Chapter Text
whoooosshhhhhhh click-click ssssstttttt
The familiar sound of the train coming in haunted Lauren, as though trapped in her ears. She turned in her bed, reaching out blindly to turn up the music wafting from the small iPhone dock sitting on her bedside table. Maybe that’ll drown it out, she seemed to think. But deep down, she knew it wouldn’t. She tried to ignore the truth, but how could she when it’s handcuffed to her?
She looked over to the glistening black briefcase attached to her other hand. Coated in bad memories and intrigue and upset - what could inside? What lay beneath that patina? It made her shudder to think about it.
tktktktktktk
Sleep wasn’t coming easy tonight. As every insomniac the world over knows, the harder you fight to get to sleep, the longer it takes. Lauren sighed -
whhhhoossssshhhhhhhh
- and resigned herself to another sleepless night. Her eyes were bloodshot and sore from so many hours spent wide open. She reached out again to change the gentle music to something more upbeat, turns it up. Every movement she made was carefully designed to avoid moving the briefcase. It sickened her. When it moves, something inside stirs - something menacing, dangerous.
click click click tssstssstsss
She still wore the same shirt she had on two days ago, minding her own business, waiting with thousands of other Adelaide commuters for the 8am train. It would be impossible to remove it now, unless she cut it off, and then how would she replace it? She was at home, lying in wait for that phone to go off, using up her sick days.
The lyrics invaded the cycle of thoughts in Lauren’s head, replaying the train, the man, the briefcase, the man, the train, the man, the briefcase, the blood...
Can you save, can you save, can you save my heavy dirty soul?
My heavy dirty soul. That’s about right, she thought. The strained chords and mournful words swam through the haze. Every line… the whole song, it resonated in her synapses like never before. It was already a well played album in her collection, despite only having come out a few months earlier, but it reminded her 21-year-old brain of her 17-year-old brain and it gave her the strength to get through another day of mind-numbing complaints and idiotic requests.
I’m really sorry… whooosshhhhh
Lauren shivered, despite the balmy night and the blanket covering her legs. She immersed herself in the music, a technique she had become well-versed in after years of teaching herself to play songs. As soon as she closed her eyes, the wavelengths enveloped her like old friends last seen long ago, isolating her aural senses and engulfing them.
Wish we could turn back time
To the good old days
When our mamas sang us to sleep
But now we’re stressed out
The vocals merged with the rest of the music, flattening then distorting in her mind’s eye. She could hear the chords, not just of the piano but also those formed by every individual note played or sung. The drums emerged, then the tiniest background noises and instruments. Low held notes emerged from the background, usually blended perfectly with the shorter high notes.
The song ended and Lauren’s trance was broken, though only for a moment. The next song swelled into existence as she took a long drink of cool water from a bottle resting at her bedside.
Yeah I think about the end just way too much
But it’s fun to fantasise
Lauren had thought she knew exactly what this meant when she first heard the song, but now… Now, she had witnessed a real death -
tsssskkkkssssss whoosh
And it was nothing like the movies, or like hearing about it on the news, and she decided she was wrong the first time. But that’s the beauty of these words, she thought. They change their meaning to suit you.
I’m falling, so I’m taking my time on my ride
I’m so sorry about this
Lauren shuddered at the parallel her mind drew, quickly changed the song. It used to be one of her favourites. Now, everything she loved, everyone she loved, was being pushed aside by these events that she didn’t even understand.
A phone, not hers, sat accusingly next to the dock. She hadn’t found anything on it, no contacts or texts or past calls or notes, so she left it and assumed someone would ring it. But nothing had happened yet, and the battery was starting to run out. It was an old model, a Nokia flip phone, like the one her mum had when Lauren was a kid. She picked it up, turned it over, looking for something she might have missed, opened it, stared. 2:28 am, it said. Default wallpaper. Maybe she should give it to the police, maybe it was that guy’s… but then she’d have to explain how she got it and they’d ask about the briefcase.
I really am. click
Unexpectedly, the phone started to ring. Loudly. Momentarily forgetting the briefcase, she answered it with one thumb while lunging to turn off the music with the other hand, got tangled, dropped the phone, then scooped it up again.
