Quantum Poppers
Authors: Matthew Reeve
Copyright
© Matthew Reeve 2013
The Author asserts the
moral rights to be identified as the author of this work, not to have this work
altered in a prejudicial way and not to have authorship of this work falsely
attributed.
Quantum Poppers
A PW publication: 2013
All rights reserved
The deluge
striking the car vanished as she cut the engine; the Fiesta rumbled to a
standstill. With the headlights no longer reflected off of the garage door, all
that remained was the sound of rain crashing against metal. It had been dry
when she had left Lisa’s house, where the day’s light had lingered later than
expected. Now, at 9.45pm, night and rain had doubled up on her to produce a
cold black barrier through which to traverse. With one last look at the
thunderclouds looming overhead, she ran for the front door, using her handbag
as a makeshift umbrella. Within the few feet from car to house she could tell
that water had penetrated the bag through the fake leather. She might as well
have stuck it up her top to protect its now soaked contents; she herself was as
wet as she would have been without it.
‘Hi Mum,’ she
called, opening the front door and allowing the runoff to pool upon the
doormat. She flung her coat over the knob of the banister, dreading to think
what all that water was doing to the wood.
‘Hi. Nice
evening?’ Her mum stood in the kitchen, bathed in light with knife in hand. She
was slicing what appeared to be ham, yet processed into a shape she couldn’t
make out.
‘Yeah, girly
chat. TV and boys, the usual stuff.’
‘And the
results?’
‘We love TV.
We’re still weighing up the uses of boys. Kristy reckons they’re only put on
this earth to test us. Define exactly who
we
are.’
‘Sounds a
little deep to me.’
‘Yeah, I kind
of tuned out. What is that?’ She pointed at the pink slab of meat her mum had laid
atop a bed of bread, lettuce and butter.
‘The packaging
suggests some kind of vehicle; I can’t see it myself.’
‘Bobby should
be doing that himself. When I was his age…’
‘At your age
you didn’t want me to. Until he’s eighteen I will do whatever he wants. You may
be analysing the use of boys, but the use of mums is to do whatever their
children want. Within reason.’
‘I hope he
appreciates it.’ Her mum shrugged, they both knew her brother would never show
it.
‘When’s Dad
going to be home?’
‘Shouldn’t be long.
I think the recovery and changing time is now longer than the actual games of
squash. You off to bed? Shall I send him up?’
‘Yes please,
just to say good night.’
‘He’ll want to
hear how the interview went.’
‘I’ll be sure
to give him the in-depth summary.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
‘Goodnight
Mum.’ She left as the finishing touches were made to Bobby’s lunchtime
sandwiches.
She would have
her lay-in in the morning before heading off to college for the three hours she
was required to show her face.
Won’t need to be out of bed until nine
.
Still, it was nice to get to bed earlier than usual and would be easy to fall
asleep now that the nagging worries of the day’s job interview had passed.
She headed
upstairs towards the muffled sounds and suspicious smells emanating from
Bobby’s room. Explosions and gunfire fuelled her brother’s evening viewing, and
it would be to this to which she would have to fall asleep. She knocked on his
door before opening it enough to peer inside.
‘Keep it down.’
Her brother was sat up in bed. The TV was to her right, facing away from her.
The volume seemed to increase and she could see the images reflected and
doubled in her brother’s glasses. He didn’t move. ‘Turn it down,’ she said,
half-heartedly.
Without taking
his eyes off of the screen he pressed the volume button on the remote which lay
on his lap. The sounds barely lowered, and she could even see the television
vibrate as another explosion rocked the room.
She rolled her
eyes in an exaggerated manner, stepped back, and closed the door. As she did, a
well aimed sock flew through the gap like a guided missile, just missing her,
hitting the wall and falling to the floor.
‘Idiot,’ she
said and pulled the door completely closed with a bang. She kicked the sock
against the wall and headed towards the bathroom to clean her teeth.
It was after
11pm when the door to her room opened to allow in enough light to see the
silhouette of her father. The room swam with images from the TV but her mind
had switched off and the words were incoherent, no longer connected to the
visuals which had hypnotised her to within an inch of sleep.
