Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

12

Foston, troubled, worried, furtive and yet still full of swagger and out-of-place ego, strode with purpose through the streets. He seemed to know where he was going. Apart from the few times he spun on his heel, backtracked, checked his watch, again, and dove down some side street, alley, or through someone's house. That last one made Clara fairly happy that this wasn't her Earth and that the other Clara (bitch) would have to deal with that fallout. And that didn't make her even the slightest bit happy. Not at all.

Eventually, Foston stopped outside a greasy spoon café in an off-the-beaten-track cul-de-sac, around five minutes from 'her' flat. Clara didn't remember ever seeing it before and wondered if it was only a feature of this version of Earth. Certainly, in any other circumstance, she wouldn't be seen dead in such a place. Not when a perfectly serviceable Prét happened to be around the corner.

"Clara!" The man behind the counter almost ran around to grab her and hold her in a crushing hug that lasted far too long two seconds before he initiated it. "My favourite customer. Even though she never gives a tip."

The man, slightly too skinny for someone working in a café and short. So short, he almost buried himself in her boobs as he hugged her, but, to his credit, stealthily avoided them. Clara extricated herself from his arms, looking at Foston as if to ask why he had brought her here. Foston shrugged.

"Hello ... you. Mister ... umm ... Café person." She hesitantly waved, wriggling her fingers in a fashion she hoped came across as friendly.

"And who is this fine figure of a man?" Café Man winked and nudged her arm and Clara prayed silently that he didn't assume Foston was her new boyfriend. "The new boyfriend, eh?"

"Dear god, no!" Foston preempted her denial, almost choking as he laughed the words out. He didn't get to make it sound ridiculous! She found the idea ridiculous, not him! "Give a chap some credit!"

"Ahh, but our Clara is such a catch. You'd be lucky to have such a woman." Café Man made a playful scowl, assuming that Foston didn't mean what he said. Clara knew that he meant it. Foston had an accidental mean-streak about him.

"Yes, well, you say 'potato'." Eyeing up the entire café, Foston saw a table for two as far away from the counter as he could find. He pointed at it. "We'll be sitting there. Be a good chap and bring us the wine list."

"Wine list? Ha! Your friend is funny. Two of the usual, Clara?" Not knowing what the usual was, Clara nodded and smiled weakly, turning and following Foston to the table.

Upon reaching it, Clara dropped into the seat opposite Foston and stared at him until he acknowledged her irritated glare. He then proceeded to ignore it, tapping at his watch, scowling, tapping some more and then closing his eyes as he steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the table. Clearly, he wasn't going to explain anything.

Clara fidgeted with the napkin wrapped around a set of mismatched cutlery. When Foston stubbornly continued whatever meditation he was practicing, she moved on to fiddling with the ketchup bottle shaped like a large, sad looking tomato. Without thinking, she squeezed it a little too hard, squirting a slop of ketchup upon the table. She felt lucky no-one was watching and wiped it away with the napkin, tossing it onto the next table and stealing a fresh napkin from the cutlery there.

"Look, I know you're going to launch into some stupid collection of words that you think make sense, but really don't, but, for once, can you speak normally and tell me what the hell we're doing here?" She ducked her head, trying to see if she could catch Foston's attention. He opened his eyes and fixed her with a sad, serious gaze.

"Something is wrong, Clara. Very, very wrong and I don't know what to do." He picked up the tomato shaped ketchup bottle, sniffed it and nodded in appreciation, returning it to the table. "We shouldn't be here."

"You're telling me. This geezer must know that shady cow version of me, but I don't know him from Adam." Clara hooked a thumb over her shoulder to where she presumed Café Man was. She didn't want to turn around and encourage the man.

"Does he look like him?"

"Who?"

"Adam. Does the little man look like him?" Foston leaned out, looking past Clara's shoulder towards the counter.

"What? No. It's an expression. It means I don't know him at all." Clara shifted in her seat. All this looking Foston was doing would surely make Café Man feel the need to come over and talk.

"He seems to know you rather well. I like him." Foston waved and Clara died of embarrassment, got resurrected and died of embarrassment again.

"I don't know him!" As soon as she said it, she realised she'd said very loud. She continued, quieter. "The other me knows him. I don't. This isn't my Earth, remember?"

"And that's the point. The whole point and nothing but the point." Leaning forward in a conspiratorial fashion, Foston lowered his voice, even though no-one was around to hear and probably couldn't give a monkey's if they did. "We shouldn't be here at all. That last Breach? It wasn't a Free Roamer. It was a set, regular Breach that opened and closed at exact intervals and sends you to the Rings of Tumarlakudar, three hundred and seventeen million light years from Earth."

"So, it's a good thing we got here instead, then?" Clara sat back and forced a smile as Café Man arrived, dropping two plates with a Full English breakfast, dripping with fat, the eggs burst and the bacon so crispy, a funeral home would brush it into an urn and give it to a mourning family. Café Man smiled a fatherly smile at her, patting her shoulder.

"Absolutely not! That Breach should lead to the Rings of Tumarlakudar, a Breach from there would have led to an Earth where Liverpool never, ever won any football championships, from there we would have gone to a world in a completely different multiverse where people are judged by number of times they blink their eyes and then, then we would have got back to your Earth. The Prime Earth." Foston unrolled the cutlery, draped the napkin over his knee and started digging into the baked beans while sawing into the Black Pudding. "Can we get some bread over here, chief?"

"And we didn't." She couldn't stomach the Full English, pushing the plate away.

"Didn't what?" He spoke with his mouth full. Another thing about Foston that annoyed her. Café Man placed a pile of bread, slathered with margarine, next to their plates. Again he smiled at Clara and, again, she returned a strained, clearly fake smile. Café Man seemed satisfied with that.

"Go to the ringing tumour-lurker place."

"Rings of Tumarlakudar. No. We didn't. And that's terrifying." He folded up a piece of bread, dipped it into the broken egg yoke and stuffed it into his mouth. He didn't seem terrified. He seemed relaxed. "Stable Breaches never send you anywhere but the same place. Never. Something has fundamentally broken the entire network. I can never get you home if the network is broken."

"Never?" She was too loud again. She knew she was too loud, but that little piece of information required the use of her embarrassingly loud voice. Deserved it. "Like, never-never? I'm stuck? Lost? Alone? What about my life? My friends? My dad? I mean, never seeing my mum again would be a bonus, but my dad? I could never live without seeing my dad again!"

"It is possible, however minutely, that we could stumble upon the Prime Earth. At some point. After passing through some random Breach. It's highly unlikely though." He stared at his plate, considering attacking a sausage or the fried tomato next. He settled on taking a slice of tomato with a nub of sausage.

Clara dropped her head onto the table. She had started her day (or was it two days ago, now?) with such an air of confidence (that was a lie to herself), ready and raring to take on that interview and smash it (a bigger lie). Now, she may never see her home again. Her real home.

"And for the birthday girl ..." Café Man held a plate with a small cake upon it, a single lit candle and the words 'Happy Birtday, Clara!' written in icing on the top. Café Man started singing. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Clara, happy birthday to you."

Foston joined in, singing the wrong words. Clara felt sick.