“Now, for the first time, he's seeing that there really is a way out of this, and it's all so simple. You don't have to run away. You just meet somebody special and step sideways into a parallel universe.”
- Irvine Welsh
- Irvine Welsh
Prologue
Jasmine nudged Sheila as the people in front wheeled their suitcases off, and a space became free at the check-in desk. It had only taken ten minutes waiting here in Barcelona, compared to what always felt like hours back at Heathrow. But it was still difficult, this time; with the weight of a fortnight’s exploration on their shoulders, the two wanted nothing more than to sit down and enjoy a coffee.
The woman at the check-in desk, a young and typically well-groomed woman with dark silky hair, gave them a friendly smile. Sasha, her name badge read, for those who cared to see her as more than a means to an end.
“Hello,” she said warmly, and Sheila breathed a sigh of relief. She was English, or spoke it impeccably at least. It was not that they expected everyone to speak their language, but it was still a relief when they did, for Jasmine too. She had no desire to watch her adoptive grandmother confuse more of her vocab. It was bad enough when hombre and hambre had been confused, and rather than saying that she was hungry, Sheila had stated that she “had many men.”
Sasha scanned her eyes over the boarding passes, and Jasmine and Sheila held their breaths, waiting to be rolled back; the curse of every stand-by passenger. But Sasha beamed, and passed them their boarding cards.
“Seats 2B, 2C, and 2D.”
“An upgrade!” exclaimed Sheila, and took the passes. “How lovely!” She thanked her late husband, mentally, for getting her that job with Iberia.
Sasha took their two suitcases, and put them on the conveyor belt, tagging them and sending them off on their own adventures.
“Just head over to passport control,” she instructed, and pointed them in the direction of an area a few metres away, where a scary-looking airport security officer guarded some glass doors. “Enjoy your flight!”
They walked off to the area instructed, as Sheila fumbled around in her handbag for the passports. Jasmine looked back outside one last time. This was more or less the furthest she travelled, and she loved it every time.
Others travelled further, she knew that. But it never bothered her. Everyone had their boundaries, and not even the rich could even dream of travelling into space.
That, she decided as she prepared for her flight back to London, was a frankly absurd notion.
The woman at the check-in desk, a young and typically well-groomed woman with dark silky hair, gave them a friendly smile. Sasha, her name badge read, for those who cared to see her as more than a means to an end.
“Hello,” she said warmly, and Sheila breathed a sigh of relief. She was English, or spoke it impeccably at least. It was not that they expected everyone to speak their language, but it was still a relief when they did, for Jasmine too. She had no desire to watch her adoptive grandmother confuse more of her vocab. It was bad enough when hombre and hambre had been confused, and rather than saying that she was hungry, Sheila had stated that she “had many men.”
Sasha scanned her eyes over the boarding passes, and Jasmine and Sheila held their breaths, waiting to be rolled back; the curse of every stand-by passenger. But Sasha beamed, and passed them their boarding cards.
“Seats 2B, 2C, and 2D.”
“An upgrade!” exclaimed Sheila, and took the passes. “How lovely!” She thanked her late husband, mentally, for getting her that job with Iberia.
Sasha took their two suitcases, and put them on the conveyor belt, tagging them and sending them off on their own adventures.
“Just head over to passport control,” she instructed, and pointed them in the direction of an area a few metres away, where a scary-looking airport security officer guarded some glass doors. “Enjoy your flight!”
They walked off to the area instructed, as Sheila fumbled around in her handbag for the passports. Jasmine looked back outside one last time. This was more or less the furthest she travelled, and she loved it every time.
Others travelled further, she knew that. But it never bothered her. Everyone had their boundaries, and not even the rich could even dream of travelling into space.
That, she decided as she prepared for her flight back to London, was a frankly absurd notion.
Departures
Written by Janine Rivers
“What was your favourite thing this holiday?” asked Sheila. It was a tradition for them to review the events of their vacation once they were through passport control and airport security, relaxing airside while they waited for their gate to be announced.
These shops and seats just floated around, past the point of no return but not at the end. They were the airport’s purgatory, and Sheila used that opportunity to put into perspective the recent events of her life.
“I liked the rooftop restaurants,” admitted Jasmine. “It’s nice that you can go up there for free. What a rip-off Madrid was! There wasn’t even a good view from that one.”
“I liked the cathedral,” mused Sheila, staring up a European cosmetics store which neither of them recognised. “They’re lovely places, cathedrals.”
“They’re interesting,” said Jasmine, watching her wording. “I find them a bit depressing.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Jasmine considered. “They’re all about death.”
“No they’re not.”
“Did you see the paintings?”
“Hmm.” Sheila thought to herself, and panicked, as she always did, when they heard their gate announced. They rushed over, and joined the queue. Sheila huffed loudly when a man pushed in front of her, but was stopped by Jasmine from starting an argument. She guessed he was Italian, so the language barrier would not help tensions.
The queue took forever, and every subsequent passenger took longer. They eventually decided to sit down before Sheila’s ankle gave in. Jasmine pretended to join her as a gesture of compassion for the elderly, but was secretly glad of the rest herself.
They were approached by a Caribbean woman carrying a clipboard, wearing a dress resembling a curtain, who bent down and offered Sheila a sheet of paper. The sheet was some kind of form, and was topped with a fully-coloured banner showing an island so exotic that it probably came from Clipart.
“Hello,” she said, again in an open, friendly voice. It would not have surprised Jasmine at all to learn that she was competing with Sasha from check-in. “My name’s Christine, and I’m here from Sunset Forever Holidays. I’d like to offer you the chance to see some of the world’s best beaches, on a year-long cruise, all-inclusive. All you have to do is provide me with you name, your telephone number, and a short paragraph on your favourite country in the world.”
“Ooh!” Sheila’s eyes lit up. “I do love a cruise. My late husband took me on a cruise, once.”
Christine smiled, taken in by the old woman’s tales. Sheila left it there, however, as a throwaway remark.
“Favourite country.” She hesitated over the paper, twiddling the pen in her hand. “Hmm. I like France.”
“Did you go there with your husband too?” asked Christine.
“Him?” Sheila scoffed. “Goodness me, no. I went with another one. Right rogue. Had the most…”
“…not appropriate for this conversation,” Jasmine reminded her. “I don’t want to be removed from this flight…” Sheila smirked back at her.
She continued chatting away to Christine regardless, until the conversation reached the point where it became unclear which one of them was advertising to the other. Jasmine started to drift off, but was suddenly startled when a middle-aged man next to her tapped her on the shoulder, and brought her back to the world.
“Excuse me,” he was saying. He had a Scottish accent, which to Jasmine was more powerful a tool than a nuclear weapon. “Could you keep an eye on my bag, just for a second?”
It occurred to Jasmine then that the airport security announcements had done their job of conditioning her – she instantly recalled the warnings about unattended luggage, and weighed up whether or not this charismatic Scot might want to blow her up.
But hand luggage, she concluded, could be taken onto the flight. It would make far more sense to blow up a plane. Plus, he had a lovely smile, even if he was twice her age.
“Sure,” she found herself replying.
