Broken (The Cole Trilogy, Part 2)

By Marshall Buckley

You can't expect to mess around with time without consequences.

Tony Cole thought he was doing the right thing, thought he understood the rules, but he made one small mistake and now he's paying for it. Trapped in an unresponsive body, he can see, hear and feel but he can't communicate. His mind is active, his body isn't.

Meanwhile, there are other victims of Tony's time-travelling. These unfortunates were caught in the ripple-effect of Tony's actions. When he saved a life he condemned an innocent victim to a coma-like state similar to the one in which he exists.

But Tony can still help these unfortunates. While his body may be immobile, he can travel through a ethereal parallel world and then it's a simple matter of guiding them back to their life. Except it's never that simple. Some don't want to be helped and some are violent.

Will Tony be able to help them all, and will that be the key to getting back to his own life? And if he doesn't... what then?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshall Buckley
• Release date: Jul 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465741356

Marshall Buckley

Marshall Buckley lives near London, UK and in Newfoundland, Canada. At the same time. He has a total of five children, three dogs, five cats and some small fish. These numbers change regularly. He is not as tired as you might imagine because he achieves all this by being two people. In March 2009 an innocent-looking Facebook post stated "I've an idea for a book, who wants to help me write it?" and, after a flurry of posts and emails, Marshall Buckley was born; very soon after, the result (which bears only a passing resemblance to that original idea) was The Long Second. The sequel, Broken, followed a few months later. The final part of the trilogy - Chronostasis - was published in March 2013. Playing Adam's Game is not part of the trilogy. Only Douglas Adams is allowed a trilogy of more than three parts. Work on the next book is well underway, though it has no definitive schedule. Its current title (which may change) is "The Dreams In Which I'm Dying".

Book preview

Part 1

Chapter 1

I. Am. So. Bored.

I thought I knew what being bored was, I thought I understood the meaning of tedium, repetitiveness and monotony from all my years at the factory. I didn’t believe there was anything that could possibly be more mind-numbing than those bricks, even though, deep down, I loved it because of the opportunities it gave me to disappear into my own little world.

All those years, just sitting there making those little adjustments, making sure each and every brick was set to the correct angle, the right orientation, just so that stacking them onto the pallets would be easier. Using the barest minimum of my conscious mind while my subconscious took me away from it all, into my own personal world of fantasy and dreams.

Things changed, of course, when I moved into the hand-manufacturing side. I had to use my brain a little more then, had to concentrate a little on the whole process, knowing that there were customers willing to pay a premium for the knowledge that each and every brick that was going into their house, garage, conservatory or just plain old garden wall had been hand-made by a dedicated craftsman with skills honed over years to ensure the ultimate in quality and finish. Little did they know that the process was barely any different from the mass production method, and that those dedicated craftsmen were just your average guy, like me, who’d finally taken a tiny step up from the bottom of the ladder, and whose training had consisted of barely a few days’ basic instruction.

But where did it get me? Where did that decision to try and better myself take me? A few weeks of a slightly different routine which soon became just as tedious and dull as the previous position, but with the added disadvantage of actually requiring me to think and do some real labour, while depriving me of the one thing that had kept me there all those years: the time to let my mind wander.

So yes, I knew boredom all right, but that was nothing compared to this. That was a stroll in the park, an absolute breeze, a complete cakewalk.

This, on the other hand, this was… This was beyond boredom. This was soul destroying.

I can’t even begin to guess how long I’ve been here. I did start counting the days but it soon became hopeless because I could never actually be certain when one day ended and another started. Without being able to see a clock, or calendar or even a window I could never be completely sure about how much time had passed since the last time.

The carers here are excellent, as far as I can tell. I’m checked regularly, washed and turned. Every day my eyelids are opened, but all I ever see is the ceiling. It’s not very interesting, just a plain, slightly yellowing, almost entirely featureless expanse. I feel the same as I used to feel at the dentist, wishing they would put something up there. A maze perhaps, or just some scenery, a ‘Where’s Wally?’ puzzle perhaps, something to explore with my eyes and mind. Better still, a TV screen. I’d even tolerate daytime TV, that’s how bad it is.

