The Rage Room Page 16
But no one answered and no one came and there was no reprieve, no light.
I pulled the monitor off my finger and tore the wires and pads from my head, shoulders, back, and legs.
I patted my way over to the chair as a blind man would, touching things gingerly and feeling for shapes. I opened the door and walked down the hallway, turning into an empty reception area lit by a grey computer screen, a backlit fog trapped in a box, glowing with an unearthly amount of light. And when a telephone rang, I screamed like a girl. I looked down and saw a vintage aqua phone with a large circular dial. Shamed by my weakness, I shivered back into myself and picked up the phone, certain, or rather hoping, that the person on the other end of the line would clear up what was going on and put the situation straight. Congratulations! You’ve won a free night at the Sky The Tower! All you have to do is phone 1 888 Integratron and give us the promotional code BINGO and you’ll receive your free night!
I stared at the receiver, incredulous, and then a strange thing happened, as if the night hadn’t been weird enough already.
My teeth—my perfect, white, titanium-based teeth—crumbled into sea-shell shards inside my mouth. I spat bloody mouthfuls of broken shell enamel into my hand.
I ran my tongue along my molars, and my tissue-fragile teeth broke even further. I spat out more bloody crumbs. I stared at the sharp ruined mess in my hands with disbelief and watched as the shards fluttered upwards. Moths. Ah, no way! My mouth had been filled with moths.
The moths rose from my hand, leaving a stain of dried blood on my palms. The rose petal moths flew like wedding confetti, then died in a single breath, falling softly to the floor and dissolving into the cheap harsh grey weave of the carpet. I collapsed to my knees and examined the carpet in the thin milky light of the monitor.
I ran my shredded tongue around my mouth. I was left with one incisor and that was all. My tongue was a torn ribbon and my chin was sticky, covered with layers of dried and fresh blood.
I lowered my forehead to the carpet. I, like my teeth, was broken. I had no idea what was going on, but I had no reserves to deal with any of it.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more bizarre, The Beach Boys cheerfully lit up the airwaves, yodelling about a surfing safari.
I shot up on my knees like a rabid squirrel and clapped my bloody palms to my ears. It wasn’t even a good funk remix for god’s sake. “Make it stop,” I shouted. “Stop it. What is going on? Why is this happening?”
Wham! decided to take over, howling about waking up before you go and go and hanging yoyos. Why couldn’t I wake up or escape this nightmare? Were there clues in the songs?
I stood up, jello-legs. The door. Why hadn’t I rushed for the door? What was I thinking? I had to escape. I had to leave. Once I reached the sidewalk, maybe the nightmare would end and my life would be restored to me.
I rushed around the curved reception desk and grabbed the door handle.
PUSH.
I pushed with my body, ready to exit, but I only succeeded in slamming full-tilt into the glass and crushing myself against the steel door handle.
Winded, I fought to catch my breath. I tried to see through the glass, but there was only my reflection, my blood-covered chin and my staring eyes.
I was a madman.
“Venus” by Shocking Blue pulsed into my eardrums. Oh god. I loved that song once.
I opened my mouth as wide as I could, and spikes of shark sharpness stared back at me from a black oval. My ribbon-shredded eel tongue was covered with lumps of black blood. I clamped my mouth shut. I forced my eyes to lessen their crazy-man glare, and I backed away from the glass doors just as Madonna started wailing, wanting me to get into the groove and prove my love to her.
The phone rang over the sound of the music, and I rushed around the desk and snatched it up. Even that automated cheery voice would help right now, but there was nothing except for a slight hissing sound. And then a voice said, “He’s coming,” a voice that made my sphincter contract right up into my spine. A thin line of cold sweat ran down my spine, and the line went dead.
“Who’s coming?” I shouted into the dead phone and I shook the receiver like a rag doll.