“Cheers.” The man stood up and made his way over to the queue. The other passengers at the gate stepped back, disgruntled, waving passports and complaining in languages from English to Mandarin. “Sorry to push,” he said. “But I need to know that I’m on this flight. I’m a pilot, and it’s important that I’m back in the UK within the next six hours so that I can fly in the morning.”
“Name?” asked the woman at the desk.
“Christopher,” he replied. “Christopher McKnight.”
The woman narrowed her eyes and scanned over the booking details. “No, sorry sir, you’ve been rolled back onto the next flight.”
“I need to be on this flight,” he insisted. “Otherwise I won’t be back to fly to Los Angeles tomorrow, and whoever stopped me getting on this flight will find themselves in a lot of trouble.”
He sounds like my headteacher, thought Jasmine. He’d make a good headteacher. Some people were just wasted on jobs that locked them in a room on their own.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” repeated the woman. There was probably a script for that. “There’s absolutely nothing I can do. These are just the details I’ve been sent through.”
“Okay,” said Christopher, surprisingly calm. “I’ll go and wait for the next flight. And someone here, hopefully not you, will end up losing their job.” He turned back, having now earned the respect of the other passengers but feeling a little guilty himself, and took his bag off the chair he had left it on. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at Jasmine, and left to return to airside.
Sheila finished filling out the form – along with a detailed narration of her life thus far – and passed it back to Christine, who hurried on to find more potential entrants. Once she noticed that the queue had gone down, Sheila joined the back of it.
“I don’t mind doing it,” lied Jasmine. “You rest your legs.”
“No, dear,” insisted Sheila. “If I can’t do things like this, then what am I good for?”
Jasmine decided not to argue. She sat back in her chair, and began to analyse the other passengers, assessing their potential terror threat as well. A little girl caught her eye; she was so small that she got away with standing on one of the chairs to talk and to play. She had her hand pressed against the glass, and was watching the planes fly up into the sky, her eyes full of wonder.
One day, she would discover science, or have it discovered for her. Planes would stop being birds, and would start becoming engines. They would no longer fly; they would just take a long time to fall.
Jasmine must have been watching the girl for longer than she thought, because Sheila arrived back moments later, shaking her head with not quite the same fervour as Christopher had, but undoubtedly the same disappointment. “We’re not on, dear. Back to baggage reclaim.”
***
The queue for Iberia’s baggage reclaim was the shortest yet, but seemed to take longer to finish than the Eurovision song contest. It was not even a queue, but a gathering: people arranged like statues, planted around one major monument.
The monument, of course, was another desk. A British woman, who looked only marginally older than Jasmine and upon whom Sheila instantly took pity, was standing behind it, politely and elegantly receiving all the vitriol thrown at her.
Natalie, her name badge read. Natalie was too exhausted to adjust it, as it just failed to form a right angle with her jacket pocket.
“Don’t give me that!” A mother, presumably, was speaking; there was a man who stood next to her, apparently mute, and three tired-looking children, loitering at her feet. They were Northern Irish, but their accents were only faint. “My son has a severe nut allergy, and his epipen is in the suitcase. If he went into anaphylaxis, I bet you’d be able to find it for him then!”
Natalie started to put forward a compelling case for why that was not the case, whilst Jasmine resorted to a simpler thought: liar. There was no way anyone, not even her ditsy adoptive grandmother, would not keep an epipen in their hand luggage if their child had a severe allergy. In fact, some obscure law probably stated that was abuse.
Sheila was panicking now, fiddling with a handkerchief. Jasmine could hardly blame her. They were evidently going to be stuck here for quite some time.
Jasmine looked across at a boy in the queue behind her. Boy. She criticised her own vocabulary. Young man, her teachers would say. He wore a shirt and hoodie, and had the kind of hair that looked brilliant even when no care was taken with it. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, the kind of smile that was almost a laugh, and gave her a crippling sense of embarrassment inside. She turned back to Sheila.
“It’s okay,” she said, trying her best to reassure her. “We’ll get our suitcase back.” She hoped that the boy behind could see her, calming down the old woman, and then wondered why she had just hoped that.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Sheila. “I’ll go and check the conveyor, you hold my place in the queue.”
“Sure.” Jasmine held onto Sheila’s hand luggage for her, and took the opportunity to try and talk to the boy – young man – behind her. “Lost yours too?” she asked, and felt her dignity return as her attempt to strike up a casual conversation was met with victory.
He nodded. “I’m definitely trying not to lose patience with the family at the front.”
Jasmine chuckled. “Me neither. Neither? Too, I mean. Me… too.” She wondered then if her correction had made the grammar worse, and cursed herself.
“Was that your grandmother with you?” he asked kindly, sensing that she was nervous.
“Yeah.”
“I think she has the right idea,” said the young man. “I’m going to go and check the conveyor belt myself.”
He left, and was replaced with Sheila, who returned to her place in the queue. “Nothing,” she huffed. They waited a moment, until everyone turned at the sound of the young man’s voice calling back.
“A suitcase has just come off the belt!” he was calling. “Is there a Sparks here?”
“That’s me!” yelped Jasmine, and ran to take the suitcase from him. “Thank you so much.”
What she really wanted to do was kick the conveyor belt for ruining what might have been a decent social encounter. She happily would have waited in that queue a while longer, even if it meant carrying Sheila on her shoulders.
She nearly buckled under the weight of the suitcase, but did her best to pretend that it was no problem for her. Sparks was indeed written on the label, in bright red gel pen so as not to be missed.
“Nice surname,” said the young man, smiling. Jasmine felt herself blush, and left with Sheila.
***
Jasmine poked her sandwich, if indeed it could be called that. It was a bit of bread with a few slices of cheese placed over a few slices of ham, which looked industrially produced. It was a bit disgusting, overpriced, and not entirely hygienic. Besides, Jasmine was not in the mood for eating, as her stomach reminded her with occasional spasmodic rhythms.
Sheila was sat opposite, in a world of her own, as she flicked excitedly through the pages of her book: Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman. Jasmine recalled coming across a quote from that novel before – something about being tied to your own fate, but having to act like you weren’t, or whatever. It looked like a good read, but unsurprisingly it got added to her stockpile of things to do.
“I’ll go and check if we’re on the next flight,” said Jasmine, deciding to leave the sandwich. She took out her phone and checked the time. “We should find out by now.”
“I’ll be right here,” murmured Sheila, not looking up from her book.
Jasmine made her way back to the check-in desk. Sasha had gone, abandoned her post, and when Jasmine saw the board of flight times she understood why.
Delayed.
She sighed. Turning back, she thought for a moment that she was hallucinating, as the young man from baggage reclaim was standing behind her, somehow still here. He smiled at her again. He was carrying a suitcase, this time.
“You found what you were looking for, then?” asked Jasmine.
He frowned, then realised she was talking about the suitcase. “Oh, yeah, I did. What about you?”
“You know I did.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Can I, um…” The young man ran a hand through his hair. Jasmine smirked, for some reason amused by the action. “There’s a coffee shop here, if you want, we could… I could get you a coffee, or a tea or whatever, or lemonade if that’s, whatever you like, while we’re waiting, if you’re…”
Jasmine laughed. “That would be lovely, thanks. Maybe tell me your name first.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” The young man blushed. “Tommy, my name’s Tommy Lindsay.”
