If Only

Marcus grunted. Change one instance in his life? He had hundreds he wanted to change.

There was one occasion, above all others, that he would have loved to have done differently.

He had met a girl, Karen. They arranged to meet at a local cinema. It was dismally wet and dark. He arrived in his best clothes, only to discover that the cinema thronged with people. The rain soaked him for over an hour before he assumed he had been stood-up; he left – dejected.

The following week, he had discovered that she had turned up. She was around the corner, also believing she had been stood-up. The relationship went no further.

Marcus believed that changing that one moment would have altered profoundly the course of his life for the better

However, he doubted such a marvel was possible. It was more likely to be Spam.

He looked around his three roomed flat. He had a dead-end job, with nobody else in his life. He had been alone for many months now, no relationships ever getting beyond the tentative first steps. There was nothing to lose. Out of curiosity and need, he replied.

The invitation came three days later. It detailed how much the service cost, and little else. If he wanted more information, he would have to reply. Marcus did so, wondering just what kind of company DynaTyme was.

The following evening, he eagerly looked into his electronic mail box: one message.

It told him that he should go to London, to an address near Euston station. He was to take two thousand pounds in cash. DynaTyme explained the procedure at great length; explaining that should the procedure not work as advertised, there would be a full refund.

There was a small chance DynaTyme was genuine. He withdrew the money and booked a seat on a train to London immediately.

A drizzly rain quickly soaked Marcus as he walked the short distance from Euston station to DynaTyme’s headquarters. They occupied the top floor of an unprepossessing four-storey building with dark or boarded windows.

The streets felt deserted, only a few people were braving the miserable weather. A dishevelled young man huddled in the doorway. He barely glanced up as Marcus pushed DynaTyme’s doorbell.

After a few moments, the speaker crackled: "Yes?"

"My name is Taylor." Conscious of the loiterer nearby, he added, cagily: "I’m here about the advert."

The door buzzed.

The ground floor had an odour of decay with a sharp overtone of urine. A single bulb swayed from some forgotten motion, fitfully lighting the concrete walls. Bare stone steps led up. Marcus climbed slowly, aware of the cash in his pocket.

It weighed quite heavily by the time he reached the top floor.

At least here, somebody had made an effort to hide the squalor of the lower storeys. They had sprayed lavender scent liberally around, painting the walls a sunny yellow. DynaTyme’s door stood ajar. Marcus entered, with mounting trepidation.

The top floor studio was light and airy. The tall windows sparkled; the floor was polished pine.

Standing against the far wall was an awesome-looking machine.

Chrome and plastic tubes arced in jumbled confusion. Screens with scrolling text and graphical displays made a bank in the centre. Two plastic hemispheres stood slightly in front of the machine, partly occluding two large plastic tubes filled with a slowly swirling blue liquid, bubbles rising silkily through them. It was impressive.

A door to his left opened. Marcus glimpsed a well-equipped office beyond before the door closed again. The woman who had come through was stunningly attractive to Marcus. Her hair was raven-black, her eyes a smouldering brown. Pursed lips marred an otherwise pretty, oval face. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she glanced through an electronic clipboard.

"Mr. Taylor?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Do you have the money?" She looked like she wanted to ask something else.

"Does it work?" Marcus asked, handing her the money.

"Oh yes," she said, with a tight smile. "If you would care to take a seat, I will endeavour to explain something of the procedure."

She led Marcus to a green sofa beneath one of the tall windows. A fronded plant brushed Marcus’ hair as he settled.

She delivered her explanation in a brusque, business-like manner.

"The procedure cannot send back your physical presence, it can only send back your conscious mind. In your acceptance, you gave me the date and time of the seventh of November, nineteen ninety eight, at eight O’clock. Is this still correct?"

"Yes," Marcus replied, transfixed by her soft tones.

"You will be sent back for a period of five minutes. You will have full recall of your life to this point. You must achieve what you set out to do within those five minutes. We cannot send you back any less than ten years.

