Exchange Place

The Missing Notebook

This too is you, said John Browne. And Kilfeather held again the replica Luger pistol he had held as a child, made of convincingly heavy metal but fed by little pink plastic cartridges rather than the real thing, and he was transported back to a time when he killed and was killed to pass the time, boy soldiers throwing up their arms theatrically then falling and rolling down a grassy ridge in a simulation of dying, rising again to fight again, over and over through a long summer’s day. You don’t need real, said Browne, the man has a heart condition, he’s on a cocktail of drugs, atoravastatin, clopidogrel, and the Lord knows what else. Heavy smoker too. All it takes is a shock to the system. More likely than not the mere sight of you will be enough to tip the blood pressure over the edge. Oh, and you’ll need a hat to hide your face, more impact when you reveal yourself. Here, take mine, said Browne, and he took off his fedora and placed it on Kilfeather’s head. It was a nice fit. The sweatband was cold against his forehead. You’ve always wanted to do that, said Browne, haven’t you? Wear my hat. But you were too shy to ask. And Kilfeather knew he spoke the truth.

About quarter of an hour or so, and then we’re all set. We’ve set the time parameters so that you make the rendezvous just before the fake Kilfeather. While we’re waiting I thought you’d like to see my new work, Contrapunctus XIV, or hear it indeed. This way, said Browne, extending his arm. He led Kilfeather to another room. Voilà. Kilfeather saw before him a large panel some six feet by three. It was nothing like the work of the man he had known as John Bourne. Imagine a hundred Mark Rothkos miniaturized and patterned like a musical score, he thought, lozenges and rectangles of earth tones and purples and deep blues and burnt oranges fading and blurring into one another, intersected by diagonal slashes in brighter tones, shimmering against the lower octaves, light sounding on deep. You need the wand to get the full effect, said the man who now was Browne, and he handed him what looked like a long slim truncheon of crystal. Wave it about as your fancy takes you, said Browne, point it at the bits that engage you, and then look for bits that never caught your eye in the first place. The ‘on’ button is here. Kilfeather switched it on and immediately heard a deep melodious humming. He waved the wand before the painting and the painting emitted a music that was glassy at first, and then like wind-chimes, and then like the deep sounds of a forest floor. He waved it another way and he heard the fair weather clouds drifting across a June morning sky. He waved it again and he heard the moaning of the wind in the trees and the sad sound of November rain dripping through bare trees and it seemed to him that the permutations could go on forever. There’s never enough time, said Browne gently, for we only have so much time on earth, but when we depart there are always the others whom we might have been and are, because all of us are no one but each other. He took the wand from him.

Now you you’ll need the Changing Room, said Browne. The changing room? said Kilfeather. Well, you don’t need to change the outfit, that’s all as it should be, but you need to go through the portal, that’s the mirror, antique Venetian, mercury backing, said Browne. And I nearly forgot, you need a little drug to smooth the process, induces an aura, puts the neurons properly in synch. Remember those magic mushrooms we used to eat? He produced a miniature Pernod bottle from his pocket. Same psychoactive ingredient, synthesized, the natural stuff is too unpredictable for our purposes, we’ve got this tailored to your body weight and psychological profile, bespoke psilocybin as it were, you’ll find it does the trick. Here’s the procedure, said Browne. When you come out the other side you must proceed immediately to the Morning Star bar. You’ll know how to get there. Sit outside, under the awning. Your man will arrive in five minutes or so. Wait until he is settled, then confront him. You may or not need the gun. I’ll leave that up to you. It’s all very straightforward. Faîtes simple. This way. He walked over to a curtain and twitched it to one side. Voilà. Put the pistol in your briefcase. And this notebook, you might find it useful when the time comes. Passport in your name, ditto. Drink the drug, said Browne. Kilfeather did as he was told. He felt the effects almost immediately. The cubicle was nicely furnished, 1950s rose trellis wallpaper, and as he looked at it the roses began to shimmer. He looked at the mirror. The surface of the glass was like black ice with a faint pinpoint of light at its centre. He went over and touched the glass and it was cold and hard as ice. Takes a few minutes more to warm up, said Browne.

When the time was right, Kilfeather stepped up to the mirror, extending his hands like a swimmer about to take the plunge, and as his fingertips reached the dark glass it parted like liquid mercury to swallow him bit by bit until he vanished down a deep dark well. He felt himself going down for a long time, falling through time as he thought of it, second by infinitesimal second, until he emerged from the mirror in the attic of 14 Exchange Place into a drift of photocopied images, images he knew from before. He descended the stairs into the entry, turned the corner into Donegall Street, and was sitting under the awning of the Morning Star within a matter of two or three minutes. It was pouring rain when he saw the man sit down under the awning and when he approached him there was a flash of lightning and both men saw each other clearly for a split second.

A man came to some time after, not knowing who he was. On reflection he realised he must have had a bout of transient global amnesia. He remembered the aura. There was a briefcase at his feet. He opened it and took out a toy gun, a passport and Muji A6 notebook. He would think about the gun later. He opened the passport and looked at the photograph. He did not think it looked like him compared to how he looked now. He thought it must have been taken some time ago, when he was not the man he was now. He read the name on the passport. So that was him, then. He opened the notebook at an entry that was spattered with rain, and as he read these words he thought he might be reading a key to a book he had had in mind to write for how many years he could not remember: It begins or began with a missing notebook, an inexpensive Muji A6 notebook, with buff card covers and feint-ruled pages. On the inside cover is written, If found, please return to John Kilfeather, 41 Elsinore Gardens, Belfast BT15 3FB Northern Ireland, United Kingdom, Europe, The World.

Again a flash of lightning: he needed to write. He looked in the briefcase and found a pen. Nice vintage Waterman, marbled celluloid. He unscrewed the cap and began to write. The pen suited his hand well, it could have been his own pen, and it wrote first time, the writing both familiar and foreign. He kept on writing. The writing kept on, words appearing from nowhere.