Downtime - Marc Platt [48]
The power surge had begun to obliterate everything else. It funnelled at him, swirling round him like blown sand. He was physically forcing against it. The beach was starting to tilt top-heavy towards him. It was rearing above him, tumbling in. He could not bear the weight alone. Sand and light were choking into his face. A high-pitched silvery note whistling in his head like a cord pulling him down, down, down...
The television flickered balefully in the corner. Its empty, white screen had become a monstrous eye, a cyclops that fed on the minds of its subservient prey. It crouched, transmitting nothing yet still horribly active, emitting a continuous high tone of triumph over its prostrate victim.
The Brigadier floated by the ceiling watching himself slumped asleep in his armchair in front of the television. He looked a world-weary and lonely figure, a saucer and overturned teacup balanced on top of his pullover. His appearance was dishevelled with several days’ stubble on his chin. His moustache needed trimming. He snored and twitched. A bad show all round. He was letting things slip.
There were cobwebs up by the cornice. Somewhere he was aware of a phone trilling.
A voice clunked in, a tinny, formal imitation of himself that he should have renewed some time ago. Abrupt, martial, no nonsense, and still thoroughly uncomfortable with these blasted machines.
‘ This is Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart at School House, Brendon. Leave your name, number and message after the tone and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. ’
A series of pips followed. Then a woman’s voice on a very crackly line said, ‘Oh hello, Brigadier. This is Celia.’
As if yanked by a winding cord, the floating Brigadier rushed down into his prostrate body with a snap. His eyes came open and blinked several times. He stared up at the ceiling, which seemed considerably more familiar than usual.
The voice of the school secretary still clucked out of the answerphone. ‘The headmaster was very concerned that you missed the meeting about your retirement party this morning.
We’ve also had several rather strange phone enquiries about you. Could you get in touch ASAP? Thank you.’
There was a short burst of tone which mingled with the other continuous note from the staring television. The Brigadier swallowed. His mouth tasted like dry cardboard. He sighed. For some reason, he had been certain he was in Cromer. He rubbed his grizzled face and looked at his watch.
It was just past thirteen hundred hours on Tuesday.
Tuesday?
‘Nonsense.’ The curtains were still drawn, but light was seeping in from outside. ‘You stupid machine,’ he muttered to the watch and hauled himself out of the armchair. He had never really got the hang of setting the thing. Always the wrong date or wrong time or the alarm going off in the middle of the school concert.
His joints were stiff and creaky. He switched off the irritating television and pulled back the curtains. The sun was very high in the blue sky. The wallflowers in his window box were wilting. Ridiculous, he had only watered them yesterday.
It couldn’t have been that hot.
He peered across the avenue. There was a gas van parked a short way along. Odd. He had somehow known it would be there, as if he had already seen it. The image of the van in his mind was from above as if he had flown over it. The man who should have been sitting in the driver’s seat was gone at any rate.
He pressed playback on the answerphone and pottered into the kitchen while the tape wound back and back. The milk in the fridge looked a bit suspect. He sniffed it and grimaced. It was cheesy, but the fridge was quite cold. He looked at his watch again and tapped at the dial in annoyance. From the kitchen he could see the front door. On the mat sat a handful of letters and at least three newspapers.
Another voice came from the answerphone. A much younger woman who sounded awkward and distraught. ‘Look, erm... it’s me... Dad.’
That stopped him in his tracks. He stared at the