“Just… hang on a second,” she gasped into the mobile, dropping it back on the bed, pausing the album mid-crescendo, then scooping it back up again.
“Hi, sorry about that. Who is this?”
She paused to wonder why she was being so free-flowing and polite. After all, presumably this person could tell her why this had all happened and how to wash her hands of it.
Oh my god! That guy just-
“Hello, Lauren. I am truly sorry for doing all this to you.”
Lauren gasped in shock. That voice-
“Yes, it’s me. My name is Benjamin. You thought I was dead, right? I looked pretty dead, I suppose. But I’m not really. You ran fast. Running is good.”
Lauren felt like her brain was about four pages behind. It was the guy from… the guy with the briefcase. The guy who died. In front of her.
“Uh, yeah, okay. Do… do you want to explain what’s happening?” she stammered.
“Yes, of course, my apologies.” His voice was soft, like he was somewhere in public, but there was no background noise. But it wasn’t just soft in volume, it seemed velvety and… kind, somehow. Well cultured, too. Definitely Australian, but with a hint of British, and the even tone that meant he definitely wasn’t from Adelaide.
“Lauren, we’re calling you in. We assessed you a long time ago, but found no requirement for your services until now. Apologies for the handcuffs, we knew you would be scared and we needed to make sure it stayed with you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” she cried into the flimsy plastic. “Assessed? Services? Look, I don’t want to be a part of this crazy pyramid scheme or whatever you’ve got going on here. I’m out. If I can’t get out of these handcuffs, I’m going to the police and they can have whatever’s in your creepy little briefcase.”
Lauren was slightly hysterical at this point, a genetic flaw of her mother’s, she thought. But to an extent it was helpful, because it made people scared, and it generally meant she got her way. Just as she was about to hang up, she heard Benjamin’s annoyingly calm voice - equally soothing and inflammatory.
“Lauren, please. Let me explain further. Sometimes I forget what a shock this can be.”
“Alright. But you better talk fast, Oxford.” she sighed begrudgingly. Oxford. She wasn’t sure what made it come to her but it seemed to fit him and his odd voice.
“Thankyou. I work for an undercover organisation-”
At this point, Lauren had to stop him with a long, loud laugh.
“Yeah, sure thing, Oxford. ‘Undercover organisation’? You expect this to convince me?” It was impossible to hide the scorn in her voice, but it didn’t seem to phase Benjamin.
“Please, Lauren, if you’ll let me finish, I can provide ample evidence to my organisation’s existence and credibility. As I was saying, the organisation monitors people of cultural or temporal importance and protects them. However, sometimes these people need to protect themselves. Lauren, you are one of these people. We cannot protect you - your temporal signature is just too large. We have to equip you to help yourself. The effects of our interventions are sometimes unpredictable, and too much ripple can have catastrophic effects on culture, both yours and others.”
It took a long moment to sink in. Slowly, the words clarified in her mind, carrying with them a series of ideas and images. Unfamiliar images. She wondered if they were controlling her brain somehow.
“You spoke of credentials. I can’t just start working for some weird bunch of crazy people who throw themselves under trains and then…”
Oh my god! That guy just jumped under the train!
screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-
“Yes, certainly. Open the briefcase. The combination is 6-9-0-3.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to have to put the phone down for a minute.” Lauren said cautiously, gut churning. She heard a murmur of assent through the tinny speaker, placed the phone on her pillow, then turned the dials of the small combination lock on top of the case. It clicked, then with a series of thunks she undid the latches.
click click click click
She nervously opened the lid. Inside was a small key, a large metal orb, and a bundle of papers. The top sheet was an official-looking letterhead page, printed with her name and address, today’s date, and a series of numbers interspersed with decimals. There was also a name - Benjamin Drinnan - and a single sentence: ‘My mother was a tanner’. Confused, Lauren picked up the phone.
“Benjamin. What’s your last name?”
“It’s Drinnan. What did you find?”
“Hang on. I think these are the credentials. What does your mother do?”
“Well, these days she mostly gardens, but before she retired, she was a leather tanner.”