***
There was no one else in the café, save for the two young people and their families. Sheila sat on a table on her own, secretly relieved to be able to finish her book in peace, though found herself looking up at Jasmine and Tommy half the time, seeing whether anything had changed. Tommy’s parents worked on entertaining his younger sister, realising now how much he did to keep her preoccupied.
“Can’t believe we’re on the same flight,” said Jasmine, taking a bite out of her croissant. Her stomach had announced that it was now ready for food, and she had ordered herself one with good intentions. She now wished she hadn’t – it was impossible to eat one without creating some sort of post-apocalyptic mess throughout the café, and she was forever conscious that Tommy might be watching her do it.
“Why’s that?” asked Tommy, in response to her remark. “It was likely we’d be on the same one they messed up with the luggage.”
“Well, yeah, I know.” I don’t know, thought Jasmine. I don’t even know what I’m saying, or whether it’s going to start making any sense. “I just mean… I don’t know what I mean.”
She did know what she was feeling. Something inside of her was telling her that it was strange that they had met here – as if the young man were an old friend of hers; that seeing him here was, if not miraculous, at least the luckiest thing ever to happen to her.
“So what do you do?” Tommy asked, changing the subject.
“Me?” Jasmine laughed nervously. “Well I don’t do anything… I mean, I’m doing my A Levels at the moment.”
“Which subjects?”
“English Language, Music, History.”
Tommy nodded. “Nice selection. Broad choice, broader than mine, I fell down on the History side. Did…” he thought about it. It was only recent, and he kicked himself for burying the memories away. “Damn, what was it? History, Classics, Philosophy… gave up Lit…”
“And you’re at uni now?”
“Uni, yup.” Tommy noticed that Jasmine was struggling with her croissant, and remembered that he was struggling with his blood sugar. “Mind if I…?”
“Go for it!”
He tore off the end, and lathered it in jam. Jasmine was relieved that she now had company in making a mess. “Yeah, I’m at uni, last year. KCL. That’s K-”
“King’s College London, yup.” Jasmine smiled. “It’s my uni choices year coming up, remember?”
“Yes! Do you know what you’re planning on taking?”
Jasmine shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m a bit of an all-rounder. I like everything I do.”
“A lot of people are like that. Maybe start with the career and work backwards. Or just pick something you like.”
“Career,” decided Jasmine. “Okay, I would like to…” she stared past Tommy, looking wistfully up at the Café Peacepoint sign. No, she told herself, I don’t think that’s quite the career for me. “God, I don’t know. I’d love to just write a book and leave it at that, to be honest. I guess I could teach, if I had to. Ooh! I could be cabin crew or something, and see the world that way…”
When she turned back, she realised that Tommy was smirking to himself.
“What?” she asked, a little offended.
“Nothing,” said Tommy, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s just… I love people without plans. They’re always the most interesting.”
“I usually have a plan!” re-joined Jasmine. “For most things, I’m great. It’s just my own life, it’s quite hard to figure out. I don’t even know what I’d write a book about…” she realised she was trailing off. “And I suppose you’re a natural planner, are you?”
“Totally,” Tommy said unconvincingly. “Like, born with a plan. Even this is part of the plan, you’re all just pawns in my great scheme.”
“I’m here to help you create life itself!” joked Jasmine. When she realised what she had said, she prayed for the ground to swallow her up. “Oh God!” she exclaimed. “No, not like that! Stop it!”
Tommy had gone bright red with laughter. His dimples were showing, Jasmine noticed. Every cloud, as they always said…
“I’m just going to find the, uh, restroom,” said Jasmine, not even to escape. She genuinely found herself needing the toilet, but soon realised that she would be leaving her hand luggage here with a stranger. “Can you watch my hand luggage?” She remembered her own paranoid thought processes from earlier. “I’m not a terrorist, I swear, I’m just dying for the loo.”
Tommy chuckled. “Sure.”
Jasmine continued having a conversation inside her head as she walked off. Why did I call it a restroom? Neither of us are even American. You're mad.
***
Airport loos were perfect, Jasmine decided as she washed her hands. Doors wide open, self-flushing toilets, and touch-sensitive taps and soap dispensers. It meant that you could walk out of the toilet without making the entire act of hand-washing redundant.
She stopped before leaving, and checked herself in the mirror. The hairspray had kept her long dark hair, now in need of a haircut, in the place it should be. There were no bits of croissant and jam around her mouth, so all her suspicions could be put to rest.
I’m old, she found herself thinking. Why do I feel old? Her skin was soft, a spotless post-pubescent time which she treasured. She was wide awake and it was the middle of the night; she was energetic and had hardly eaten.
Her memory only reached back about thirteen or fourteen years, and records of her, only seventeen. There were no other memories. But when she looked into her own eyes, a mirror’s way of trapping one in an endless state of mutual scrutiny, she felt there was something that they were not telling her.
They’re older than the rest of me, she thought, before dismissing that as a load of rubbish, and returning to Café Peacepoint.
***
“Two queens,” said Jasmine, placing the cards down, face flat.
“King of spades,” said Tommy, and placed his singular card down.
“Bullshit! You’ve played that already.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Have I?” He lifted the card, and Jasmine saw that, in fact, he had not.
“You crafty little… who the heck taught you to play this?”
“An old friend,” said Tommy enigmatically, before frowning. “That’s weird, I can’t remember for the life of me who it was.” He shrugged. “It’ll come back to me.”
“Right, I’m going to go and queue.” Jasmine stood up and smiled at Sheila, who looked up briefly from her table. She was a page from the end of Northern Lights now, and she had liked something about the ending.
“I’ll queue with you if you want,” said Tommy.
“Nah, don’t worry. It’ll only take a minute.”
Jasmine joined the back of the queue, finding herself behind a woman in her late thirties, her husband, and her young child. He was a boy, about seven or eight, with short brown hair and a freckled nose. He somehow still had the whole, undivided attention of both his parents. He looked up at Jasmine with a beam, in the way that children do without their parents even realising, and she smiled back warmly.
Kids, she thought to herself. Now there’s a plan. She cringed again, remembering her comment about creating life.
“Hello mister,” she whispered. “Good holiday?”
He continued to smile back, not quite sure what to say. The parents noticed, and turned around.
“Oh, what are you like, Tommy?” asked the mother. Jasmine was taken aback, but the mother smiled kindly at her. “This is our little one, Tommy.”
“Another Tommy!”
“Another?”
“Oh, uh, my… never mind, I know another Tommy.” She looked down at the boy again. “Hello, Tommy.”
“I’m Robin,” said the mother. “This is my husband, Harry.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jasmine tried to reciprocate her warmth. “How long have you two being staying here for?”
“A fortnight,” replied Robin. “We come here every couple of years.” She took her husband’s arm playfully. “This is where we came on our honeymoon. Annoyingly, I’ve got an ear infection this time, so the flight home should be less than fun.”
Jasmine winced.
“Don’t worry,” added Robin. “I’ll live. Hopefully!” The check-in desk became free. “Oh, I think that’s you.”
