*
It was 1981; the first year of the new decade. The gentle warmth of early summer lay on the silent ruins. A man, dressed entirely in black, picked his way carefully between the blocks of rubble and tall clumps of weeds. His name was Jonathan Kopek. His long, dark hair rippled in the soft breeze. His eyes were as grey as the shattered concrete on which he walked.
It was difficult to estimate his age. When asked, he told people that he was ‘as old as rock’n’roll’: A vague piece of information, which may have placed him in his mid-to-late twenties.
The sombre and severe cut of his clothes offered no helpful clues. They were of a style that had never been in fashion. However, their funereal quality was appropriate, as the world appeared to be dead. Nevertheless, there was still rock’n’roll.
He seated himself on the roof of a half buried car and switched on his portable cassette tape player. A pounding rhythm rolled across the desolate landscape, like thunder. He leaned back, picking absently at loose flakes of paint on the rusting vehicle. He allowed himself to doze; his pale, slim body being caressed by the heat.
The world was a lot better for being depopulated, he decided.
Eventually, the music ceased. Kopek stirred and consulted the zodiac on his wrist. The moon was entering Libra. Time to be moving on, he supposed. He still had several Alternatives to look ‘forward’ to.
And so, the world ended. Not with a bang, but a blank tape hiss.
*
The future was a beautiful, unspoiled place, since no-one had arrived there yet. Diane De’Ath often chose it as her ultimate retreat when she wanted to relax and recover her energy. In particular, she was fond of a small glade she had discovered, through which was threaded a bright silver-blue stream.
She reclined on a blanket, with an empty picnic basket by her side. She had dined on a few crumbly slices of cheese with a hunk of French bread, washed down with half a bottle of cheap white wine. She was now content.
She released the pins from her hair and allowed it to fall, in auburn cascades, over her shoulders and down the graceful curve of her back. Her eyes glittered, like the sun through the leaves above. She regarded the sky. It seemed to press gently down upon the earth, like the blue and white plumage of a nesting bird.
It was a pity that such an idyll could not last forever. The future was growing smaller by the moment, as the human race dashed inexorably onwards, through time, to its doom…
But these were the thoughts she had come here to escape. To exist placidly, for a while. To mirror the still water of the stream, which itself formed a mirror. To quieten her mind, in order to be able to hear the silence.
*
Steven Leggrin stood before the full length mirror in his underground headquarters, making a few final adjustments to his appearance. He fiddled with the gold chain round his neck, so that the heavy medallion it supported would be exactly central on his bronzed chest. He then carefully arranged his shirt front which was open to the waist, as if framing a noble work of art. A quick smile: Perfect, even, white teeth, contrasted with tanned, handsome features. A subtle primp of feathery blond hair to give a well groomed but casual effect. On with his white linen jacket. A last fleeting appraisal – then, into the lift and up to the garage.
Moments later, with an unnecessary roar of the engine and a screech of tyres, he was driving at high speed along the deserted city streets. The white Rolls Royce was a bitch to handle, since the radiation screening made the body rather heavy. But Leggrin adored the sense of style and the fact that it matched the colour of his suit.
Now that he was leaving the Central Neutron Zone, a few survivors could be seen by the roadside. At this distance, however, they would only be ‘Wimpies’. So called, because their burned flesh resembled hamburger.
Trading with them would be a waste of time and resources. Food and medical supplies were far too valuable to squander on the living dead. Besides, they had nothing to offer in return.
It was tough; but business, after all, was business – and this was definitely a seller’s market.
*
Down in the discotheque, there was an ominous silence. The strobe lights pulsed weakly. People were scattered about aimlessly; some propped up against the bar, or each other, but mostly they lay slumped on the ground. Kopek entered the shifting gloom and made his way across the dance floor, to the stage. His feet seemed to stick to the rough carpeting, as if the fabric was in mouldering decay.
He mounted the wooden dais and picked up his guitar. All the equipment was set up and the rest of the band was already in place, though showing no signs of life. Experimentally, he played a simple chord sequence. The drummer jerked, like a puppet with a few broken strings, then started to lay down a basic rhythm. The bass player also responded; sketching in a sporadic beat. Heartened, Kopek began with a bouncy riff, then urged for a faster tempo. The sound fleshed out as the pianist joined in. Kopek ventured a series of improvisations. The sleazy rasp of a saxophone complemented his efforts.