Of course, it’s an assumption that this happens every day, I have no absolute proof. For all I know, they could be slipping sedatives into the I.V. feed and keeping me unconscious for days at a time.

I don’t feel that’s the case, though. It feels like I’m woken every day, and I choose to believe that feeling.

The routine is much the same. I hear them approach. Sometimes only one person, sometimes two, rarely more. If there are two of them then I get to eavesdrop on their conversations while they busy themselves around me. I know that Helen has a new boyfriend, that Anne has been having an affair with one of the doctors for months, that Carrie is pregnant. I also know too much about some of the other patients here, and too much about what they think about me.

As far as they know, I’m almost completely unresponsive. Here in body but not in mind. I’ve heard the term Persistent Vegetative State mentioned, but it’s normally whispered between carers. It seems they don’t like voicing the words too often, and I have heard one doctor – at least I assume he was a doctor as he spoke with an air of authority – chastise someone for using the term, though he didn’t explain why in any terms that I could understand. I’m not sure there’s any actual agreement on which term best defines my condition.

I think it’s because I’m a bit of an enigma that they open my eyes. That’s a real relief as being trapped here with no visual input at all would be even worse, if that were possible. At least I get to see the occasional face, or shadow passing by. I get to see the change in the light around me, daylight to night. I don’t actually see nightfall, but the quality of the light changes as the fluorescents become more prominent due to the absence of sunlight.

Occasionally, someone shines a light in my eyes, just as they did when I was first brought in. I watch their expression as they do it, always with a glimmer of hope which fades when they clearly get no reaction from my pupils, even though the brightness makes me wince inside. Each time they try I see the hopefulness is a little reduced from the previous time, no matter whether it’s the same person or some complete stranger.

And each time, I urge my eyes to respond, to show some reaction, to let them know I’m still here.

I know I’m not the only one here. When they first brought me here, I wondered if I was in my own private room, out of the way of the rest of the patients – the ones, presumably, that they thought they had some hope of saving. It was so quiet it seemed I must be alone, but as I became used to the quiet I realised it wasn’t completely silent. There is no actual noise in the room, but there are sounds: quiet, almost imperceptible to most people.

When you’re deprived of the rest of your senses, you learn to take notice of every little stimulus and, for me, that means listening out for even the tiniest of sounds.

In this room there are other people. I think they are all like me, or at least very similar. They are all just lying there, immobile, not speaking, not responding. Empty shells, barely alive, maintained only by the Hippocratic Oath. A room full of bodies that were formerly people – actual, living, breathing, responsive people. But now we’re all merely shadows of our former selves. Unresponsive, silent, medically alive but unable to interact in any way.

I now know it’s not a small room; it must be a standard ward. You can hear the footsteps as the doctors and nurses pass by, walking quietly, reverently, as if afraid they might wake us; sometimes whispering quietly to companions. I lie there willing them to shout, to raise the roof, to cause a ruckus. Make noise! We want to be awake! WE’RE NOT ASLEEP!

There are other sounds too. I can sometimes hear the others breathing. It’s quite difficult, though, it’s so regular and shallow that it just becomes a part of the background. Very occasionally something goes ‘ping’. Single pings don’t seem to get any response, but very rarely the pings become more insistent and that brings the sound of running feet and a small flurry of activity, but pretty soon the pinging stops, and the footsteps return at a more sedate pace, and relief is always recognisable in the hushed voices. I assume that there is one more level the pings could reach, which would be bad, but I haven’t heard that yet.

Occasionally we get visitors too. You can recognise the difference in the footsteps. They’re more hesitant and louder, even though they are trying to be quiet, because of the same mistaken need to keep the volume levels low.

Sometimes you hear talking, always equally low, little more than a distant murmuring. It never lasts long; nobody likes to spend too much time here. It must be difficult to maintain any length of conversation when it’s so one-sided.

I get my share of visitors. More than my fair share, actually, I think. Mum is a regular, of course. She keeps me up-to-date on everything that’s happening with everybody. It’s much like when I lived at home; she’s happy to share all the smallest insignificant details, and even in my current state it’s maddening, but I lie there, smiling inwardly, aware that she’s only trying to keep the lines of communication open.

