The Futility Of Vengeance

By Adam Guest

After the murder trial failed to bring Michelle Peyton's real killer to justice, Gary Jackson attempts his own form of redemption. But will the knowledge he possesses about the dream world prove to be a help or a hinderance?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Many Worlds Novel
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913777043

Book preview

Chapter One

The Black Line

I was nervous. It had been four days since my fiancée, Sinead O’Brien, had left with her father to take her mother back to Ireland for a short break, and I didn’t react well to extended time alone. I wasn’t resentful about them going. Her mother, Mary, was in the mid to late stages of vascular dementia, and they were hopeful that taking her back to where she grew up would do her good. It did, however, mean that I was left with ample time to mull over recent events.

My name is Gary Jackson. I’m twenty-one years old and I live with Sinead and her family in the town of Badminton. My own family are from the Birchtree Estate, in the neighbouring town of Barchester. My mum and my younger sister, Nicki, are on good terms with me; my dad and my elder sister, Donna, are not. However, we had at least begun to rebuild bridges in recent weeks.

The events I’d been mulling over were complicated. I practise lucid dreaming and three weeks ago, during one of these dreams, I stabbed my high school crush, Michelle Peyton. I wasn’t overly bothered by this; it was only a dream after all. However, the next day, during one of Mary’s hallucinations, she described the crime I’d committed. Numerous conversations with Sinead, and her university lecturer, Professor Leyton Buzzard, led us to believe that I may have really committed a crime, only in another Worldline within the multiverse. Despite doing everything possible to rectify that mistake since, Sinead was still somewhat freaked out by what I’d done. This is why I hadn’t gone to Ireland with them, as she thought some time apart would do us good. We’d still spoken every day on the phone, but she had made it clear she was weighing up her options.

The reason I was nervous is that, since their departure, I’d been back in touch with Michelle for real. I’d given my number to her dad, who runs a car lot in Barchester, between Birchtree and the adjacent Sycamore Village, the other main housing estate in the town. We’d chatted on the phone for a few minutes the other night and decided we were better meeting in person for a lengthier catch-up. She had suggested meeting for coffee at La Zona Rosa, an American owned café in Sycamore. On the way to meet her, I was apprehensive and felt a little bit like I was going behind Sinead’s back, but I consoled myself by promising to tell her all about it when she returned from her holiday.

I look quite a bit different now to when I left school. Since my accident, my mental health has suffered dramatically, and as a result, I’ve lost two stone in weight. I’m thinner and look more gaunt than I ever did in the first half of my teenage years. However, I was shocked when I saw the change in Michelle. She still caused my jaw to drop, but not in a good way.

In the lucid dream, and in previous dreams that I’d had about her, she’d looked just as beautiful as I remembered. In real life, she was not. She was overweight, still pretty, but not to the level she was at school. Her hair was shorter, and she was also wearing significantly more make-up than she would have worn when I knew her before. She smiled at me as I entered the café, but there was no hug or embrace.

Hello stranger, I began nervously, as I reached her table. How are you?

Yeah I’m not too bad thanks, Michelle replied. Do you want a drink?

I’ll go and get it. Do you want anything?

I’m fine, I’ve already ordered.

I’d been in her company all of about five seconds, and already I was glad to be making my way to the counter to gather my thoughts; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I ordered my latte in a takeaway cup in case I decided to make a quick getaway, before taking a deep breath and making my way back to the table.

Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, I said. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.

I’m glad you did, she answered. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.

Oh? I said, somewhat surprised.

The way our friendship ended has never really sat well with me, she began. I always felt like you hated me after I turned you down, so I was pleased that you’d reached out.

I could never hate you, I said.

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave me a look as though she could see straight through me.

Liar, she said.

Well ok, maybe a little, I conceded. It’s just, I’ve always felt like the only reason you said no was because of my injuries.

That wasn’t why! she responded, looking genuinely offended by my comment. Is that what you thought?

Of course it was. Sinead had been encouraging me to ask you out for weeks, and I knew she’d spoken to you about it. If I’d asked you out on the day of the accident like I’d planned, I thought you saying yes was pretty much certain.

You always were a bit overconfident, weren’t you? she smiled.

You mean you’d have turned me down anyway? This time it was my turn to look offended.

No, she began cautiously, I think I’d have said yes.

Then what changed between the day of the exam and results day, apart from my injuries?

Gary, I was already seeing someone else.