A strange whooshing sound brushed by my ear, and I looked up, clutching the dead phone to my chest like Bax cradling his favourite bunny when the night got too dark. I looked across the room. A painting swung wildly from side to side, swinging with such force that I couldn’t see the picture. It was no surprise when the hook came loose and the painting fell to the floor.
The rectangle shape-shifted and folded into sharp angles, and an origami figure came to life—look, a bird, a plane—oh holy shit, it was the Hockney man. He was back. He’d never left.
The phone rang. I was already holding it. How could it ring?
It was Celeste.
“Sugarpops babykins, how are you?” She sounded calm, and I was frightened. There were hidden depths to her voice I had never heard before.
“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice shook.
“YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR!” she shouted down the line, and I wrenched the phone away from my ear.
“Stop lying! Just stop it!”
I sank down into the receptionist’s chair.
“Fine,” I said. “I was going to lose my job. They were going to fire me for being a thief. And now I’ve lost my teeth and I’ve lost my mind and I think I’m dead. Are you happy now?”
“Well, honey, it’s a start,” she said.
I started to cry. “It’s so dark,” I said. “And I don’t know where everybody is. My tongue’s ripped to shreds by my teeth. I don’t even know how I’m still talking. Stupid music keeps playing through the loud speaker, and it’s so dark and I’m all alone.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how I felt, being married to you, honey. Admit it, you’re sorry you married me, sweetie, aren’t you? Go on, say it.”
“No, no,” I lie. “I love you.”
“YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR!”
I couldn’t help but notice that the glimmer of warmth in her voice the first time she’d uttered that phrase was gone. She was stating a fact without any compassion.
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “I want the truth.”
“No,” I said, and I was crying. “All I want is to be home with you and the children.” And it really was the truth, and maybe she heard that because she didn’t call me a liar.
“It’s too late,” she finally said, and she sounded as if she was musing. “You killed us, remember, honey?”
“It’s not too late,” I said with as much fervent desperation as I could muster. “I’m coming to find you. I’ll come back in time and find you, Cee. But why did you stay with me when you seem to hate me so much?”
“There was a tiny moment when I thought I loved you and I hoped that could return. When we met, I thought you were so sophisticated and witty and funny and handsome and debonair. And you were the future father of my children. You made Mummy and Daddy so very happy, and you set me free of their eternal scorn. But you deserve everything that’s happening to you now. You treated me like an idiot for years. You think I didn’t notice? Oh, I noticed. Everybody noticed.”
“I…” I tried to say something but nothing came out.
“Yeah, big man, so good with words, cutting little nasty words, words like broken teeth. Yeah, baby, feels nice when you can’t say anything, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“Everything,” I replied, and she snorted.
“So what happens now?” I asked. I noticed smoke swirling around my ankles and covering my slippered feet.
“You’re going to let me die in here for being honest?” I asked, standing up. “That’s not very nice or fair.”
“Oh, honey, do you think you’ve been nice or fair?”
“What can I do?” I tried to sound calm, but I heard the panic in my voice. “What can I do to make things right?”
“I don’t think there is anything,” she said.
“There must be,” I told her, desperately grasping. “We can be a family again. A proper family. Please, Celeste, give me one more chance. Please, I’m begging you.”
The smoke curled around my waist, a python fist squeezing the air out of me. My heart tightened as life left my body. I was slapped onto the surface of my beloved painting with a strange wet suctioning sound, but just before movement became impossible, I glimpsed a reflection of my face.
I had become the Hockney man.
25. TIME TRAVEL ON THE BRAIN
“WE THOUGHT WE’D LOST YOU,” Janaelle said as I tried to push my way to the surface, clawing through grey muck as I went. “Your body struggled to acclimatize to the insertion of the device. You may have felt a period of temporal displacement and altered consciousness as well as a sense of disturbed time.”
“You could say that,” I replied caustically, the experience still running loops on my frontal lobe. “It wasn’t fun.”
“No pain, no gain,” Janaelle said cheerfully. “But we nailed it.”
“Nailed would be accurate. I’ve got a headache the size of Jupiter. Any chance of an Advil?”
