The Complete Short Stories

I was visualizing a studio full of announcers and engineers slumped unconscious over their mikes and valves, while an automatic camera pumped out the same reel. Eerie but unlikely. There were monitor receivers as well as the critics, agents, sponsors, and, unforgivably, the playwright himself weighing every minute and every word in their private currencies. They’d all have a lot to say under tomorrow’s headlines.

‘Sit down and stop fidgeting,’ Helen said. ‘Have you lost your bone?’

I felt round the cushions and ran my hand along the carpet below the sofa.

‘My cigarette,’ I said. ‘I must have thrown it into the fire. I don’t think I dropped it.’

I turned back to the set and switched on the give-away programme, noting the time, 9.03, so that I could get back to Channel 2 at 9.15. When the explanation came I just had to hear it.

‘I thought you were enjoying the play,’ Helen said. ‘Why’ve you turned it off?’

I gave her what sometimes passes in our flat for a withering frown and settled back.

The enormous woman was still at it in front of the cameras, working her way up a pyramid of questions on cookery. The audience was subdued but interest mounted. Eventually she answered the jackpot question and the audience roared and thumped their seats like a lot of madmen. The compere led her across the stage to another sports car.

‘She’ll have a stable of them soon,’ I said aside to Helen.

The woman shook hands and awkwardly dipped the brim of her hat, smiling nervously with embarrassment.

The gesture was oddly familiar.

I jumped up and switched to Channel 5. The panel were still staring hard at their pot.

Then I started to realize what was going on.

All three programmes were repeating themselves.

‘Helen,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘Get me a scotch and soda, will you?’

‘What is the matter? Have you strained your back?’

‘Quickly, quickly!’ I snapped my fingers.

‘Hold on.’ She got up and went into the pantry.

I looked at the time .9.12. Then I returned to the play and kept my eyes glued to the screen. Helen came back and put something down on the end-table.

‘There you are. You all right?’

When it switched I thought I was ready for it, but the surprise must have knocked me flat. I found myself lying out on the sofa. The first thing I did was reach round for the drink.

‘Where did you put it?’ I asked Helen.

‘What?’

‘The scotch. You brought it in a couple of minutes ago. It was on the table.’

‘You’ve been dreaming,’ she said gently. She leant forward and started watching the play.

I went into the pantry and found the bottle. As I filled a tumbler I noticed the clock over the kitchen sink .9.07. An hour slow, now that I thought about it. But my wristwatch said 9.05, and always ran perfectly. And the clock on the mantelpiece in the lounge also said 9.05.

Before I really started worrying I had to make sure.

Mulivaney, our neighbour in the flat above, opened his door when I knocked.

‘Hello, Bartley. Corkscrew?’

No, no,’ I told him. ‘What’s the right time? Our clocks are going crazy.’

He glanced at his wrist. ‘Nearly ten past.’

‘Nine or ten?’

He looked at his watch again. ‘Nine, should be. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know whether I’m losing my—’ I started to say. Then I stopped.

Mullvaney eyed me’ curiously. Over his shoulder I heard a wave of studio applause, broken by the creamy, unctuous voice of the giveaway compre.

‘How long’s that programme been on?’ I asked him.

‘About twenty minutes. Aren’t you watching?’

‘No,’ I said, adding casually, ‘Is anything wrong with your set?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Why?’

‘Mine’s chasing its tail. Anyway, thanks.’

‘OK,’ he said. He watched me go down the stairs and shrugged as he shut his door.

I went into the hall, picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Hello, Tom?’ Tom Farnold works the desk next to mine at the office. ‘Tom, Harry here. What time do you make it?’

‘Time the liberals were back.’

‘No, seriously.’

‘Let’s see. Twelve past nine. By the way, did you find those pickles I left for you in the safe?’

‘Yeah, thanks. Listen, Tom,’ I went on, ‘the goddamdest things are happening here. We were watching Diller’s play on Channel 2 when—’ ‘I’m watching it now. Hurry it up.’

‘You are? Well, how do you explain this repetition business? And the way the clocks are stuck between 9 and 9.15?’

Tom laughed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suggest you go outside and give the house a shake.’

I reached out for the glass I had with me on the hall table, wondering how to explain to — The next moment I found myself back on the sofa. I was holding the newspaper and looking at 17 down. A part of my mind was thinking about antique clocks.

I pulled myself out of it and glanced across at Helen. She was sitting quietly with her needle basket. The all too familiar play was repeating itself and by the clock on the mantelpiece it was still just after 9.

I went back into the hail and dialled Tom again, trying not to stampede myself. In some way, I hadn’t begun to understand how, a section of time was spinning round in a circle, with myself in the centre.