"If you are unsuccessful," she added with a warning tone, "or have mistimed the jump, you will return to your body after the allotted time. You will be entitled to fifteen hundred pound recompense. We cannot be fairer than that."

"What about the full refund?"

"That is in the event that the procedure does not work at all. In sending you back, we use up vital resources and power. There are costs involved in this and we do not run a charity. If you cannot complete your self-appointed task, that is no fault of ours. We can only send you back."

"You said if I failed I would return," Marcus pointed out. "What happens if I am successful. Where do I go?"

"By becoming successful you will have altered the time stream – and thus had no need to go back into the past." She gave another rueful smile. "You will have changed history."

"So how do you keep my money?"

"My partner invented the consciousness transfer protocol while we were studying at Edinburgh University, but it was my invention which had made this a viable business venture. I developed the time-stream entropy protection field." She sounded justifiably proud. "Standing within it, I am effectively outside of the passage of time, and thus, having your money with me, get to keep it. Nobody loses. It is almost like forgery."

"What is to prevent me from performing some horrendous act, like assassinating the Pope?"

"Nothing but the fact that you only have five minutes. If there has been a period in your life when you had a gun pointed at the Pope, then you might be able to kill her."

She led a reluctant Marcus to the Perspex hemispheres. Steeling himself, he submitted.

He watched her entering commands into a keyboard within her dome. A shimmering, vaguely purple field enveloped her dome. She smiled at him. Marcus felt his doubts fade away. It would work.

With a clap of thunder and a blazing light, Marcus found himself leaning against a white tiled wall. Rain coursed down, soaking him instantly.

For several long seconds, he wondered where he was. Disorientation and nausea spread through him. Slowly, as his memory returned, he realised he was at the multiplex!

People washed around his amazed body. It had actually worked.

His body felt awkward, not his own – his arms were too long and gangly. His eyes felt fuzzy, everything appearing slightly out of focus.

Mentally, he shook himself. He only had five minutes; he had probably wasted one already. Pushing his way through the crowds, he made his way to the corner.

Marcus saw Karen standing there, desperately trying to keep dry under the minimal protection of an advertising hoarding. Her black hair had become rat-tails in the downpour. Her glasses had so much water on them, Marcus doubted she could see properly. Obviously, she could, for her smile was a joy to behold.

"Karen," he enthused. "You don’t know how glad I am to see you."

Together they started towards the foyer. His hand slipped naturally into hers. He silently praised the miracle of modern technology.

He felt the world slip further out of focus. Sounds began to come from far away. His mind felt as though wrapped in cotton wool. It dawned on him that with his mission accomplished, he was fading away. He desperately wanted to stay. However, the laws of time-travel forbade it.

Marcus was surprised when he saw that he had e-mail. He had not had the system long, and as such, was unaccustomed to junk mail of the electronic variety.

Opening it, he discovered an advert for DynaTyme. They appeared to be promising the impossible. He wondered if they were being honest, and if he should reply.

However, there was one moment in his life that he would give anything to change. He replied.

Two thousand pounds was a lot of money, but he felt that for the chance to right his biggest wrong, it was worth a shot. It would mean pawning some things – but if it were a deception, he would always be able to buy them back with his full refund.

He followed the instructions that arrived a few days later, and headed for London.

DynaTyme were in a run-down area near Euston station. The building had an ominous air about it. Lights were on in the upper two storeys. Somebody was in. Tentatively, he pushed the bell.

A couple argued at the foot of the stairs. Marcus pushed his way past them and on up to the top floor. As he climbed, feelings of déjà vu washed over him – though he had never been to this part of London before in his life. He dismissed the feelings as an overwrought imagination.

On the top floor, the air held a scent of lilacs, and the walls were yellow, as though holding the depravation of the area at bay.

DynaTyme’s office was a pleasant room with tall, freshly cleaned windows and a pine floor. His eyes felt drawn to the massive machine against the far wall. Such was his fascination that he did not hear the woman approach.

Brusquely and efficiently, she explained the procedure to him, answering his questions before he could ask them. It seemed she had done this many times before. Marcus felt hope rising within him. Perhaps the procedure worked!

