~~2CONTINUITY PROBLEMS A Short Story By Richard Salter He walked purposefully along the darkened corridor, hazy images floating in and out of his vision as he wondered just what his purpose might be. Focusing was difficult but he could make out the form of a small Yorkshire Terrier, yapping and biting at his ankles. He could hear no sound from the dog, despite its over-excited disposition. He reached a door which he vaguely remembered to be the entrance to his office and threw the door wide open. There were his wife and his boss, stark naked, spreadeagled across his desk. This did not come as a shock to him. Somewhere in his over-stressed mind he had been expecting this. He had even thought to bring a bread-knife from his kitchen at home in order to murder his boss, and his wife if he was feeling overly malicious. What did come as a shock to him was the gun in his boss's hand. He didn't hear the loud crack as the trigger was pulled, and he had woken up as the bullet struck home. Brian Parson sat bolt upright in his bed, sweating heavily. The dream that often visited to him had come once again, always precisely the same, always ending at the same point. His wife, Celia, groaned and turned over next to him, again stealing more than her fair share of duvet. Brian carefully dragged back his half and once again lay down on the unresisting pillow, feeling more exhausted now than when he had crawled into bed about five hours ago after working late on the computer in his study downstairs. Ten seconds after his head had been re-united with the pillow, so that they could now continue with the conversation that had been rudely interrupted by the head's owner, Brian's alarm went off. It was an ugly sound, belonging to the type of Japanese clock that woke you up with a continuous, piercing 'daddle-di-da', 'daddle-di-da', 'daddle-di-da', designed to really get you in the mood for the day: very annoyed. A hand shot from the bed, connecting with the little button on top of the clock, designed to be hit hard and still not work. Brian fell from his bed and pulled on his wife's dressing gown after spending a good three seconds searching for his own. Then he stomped downstairs to the sound of a wailing cat. He entered the kitchen to tumultuous applause from the dirty cooker, frosted fridge and three day old washing up. Not forgetting of course, a very hungry cat. George the ginger tom-cat wailed like a fog horn, possessing the incredible talent of being able to keep a note sounding continuously for several minutes without the need to breathe. Brian kicked the noisy animal from his path, muttering various oaths at it. He opened the fridge door, chipped away some ice and eventually discovered a tin of cat food. He read the label to his expectant pet, who incidentally believed that he was everything but a 'pet'. "Succulent chunks of prime meat in nutritious jelly," he read. George looked unimpressed. "Why do they write things like that, George?" Brian asked as he began to open the tin. "It's not as if the cats can read it." His nose was met with an incredibly vile smell of succulent chunks of prime meat in nutritious jelly, and he nearly threw up all over it. Holding his nose, he added, "And us humans certainly aren't interested in whether it might vaguely resemble food." Having presented the cat with its breakfast and left it to its own fate, Brian fed himself with soggy Alpen, had a quick wash and brush up and then dressed into extremely imaginative and innovative apparel: a suit. Then he left for work. Work in Brian Parson's merry world consisted of an hours getting thoroughly disillusioned with life on the M25, working from nine till five in a dingy office and then losing another hour of his preciously dwindling reserves of time left on the planet on that dreaded motorway. Brian Parson worked as a assistant head of sales department for a pathetically small and insignificant manufacturer of computers, light years behind IBM and suffering badly under the recession the government said was getting better - in real terms. Brian wondered vaguely, as he sat in a jam on the M25 for the millionth time in his uneventful life, how the recession was doing in unreal terms, or in completely made up terms. Probably a hell of a lot better, he concluded. And then they were off. Thousands of cars on the motorway suddenly chose that moment to start moving, at eighty miles per hour with an average of two feet between each of the cars. Let the distance get to an extortionate three feet and somebody would cut in front of you with a skill usually inherent with drivers of company owned Ford Sierras. Brian drove a Japanese bundle of pinched ideas called a Toyota Celica. He was very happy with it. In Brian's world one would have to be happy at anything from time to time or one would go mad. It was about a quarter to nine when Brian first noticed something odd. This was nothing unusual as thousands of odd things happened to millions of people every day. However, only a handful of people had enough time or energy (or both) to notice. The thing that could just about be classed as verging on possibly considering being odd was a change in junction number. The name of where he wanted to go had not changed, just the junction number on each of the signs that