“I think you were…”
“Oh, go on, you go first!” Robin and her husband grinned at Jasmine, and she decided just to go with it. Sasha was back on check-in, and smiled at her as if this were the first time they had met.
“Miss Sparks,” she said. She did remember. She hit a few keys, but seemed to already know what she was going to say. “You’re on this one.”
Jasmine placed the luggage back on the conveyor belt, and once again it was labelled up. Judging by the looks on the other passengers’ faces as she walked away, they too would soon be going home.
***
Jasmine loved planes; or at least, loved entering them. That feeling of stepping off the ground and into this strange technological space, from a flimsy tunnel to a fully air-conditioned ship that would be about to leave the ground; being welcomed at the door by people who seemed to know her…
It reminded her of something. She dismissed the thought, because she did not know what. Human lives, she thought, were spent experiencing déjà vu. Even when they weren’t, they were just idly creating it for future anxiety.
“1A this time,” she murmured, showing Sheila the tickets. “You’re 1D, start of the next row along. They must have put someone else in 1C. Unusual.”
They found their row instantly, as it was the first. Jasmine took Sheila’s hand luggage off her, and stowed it away in the overhead locker. She found that she was stronger than most of her friends at school, but that was no surprise. Her father was never around, and the closest person she had to a mother was well into old age.
She didn’t mind. The only people who ever minded at school were the boys, perturbed at the thought of a girl who could lift more than they could, as if that signalled some kind of super-strength. She wished that she had gone to school with more boys like Tommy.
And on that thought, like a wish being granted, he sat down next to her.
“1C,” he said. “That’s lucky.”
Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe it, thought Jasmine. She wanted to say something to Tommy, but was distracted. A part of her wanted to leave the ground, right now. Not just a distant desire to get home after an exhausting night – it was something else. Like if she didn’t leave soon, it would catch up with her.
Whatever ‘it’ is. She shuddered, and wondered if this was what her friends meant when they said that ‘love does strange things’.
A tall Russian man sat next to Sheila, and Jasmine breathed a sigh of relief. That was one less person to take care of on the flight.
“Are you all right?” asked Tommy, not to make conversation, but apparently out of genuine concern.
“Yeah… I think so.” She tried to laugh it off. “You’ve just got to hope I don’t need the loo a lot during the flight, Mr Aisle Seat.”
Tommy tried to laugh as well, but looked too concerned. “Jasmine.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re crying.”
Jasmine put her hand to her face, and realised that she was. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, emotions created out of nothing, events without a cause. She shivered again, and felt it lasting this time. Her hand was trembling. She rested it on the arm of her seat.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Probably just allergies. Hayfever’s worse in Spain. It’s…”
She looked at Tommy again, and felt the sensation she had felt when she met him, when she spoke to him, and which had held her up for those few brief moments in the restroom. This time, it took the form of words, and made sense.
I know you.
“I’ll be fine,” said Jasmine, and sat back. She needed time to think. Just a bit longer.
The plane was moving now, preparing to take off. It made its way onto the runway, and the engines started to power up properly. The airport became a blur, and her heart stopped for one brief moment as she felt the plane leave the ground.
She looked out of the window. The city below was all lit up, and somewhere out there, those fountains were probably entertaining crowds of hundreds. But all she wanted was to land; that sense of urgency had returned, and now it spurred her on through this journey, too.
Hurry up. Land, land, land…
Jasmine turned back to Tommy. She had taken her time to think, and what she saw now was clearer. He looked back at her, somehow knowing that she would turn to him in that exact moment. He was the Tommy she always knew, the Tommy she could always rely on, the Tommy she’d always…
“Tommy Lindsay,” she uttered, and it all clicked into place. “Just… remember me.”
He gasped, and Jasmine took the opportunity to deflect his own words back at him.
“You’re crying.”
“Yes, I am. Jasmine Sparks.” They reached out across the empty seat and linked hands. Somehow that was enough, and it was Jasmine who decided to do something about that. The seatbelt sign flashed off, and she unclicked her own, moving over to the next seat along, and, much to the surprise of the other customers, embraced him in what she thought was a categorically satisfying snog.
It was not something she had waited to do. She understood now: it was something she had waited to do again.
Sheila was not quite sure how to respond, so turned to the family behind her, lending Robin some chewing gum to help with the pressure caused by the ear infection.
Jasmine and Tommy paused for breath, before she reached over to undo the first button of his shirt. Well, he looked better with two undone, she thought.
“Ahem.”
She saw the Captain standing over her, just out of the corner of her eye, and paused.
“Sorry.”
“Ahem,” repeated the Captain.
Wait a minute, thought Jasmine. What’s the Captain doing out of the cockpit?
She turned around to face him, and realised that she recognised him too. Not just from that other life, that distant memory.
She knew him from all of them.
Every world that could have been, every world that was, every one that should never have happened.
“You’re breaking the rules, Jasmine Sparks,” said God, and took off his hat, passing it kindly to Sheila. Jasmine’s first instinct was to jump up and protect her adoptive grandmother, but she decided not to, staying instead in front of Tommy as his protector.
She didn’t know why, but something told her that Tommy needed protecting above the rest.
“You remembered, then,” God continued. “That’s rare. But then, all of this is really quite rare. You see… Tommy, you know who I am, don’t you?”
Tommy nodded, grimacing. “I remember you, God.”
“And tell me one of the key traits of almost any monotheistic God.”
“Omniscience,” tried Tommy. “Knowledge of all things.”
“Well done,” said God, with a mocking little clap. “But this is how it works in the real world. I create… let’s call them mirror universes. The mirror universes reflect our universe, but from a different angle each time. They function according to the same physical laws as your own, like parallel universes, other than the fact that they are derived from your own. As soon as any of you become aware of where you are, you’re able to regain the memories you had in the original universe. Does that make sense?”
“That’s how we remembered each other,” murmured Tommy, understanding. “Because we saw each other again.”
“Unlikely,” said God. “Almost impossible, in fact. But it happened nonetheless. I’ve created an infinite number of mirror universes, but in this one you all ended up together, in the same place at the same time.”
“I still don’t understand,” interrupted Jasmine. “How do these universes give you the knowledge of all things?”
“Because in each one,” explained God, “a different possibility plays out. As I said, like parallel universes. I can thus attain knowledge of every possible outcome of every possible action, and from a naturalistic point of view - as a non-interfering bystander. Say, if I want to know how someone will respond to a particular traumatic event, I just visit the universe in which that traumatic event happened.”
He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. Everyone else in the plane, who had been preoccupied, gasped, suddenly realising that there was nowhere to run. Before they could react, he found his aim and shot Tommy Lindsay in the stomach. Jasmine screamed, and as if on cue, the plane jolted.
“Oh dear,” joked God. “I wonder what the pilot’s up to.”
“Help him!” cried Jasmine. "For... please, help him!”
“Not long ‘til Tommy’s dead now,” said God. “Again.” He continued, like a scientist making fascinated observations. “But don’t you see? This is what I was talking about.”
Tommy had fallen on the floor, and Jasmine crouched down with him, cradling his body in her arms. He looked back at her. His eyes were starting to close, and he was trying to grip onto her, weakly, with blood-soaked hands.
