The Time Machine

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know there's been some confusion, but let me explain. To travel through time into the past or future is impossible, and ultimately pointless. However, what we all need in our lives is more time. My time machine is capable of generating time. Time between time. For instance, I can split a second down the middle and place another second inside it.

"To an observer, as I will demonstrate, your perception of time remains unchanged. Whereas for me - FUCK YOU - I have an extra second.

"Now, my invention is not limited to a flimsy second here and there, by adjusting the dosage I receive I have inserted amounts of time up to..."

I stepped out from behind the podium, walked towards the audience, their faces drowsy with slowtime. I scan them all, one by one, taking in their expressions which, the last they knew, were looking at me delivering my lecture in front of them. Playfully I swap notebooks around on their desks, pull pens from hands and nestle them behind ears, I finish someone's coffee, take a bite from a cookie, wander the entire lecture hall and return to my podium.

"...ten minutes."

It takes a moment or two for them to realise things have changed, and the commotion is quite jolly and good-natured as they swap their belongings back, or discover other suggestions of my mischief.

"You see, time is relative and our ability to move within it is a construct of our perception of reality. My machine - implanted into the hypothalamus - and my formula directly effect the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which controls our circadian rhythms, and warps my perception of time. Depending on the dosage the more time stretches. I am able to move - at what you would experience as - faster-than-light within this continnum that I have created."

After the lecture I signed some copies of my findings, a quite vague essay that belied my reticence to reveal my invention and give the gift of time to everyone. The more people who would travel at slowtime, then the more slowtime becomes like normal time, and I treasure slowtime because it means I can escape.

When I was younger I'd say that I was born in the wrong time, I used to pine for the past, I had such hopes for the future. But I can never go back, and tomorrow keeps letting me down. If I could exist forever inbetween the moments then I think I'd be happy. If I could find a way to slow down time for me indefinitely then I'd be happy to grow old there, to live and die in the blink of an eye.

As the last of them shakes my hand, congratulating me on my work, I brush the hair from my eyes and move a pin to hold it in place. I could never afford to make enough formula to spend the next fifty or sixty years in slowtime, the only way I could would be to sell the patent, to give it to the people. Perhaps if the world became hooked on slowtime then I'd enjoy the days as they are? Rather than feel myself burdened, weighed down by each and every second.

Ten minutes, that's all I can make for myself each day. Ten minutes of time to myself. It would take me 144 days to save up enough for a day off. 52,560 days for a year away. There's never enough time.
My mind flutters with daydreams about how I could generate the formula itself within slowtime, meaning it would perpetuate more quickly. If there was some way of creating a pocket of slowtime that I could interact with in normal time, an ever-expanding bubble that I could use to harvest the formula. If there were a way to create a wormhole between moments, from the present via the expanded time between a second and then the present again so that as soon as the process begins the results are achieved.

I've always been impatient, most projects go unfinished because once I can visualise the goal in my mind I lose interest in the efforts required to attain it. This formula, this machine, it was an accident. A George's Marvellous Medicine concocted as I played mixologist with my prescriptions. I began to experience affected perceptions of time, but then noticed that it wasn't just perceived time that moved slowly, it was time itself and if my head was clear then my speed would remain at a constant whilst everything slowed down around me.

If anything it gave me hope, the meds had taken that from me. I'd been dulled down, too calm to care, and controlled by the wagging fingers that warned me of coming off of my medication. I wanted to die, that's why I mixed them, I wanted to go to the place where time doesn't exist, where my consciousness doesn't exist, I wanted to feel the nothingness. At first I thought it was a cruel joke, that I was a ghost stuck in a moment, and I had to haunt that frozen point in time for the rest of eternity.

Between time I'm free, I'm happy. Nobody really looks at me - they can't - and nobody is aware that I'm gone. It's like I become someone else, and each time I return to the same time as everyone else I have to remember who I am, what everyone thinks of me, their superficial perceptions and judgments, and I have to wait, wait for the next moment to escape.

