Ward - Time Rep

Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright 2013 by Peter Ward
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.
First Diversion Books edition July 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62681-055-6

The front room of 23 Woodview Gardens was largely identical to every other front room along the street. It had some walls, a floor, and a pair of alcoves too small to accommodate anything useful. It had a bay window, a door leading out into the hallway, and a light hanging from the ceilingin fact, as front rooms go, it had all the usual features you might expect. Unlike all the other front rooms along Woodview Gardens, however, this one was a complete mess. Crisps had been trodden into the carpet, newspapers were flung across the sofa, and the television was being used as some sort of makeshift clotheshorsethough by the size and smell of it youd be forgiven for thinking it was an actual horse. Wallpaper was beginning to flake away around the skirting boards, the light switch had a one in ten chance of giving you an electric shock (even if you werent touching it), and a strange smell lingered in the far corner like a ghostly vapor refusing to be exorcised. It was fortunate the curtains were permanently drawnhad any passersby caught a glimpse of this room, they might have thought they were walking past an animal enclosure.

In a sense they were walking past an animal enclosure, except the animal in question was the man who lived thereGeoffrey Stamp. Geoffrey was an average height, average looking man with pale skin, a round face, and olive green eyes. He had a skinny build, narrow shoulders, and arms that looked disproportionately thin for his body. At first glance, it was difficult to determine his age. With a weeks worth of dark stubble blurring his jaw line and scraggy chestnut hair drooping over his forehead like an unkempt bush creeping over a garden wall, he could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty.

In actual fact, Geoff had turned twenty-seven a few weeks ago. The occasion wasnt marked with him throwing a big birthday party or having a couple of friends over for a drinkthe day just passed without incident, like the first two hours of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Hed received a few cards. Some were from old friends he was on the verge of losing touch with, a couple were from some distant relatives hed last seen when hed just entered puberty, and one was from an insurance company who somehow knew his date of birth. Happy Birthday Mr. Stamp, the impersonal, automated letter had wished him in two different fonts. As youre now another year older, have you considered taking out one of our fantastic life insurance policies? He hoped that whoever had decided to send out that sort of letter to people had life insurancethey needed it.

His parents had also sent him a card all the way from America. Theyd sold their house a few years ago, moving away from London because of his fathers job, which was something to do with IT. Not very interesting. Apparently it was a big opportunity he couldnt afford to turn down, so theyd taken it, leaving Geoff behind to find a place to live and fend for himself. He was old enough now, theyd said. It would be good for him. Geoff visited them once a year and spoke to his mother on the phone every now and again, although the conversation was the same every time: Had he decided what he wanted to do with his life yet? Had he found a job? And did he have a girlfriend?

You could understand why she was concerned. Most people of Geoffs age had started to settle to down into a career. Perhaps been in a relationship for a few years. Started to think about marriage. Taken out a mortgage on a place. That sort of thing. But not Geoff. He was still single. And unemployed. The only job hed ever held down for a significant period of time was as a paperboy (for ten years), and hed been fired from that a couple of years ago because he was told he was too old. He wasnt sure why hed stayed being a paperboy for so long. Maybe it was the same reason hed made no real effort to find another job since. It wasnt a lack of ambition that was holding him backhe just lacked direction and any sort of skills or qualifications you would expect to find on most peoples CVs. One thing was for sure thoughhe couldnt see himself working in an office environment. Sitting at a desk all day. Typing numbers into a computer. Passing someone the stapler every now and then. That wasnt for him. He knew he was capable of something more, but until he discovered what that was, he didnt want to burden himself with employment. He preferred to live a much more rewarding lifestyle, which basically consisted of him playing computer games.

Lots of computer games.

At this precise moment in time, however, Geoff was doing something elsehe was asleep on the sofa, his feet hanging over the armrest at one end, his head nestled in a cushion of old magazines at the other. An empty cereal packet lay across his chest, rising and falling slowly with each breath, and his left arm had flopped over the side to the floor, his limp hand dangerously close to knocking over an old cup of tea. Every now and then he would mutter something incomprehensible or rub his face with the back of his hand. He was dreaming, although it wasnt about anything job related. In fact, if you really want to know, he was dreaming about fishing.

Fishing was somewhat of a recurring dream for Geoff, although he wasnt entirely sure why. He wasnt a fishing enthusiast, didnt know anyone who went fishing, and didnt even go fishing when he was younger. His childhood was spent sitting on the swings in concrete playgrounds, cycling up and down council estates with his friends in East London, or sitting in his bedroom playing Sonic the Hedgehog. He supposed there was an underwater stage in Sonic the Hedgehog that used to give him nightmares, but that was about the only connection he could think of. Otherwise, there was no reason for him to be dreaming about fishing whatsoever. He didnt even like fish, for goodness sake.

And yet here he was, sitting by his imaginary lake, fishing rod in one hand, pickle sandwich in the other, teeth chattering in the crisp morning air. He was slumped on his usual bench, feet squished into the gray mud beneath him, arms hunched close to his chest. The lake was quite large, probably the same size as a football pitch, with a small island of tall trees and thick vegetation in the middle. The water was calm, reflecting the overcast sky above, and a few reeds were sprouting up in odd clumps near the banks, as if the lake had undergone a failed hair transplant.

One thing that had been bothering Geoff recently was the fact that he could tell when he was dreaming. He didnt know whether it was because he was asleep so often that he was now accustomed to the sensation, or whether A bite! Geoffrey dropped his sandwich, disbanded his psychological ramblings and grasped the rod with both hands. This was a slight overreaction since whatever hed caught wasnt putting up much of a fight. He reeled in his lifeless catch, wondering what kind of metaphor for underachievement would emerge from the water today. A boot maybe? A tire? An old rucksack? Every time he dreamt about fishing, he always ended up hooking some piece of worthless junk, so you can imagine his surprise when the thing on the end of his line turned out to be a fish.