It was at this point I wished I’d had a proper mug, as I squeezed my cup as she said it, causing it to overflow, spilling coffee all over the table, and inadvertently burning my hand.

Oh for goodness sake, I said, jumping up.

It’s ok, Michelle said, turning to the counter, Amy, can we have a cloth please?

The American woman behind the counter put her arm up by way of acknowledgement. I grabbed the single serviette off the tray and sat back down, drying the hot coffee on my hand.

Sorry, I said, I wasn’t expecting you to say that.

I’d noticed, she laughed. As embarrassing as the incident was, it did serve to break the ice and the tension somewhat.

So, who beat me to it? I asked.

You’ll never guess.

Go on.

Marcus Bray.

Oh, you are joking! I snapped.

Marcus Bray had been in our year at school. He was a couple of inches taller than me, which doesn’t happen often when you’re six foot two like I am. He was also a couple of stone heavier and had short ginger hair. He used his size to intimidate people. Had he used it to play rugby, or throw the shot put, he’d have probably been successful at it. Instead, he found it was easier and more rewarding to bully people, including me.

I know! she said, looking embarrassed and resting her head on her hands. We’d only been together about three weeks, and it didn’t feel right to just swap boyfriends. Everyone might have thought I was a slapper.

Don’t be ridiculous.

It’s what I thought would happen.

Here you go, said Amy, bringing a cloth over. I took it and started to dry the table.

Marcus was an arsehole, I said, continuing the conversation. Why would you have even said yes to him to begin with?

Long story, but let’s just say he’d started being nice to me, and he made me feel good about myself when he was speaking to me. I thought it was worth giving him a chance.

And did it work out? I asked.

Look at the state of me, she said, flatly. Do you think it worked out?

What happened?

It started pretty much straightaway. He seemed to take a really keen interest in what I wanted to do with my life. He told me I’d potentially be wasting two years staying on at school getting irrelevant A-levels, and that I was better off going straight to college to do an Early Access to Nursing course. That’s how I got qualified so quickly. In one sense it did me a favour, but it wasn’t his intention, he just wanted to isolate me and move me away from my friends.

So that’s why you never came back to school?

Yes, she said, hesitantly. Did you think it was because of you?

Basically, yes, I replied.

Michelle grinned and shook her head.

Oh Gary, you must have thought I was a right bitch.

Something like that, I said. I wish we’d had this conversation years ago. Are you still together?

Do you not read the papers? she asked.

No, why?

Marcus is in prison.

Now why doesn’t that surprise me? I remarked flippantly. What did he do to you?

It’s not for anything he did to me. Well, not directly. He was jailed for drug offences back in January. He got sentenced to eight years.

Bloody hell! I said. And you put up with it?

Oh God no, she replied, I just didn’t know anything about it, which in hindsight I feel really stupid about. Mum and Dad’s house was raided when he first got arrested because of how much time he spent there. I’d have probably been struck off as a nurse if they’d found drugs in my house, but luckily he never kept any there. He denied everything of course, and I stood by him through the trial, but there was so much evidence against him. When he was found guilty, I broke it off with him instantly.

I bet that went down well, I said dryly.

About as well as you’d imagine. He’ll have to serve half of his sentence before he can apply for parole, but I’m already dreading the day he comes out. I don’t ever really want to see him again. He’s caused me so much stress, and I’ve put so much weight on this last year. It’s only now he’s gone that I’ve realised how lonely I am. I only really have my work friends. It’s why I was so pleased when Dad gave me your number, as I think I’m in a similar boat to you, coming out of a relationship and trying to rebuild.

Michelle thought I was single! I felt like I evaluated all of my life choices in about half a second.

Me and Sinead are still together, I admitted. Although we are going through a bit of a rough patch.

Oh, said Michelle, with a hint of embarrassment. When Dad said you were looking for a job and wanting to meet, for some reason I thought you’d separated.

Not yet, I answered. We only got engaged a couple of weeks ago, on her twenty-first  birthday. But we’ve gone downhill quite dramatically since then.

How come?

Her mum is really struggling with vascular dementia, and Sinead isn’t really coming to terms with it, I began. It was partly true, but giving Michelle the whole ‘I stabbed you in a lucid dream and now she thinks I’m a bit psycho’ would probably not have gone down well, so I took the softer route. She’s been a bit all over the place, and she’s taken a lot of her frustrations out on me. She’s in Ireland with her mum and dad at the minute as she thought us having some time apart would do us good.

They don’t seem like good signs.

