Alarming Prescience

Brett opened an eye and examined the ceiling of his bedroom. A hangover blossomed but it was Saturday, so he wasn't worried.

He rolled over and his eyes settled on the red digital figures of his alarm clock.

21:17.

Shock penetrated his post-sleep cocoon and he was awake, alert and scared shitless.

He strode to his window and pulled on a pair of shorts. He knew before he got to his window that it was morning. The sunlight seemed to channel itself directly into his pupils. He winced and rubbed his sore eyes. He guessed it was around nine o' clock in the morning. He could see his neighbours taking late breakfast on their garden patio. Children rushed around, unsure how to spend the remainder of the day. The sun was out and their world was happy. Brett envied them.

He picked up his telephone and was about to call Sophia when his mother breezed into his room and crinkled her nose at the atmosphere. "Smells like a brewery in here, Brett!"

"Does not." He was determined to show no external signs of distress.

"Your dad and I are going into town. Do you need anything?"

"You could pick me up some stuff for a party," he blurted.

"Party?" His mother looked amused. Brett was only just eighteen and parties at home were strictly non-events.

"Yeah. I... we thought we'd throw a bit of a party. You know, before Sophia and I go off to university. We might not get another chance in a while."

Brett's mother rubbed his hair and seemed delighted. "What a wonderful idea," she said. "Leave it to me, okay?"

"Okay, but no party hats or strawberry jelly," said Brett.

"Fine," she said, leaving the room, "I'll get raspberry!"

No sooner had she shut the door than he collapsed onto his bed. He let out an anxious sigh and groaned before taking another look at his bedside alarm clock. Still 21:17.

He tried to think straight – it wouldn't happen. Instead, he listened for the sounds of his parents locking up (he still didn't understand why they did that when he was in the house) and then for the car starting up and pulling off the drive. Only then did he grab for the telephone and punch in Sophia's number.

"Hello." It was Sophia's mother on the fourth ring.

"Hello, Mrs Barrowclough. It's Brett, how are you?" Despite the immense fear that clutched at his vocal chords, he felt he was doing a fair job of sounding normal.

"Brett! Hello, dear! I'm very well, thanks for asking. How's your parents?"

"They're great." He cursed to himself at the small talk.

"It'll not be long now, will it? Our kids off to university!"

"Is Sophia there?" Enough was enough.

"I'll just get her for you, Brett. See you later!"

Mrs Barrowclough's voice resonated through the big house on the other end of the line. Brett swallowed his fear, albeit temporarily, and concentrated on clearing his mind sufficiently to have a coherent conversation with Sophia.

"Hi, Brett! How you doing babe?" Sophia sounded great, as ever, and these few words in her constantly upbeat tone would normally have made him feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Not today.

"Not good," he said. He intended to sound desperate and terrified, but the scale of the problem had clearly been lost along the fibre optics of the telecom system.

"I told you to go easy on the drink, Brett! That vodka and coke at the end of the night was a bad idea. Has someone got a bad head?" she chuckled, raising her voice to provoke a reaction.

"It...it isn't that," said Brett. "My alarm clock...it's stuck on nine seventeen..."

The silence seemed eternal.

"I'll be round in half an hour," said Sophia.

She put the phone down.

Brett reached into his bedside cabinet, purposefully ignoring the alarm clock. It would read just the same until 21:17 that night, and then...

He opened his wallet and fell back onto his bed. The photograph he took from it brought tears to his eyes. How long had it been? Three years?

Brett wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and looked at the smiling picture of his dead sister, Louise. She always seemed to be smiling like that. His mother would sometimes come home from work in a foul mood and, within minutes of being in Louise's company, would be laughing like a child.

His own memories of her were more big-sister-little-brother type stuff. He was fifteen when she died, she was in her early twenties—different friends, different lives.

He could remember coming home one night from a friend's house and finding Louise locked in a passionate embrace with her boyfriend. Brett had been ten at the time and his parents had gone out, leaving Louise to baby-sit. Brett had apologised and turned around quickly to leave, only to hear the boyfriend shout, "You better not come back either you little shit!"

The next thing Brett heard was a scream of pain (female elbow to male groin) and his big sister screaming at her boyfriend to get out of her house and never swear at her little brother again.

Brett smiled as he recalled the way she'd fussed over him after the boy had limped out of the front door. She got him drinks and chocolate bars, and although he was sure his promise not to tell their parents had helped, she really could be a great sister.

His memories and grief took him away for what seemed like mere moments, but he was brought round by the sound of his doorbell. He raced downstairs. The urgency that punctuated the remainder of the day seized him and he cursed his own lack of action over the last half hour. He unlocked the door and let Sophia in.

She looked great – her short pleated skirt shuffled and rose teasingly when she moved, and her tight fitting jumper showed off her breasts in a way that would have driven Brett crazy had circumstances been different.

"Are you okay?" she said, touching his arm slightly with her fingers.

