A Time Traveller’s Trilogy of Torment continues.
Can life’s sequence of unfolding events be true?
Readers: It is essential that you read the previous story before you continue here…
“Dare to Dream the Truth?”
by Stephen James
Here is the second instalment of this intriguing trilogy. Just one more to follow. Remember to read all three stories in their correct order for the continuous storyline of this adventure. The third story is only a few more days away. If you “follow” my posts you will receive an email alert so you can enjoy reading more of my short stories.
William Steed Cosgrove stood beside his lathe watching it rotate at blinding speed. He was a master-craftsman who took his trade very seriously. With the advent of sophisticated computer programmed tools forcing his kind into extinction, Will felt privileged and proud that his bare hands could fabricate any timber or synthetic into any shape, large or small — any style, any finish, or into any class of joinery. It was nearly knock-off time at the factory. As the powerful machine whirred to a halt, he was recalling his life’s rear-end journey — since the travelling began. His wife Angelica was a data streamliner/radar operator at Odiham, the RAF base at Hampshire. A woman of high intellect and he was more than grateful that she saw more than just a pretty face in him. She was a considerate and understanding woman who knew that what was happening to her husband, was a far cry from a joke. Angelica also had her master’s degree in IT. Often bamboozled by her conversational pieces, at times he would simply nod and agree. The charming couple were very much in love…
A number of months had passed since Cosgrove’s last disappearing act peppered the pages of the Illustrated London News, following his altercation with the law back in 1867. He had known all along that the degree of pressure which he had applied on his forefather’s throat was way too insufficient to terminate him. For some strange reason, he had avoided erroneous justice. It was a close call and the harrowing feeling had never left him; therefore, he’d decided to seek professional help. Weekly visits to Southampton began.
Doctor Evan Vladminsky, the author of no less than seven published manuscripts, on the topics of lucid dreaming and astral projection, was the mind-specialist instated to explore his subconscious. William had endured lengthy consultations with the top-end psychoanalyst, in an attempt to discover the reason for his incredible time-cheating experiences. When he had tried to explain the truth to the medic, his improbable exposé was naturally scoffed at.
In return, the psychotherapist forced his insistence upon Cosgrove, with lengthy clarifications about the disorder. Vladminsky’s criticism to accept it as reality was harsh and doctrinaire. The man’s autocratic personality always left William with a feeling of inadequacy. The final explanation summary went like this: ‘Simply put Mr Cosgrove, this phenomenon called lucid dreaming, is merely a person’s ability, when in the midst of a dream, to be aware that one is, in fact, dreaming. The clarity can be overwhelming… even false pragmatisms can occur. So much so, that the individual shall attempt to control how the dream unfolds. In certain patients such as yourself, the condition transpires because you have a larger brain structure in the anterior prefrontal cortex. This condition basically causes you to have a higher state of thinking and self-awareness. You proved this to me with your test success rate. Now…would you like another consultation?’
Frustrated yet again, Cosgrove returned home after another expensive albeit fruitless session. Nobody believed his stories, but it was far worse than that. Although the time-leaping experiences could be quite mind-expanding, they could also be quite traumatic. The prescribed sedation tablets were not making any difference, and his textbooks were complicated to read. Will knew he was a lucid dreamer — having discovered at a young age how to control their course. He also knew the obvious difference between a nightmare and reality. What was happening to him in recent years, he was unable to alter the course of. He just wanted someone aside of Angelica to know about it. As per usual they discussed the matter over dinner. The empathetic long-haired brunette, whose girl-next-door looks did everything right, except flatter her astute business acumen, began clearing their plates.
“Are you going to read tonight, darling?” she asked. “I have some study to catch up on, if I am going to be the successful applicant for that position I’ve told you about. I reckon it is between Phyllis and myself. But it’s a toss-up. She is more experienced than I.”
“No, Angie… my head is still swimming with encyclopaedic terminology, after Dr Vladminsky’s dictatorial extraction of my hard-earned cash! Think I’ll catch a Yankee sit-com or movie instead. You go ahead, dear. I know how much your career means to you. Phyllis Buttigieg might well be more experienced, but you are far better looking!” He kissed her. “I’ll clean this lot up.”
Angelica laughed, then trundled into the bathroom to freshen herself up.
