Sterling's Tale

Blair, Benyon and Clarke Solicitors. Or so the name on the door claimed. With a graceful squeal indicative of honesty, reliability and of course age, the hinged door swung open. There stood a man, whose height should have neared six foot two, but with the pronounced stoop due to a walking stick, it appeared around five seven. The hair was the shocking white of a man whose life had been tough, a pair of thin silver rimmed half-moon spectacles perched precariously on his nose. With a couple of slow but surprisingly agile steps he moved out of the doorway and towards a waiting car. Replacing him in the door-frame was a younger looking man, of a biblical three score and ten, wearing a black suit and tie, his look was forlorn. His long grey hair appeared distinguished, and a casual observer would have taken him for an undertaker. A briefcase in hand was the only disagreement with this suggestion. He, like his companion before, entered the car. A final man stood in the frame, of a similar age to the second, though his hair a white like the first, the smallest of the three at a mere five foot four seemed out of place in the large door way and quickly removed the problem by entering the car, the building door being shut from the inside by a youthful looking hand.

As soon as the car door closed with a distinct Rolls Royce clunk the chauffeur drove off. Twenty minutes later outside a distinguished looking building the car was stationary, the journey there was in the comfortable silence of old colleagues, who found small-talk an unnecessary burden. One by one they departed the vehicle, and, with the slow movement expected of them, walked to the door, it was already open in greetings. 'Mr Blair. Mr Benyon. Mr Clarke, it is so good to see you at last, my father and grandfather were always so happy when you arrived, and so shall I be, do come in.' That youthful, almost naive voice of a sprightly thirty year old could only promote disdain in the gentlemen, his mock patronising respect filled them with even more disgust for the younger generation. They followed him in, into a modern (chrome and black) office, refusing to sit in the leather Mr Blair (the shortest) spoke 'We care not for your hospitality, nor for your sycophantic ramblings, were it not for the esteem we held your grandfather and father in, our business would have been taken elsewhere, there are other banks whose managers can remain a mannered and polite conversation without resorting to the condescending attitude that you have shown. If it is alright with you, we will go to the vaults now.' Without waiting for a reply the three walked out the door, and down a set of stairs. The manager slightly taken a back followed. A couple of minutes later the vault door was open and one of the safety deposit boxes removed. The manager left the room, giving the privacy they obviously wanted. Mr Clarke, the stooped one, lifted off the box lid, and with a perfectly white wide grin removed several sheets of paper. On the first of the sheets were the words 'Sterling's Tale'. They read...

Imagine a room. It has a breadth of four or five yards, and is twice as long. In one of the narrow walls lies a window, through which fragments of moonlight are refracted from the rain splattered glass. In front of it, but facing away, is a desk, a solid mahogany desk, looking expensively like an antique. Opposite it is a wooden swivel chair, still swinging with the momentum from the body that just left it. On the left wall rows of books line shelves to the ceiling. They wait, their knowledge untouched for years. Hoping for a use, they wait. At the far end a fire stirs, thought gone out, a sudden gush of air resuscitates it, and the flames lap the bricks in the fireplace. Facing the now blazing wood of the fire are two comfortable chairs, they keep warm in the light of it. Though currently empty, anyone looking from the desk couldn't know this. In between the chairs, lies a table, an ashtray holds two cigars, a faint wisp of smoke lifts up from one of them, releasing a pleasant odour that few would complain about, the other just lies there, having not been lit. Beside these relics of the past conversation are two glasses, both containing a drop of whisky in the bottom, the likes of which unable to be drunk by all but the most ardent sot.