Her touch made Brett long for the simple pleasures of her flesh. Her brown eyes were big and inviting, even through her evident concern.

He guided Sophia to an easy chair in the lounge and perched himself opposite on the edge of a stool.

"I'm far from okay," he said.

"Is this something to do with your sister, Brett?"

"Partly, but it's more than that. Can you remember what I told you about how she died?"

Sophia nodded slowly, as though unconvinced by her own comprehension. "You felt guilty. Like you could have stopped it. Your alarm clock...what was it?"

"The tip of the iceberg. I need your help, Sophia."

She nodded – a declaration of her willingness to stick by him—but Brett could sense her fear.

He led her upstairs and into his bedroom. Usually he would have been self-conscious, especially after his mother had commented that the room smelled like a brewery, but that was not for now.

"Look," he said, pointing at the alarm clock. They both sat on his unmade bed and considered the red glow of the diodes inside the plastic cover: 21:17.

"Remind me," said Sophia. "Your sister..."

"We need to go way back," he replied. "Do you remember Tom Wiley?"

"Yeah. He died a long time ago. We were in junior school?"

"That's right. Third of June, nineteen ninety-six. He was my best friend. Remember when Mrs Beecham told us that he was dead?"

"Yes, I remember. She was crying."

"Right. She told us that he'd died in the early hours of the morning after collapsing as he was getting ready for bed. It was some heart problem – very rare."

"Poor Tom," said Sophia. "Eight years old."

"Well the thing is, I woke up in the early hours of that morning and my alarm clock read quarter past three. When I woke later that morning at seven, the alarm clock read quarter past three."

Sophia said nothing.

"Tom was pronounced dead at quarter past three that morning. It was in the newspapers, I've still got the story in my scrapbook."

"So the alarm clock...predicted the time of death of Tom and your sister."

"Remember Paul Brewer?" asked Brett.

"The car crash guy?"

"That's him. Good friend of mine. Twenty fourth of August, two thousand. He and his mother were killed instantly when a wagon driver fell asleep at the wheel and smashed them into the central reservation of the M1. Time of death: five twenty-four.

"I got a call from Micky as I sat with Louise watching telly. Then I went up to my room to lie down and try to take it in. This was at about ten o' clock at night. My alarm clock read five twenty-four."

Sophia moved her lips and rolled her eyes.

"You don't believe me, do you?" he asked.

"Of course I do! You're hardly going to make a story like that up, are you? I was just thinking that you can spare me any more stories. It's upsetting enough. I know that your sister choked on her own vomit one night and that your alarm clock froze at the exact time she died. I also know that you feel guilty about it, despite that being utterly ridiculous."

"We're never going to agree on that," said Brett, looking at the floor. "I noticed the clock about ten minutes before I heard my mother screaming. I could have done something."

Sophia raised her voice. "You didn't know who it would be!"

"But what's important is whatever the hell is going on this time," said Brett. "The first few times this shit happened, it was past events. With Louise and now this, it seems to be something that's going to happen."

"Which means there's nothing we can do about it!"

"Not so. It's only ever people I care about."

Sophia waited, the remainder of the day hidden behind Brett's expressionless face.

"I'm throwing a party here tonight," he said, "and everybody close to me is going to be here."

Sophia said nothing. They began making phone calls.

* * *

By six o' clock, the people that mattered to Brett started to arrive. There were aunties, uncles, grandparents, nieces, nephews and friends, all jostling for position in the three-bedroom semi-detached.

Sophia and Brett managed to steal a moment together in the washing room between the garage and the back garden.

"Are you satisfied, Brett?" asked Sophia. "It was always going to be a tad impossible to get everybody here at such short notice. People make plans."

"I know. We've done as much as we can. I left uncle Mike a message telling him to be careful on his motorbike, and Ant's at home in bed, ill, so there's not a lot we can do about that. At least it's only flu. I told him to ring the emergency doctor if he feels any worse."

Sophia chuckled. It was nervy and inappropriate, but Brett found it comforting in some inexplicable way. "What are you laughing at?" said Brett, more amused than anything else.

"Your hair," she said. "When did you last look in a mirror?"

Brett checked his hair with his hands. He hadn't bothered about it at all that day.

He kissed Sophia and scurried off to the bathroom.

Eventually the guests got past the awkwardness of unplanned joviality and began having fun.

Alcohol flowed freely and the food was shamelessly attacked. Brett felt a little stronger after eating. He even pieced together his parents fondue set. Twice he'd been up to his bedroom to check the alarm clock. Both times it spat back those steadfast numbers: 21:17.

Sophia caught him the second time. "Brett, this won't help," she said. "Try to relax – you've done everything you can."

He didn't think so. He locked the front door.

The seconds marched relentlessly forward and Brett detected an air of anticipation in the room. He caught mumbled comments from some of the men that a speech was expected. He'd gathered all of these people together at a moments notice, mostly by hassling them, and they wanted the occasion to be marked verbally.