A few members of the audience were tapping their toes, as they emerged from their culture coma. Kopek even thought he heard a shout of encouragement. He raised his guitar in salute, then…
Blackness. Absolute blackness. A single, chilling whine of feedback – and silence. The power had gone.
Kopek stood on the edge of the stage, adrenalin still singing in his veins, with the guitar cradled in his arms like the pathetic body of a dead child.
Suddenly, out in the darkness, he noticed two small points of green light. They approached; a nebulous glow forming around and below them. The glow formed itself into a definite shape: The body of a young woman.
It was Diane.
She reached up to him and touched his wrist. He felt a tingling sensation travelling the length of his arm, like a mild electric shock, as she shared her energy with him. At the same time, he noticed that his guitar had become less substantial. It crumbled in his grasp; like dust, like smoke. The Alternatives were fading as Diane and Kopek returned to the Real world. There was only the warmth of her hand, the musky scent of her body.
*
The setting was corny, but effective: A candlelit dinner for two. Soft music and a little wine. Seductive conversation. When Leggrin’s right hand eventually closed over Diane’s left breast, as it had been destined to do all evening, she was almost inclined to surrender herself completely to fate.
However, she chose otherwise – and Leggrin consequently found himself gasping for breath, after receiving an unexpected elbow in the ribs.
For all his charm, his forceful and decisive character, his material success, his physical attractiveness, there was no escaping the fact that he was an utter bastard. Or so Diane told herself, regretfully.
“What the hell was that for?” Leggrin demanded.
“I think you could describe it as ‘a firm rejection of the Freudian view’,” Diane replied drily.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leggrin sneered at her. “You must admit, the only purpose in living is to create life. After all, we are the vanguard of a new species; unbound by the conventional rules of space and time. We ought to perpetuate ourselves. Especially in this Alternative, where mankind’s on the way out.”
“Maybe so. But this is only an Alternative,” Diane pointed out. “Not the Real world.”
Leggrin shrugged. “So what? Reality’s not that important. It’s just another dwindling resource, fast being depleted.”
“Anyway,” Diane changed her tack. “Time and space may not hold us in sway, but we’re still bound by identity.”
*
Outside the Managing Director’s office at Leggrin Enterprises PLC, Kopek took a deep breath, then – with an uncharacteristic display of machismo – burst through the door. Leggrin looked up from his desk with an understandable expression of surprise on his face. His black face.
Nonplussed, Kopek asked, “What’s with the ethnic look?”
Leggrin soon recovered his composure. His features were very striking. His blond hair, blue eyes and dazzling smile made an even sharper contrast than before.
“Well,” he explained. “All the sources of energy here are rather negative.”
“Like the clocks,” said Kopek, suddenly noticing an impressive array of timepieces, which were all counting backwards.
“Indeed.” Leggrin leaned back in his swivel chair, adopting a classic executive pose. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss office design.”
Kopek laughed nervously. “No. that’s right,” he admitted, pulling a gun from his jacket pocket. “I just dropped by to kill you.”
“Really?” Leggrin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I should have thought you would have known we can’t be killed. Particularly since this is only an Alternative.”
“Perhaps,” considered Kopek. “But I can still have a limiting effect on your activities.”
He raised the gun and aimed it, inexpertly. The gun spoke. Three times. Tersely.
Leggrin frowned in annoyance. “Look at all this mess,” he said, pointing first to the hole in his desk and all the scattered documents, then to the smashed clock and crack in the wall behind him. “And this suit will never be the same again,” he added, indicating the gaping wound in his chest, which was oozing thick black blood.
The sight made Kopek feel a little queasy – and he was sure that the gun’s recoil had caused him to sprain his wrist.
“I hope you have a good motive,” said Leggrin. “I would really hate to be the victim of gratuitous violence.”
“How about… love…?” asked Kopek, weakly.
“Yes. I suppose it can be quite a valid reason,” conceded Leggrin. The blackness draining from his body seemed to have resulted in a loss of skin colour. His complexion was now a rather ashen grey. “If a trifle abstract,” he concluded.