She felt older than she ever had. But Tommy – Tommy just seemed so young.
“In this reality,” continued God, “Tommy Lindsay died. And now I can observe your response. Because here’s the really interesting thing. You love him, you’ll miss him, and you’re terrified of what will happen when those eyes of his close… but actually, your first response isn’t to mourn him at all.” His voice turned serious. “It’s to avenge him.”
“I’ll kill you,” whispered Jasmine, before repeating it louder. “I SWEAR, IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO, I WILL WIPE YOU FROM EVERY POSSIBLE UNIVERSE!”
“You’ll try,” agreed God. “And that’s all I needed to know. Because now, I’m going to return to your universe, and I’m going to stop you. Enjoy your last few minutes together.”
“Please,” begged Jasmine, going in a single moment from making death threats to grovelling at his feet. “I’ll do anything, anything at all. I can’t live without him.”
God laughed cruelly, and put his cap back on. “Oh, child. You won’t have to.”
The old man re-entered the cockpit, and Jasmine exchanged a worried glance with Sheila. Seconds later, just as Jasmine had Tommy securely back in her grip, the plane began to plummet. Those passengers not secured now hit the roof, a few cases of concussion, and even one death, spreading throughout the cabin.
A drinks trolley raced down the aisle, obeying the plane’s downward motion.
Falling.
Falling.
Jasmine closed her eyes. She could almost block it out. All the sounds became one, concentrated into one place.
Tommy’s heartbeat. A simple rhythm, built into every human being. The rhythm faltered – or was it Jasmine’s hand moving? It was impossible to tell.
They were getting lower now, closer to the ground. She was sure of it. Her mind found new questions, new kinds of paranoia she hoped she would never have to experience. Gone were worries about shifty glances and strange-shaped bags; now the real questions were starting:
How long until we hit the sea?
How will my friends find out?
What will happen to my body?
Will Tommy feel it?
Will he ever know that I...
These shops and seats just floated around, past the point of no return but not at the end. They were the airport’s purgatory, and Sheila used that opportunity to put into perspective the recent events of her life.
“I liked the rooftop restaurants,” admitted Jasmine. “It’s nice that you can go up there for free. What a rip-off Madrid was! There wasn’t even a good view from that one.”
“I liked the cathedral,” mused Sheila, staring up a European cosmetics store which neither of them recognised. “They’re lovely places, cathedrals.”
“They’re interesting,” said Jasmine, watching her wording. “I find them a bit depressing.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Jasmine considered. “They’re all about death.”
“No they’re not.”
“Did you see the paintings?”
“Hmm.” Sheila thought to herself, and panicked, as she always did, when they heard their gate announced. They rushed over, and joined the queue. Sheila huffed loudly when a man pushed in front of her, but was stopped by Jasmine from starting an argument. She guessed he was Italian, so the language barrier would not help tensions.
The queue took forever, and every subsequent passenger took longer. They eventually decided to sit down before Sheila’s ankle gave in. Jasmine pretended to join her as a gesture of compassion for the elderly, but was secretly glad of the rest herself.
They were approached by a Caribbean woman carrying a clipboard, wearing a dress resembling a curtain, who bent down and offered Sheila a sheet of paper. The sheet was some kind of form, and was topped with a fully-coloured banner showing an island so exotic that it probably came from Clipart.
“Hello,” she said, again in an open, friendly voice. It would not have surprised Jasmine at all to learn that she was competing with Sasha from check-in. “My name’s Christine, and I’m here from Sunset Forever Holidays. I’d like to offer you the chance to see some of the world’s best beaches, on a year-long cruise, all-inclusive. All you have to do is provide me with you name, your telephone number, and a short paragraph on your favourite country in the world.”
“Ooh!” Sheila’s eyes lit up. “I do love a cruise. My late husband took me on a cruise, once.”
Christine smiled, taken in by the old woman’s tales. Sheila left it there, however, as a throwaway remark.
“Favourite country.” She hesitated over the paper, twiddling the pen in her hand. “Hmm. I like France.”
“Did you go there with your husband too?” asked Christine.
“Him?” Sheila scoffed. “Goodness me, no. I went with another one. Right rogue. Had the most…”
“…not appropriate for this conversation,” Jasmine reminded her. “I don’t want to be removed from this flight…” Sheila smirked back at her.
She continued chatting away to Christine regardless, until the conversation reached the point where it became unclear which one of them was advertising to the other. Jasmine started to drift off, but was suddenly startled when a middle-aged man next to her tapped her on the shoulder, and brought her back to the world.
“Excuse me,” he was saying. He had a Scottish accent, which to Jasmine was more powerful a tool than a nuclear weapon. “Could you keep an eye on my bag, just for a second?”
It occurred to Jasmine then that the airport security announcements had done their job of conditioning her – she instantly recalled the warnings about unattended luggage, and weighed up whether or not this charismatic Scot might want to blow her up.
But hand luggage, she concluded, could be taken onto the flight. It would make far more sense to blow up a plane. Plus, he had a lovely smile, even if he was twice her age.
“Sure,” she found herself replying.
“Cheers.” The man stood up and made his way over to the queue. The other passengers at the gate stepped back, disgruntled, waving passports and complaining in languages from English to Mandarin. “Sorry to push,” he said. “But I need to know that I’m on this flight. I’m a pilot, and it’s important that I’m back in the UK within the next six hours so that I can fly in the morning.”
“Name?” asked the woman at the desk.
“Christopher,” he replied. “Christopher McKnight.”
The woman narrowed her eyes and scanned over the booking details. “No, sorry sir, you’ve been rolled back onto the next flight.”
“I need to be on this flight,” he insisted. “Otherwise I won’t be back to fly to Los Angeles tomorrow, and whoever stopped me getting on this flight will find themselves in a lot of trouble.”
He sounds like my headteacher, thought Jasmine. He’d make a good headteacher. Some people were just wasted on jobs that locked them in a room on their own.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” repeated the woman. There was probably a script for that. “There’s absolutely nothing I can do. These are just the details I’ve been sent through.”
“Okay,” said Christopher, surprisingly calm. “I’ll go and wait for the next flight. And someone here, hopefully not you, will end up losing their job.” He turned back, having now earned the respect of the other passengers but feeling a little guilty himself, and took his bag off the chair he had left it on. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at Jasmine, and left to return to airside.
Sheila finished filling out the form – along with a detailed narration of her life thus far – and passed it back to Christine, who hurried on to find more potential entrants. Once she noticed that the queue had gone down, Sheila joined the back of it.
“I don’t mind doing it,” lied Jasmine. “You rest your legs.”
“No, dear,” insisted Sheila. “If I can’t do things like this, then what am I good for?”
Jasmine decided not to argue. She sat back in her chair, and began to analyse the other passengers, assessing their potential terror threat as well. A little girl caught her eye; she was so small that she got away with standing on one of the chairs to talk and to play. She had her hand pressed against the glass, and was watching the planes fly up into the sky, her eyes full of wonder.
One day, she would discover science, or have it discovered for her. Planes would stop being birds, and would start becoming engines. They would no longer fly; they would just take a long time to fall.