Anhedonia

They all shouted Surprise! and someone stretched out a cake towards me, a big beaming smile on their face illuminated by the glow of the candles.  I dread to think what expression those multi-coloured candles brought to light on my own mug.
    A friend of mine once told me that I have a Fuck-Off vibe, and this was why I found it hard to make new friends from strangers when we all went out.  I would sit enviously, perched in the corner of a nightclub, staring out into the little gatherings of people, laughing, chatting, getting to know one another, and many, ultimately, slobbering across one another's faces.  I was partially envious, but also full of contempt.  Perhaps the second expression registered more strongly, and that is why nobody approached me to engage me in conversation?
    I don't think contempt is the face lit up by the birthday candles - 30 of them - I find it hard to muster any kind of feeling at present, because despite their joyous cheer this is anything but a surprise.  Sure, I wasn't expecting it, but a birthday surprise is, to some extent, an entirely forseeable inevitability.  Of the limited range of things that could occur on a person's birthday this is probably one of the most obvious.  Especially on a so-called milestone like this.
    It's hard to be surprised when you think about things as much as I do, I mean, there's very little that can genuinely surprise you.  If you're crossing the road the chances of being hit by a car are greatly increased, so you think about that, you look both ways, you do your best not to be hit by a car, but there is always a chance that you will be, so it can't really come as that much of a shock.
    More so than that though, if a friend is late I will begin by assuming the worst - they have died somehow - I will list the many ways in which they could have conceivably died - hit by a car, mugged and stabbed, a slate fell from a rooftop, choked on some food, etc. - and follow this train of thought to reasons why they may be late, right up to them just being not very good at time keeping, so that by the time they do arrive I have already imagined every possible excuse they could possibly have presented outside of the absurd.
    Only the absurd is left to shock me, and things like that never happen, and I mean it would have to be truly bizarre, not even the arrival of an alien species could throw me, because it is entirely probable that one day this might happen, and, unless the aliens took on a form so utterly impossible to imagine there is no way that I would feel at all disturbed by their presence.
    I think I began to really take things in my stride when she broke up with me by accident.  A mis-sent text, it all seemed so inevitable, I guess suspicion can act as a cushion, plus I'd had my heart broken before.  It didn't really bother me, I figured that she should be happy, and if she's not happy with me then that's fine, she should leave me and seek happiness wherever it may be.  So, for me, it was all so simple, meet up, finalise the termination of our relationship, and move on with our lives.  I was surprised she cried when we hugged goodbye, but some people cry when leaving one job to go to another better one, such a strange emotional expression.
    When I felt the urge to cry, which I haven't in years, I would stop myself, it seemed like such a waste, usually because I was alone, so firstly why should I perform these crying theatrics for an absent audience, and secondly I should probably save my tears for something really devastating, and not just splurge them frivilously on my petty depressions.  But, events that other people might perhaps consider devastating came and went, and I did not cry.
    However, it's cheap of me to wish to only use my emotions to effect others, though I'm not sure how else to ever derive a reaction from people.  I feel so utterly unnecessary as a part of any human interaction, that I have often found myself slowly edged out of circles of friends, often literally - a conversational circle was close in front of me, meaning I am standing on the outside, facing someone's back, peeking hopelessly over their shoulders.  Whenever I speak the enthusiasm on other's faces seems to visibly vanish, leaving a bemused expression expecting me to say something to reassure them that I'm not devoid of character, and consistently I fail.
    Why, I think, should I even continue to attempt to become a part of groups that don't want to incorporate me?  But how will I ever meet someone if all my efforts are in vane?  Though why bother at all?  I enjoy my own company, I can entertain myself and I don't need the approval of someone else to live my own life, do what I want to do, and why should I have to share my time, my needs?  But, the choice to share, that'd be nice.
    They cut the cake into large segments, start passing it around on paper plates, I try my best to avoid taking a slice, I don't really like cake, but there's this pressure upon me - as the cake was made, without my consent, for me - that I should eat a piece and enjoy it, offer approving noises, and everyone will watch, take photographs, and make ridiculous cooing sounds as I am forced to shove a stodgy lump of icing encased sponge into my maw.  I don't want to, but I oblige.

