Epsilon IX: Signs of the Fifth

Chapter two: Memory of a different life

It was way back in the 21st century, and the clocks were racing towards five. The final splendour from the violent sunset, burning the evening sky a marmalade orange, had still not faded when John Barclay lay back down on the dry-grassed slope of the hill and chewed on a golden blade. Even the sea laid out ahead had reflected the warmth of the evening. Here at the coastline, the trailing tendrils of the ocean breeze were spreading ripples across the brown field like the waves out there at the sea. Each rock of the large cliffs reflected the noise from the continuous crash of the waves. The closer rocks hung clear, though the cliff-line trailed off into a blurriness north and southward. And behind him lay the old hotel of ugly Victorian brick.

John did not despair, but kept the determined smile of a man who knows the very best way to handle what he is faced with. This indeed was his situation. Turning back now from his westward journey would certainly have been a bad idea.

But now he was home. In any case, this place had been more warm and welcoming than his old house back in London. The first eight years of his childhood having been spent paying family visits to this hotel next to the pembroke coast, he now felt a nostalgia so powerful that he could scarcely believe his eyes. But there was his watch on his wrist. "Has it really been ten years?" He couldn't stop asking himself the question over and over again, but just then, something else came to mind. "Just one hour to go."

Back at the open-air café of the hotel, his name was being called for. "John! John!" But he did not care. He was an innocent eight-year-old boy again. And he was gazing at the landscape with wonder, and eagerness.

"John!" At last, the voice of his friend brought him back up to the present. Colin Bedford, the thin, dark-haired man, ran across the field towards him with such a clumsy style that it indicated he was entirely new to easy hiking. He was neither tall nor particularly short; perhaps a-hundred-and-seventy-five centimetres, and about the same seventeen years of age as John. And no person would ever have guessed from Colin's appearance that he had in fact been born and raised in the county of Essex. But when he spoke, his accent made it staggeringly difficult for him to fit into any other culture. "John. I've been calling for you."

"What's up?" John did not stand, nor even remove his eyes from the landscape.

"Where's Virgil? He's still not here."

John glanced at his watch, and then finally stood on his two feet before brushing the grass off his leather jacket. "We still have plenty of time. Walk back with me." They were then on their way back to the café as Colin placed himself beside John.

"It's less time than I'm comfortable with. If he doesn't get here soon it'll be too late for him." He sighed, listening between his footsteps. "John, you know what happens to people who go missing."

"OK. Have you got any way to contact him?"

"Of course not. This is a very funny can of worms we're dealing with here."

"True, but we are not the one's who've opened it."

"If that's the case, then exactly what part do we play all this? Why are we the one's who are running?"

"What else can we do?" Right then, John stopped in his trails and widened his eyes. "We know way too many secrets that are worth a lot to some people. No matter how little we've done there are people out there looking for us!" He extended an arm out towards the hills and fields stretching as far as the eye could see, where even now, the last glare of daylight was still shining. John sighed lightly. "When you can't fight the enemy, it leaves you with two options. Which one do you want?"

Slowly, John continued his trails, and in less than a minute quickly swept back towards the building. But Colin was not so skilful, and it took him a minute or two to climb his way back through the boulder-littered field.