Bob Shaw - The Two Timers

“Gina,” he called. “What time do we eat?”

“About five — soon enough for you?”

“That’s fine. I’ve got to go out again.”

A second later Convery found himself sitting in the middle of a kind of floury explosion as his wife burst into the room and began waving her fist under his nose.

“Blaize Convery,” she whispered ferociously. “You leave this house over my dead body.”

Convery looked up into her pink, determined face in mild surprise. “I don’t get it.”

“Tim’s having his birthday party — why do you think I’m baking these cookies?”

“But his birthday isn’t till next week,” Convery protested.

“I know, but Kenneth’s birthday was last week, and they always have their party halfway between.” Gina stared at him accusingly. “You should know that by this time.”

“I do know it, honey. I’d forgotten, that’s all. Look, they won’t mind if I miss it just this once…”

“Just this once! You’ve missed it the past two years, and you aren’t leaving this house tonight.”

“But I’ve got a job to do.”

“Not tonight.”

Convery looked into his wife’s eyes and what he saw there made him give in, smiling in order to retrieve as much as possible of his dignity. When she had left the room he shrugged theatrically for the benefit of nobody but himself and picked up his magazine. John Breton had kept for nine years — he could wait a little longer.

When the phone rang, splintering the silence of the house, Breton hurried to it, but paused uncertainly with his fingers on the cool plastic curvature of the handset.

Two hours alone in the shadowed stillness of the afternoon had filled him with vague forebodings, which had alternated with moods of chest-pounding triumph. It was exactly the sort of day on which at one time he could have expected any moment to see the furtive, fugitive glimmering in his sight preceding a full-scale attack of hemicrania. But in the year since he’d had that first massive jump there had been scarcely any trips — the reservoir of nervous potential had been discharged, drained away. Now, with the phone trembling under his hand, there was nothing in his mind other than a sense of imminence, an awareness of life and death balancing on a knife-edge…

He picked up the phone and waited without speaking.

“Hello.” The male voice on the wire was faintly Anglicized. “Is that you, John?”

“Yes.” Breton spoke cautiously.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be there yet. I called the office and they said you’d left, but that was only five minutes ago, old boy — you must have been burning rubber on the way home.”

“I was moving.” Breton kept his voice relaxed. “By the way — who is this?”

“It’s Gordon, of course. Gordon Palfrey. Listen, old boy, I’ve got Kate with me. Miriam and I bumped into her in the Foodmart — she wants to speak to you.

“All right.” With an effort Breton remembered that the Palfreys were the automatic writing enthusiasts who had captured Kate’s interests. Miriam was the one who appeared to have some kind of telepathic facility, and the thought of perhaps having to speak to her made him feel uneasy.

“Hello… John?” Kate sounded slightly breathless, and he knew from her hesitation over the phone that she knew who had really answered the call.

“What is it, Kate?”

“John, Miriam’s been telling me the most fascinating things about her work. The results she’s been getting in the last couple of days are just fantastic. I’m so excited for her.”

How, Breton thought, with a flicker of annoyance, did Kate, my Kate, get herself mixed up with people like that?

Aloud, he said, “That sounds interesting. Is it what you called me about?”

“In a way — Miriam’s giving a demonstration to a few close friends this evening and she’s invited me. I’m so thrilled, John. You won’t mind if I go straight there with them now, will you? You could look after yourself for one evening?”

Having Kate out of the house for the next few hours suited Breton’s plans perfectly, yet he became angry at her almost religious attitude towards the Palfreys. Only the fear of sounding like the other Breton prevented him from protesting.

“Kate,” he said calmly. “Are you avoiding me?”

“Of course not — it’s just that I can’t pass up this chance.”

“You love me?”

There was a pause. “I didn’t think you’d have any need to ask that.”

“All right.” Breton decided to begin positive action. “But Kate, do you think it’s wise to stay out this evening? I wasn’t kidding about John, you know. He’s in a mood in which he could pull up stakes tonight and vanish.”

“That’s up to him. Would you object?”

“No — but I want you both to be sure about what you’re doing.”

“I can’t think about it,” Kate said, with the excitement suddenly gone from her voice. “I just can’t handle it.”

“Don’t worry, darling.” Breton spoke softly. “You go on and have fun. We’ll work this out — somehow.”

He set the phone down and considered his next move. Gordon Pa]frey had said John had already left the office, which meant he could arrive home at any minute. Breton sprinted up the stairs and removed the automatic pistol from its hiding place in the guest bedroom. Its metallic solidity dragged heavily in the side pocket of his jacket as he came out of the room. To make it look as though John Breton really had walked out of his marriage and career in disgust it would be necessary to get rid of the clothing and other effects he would be likely to take. Money! Jack Breton looked at his watch — the bank would be closed. He hesitated, wondering if Kate would notice anything suspicious if John supposedly took off into the blue without cash. It might not occur to her for a few days, or even weeks, but in the end it would begin to look strange.

On the other hand, she had never been a money-conscious person and would be unlikely to inquire too closely into the mechanics of any financial transaction John was supposed to have made. Jack decided to go to the bank first thing in the morning, as his other self, and arrange the transfer of a sizable amount to a bank in Seattle. Later he could, if required, arrange to make withdrawals from the new account, to lend solidity to the fiction.

He took two expanding suitcases from a closet, filled them with clothes and brought them down into the hall. The pistol kept bumping against his hipbone. One part of his mind realized it was going to be difficult to use it on John Breton, but the rest of him was savagely aware that this was the culmination of nine years of agonized dedication, and there was no turning back. The essential point was that he had created John Breton’s life, lent him nine years of existence for which there had never been any provision in the cosmic scheme, and now the time had come to foreclose on the loan. I gave, the thought came unbidden, and I take away.

Suddenly Breton felt deathly cold. He stood shivering in the hall, staring at himself in the long gold-tinted mirror, until — eons later — the deep whine of John Breton’s Turbo-Lincoln disturbed the still brown air of the old house. A minute later John came in through the rear door and walked into the hall, still wearing his car-coat. His eyes narrowed as he saw the two suitcases.

“Where’s Kate?” By tacit agreement, the two Bretons had dropped all the conventional formalities of greeting.

“She… she’s having dinner with the Palfreys, and staying over there for the rest of the evening.” Jack found difficulty in forming the words. He was going to kill John within a matter of seconds, but the thought of seeing that familiar body torn open by bullets filled him with an unnerving timidity.