‘Good night
sweet pea,’ said her dad.
‘Good night,’
she whispered.
‘Do you want me
to turn the TV off?’
‘No, I’ll do it
in a bit. How was squash?’
‘Fine. I’ll be
aching for six days, then recover in time to play again next week. Nothing to
worry about.’
‘Good,’ she
said although by this point she could have been dreaming again. The figure let
the door close and the sounds and images in the room began to fade as sleep
nestled in its claws to drag her down, pinning her physically for another
subconscious driven night.
The sound of
the year’s pert-pop-princess-of-choice lynched Harry back to reality. This was
far from his preferred mode of waking so early in the AM - one brain-stirring
step at a time was more his way. Neil the milkman, accompanied by electric hum
and clank of glass upon the potholed street, would usually initiate phase one.
Harry’s eyes would not always open at this point but the subconscious would be
torn from its dreaming void, a place it would gradually have sunk back to
around the time phase two initiated. Forty-five minutes after the departing
sounds of Neil’s calcium wagon joined the distant drone of singing birds and
the occasional over-revved commuter car, the sixty-degree angle of the slatted
bedroom blinds matched that of the early rising sun. An instantaneous stream of
light cut through the room, illuminating flying dust mites before further
dragging Harry away from sleep. However much he screwed up his eyes the light
would find him, intensified by the endless reflective surfaces of the bedroom.
Usually, by the time 7.30 arrived and the alarm kicked in to allow the
partially invited banter of Calm FM’s breakfast DJ to enter the room, Harry was
rarely asleep. On cloudy mornings when the light was less penetrative, or when
Neil managed to avoid most of the road’s unsightly blemishes, Harry may have
been tipping back into a doze - the click of the alarm switching on being all
it took to bring him back to life. He would be up, out of bed, and halfway
towards an awaiting breakfast before having to face the pleasant music his wife
demanded they tuned to.
Today however,
with bright sunlight occupying the room like an intruder, something was
different, and whilst he couldn’t pinpoint how he had arrived at this
conclusion, something was also most definitely wrong. He had not had his seven
hours regulated sleep. Couldn’t have. He knew time had a strange way of playing
tricks on the mind, particularly at night, but a groggy shroud blanketed him as
he waved his arms blindly in order to bring an end to the processed wailing and
rapid beats. He brought his fist down first atop his book, then atop a coffee
mug, before it collapsed upon the alarm clock, bringing the sound of electric
silence. His groggy shroud grew heavier as he returned to the land of snooze.
An unusual
fourth waking procedure finally roused him. In a fragmented dream, which began
to unravel as soon as his eyes closed, he witnessed items falling on top of
him. He couldn’t see what they were but they rained either side and all around
as he lie prostrate within a vacuum of black. He could almost sense the self in
the dream begin to fall asleep when one of the items struck him in the stomach.
He was winded and brought back to reality, shooting to an upright position in
an instant. That’s when the second item struck: a slipper to the chest. Daisy
stood in the direction it had come from, her side of the bed somehow already
made and herself now by the bedroom door with an unimpressed look upon her
face. She was armed with a third slipper.
‘Time to wake
up,’ she said, before lobbing the slipper high into the air. She left the room
as the radio kicked in once more - this time a boy band proclaiming vague and
marketable sentiments. He turned to the radio as the descending slipper struck
him on the head. He was certainly awake now.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes dear?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Do you have to
what?’
‘You know
what?’
‘I can guess.’
‘Well then?’
‘Well what?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘To what?’
‘You said you
knew what?’
‘I said I could
guess.’
‘Well, do I?’
‘If what I can
guess is what you want then no. If it isn’t then you'll have to tell me won’t
you.’
‘Do I…’
‘…have to go to
school?’ Both Daisy and Claire completed the inevitable in unison.
