking
away in a machine-gun flurry of sound within which I can barely make out one word in twenty.

I suppose if I concentrated I might understand more, but from the little I can make out he’s complaining about another patient
stealing something from him, or insulting him, or taking his place in some queue, or all three, and the medical staff either
being responsible in the first place or being complicit or guilty of not listening – or all three – and to be perfectly honest
I don’t care. He just needs to talk to somebody, preferably somebody who might be neutral regarding whatever petty nonsense
this is all about, and preferably, I suspect, somebody who is not likely to answer back or ask any pertinent questions or
actually engage with him and his concerns at all. He’s just offloading. Depressingly, I am the perfect choice.

It’s strange, this need to talk, to express ourselves even when we know or strongly suspect that the person seemingly listening
isn’t really, or can’t understand, or doesn’t care, or couldn’t do anything anyway even if all the above did not apply. Some
of us just like the sound of our own voice and most of us need to vent sometimes, to get things out, to release pressure.
Occasionally, too, we need to articulate vague but powerful feelings and so make them less frustratingly vague, the act of
expressing them itself helping to define what it is we feel in the first place. I suspect the fat man, just now, hovers between
the love-of-own-voice and letting-off-steam explanations.

He nods emphatically, falls briefly silent and sits back, hands on knees, having apparently just come to some conclusive break
in his oration. He looks expectantly at me, as though I’m supposed to respond. I move my head in a sort of circular motion,
something between a nod and a shake, and spread my hands. He looks annoyed at this and I feel I need to say something, but
I don’t want to attempt anything in his own language as this will just encourage him. I can’t let slip that I can speak languages
which are quite simply not of this world – vanishingly small though the chance may be that this could materially affect my security
or threaten my anonymity – so I decide to make up some gibberish.

I say something like, “Bre trel gesem patra noch, cho lisk esheldevone,” and nod, as though for emphasis.

The fat man rocks back, eyes wide. He nods too, enthusiastically, and comes out with a barrage of quick-fire sounds not one
of which I comprehend. He looks like he actually understood what I said. But that’s not possible.

“Bloshven braggle sna korb leysin tre epeldevein ashk,” I tell him when he stops to draw breath. “Kivould padal krey tre napastravodile
eshestre chroom.” I shrug. “Krivin,” I add, with a nod for emphasis, for good measure.

He nods so hard that I expect to hear his teeth rattle. He slaps his knees. “Blah blah blah blah blah!” he replies. Not actually
that one repeated nonsense filler word, obviously, but a stream of noise.

It is almost as though he does understand me. This is becoming alarming. I can feel myself getting rather hot. I determine
to say no more, but he lets loose such a tirade of sound, complete with wild gestures and more spitting, that I feel it is
impossible not to respond. If nothing else, at least when I am speaking he is not and so I am in no danger of being splashed
with flecks of saliva.

“Lethrep stimpit kra zho ementeusis fla jun pesertefal, krin tre halulavala!” I respond. He nods again, talks quickly and
incomprehensibly, then holds up one hand and gets up, grunting, disappearing into the corridor. I would like to think he has
gone for the day. Or for good, but something about his last gesture, holding his hand up like that, leads me to believe he
is going to reappear all too soon. While he is away I fan my face and flap the bedclothes to cool myself down.

He comes back a couple of minutes later, shepherding into my room another patient, a skinny, slack-jawed fellow I recognise
but have never talked to. In fact he’s one of those I thought didn’t talk to anybody. His thin, worn face looks too old for
his body. He has lank black hair, an expression of no expression and a straggly beard that never seems to grow. He shows no
sign of acknowledging me. The fat man plonks him down in the seat he has just vacated and gibbers a stream of language at
him. I think I catch a word or two about listening and talking, but he is talking too fast for me to be sure. The younger
man looks at me and in a low voice says something I do not catch. The fat man, standing behind him, gestures expectantly at
me. I signal back, a two-handed
What?
motion. The fat man rolls his eyes and makes a sort of circular hurrying signal with one of his hands while the other taps
the younger man on the shoulder and then points at me.

“Skib ertelis byan grem shetlintibub,” I say to the younger man. “Bolzaten glilt ak etherurta fisriline hulp.” I feel my face
grow hotter still and fear that I am blushing. Sweat is gathering on my brow. This is perfectly absurd, but both men now seem
rapt, and I feel it is easier to go on talking, even if it is utter gibberish, than it is to fall silent and wait for them
to reply, or just burst out laughing. “Danatre skehellis, ro vleh gra’ampt na zhire; sko tre genebellis ro binitshire, na’sko
voross amptfenir-an har.” Finally I can go on no longer, and – as my throat dries up – I simply run out of nonsense to speak.

The younger man narrows his eyes and nods slowly, again as though he understands this absolute rubbish. He looks slowly away
from me to the fat man and says something. The fat man nods and makes a hand gesture that might mean
I told you so
. The young man leans forward and says, quite slowly, “Poldi poldipol, pol pol poldipolpol poldi poldi.” He sits back, smirking.

Well, of course, they are simply making fun of me. I smile thinly, look him in the eyes and say, “Poldi poldi polodi plopolpopolpopilploop.”