Careers

All the hands had shot up in the air, each face lit up with eagerness, backs stretched and bottoms lifted off the seats, as if not being picked to answer would cause them to lose their flimsy purchase.  Helen was quite pleased, she had become all too used to an awkward shuffle, an audible inhalation, or a pensive murmur whenever she usually asked a group of children what they want to be when they grow up.
    Carefully, with exagerrated precision, she pointed to one boy whose name was Jamal.
    "I want to be famous," Jamal beamed.
    "Ok," Helen nodded, he must have misunderstood the question a bit.  She picked another child, a girl called Susan.
    "Me too, I want to be famous as well."
    Quickly glancing around the circle, and at the slackening in those raised limbs, she began to suspect that every child was planning on saying that.  Just to make sure she picked another.
    "I also want to be famous," Magda bashfully smiled.
    Helen lowered her clipboard, usually she would have written each child's respective choice in the box next to their name, but today they all remained blank.
    "Does everyone here want to be famous?"
    "Yes miss," a boy called Ben said, "who doesn't want to be famous?"
    Helen sighed, clicked her tongue, "It's not really a career though.  That's what today is about, finding out what career you'd most like to pursue."
    "What career did you pursue, miss?" Susan asked, well-meaning but ultimately infuriating.
    Helen, you see, had wanted to be famous too.  When she was eleven she'd even been in a few adverts after a friend of her parents, who worked as a casting director, 'spotted' her at a birthday party.  Helen had gone to drama clubs after school and at the weekends, been the lead in a number of school plays, taken singing classes twice a week, and auditioned for a great number of stage schools.  But the auditions were unsuccessful, she found herself doing a theatre course at a mixed discipline University instead, though she never really wanted to be a stage performer.  Sure, she managed to wrangle her way into a few student short films, but the scripts were clunky and whatever efforts she made to raise their level just seemed futile at best.  Ultimately she grew bored, her course offered nothing of any real interest, and besides she'd made some good friends and started seeing this guy called Luke, and she thought there could be a future there.  They'd talked about moving in together after University, somewhere just outside of London to suit both their needs, because despite her apathy the only career path she really knew to pursue was her desire to be a television actress.
    So, when Uni was over, and after a couple of Summer months spent at their respective family homes, they moved to a small flat in Walthamstow, where she would commute into the city to try and attend whatever auditions she could scavenge and he would drive into Essex to intern at a nature reserve.  But Helen didn't really care for any of the roles she went for, she restricted herself to only film work - be it shorts, adverts, television, low-budget features, etc. - and each part seemed to offer nothing, no progression, no light at the end of the tunnel, and she was conscious of unintentionally building a resume littered with bad credits.  She would look at the filmographies of actors she admired and see the intelligent progression of their career, compare her age to theirs and worry that it was already too late.
    This began to impact her confidence, she knew she'd need to get a job to tide her over whilst she waited for the good parts to come her way, but she wasn't so keen on doing something ultimately unfulfilling like waiting tables or tending bar - it's not that she felt like she was above these jobs, having done both whilst at Uni - so she got an administrative role working in an online shop.  She made some good friends there, friends who really helped her when Luke ended their relationship after four years together, she moved into a house share in the city and then one of her housemates, who worked for a recruitment agency, told her about a vacancy within the company.  A little tired of the online shop's somewhat repetitive nature, and looking to work face-to-face with people, she applied and got the role that would eventually lead to her going out to schools to meet children to help advise them on pursuing the right career for them.
    "What do your parents do for a job?" she asked the children, leaning forwards and gesturing enthusiastically, trying to steer the conversation in a more productive direction.
    "My mum's an accountant, and my Dad mends electrics." Jamal responded quickly and proudly.  After a pause he, unprompted, added, "But my mum's mum was a baker and her dad was a taxi driver, and my dad's mum was a nurse and my dad's dad made furniture."
    "Very good," Helen was rather impressed, she couldn't really recall what her own father did, something in an office somewhere.  "That's impressive that you know all that."
    "But miss," Jamal innocently began, "doesn't that prove that what your parents do won't matter to what you do?"
    She was somewhat stumped, but then her point hadn't really been to give the children a sense of heredity through employment.  However, it had made her think about the cautious intake of breath that her mother had taken when she told her that she was moving near to London with Luke to pursue acting.
    "Are you sure that's a good idea?" her mother had said.
    Helen had rattled off their joint plans in defense, but also in defference, hoping to convince her mother - through her passion for the notion - that they were really going to try, that this would be the best for both of them, her and Luke.  However, ultimately it had proved to be their undoing, they found themselves two ships merely moored at the same port and with each day the different worlds they sailed into became their real homes, the city for her and the wilds for him.  But Helen couldn't help but think that her mother's sharp intake of breath had been the light to the touchpaper, sewing a seed of the doubt that would push distance between them both, like a tree busting through concrete.  But she never could have comprised, that's what she reiterated to herself there, right there in that classroom, she couldn't have turned her back on her acting and stayed out in the countryside for him.  Then she looked at herself, as much as anyone can, and remembered that she was not an actor, that she had not been to an audition in six years, that at first she had placed that dream on the backburner expecting to come back to it, but as time had wore on the notion had gathered dust, like so many things, and ultimately become like tinnitus, forever there, unchanging, and over time subsumed.
