The Complete Short Stories: Volume 1. Adam Thirlwell

tell you when you get here. As soon as you can?’

      ‘Sure. I’ll leave right away. Is Helen all right?’

      ‘Yes, she’s fine. Thanks again.’

      I went into the dining room and pulled a bottle of gin and a couple of tonics out of the sideboard. He’d need a drink when he heard what I had to say.

      Then I realized he’d never make it. From Earls Court it would take him at least half an hour to reach us at Maida Vale and he’d probably get no further than Marble Arch.

      I filled my glass out of the virtually bottomless bottle of scotch and tried to work out a plan of action.

      The first step was to get hold of someone like myself who retained his awareness of the past switch-backs. Somewhere else there must be others trapped in their little 15-minute cages who were also wondering desperately how to get out. I could start by phoning everyone I knew and then going on at random through the phonebook. But what could we do if we did find each other? In fact there was nothing to do except sit tight and wait for it all to wear off. At least I knew I wasn’t looping my loop. Once these billows or whatever they were had burnt themselves out we’d be able to get off the round-about.

      Until then I had an unlimited supply of whisky waiting for me in the half-empty bottle standing on the sink, though of course there was one snag: I’d never be able to get drunk.

      

      I was musing round some of the other possibilities available and wondering how to get a permanent record of what was going on when an idea hit me.

      I got out the phone-directory and looked up the number of KBC-TV, Channel 9.

      A girl at reception answered the phone. After haggling with her for a couple of minutes I persuaded her to put me through to one of the producers.

      ‘Hullo,’ I said. ‘Is the jackpot question in tonight’s programme known to any members of the studio audience?’

      ‘No, of course not.’

      ‘I see. As a matter of interest, do you yourself know it?’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘All the questions tonight are known only to our senior programme producer and M. Phillipe Soisson of Savoy Hotels Limited. They’re a closely guarded secret.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got a piece of paper handy I’ll give you the jackpot question. “List the complete menu at the Guildhall Coronation Banquet in July 1953.”’

      There were muttered consultations, and a second voice came through.

      ‘Who’s that speaking?’

      ‘Mr H.R. Bartley, 129b Sutton Court Road, N.W. –’

      Before I could finish I found myself back in the lounge.

      The jump-back had caught me. But instead of being stretched out on the sofa I was standing up, leaning on one elbow against the mantelpiece, looking down at the newspaper.

      My eyes were focused clearly on the crossword puzzle, and before I pulled them away and started thinking over my call to the studio I noticed something that nearly dropped me into the grate.

      17 down had been filled in.

      I picked up the paper and showed it to Helen.

      ‘Did you do this clue? 17 down?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I never even look at the crossword.’

      The clock on the mantelpiece caught my eye, and I forgot about the studio and playing tricks with other people’s time.

      9.03.

      The merry-go-round was closing in. I thought the jump-back had come sooner than I expected. At least two minutes earlier, somewhere around 9.13.

      And not only was the repetition interval getting shorter, but as the arc edged inwards on itself it was uncovering the real time stream running below it, the stream in which the other I, unknown to myself here, had solved the clue, stood up, walked over to the mantelpiece and filled in 17 down.

      I sat down on the sofa, watching the clock carefully.

      

      For the first time that evening Helen was thumbing over the pages of a magazine. The work basket was tucked away on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

      ‘Do you want this on any longer?’ she asked me. ‘It’s not very good.’

      I turned to the panel game. The three professors and the chorus girl were still playing around with their pot.

      On Channel 1 the pundit was sitting at the table with his models.

      ‘… alarm. The billows have mass, and I think we can expect a lot of strange optical effects as the light –’

      I switched it off.

      The next jump-back came at 9.11. Somewhere I’d left the mantelpiece, gone back to the sofa and lit a cigarette.

      It was 9.04. Helen had opened the verandah windows and was looking out into the street.

      The set was on again so I pulled the plug out at the main. I threw the cigarette into the fire; not having seen myself light it, made it taste like someone else’s.

      ‘Harry, like to go out for a stroll?’ Helen suggested. ‘It’ll be rather nice in the park.’

      Each successive jump-back gave us a new departure point. If now I bundled her outside and got her down to the end of the road, at the next jump we’d both be back in the lounge again, but probably have decided to drive to the pub instead.

      ‘Harry?’

      ‘What, sorry?’

      ‘Are you asleep, angel? Like to go for a walk? It’ll wake you up.’

      ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Go and get your coat.’

      ‘Will you be warm enough like that?’

      She went off into the bedroom

      I walked round the lounge and convinced myself that I was awake. The shadows, the solid feel of the chairs, the definition was much too fine for a dream.

      It was 9.08. Normally Helen would take ten minutes to put on her coat.

      The jump-back came almost immediately.

      It was 9.06.

      I was still on the sofa and Helen was bending down and picking up her work basket.

      This time, at last, the set was off.

      ‘Have you got any money on you?’ Helen asked.

      I felt in my pocket automatically. ‘Yes. How much do you want?’

      Helen looked at me. ‘Well, what do you usually pay for the drinks? We’ll only have a couple.’

      ‘We’re going to the pub, are we?’

      ‘Darling, are you all right?’ She came over to me. ‘You look all strangled. Is that shirt too tight?’

      ‘Helen,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ve got to try to explain something to you. I don’t know why it’s happening, it’s something to do with these billows of gas the sun’s releasing.’

      Helen was watching me with her mouth open.

      ‘Harry,’ she started to say nervously. ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘I’m quite all right,’ I assured her. ‘It’s just that everything is happening very rapidly and I don’t think there’s much time left.’

      I kept on glancing at the clock and Helen followed my eyes to it and went over to the mantelpiece. Watching me she moved it round and I heard the pendulum jangle.

      ‘No, no,’ I shouted. I grabbed it and pushed it back against