Portal Double Zero

Otto staggered to the toilets, as much for shelter as to answer a call of nature. Those recently reformed, sing-along baldies were coming to the end of their over-familiar set, and he was quite keen to get some respite from the persistent drizzle that had been soaking the crowd on the common pretty much since they got there.

He had left his friends and made his way to the furthest toilets he could find, feeling a little the worse for wear after a long afternoon and evening in the cold and wet listening to a lot of live music by bands that either were not really his thing, or else too blown about by the wind to really hear properly. He had got to a point where he had had enough. The Beatles could have come on with AC/DC to play a set of ABBA covers, with Tina Turner and Freddie Mercury on backing vocals, and he would still have wanted to go home.

Pulling the door on the plastic cubicle shut behind him, he got on with the half-hearted business of relieving himself. As he splashed the loo and seat in equal measure, slumped against the wall, he fixed his eyes on the logo at eye level.

“Portal Double Zero?” The words rolled around in his head, fighting for space at the front of his brain with the cider for which he had somehow justified spending half this month's salary.

Otto sighed, grateful for the quiet and absence of rain. He realised that he could not actually notice the pitter-patter on the toilet roof. He could not even hear the music any more. Had there not been an irresistible clamour for an encore? He adjusted his dress, and opened the door.

It took him a while to fully appreciate what was in front of him. He could see the field. He had a lovely view of the castle. The entertainment complex with swimming, gym and venue facilities was unmistakeable to his left. What he struggled to come to terms with was the fact that there was absolutely no trace of the Abcestival, sponsored by the school of dentistry. There was no stage, no beer tent, no girls handing out fluoride information leaflets and no throng of weather bashed party goers eagerly absorbing the latest opportunity for overpriced food and drink outlets that the council had secured for the seafront.

Otto's mind reeled, and when he stepped away from the toilet, his legs did the same. His tipsy feet were unexpectedly falling on hard, dry earth, not the sucking mud that still clung to his DMs.

It was getting dark now, and his disorientation was giving way to a mild panic. There were people walking by on the pavement and he lurched over to them, waving an arm.

“Hey!” he accosted them, “where is Abcestival?”

The kindly looking couple stopped, bemused.

“Hello,” the middle-aged woman greeted him, “are you one of our eastern European friends?”

“What? No, I came out of the toilet”. Otto turned and gestured to the small plastic box he had just vacated, only to find that it, too, had vanished.

“Can we help you?” the other middle-aged woman asked him with pity in her eyes, looking his damp form up and down.

Otto did not know what to say. He backed away. Something was clearly not right, but he did not know what. Had he passed out? Had he drunk something he really should not have? He had no idea what was going on, but he had just one over-riding instinct, and that was to go home. He made his way out onto the road. Here too, things were not as they should be. In the gathering gloom he could see that the tanks were missing from outside the war museum. He stumbled on across the common, desperately hoping that once he was safely indoors that things would somehow sort themselves out.

It took him more than half an hour to reach his flat. His key did not work in the outer door that led in from the street, and even though on some level this did not surprise him, Otto tried quite a few times before giving up. The doorbell that was supposed to connect to his first floor flat had not worked since he moved in, yet with an inexplicable tingle he found himself pushing the button anyway. With a scrape and a squeak, a young woman stuck her head out of a window above.

“Hello? Can I help you?” she called down.

“Er, yes, maybe. You see I live here”.

“Did you just move into the basement flat? You need to go round the side”.
“No,” Otto called back, “no, I live there, in number 3”.

She did not answer straight away. He could see her straining to make him out properly in the monochrome half-light. He felt self-conscious and conspicuous as he was examined by this strange silhouette that was examining him from what should have been his own lounge window.

“Do you need the Assistants?” called down the voice.

“Eh, assistance from whom?” he replied. His mind was foggy, and he felt he should get away. He had already started to turn and walk down the street.

“Wait, please!” the voice called after him. “You don't need to leave. Let us help you!”

Otto was already around the corner.

He meandered through pseudo-familiar streets, lost in a world of thought, rather than connecting properly with the world of sense experience. Without any conscious plan, he ended up in the Guildhall Square. The large TV screen was still on at this late hour, and was showing just one, still picture. A face. The female visage that was gazing down at him was very familiar, but the name written large underneath was not.