    Having been on that drama course she did know people who had continued to work away at it, hoping to become an actor, and she'd seen them rewarded with varying degress of success, and she'd felt bitter about it, sneered and wrinkled her nose when she'd seen the name of one of her contemporaries in the credits of some tv show, willing them to fail, sometimes masochistically watching the show and hoping that their performance would be so monumentally awful as to restore her faith in her own abilities, even though they lay dormant and unused.  If she could not be an actor then no-one, nobody but the pre-established celebrities she had no chance of knowing, could be.  It felt ok for the famous people she didn't know to be famous, because it was almost as if they were born that way, molded and designed for fame, they weren't one of us, they were Olympian Gods carved from stone, birthed into greatness.  She knew that she was formed from humbler stuff, so it didn't seem unfair that they had it all and she had nothing.
    That's what the reality shows changed though, they began to give people the impression that fame was a raffle prize, that celebrity was inside us all, and if we were there, if were lucky, it would be unleashed and once it had been discovered our trajectory would be unstoppable.
    But that was a world alien to Helen.
    These children though, they lived every day expecting some mysitcal talent scout to walk anonymously into their school, point their finger and hoist them - like a cuddly toy in an arcade machine - out of their squalor into a dazzling, glittering world of wonderment.  They could wave goodbye to their friends from the window of the limousine, perhaps come back to parade their newfound celebrity in their faces, bask in the fawning adoration, especially of those who once doubted them, laughed at them, pushed them over in the playground.
    Helen decided to grab a coffee from the staff room at the school, she stood listlessly stirring her sugar into the ill brown liquid, her mind wandering.  A teacher approached her, Ms. Cotton, recognising Helen from a previous visit.
    "How were they today?"
    "Hmm?" Helen responded, a little startled.
    "How were the children in the group, they've had a strange time recently."
    "Strange, why?"
    "Oh, did nobody tell you," Ms. Cotton edged the kitchen door closed a little, "one of their classmates died a few weeks ago."
    "Oh God, that's awful."
    "I don't know if you'd remember him, Billy Hudson."
    "Yes," Helen lied, she could barely remember any of the children she'd just been talking to.
    "Well, it's such a terrible thing, he took his own life."
    Helen froze, she was genuinely taken aback, "What?"
    "Oh, he was depressed, he was part of the school drama club and this casting director came in, looking for boys for this new film or something, well, Billy had a casting, but he didn't get the part." Ms. Cotton poured herself a tea.
    "And he killed himself?"
    "Yes," she said, adding the milk, "hanged himself with a scarf from his bunk-bed."
    "Because of the...?  Were things ok at home?"
    "Yes, as far as anyone knows, I mean, a lovely boy, wonderful student, really tragic."
    Helen finished her coffee, she talked with Ms. Cotton about other things going on in the school, about their plans for the summer, inconsequential things.
    Later that evening Helen sat on the sofa in her flat, a beer in hand, a dinner plate with the remnants of a Chinese takeaway by her side, and a talent search show on the television.
    She watched the hopeful file past the judges, each one giddy with the possibility of escape from whatever life lay on the other side of those doors, and she laughed unintentionally at those clearly lacking in talent yet full of delusion, she welled up at the awkward people who expressed unexpected abilities, or scoffed at the good-looking excitable groups who coasted through on - what the judges called - 'star quality'.
    But more than that, she wondered what any of them could hope to gain from it all, what did they want?  One young boy was crying in the hallway, having just failed his audition, the presenter put a comforting arm around him and thrust the microphone to better capture his sobs, and the boy wailed; "I just want to be famous."  Not earning any sympathy from Helen, but that's all any of them wanted really, they all just want to be famous, and all Helen wants is to feel better than them, that no matter what fame the successful ones may find she can feel, in the pit of her stomach, that it is a fleeting fame, a transient glory limply afforded to the naive by a triumvirate already caluclating how best to package, market and - ultimately - discard the performer singing, dancing, trying before them.
    When she was little, and the teacher had asked everyone to draw a picture of what they wanted to be when they grew up Helen had struggled.  In the end, on that day in primary school, before the casting director had unearthed her, she had chewed the end of her pen, lost in thought, trying to sneak a peek at the drawings the other children were busy scribbling.  Eventually, in an effort to try and relieve her creative block, Helen had just drawn a picture of herself as she was right there and then, no uniform or scenery, nothing to indicate any sort of designation, and then when the teacher had come around and asked her what job she had given herself, Helen had shrugged and said she didn't know.
    Ms. Cotton, earlier that day, had off-handedly referred to a five year plan, she hoped to become the head of the Science department, she had some ideas for changes she hoped to put forward when she achieved this goal, and she'd asked Helen what her plans were.  Helen had shrugged, tried to visualise herself in the future, but, like that primary school precursor, all she could picture was her as she was in that moment, nothing new.
    Fame, she thought, for those eager children, was merely a way of staying in that moment, that lazy moment, but being removed from the responsibilities of a world that refused to acknowledge.  A way to be given a gift of apathy, you don't need to try, you don't need to worry, you're famous, you don't have any problems.  To not be famous was to be burdened with everything, all the impossible misery of the world, and if that was the only alternative then that is why Billy Hudson had strung his scarf around his neck and hanged himself.  For all the good Helen felt she contributed to this world she might as well do the same.
    She took another slug of her beer and turned off the television, finding her reflection replacing the reality show, and she sat there and watched it until she fell asleep.

