19

Conor observed as Ella reached into the till. She pulled it out, tried it on. He recognised it immediately. The watch was far too large for her wrist. A thick silver band, almost clunky, with a beautiful deep blue face. She pocketed it.

“I pulled it from Number Seven,” she said proudly - “first thing I ever brought down here.”

Conor didn’t ask how she’d managed to bring something real down here. He’d never even thought of taking anything with him when he went down. His deep was space, not storage. Ella led him back up to the concourse, where they sat on a bench and looked out over the station. Conor watched as a train in the distance pulled away too fast and derailed as it tried to turn sharply, immediately blocking the paths of three others. She pulled the watch out again and looked at it. Her feet tapped the concrete, averaging eighteen taps in each five-second increment. The second hand did not tick or tock, it simply rolled around perfectly smoothly. It made Conor think how readily we discount the time between the seconds. But here, this watch illustrated all the time between one and two, two and three. No gaps, the entirety of time was full. She looked up from the watch at him girlishly again, the way she did when she was lying. Or afraid.

“We’re late to see him, Con, he won’t be pleased.”

Conor watched as rain began falling back over the bridge. The river was shining. Conor knew exactly to whom she was referring. The only person you would find in their great lands. Though he’d never seen him angry, or disappointed, or show any emotion at all, especially not about something as trivial as lateness. In fact, in Conor’s deep, the man without eyelids seemed to be the embodiment of patience. Perhaps here in Ella’s, he was different. Given what he’d done to her, Conor was not inclined to attend this meeting.

“Ella, you need to let me back up. I don’t have anything to do with this. I can’t go with you anymore.”

“Fucking hell, Cono,r why are you being so difficult. Constantly. God, it’s tedious. Here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to stop complaining and start just doing what the fuck I say. Listen, I’d love you to be my partner in all this, you know, really make the most of it. But you’re pushing it a bit.”

“If you don’t need me, let me go,” Conor said softly.

“Shut the fuck up and follow me, Con,” she barked.

The rain was falling heavily now; they were both soaked as they moved through the train station and further into the city, which, along with everything else, was an amalgam of every time and space. They passed through ancient temples surrounded by skyscrapers, walked by shanty towns and alpine chalets. Conor thought then of where he travelled to; it was simpler, far more orderly. He never travelled to the same place twice, but he was confident that he could. It was indexed in its way; the bus station could be used if he needed it. But here, there was no rhyme or reason. Ella was operating absent any structure whatsoever. Regardless, she skipped along down paths he’d never expect, turning off sensible routes. Twice, he looked back and saw that had they remained on the central road, they would have made up time, but she had taken him on two detours - equally marvellous in their own way - a cathedral and a mountain lake.

Conor sensed then, when they were back in the central street, a presence he knew. Just ahead, a bus pulled up. The driver, missing, as always. Ella smiled.

“Familiar?” She asked.

“Not quite,” he said. His buses were clean. Stagecoach. This was a hideously rusted American school bus. Its brakes screamed as it halted, the doors creaked noisily as only one side stuttered open, the other jarred and stuck shut.

“He’s on,” Ella continued, gesturing with her head for him to enter.

Conor resisted. He had no desire to get on this bus. His throat was closing, he wanted to grab the skin by his collar bones and rip his chest open to get some air. He turned to run, but she grabbed him by the upper arm. He struck and kicked, but she was much stronger. She tugged, and his feet lifted off the ground momentarily. He could hear himself screaming for something, though not for help; there was no one on this bus to help him.

“Ready to meet him?”

She thrust him onto the bus then, through the half-opened doors. Conor’s eyes were clamped shut. Do not look at him. He felt the man's eyes boring into him. This could not be the same man as in his deep.

“Open your fucking eyes, Conor,” Ella screamed. “Open your fucking eyes!”