Short Story: Breakthrough

Short Story: Breakthrough

Coldness washed over Iain as the time machine began its work. He felt elation. Finally, after his years of research he had made the breakthrough.

At first, there was just a stream of images. His early memories compressed into a tide of information that threatened to overwhelm him. The more he tried to grab onto the images flashing past the less he was able to hold on to them. He started to feel a panic rising within him, what if it turned out he couldn’t control the machine after all?

He took a deep mental breath and let go. He realised that it was a bit like looking at one of those “magic eye” pictures – the instant he relaxed the tide began to slow and coherent images started to form. There he was in the garden arranging his model soldiers in tiny plastic regiments on either side of the lawn. The sun was shining; he could hear the sound of his dad watching the World Cup final from the open porch door – he was shouting because Argentina had just scored another goal. Dad wanted Germany to win because his brother had been in the Falklands. Uncle Bobby had gone out there as young man and come back with a funny look in his eyes and a drink problem. Iain reached out and began piling handfuls of cut grass into camouflage for his die cast tanks.

He decided to move on. Now he was running past the school fence, the sound of running feet pounding the concrete close behind him. His lungs felt like they would burst, his heart thudded behind his ribs desperately pumping blood to his legs. His mum said you should stand up to bullies and they would leave you alone. Iain knew that was not true. He had tried it and the bigger boys had laughed and left him lying in the dirt clutching his balls.

‘There’s more of that to come if you grass on us,’ they’d said as they walked away.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to run faster. Speed was the key; you could always run away from your problems.

He was jogging around the corner from the playing fields. His shirt was half-tucked-in and his tie swung from his neck. Karen stood patiently waiting for him outside the rusting steel gates.

He had finally gathered the courage to ask her out at the youth club disco last week. To his complete amazement, she had actually said yes. He had arranged to meet her after rugby practice for what Iain hoped would be a romantic after-school stroll through the park. They linked hands without a second thought.

They were crossing the bridge. They stopped halfway across and stood side-by-side, gazing out over the river, so close together he could feel the warmth of her body merging with his own. They both turned so they could face each other, sharing a look of mutual understanding before leaning forward. He could feel his legs tremble a little before he finally leaned over to kiss her on the lips. He felt a ripple of shock run through her as their mouths met. He could taste the Juicy Fruit gum lingering on her breath. He wanted to stay and enjoy this moment forever.

They were both standing by the banks of the loch. Karen was holding a small blue jeweller’s box with one hand; the other one was covering a mouth hanging open in shock. Iain knelt in front of her with a sheepish grin on his face. He was terrified of what she was going to say next. She threw her arms around him and hauled him to his feet. They began spinning around, and around, laughing aloud with the outrageous joy they both felt.

He was in the delivery room sitting on the edge of the bed. He held their new baby girl in his arms wrapped in a plain white hospital blanket. Her tiny lungs announced her presence to the world in a high-pitched cry. Iain thought it might be the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Karen lay beside him on the bed. She looked pale and ex­hausted. Even with no make-up and her hair plastered to her scalp in sweaty clumps, Iain thought she had never looked prettier. Both of them were crying as the tiny child filled the room with her wailing.

He closed his eyes and the wailing stopped.

When he opened them, tears still blurred his vision. He was looking down at a tiny white coffin as he helped lower it into the ground. Somewhere behind him, he could hear Karen sobbing. He had gone into check on Jennifer one morning and found her lying silently in her cot. Her lips had been blue and cold. He had picked her up, calling her name repeatedly. He had checked vainly for the tiny throb of a pulse in her neck. Her skin had been papery and lifeless. Her tiny body seemed to have no weight.

There was nothing either of you could have done. He had heard that simple mantra repeated by an endless proces­sion of friends and family. He had reached the point where he felt he would start screaming if he heard it again. It was just one of those things, they would tell him, bairns just died sometime for no reason. Cot death, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; call it what you want. None of it would bring their daughter back to life.

As the screaming started from behind him, he realised he was still clutching one of the cords they had used to lower the body into the grave. He dropped it from his nerveless fingers and turned away, unable to look any more. Even with his eyes closed, he could still hear the skittering patter of handfuls of earth being scattered onto the coffin.

He was standing in the driveway outside the house. It looked exactly like the other tidy brick bungalows dotted around the leafy suburban estate. It had been their shared dream, a little safe-haven away from the noise and dirt of the city with the double garage and the big garden for the kids to run around. He was going to go inside and work on his time machine.

Silence filled every room inside. It had been over six months since he had started to work on his time machine. It was important that he finish it soon. He couldn’t break down the wall Karen had built up around herself. Innocent conversations would escalate into full-blown arguments. Sometimes she would do nothing more than cry for hours on end, refusing to speak. He found the note lying on the kitchen table.

It was night. He was alone, standing on the bridge again looking into the dark water. His first kiss lay years in the past. He climbed onto the parapet, pausing only briefly to look up at the moon as it shone down onto the surface of the water. He stepped over the edge without a sound. The stones in his pockets helped him to the bottom. He lay at the bottom of a luminous pool of light. Tree branches, looking like spidery fingers of coral, waved in the breeze over his head. His shallow heartbeats barely registered at the bottom of the silent ocean world.

It was beautiful.

He closed his eyes and the picture changed for the final time as he travelled further and faster, wandering through the constella­tions. He was an earthbound astronaut embarked on a final lonely voyage. No gleaming silver machine would carry him on this journey; no friendly voices from Mission Control would guide him on his way. There was only the smiling face of the moon as it surrounded him with its wavering glow. Slowly, deliberately, he opened his mouth and let the water flood into his lungs even as his last breath rushed out to greet it in a cloud of silver bubbles.