A Perfect Day

His perfect day began at 7.15am, he woke up prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in grey jeans, a red short sleeved shirt, and his white trainers. He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

    His job is simple, mindless, he stands by a production line, doing quality control. On his perfect day there were no problems.

     After work he met some friends for a drink, he had two beers and saw her standing at the bar. He went up, introduced himself, they started talking and kept talking until the bar staff had to ask them to leave.

     He walked her to the bus stop, she kissed him, and gave him her number.

     Full of hope and happiness, he walked home and went to bed.


It hadn't taken long for things to go wrong after that, sure, for a while they were happy enough, but no day seemed as carefree as that first. He was constantly concerned that he meant less to her than she did to him, that perhaps she was treating him as an island between things, a stopover on her way somewhere better.

     He became paranoid, ugly, suspicious and would ask leading, provocative questions that frayed at her nerves until she could stand it no longer. She, quite understandably, left and didn't answer any of his calls.

     When he finally realised that she didn't care for him anymore he went to bed, cried into his pillow briefly, and then fell asleep.


He woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in grey jeans, a red short sleeved shirt, and his white trainers. He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     It was only then, on that train ride, that he was reminded of his perfect day, and how it had begun just like this about seven months ago. He suddenly became optimistic, an electric tingle inside of him, as if he was - just like the train - on a predetermined path to an unchangeable destination, moving forwards.

     He stood by the production line, checking each item for faults, they were all fine. Things were in his favour.

     He had called his friends, the same friends, at lunchtime, to arrange drinks after works and when one had shown signs of hesitation he had insisted, pleaded and the friend had relented.

     They went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     Waiting.

     His friends came up in turn, asked if he was ok, tried to draw him back to the table, but he was resolute and continue to wait as they returned, one by one, to say goodnight.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


The following day he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the same grey jeans, red short sleeved shirt and white trainers, they had wisps of last night clining to them like an invisible mist.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood by the production line, checking each item for faults, some seemed a little less than perfect, but he let it slide.

     He had called his friends, two were incredulous, made their excuses, he begged but they refused. One was surprised but agreed nonetheless.