Switch you attention back to the desk. For this is where I sit. This room, which you are imagining, is my room. That cigar, which you imagined smelling, my cigar. The chair, recently vacated, and still rocking silently, was not where I sat. If it were, this narrative, would be a whole lot less remarkable. Instead, upon it rested, not more than five minutes ago, a dear friend. Where he is now I know not. But I will endeavour to explain the story. I must apologise, if I appear to be getting ahead of myself. But the events of tonight, and the tale of my friend, have hardly prepared me to write, nevermind write coherently. But I digress. I shall begin at the beginning. But first, you should know something of my friend. It is he, after all, who this story revolves around. Arthur Sterling, is his rather grandiose name, but he is, as his appellation suggests, one who is impeccably genuine, and, to even the most determined observer, trustworthy. Because of this wondrous character reference I have made for him it is fortunate that these events happened to him, and not me, whose reputation is not quite as pristine with regards the telling of the truth. Now, what further information should you need to know? Perhaps that he is tall, good looking, or so people have said, most would also say strong, and what else? Probably that he is not the most intelligent of people. He is no dunce. But no genius either. That I feel covers all the essentials for the background. Now the real meat of this tale.

Today is (or, as I glance at the late hour of the clock, was) Friday. I was working at home when I received a message. How it came, I do not know. My housekeeper failed to mention that fact, however it is of little importance. But the message was abrupt in it's nature, so a telegram was possible. It was typed on a sheet of paper no bigger than the flat of my hand, it's message was simple :

URGENT
Must see you. Meet you, your house, 9 o'clock.
Arthur

As I look at the very note now I feel I must apologise, it is, as is obvious, not a telegram, and so must have been typed in this terse way. Knowing what I did of Arthur I was worried. Though we spoke often in the local public house, and at the club, he seldom found the need to enter my abode, and our friendship was based purely on casual conversations. The discourse I was expecting tonight, I doubted would be as light-hearted. Never-the-less, I continued with my work. Perhaps not as determinedly as my editor would have liked, but I did continue.

When eight thirty arrived I could hardly wait any longer, I felt like a child at Christmas. All expectant. To be honest, I didn't know what exactly to expect, good or bad, but assumed that because of the importance, he would arrive early, and so told my housekeeper so. She wasn't happy that he arrived at ten-thirty. She had been hoping for an early night. After she had shown him in I bid her goodnight. It seemed to me that there was little point arguing with her while such an urgent matter needed attending, so I fixed Arthur a drink, a whisky, myself. He finished the first in a single gulp. This was unusual. I had seen him drink pints, and maybe every once in a while a whisky. But never had I seen him not savour every drop. This 'downing in one' was strange, and I guessed the medicinal qualities and perhaps oblivional traits of the alcohol were more the reason than an excessive thirst. His second went down just as quickly. As I poured his third I was going to mention that, though I did live in a big house with a housekeeper, malts this good were still expensive, however I needn't have worried, the last two had brought some colour to his previously anaemic face and now, with his healthy complexion, he felt obliged to appreciate the taste of the fine drink.

He sat down, drink in hand, in front of the fire, still not having spoken. I offered him a cigar, which he took without lighting. Myself, I took one and lit it, inhaling deeply. 'Forgive me.' He said. Which in itself is an unusual start. But the 'I am not my self' which followed brought the conversation round to normality. 'I will explain what I mean in a minute, but first you must see something.' Delving in to the right inside pocket of his jacket, I saw him remove a metal object, it's surface glinted in the firelight. He asked me to hold it. It was circular, about five inches in diameter. In it's centre there lay a hole, half an inch wide, circular as well. I removed a third cigar from the box beside me and placed the disc on one end, it spun freely when hit tangentially. Removing it from this pivot, I examined it closer. On one side there appeared thin grooves, and on the other a white covering, writing on the un-grooved side read :

21-6-28

It was then, as I glanced at the surface I realised what was so odd. It had the metallic shine to it, but it's density was obviously of no metal I knew. It's resonance, as I hit it with my nail, was not like that of a metal. Even when I bent it, only a small distance, for it seemed likely to break, did it have no properties that I associated with metal, and in fact I could think of no material that it could be. 'Curious' I said. This got a nod of agreement from my companion who suggested I keep it as proof. 'Of what?' I asked. But that, he said, we will come to. He seemed totally settled as he now told his story, yet despite his apparent ease, his constant checking of a pocket watch he had, indicated something would happen, and it would happen soon.

