Ten minutes later I stood in the saloon bar of the Rugby Club, admiring the glass-encased shirts hanging on the walls, trying not to let my feet stick to the swirling orange-brown carpet. The floor was tacky in more ways than one, an ancient sponge soaked in a cocktail of fluids beyond human understanding. Beneath my feet whole unique ecosystems of strange bacteria lived and died in their millions, struggling through countless generations, evolving towards sentience but unaware of the parallel universe playing out within easy reach. Maybe we weren’t so different after all. It was a comfort to know some things hadn’t changed from home.
Gwen was busy conferring with the barman, who she insisted on calling ‘The Gatekeeper’, arranging the next leg of our journey. Seems he’d been expecting us. I was hoping for at least a bag of nuts out of the negotiations, maybe a pickled egg. I was destined to be disappointed.
A mix of Japanese tourists and glowering locals crowded the bar, the visitors snapping photos of the memorabilia and doing their best to contend with the devastating leek daiquiris. Several were already prostrate, frothing at the mouth, writhing comatose on the floor – Bridge on the River Kwai in reverse.
Above the bar a large TV carried the evening news. Welshperanto was disorientating at first, but easy to follow once you got used to it. Lead item was the terrorist attack on the mardi gras in Aberdare. It was a minor relief to see the grainy CCTV footage didn’t show our faces. I could recognise the blurry forms of Gwen and myself but that was only because I’d been there. Huw Edwards said the images were being rushed over to the CSI lads in Treorchy for analysis, but I reckoned we were pretty safe. As we all know, you can’t just zoom in on digital images and get more data. Phew, close one. What stripped my gears was how swiftly the news moved on – maybe such wanton destruction wasn’t that big a deal. Well, it was a big deal to me.
It seemed the election campaign was in full swing. Apparently President Barry Island was behind in the polls to Llywsiffer Pendragon and his ultra-nationalist Gorsedd Party, but El Presidente was expected to claw back support after tomorrow’s major speech. In other news the war in Patagonia was not going well, each day increasingly becoming the Welsh Vietnam. Meanwhile representatives of the local Vietnamese community were picketing major news outlets, tamping at the continued overuse of the phrase. The United Nations Security Council was only prevented from passing a resolution condemning the war by use of the Welsh veto. I don’t know which detail shocked me most.
Meanwhile the Jones Corporation was increasing the cash bounty paid on returned J-Drives. For some reason they were stepping up their recycling programme, which judging by the intense sneer seemed to strike old Huw as a tad odd. None of it made sense to me. Exasperated I turned back to study of the decor. Amongst the faded shirts from assorted internationals and nicotine-stained photographs was a blue plaque that seemed strangely out of place. It was the sort which commemorates the birthplace or home of notable celebrities. I studied it with increasing dismay.
Here in September 1986 did Isaiah Amlawdd Jones and the Steering Committee of the WRU first foment the seeds of FREEDOM. Through an impassioned call to the forces of BLOOD AND IRONY, lying dormant in the Brythonic bosom, was the elixir of REVOLUTION stirred. Be sure to purchase your commemorative beer cauldron at the bar. Cash or Bitcoin only. No cheques.
I stood there staring at it for a moment, my current worries forgotten. This was too much to take. What had Grandad always told me when presented with a perplexing conundrum? Least hypothesis – always the simplest answer which fits the facts. I tried to apply Occam’s razor to my current situation, but it left me bereft of answers and smoother than a Llandudno stripper’s va-jay-jay. What on earth did it all mean?
‘I wouldn’t take it too literally if I were you,’ said a voice close beside me. I almost jumped out of my skin, but it was only Gwen, peering up at the plaque.
I slowed my breathing. ‘Shouldn’t they be making more of a fuss – what with the anniversary and all? I mean, they’re holding a mardi gras in Aberdare, for Christ’s sake. Here it’s just kamikaze Russian roulette with leek daiquiris.’
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The girl shrugged. ‘Every pub from here to Abertillery claims the same thing. It’s good for business. Just means the Founding Uncles had a drink here once or twice. Those guys got around. There’s a tea shop in Machynlleth reckons they’ve got the Constitution scrawled on a beer mat. Who knows, maybe they’re right.’