     They went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     His friend joined him, started talking, but he wasn't interested in listening and his friend became disinterested, finished his drink and wandered off, leaving the pub without saying goodbye.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


One week later, like he had done every day, he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the same, starchy, grey jeans, clammy red short sleeved shirt and off-white trainers.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood by the production line, he neither knew nor cared whether the products were perfect or otherwise, they filed by him as the hours wore on.

     He called his friends, but the calls just rang out or went to voicemail.

     He went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


One month later, he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs, but there was no bread, no coffee, he sat at the kitchen table for twenty minutes. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the tatty, stained grey jeans, stinking red short sleeved shirt and dull trainers.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood outside the building, no longer allowed admittance and watched the people come and go, they all seemed so perfect.

     He called his friends, but his phone disconnected immediately, he had no calling credit.

     He went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he argued that it wasn't yet closing time, they were firm, insistent, threatened him with the police, he reasoned that he wasn't causing anyone any harm. They let him stay until close.

     He walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


Some time later, he woke up at 7.15am, naturally. He walked down the street, past bakeries and coffee shops, staring in through their windows. In a public bathroom he ran water through his matted hair, rubbed soap on his face and hands. Itched at the worn away jeans, the red short sleeved shirt and trainers that had fallen apart to resemble sandals.

     He hopped the barrier and caught the 8.47am train.

     He stood outside the building, watched the people come and go.

     He stood outside the pub.

     He walked to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked away to find a place to sleep.

The Time Traveller

Another one from the 'archives', also from the same 2007 notebook as the two previous stories and, like Underground Tigers, this was written on my commute.