'It all began a week ago, or so I learned later, that it had done so. I was walking down the road, to get the morning paper, when, from across the road I heard a call. Arthur, echoed in the air. I glanced over to the speaker, his face seemed familiar. He wore a grey three piece suit, with a gold pocket watch chain showing under his jacket as he walked. His face seemed unnaturally golden, and I assumed he'd spent some time in one of the colonies, and so would explain why I couldn't remember who he was. Despite this excuse, I thought it best not to let on the fact I couldn't remember his name, and so I managed to chat amiably with him for sometime without mentioning it. He seemed interested to know how I was, what the place was like, whether I liked it, and various other pleasantries. This sealed my idea. He was someone returning from India, or Africa, wanting to return to his roots, but wanting to see if it was still a nice neighbourhood first. As we spoke, I couldn't help noticing his teeth. They seemed to shine, a perfect whiteness emitted from the enamel, and his smile, wide, so as to show off these dental masterpieces.

'I don't know what it was exactly, but he just seemed to exude confidence, maybe even arrogance, and I took, not an immediate dislike, but a growing aversion to continue the conversation. He left, still smiling, walking down the road, a happy whistle of an unfamiliar tune, emanated from his lips. Meanwhile I bought my newspaper and thought nothing of it until the day before yesterday, Wednesday.'

He paused for a sip of his drink. Then the story continued.'Wednesday will, I am sure, go down in local history, it is not often trains collide, especially at such speeds. But I will tell it from my point of view, for it is something that deeply involved me.' The reader must forgive me for failing to mention the crash, however, with the story that was to follow, though the collision was essential, it almost fades into nothing. Alas, I can't remember why, when I received the note I didn't connect it to the heroic actions of the sender. However, now I continue.

'I was working in the shop, business was slow, so I was just sweeping up some of the soil from the potatoes we had just had delivered. It was then I heard the crash. The shop backs on to the rail track, as you know. So I was able to guess the cause of the noise. It was so thunderous, echoing through the building. I remember hearing a screech of breaks, or at least that‘s what I decided they were afterwards. I dropped the brush, and ran through, to the tracks. My boss would have been annoyed that I left the place unattended, but, as I keep telling him, we're not in London, crime is just a distant story. But, at the time I thought nothing of him and his petty security ideas. Instead, I was helping fish bodies out, I almost single-handedly organised the entire rescue process.' At this point he was not being in the slightest bit arrogant, in fact he was being modest. He didn't only organise it himself, but nearly carried it out alone. That is from what witnesses say of him.

'Luckily only four died, including both drivers, the rest, though injured, were got out successfully. All through the operation, I never even thought that what I was doing was in any way heroic, or out of the ordinary, just what I knew was right. Only afterwards, when people congratulated me did I realise that they thought I was something special. I knew I wasn't, and I told them so. They didn't believe me, they said I was a hero. I suppose I felt at least slightly proud. But that was it. That was all I felt.

'I finished off working in the shop, and locked up. I went home and fell asleep. It had, after all, been a tiring day. When I woke, that was when things were strange.' He took another drink from his glass, finishing it off. I was so fascinated to know what happened next that I refilled his glass unquestioningly.

'When I woke I thought it was a dream. I wasn't in my room. I could see no walls, only faces. They stared down at me. Smiling. They smiled at me. They seemed happy. One of them spoke. He was wearing a bright white suit, with a black shirt, and white tie. He smiled the widest. His white teeth reminded me of someone. The man on the street. He said, "I'm sorry about all this, we have a problem."

'Those simple words he spoke were meant to make me feel better. They didn't. I was trapped in a dream, with faces smiling at me, as I lay on some bed. The person with the big smile, that I hated, was saying they had a problem. To be honest I just wanted to wake up. I just waited there, ten, twenty, thirty minutes, maybe even an hour. I don't know I had no frame of reference. In the meantime, the smiling man left, still grinning, with the words "well? didn't you want to be a hero?". A few other faces remained, speaking to me slowly, spelling each thing out to me, they were trying to explain what was wrong. I didn't understand it all. In fact I understood very little. But one of them, one that smiled less than the rest, something I took as a good sign, explained it even simpler. He said "You're in the future" just simply that.' With hindsight, I think I reacted very calmly, just nodding, making no comment, letting him continue. He did so.