She tells me about Dad, of course. Naturally he hasn’t been able to visit, he’s still serving his prison sentence for fraud, though he did ask for a special release, but it was declined for reasons that Mum has never explained. It does seem a little harsh as he’s in a minimum security prison and is hardly termed a risk to society. He seems to be coping okay, though, or at least that’s what she tells me. I can’t imagine that she’d want to share any bad news with me if he wasn’t.

Debs, my little sister, visits quite often, always accompanied by Luke, her boyfriend and, by virtue of a string of unlikely events, my foster-son. She chatters away about school and the gang on Park Hill and all sorts of inane teenage talk; anything to fill the time basically. When she’s here, Luke doesn’t say much, only joining in when she throws a question in his direction. But he visits me too, without Debs. In fact, he’s probably my most frequent visitor. He doesn’t always have much to say; it varies, but he just sits there, sometimes for what seems to me to be hours on end. I always know when he’s there because I can hear him, even when he’s not talking. I can hear him, telling me things, things he has never said out loud before. Things that he doesn’t expect me to hear. Things that no-one else can hear.

I don’t think he has any idea that I can hear him. He sits very close to the bed, one arm beside mine. Almost, but not quite touching. I get the feeling he doesn’t know if he should, whether it would be appropriate, so he does what he feels comfortable with.

And he always says goodbye when he leaves. Always the same cheery See you later, just as he would if I were able to respond.

Even Cal – my idiot of an older brother, we never really got on, but since I saved his life (not that he knows I did that, thanks to my brief forays into time-travel) we had become a bit closer and could actually tolerate each other’s presence – has visited a couple of times. He didn’t stay long, but it’s touching that he made the effort, even if he did greet me with Hello, Sleeping Ugly. Always the centre of attention, aren’t you? Still, your dress sense seems to have improved.

The last words sound strained, and I hear him swallow hard, fighting back some emotion that I don’t think I’ve ever previously heard from him. I think he would have stayed longer, but he clearly didn’t know what to say. Clearly, because I heard him as well, just like Luke. I heard the words he didn’t say. It’s only happened with Luke and Cal, so far. I’m hoping I’ll be able to hear others soon. Like Melissa.

Ah, Melissa, my beautiful Melissa, love of my life. I’m pleased to say she hasn’t abandoned me. I don’t know how often she comes in, more often that most, I think. Like Luke, she seems to stay for hours, not saying much, just sitting there. Unlike Luke, though, she holds my hand all the time she’s there, occasionally squeezing it, presumably waiting for the day when I squeeze back.

Apparently, it’s down to Melissa that they struggle to classify my state and thus actually make the effort to open my eyes. It seems that whenever she’s with me, I respond, very slightly. I’m not sure if it’s her voice, or her touch, or even her scent, but something about her triggers a response in me. I know I try to reach out to her, to try and get her to hear me, to connect with me, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of anything; it just happened that a doctor was passing when she was with me one day and noticed the change in me.

The fact that I’m responding to any kind of stimulus, however slight, means I’m not in a coma. Of course, I already knew that, at least I assumed as much. I have always been under the impression that the comatose aren’t able to think with the same clarity as I am, but then as far as the medical staff are aware, I’m otherwise unresponsive – there’s nothing to indicate that all this is running around my head.

Whatever my state, they at least agree I’m not in a coma. That might not mean much to you, but it’s important – it doesn’t mean that the likely prognosis is any better, I might get better, I might just wake up one day as if from sleep and this will all be over. Or I might not; I might stay like this forever. Or I could deteriorate, and be reclassified as comatose and eventually dead.

I’m not ready to be dead yet. I’m quite keen on being alive.

I’d really quite like to find a way out of this.

I’ve been having some bizarre dreams.

I can’t say I’ve ever been aware of my dreams before now; I’m not one of those people who would bore all and sundry with tales of their latest dream sequence. I’m sorry, no matter how crazy and obscure you might think your dream was last night, it’s just a dream, it doesn’t excite me at all, and it almost definitely doesn’t mean anything like the interpretation you’re trying to put on it. It’s just a dream.

But for the first time, I’m remembering my dreams. And they are amazingly vivid.

And consistent.