The Time Traveller

He wished his train was a time machine and that he'd end up just over a month ago, but he would remember what he knows now.  He hopes that when he reaches his destination it is that place that he used to stay at, that small village he had begun to resent.
    How could a place blind him so much?  Was it selfishness on his part, the need to 'make something' of his life, to prove his parents wrong?  Why had he run so far?
    Now all he could do was listen to his life fall apart over the telephone.
    But in the underground there is no signal, it's almost like the conversations never happened, it's almost like nothing exists.
    He wills the train to go faster until that low hum and clatter of transportation rises into a high squealing pitch that only dogs can hear.  He hopes that the next stop will plunge him into daylight, that outside those windows he will see the familiar fields and trees of the countryside and not the old stale tiles of the Piccadilly line.
    Everyday he is reminded of everything he has lost and he is forced to trace the journey back, in his mind, toward the first domino that toppled.  He remembers how they met, it was hard not to in that town, but it stills feel miraculous, fateful.
    Where did this fog come from that clouded all of this from his mind for so long?  It's as if his past is flashing before his eyes, he sees each silly moment of the relationship pass by like billboards.  He sees haircuts, burnt suits, scrambled eggs, picnics in front rooms, beach bonfires, but he also sees how distant he was, how hurtful he had been and now he can hate himself for he sees that was not how he felt.  Well, that is not how he feels.
    He had pushed her away before and that time around his time machine had worked, it had been a coach then, perhaps that was it, he needed a smaller vessel?
    No, there is something tragically permanent about this time, something sickeningly inevitable.  It no longer feels like an emotion but a tumour, and for all the guilt it may incur he pities himself that he may curl up into a tiny ball and wither.
    Soon she will be far away and happy, her eyes will be opened to the optimism of a world without him, he thinks she knows it exists already and is eager to see what else it has to offer her.  This is why he needs a time machine.
    He has failed at this attempt of life, he has lost and the damage feels irreparable.  If the machine doesn't work then he will battle wearily on, but shall most probably be forced to watch from the sidelines, as if imprisoned in an invisible cage, as someone else lives the life he can now only dream of.
    He can envisage their first flat together, her and this better man, he can picture their furniture and dining set, their books and records, the view out of the window, he can smell his cooking and feel the way he kisses her cheek in the morning, he can sense the tender grip of his fingers curling round hers as they watch television, and he can hear her laugh at his bad jokes and silly voices, or when he does a puppet show with the teddy bears.
    Now he sees further into the future, as if floating over everything, detached from his body.
    He can see them making love, how warm their bodies are, how he holds her and she feels safe and special, touching her hands to his chest and being comforted by the distant drum of his heartbeat.  He can see the conception of their first child, it's a girl and they name it Freya like she always wanted.  They start looking for a house as the pregnancy begins to show, they're engaged now and soon after the child is born they'll be getting married.  The wedding will be held outside, it's a beautiful day, and her father and mother will love this man, they'll be as proud of him as if he were their own son.  Not long after there is a brother for Freya on the way, and the time-traveller watching overhead can hear her thoughts and, for the first time in years, she thinks of him.  The child is a boy and she remember what he would have called his son, but she dismisses this notion as quickly as it arrives and that is the last time she ever thinks of him.
    So that is all the time traveller sees before he is stirred by the unsteady rocking of the tube train, there is no lullaby and goodnight being whispered softly in his ears, yet he longs to bawl and cry like a baby.
    Has he just had a nightmare?  He hopes so.  He hopes he will soon realise that the past two months were all a bad dream and he's on his way to London Victoria, he has to catch a connecting train, he's been for a job interview.  Or perhaps he didn't move so far away, and after work he's on his way over for dinner and to watch a film.
    The truth climbs over his back, crashing down upon him with the unnegotiable force of a wave.  He is reminded of drowning, of feeling trapped in the ocean, being held in its unchanging grip, stuck between the safety of the shore and the deep, murderous depths.  That is where he is now, between life and death.
    He begins to suspect that this underground train is transporting the recently deceased from the waking to the after life.
    He closes his eyes, they're wet with tears, and he longs the sound of the pre-recorded announcments to silence and for the sensation of movement to cease and the smell in his nostrils to expand, like cinemascope, and be the distinctive aroma of a hospital room, and, even though he cannot move, he will be elated to realise that he is in a coma.  Yes, if he had slipped underwater all those months ago and had not died, but been pulled to shore where his condition had stabilised, and, though people would be sad, it may have just saved his life.
    How funny, he thinks, that drowning might have saved him, that if his life had taken that turn then he might not be dead now.  For the one and only time he will find comfort in the idea of a cold, sterile hospital room.
    But it's hot, like a warm, clammy bath and he's brought back to this train, this journey that lasts forever and, most cruelly of all, takes him closer and closer to her.  Maybe he should continue, forget his job, just arrive at her door, fall to his knees and beg her to turn back the clock, wipe the slate clean and let him wrap his arms around her and weep.
    Tears will fall from his eyes, tracing the shape of his face and dribble into his mouth, perhaps they will fill his lungs and he will drown.  His mind is alive with possibilities, he suspects he's been looking in the wrong place, that the time machine is not a vehicle or a transport outside of himself, but it is himself.  He is both the time traveller and the time machine and he is fuelled by sorrow and despair.
    He lets himself cry, he drinks his tears, but he struggles to force them into his lungs, and they unhappily fall into the safety of his gullet.
    He considers filling a sink, but knows he could not cry enough and the cruel heat of this early summer would evaporate any he tried to collect over time.
    Perhaps a full bath laced with tears will do just as well?  He feels a great surge of hope as he stands undressed, watching the water level rise, and he is pleased by the temperature as he climbs in.  Neither too hot or cold, like in the fairytale, it is just right.
    He finds it surprisingly easy to sink underwater, opening his eyes wide and seeing the ceiling with an odd sense of clarity.  He did need a transport after all, but smiles because he never would've guessed it would be a bath tub.
    Now he finds it easy to relax and open his mouth, the water doesn't scare him as it pushes impatiently down his throat, and it feels like the soft and romantic massage of a lover as it fills his lungs.
    He closes his eyes.
    He must be travelling, he can feel himself being buffeted as if he's still on the train.  He can also feel himself flying, as if he has departed from his body once more.
    Yes, he thinks, he is travelling through time.
    He can see again, he can see her and she takes his hand, applying a small amount of pressure, enough so that he knows she will never let go and she leans close to him, he's lying down, his eyes are shut but underneath his eyelids he is staring ahead and now he can feel her breath upon his ear, and her free hand strokes his hair, pushing it away from his eyes, her voice, though it is cracked and fragile, she sounds like she has been crying and has almost exhausted every syllable she could ever utter, but she has saved enough breath for one last sentence, and his skin grows cold as she speaks to him for the final time.
    She is with him now and he is happy, perhaps he has not failed after all, because before everything goes dark and silent he can hear her say 'I love you.'