The mild-mannered gentleman from Brockenhurst donned his favourite Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas and curled up on the couch with his remote control. As he watched the old black-and-white film ‘Casablanca’ for the umpteenth time, his mind was hopeful that the momentousness of that last journey may have marked the end to it all. He missed the film’s end — whereby Humphrey Bogart pulls out his revolver and threatens Police Chief, Claude Rains, to let Ingrid Bergman and her husband fly to freedom. William had quickly slipped into a deep restful slumber on his couch. He could probably have hit the mute button and have them lip-syncing to his own dialogue anyway. Angelica sat at her laptop, in the office, at the opposite end of their southern Hampshire bungalow. By 10.30 pm his form had vanished into the night once more — she never noticed his peaceful body evaporating, like tiny particles of matter, into the realms of space-time. As this occurred, the cushion and couch he’d lay upon slowly resumed back to their original shapes…
Within seconds, William arrives in the future to the night they go out to celebrate her job success. It is exactly four weeks to the day. Angelica is now a grade five computer analyst and the head of her department at RAF Odiham, as it is colloquially known. Co-worker Phyllis had been the first to congratulate her. Upon Phyllis’ suggestion, her and her husband Raymond were paying for and accompanying the Cosgrove’s to The Whistle Loudly Theatre Restaurant, to see a comedy version of ‘Les Misérables’ with bubbly etc included. The invitation had also been extended to Will’s spinster identical-twin-sister, Janet. They were all very close — with Janet having twice dated Phyllis’ brother Stan. The only proviso was that William drove, because he was the only teetotaller amongst the five of them. As a sweetener, Ray had offered forward the keys to his new Jaguar XF, if he was prepared to chauffeur the celebrators to the show and back. Naturally William approved…
The show was a marvellous success — they laughed till their sides ached. Everything was going beautifully. They enjoyed late-night café lattes and cappuccinos after the play’s conclusion. By 11.00 pm the happy group were buckled into the sleek silver Jag saloon. The car was filled with chattering mirth as it cruised down the M5. William listened to his wife’s joking comparisons with the play’s characters and some of her work colleagues. Perched in the back of his mind was the thought of how wonderful it was, knowing that this night would soon to be happening for real, and how much Angelica was going to enjoy it. She couldn’t stop thanking Ray and Phyllis for their generosity — especially considering the fact that she had beaten her friend to the high-paying departmental head position.
“Not a problem. It was a pleasure to laugh so much together,” replied Ray. “I tell you what, Cosgrove, why don’t you simply drop us off first and take the Jag home. I can pick it up tomorrow.”
‘Are you sure about that, Ray?” asked Will, smiling at the thought and looking at his reflection in the driver side’s tinted window. “She purrs like a cat, hey mate?”
“Don’t forget to drop me off first, Willy,” added Janet to the conversation. “It is a bit foggy out there and I’m getting tired now. Oh, do get a wiggle on Willy, I need to go to the ladies too!”
The sleek cosy car had stopped at a stop sign, after peeling off the major highway. A broken-down bus was parked on the left, where the road swept gradually around a bend, making visibility awkward. William sat with the engine idling for quite some time, to be certain it was safe — eyes darting from side-to-side.
“Of course, I’m sure, Cosgrove,” enforced Ray Buttigieg, patting his hand on William’s shoulder. “I’d trust you with my life old man! What on Earth is a silly old motor car compared to that, hey what?” The beautiful car was in fact practically brand new. “All clear on my side—”
As the car gradually lurches forward across the lane, a warning voice from outside the car calls out. “Stop! Don’t go yet!”
Cosgrove glances right for a second — distracted by the loud call. Inopportunely, he begins falling asleep for a nanosecond, but during that nanosecond, he commences dematerializing. The helpless William is watching as his body begins evaporating. Its atomised foot, no longer able to switch to the brake pedal, allows the heavy car’s automatic transmission to continue rolling it forwards. Through the mist, a speeding semi-trailer is on a collision course. The truck-driver stands on his brake pedal locking-up all twenty-two wheels. Simultaneously, as its huge stainless-steel bulbar ploughs into their car with a perfect T-bone strike, burning black rubber engulfs the Jaguar. The multitude of airbags inflate instantly, resembling a car filled with oversized frogspawn. The force is so immense that the luxury sedan is swept down the road like gutter debris. It stops like the crushed meat in a metallic sandwich, at the rear of a parked FWD, roughly one-hundred metres up the road. A petrol-fuelled fireball erupts. The whole process, only taking seconds, is observed through two despairing ghostly eyes by a disappearing William Cosgrove. Three of the occupants die within several seconds of the enormous impact — identical-twin-sister Janet, somehow survives. A minute later, the pill-filled and half-intoxicated semi-trailer driver is spotted fleeing the scene, by the calling-out bystander…
In a change from the norm, William returns instantly to the couch from four weeks prior. The usual week-or-so away has become modified. His breathing is rapid. His face is white. His hands are shaking. His shock-filled bloodstream is gushing like Niagara. He now knows the horrible future that awaits. He looks down at Winnie-the-Pooh’s innocent little white face, on his pyjama shirt, staring back at him — but cannot smile. It is midnight. Angelica has gone to bed. She must have noticed the TV still on, broadcasting the second Bogart feature in-a-row, but him not there and realized he was timing-out (as they flippantly called it). She has left him a note saying, ‘See you when you return darling’. But… William cannot work out whether to go and wake her, to inform Angelica about the car crash. He is tormented by the ugliness of the truth. It was the future — only a matter of weeks away!