No, they’re not. It doesn’t help that I fell out with my family a couple of years ago, meaning I actually live with Sinead and her parents. So, if we split up, I’ll have to move out too.

I gave Michelle a quick run-down of what had happened between me and Donna, which had resulted in me and Dad fighting, and me moving out of my parents’ house.

You were lucky Sinead was there and stood by you, Michelle commented.

Yeah, I know, I acknowledged. But now she doesn’t feel she’s getting the same amount of support off me, and it upsets her. But I don’t really understand emotions. I barely understand my own, so I have no chance of understanding someone else’s.

You and all other men, Michelle joked.

We chatted for about another hour, to the point where we actually had a second drink, covering off topics like old school friends, our respective relationships with Marcus and Sinead, and I spoke at length about my injuries and the road I’d been on trying to recover from them.

The injuries I’m referring to were as a result of an accident five years ago on the way to a school exam. I’d been hit by a lorry and suffered quite serious injuries; a broken leg, broken arm, broken hand, numerous fractured ribs, and a nasty head injury where it bounced off the curb. I’d been told by several doctors and psychologists that I should feel lucky to have survived it, but luck is a relative term. The long-term effects are that I still walk with a limp, (I’m supposed to use a stick when walking any great distance, but it feels embarrassing so I tend not to), and I’d also taught myself to write with my left hand, as the nerve damage in my right means I’m unable to grip with that hand. The day of the accident was also the day I was meant to ask Michelle out, but obviously this didn’t happen. I still asked her out, but on the day we collected the results, whilst on crutches and with my leg in plaster. She’d turned me down and I’d, wrongly, resented her for it ever since. It was only now that I knew the truth.

It was after five o’clock when I got home. I had an online game I was playing from six until ten, meaning I popped to the local chip shop for a fish supper on my way back. I’d been living off takeaways all week, despite Sinead’s suggestion before they went away that I should probably start learning to cook. In truth, trying whilst there was nobody around to mock my efforts may not have been a bad idea, but I was too lazy, and nowhere near motivated enough to attempt it.

Sinead phoned just after my game finished for our nightly chat.

How has your day been? she asked.

Yeah, it’s been ok, although I haven’t done much, I lied. I was going to tell her about my meeting with Michelle but telling her about it over the phone didn’t seem like a good idea. I’d sit her down and talk to her properly when she got home. How are you? Is your mum ok?

I’m alright, although this trip hasn’t gone as well as we’d planned. We thought she’d find the familiar surroundings reassuring but, if anything, it’s just confused her even more. We’ll be heading home in the morning, so we should be back about dinner time.

When you say dinner time, do you mean lunchtime or teatime?

I mean dinner time, she answered. This was always a minor sticking point between us, as her family had always referred to dinner as the last meal of the day, whereas I was brought up thinking it was the middle one. We tended to wind each other up about it from time to time.

How’s your dad coping?

I think he’ll be glad to get home. He’s asked me to ask you about the quotes from the builder. Did you get them?

Oh yeah, tell him sorry, I forgot to send them. I didn’t think he was telling you about it yet?

He wasn’t, but as you hadn’t sent them, he’s asked me to get them off you.

Oh, sorry, I said, making my way downstairs to get the various bits of paper off the kitchen work surface. The stairlift will be £3,300, I said when I got there, And the garage conversion will either be £9,000 in isolation or £15,000 with en-suite plumbing.

Good grief! she exclaimed.

Yeah I know, I thought it was a lot too, but I have no idea whether it’s good or bad really.

I repeated the figures again so Sinead could write them down for Eamon.

I have really missed you, you know, I said to her as our conversation finished.

We can talk about things properly once I get home, she said, non-committally.

I’m looking forward to seeing you.

Well, I’ll be home tomorrow. I’d better be going, as it costs us more to call from here. I’ll see you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow, I love you.

I know you do, she said.

I put the phone down, went and got a beer from the fridge, then went back upstairs and lay on my bed, trying to mull over the events of the day. Michelle had thought I was single, meaning she’d arrived at La Zona Rosa earlier thinking we were effectively on a first date. If I’d played my cards differently, I may have been able to have the relationship I’d longed for with her after all. Still, if Sinead was as cold towards me in person as she had been on the phone, I may end up trying to pursue it anyway.

Recent events had frightened me off lucid dreaming somewhat, and I was loath to attempt it again given the consequences last time. My dreams that night were regular, repetitive, and quite disorientating. Random images of being back in the café with Michelle. Sometimes she looked different, sometimes I was different, and on at least one occasion I told her I was single. It was all out of focus and I couldn’t control any of it, but it was at the front of my mind all night.