She installed him in his transfer dome, and entered her own. He realised that she had never once asked his name. He supposed that she must get so many people wanting to alter their lives that she no longer felt the need. He had a definite date in mind, but he was unsure of the time. He knew approximately, and hoped that he had guessed correctly.

A cacophony and a coruscating light temporarily dumbfounded him.

He was at a disco in the local cricket-club, flashing lights adding to his disorientation. People were gyrating on the dance floor. He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Was he too late? Was he too early?

Two long minutes passed. Frantically, he checked and rechecked his watch.

Then, there, moving through the crowd of dancers like a snowflake on a clear day, he saw her. Her large brown eyes fixed intently upon him. Her blonde hair fell in waterfall waves to her shoulders. She was every teenage boy’s fantasy.

She slid into the plastic chair opposite as though it was a bed.

"How about you and I leave here together?" she asked, her voice mellow and honey.

"No thank-you," he replied with parrot-like intonation. "I already have a girlfriend, and she would never try and make me jealous by approaching another man. So, sidle back over to your boyfriend, and leave me alone. I’d rather be with somebody who actually cares for me."

In a huff, she left. Karen sat next to him.

"Marcus!" She sounded thrilled. "Nobody else would have turned down a dream date like that for me, but you."

She kissed him passionately. He knew that he had been successful. In his previous life, the intruder had wrecked his relationship with Karen. Not this time.

With a sense of happiness, his consciousness faded from the disco as if he was waking from a delightful dream.

Marcus let the door close with despair. The rent man went away this time. However, he would be back. Marcus did not know where he would get the money. Things were tight. He might even have to sell his computer. The thought of that made him quail. His Internet connection was all that kept him sane these days.

Since Karen had left him to go to university to study physics, he had drifted. His job, which had been unsatisfying and barely rewarding became a drudge and a bore. His work suffered; they sacked him without compunction. He coasted from dead-end job to dead-end job, barely keeping his head above water.

If only he could have prevented Karen from going to University, his life would have been so much better. It was a personal obsession with him. He even knew the exact time and date of an opportunity to prevent her going.

It was with these thoughts filling his mind that he saw the advertisement in his e-mailbox.

Here was the chance he had been looking for these past fifteen years. A chance to start over. Make his life all it could be. The thought it might be a hoax never once occurred to him.

Eagerly, he replied to the ad.

When the reply came two days later, detailing all the rules and restrictions, and the cost, Marcus’ heart beat furiously. Where could he get two thousand pounds? Regardless of where the money would come from, Marcus sent his confirmation.

A visit to the loan shark that lived across the hall secured his money. He had three days to pay it back, with five hundred pounds interest. He did not care. This was his last shot at happiness.

DynaTyme’s headquarters were in a desirable district near Euston station. Clean, proud buildings shrugged off the drizzle. A vast influx of money had transformed this once derelict area into a thriving business community. They owned a grey-stone building at the prosperous heart of the area. It identified itself by the large brass plaque attached to the wall by the chrome entrance. For such a wealthy corporation, there had been no press coverage: he had never heard of DynaTyme.

Whatever they did, they obviously did it well.

The glass front doors swished open as he approached. He felt a strong sense of déjà vu as he walked through the wood and metal lobby. That was absurd though – when had he ever been to London?

A sunny receptionist surrounded by green plants welcomed him warmly with a smile that spoke of friendliness and a desire to help. Marcus was given a brochure and a form, which the receptionist assured him would explain every aspect of the procedure – what he could do, what he could not do, how long he had. She told him to sit in a low slung fabric chair. Two others, a man and a woman also waited.

Even as Marcus sat, the receptionist collected the woman. Marcus watched her as she approached the bank of chrome elevators, whisked away to a better life. Marcus took a pen from the coffee table before him to fill in the powder-blue form. It was relatively straightforward: when he wanted to journey back to and a non-disclosure agreement if he was dissatisfied.

Marcus returned the form to the receptionist.

He did not have long to wait. The man who had been there when he arrived remained after Marcus was collected.