I should explain. When I say I’m having bizarre dreams, what I really mean is I’m having this one bizarre dream, but over and over again. It’s not exactly the same, night after night, but it’s pretty close.

I find myself wandering, alone, through this vast empty space. It’s almost totally featureless. I can just about make out some details, but they are blurry and distant and ill-defined; little more than shadows or silhouettes really.

I can walk to anywhere I want, but the shapes never take on a more definite form and never seem to get any closer, no matter which direction I take. I can wander around for hours, or so it seems, and though nothing ever becomes clearer I never seem to be deterred, never seem concerned that my wandering is aimless or pointless.

Perhaps it’s a reflection on my levels of boredom that I can happily walk around a featureless landscape for hours on end without losing interest, ever hopeful that around the next corner (not that there are any corners) might be the answer to whatever mystery it is that I’m supposed to uncover.

A few times I think I’ve seen other figures moving, in the far distance. Like everything else they are indistinct and blurry, and too far away to make out any detail at all. I’ve tried calling out to them, but although I hear the words I shout I’ve no way of knowing – even in the dream – if any sound actually comes out. Certainly they never respond, and in time they move completely out of my sight, merging into the background, just another unrecognisable shape.

Despite its appearance, despite the apparent desolation, despite the abject loneliness that the dream seems determined to impose upon me, I don’t feel that at all. On the contrary. For some reason it fills me with hope. It gives me a sense of purpose. A need to find answers to so many questions: What are those shapes? Where are they? Are there others here?

Where am I?

Chapter 2

I’m having another dream. It’s the same place, a wide, empty expanse. Silent, almost clinically clean, but I can’t smell anything even vaguely medical. I can’t smell anything at all, but I guess that’s normal for a dream. I can’t recall ever waking up with a memory of a scent.

I’m walking, as always, towards a distant, unknown shape. Walking takes no effort; no matter how long it takes I’m never out of breath, never weary. It feels like it should be cold, but that might just be because everything is so white. I don’t feel cold, not at all, and I can’t see my breath in the air in front of me. Assuming I am actually breathing in this dream.

There’s no sun, though it’s clearly daytime. No wind ruffles my hair which feels strange without my usual headgear. It’s dry, no sign of rain.

It could almost be an enormous room, painted white from floor to ceiling, with no windows, no doors, no features what-so-ever. If you painted a room entirely in one colour, would you be able to see the points where the walls meet the floor or the ceiling?

As I walk, I make no sound. The ground beneath my feet could be made of anything, but there is no crunch of gravel, no stomp of concrete, no swish of sand. It could be rubber, but it feels firmer, somehow.

I still feel the same sense of wonder, of awe at this place, and yet it seems to offer no reason to feel that way. It’s like, deep down, I understand why, but my mind is struggling to see the answer. My subconscious – if you have such a thing in dreams – knows why I am here, and why this is a special place. But my dream-conscious has no idea; it’s just receiving the message that it’s good, very good.

In my dream state, I’m happy; never bored. Content to wander aimlessly for hours on end to a destination I can’t see for a reason I can’t fathom.

It’s peaceful here and I feel at peace, free of worry. No cares. In my dreams, there is no Melissa, no Luke, no Cal, and I don’t care. They’re not forgotten, just not there to trouble my mind.

It’s freedom. And it’s tempting to stay here forever.

Senhor Tony? Senhor Tony? Can you hear me?

I wake from my latest dream to a very familiar voice, but something is different. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Senhor Tony, please listen to me. You cannot stay there; you have to come back to us, you must find the way, but first you must find the answers.

The answers?

Please, Senhor Tony, I will help you all that I can. But first you must see. You are looking, but you are not seeing.

Does that even make sense? Am I having a different dream?

Take care, Senhor Tony, I will come again soon. Learn to see, Senhor Tony, learn to see.

Without warning, my eyes are opened and the now familiar light is shone in them. It may be familiar but it never fails to shock me. With no response from my pupils the light is dazzling and I want to turn my head away but I can do nothing. The light flicks from left to right and then repeats 3 more times.

No change. Condition stable. Continue monitoring.

Yes, Doctor. Is there anything else we can do?

Probably not. I doubt there’s much hope in a case like this. I expect he’ll be here for sometime yet, and eventually his body will simply decide that enough is enough. Keep him comfortable, though I doubt he even knows that you’re doing that.