‘My guess was
right. Who'd have known?’ Daisy broke three eggs into a sizzling pan where
splashes of oil exploded in defeated futts. The kettle was boiling and the
comforting smell of toasting bagels began to fill the kitchen. On top of this
hissed the grilled bacon which by now should be entering the perfect threshold
of crispiness. She could sense her daughter’s hard-edged stare piercing the
back of her head from the breakfast table. Her bottom lip would be forced out
and all willpower aligned to maintain a maximum sulk mode.
‘Oh Mum! Nat
and Becca's mums aren't making them go to school today. Why do I?’
The bagels
popped from the toaster and Daisy poured out two steaming cups of tea. She
turned and gave Claire her morning glass of juice. ‘I doubt their mums are
letting them stay at home.’
The eggs were
now done and she began buttering the toast and loading them with the sunny
sides up.
‘But it’s the
last day of term, we won’t do anything anyway.’
‘Mores the
reason to go.’ Daisy loaded up three plates, flanking the toast with bacon, and
placed them at the breakfast table. Claire gave a look as though fried eggs on
toast was the last thing she’d be wanting - although Daisy knew Fry-day Friday
was one of Claire's favourite times of the week despite the ever-growing frown
and down-turned lip. ‘You’ll look back on this day in a few years and thank me
when you realise I made you go on the one day you actually enjoyed.’
‘No I won’t,’
said Claire who crossed her arms and turned her head away from her mother.
Daisy was
impressed by her daughter’s ability to not let slip any glimpse of a smile
through the sulky façade. It was a look she herself had mastered as a child and
wouldn’t accept anything less on this bright Friday morning - the eve of a
whole forty-two days without school. Claire poked her yoke which bled out
across her plate. A look of fascination simmered on her face.
Daisy could
hear Harry's bare feet slapping across the kitchen floor, he kissed the top of
her head and fell into the vacated seat where his breakfast waited.
‘Morning all,’
he said and took one large mouthful of his cooling tea. ‘Think I might need
something a bit stronger after the night I’ve had. Thanks for the wakeup call
dear. You should patent your slipper-throwing device. A smack on the head seems
to do the trick.’ He yawned, raising his arms wide above his head and arching
his back, before rubbing the spot where the slipper had struck.
‘You were
supposed to catch the last one. Don’t blame me.’
‘Not blaming
you, it was 2 Cool 4 Pops fault, or whatever they’re called.’
‘Cool 2 Pop,’
muttered Claire who kept her head bowed and sulky expression intact.
‘That’s it
Cool-Co Pops. Distracted me. Something about living every day and loving every
night.’ He then took a slice of his toast and stabbed the yolk with its corner.
It pulled away leaving a trail of yellow goo connecting egg to toast like a
vein. ‘Mum?’ said Harry in an overly sulky tone of his own. He looked to his
wife, stuck out his lower lip in perfect mimicry of his daughter and said: ‘do
I have to go to work today?’
Daisy raised an
eyebrow and drinking down some of her own morning tea couldn’t help notice the
hint of a smile creak across Claire's lips.
Two hours
later, with Claire finally off to school (he wasn’t sure whether it was
Natalie’s or Rebecca’s Mum who had taken her today), Harry sat reclined in his
office chair, his feet resting on a stacked pillow of Wired magazines and
electrical wholesale catalogues. He held in his hands a mug of black coffee
that teetered in his lap as heavy eyes began to fall. Neither the heat or the
caffeine flowing through him was enough to keep him awake. Sleep crept closer,
he felt himself being taken by it. Once more his eyes closed and sleep gripped
tighter. Vague dreams of pert-pop-princesses and flying slippers claimed him,
each being dwarfed by the next. His mug came close to falling, his subconscious
registered this and once more his eyes grew wide. He yawned as sheer disbelief
as to how quickly the previous night had sped by flirted with his mind. Nights
were only supposed to fly by when you were dreading the oncoming morning (the
opposite was true when you actually wanted the next day to dawn), not when all
you faced was yet another day assisting the public with which hard drive to purchase.
He shuffled in his chair, settling down to make himself even comfier. Sleep
came quickly this time. Again he dreamt of a void, himself its only inhabitant.