Chapter Two

The Blue Line

I wasn’t coping particularly well in prison. At first, I thought I’d be ok; that my unwavering belief in my own innocence, coupled with the idea that Michelle’s parents would somehow get comfort from their mistaken belief they had justice for her, would help to carry me through this. But it wasn’t the case. It had been a number of weeks since my conviction for her murder, and to my fellow inmates I was just another abuser; a man who had killed his girlfriend in cold blood. These were people of average intelligence, they weren’t the science boffins like my best friend, Sinead O’Brien, or my physics professor, Leyton Buzzard, who could see where things had gone wrong. To everyone else I was just pure filth.

I suppose I should have counted my blessings in a way. In the run-up to my trial, I had found out, to my astonishment, that my dad was an ex-con and had served time for acting as a getaway driver for a series of armed robberies back in the 1980s. Although Dad had cleaned up his act following his release, the ringleader of his gang back then, a man called Cyrus Ramsey, had gone the other way and had continued his life of crime. He’d owed Dad a favour for a number of years and, now I was in prison myself, Dad had called it in. The result was that Cyrus was not only my cellmate but also my protector during those early days of incarceration. The other prisoners may have hated me for what I’d supposedly done, but they wouldn’t dare move against me whilst Cyrus was there. He’d spent most of his adult life in this place, and the respect he commanded from the other convicts meant if he’d said I wasn’t to be harmed, then it didn’t happen, at least not whilst he was there. However, Cyrus was being released tomorrow, and I was going to be on my own.

How do you feel about that? asked Doctor Margaret Fairclough, the prison psychologist. I’d been seeing her in one of the interview rooms on a weekly basis since my conviction; this was our fifth or sixth appointment.

Nervous, I guess, I admitted.

Why nervous? she asked.

I explained to her about Cyrus’s history with my dad, and how he’d been looking after me.

The prison officers are here to protect you, she said.

I know, but there’s a lot of nasty, violent people in here. I’m considered one of them, even though I’m not. I’d rather spend the next twenty years in solitary confinement than have to spend it out there with all of them.

Why would you say that? she asked. Margaret was a very stern looking lady, around the forty mark, very slim, with blonde highlights in her frizzy brown hair. Her manner was very frigid, and I found it very difficult to warm to her, although I put that down to her being trained to keep her emotional distance from her clients.

"Because they all think I’m a murderer, and that I killed my girlfriend in cold blood. They’re wrong of course, but my conviction says otherwise. I’ve already been wrongly punished for it once, I don’t want to have it happen over and over again.

How does it make you feel, knowing everyone here views you the way they do?

Like you’re all stupid, I said.

Doctor Fairclough sat back in her chair, interlocked her fingers, and raised her eyebrows at my answer. She didn’t say anything though, and I assumed she was inviting me to continue.

I know what happened to Michelle, I went on. My best friend knows, my science professor knows, but getting anyone else to understand it is like trying to get blood from a stone. It was something Cyrus said to me the day before my trial started. He was saying about how stupid the average person is, then realising that half the jury are going to be even more stupid than that. They’re the half you’ve got to convince, but their minds don’t work in the way they need to in order to understand something like this.

Something like what? she asked.

It was true that whilst I’d had a number of appointments with her up to this point, we hadn’t as yet spoken about the night Michelle died and what had actually happened.

What’s the point, you’re not going to understand, are you? I said.

Because you think I’m too stupid?

No, just because you’re a doctor, and you’re judging me by the guidelines you have. If my explanation doesn’t fall within those boundaries, you’ll mark me as mad whether you understand it or not.

It’s not for me to say whether you’re mad or not, that would be a psychiatrist, I’m a psychologist. As for whether there’s any point, well maybe there isn’t. But as it is, I don’t understand anyway. So, your only way of educating me is to tell me about it. I’ll either get it, or I won’t. But if you don’t tell me, I’ll never understand, and I want to. I’m sensing that you need me to as well.

Fair enough, I began, sitting back in my chair. We live in a multiverse. That multiverse is made up of an infinite number of Worldlines. Every outcome to every action plays out in a different one of those Worldlines, each completely decoherent from all the others.

I’m aware of the idea of a multiverse, she said, nodding.