If a suitable response existed it didn’t spring to mind. My floundering brain was rescued as Gwen grasped me by the elbow. ‘I’ve got what we need – time to go.’ She brandished what looked like a light bulb.
There was the unmistakable sound of my feet ungluing themselves from the carpet. ‘Not back to Aberdare, surely?’
Gwen looked at me aghast. ‘Don’t be mental. We’re taking a trip across the Atlantic.’
‘America? But why didn’t we go straight there?’
She sounded weary. ‘That’s not how gates work. They’re strictly fixed focus, only linking a single time and place. Multi-use, but you can’t change the destination.’
I muttered what was fast becoming my catchphrase. ‘I don’t understand.’
She sighed and led me down a dingy passage. A group of Japanese took pictures as we squeezed past. ‘Think of the Multiverse as a massive tower, where each floor is its own reality.’
‘A Dark Tower amidst a field of roses?’
‘If you like – but the lifts only work between adjacent floors.’
‘Don’t mention lifts.’ I shuddered, remembering my last trip in one of the hideous contraptions. She ignored me and went on.
‘There’s no central shaft connecting all the levels – at least not that anyone’s yet found. Some gates keep you on the same floor, but just teleport you around. That’s the type we’re heading for right now.’
I stopped and instantly stuck to the floor. ‘God, I’m not going through that again.’
Gwen jerked me forward with that familiar wet crunch. ‘Don’t worry, kiddo – won’t be so bad this time. You’ll only need a half a mint.’
We turned a corner and arrived at what looked like a large storage cupboard set back into the wall. At the risk of stating the obvious I pointed out, ‘This is not a lift.’
Gwen checked the corridor to make sure we were alone. The tourists had moved off in search of alcoholic oblivion. ‘Not all gates are lifts, any enclosed space will do. You were too dazed to notice but we came out in a hotel room when we jumped in Aberdare. But lifts work well as a metaphor, as well as on a practical level.’ She took out a key and slid it into the lock. There was a loud click.
When I’m nervous I tend to chatter too much. ‘Are we going to Narnia this time? I have no desire to meet the Snow Queen, or any of her furry-legged friends. Mr Tumnus does not float my boat. Despite what my cruel schoolmates claimed, I’m no pansexual.’
Gwen rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘Just cut the yap and get inside.’ She shoved me into the uninviting-looking metaphor and quickly followed, locking the door. The room was dark and full of boxes, mostly crisps and pork scratchings. A single bare light fitting swung from the ceiling. In fact the place looked remarkably like a storage cupboard.
‘Scotty from Star Trek would not be impressed – and neither am I.’
I could hear Gwen gritting her teeth. ‘Get one of those chairs and put it beneath the light.’
The cupboard was bigger than it first looked. Ziggurats of cheap plastic chairs were stacked around the walls. It was quite a squeeze, but I did as she had bidden. Gwen positioned the chair beneath the empty fitting. She climbed up and screwed in what looked like a 50 watt bulb. It dangled there naked and forlorn.
‘Get up here with me and hold on.’
I clambered up onto the chair. Her hair smelt of woodland flowers and unexploded cordite.
‘Put an arm around my waist and grab the cord.’
I liked where this was heading, even if I couldn’t say the same for me. Our faces were very close. I raised an eyebrow and tried to sound suave.
‘These people you’re taking me to meet – they have my best interests at heart?’
Gwen turned her face away, suddenly interested in our surroundings. Maybe my breath still held a trace of leek daiquiri. She was too long in answering. ‘They strike me as very… professional.’
‘But I’ll be safe with them, right?’
She looked up into my eyes. ‘It will be safer, yes.’
This didn’t exactly put my mind at ease. There existed an uncomfortably large gulf between safe and safer than imminently dead, which was where I found myself at the moment. It was a chasm I didn’t want to fall into.
Gwen got out her handheld and thumbed across the screens. ‘I’ve got an app which can control the gate.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me.’
‘You ready?’
‘Don’t I even get half a mint?’
‘You’ll get a knee somewhere delicate if you don’t move your hand.’
With regret I complied. ‘I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Do your worst, boss.’
Gwen touched the screen. There was a blinding arc-flash of electrical light, seeming to X-ray the room. Then everything went black. I tasted ozone and wished I’d had that mint.