A tap on the shoulder made Otto jump.

“You've come to give thanks to Muriel?” The old man was short, hairy and wearing a yellow hi-vis jerkin with the word 'ASSISTANT' written in big capitals on the front and back.

The uncanny feeling that had been bombarding Otto's brain since he had emerged from that mysterious toilet seemed to be building to a crescendo. He recognised the woman in the picture; she was not someone he knew personally, and he had no warm feelings for her whatsoever. The very idea that he might be wanting to give thanks to her was ludicrous. This was someone that was responsible, as far as he knew, for appalling decisions affecting the lives of countless people both home and abroad. He had so much going on in his head, yet could only manage a short echo in reply.

“Muriel?” he said.

“Muriel F.C. Diamond!” The old man was beaming. Otto looked between him and the screen. He pointed up at it, and the man nodded vigorously.

“I think I might know what the 'F.C.' stands for,” Otto mused.

“Fayn Calixte,” came the reply.

“That's not what I was thinking of. All right, I give up,” said Otto, shaking his head, “where's the camera? Who's the joker, is it Gibson? I'll chin him”.

“Come, friend, let me show you how we do things here. You could do with dry clothes, and I dare say some hot food. Let's get you some shelter for the night”.

Otto was led to a small Rickshaw, and bundled into the back. Before he could adjust, his well wisher had grabbed the handles and set off at a brisk pace.

“No, wait, you don't have to carry me,” Otto tried to protest.

“ I am here to Assist you,” came the shout back, “please try and relax, this won't take long”.

Otto could not believe it when his ride brought him back to the seafront, and right to the door of the D-Day museum. Except all trace of the memorial purpose of the building had disappeared. They stopped, and Otto dismounted.

“Where are the tanks?” he asked.

“This is the Shelter”.

Without any further discussion, Otto was led through a reception area where he was met with a succession of smiles from everyone that he passed. The building had been adapted and added to since he had seen it last. But that was just last week, surely? He was taken to a storeroom, and his companion arranged for him to be fitted out with a whole new set of clothes. He was told that some were donated, and that others came through a scheme that Muriel had instigated whereby clothing stores and supermarkets would pass on unwanted end of line stock. Feeling much more comfortable as he left the changing cubicle, he found it hard to conceal his delight when he was taken to the dining hall. It was a very busy place, much like a canteen, with people queueing for food as others sat at numerous tables. The Assistant left him alone to enjoy his meal. As he sat, he was able to hear the sound of people conversing in native tongues from all over the continent. Otto was no linguist, but he was able to tell that the menus were available in a selection of different languages. This multi-cultural support service took him by surprise. He had friends that had worked in support services, but he had never known of anything of this type, or on this scale. Someone plopped into the seat beside him.

“Great, isn’t it?” Otto looked up into the smiling face of a swarthy, stubbly man in a long robe. Ever since he had emerged from the strange toilet he had met only nice, friendly people. He started give full credence to the idea that had been growing in his subconscious, the notion that he was somehow in some parallel version of his own reality.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he replied. His new dinner partner had spoken in a thick accent that Otto did not recognise, and was naturally curious about. He was not quite sure how best to bring the subject up. “You’re not local, I take it?”

This comment caused great hilarity. When the laughter subsided, and tears had been wiped away, his new friend spoke again.

“Ha! Stan is a local! Stan travelled all the way from my home country, and I have settled here, so now I am a local. I would live nowhere else. Here is beautiful. Muriel makes it so”.

That woman’s name again. She was clearly not the woman he thought he recognised, but he felt he had to try and check.

“This Muriel, she is the local M.P.?”

“Yes, or course!”

“And she didn’t vote to bomb Syria, I suppose?”

Stan looked shocked. “Let me tell you, my friend. Let me tell you! This woman was part of the human shields, she spoke out when no one else would, she gave speech after speech in the cause of justice and fair treatment for all. Every man, woman and child here owes their existence to the efforts of this champion, this saint! The clothes on your back, give thanks to Muriel. The food on your plate, give thanks to Muriel”. Stan gave Otto’s plate a little shove with his hand. “I only wish my wife and children were here for this”.

Otto felt a tightness in his heart. “They didn’t make it?” he asked quietly.

“Ha! Of course they made it, but they are staying at The Mansion tonight, all ten of them, and it’s falafel night here! They love falafel”.