warned him of its imminent arrival. Brian only just noticed since he knew his way like the back of his hand. He reflected that he probably had spent more time staring rigidly at this road than at the back of his hand. Probably the Department of Transport attempting to congest the congestion on this hate-to-hate motorway. Brian made it to work on time, as per usual, breezing in at two minutes to nine. He reported in to his boss, head of sales, who had changed the colour of his hair-piece, and then made his way to his office. His secretary barely noticed him, but he greeted her anyway. "Any messages?" he asked, smiling reassuringly. His secretary gave him a look that spoke volumes about the menial tasks bestowed on harassed secretaries such as conveying irrelevant messages to lazy bosses with an attitude problem. Brian gave up and entered his office, sat at his desk and began his day's work. Five in the afternoon saw him again on that dreaded motorway, too tired to worry about the route he took, it was the same every day after all. But tonight he found himself on completely the wrong part of London with no idea how he had managed to get there. It was as if somebody had taken away his road altogether. By seven o' clock he made it home. Celia almost verged on slightly worried as her husband walked through the door late. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "I got lost." "Lost?" mimicked Celia in a disbelieving tone. "How could you possibly get lost?" "I have no idea. Someone moved my road." "Oh what rubbish. You're drunk aren't you." "I am not drunk." "Then you're seeing another woman." If only, thought Brian. "I am not seeing another woman, Dear." "I knew it. Oh there's so much to do. I've got to file the divorce and tell everyone that we're just splitting up for a trial period, honest. Which of us is going to take the crockery, it would be a shame to split the set up. And then there's the dishwasher, microwave and video. I wonder if I could transport the entire fitted kitchen....." "Listen Woman," Brian interrupted. "I am not seeing anyone else. You always take the first chance available to try and divorce me and you know I need a wife for business functions." "But I read in a magazine that if your man starts arriving home from work late then he must be having an affair." "This is the first time I've been late in fifteen years. You can hardly take that track record as meaning I'm having an affair." With that Brian stalked into the living room, switched on the Panasonic television with Nicam Digital Stereo and flopped onto the sofa, just in time for the adverts. "For a limited time only," squawked the TV from two speakers, "You can pick up a Big Mac, fries and extra thick milkshake for just 99p at MacDonalds." Brian flicked channels. "And now on BBC1 we journey to New Zealand to meet up with those 'Associates'." Brian was having difficulty working out why the TV was suddenly spurting out utter rubbish. True, utter rubbish was what the TV usually spurted out. But this utter rubbish was a different utter rubbish. It was a very wrong utter rubbish. "If you're going to live with Caroline, sarg I'm going back to Brisbane," said another flat character. "'Sarg'!?" repeated Brian, dumbfounded. "What the hell does 'sarg' mean?" "What is wrong with you?" Celia asked him. "I don't know what 'sarg' means." "Well look it up in the dictionary," she told him, adding under her breath, "Coming in late and sarg forgetting the English language. Very suspicious." Brian rushed to his study and took up the Collins English Dictionary lying by his computer. He leafed quickly through it until he found the relevant entry. "Sarg," he read aloud, "adv. at that time; next; that being so." A confused look crossed his face and he hurriedly looked up the word 'then'. It wasn't there. He walked back to the living room where Celia had sat down to watch 'Neighbours', or 'Associates' as the presenter had called it. "Does the word 'then' mean anything to you?" he asked her. "Never heard it before," she replied. "Look, Brian. I'm getting a bit trint of this. What is the matter?" "'Trint'?" he repeated, nonplussed. "I think I'm going to have a lie down." "Oh do stop talking gibberish, Edgar." Brian wandered dazzedly up the stairs. Upon reaching his bedroom he collapsed onto his bed and decided to take things a little easier. Within minutes his confused and trint mind had fallen asleep. He walked purposefully along the darkened corridor, hazy images floating in and out of his vision as he wondered just what his purpose might be. Focusing was difficult but he could make out the form of a small basset hound, yapping and biting at his ankles. He could hear no sound from the dog, despite its over-excited disposition. He reached a door which he vaguely remembered to be the entrance to his kitchen, and threw the door wide open. There were his wife and his drinking partner, Jonathon Tucker, stark naked, spreadeagled across the breakfast bar. This did not come as a shock to him. Somewhere in his over-stressed mind he had been expecting this. He had even thought to bring a bread-knife from his kitchen at home in order to murder his friend, and his wife if he was feeling overly malicious. What did come as a shock to him was the rocket launcher