The room that would change his life was peaceful and serene. A plain, polished pine floor and sparkling windows – it exuded a professional pride.

The machine at the far end of the room transfixed his attention. It was a vast array of tubes, and pipes, knobs and screens. It was every child’s idea of a time machine.

The woman who came into the room made Marcus catch his breath. She looked remarkably like Karen. Her hair was the same raven-black, her face the same beautiful oval. It could not be her: Karen hated contacts, and the woman was not wearing glasses. As he stared, he noticed other distinctions: her sense of style was impeccable, her hair expensively cut. The Karen Marcus knew had never had that kind of panache.

When she looked at him, it was without the barest signs of recognition.

"This way," she indicated the two Perspex bubbles. She took his money from an unresisting hand.

As though his feet knew what his mind did not, Marcus walked into the right hand side bubble. She studied her clipboard and touched a few keys. A faint purple aura surrounded her booth with a snap of static.

A flash and a crack like whip next to his ear, and Marcus found himself in the bedroom he had shared with Karen.

There was a moment of dizziness and nausea that left him clasping the side of the bed holding his head with his other hand. Dazed confusion pinned him there for a long moment.

In the kitchen, he could hear Karen busying herself making something to drink. For a heartbeat, Marcus thought he was back in his idyllic youth, fifteen years ago.

Like a difficult jigsaw, his memory returned piecemeal. He realised that he did not have much time. Reaching into his bedside cabinet, he extracted a condom. He and Karen had used no other kind of birth control.

He debated with himself for several more long seconds. Did he really want to keep Karen so much, that he would deceive her in this way? He thought of his life over the intervening years. He picked up a safety pin, and slid it into the packet – a reverse hand-grenade.

An alarm sounded. A blue, stroboscopic light accompanied by a deafening klaxon. Karen’s eyes leapt from the screen she was examining – controlling the process. Around her, the purple field shimmered and died.

On the windowsill above the sofa, a potted plant she had bought when she moved to Edinburgh vanished. Kyle, her partner, and inventor of the time transference process burst in.

"What’s happening?" he demanded.

Karen allowed him to see the screen. Paradigm failure it reported.

"How?" Kyle grabbed her clipboard and quickly scrolled through the options. "Marcus Taylor?"

"The man I left to go to University." Karen looked upset. "But that could not have been him – that man was a mess."

"Well, it was. You’ll have to go back," Kyle said. "Now."

Marcus slid the condom under the pillow as Karen entered. She looked perplexed. Her brow was furrowed. Touching the glasses on her face, she saw Marcus. A look of comprehension crossed her face.

"What have you done?" She sounded hysterically angry.

Marcus thought that she had seen him pierce the condom. "I’m sorry." He broke down. "I thought if you were pregnant – you’d stay."

"You imbecile!" Karen was livid. "Time is unravelling!"

"It was you at DynaTyme?"

"Yes."

"I didn’t know – oh God. I’m sorry."

"It’s too late for apologies. Of all the incidents you could have chosen, you had to choose one which prevented me from going to university." Karen gave Marcus such a look of loathing, he felt physically ill. "We have to do something."

"What can I do?"

"We’ll have to write notes. So we remember."

They hunted for the pens and paper – neither of them remembering where they kept them. Marcus was still looking as he felt his mind become foggy. He realised what was happening. His scream pierced the end of his existence. He would never know if he had been successful.

Marcus had always wondered how his life would have turned out had he discovered that condom under his pillow before Karen had left for university; he never kept them there. It had been defective; Karen might have stayed had he used it with her – instead of with Janice, two months later.

Janice peered over Marcus’ shoulder.

"Now," she said, with laughter in her voice, "there’s a thought."

Iain Benson is 30, living in Manchester, England. He has been writing for about ten years, only lately moving into short stories. He has had one story published in the magazine Xenos, called "The Dragon." He has had numerous other publications in the e-zine The Quatermass Experiment.

E-mail: iebenson@zen.co.uk

URL: http://www.zen.co.uk/home/page/iebenson/

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