The Pilgrims

6

In the morning, it was the strangest thing to see a day unfolding through his bedroom window, normal as always. He watched the world outside for a while to assure himself it was really still there. Case was already awake and helping himself to various delicacies from the pantry. There were biscuit packets and empty herring tins, licked clean, scattered over the coffee table. ‘Morning,’ he said, offering Eric a cracker.

They went back to the bridge but found nothing more than footprints, which could have been anyone’s, by the door. They searched fruitlessly for the arrow the woman had fired at the train.

Back at the flat, Case gave him a lesson in handling the gun. ‘If you have to shoot it, hold it tight. Works better if you don’t drop it in fright. Makes a hell of a racket, this thing, but shoots straight enough.’

‘What make is it?’

‘Glock. Nine shots left in that clip, ten in the other.’

That night they went back to the bridge, pausing on the way to get Case some liquor. Then they set up the chess board. ‘I notice we’re not enlisting any help with all this,’ said Eric.

‘Why not?’

Case took his first mouthful of bourbon. ‘Don’t know your reasons, but I kind of feel like it’s my secret. I wanna talk to em, ask em some questions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, what the hell d’you want?’

‘So, you’re our planet’s ambassador. Stuart Casey, of no fixed address.’

‘Sure am. You’re only here cos you’re paying for the drinks.’

‘Anything for my planet. Know any knock-knock jokes?’

‘Nope. Rack em up again, if you’re game.’

So they waited and the night crept by. Soon it had crept by completely, and nothing at all had happened other than the sun rising on a cold winter morning.

The next day, they came back; the next night, too. Not once did the door make a sound. There was no hint anything strange had ever happened. When a week had passed, Case and Eric both began to doubt their sanity, and the point of further vigil at the bridge. A few phone calls revealed, meanwhile, that Eric was no longer employed. One of his imitators had been given his own bi-weekly column, which they had named ‘Whacked Out’.

Another week went by, and another. What had seemed the most unlikely thing of all soon occurred: life returned, more or less, to normal. Soon Eric found himself dressing up in a business shirt and tie, slacks and polished shoes, getting out of the flat early to go find a job. Case was asleep on the couch that cold Monday morning, snoring loud. It was getting a little weird hiding him in the bedroom when friends dropped around …

Tap tap tap went his footsteps, his breath white puffs in the air. The bridge appeared around the bend. And there amongst the graffiti was the door, barely worth turning one’s head to look at. ‘You strange little decoration,’ he said.

He’d meant to simply walk past like normal, but found he hadn’t. He picked up a rock and threw it; it ricocheted off the wooden panels. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Hey you! Knock knock.’

Nothing.

‘You don’t fool me, shithead.’ He beat on the panels, then took a stick and poked it in the keyhole, jammed it through till it broke against the brick behind. He kicked the door the way the invaders had.

Nothing.

‘So, now what?’ Eric yelled into the keyhole. ‘Hey! There’s another world in there. I know it, all right? Why are you hiding?’

He kicked the door as hard as he could, and sent himself sprawling backwards onto the concrete path. He charged it with his shoulder. He pulled on the copper notch with all his weight, yanked it until he was panting and sweating. The wood creaked, but that was all.

A slow train rumbled overhead. Eric caught himself. His clothes were now dirty and ruffled. He was in no state for jobhunting. A customer exiting the newsagency stared at him, then hurried away, as though he were dangerous. ‘Great,’ he muttered, heading back home to change. ‘Just great.’

Then a voice cried: ‘Help!’

A woman’s voice. He stopped; had he really heard it? The train’s noise obscured it.

‘Help!’ From the door. It was real! He ran back, crouched before the red wooden panels and cupped his hands over the keyhole. ‘Hello?’

‘Help meeeeee …’

‘How?’ Eric yelled. ‘What do I do?’

‘Help meeeee!’

‘How?’ Eric shouted through the keyhole. There was no answer. He beat the door with his fists, kicked the wall beside it. ‘Hello? Is that the woman with the bow and arrow? I want to help you, but how?’

He dug his fingers in the copper groove above the keyhole and gave it a huge, desperate wrench, then fell on his backside, blinking stupidly at an ivory-white sky. Light poured through the open door into the train tunnel’s shadows. The air was full of an electric humming sound and that whistling wind …

Shaking, he got to his knees and peered through. It was as though he crouched on the ledge of an open window, metres above a grassy floor. Stretching out ahead was a wide lane of lush green cut into a sheer valley of smooth white stone. At the end, in the distance, was that tower he’d glimpsed before. He could see only part of it; the rest was obscured by the rise of the ground. It was far away, but still loomed huge. The stuff of storybooks. They have magic in there! Magic, real magic …

‘Help me, please!’ Clearer now. Eric looked quickly around but didn’t see her, though he saw someone lying down there, motionless in the grass. He swallowed, thought of Case. He grabbed the broken stick and frantically gouged at the dirt nearby:

Case I opened it went in

He glanced through the door, one last moment’s doubt, but there was that ivory sky again, that beautiful ivory sky. Beautiful because it was different, it was there, it was real. The door swung, as though in a light breeze. Eric tried to think what else he should write, fearful it would slam shut for good.

May not be back

No time for more. Whoever had called for help had stopped calling. He took one deep breath, held his briefcase to his chest, and hesitated. This could be his last second on Earth, his last words spoken here. ‘I’m Batman!’ he cried. He rushed at the open door, then his feet caught and he tilted and flipped. He heard the sound of it slamming shut, right before the crunch of his own body hitting the ground on the other side, his back taking most of the impact, but his head getting a nice thump too. He saw stars and, for a moment, or an hour, or a day, knew nothing more.

Hours later, Case nervously headed out. It was approaching 9pm. Eric’s note on the kitchen bench had said he’d be back no later than three in the afternoon.

Case had looked around for the gun before he set out. It had to be in Eric’s new briefcase, stuffed into its holster, for they’d taken it to the door each time they kept watch there.

There was the park with its rustling grass, the bridge with the secrets it suddenly refused to share, its tunnel like a gaping toothless mouth. Funny how this place had become familiar enough for him to miss it, if he were to leave for good. ‘Eric? You here?’

Cursed dark! He should’ve brought a torch. And a drink, come to mention it. How in hell had he forgotten to bring a drink? He laughed at himself. Well, it was a short walk back.

Nearly half an hour later he returned with the bottle of cheap scotch Eric had bought for him. The lid seal cracked, a nice sound, and he sniffed it, sipped it. Ahhh … His eyes roamed from the door to the path, where he hoped to see the young man strolling by after another late night. He thought of sharking Eric in chess that first night, and chuckled to himself. He set the bottle down gently after another sip, and shone the torch light on the ground beside the bike path.

There were footprints near the door, in that reddish-looking dirt, but they could have been anyone’s. And —