Jasmine must have been watching the girl for longer than she thought, because Sheila arrived back moments later, shaking her head with not quite the same fervour as Christopher had, but undoubtedly the same disappointment. “We’re not on, dear. Back to baggage reclaim.”
***
The queue for Iberia’s baggage reclaim was the shortest yet, but seemed to take longer to finish than the Eurovision song contest. It was not even a queue, but a gathering: people arranged like statues, planted around one major monument.
The monument, of course, was another desk. A British woman, who looked only marginally older than Jasmine and upon whom Sheila instantly took pity, was standing behind it, politely and elegantly receiving all the vitriol thrown at her.
Natalie, her name badge read. Natalie was too exhausted to adjust it, as it just failed to form a right angle with her jacket pocket.
“Don’t give me that!” A mother, presumably, was speaking; there was a man who stood next to her, apparently mute, and three tired-looking children, loitering at her feet. They were Northern Irish, but their accents were only faint. “My son has a severe nut allergy, and his epipen is in the suitcase. If he went into anaphylaxis, I bet you’d be able to find it for him then!”
Natalie started to put forward a compelling case for why that was not the case, whilst Jasmine resorted to a simpler thought: liar. There was no way anyone, not even her ditsy adoptive grandmother, would not keep an epipen in their hand luggage if their child had a severe allergy. In fact, some obscure law probably stated that was abuse.
Sheila was panicking now, fiddling with a handkerchief. Jasmine could hardly blame her. They were evidently going to be stuck here for quite some time.
Jasmine looked across at a boy in the queue behind her. Boy. She criticised her own vocabulary. Young man, her teachers would say. He wore a shirt and hoodie, and had the kind of hair that looked brilliant even when no care was taken with it. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, the kind of smile that was almost a laugh, and gave her a crippling sense of embarrassment inside. She turned back to Sheila.
“It’s okay,” she said, trying her best to reassure her. “We’ll get our suitcase back.” She hoped that the boy behind could see her, calming down the old woman, and then wondered why she had just hoped that.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Sheila. “I’ll go and check the conveyor, you hold my place in the queue.”
“Sure.” Jasmine held onto Sheila’s hand luggage for her, and took the opportunity to try and talk to the boy – young man – behind her. “Lost yours too?” she asked, and felt her dignity return as her attempt to strike up a casual conversation was met with victory.
He nodded. “I’m definitely trying not to lose patience with the family at the front.”
Jasmine chuckled. “Me neither. Neither? Too, I mean. Me… too.” She wondered then if her correction had made the grammar worse, and cursed herself.
“Was that your grandmother with you?” he asked kindly, sensing that she was nervous.
“Yeah.”
“I think she has the right idea,” said the young man. “I’m going to go and check the conveyor belt myself.”
He left, and was replaced with Sheila, who returned to her place in the queue. “Nothing,” she huffed. They waited a moment, until everyone turned at the sound of the young man’s voice calling back.
“A suitcase has just come off the belt!” he was calling. “Is there a Sparks here?”
“That’s me!” yelped Jasmine, and ran to take the suitcase from him. “Thank you so much.”
What she really wanted to do was kick the conveyor belt for ruining what might have been a decent social encounter. She happily would have waited in that queue a while longer, even if it meant carrying Sheila on her shoulders.
She nearly buckled under the weight of the suitcase, but did her best to pretend that it was no problem for her. Sparks was indeed written on the label, in bright red gel pen so as not to be missed.
“Nice surname,” said the young man, smiling. Jasmine felt herself blush, and left with Sheila.
***
Jasmine poked her sandwich, if indeed it could be called that. It was a bit of bread with a few slices of cheese placed over a few slices of ham, which looked industrially produced. It was a bit disgusting, overpriced, and not entirely hygienic. Besides, Jasmine was not in the mood for eating, as her stomach reminded her with occasional spasmodic rhythms.
Sheila was sat opposite, in a world of her own, as she flicked excitedly through the pages of her book: Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman. Jasmine recalled coming across a quote from that novel before – something about being tied to your own fate, but having to act like you weren’t, or whatever. It looked like a good read, but unsurprisingly it got added to her stockpile of things to do.
“I’ll go and check if we’re on the next flight,” said Jasmine, deciding to leave the sandwich. She took out her phone and checked the time. “We should find out by now.”
“I’ll be right here,” murmured Sheila, not looking up from her book.
Jasmine made her way back to the check-in desk. Sasha had gone, abandoned her post, and when Jasmine saw the board of flight times she understood why.
Delayed.
She sighed. Turning back, she thought for a moment that she was hallucinating, as the young man from baggage reclaim was standing behind her, somehow still here. He smiled at her again. He was carrying a suitcase, this time.
“You found what you were looking for, then?” asked Jasmine.
He frowned, then realised she was talking about the suitcase. “Oh, yeah, I did. What about you?”
“You know I did.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Can I, um…” The young man ran a hand through his hair. Jasmine smirked, for some reason amused by the action. “There’s a coffee shop here, if you want, we could… I could get you a coffee, or a tea or whatever, or lemonade if that’s, whatever you like, while we’re waiting, if you’re…”
Jasmine laughed. “That would be lovely, thanks. Maybe tell me your name first.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” The young man blushed. “Tommy, my name’s Tommy Lindsay.”
***
There was no one else in the café, save for the two young people and their families. Sheila sat on a table on her own, secretly relieved to be able to finish her book in peace, though found herself looking up at Jasmine and Tommy half the time, seeing whether anything had changed. Tommy’s parents worked on entertaining his younger sister, realising now how much he did to keep her preoccupied.
“Can’t believe we’re on the same flight,” said Jasmine, taking a bite out of her croissant. Her stomach had announced that it was now ready for food, and she had ordered herself one with good intentions. She now wished she hadn’t – it was impossible to eat one without creating some sort of post-apocalyptic mess throughout the café, and she was forever conscious that Tommy might be watching her do it.
“Why’s that?” asked Tommy, in response to her remark. “It was likely we’d be on the same one they messed up with the luggage.”
“Well, yeah, I know.” I don’t know, thought Jasmine. I don’t even know what I’m saying, or whether it’s going to start making any sense. “I just mean… I don’t know what I mean.”
She did know what she was feeling. Something inside of her was telling her that it was strange that they had met here – as if the young man were an old friend of hers; that seeing him here was, if not miraculous, at least the luckiest thing ever to happen to her.
“So what do you do?” Tommy asked, changing the subject.
“Me?” Jasmine laughed nervously. “Well I don’t do anything… I mean, I’m doing my A Levels at the moment.”
“Which subjects?”
“English Language, Music, History.”
Tommy nodded. “Nice selection. Broad choice, broader than mine, I fell down on the History side. Did…” he thought about it. It was only recent, and he kicked himself for burying the memories away. “Damn, what was it? History, Classics, Philosophy… gave up Lit…”
“And you’re at uni now?”
“Uni, yup.” Tommy noticed that Jasmine was struggling with her croissant, and remembered that he was struggling with his blood sugar. “Mind if I…?”
“Go for it!”
