There was a definite shadow. No mistake. Quite large, really. He stared in disbelief, but there it was. And although the pleasant young doctor was talking in mindful and calming words about just how much medicine had advanced over the past few years, he could not quite listen. A habit of politeness made him nod and say “uh-huh” every now and again, but if he had been quizzed about any of it he would not have been able to repeat a single word.
The bus journey home was equally vapid – he would have stayed on for the entire journey had another passenger not brushed past him when exiting at the bus stop after his own. He trudged back, completely unaware of the passing half kilometre distance. It was only at his door that he had to snap out of his reverie – he couldn’t find his key. Actually, that was not strictly true; he just could not remember which pocket he had put it in.
The phone rang. It was his brother checking about the next weekend’s upcoming party. Amidst the usual chitchat about work at the office, the nieces and nephews, the car in repair, their mum’s house repairs and plans for a summer holiday, there arose a distinct and almost violent necessity to vomit. So with a, “Gotta go. Sorry” he rushed to the kitchen sink and filled it with the retched contents of his stomach, which didn’t amount to much because of the hours that had elapsed between his breakfast tea and now. Sweating with effort, he grabbed the kitchen stool and sat himself down, hands over either side of the sink, and hung his head down until it touched his knees.
So this was it. The end. The Shadow of Death was approaching and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned over the sink again for two more fruitless heaves, then resumed the position. This was not how he wanted it to end.
Throughout his life he had occasionally considered death, as do all living and thinking things. Was it final, or would there be some sort of heaven? Would the method of his departure involve memorable heroics and posthumous glory, or some miserable descent into a world of pain and ultimate oblivion? Well, at least the latter of those scenarios was now abundantly clear. He would certainly die in a cloud of opiate-mitigated agony. It would be a final moment of the deepest and darkest profound inconsequence. And prematurely, as far as he was concerned, for he still had so very much to do – what a soul-crushing pity…
His mind brought up his parents’ deaths, in hospital beds surrounded by the nearest and dearest, although with his father there had been fewer present partly because of the timing of his departure – 5:16 am. Well, he cheerlessly reasoned, at least that wouldn’t happen to him because of his single status and having no darling progeny to hold the expected bedside vigil. No, his last moments would most likely be seen out alone.
He went to bed, full to overflowing with self-pity and pain. Within the forgiving embrace of familiar mattress and duvet, the remnant of his time on planet earth appeared to be evaporating – as so much empty breath. Like the kettle that was whistling downstairs. That was strange: he did not recall putting it on. Yes, there was the high-pitched steamy whistle. And it descended quickly, as if the gas was turned off.
He went down the stairs with as much stealth as he could and hesitantly peered around the corner. Beside the kitchen window, putting the kettle back onto the stove top, was the shadow of a man. Only it suddenly occurred to him that this man was dressed exactly like him – down to the socks! He abruptly stopped stirring his mug of tea, teaspoon in hand, and turned around: he not only dressed like him, but also looked exactly like him; a mirror image – a doppelganger!
“Who the hell are you?” he called out, still peering around the door frame.
“Oh, hi! There you are.” came the response in the same voice as his own, only calmer.
“What do you mean by, Oh, hi? I asked you who you are. And what are you doing in my house?”
“Hey, just chill out, will you?” said the doppelganger, who returned to stirring his tea, then tapped the rim before placing the spoon onto the draining board, just as was his custom. “And it’s more who the hell were you, not are you, by the way. 'Cos I’m you! Or was. It's a little confusing.”
“I’m calling the police!” he shouted, turning to find the remote charging in the hallway.
“Sorry, mate, but you haven’t got time. Not if you want to find out who I am.”
He stopped and returned a glance at his twin standing in the kitchen doorway taking his first sip. He smiled, “Ooh, lovely! You were right.”
“What?” He stood hands on hips. What on God’s good earth was happening to him? This was truly the day from Hell. First the diagnosis with six-months to one-year at best, if the doctor’s words could be remembered at all, and then this… interloper!
“You, that is I said, and correct me if I’m wrong, that shagging Phyllis Cornwallis was a waste of time and that you’d have rather had a nice cup of tea.”
Stupefied, he could only respond with the same, “What?”
“Well, here I am. I’m having that cup of tea!” He took another slurp. “And, despite the rather dubious reasons for saying it in the first place, I think you might be right. This really is a nice cup of tea.”
“And how do you know about Phyllis Cornwallis?”
“I’m you, remember?”
He stood confused and not a little angry. There was this stranger taking tea and passing the time of day about a bad date with an old girlfriend – how did he know about that?
The strange him smiled his rather patronising grin, the sort he used when disclosing vital information that only he knew, yet was vital for the other person to hear. He saw it and found it excruciating – as excruciating as everyone else who’d had to suffer it over the years. “Look, it’s quite straightforward really. The following day you, that is I, said to Eric that you’d –I’d– rather have had a nice cup of tea than shag Phyllis: that it had been a complete waste of time. So, you’ve, I mean I’ve, now got the opportunity. Cheers!”
So saying, he tilted his mug, his favourite mug, in his direction and took a slurp.
“Mmm… smashing! Can’t quite beat a nice cup of tea. I wonder whatever happened to Phyllis.”
“Phyllis? I don’t know. Wait…” He sat down at the bottom of the stairs. “You mean, you are me?”
“Got it!” He gave that same self-satisfied smirk. “And I must say, really, I’m so sorry about the news – you know, about this morning. Must be a bummer. But without it, I’m not here and your wasted time was… well, wasted!”
At that, he stood up smart. Frowning, he was going to demand answers, but was pre-empted.
“Calm down. It’s quite simple. You see, for every moment you/I said it was wasted, the time has been given again. Or rather, whatever you said you’d prefer to do has been enabled. Don’t ask me how; it just is – that’s all I know. And from memory, there are quite a lot of regrets that will be putting in an appearance. I’ll certainly be popping by from time to time: you wasted a lot of time by saying the ‘Rather have a cup of tea’ one regularly.”
“I did?”
“And remember that dalliance in New York with what’s-her-name?”
“Carmel?”
“Yes, that was it – and she left on the first night? Well, that regret is being chased up quite soon. I think ‘I’d have rather had a rusty harpoon inserted up my anus!’ was perhaps over-exaggerating the whole impact thing of that admittedly disastrous weekend, don’t you think? I mean; you hardly knew the girl.”
He stared blankly back at his cocky mirror image. “So, you mean I can have those times, those regrets again?”
He took a good gulp and stood there nursing the remnants of the tea.
“Well, yes. Kind-of. Only, of course, it won’t exactly be you enjoying all those wasted moments – I suppose that would be unfair. So, from time to time a You, or more exactly an I, will appear and all those things you regretted will be accounted for. You do understand this, don’t you – you are, after all, a chartered accountant.”
And with that, the mug was drained, taken to the sink, rinsed under the hot tap and placed on the draining board next to the spoon.
“Cheerio, then.” He impishly smiled. Vanishing, like mist on the wind, he just had enough time to say, “Thanks for the tea. Oh, and by the way, after the news this morning, any more regrets are invalidated. So you can’t just go around regretting your whole life or some such.”
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