It’s so sad. He seems so nice.

They all do when they’re like that. He’s just a patient, Nurse White, remember that. A patient. Don’t become attached.

No, Doctor.

I hear the footsteps of the doctor leaving, and then a young, pretty face comes into view. Nurse White, I presume. I see her only for a moment. Pretty, pale blue eyes, very pale skin framed by dark, almost black hair. Bright red lipstick. She reminds me of Snow White, ironically. She leans over further and I’m aware that she’s plumping up my pillows, and I’m also aware that I can see her breasts, but then the moment is gone and she gently closes my eyelids, shutting off the world for another day. But her image is fresh in my mind, and inside I’m smiling.

Hey, Tony, it’s me, Luke. How are you? I don’t know why I ask, when I can clearly see nothing’s changed. They say he might be able to hear, though, so I should keep trying. Just finished another day at school. Same old, you know? Maths is getting harder, Portuguese seems to get easier and in English we’re reading Macbeth. You know, I don’t get the fuss about Shakespeare, but I don’t think I could get away with saying that in class. Actually, I think it’s rubbish, and I know I couldn’t get away with saying that.

"Anyway, Debs sends her love. She’s got a bucket load of homework so couldn’t make it tonight, says she’ll get in later in the week, okay?

I’m gonna sit and work on my Maths now, okay? But I’m still here. It’s quiet here, nobody to disturb you. I’m hungry; I wonder what’s for dinner. I just need to make sure I’m home in time to help Manuela with the house. Oops, bit of an itch, hope no-one’s looking; don’t want them to get the wrong idea. Where’s my pen? Ah, here. God, that nurse is a bit of all right. Concentrate, Luke! I don’t think Debs will need any help, but I’ll check with her too.

It’s been happening more regularly. It took me a while to understand it, but it’s very clear now. I can hear Luke’s thoughts, as clearly as if he were speaking the words. There’s only the slightest difference between the words he speaks and the words he thinks, so I know when he’s actually talking to me and when he’s just running ideas through his head. They’re sometimes scattered and all over the place, but I suppose we all think like that; makes it hard work, though.

I was worried at first, concerned I might hear something I didn’t want to know and find myself totally unable to do anything about it. I need not have worried; everything I heard was positive, underlying the fact that this boy, despite what he’d been through, was a good kid. About the closest he got to stepping out of line was lusting after the nurses as they walked past, but I think you can forgive a sixteen year old boy those moments of weakness.

It’s difficult, lying there next to somebody you really want to communicate with, unable to even see them; listening to their words and their thoughts but knowing the lines are down. I’d do anything to let Luke know I’m still here, that I’m hearing what he’s saying. If only I could get through.

Luke?

Hmm? Luke looks up, then pauses and his forehead creases into a frown. He glances around the ward but nobody is there except the usual patients. No curtains are drawn around any of the beds, so there’s no room for anyone to hide there. What about under the beds? Did someone walk up quietly, call his name, and then duck down?

Feeling slightly foolish, Luke bends down and looks under Tony’s bed, and then to the other side, under the bed of the next patient, but sees nobody.

That was pretty weird, he says quietly, "I must be imagining things. Maybe this place is too quiet, might hear voices from outside." What the fuck was that? I should go home, be around the family. I’m gonna go, Tony, okay? I’ll see you in a couple of days. See you later.

Bye, Luke.

Manuela! It was Manuela! How could I not have realised? She’s the only one who calls me Senhor Tony. But her voice, it was different, so clear, barely any accent, and she was speaking English, perfect, proper English.

Manuela is our Portuguese housekeeper, though I feel awful referring to her like that, she’s much more a member of the family than hired-help, especially since Dad went into prison. I had no idea she could speak such good English, even after all these years.

Or was I dreaming again? That would be different. I can only remember having the same dream, time and time again, I’ve never heard any voices in the dream, and especially not so clearly.

But what did she mean? I need to see instead of look? What could that mean? How can I see with my eyes closed? And see what, exactly? It doesn’t make any sense, no sense at all.

The trouble with having your eyelids closed most of the time is that it’s so easy to drift