Janaelle shook her head. “We need to monitor you sober. Anyway, it’s time you met Jaxen.”
I gaped as a poster boy for Call of Duty marched in wearing full military gear, his rolled-up shirt sleeves boasting impressive biceps. He was a pumped-up muscle boy with a square jawline and a cleft in his chin. He had a handsome, manly nose and high, flat cheekbones. He strode up with such force that I thought he was going to go right through the bed and halve me, but he ground to a sharp halt an inch away from the bed frame.
“Jaxen Killingsworth,” he barked, offering me his hand. I took it cautiously, expecting a crushing show of machismo, but his hand was warm and reassuring.
“I hear there were some issues getting the device fitted. We lost a man once. Good for you for sticking it out.”
I wanted to point out that I’d had little choice.
“Why don’t we let him rest for a while?” Janaelle suggested. “Then we’ll feed him, explain time theory, and send him on his way.”
“I don’t want to rest,” I said. “You guys … I mean I lie down to sleep and you drug me and do who knows what? I don’t trust you. I had the worst nightmares.”
“You want to time travel,” Janaelle reminded me. “Besides, now that we’ve invested in you, we’re not going to damage our product, are we? You need to trust us.”
“I’m getting up.” I sat upright, a mild movement that nearly killed me. “Or maybe not.” I sank down. “Shit, this hurts.”
Jaxen waved his arm at a window that I hadn’t noticed, and blackout curtains fell silently into place. “Janaelle’s right. You need quiet and darkness.”
I closed my eyes. Every inch of my body stung with pain. I felt something soft and heavy cover my body, and my muscles immediately relaxed.
“A weighted blanket,” Jaxen said. “Re-engineered Deep Touch Pressure Stimulation technology. Filled with non-toxic glass beads.” His voice was soothing, and he patted my shoulder, which made me feel even better. I wondered about him and Janaelle. The minute he walked in, I’d had visions of them engaging in rough Marine-style sex—wham, bam, thank you, ma’am—but now I could see him being all gentle and considerate, bringing her to multiple orgasms by murmuring scientific facts and laying his hands upon her. I was still imagining them together when I drifted off.
I woke two days later. I knew it was two days because they told me.
“We monitored your brain,” Janaelle said. “We needed to let you wind down. There was a lot going on in there. The inside of your skull looked like a snow globe on acid and speed. Poor guy. We did a detox recalibration, as much as we could anyway.”
“You people!” I sat up. “I told you I didn’t trust you! Detox calibration! Stay the fuck out of my head.”
“No longer a possibility,” Jaxen said, handing me a plate with peanut butter and jam toast. I particularly welcomed the hot coffee, and I wolfed it all down.
“We need to ascertain the exact moment of your return,” he said.
Oh shit. I hadn’t given that any further thought, not that they’d given me the opportunity to. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “What happens once I decide?”
“We log in the date and time. Look at your left wrist.”
I did, but I couldn’t see anything different. Oh wait, there was a short, thin grain of rice under my skin. I wanted to touch it, but I stopped myself in case I unleashed something else I wasn’t equipped to handle.
“That’s your magic button,” Jaxen said. “You simply hold your wrist out to the pass point at St. Drogo’s subway station, and voilà, the doors to the past will open. All you need to know is that every moment of time is mapped out and exists in the past. You just have to know where to look for it, which we do. In the same way that energy can never be destroyed, time can never be deleted. It all comes down to code. Life is code.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I had finished my second cup of coffee. My body felt punished and bruised, and I had a menacing headache. I tried to concentrate. “What do you mean, every moment of time is mapped out and exists? Exists where?”
“Sting Ray Bob will tell you the ins and outs.” A tall man slipped into the room, his white coat neatly buttoned and a row of red and blue ballpoint pens in his top pocket. I screamed and scrambled back on the bed, knocking the tray to the floor. It was the Hockney man. I pushed as far away from him as I could, jumping off the bed and cowering in the corner.