He tore off the end, and lathered it in jam. Jasmine was relieved that she now had company in making a mess. “Yeah, I’m at uni, last year. KCL. That’s K-”
“King’s College London, yup.” Jasmine smiled. “It’s my uni choices year coming up, remember?”
“Yes! Do you know what you’re planning on taking?”
Jasmine shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m a bit of an all-rounder. I like everything I do.”
“A lot of people are like that. Maybe start with the career and work backwards. Or just pick something you like.”
“Career,” decided Jasmine. “Okay, I would like to…” she stared past Tommy, looking wistfully up at the Café Peacepoint sign. No, she told herself, I don’t think that’s quite the career for me. “God, I don’t know. I’d love to just write a book and leave it at that, to be honest. I guess I could teach, if I had to. Ooh! I could be cabin crew or something, and see the world that way…”
When she turned back, she realised that Tommy was smirking to himself.
“What?” she asked, a little offended.
“Nothing,” said Tommy, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s just… I love people without plans. They’re always the most interesting.”
“I usually have a plan!” re-joined Jasmine. “For most things, I’m great. It’s just my own life, it’s quite hard to figure out. I don’t even know what I’d write a book about…” she realised she was trailing off. “And I suppose you’re a natural planner, are you?”
“Totally,” Tommy said unconvincingly. “Like, born with a plan. Even this is part of the plan, you’re all just pawns in my great scheme.”
“I’m here to help you create life itself!” joked Jasmine. When she realised what she had said, she prayed for the ground to swallow her up. “Oh God!” she exclaimed. “No, not like that! Stop it!”
Tommy had gone bright red with laughter. His dimples were showing, Jasmine noticed. Every cloud, as they always said…
“I’m just going to find the, uh, restroom,” said Jasmine, not even to escape. She genuinely found herself needing the toilet, but soon realised that she would be leaving her hand luggage here with a stranger. “Can you watch my hand luggage?” She remembered her own paranoid thought processes from earlier. “I’m not a terrorist, I swear, I’m just dying for the loo.”
Tommy chuckled. “Sure.”
Jasmine continued having a conversation inside her head as she walked off. Why did I call it a restroom? Neither of us are even American. You're mad.
***
Airport loos were perfect, Jasmine decided as she washed her hands. Doors wide open, self-flushing toilets, and touch-sensitive taps and soap dispensers. It meant that you could walk out of the toilet without making the entire act of hand-washing redundant.
She stopped before leaving, and checked herself in the mirror. The hairspray had kept her long dark hair, now in need of a haircut, in the place it should be. There were no bits of croissant and jam around her mouth, so all her suspicions could be put to rest.
I’m old, she found herself thinking. Why do I feel old? Her skin was soft, a spotless post-pubescent time which she treasured. She was wide awake and it was the middle of the night; she was energetic and had hardly eaten.
Her memory only reached back about thirteen or fourteen years, and records of her, only seventeen. There were no other memories. But when she looked into her own eyes, a mirror’s way of trapping one in an endless state of mutual scrutiny, she felt there was something that they were not telling her.
They’re older than the rest of me, she thought, before dismissing that as a load of rubbish, and returning to Café Peacepoint.
***
“Two queens,” said Jasmine, placing the cards down, face flat.
“King of spades,” said Tommy, and placed his singular card down.
“Bullshit! You’ve played that already.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Have I?” He lifted the card, and Jasmine saw that, in fact, he had not.
“You crafty little… who the heck taught you to play this?”
“An old friend,” said Tommy enigmatically, before frowning. “That’s weird, I can’t remember for the life of me who it was.” He shrugged. “It’ll come back to me.”
“Right, I’m going to go and queue.” Jasmine stood up and smiled at Sheila, who looked up briefly from her table. She was a page from the end of Northern Lights now, and she had liked something about the ending.
“I’ll queue with you if you want,” said Tommy.
“Nah, don’t worry. It’ll only take a minute.”
Jasmine joined the back of the queue, finding herself behind a woman in her late thirties, her husband, and her young child. He was a boy, about seven or eight, with short brown hair and a freckled nose. He somehow still had the whole, undivided attention of both his parents. He looked up at Jasmine with a beam, in the way that children do without their parents even realising, and she smiled back warmly.
Kids, she thought to herself. Now there’s a plan. She cringed again, remembering her comment about creating life.
“Hello mister,” she whispered. “Good holiday?”
He continued to smile back, not quite sure what to say. The parents noticed, and turned around.
“Oh, what are you like, Tommy?” asked the mother. Jasmine was taken aback, but the mother smiled kindly at her. “This is our little one, Tommy.”
“Another Tommy!”
“Another?”
“Oh, uh, my… never mind, I know another Tommy.” She looked down at the boy again. “Hello, Tommy.”
“I’m Robin,” said the mother. “This is my husband, Harry.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jasmine tried to reciprocate her warmth. “How long have you two being staying here for?”
“A fortnight,” replied Robin. “We come here every couple of years.” She took her husband’s arm playfully. “This is where we came on our honeymoon. Annoyingly, I’ve got an ear infection this time, so the flight home should be less than fun.”
Jasmine winced.
“Don’t worry,” added Robin. “I’ll live. Hopefully!” The check-in desk became free. “Oh, I think that’s you.”
“I think you were…”
“Oh, go on, you go first!” Robin and her husband grinned at Jasmine, and she decided just to go with it. Sasha was back on check-in, and smiled at her as if this were the first time they had met.
“Miss Sparks,” she said. She did remember. She hit a few keys, but seemed to already know what she was going to say. “You’re on this one.”
Jasmine placed the luggage back on the conveyor belt, and once again it was labelled up. Judging by the looks on the other passengers’ faces as she walked away, they too would soon be going home.
***
Jasmine loved planes; or at least, loved entering them. That feeling of stepping off the ground and into this strange technological space, from a flimsy tunnel to a fully air-conditioned ship that would be about to leave the ground; being welcomed at the door by people who seemed to know her…
It reminded her of something. She dismissed the thought, because she did not know what. Human lives, she thought, were spent experiencing déjà vu. Even when they weren’t, they were just idly creating it for future anxiety.
“1A this time,” she murmured, showing Sheila the tickets. “You’re 1D, start of the next row along. They must have put someone else in 1C. Unusual.”
They found their row instantly, as it was the first. Jasmine took Sheila’s hand luggage off her, and stowed it away in the overhead locker. She found that she was stronger than most of her friends at school, but that was no surprise. Her father was never around, and the closest person she had to a mother was well into old age.
She didn’t mind. The only people who ever minded at school were the boys, perturbed at the thought of a girl who could lift more than they could, as if that signalled some kind of super-strength. She wished that she had gone to school with more boys like Tommy.
And on that thought, like a wish being granted, he sat down next to her.
“1C,” he said. “That’s lucky.”
Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe it, thought Jasmine. She wanted to say something to Tommy, but was distracted. A part of her wanted to leave the ground, right now. Not just a distant desire to get home after an exhausting night – it was something else. Like if she didn’t leave soon, it would catch up with her.
Whatever ‘it’ is. She shuddered, and wondered if this was what her friends meant when they said that ‘love does strange things’.
