How to Stop Time. Matt Haig
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are special. God made you this way for a purpose. You must find your purpose. Do you promise to live?’
‘I promise, Mother. I promise, I promise, I promise . . .’
I watched as they fastened her into the wooden chair. She pressed her legs together, not wanting to part her knees, as a last futile defence. So two men took a leg each and pulled her into position, pressing her back against the seat. She wriggled and screamed as the metal strap was fixed across the seat.
I didn’t watch as they raised her in the air. But when she reached the highest point Manning told the wild-haired man holding the rope to halt.
‘Wait, wait there . . .’
And it was then I looked and saw my mother against that hard blue sky. Her head dropped and she looked down at me, and I can still see those terrified eyes all these centuries later.
‘Start the ordeal,’ said Manning, who had walked to the edge of the riverbank.
‘No!’
I closed my eyes and heard the noise of the chair touching the water. And then I reopened my eyes. I watched her disappear, become a blur of green and brown, and then nothing at all. A rush of air bubbles rose to the river’s surface. William Manning held his hand up and open, the whole time, telling the man who held that horribly slack rope to keep her under.
I looked at that large meaty red hand, a brute’s hand, praying for the fingers to close. Of course, whatever happened, she would die. And yet still – even as my own life hung in the balance – I wanted her to emerge from the water alive. I wanted her to speak again. I couldn’t imagine a world without her voice.
When they hoisted the chair and her dripping dead body out of the water there was an answer left as a secret in the river. Had she pushed the air out of her in panic or deliberately? Had she sacrificed her life for mine? I didn’t know. I wouldn’t ever know.
But she had died, because of me. And I stayed alive, because of her. And for years I regretted the promise I had made.
PART TWO
The Man Who Was America
London, now
Here I am.
I am in the car park. I have finished my second day at Oakfield School and am now in the process of unlocking my bicycle, which is attached to a metal fence next to the staff car park. I ride a bike because I have never trusted cars. I’ve ridden a bike now for a hundred years and I think they are one of the truly great human inventions.
Sometimes change is for the better, and sometimes change isn’t for the better. Modern toilets with a flush are definitely a change for the better. Self-service checkouts are definitely not. Sometimes things are a change for the better and the worse at the same time, like the internet. Or the electric keyboard. Or pre-chopped garlic. Or the theory of relativity.
And a life is like that. There’s no need to fear change, or necessarily welcome it, not when you don’t have anything to lose. Change is just what life is. It is the only constant I know.
I see Camille head to her car. The woman who I had seen in the park. And the corridor, yesterday, where we hadn’t said much. When I had felt claustrophobic and needed to walk away.
But now, there is no escape. She reaches her car. Puts the key in her lock as I struggle with mine. Our eyes meet.
‘Hi there.’
‘Oh, hi.’
‘The history guy.’
The history guy.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just having a bit of trouble with the key.’
‘You can have a lift if you want.’
‘No,’ I say, a bit too quickly. ‘I’m . . . it’s . . .’
(It doesn’t matter how long you live. Small talk remains equally complex.)
‘Nice to meet you again. I’m Camille. Camille Guerin. I’m French. I mean, that’s my subject. Was also my nationality, too, though who lets nationality define them? Apart from idiots.’
I don’t know why, but I say, recklessly, ‘I was born in France.’ This goes against my CV, and Daphne is mere metres away. What am I doing? Why do I want her to know this?
Another teacher – someone I hadn’t been introduced to yet – walks out and Camille says ‘See you tomorrow’ to them and they return it.
‘So,’ she asks me, ‘do you speak French?’
‘Oui. But my French is a bit outdated . . . un peu vieillot.’
She tilts her head, frowns. I know this look. It is recognition. ‘C’est drôle. J’ai l’impression de vous reconnaître. Where have I seen you? I mean, the park, but before then, I feel sure of it now.’
‘It’s probably a doppelgänger. I have the sort of face people confuse easily with other faces.’
I smile, still polite, but distant. This conversation can’t really go anywhere but trouble. It isn’t making my head feel any better either.
‘I’m short-sighted. Hence the glasses. But I did a test once,’ she says, now adamant. ‘I came out as a “super-recogniser”. It’s a gift I have. The way my temporal lobe is wired. I was in the top one per cent, in terms of visual recognition. Strange brain.’
I want her to stop talking. I want to be invisible. I want to be a normal person with nothing to hide. I look away. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘When were you last in France?’
‘A long time ago,’ I say, doubting she is old enough to remember me from the 1920s. My bike is free now. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘I will solve it,’ she says, laughing, as she gets into her little Nissan. ‘I will solve you.’
‘Ha!’ I say. Then, when her car door closes, I say, ‘Shit.’
She beeps me as she passes, giving a fast wave. I wave back and I bike away and I think how easy it would be to just not turn up tomorrow. To talk to Hendrich and disappear again. But there is a part of me – a small but dangerous part – that is keen to know where she knew me from. Or, maybe, a small part that simply wants to be solved.
Later, at home, Hendrich calls.
‘So, how is London?’ he asks.
I am sitting at the little IKEA desk, staring at the Elizabethan penny I have been carrying around for centuries. I normally just keep it in the wallet, in its little sealed polythene bag, but now I have it out on the desk. I stare at the fading coat of arms, and remember Marion’s fist tight around it. ‘It’s fine.’
‘And the job? Are you . . . settling in?’
There is something about his tone that’s annoying. Patronising. The way he said ‘settling in’ in a vaguely amused way. ‘Listen, Hendrich, forgive me, but I have a headache. I know it’s only brunch-time with you, but it’s getting late here and I have to be up early preparing lessons tomorrow. I really would like to go to bed now if that’s—’
‘You’re still getting the headaches?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘They’re par for the course. We all get them towards our middle years. It’s memory pain. You just need to