‘Could you fetch one?’
‘You’re young and strong. Heal yourself.’
I suppose, if you’re thousands of years old, even I must seem young.
‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?
‘I need you to concentrate.’
I sighed. She was never, ever going away.
‘All right, tell me.’
‘Look around you.’
I looked around me.
I was in a small living room in a small flat. I gave it a careless glance and then, forgetting my closed but unhealed chest wound, tried to sit up. I saw an unfamiliar but conventional living room with a fire laid and ready, but the picture over the mantelpiece was one of mine. A Mediterranean landscape, with apple-green pine trees marching down to a sparkling turquoise sea. A painting of a special place for me. Leon and I used to go there, secretly, to spend time together. Special time. I’d painted my favourite view and Leon had loved it and snatched it off my easel before even the paint was dry, and now it was here.
When I looked more closely, I saw other familiar objects scattered around the room.
On the mantelpiece stood the small model of the Trojan Horse, made for me by Leon himself and my most treasured possession. And a framed photograph of him and me, laughing together. I remembered the day Dieter had taken it.
Battered pine bookcases stood on each side of the fireplace. The right-hand one was full of my books. I recognised the titles. They were all here. Even the little book about Agincourt he would leave for me all those years ago. A stuffed scarlet snake hung from the top shelf.
The left-hand case was full of his own stuff. Books with the words ‘Quantum’ or ‘Temporal Dynamics’ in the title and the occasional thriller.
I looked around the room. On my right, a door led into a small kitchen from which the smells of something delicious wafted. A closed door ahead of me probably led to a bathroom. On my left, two bedroom doors.
I lurched to my feet and wobbled off to investigate further.
The bigger bedroom was his. A pair of jeans lay across a chair. I opened a wardrobe. Men’s clothes. I recognised some of them. On the bedside table stood another copy of our photograph. In fact, the two of them were placed in such a way that wherever you stood in this tiny flat, you could see at least one of them. I began to have yet another bad feeling.
I limped slowly into the other bedroom. My things were laid out on the dressing-table. My clothes hung in the wardrobe. A book I had been reading stood on the bedside-table. I looked under the pillow with growing unease . My yellow and white spotted PJs …
The room looked as if I’d just walked out of it. How was this possible? Had I lived here?
If you want to know who lives in a house, look in the bathroom.
A man lived in this house.
One toothbrush. Shaving gear. No hair conditioner.
I lurched back to Mrs Partridge, still in her alter ego as Kleio, Muse of History, and waiting for me. I sat heavily.
She looked at me for a long time and then said, ‘In this world, it was you who died.’
I took a moment or two to sort through the implications of ‘in this world,’ and ‘it was you who died.’ Suddenly, many things made sense. I waited.
‘He did not handle it well.’
No, he wouldn’t. He’d lost too many people in his life.
‘Against the advice of Dr Bairstow, he left St Mary’s and came here. Apparently, you had once had a plan to set up home together.’
I nodded.
‘He has built a shrine to you. Your clothes, your books, all your belongings. He brought them all here. He cooks meals for two. He lays the table for two. He discusses his day with you. He talks to you continually. His grief is overwhelming him.’
‘Is that why you have brought me here? To talk to him?’
‘No. I have brought you here to live with him. Here. In this other world. This must be your world now.’
‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll talk to him. I’ll even stay for a while until he’s better, but I have a job to do. I have to get back to Peterson. He’s wounded. He needs help.’
‘Dr Peterson is safe. The rescue party has found him. They will not find you. Because you are here. In this world.’
‘No. I have to go back. Tim …’
‘Is safe. He does not need you. Leon Farrell does. It is very important that you remain in this world. There is a job to be done and only you can do it.’
‘No, I have to go back.’
‘If I send you back, you will die. You were only seconds from death when I brought you here. You will not live long enough to see Mr Peterson.’
‘I want to see Tim Peterson. Afterwards, I’ll do whatever you want, but if I don’t see Peterson then you’ll get nothing from me.’
My God, I was defying Mrs Partridge, the immortal daughter of Zeus. If I hadn’t been seconds from death before, I was now.
We stared stubbornly at each other.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I can find you a few minutes in your old world. But it will not be long. And it will have to be paid for, one day.’
‘Agreed.’