"Everybody, quiet please!" shouted Brett. The sounds of laughter and eating petered out until he was left at one end of the lounge with all eyes focused on him.

"I know this was very short notice,but I want to thank you for coming and for celebrating the end of the summer and the end of an era."

There were cheers from the group, and Brett's dad piped in with an "it's about time!" that was greeted by laughter and a playful slap around the head from Brett's mother.

"As you're all aware, Sophia and I are off to university in a few weeks, and we just wanted to take the opportunity to show you all how much you mean to us."

Sounds of mock vomiting mixed with sporadic clapping.

"We couldn't have asked for a better family or set of friends than the ones we were blessed with."

Brett checked his watch over the reactions and saw the minute hand edging towards nine o' clock. He glanced around the room at the faces, happy to see pictures of health staring back at him.

"So carry on with your drinks and enjoy the rest of the evening," said Brett, "and a special thank you to my parents for allowing this to go ahead." There were some cheers and some applause before the broken snippets of conversation were rekindled.

Brett's mother came over and hugged him. "Thank you for this," she said. "We're going to miss you when you're away, you know."

"I know mum. I'm going to miss you too."

She ruffled his hair and wandered off to mingle.

Sophia took Brett by the arm and guided him into the utility room.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"Apart from knowing that somebody is going to die in less than seventeen minutes, I'm great, thank you."

"You don't know that!"

"I do, Sophia. No matter how unconvinced you may be. I only hope I can do something to stop it."

Sophia took him in her arms and held him. "Things are going to work out," she said, whispering in his ear and stroking his back.

Brett relaxed a little. He decided that fate was going about its business. He was here and so was everybody else. Whatever happened, he'd given it his best shot.

They walked back into the lounge and circled the spread on the large dining table. The fondue was working nicely and Brett dipped a plump strawberry into chocolate sauce. Micky handed him a beer and the men congregated among the pork pies.

"Nice speech, Brett," said his dad.

"Thanks."

"Yeah," said Micky, "that law school had better watch out!"

The laughter and the piss-taking started again and Brett felt happy. It was rolling on nine fifteen, and perhaps this tremendous farce that had haunted him for so long was about to come to an end. He'd smash the alarm clock into a million pieces, he decided – should probably have done it years ago.

"I can remember his first hangover!" said his dad. "He told us he'd eaten bad chips. Didn't realise that I'd watched him trying to walk up the stairs in a drunken mess the night before." His dad performed a swaying, staggering impression of his inebriated son and the men erupted into howls of appreciation.

Brett grinned and grabbed a pork pie from the table. Micky launched into tales of their numerous failures with girls and Brett fired some back at him. The pork pie was good, and he bit deeply into its soft innards. A volley of laughter was accompanied by a slap on the back from Micky. The pork pie disappeared down Brett's throat and lodged itself painfully inside his windpipe. His swallowing reaction began to work overtime and it was several seconds before panic began to cloud his reactions.

"Arrghh!" He pointed at his throat and retched. Nothing happened.

"Brett?" His dad silenced the drunken men and went to his son.

"Arrrggghhhhh!" Brett bent forwards in an attempt to dislodge the obstruction. There was no movement and he felt his heart rate increasing. He was vaguely aware that sweat was running from his forehead and dripping into his eyes.

"Christ!" shouted Brett's dad. "He's choking, for God's sake!" He spun his son around and began to violently hammer on his back.

There were gasps from the party. Sophia grabbed him and tried to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Brett felt faint. He could hear his mother screaming for an ambulance.

His uncle brushed a frantic Sophia aside and braced his nephew with strong, steady arms. He locked them together and forced Brett's ribs upwards. Nothing moved. Brett's eyes were like saucers. He glanced at his watch through the fog that descended. The minute hand edged onto nine sixteen.

"Somebody help him!" screamed Sophia.

Brett's mother made a weak attempt to grab her son but collapsed onto the floor sobbing. Maybe the memories of one dead child were too much.

Brett caught Sophia's teary eyes and nodded once. He bolted up the stairs.

His bedroom door cracked when he kicked it open. He made a grab for the alarm clock as the fog in his brain began to turn to stars; 21:17, it blinked back at him.

He held it up high above his head and threw it at the bedroom wall. It destroyed the wallpaper and took a chunk out of the plaster.

The electronic innards spewed over his bed and carpet, and he clutched at his throat before attempting to retrieve the pie with his fingers. He got nowhere near. He heard people coming up the stairs as the blackness began to close in. He slumped onto his bed and pieces of splintered plastic and circuit board dug into him through his t-shirt.

Blackness closed in almost entirely. Through his remaining hole into reality, he could see the great projection shimmering on his ceiling: 21:17.

The shapes that made up the numerals were massive and Brett held out a hand towards them. He felt the red lights drawing him in, his spent body no longer a burden as he moved into a welcoming place where time had no power and his fear was gone.

Back to: Vol 2, Issue 1