The Tor - 12. Chapter 12

The memory followed him everywhere. Christopher tried, at first, to explain it away. A concussion, perhaps. Shock. A panic attack brought on by stress and too little sleep. The mind was capable of extraordinary distortions. He knew that much. There were books full of documented cases. False memories. Dissociative episodes. The brain filling gaps with stories it found easier to bear. The explanation sounded sensible each morning, but by evening it felt absurd.

Every time he closed his eyes he heard the same voice.

Don't go.

The words carried a desperation that still made his chest tighten.

Please. Stay with me.

The memory of his own death should have haunted him most. The certainty that nobody was coming to pull him from the dust and the darkness. Instead it was Marco's voice that refused to leave him. Christopher could still hear the terror in it. He could still see Marco's face emerging through the smoke and confusion, terrified and powerless, already certain of what was about to happen. The second day Christopher had stopped pretending with himself. The memory was real. Whether it belonged to him was another matter entirely.

Late that afternoon he found Marco near the lighthouse. The sea was rough after several days of unsettled weather. Waves struck the rocks below in bursts of white spray while gulls drifted on the wind above the cliffs. Marco stood beside a small maintenance shed overlooking the water, coiling thick rope onto a wooden rack. The lighthouse stood above them, its white tower stark against the darkening sky.

He looked up as Christopher approached. The smile that appeared automatically vanished almost at once. Christopher's face must have warned him.

Marco straightened slowly. "Christopher."

Christopher stopped a few yards away. Marco looked up from the rope in his hands. Neither of them spoke. The wind pulled at their coats. Waves burst against the rocks below.

Then Christopher said quietly, "You knew."

Marco went completely still. It was only a slight change. A tightening around the eyes. A faint loss of colour. Enough to register his awareness.

"All this time," Christopher said, "you knew."

The rope slipped from Marco's hands. Neither man looked at it. Christopher had imagined this conversation a dozen different ways over the past two days. He had imagined shouting demands and accusations. Standing here, he found himself simply exhausted.

Marco nodded, “I knew something was happening.”

Christopher frowned, “That's not what I asked.”

“No.” Marco's gaze never left his face. "What do you remember?"

The question struck harder than denial would have. Not What are you talking about? Not You've misunderstood.

What do you remember?

As though there had never been any doubt that something had returned. Christopher felt anger rise through the exhaustion.

"You don't even ask whether I'm mad."

Marco closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, Christopher saw fear, not fear of him, but fear of the answer.

The memory of smoke and sirens flashed without warning.

Please

Stay with me.

Christopher heard himself speak before he realised he had chosen the words. "You left."

Marco's face drained of colour. Christopher had expected argument. Instead Marco looked as though he had been struck.

In that instant Christopher understood something terrible. Marco recognised the memory.

Something inside Christopher finally gave way. "Weeks of dreams," he said. "Weeks of wondering whether I was losing my mind." Marco remained silent. "You watched it happen." Silence. "You knew what those dreams were."

"I never lied to you." The reply came quietly.

Christopher laughed without humour. "No." He shook his head. "You simply let me believe I was going mad."

Marco looked away. That tiny movement felt like an admission. Christopher dragged a hand through his hair.

"You always looked at me as though I was about to disappear."

Marco shut his eyes, only for a heartbeat. When he opened them again, there was such naked grief in them that Christopher felt his anger falter. He had seen that expression before, through smoke and rain, through tears.

Memory struck with dizzying force. Christopher's breath caught. "You left me." He shook his head as if trying to clear it. "But there was something else."

The words sounded different now, recognition rather than accusation.

Marco did not move.

Christopher stepped closer. "I remember enough, but not all." His throat tightened painfully. "I remember begging you not to leave. Not just that day."

Marco's composure broke for the briefest instant. Christopher saw it. Saw the grief. Saw the unbearable relief that someone else finally remembered. The expression vanished almost immediately, too late.

"I remember dying alone."

Marco looked physically ill. Still he did not deny it. "Christopher..."

Only his name. Nothing more.

Christopher felt the ground shift beneath him. The memory was real.

Somewhere in the impossible past Marco had begged him to stay.

Somewhere in that same forgotten life Christopher had died anyway.

Neither of them spoke. Christopher had imagined uncovering a deception. Instead he had uncovered fear.

Marco looked less like a man protecting a secret than one carrying a wound that had never healed.

"What happened?" Christopher asked. Marco remained silent. "You owe me the truth."

A long moment passed. Then Marco spoke. "You shouldn't be remembering this yet."

Christopher started. "Yet?"

Marco winced. The single word had escaped before he could stop it. "Forget I said that."

"No." Christopher took a step towards him. "You don't get to do that." Marco looked out across the sea. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion. "You know exactly what's happening to me." Silence. "What are you afraid of?"

That finally made Marco look at him. Pain crossed his face so openly that Christopher almost wished he had not asked. "You've looked at me that way since the day we met," he said quietly. "As though you're waiting for something terrible."

Marco swallowed. When he finally answered, his voice was scarcely audible. "The last time this happened..." He stopped. Christopher waited. "...you remembered too fast."

Christopher felt the words settle into him. The last time. Marco had not spoken metaphorically. There had been another life, another remembering.

Christopher felt the blood drain from his face. "What happened?"

Marco looked out towards the horizon. For a long time he did not answer. Then, very quietly, "I watched you die." Marco stopped, the heel of one hand pressed against his eyes, then continued in a broken whisper, "Again."

The single word landed harder. Silence stretched between them. Christopher felt cold. Not the chill of the wind. Something deeper, something ancient.

Marco gave a faint, broken laugh. ""I thought I had more time." He looked at Christopher for the first time since speaking. "I thought I could save you this
time."

Neither of them moved. Below them, the sea continued its endless assault against the cliffs. The lighthouse beam swept briefly across the water. For the first time since the dreams had begun, Christopher understood what Marco had been afraid of. It wasn't the memories, but the ending.

Somewhere in all those forgotten lives, Christopher had died, and Marco had survived him.

And now Thursday was coming.