“I’m Sting Ray Bob,” the man said, and he smiled, if one could call it that.
“It’s entirely normal for you to have an adverse reaction to Sting Ray,” Jaxen hauled me to my feet. “He’s digging around in your neurons, and you had an awareness for sure. Let’s go to Janaelle’s office; it’s more peaceful there.”
I followed them, keeping a wary distance from the Hockney man. I rubbed my tongue along my teeth, checking they were still intact, no bloody shards. I wanted to ask Jaxen what Sting Ray Bob had to do with the Hockney man, but we had reached Janaelle’s office, a glass cube in the middle of the forest with a sparkling waterfall to the east and a sunset to the west. I stared, mouth open. Moss-covered rocks and brightly-coloured birds made the place idyllic. I went up the glass, wishing I could lie in the cool shade of a magnolia tree in full bloom.
“Yeah, Janaelle likes pretty,” Jaxen climbed into a swinging basket chair and crossed his legs like a zen guru. “She’s sentimental that way.”
“I thought we killed the birds? Along with the weather, natural farming, and mountain streams. This is gorgeous. It can’t be real?”
“It’s not real, not yet,” Janaelle admitted from behind her rose quartz desk. “Our goal is to revive the world you see out there, but it’s slow going and given the data we’ve gathered from the rage rooms, we’re not optimistic. The world’s getting dumber and dumber and angrier and angrier, but we won’t give up. And you’re part of that future. If we can change the trajectory of your past actions, there’s hope.”
“It has to work!” I immediately insisted. “If my family lives, things will be better and other things will change too.”
“That’s the theory,” Jaxen said. “Sting Ray Beebop, I can see you’re just bustin’ a gut to start this guy’s tuition. Time-travel for Dummies 101—let the lesson commence!”
Sting Ray Bob was silent for a moment. “Go to St. Drog
o’s, stick your wrist out, and jump.”
“That’s it? I thought I was getting a lesson in science?”
“Frankly, I don’t believe it will be helpful for you to know any more than you need to.” Sting Ray Bob looked defiantly at Janaelle and Jaxen, ready to challenge their objections. He was a beanpole of a man, exactly like the Hockney man, only Sting Ray Bob had a mullet hairdo and was a walking tattoo covered in chemical formulas and mathematical equations.
Jaxen gave Janaelle a glance. “He’s probably right,” he said, and she nodded. “But he does need to know more than that. Come on, Bobbo, give him the nuts and bolts.”
Sting Ray Bob sighed. “You’ve got five visits, and the duration of each visit is a week. Time will appear to stop on this side so that when you return, the same people will be in the subway station and it will be the exact moment you left. A word of warning: travel takes a physical toll. You have to rest for at least two weeks in between jumps. Every time you jump, you eat away at your body. One guy literally fell apart; his fat and flesh dropped off him like pulled pork.”
I shuddered. “And do I have to leave from the exact same location in the past?”
“No. You will be brought back from wherever you are. Now, if the device fails…”
“It could fail?” I interrupted him and shot up in my chair, my heart hammering in my chest.
“The likelihood is low. If it happens, you must stay calm. Look at your wrist.”
I did as he said.
“That’s the activation device. You’ll need to aim that in the direction of gate activation software. See it as your boarding pass. If it fails to work, you’ll have to dig it out of your wrist with a scalpel and reset it. Get it out and wash it in saline solution or water. Then look for a tiny raised area on the surface. That’s the software reset button. Press it hard with your nail and count to ten, then release. Then stick it back in and pinch the flesh to hold it in place until you’re back and we can effect repairs. Digging it out will hurt like hell, but worse than the pain is the discomfort of being stuck in the vortex of displaced time. It could feel like you’re trapped in the spinning ball of death—you know the one—the rainbow-coloured wheel that used to go around and around on old-fashioned computers when they were trying to load data? Some nostalgia software programs like to mess with people by using them as a joke. Ha ha.”