There’s more to it though, I continued. When we sleep, we dream. Those dreams are our consciousness drifting through those other Worldlines. Not one of them, but several simultaneously. That’s why you feel like they lack continuity when you wake up. But in the dream, when you’re viewing a single Worldline, it makes perfect sense. Then the next moment you’re in another one, and that makes perfect sense. Then you wake up and remember them both, and suddenly the two together make no sense at all.

I think I’m following you, she said.

Now, it is possible to lucid dream. Are you aware of lucid dreaming?

Not really.

It’s when you dream, and you become aware that you’re dreaming.

I’ve had that happen a couple of times, she said.

And what did you do, in the dream I mean?

Nothing, I just woke up.

Some people have the ability to control that, I went on. To realise they’re dreaming, but to stay in the dream. That’s called lucid dreaming, or controlled dreaming. It supposedly allows you to control what happens in that dream.

Ok, she said slowly, but sounding less convinced.

But that’s not quite what happens. You need to put it all together. When we dream, we can view ourselves in those other Worldlines.

Ok, that bit I understand.

When those alternate versions of us dream, their consciousness will allow them to view your world in this one.

I could almost see the cogs in her brain going round as she tried to process that.

When that version of you realises that they’re dreaming, and become lucid, they effectively control you for the duration of their dream.

And you think that’s what happened to you? she asked, speaking slowly as though as she was trying to understand it as she said it. In another Worldline, another instance of you has realised they’re lucid dreaming. And in the safe environment of that dream, they have violently stabbed a young woman to death. Only it wasn’t a safe environment, it was this Worldline, and as a result, you’ve stabbed your girlfriend to death, with no knowledge or control over what was happening.

Yes, I said firmly, looking her in the eye so she knew I meant it. It also left me with no memory of it, which is why I was so confused after the event, and why I vehemently deny harming her. Because I, in control of my actions in this body, would never, ever, have hurt Michelle.

Do you feel resentment towards the people who don’t believe this explanation? she asked.

Yes, I admitted. I end up looking down at people for not being able to wrap their head around it, and I then get depressed at how many of them there are. How are we ever going to continue to grow and evolve as a species if our minds are so closed that we’re not even able to understand something like this?

Let’s backtrack a minute, she said. We were speaking about your cellmate being released.

No, let’s not backtrack, I responded. You’re doing it as well. You can’t comprehend what I’m saying, so you encourage me to talk about something else.

I confess, Mr Jackson, I’m growing concerned at the turn this is taking. Your anger with the world seems to be growing, and I sense you’re finding it increasingly difficult to suppress that anger.

It’s the cumulative effect of it all, I said.

The cumulative effect of what?

If it were one person, or a few people, who were wrong about me then I think I could live with it. I could just avoid them or ignore them. But it isn’t, it’s everyone. Everybody I see, all day, every day, thinks I deliberately stabbed my girlfriend to death. I know that I didn’t, but I don’t know how I make everyone realise that.

You may have to learn to live with the fact that you might not be able to, she answered. You can’t always control what other people think.

Which is fine, until it leaves you as a convicted murderer.

Once again, she didn’t comment on what I’d said.

These sessions, they’re a waste of time, I said. I always come out of them feeling worse and more frustrated than when I came in. You’re supposed to be helping me and you’re not.

There are a number of medications that I think may help to calm your anxiety somewhat.

I don’t need medication! There’s nothing wrong with my brain! I snapped.

But you have been challenged on a very deep, emotional level. Since the death of your girlfriend, you now view the world completely differently to what you did before, and I think you’re struggling to come to terms with that.

I shook my head.

I’m perfectly comfortable with how I view the world, and I know how it functions. Michelle’s death, and the manner in which it came about, opened my eyes to things I’d never have imagined. I used to view the world the same way you and everyone else does, but it’s not right, that’s not how it works at all.

Let’s explore for a moment what might happen if you weren’t here. Let’s say the jury had indeed understood your version of events, and that you were on the outside now. What would you be doing?

I’d be trying to get justice for Michelle.

"Gary, in the eyes of the law, justice has been served.

But not in my eyes, I answered assertively. I need to learn to lucid dream.

Gary, you’re going to need to help me out here. Are you saying that you think you can deliver justice for Michelle, through your dreams?

Yes, I said. If I can discipline my mind enough, I should be able to lucid dream into his Worldline in the same way he got into mine. That way, I can do something to him to punish him for what he did to Michelle.

You’re talking about vengeance?

"What else can I do? He hasn’t killed Michelle in his Worldline. I can’t exactly walk him into a police station and get him to confess to the murder of someone who is