Their discussion carried on well into the night. Otto heard how Muriel Diamond had brought back from America many ideas and philosophies that had radically changed her outlook and political standpoint. She had gradually wrought swathes of humanitarian changes that had impacted all over the world, but nowhere more so than in her own constituency. The thing that Stan found most emotional to describe was how she had challenged her own government over the child refugee issue, and had fought for and won them the right to be brought in their thousands to a place where there were people willing to provide shelter and resources to ensure that they were looked after. Muriel had even vacated her own luxury property, affectionately known as The Mansion, so that refugee children could be housed there and cared for.

“Can I ask, is Stan your given name?”

“No, it’s just what they call me”.

“Isn’t it a bit, well, you know, racist?”

“There are no racists here,” was his answer.

Otto was allocated a bunk in a dormitory, and he only realised how much his aching body needed to rest once he was lying down. As he stretched out, he thought deeply about what he was finding out. Everything seemed great. Compared to what he was used to, problems were being solved, positive action and kindness to others were winning out over xenophobia and selfishness. Ignorance was on the run, and it all seemed down to the efforts of one woman. In spite of this, Otto was worried. He was steeped in enough sci-fi folklore to know that there was probably a catch. Some ulterior motive that would be to the great disadvantage of most people involved. Was it his duty to try and find out? Was that why he was here?

Over the next couple of days, he did not venture far. He mingled with the other residents and absorbed all he could about how this world differed from his own, and he speculated where he could on exactly what had caused things to be different. Muriel herself was a mystery. She looked just like someone that he thought that he knew well from the media, yet of course had never met. Here, somehow, she had been given a totally different birth name, and turned out to be a complete contrast to the individual that he had made up his mind about after reading internet articles and twitter comments. Had he been wrong about that version of her? Or could two versions of the same person really be that different? Everything that he found out about Muriel Diamond informed him of her innovations and her commitment; key moments such as the way that she had sweet-talked Mr Putin into implementing his own extensive aid programme, and intercepted overladen boats en route to Lesvos using her own yacht, to help save refugees from a watery fate. He had to admire the way that she had adapted the old museum after getting the contents moved into the dockyard. Muriel had her own proud military family history, yet she managed to use that to emphasise the need for intervention and change from a modern viewpoint. There was acceptance and gratitude for old ways whilst embracing the new. Otto read articles that were eloquent and persuasive that left him in no doubt that togetherness was the only future and that dropping bombs on people would not solve any of the long term problems facing humankind.

On Thursday morning he took a stroll across the common. It was overcast and blustery, but plenty of people were out enjoying the day. A group of children were playing an expansive wide game, and as he got closer he noted there were a few adults joining in. He was almost past them when he stopped. Right in the middle, laughing and running as hard as any of them, was the woman with that face. She kept playing, but gradually became aware of the person looking at her. She turned her head a number of times as she moved around. Otto was not sure if she had looked at him directly, those deep set eyes very close to that proud nose gave the appearance of a slight squint. Eventually she detached herself from the game and got into one of the Assistants’ Rickshaws, and was taken off in the direction of the Diamond Shelter. She passed close enough to Otto for him to be sure that their eyes met. For a second, he even thought that there was a flicker of recognition. He dismissed this as fanciful, and carried on his walk. The sky was darkening ominously.

He returned in time for the evening meal, and he was intending to spend the rest of the day quietly reading. Before he had the chance to clear his plates he was tapped on the shoulder. A man in an official looking suit was behind him.

“Muriel would like to speak with you.” The matter did not seem up for debate, and the man in the suit stayed behind him until they reached an office in a part of the refurbished complex that Otto had not been to before. The door was opened for him, and he went in alone. Muriel Diamond was sat behind a desk.

“Please, sit down,” she beckoned. Otto did as he was asked. Muriel got straight to the point. “We don’t know who you are. Your identification doesn’t check out. I don’t believe for one minute that you arrived on any of the refugee transports, I think you came from much closer to home. So the question is, who are you, and where do you come from?”

Otto felt very uncomfortable. He had heard nothing but good things about this woman, but clearly she was no fool. He really did not like the way that she was looking at him. She got up and moved around to the front of the desk, and sat on it.

“Look, you’re not in any real trouble, we’ve been watching you, and you’ve done no real harm. But you have been asking a lot of questions. Things that even the dumbest person really ought to know. I want to know why?”