William switches off his TV set to regain some composure. He can hear Angelica’s gentle snore emanating from down the hallway and rubs his perspiring face, thinking hard of a way to alter the future. He remembers that he is a lucid dreamer and decides to fall back to sleep — to perhaps steer his body into another time-travel. However, he did not know whether he would return to the actual crash and die with her or what? This option was a gamble he would also be prepared to take. Somewhere else perhaps? A good era he was hoping to retravel back to, would be the past, to be reunited with her. Perhaps at a time when they first met or when they first got married, anything but where he was currently at. It seemed worth a try. Unfortunately, he had never experienced a double-travel, like the one required, before. With difficulty, Cosgrove slowly drifts into unconsciousness…
Unlike before, during portal transference, he manages to steer the plot through its roller-coaster, and relives the horrifying accident — but overshoots the runway, unable to awaken where he’d prefer it to be. Cosgrove rematerializes behind the trunk of a giant oak at the graveyard site of St Catherine’s Church, several days after the accident. He is dressed in black. He glances past the tree — watching Angelica’s coffin being lowered in. Their neighbourhood priest is speaking kindly of her. Two other graves with awaiting coffins are there. William hears people, also clad in full black attire, whispering behind their hands. “His wife and best friends too. And what about his poor sister? He and the truck-driver both fled the scene somehow, you know—”
At this moment, he would gladly have opted for that hangman’s noose! This is by far the saddest moment of his life. He holds back his tears, observing with discontentment, whilst staying clear of the massive sobbing crowd. Afterwards, he makes the long lonely walk home.
Days of gloomy solitude and grief-stricken moping at home follow. The man is crushed by feeling the guillotine of guilt, on his conscience, for killing them. Cosgrove’s torment and stress levels are unbearable. He is not eating, shaving, or even washing himself. His mind is exploding — he doesn’t know how to cope with this circumstance. William wishes he was a drinker. Having decided that he cannot continue without her, he sees no reason for his existence and decides to take his own life. One evening William contemplates; ‘Yep, suicide is the only option. How shall I do it though? What is a plain and simple way to do it? What is a painless and fast method?’
He speaks out loud to the hallway mirror. “Death by gunshot is the only way. It’s fast, painless, and above all, reliable. Do it in one hit. Over and done with quickly, just like she was.”
Will knew that his friend, Ray Buttigieg, was a grouse and deer hunter who owned several shotguns and rifles. He’d seen them enough times. One weapon in his pride collection’s armoury was a large-bore pistol. That night he goes to their home to steal it. Their house is dark and still — he’s inside within minutes, wrapping the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum Revolver up in a towel, then, placing it in a travel bag. A handful of cartridges follow. He returns home and sits down to begin writing a mournful suicide letter. Why — how — where — when — etc, so that nobody else is responsible for his death. He places the letter in an envelope and puts it on the dining room table, in plain view. At the stroke of midnight, Will sits down and picks up the revolver and points it towards his face. His eyes stare eagerly down the big hollow black barrel. He braces himself. He must get it right the first time. His eyes flick across to the wall clock, then, focus back on the gun. ‘Open or shut? Does it matter?’
Will’s interlocked thumbs begin easing back on the trigger. Deep breaths… waiting… waiting… waiting… His sensitive ears can hear the mechanism clicking. Hands begin trembling. He knows he is a fraction of a second away from that projectile terminating his life, and very soon he should be joining his beloved Angelica. Just as the trigger nears the point of no return, his body dematerialises. The undischarged revolver slides right through his pepper-sprinkled hands and drops to the dining table. Cosgrove is yet once more, vanishing off in time…
This time, he re-emerges two-hundred years way into the future, same age — same man, who is seeing the planet for what it has become. Violence is rife. The unbreathable air is locust-thick with airborne miscellanea. Fires burn and smoulder all around him. He can clearly see the skeletal remains of Big Ben’s clocktower — looming over the Thames River like some ancient relic of the past. The river’s water is polluted with toxic flotsam and jetsam. It is England, this much he knows but it is unrecognizable. The suicide letter is in his pocket — somehow it came with him. He is confused but still wishes to end it all. People all around him are groaning in pain, some bear ugly scars as if their flesh had been scorched and blistered by mustard gas. Nearby, a hooded denizen figure sits in a wheelchair staring at the flames of a raging hellfire, at close range. William steps toward the lost soul and steers the incapacitated victim fifty metres away, to safety. He knows he’s not supposed to alter history, but this poor creature seemed unable to manoeuvre their mode of transport. He steps into the burning building but the moment some flames touch his body he begins to vanish, yet again…
Is he learning anything about what this irregular anomaly is? As he diminishes, William contemplates the possibility of travelling all the way back to when he was a child, to find out what it was that made him so different from every other human being. Why does he have this horrible ability?
Watching the remnants of his hands fade away, Cosgrove now realizes, that this gift which he has been given is; that he is a man who can never die. At any point he is about to die, his body and soul miraculously dissipates to safety.
With all the grotesque memories that have plagued his recent life… is it really a gift?