“Well, it’s the only one you’re getting,” mumbled Kopek, as he staggered away. What he needed was something a great deal stronger and more reassuring than Reality to return to.
*
Entering the past always seemed, to Diane, to have much in common with boarding the Marie Celeste. The sense of abandonment, on such a vast scale, was very difficult to bear.
The leaden skies of the autumn of 1972 were oppressive. Diane shivered as she walked in through the open front door of a small, semi detached house. As she had expected, Kopek was curled up in a corner of the living room. A vinyl record was playing on the stereo; its grooves almost worn away, so that the music was virtually unrecognisable.
She bent down and shook him roughly. Kopek stirred feebly and turned his head to look at her. His eyes were like broken windowpanes, through which his soul had escaped. He could not focus on her properly; but then, she had always possessed a blurred, timeless quality. She was not really pretty and could have been any age between fourteen and forty.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve come home,” he replied, simply. “This is where I was born.”
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “That would make you only nine years old.”
Kopek paused to consider the idea.
“Perhaps I sprang, full grown, from the earth,” he suggested. “Like the gods of ancient mythology.”
“Whatever the case, it’s dangerous to go back into your own past,” she scolded. “You’re like a depth charge, set to detonate once you’ve sunk to the point of your birth.”
Another pause. Kopek sighed. According to his wrist zodiac, the moon was on the cusp between Pisces and Aries. A time for positive action: He struggled across the room and changed the record on the stereo.
*
Leggrin peered across the table at Diane’s serene features. His view was obscured by the steam rising from his coffee. He gazed down into its murky depths. The dark liquid lay there, brooding, like the primeval ooze out of which all life had originally evolved.
He felt decidedly out of place; sitting in some vulgar snack bar, in what could have been any suburban town. His clothes appeared shabby and uncomfortable. His hands fluttered helplessly on the ends of his arms; like trapped birds. He used them to brush his hair back in place behind his ears. It was rather greasy, he noticed. And had grown to an untidy length.
He watched the traffic passing by outside and started to read the words on the sides of the lorries. They seemed like bizarre fragments of mobile poetry. Perhaps, one day, they would assemble themselves into a coherent, epic work.
He found it difficult to understand Diane’s lack of concern. She appeared content merely to read some lurid paperback book on astrology, while the world solidified around them, like quick drying cement.
He lifted his coffee to his lips. A bitter, scalding fluid emerged from concealment beneath a layer of milky scum and maliciously burned the roof of his mouth. Through a haze of tears, the zodiac design on the cover of Diane’s book also seemed to burn; bright with the false promise of magic.
A woman came to clean their table. She did so with a damp, dirty cloth and a single, negligent sweep of her arm. A few crumbs were thereby arranged in a slightly different pattern and the grease stains became blurred at the edges.
Leggrin felt sure some kind of symbolic message could be gained from this act.
*
The discotheque had been re-opened, courtesy of Leggrin Enterprises PLC, and a massive party was in full swing. Everywhere, there was light and life and the joyous throb of music.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Leggrin.
“Great!” Diane enthused. “And I like the new name, too.”
“Yes,” agreed Kopek “The Eternal Triangle. Very appropriate.”
“But what’s it all in aid of?” asked Diane.
Leggrin pointed to his wrist watch.
“Today’s the sixth of June, 1981. In exactly twenty-five years time, the Real world will come to an end…”
“So this is a sort of Silver Apocalypse Party,” said Kopek, butting in.
“Now I understand why all your clocks run backwards!” cried Diane, feeling clever. “It’s a rather macabre countdown!”
“Precisely.” Leggrin smiled and raised his glass. “Happy holocaust.”
“And there was me thinking that time’s only function was to measure our love,” said Kopek, slipping his arm round Diane’s waist.
Both she and Leggrin assumed pained expressions.
“Trust you to say something like that.”
Leggrin took her hand. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s have a dance before this romantic stuff comes back into fashion.”
Kopek watched the two of them being absorbed by the crowd. There was a sour taste of jealousy in his mouth, which he tried to dispel with a few swift drinks. But they only succeeded in tempering his mood to one of awful maudlinity.
Here’s to oblivion, he thought. Not with a bang, but the popping of corks from champagne bottles.
*