It was comforting yet at the same time he couldn’t shake the notion that he was
truly alone. Distant voices were calling. He didn’t belong and someone was
beckoning him to return:
Harry
. There was something else. A physical
sensation. He couldn't tell whether his hands were freezing or on fire, they
simply stung.
Harry
. That voice again, not Daisy.
Harry
, this
time it was louder and with it the realisation of the sting.
'Harry!' He
awoke. A splash of coffee spilled onto his hands (thankfully none on to his
clothes) and he whipped his feet from the desk. It took a couple of drawn out
seconds for him to register where he was. He had never napped at work before,
but at least he was in his office, no larger than four phone boxes clamped
together, and a Newton’s Cradle playing out its prolonged hypnotic rhythm. He
put his mug down on the desk. 'Sorry Harry.'
At the door
stood Steve, a sixteen-year-old robed in the Brewer’s Electrics uniform of
black trousers and red t-shirt. He stood half in the office and half out with
his left arm across his body touching his right elbow.
'That's fine,'
said Harry. ‘Just resting my eyes.'
The kid gave a
feeble laugh and hovered as to whether or not to enter or exit the room. 'What
is it?' asked Harry.
'There’s
someone here to see you.' He stepped out into the corridor.
'Who?'
'I didn’t get a
name but he asked for the manager.'
'What does he
want?'
'I don’t know,
but he also asked for you by name.'
'Ok.' Harry
stood. 'Next time, ask these people what they want. You can probably help them
yourself if you delve a little deeper.'
'Yes, sorry.'
Harry crossed
his office as Steve turned to leave.
'Hang on,' said
Harry. 'Is Damien in yet?'
'Not yet.'
'So you left
your position unattended?'
'Yes. Sorry.'
'Steve, Steve,
Steve. Never leave your position unattended. This guy could be a decoy for god
knows what.'
'Sorry,’ he
hastened his pace along the short corridor before the shop floor honed in to
view.
'These people
will take anything these days,' Harry muttered to himself. 'Anything that's not
screwed down.'
Stacks of
desktop machines stood like pillars throughout the shop floor, and keyboards
bordered the room like a secondary interior wall. Arrangements of joysticks,
mice and speakers each stood sentinel around the shop as CDs, hung from string,
reflected light like pathetic two-dimensional disco balls. This had been area
manager Nigel's idea, something about bringing a futuristic aspect to the shop
through the diffraction of light. They were occasionally effective when the sun
was in optimum position (about 2pm on extremely bright and cloud free days) but
otherwise, like right now, it just looked ridiculous - as though the staff of
this electrical supplier hadn’t quite worked out what these reflective discs
were actually for. Did these 'experts' not know they weren’t decorations?
The corridor
came out behind the counter and Steve sidled up to the till. He glanced towards
a man who stood stationary in the centre of the shop. For a second Harry
thought the stranger would collapse. His intent stare took Harry in and he
puffed his cheeks as if seeing something he could not quite believe.
'Can I help
you?' asked Harry. The man stood silent and took one hesitant step forward.
'Harry? Harry
Ellis?'
'That’s right.
My colleague said you wished to speak to me about...'
'Harry Ellis.
Here now.' This was almost a question. Harry and Steve exchanged a glance.
'Yes, here now.
In the flesh. How can I help you?'
The man then
smiled and shrugged off his apparent stunned demeanour with a laugh. 'How can
you help me?' he repeated. 'Harry, I am here to help you. Is there somewhere we
can go to talk, in private?'
'Who are you?
Has something happened to Claire? To Daisy?'
'No. They’re
fine, and they'll be fine. Can we please go and talk somewhere in private?'
'Does it have
to be? Anything said in this store can be said freely in front of Steve.'
The man once
again came close to a laugh, further attempting to shake free the awkward air
between them. 'To be honest, no, it doesn’t have to be. At least, I don’t think
so.'
'Steve,' said
Harry without taking his eyes from the man. 'Go out back and check off that
delivery we received this morning of printer equipment.'
'But it’s been
signed off...'