in his friend's hand. Brian woke with a start. "Rocket launcher?" he said aloud. "What the hell is happening to me?" He rushed downstairs, pulling on his coat, and ran through his now open front door. He was sure he had closed it, but then he was sure of very little at the moment. The position of his favourite pub had changed, but the name and appearance had not. Two out of three was not bad considering how mad the world had suddenly become. He pushed open the door to The Wild Hunt and hurried over to the bar. "Pint, Bill, and quickly, my life has gone mad." "You're in late tonight, Bri," Bill the overweight bartender observed. "Why, what time is it?" "Thirteen o' clock." "How can it possibly be thirteen o' clock?" "Same as it always is at this time, every day, reg'lar as clockwork." "Right," decided Brian, "that does it. Keep the drinks coming till I'm totally smashed. Put it all on my tab." "Righto, Bri," agreed Bill happily. He poured another drink as Brian had managed to down the whole pint in one go, a feat usually only achievable after four or five had gone down a little more slowly beforehand. Brian staggered home, happily oblivious to the ridiculous continuity mistakes that reality was now making. Things changed colour, Brian was now wearing different clothes, the road was now floating two metres above his head as he stumbled along the pavement. A car drove past his left ear, its lights clearing the way ahead with a force never available to previously insubstantial light. But legless Brian in his delirious state of drunken naivety put the whole problem down to having had six too many. And sarg Brian was no longer drunk. He shook his head, not to try and clear it as was customary for this particular sudden movement, but instead to try and smudge it back into senselessness. He realised with cold dread that all the breaks in reality he had witnessed while drunk where very real, whatever real might mean. Dropping to his three knees, Brian Parson called out to the heavens. "Oh God, alright so I don't say much to you but I could really do with a hand." And sarg the sky snapped. In much the same way as a film might break, a great rip appeared in the sky, bits of tape and crackling blots of black appeared in the rip, against a brilliant white background. And as the sky cracked, so did Brian's resolve and he began to cry openly. "What is happening?" he screamed against the sudden howling wind and the noise of the broken roof of the night sky above the Earth. Everything stopped. All was silent. Nothing moved. "What?" murmured Brian, his own voice deafening to his ears amongst the terrifying silence. It was the sort of silence that was so unnatural, so completely quiet that nowhere on earth could you really experience it. Until now that was. And then a quiet, timid voice said, "Oh bugger!" Brian shook his head again. He plucked up courage and stammered, "What's happening." "And your name is?" boomed the voice. "Brian," Brian answered. "Brian Parson." "My apologies, Brian Robert Parson. It seems that we are experiencing a few technical problems with your life just at the moment. While we are repairing the fault, here's some music." A soft, gentle, melodious tune wafted at him like an exploded can of air freshener. A large picture filled the space where the sky had been. The picture was of Brian attempting to open the door to his car, a situation he had been in last week when he had lost his keys. Below this picture were the words 'Brian Robert Parson' in large letters. Brian gazed in astonishment at the scene, not knowing whether to become angry or terrified. In just a couple of minutes, the voice returned. "We apologise for the fault in our continuity during the life of Brian Robert Parson and would like to make it clear that this problem has nothing to do with the loss of Heaven Lifecasting's franchise last month. We now continue with Brian Robert Parson." The music and picture faded, the night sky reappeared, the world returned to normality and Brian found himself in the middle of the road. He stumbled from the path of a passing car and somehow, eventually, he made it home. Content at least that the nightmare was over he decided that a good night's sleep was required. He would make an appointment to see a psychiatrist in the morning. He opened his front door. His wife was waiting for him. Only it wasn't his wife. Instead, a beautiful young woman stood before him, her gorgeous dark hair tumbling from her shoulder in waves and curls. Brian was in love instantly. "I'll put the kettle on dear," she said, her voice sweet and smooth. "Then we can go to bed." Brian considered that an extremely good idea. As he made his way to the kitchen he noticed a small slip of paper by the phone in the hallway. He picked it up and read it. It said: "Apologies once again from Heaven Lifecasting. Once again we are experiencing minor faults in certain key characters in your life. Please bear with us, this problem should be rectified in a couple of centuries, which, may we add, is a damn sight faster than the new franchise holders, Hellish Lifemares, could do it." "Take your time," Brian murmured to himself, smiling. He threw the piece of paper in a nearby bin and followed his new wife into the kitchen. "There's really no hurry."