Otto’s discomfort grew. He got up out of his chair, and tried to back towards the door, but his sense of direction was off and he backed right up into the wall. Muriel moved towards him. She ended up almost toe to toe, and even though he knew he had no real reason to panic, he was afraid.

“OK, mystery man, let’s have it!”

And then she kissed him. He was so taken aback that he could not move or fight, until he realised that he did not have to. As suddenly as she had grabbed him, she let go, and went back behind her desk, where she grabbed a photo standing in a frame and turned it towards him. It was a picture of his own face, wearing a tan and a TV toothpaste smile.

“That’s me!” was all that he could say.

“No, it’s definitely not you. This is my Dicky, he was my rock after my husband was butchered in Turkey. Yet he was also taken from me as we carried out our last rescue mission in the Med. When I first saw you, I thought, I hoped he might have come back to me. Once I’d kissed you I was sure. You're not him”. Otto rubbed his lips and adjusted his trousers. Muriel continued, “so the question still remains: who are you?”

Otto told her everything that he could. He saw no reason to lie, or miss things out. He had no real idea what was going on either. She listened intently and asked only pertinent questions. When it came to the reason for his being there, they both speculated.

“I thought it might be something to do with the referendum?” Otto offered.

“What referendum?” Muriel genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. It turned out on this world, the referendum had been a campaign pledge that had never been followed up on. The ongoing good work to promote accord in as much of the world as possible was getting wholesale and unprecedented support from nearly everyone, which meant that it was just not an issue here.

Suddenly there was commotion outside, and an aide knocked and entered hurriedly.

“The storm’s coming ma’am. Too many people have gone down to the seafront. Could you have a word?”

“Honestly, the trouble with being brilliant is that they expect you to do everything”. She flashed Otto a self-deprecating smile, and left the room. He followed close behind.

Out on the promenade, the waves were crashing down. Black, terrible clouds had gathered, and the edges of the forecast Hurricane Madonna had arrived as promised from the Atlantic to abuse the south coast.

“Dirty foreign storm, coming over her and smashing our beaches,” Otto found himself muttering.

Muriel started talking to people individually, asking them to get back indoors, but they were not interested. It seemed that they already had agreed on the best course of action. Everyone kept pushing Muriel forward and pointing out to sea. They were shouting things at her, but the wind made it impossible for Otto to hear. After a short while it became clear what they wanted. They thought she should command the storm to retreat. These people whose lives had been saved and transformed by this woman had elevated her to the point of deification.

Muriel ended up on her own, apart from the throng, a little way down the prom from everyone else. Each crashing wave sent spray high in the air and over those gathered. The crowd had separated them, yet Muriel turned and held Otto’s gaze completely. He could tell from her countenance that she knew that any gesture would be futile, yet the weight of expectation from all these people that believed in her was too much. She raised her arms. This was her Cnut moment.

“The sea defences!” The aide at Otto’s elbow screamed. Waves were crashing with increasing ferocity, and with a terrible and audible crack the concrete under Muriel’s feet split and fractured, and in another explosion of spray, she was gone.

Chaos ensued. Staff and security arrived on the scene, residents were ushered inside, though many were not keen to go. Grieving wailers and adverse conditions made rescue efforts nigh on impossible.

Otto removed himself from the masses, but could not face going back inside. What did it all mean? Could this world endure without one of its guiding lights? An idea formed in his mind. Perhaps Dicky was not dead, just missing. Maybe he could reappear and carry on the good work that his lost partner had started. This world was much better than his, so why not stay and get in at the top?

Concentrating on his plan, he absent-mindedly reached out for the door of the portable toilet he happened upon in the car park and went inside. As soon as he saw the logo in front of him, he snapped back to the moment and dashed outside again.

He was too late. The D-Day Museum car park was back as he remembered it. He was removed from that world and its tragedy. Otto headed for home once more, readjusting with every footfall and keen to see just how his world had behaved while he was away. He glanced over his shoulder and noted the tanks were reassuringly in position.

He failed to notice the unfamiliar look-out towers on the seafront, searchlights scanning the water. Nor did he see the lights come on in front of the nearest tank, and the turret swivel. A non-registered alien had been detected and the UKIP migrant pacifier had come online.