'"You're in the future, you're from the future," this was not as easy to understand as before. But then my dreams never were. "You're a player, you were in the game show of the century, Heroes and Villains," I can't remember exactly, but I think at this stage, I felt something. Felt that I knew something, but then it was gone. "We emptied your brain, and replaced it with that of someone from the turn of the century. We made you look like them, and then we replaced you for him." This whole idea of emptying my brain surprised me, I didn't think I had such a good imagination. "So basically," I said "I'm pretending to be Arthur Sterling," the man smiled more, "you're getting the idea." I still had so many questions, I just hoped my imagination could answer them. "Why would I want to pretend to be Arthur?" I asked. "So you could be a hero," he replied. "Everyone wants to be a hero,' then adding as an afterthought, 'or a villain. This show lets you really be one. The more money you pay the more famous or infamous a person you are." There was something about my brain's idea that disgusted me. People travelling back in time to save people, or kill people. It seemed wrong, perhaps perverted. Then a thought struck me "So, if I'm not really Arthur Sterling, where is he?" "In the waiting room under sedation. When we return your old memories, we give him back his, then return him to bed. It's really quite simple. Of course, we do let you remember your heroism. If we deleted that then it would all be pointless." I had more questions for him "So why haven't I got my real memories?" "I'm afraid the machine has broken down. We're going to try to repair it. If we can't get it done soon, we'll have to return you for a couple more days."

'This was the one answer that filled me with joy. Perhaps it was the thought that this wasn't a dream, that had sunk in, and so I wanted to go back to my time. I don't know. But I do know I didn't like the future, if that was what it was. People so bored with their lives, they have to borrow someone else's. In a way, I hated myself, because I was one of those bored people. But I felt I was still Arthur. And until I got my memories back, I would always be Arthur.

'The time ticked by. I knew they wouldn't fix the machine. I was right. They were going to send me back. The smiling man, I mean the man who really smiles, spoke to me, "In all the time I've been running this show, nothing like this has ever happened. I am so sorry. Here, take this," he handed me that disc, "this is your show, the episode you were on. When you get back here you can watch it. Perhaps you'll laugh. I hope so." Before they returned me, they said they would collect me at midnight on the Friday.

'And that's it. When I returned I knew I had to see someone. So I chose you. I decided that you would know what to do. If not, at least I had told someone, someone would believe me.'

I was curious about one thing, 'how do you know I'll believe you?'

'Because my dear chap, in' he glanced at his pocket watch again, 'two minutes, they'll take me back. And then some time later the real Arthur will appear in his bed.' I felt because of the confidence he exuded, that he must be telling the truth. Then I had an idea, 'come,' I said, getting up and walking over to the desk. I sat down facing the fire, he sat opposite, swinging lightly in the chair. I removed some paper, and asked him 'will you quickly right down roughly what happened, and sign it. Just so I have proof. Please.'

He glanced at his watch, 'I'm afraid it's too late. You must excuse me.' With that he vanished, the chair, empty, rocked silently back and forth.

So I write it down, this tale. I doubt anyone will believe me, I don't know if I believe him. But I know that I saw him disappear. Which is proof enough for me. I even have the disc. But I fear that it is not enough for others. You have the choice to believe it or not. But perhaps though, you might spare a thought for this fantastic notion...

We may not be who we think we are.

H. G. W.
February 14th 1897

The initials had no affect on the men, they knew the author, he had entrusted their respective (and respected) fathers with the document on the instructions that it be placed in a safety deposit box that was not to be opened until exactly one hundred years had passed, and so today, February 14th 1997 here they stood. Mr Clarke delved into the base of the box and removed a folded sheet of paper, that contained a circular object, a disk, the disk. With a surge of movement, unexpected of his age he grabbed the papers from the hands of his companions stuffed them, with the disk in his suit pocket and rushed out the door, as they attempted to follow, a laugh and the words 'didn't you want to be a hero?' echoed round the corridor he had fled to. When they turned and saw him, he lay slumped on the ground, asleep, the paper and disk nowhere to be seen. As they attempted to wake him, he mumbled something 'white, all white' then with a faint smile showing his dull yellow teeth, he rose from the ground.

Then with an unnatural poetic repetition, Mr Benyon spoke... 'We may not be who we think we are.'

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