David Whitmarsh

This story was originally written for the Quantum Shorts bi-annual flash fiction competition (unsuccessful), and later published in All Worlds Wayfarer.

The idea later developed into my as yet unpublished novel The Measurement Problem

Entangled

A pool of light from the cafe’s plate glass window spreads over the wet cobbles. It’s familiar territory but I still hesitate, disturbed by the memory of last week. My thumb runs along the folded edge of the note in my pocket.

I need to talk to you about a murder. Marek’s cafe. 7pm

Erica

I’m not homicide. And I don’t know any Erica. So why did I come? I curse my own foolishness and march through the puddles to the cafe door. It utters its usual piercing squeal as I push it open then I’m bathed in the smells of coffee and old leather and the muted sounds of light jazz.

My usual table is occupied by a lone female with her face buried in her phone. In the far corner another has her back to me but watches in the big mirror on the back wall.

Erica, no question. How do I know that?

I slip my coat off and weave my way between the empty tables. By the time I get to her she’s standing facing me. She reaches out, I think she’s about to pull me into an embrace, but she stops short. Her hands brush my sides as she leans forward to give me a light kiss on the cheek. I feel the weight of the Glock under my jacket shift with her touch. For all the ways this feels odd I’m not disturbed by the familiarity.

A faint smile crosses her face. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, and sits. I squeeze behind the low table to sit with my back to the mirrored wall.

Marek looms over us with his tray. ‘Capuccino,’ he says, placing the mug of froth in front of Erica, ‘and a macchiato.’ He’s gone before I can thank him.

Now I really look at her. Fair hair cut in a bob, green eyes, pert nose, wide mouth. Not a classic beauty, but compelling. And I have definitely never seen her before in my life. I would remember.

I drop the note on the table. ‘Who’s the victim?’

‘Mostly it was me,’ she says. A strand of fine pale hair falls across her cheek. ’Sometimes my lover, too.’

She’s Entangled. I’ve read about them, never met one. When Hugh Everett proposed the many-worlds interpretation of quantum theory in 1957, no-one believed it, “untestable”, they said. Then Roger Penrose came up with the idea that consciousness itself was linked to the quantum world, not many people took that seriously, either. Ten years ago someone worked out how to break down the wall between realities, at least in the mind. All those different worlds are real to the Entangled, she lives every one of them, countless parallel lives.

‘Who was the victim in this world?’ I ask, and I’m wondering if there are a million different versions of this conversation happening out there. She would be a part of them all.

‘No-one, yet.’ She sips her coffee.

I ease back in my seat. ‘What can I do? No jurisdiction.’

‘I know.’

I don’t know where this is going, but I have to say something, just so I can keep looking at her. ‘How does it feel, living all those different lives?’

‘The Entanglement procedure opens a door that’s already ajar.’ She gestures as she talks, lively, graceful hands. Did you ever see a face for the first time, but it’s already familiar?’

I’m looking at one.

‘Or you wake up at 3am with an inexplicable feeling of loss?’

‘My sister’s flight was delayed because of a technical problem,’ I say. ‘I phoned, she was still at the airport.’ Did something happen in another reality? I don’t dare ask.

She folds her hands in her lap. ‘You haven’t been back to this cafe since last week.’

Last week. I hadn’t been able to breathe. My chest, my throat had tightened like steel bands. A panic attack? Me? I glance over to where I’d been sitting; phone lady is leaving, the cafe door squeals as she pulls it open. I take a deep breath.

Erica looks up at me. ‘Every world where I’ve had the procedure is part of me. I live so many lives. With such freedoms.’

Confusion shakes me from my fright. Freedoms? She glances at her watch, then up at the mirror behind me.

‘Freedoms,’ she says, though I never asked, ‘because there are no more hard decisions. Who do I want to be? I could become a nun, climb Everest, learn Sanskrit. I can do them all each in a different reality. Every possible future is real.’

She falls silent and looks down, flexing her fingers and studying her nails.

‘But?’ I say.

She sighs. ‘My ex was Entangled, too.’

‘What happened?’

She meets my eyes again. ‘It wasn’t working. I started seeing someone else, but he caught us. He’s crazy jealous, he’s hunting us down in every reality.’

I relax a little. ‘You need a safe place to hide.’

She reaches out and takes my hand, interlocking her fingers with mine. ‘You don’t understand. There are many, many more worlds than there are places where we might hide in any one. He could knock on every door of every house on Earth a million times over. And he will if he has to.’

I’m staring at the hand that’s holding mine. It feels like it belongs there. Pieces fall into place.

She reaches out to stroke my cheek. ‘He doesn’t care that you never met me before in this reality. If there’s one world where he knows we’re here today, then he knows in this one. He’s coming, you have to be ready.’

Tears form in the corners of her eyes. ‘Things used to be so simple.’

A shadow moves in the darkness beyond the window. It is simple. The Glock is in my hand before the cafe door squeals.

I remember her words: every possible future is real.