A tall Russian man sat next to Sheila, and Jasmine breathed a sigh of relief. That was one less person to take care of on the flight.
“Are you all right?” asked Tommy, not to make conversation, but apparently out of genuine concern.
“Yeah… I think so.” She tried to laugh it off. “You’ve just got to hope I don’t need the loo a lot during the flight, Mr Aisle Seat.”
Tommy tried to laugh as well, but looked too concerned. “Jasmine.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re crying.”
Jasmine put her hand to her face, and realised that she was. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, emotions created out of nothing, events without a cause. She shivered again, and felt it lasting this time. Her hand was trembling. She rested it on the arm of her seat.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Probably just allergies. Hayfever’s worse in Spain. It’s…”
She looked at Tommy again, and felt the sensation she had felt when she met him, when she spoke to him, and which had held her up for those few brief moments in the restroom. This time, it took the form of words, and made sense.
I know you.
“I’ll be fine,” said Jasmine, and sat back. She needed time to think. Just a bit longer.
The plane was moving now, preparing to take off. It made its way onto the runway, and the engines started to power up properly. The airport became a blur, and her heart stopped for one brief moment as she felt the plane leave the ground.
She looked out of the window. The city below was all lit up, and somewhere out there, those fountains were probably entertaining crowds of hundreds. But all she wanted was to land; that sense of urgency had returned, and now it spurred her on through this journey, too.
Hurry up. Land, land, land…
Jasmine turned back to Tommy. She had taken her time to think, and what she saw now was clearer. He looked back at her, somehow knowing that she would turn to him in that exact moment. He was the Tommy she always knew, the Tommy she could always rely on, the Tommy she’d always…
“Tommy Lindsay,” she uttered, and it all clicked into place. “Just… remember me.”
He gasped, and Jasmine took the opportunity to deflect his own words back at him.
“You’re crying.”
“Yes, I am. Jasmine Sparks.” They reached out across the empty seat and linked hands. Somehow that was enough, and it was Jasmine who decided to do something about that. The seatbelt sign flashed off, and she unclicked her own, moving over to the next seat along, and, much to the surprise of the other customers, embraced him in what she thought was a categorically satisfying snog.
It was not something she had waited to do. She understood now: it was something she had waited to do again.
Sheila was not quite sure how to respond, so turned to the family behind her, lending Robin some chewing gum to help with the pressure caused by the ear infection.
Jasmine and Tommy paused for breath, before she reached over to undo the first button of his shirt. Well, he looked better with two undone, she thought.
“Ahem.”
She saw the Captain standing over her, just out of the corner of her eye, and paused.
“Sorry.”
“Ahem,” repeated the Captain.
Wait a minute, thought Jasmine. What’s the Captain doing out of the cockpit?
She turned around to face him, and realised that she recognised him too. Not just from that other life, that distant memory.
She knew him from all of them.
Every world that could have been, every world that was, every one that should never have happened.
“You’re breaking the rules, Jasmine Sparks,” said God, and took off his hat, passing it kindly to Sheila. Jasmine’s first instinct was to jump up and protect her adoptive grandmother, but she decided not to, staying instead in front of Tommy as his protector.
She didn’t know why, but something told her that Tommy needed protecting above the rest.
“You remembered, then,” God continued. “That’s rare. But then, all of this is really quite rare. You see… Tommy, you know who I am, don’t you?”
Tommy nodded, grimacing. “I remember you, God.”
“And tell me one of the key traits of almost any monotheistic God.”
“Omniscience,” tried Tommy. “Knowledge of all things.”
“Well done,” said God, with a mocking little clap. “But this is how it works in the real world. I create… let’s call them mirror universes. The mirror universes reflect our universe, but from a different angle each time. They function according to the same physical laws as your own, like parallel universes, other than the fact that they are derived from your own. As soon as any of you become aware of where you are, you’re able to regain the memories you had in the original universe. Does that make sense?”
“That’s how we remembered each other,” murmured Tommy, understanding. “Because we saw each other again.”
“Unlikely,” said God. “Almost impossible, in fact. But it happened nonetheless. I’ve created an infinite number of mirror universes, but in this one you all ended up together, in the same place at the same time.”
“I still don’t understand,” interrupted Jasmine. “How do these universes give you the knowledge of all things?”
“Because in each one,” explained God, “a different possibility plays out. As I said, like parallel universes. I can thus attain knowledge of every possible outcome of every possible action, and from a naturalistic point of view - as a non-interfering bystander. Say, if I want to know how someone will respond to a particular traumatic event, I just visit the universe in which that traumatic event happened.”
He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. Everyone else in the plane, who had been preoccupied, gasped, suddenly realising that there was nowhere to run. Before they could react, he found his aim and shot Tommy Lindsay in the stomach. Jasmine screamed, and as if on cue, the plane jolted.
“Oh dear,” joked God. “I wonder what the pilot’s up to.”
“Help him!” cried Jasmine. "For... please, help him!”
“Not long ‘til Tommy’s dead now,” said God. “Again.” He continued, like a scientist making fascinated observations. “But don’t you see? This is what I was talking about.”
Tommy had fallen on the floor, and Jasmine crouched down with him, cradling his body in her arms. He looked back at her. His eyes were starting to close, and he was trying to grip onto her, weakly, with blood-soaked hands.
She felt older than she ever had. But Tommy – Tommy just seemed so young.
“In this reality,” continued God, “Tommy Lindsay died. And now I can observe your response. Because here’s the really interesting thing. You love him, you’ll miss him, and you’re terrified of what will happen when those eyes of his close… but actually, your first response isn’t to mourn him at all.” His voice turned serious. “It’s to avenge him.”
“I’ll kill you,” whispered Jasmine, before repeating it louder. “I SWEAR, IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO, I WILL WIPE YOU FROM EVERY POSSIBLE UNIVERSE!”
“You’ll try,” agreed God. “And that’s all I needed to know. Because now, I’m going to return to your universe, and I’m going to stop you. Enjoy your last few minutes together.”
“Please,” begged Jasmine, going in a single moment from making death threats to grovelling at his feet. “I’ll do anything, anything at all. I can’t live without him.”
God laughed cruelly, and put his cap back on. “Oh, child. You won’t have to.”
The old man re-entered the cockpit, and Jasmine exchanged a worried glance with Sheila. Seconds later, just as Jasmine had Tommy securely back in her grip, the plane began to plummet. Those passengers not secured now hit the roof, a few cases of concussion, and even one death, spreading throughout the cabin.
A drinks trolley raced down the aisle, obeying the plane’s downward motion.
Falling.
Falling.
Jasmine closed her eyes. She could almost block it out. All the sounds became one, concentrated into one place.
Tommy’s heartbeat. A simple rhythm, built into every human being. The rhythm faltered – or was it Jasmine’s hand moving? It was impossible to tell.
They were getting lower now, closer to the ground. She was sure of it. Her mind found new questions, new kinds of paranoia she hoped she would never have to experience. Gone were worries about shifty glances and strange-shaped bags; now the real questions were starting:
How long until we hit the sea?
How will my friends find out?
What will happen to my body?
Will Tommy feel it?
Will he ever know that I...