Page 22 of I Know How This Ends

I cough hard, suddenly feeling unbearably hot.

Everything hurts and my forehead is damp. I run my hands through sticky hair and realize with shock that it’s a short bob.

Where the hell has my hair gone? Whatever I’m wearing—I look down, it’s a pair of yellow pajamas with stars on them—is completely

soaked with sweat. With a horrified lurch, I clumsily pull the blanket off me and try to stand up, feel woozy, sit down again.

What the hell is happening to me this time?

“ Henry ,” I try to say, but I can’t form the word: my throat is raw, lined with pain. It comes out as a frog-like croak. “ Henry. ”

Because he has to be here, doesn’t he?

He is always in my visions, and I suddenly realize I need him to be. I don’t want to be stuck here, wherever I am— whenever I am—on my own. I look desperately around the unfamiliar flat, but it’s just me. Tall windows, intricate cornices, dark gray

walls the color of a pavement in the rain. There’s a large indoor tree in the corner, and a huge painting of a ship on the

wall. Where the hell am I? Panic whips the back of my neck. What if I get stranded? What if I’m trapped in this strange place

indefinitely? In pain, foggy and confused? I could be any time, any place, and then how do I get back?

“ Henry ,” I say huskily again, trying to stand up. “Are you here?”

No answer.

My head hurts, it’s an empty vision, a blank time-hop, and I don’t understand, I don’t want it, I need to get out, I need

to—

Wobbling, I reach the front door and start rummaging at the lock. Out. Out. I need out, I need—

A voice behind me: “Meg?”

I promptly start crying.

“Oh shit .” I feel Henry’s hand rest briefly on the back of my neck. “You’re burning up, Margot. I told you to stay on the sofa. You need to stay warm, not be wandering about at random, sweating your balls off.”

Still crying, I turn around.

Henry is here, he’s here, I’m not on my own, I’m not stranded.

“I thought you’d gone,” I say, sobbing fully now. “I thought you weren’t going to be here. I thought I was on my own.”

“I was just checking on Winter,” Henry laughs, wrapping his big arms around me. He smells the same: pepper and lemon. “I haven’t

gone anywhere, I promise.”

Still sniffling, I tuck into Henry’s neck and feel myself quieten. It feels normal, as if I do this regularly. As if he somehow

calms me, every time.

“Is Winter OK?” I murmur, suddenly needing to know. “She’s not too sick?”

Because I’m sick: I’ve suddenly remembered.

I don’t know how I know, but I do. As if Other Margot and Me Margot are momentarily the same person.

I look around me again—I’m in Henry’s flat.

This is Henry’s flat, in Bath. I know it, even though I’m not sure exactly how.

The past, still the future, is starting to flicker in and out.

Déjà vu, except working in two directions.

“It’s just the flu,” Henry confirms, brushing my fringe out of my sweaty face and studying me carefully. He looks tired. “And

she’s fine, Meg. You’ve got it far worse, I’m afraid. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

I nod, staring at his face. His stubble is slightly longer, more clearly silvery. It suits him, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed,

still weepy. I’m so grateful he was here: that I wasn’t waking up on my own.

I don’t want any visions that don’t have him in them.

“Henry,” I say. “I think this is—”

“Margot? Is everything alright?”

Blinking, I stare blankly into the video camera and then at Polly, still standing behind it. The pain in my body has gone.

The heat has gone. I touch my forehead: it’s dry. Tentatively, I clear my throat: it doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Mmm,” I manage faintly. My voice is clear, normal. “Yes.”

“Is the script OK?” Polly frowns at me. “Do you want to practice it again?”

I look down to where I’m still holding the piece of paper, then up at the camera again. The green light is still on, it’s

been recording the whole time, and I suddenly need to know, for sure, what is actually happening to me when I leave.

“Can I just see something?” I stand up, no longer wobbly. “The recording?”

Polly nods, faintly surprised, and I get behind the camera and rewind until I see myself sit down on the sofa. I watch myself

straighten myself out, looking anxious, then say, “ Action? Is this Hollywood? ”

“ Sorry ,” Polly’s voice says behind the camera, followed by a laugh. “ I wasn’t sure what other word to use. You know —go.”

I watch myself smile, breathe out, look at the paper.

“Hello. This is Mar—”

My face starts to empty, go completely blank.

“This is M—”

I can see myself struggling, trying to stay present.

“This is—”

Like the flip of a switch, my eyes become completely vacant. My face slackens, and I stare straight ahead: unmoving, trance-like.

It’s eerily normal. I just look like someone who has forgotten what they’re about to say.

I count: one meteorologist, two meteorologist, three meteorol—

The life abruptly returns to my eyes, I blink a few times and Polly says, “ Margot? Is everything alright? ”

I’m gone for just under three seconds.

Except I’m not “gone” at all: I’m still exactly where I’m supposed to be. It appears that no matter how long the vision lasts,

it takes mere seconds in real terms. Which is comforting. I was scared that I was gone for minutes at a time, either vanishing

into thin air, juddering like a washing machine or projecting some kind of vision into the air in front of me like in a cinema.

It was going to be hard to cover that up in the local supermarket.

Relaxing slightly—this should at least be easier to manage and hide—I run my hand through my hair: it’s back to being long

again. Why do I chop it all off? There’s no way of knowing when that vision happens, or if it’s going to happen. Perhaps I could start asking questions when I get there—what’s the date? The year? Our relationship status?—but

I don’t seem to be able to control the future version of me. She is doing her own thing, while I do mine. We are two separate

people, somehow existing together.

Sort your shit out, Other Margot. Ask for details.

“Do you want to continue?” Polly looks a little bewildered as I turn off the recorder and breathe out. “Or do you need a break?”

My brain is still spinning: what happens if I don’t cut my hair?

Just one tiny change and that vision is no longer accurate, right? Does that work for all of it? What if I move the painting?

What if I paint the kitchen a different color, instead of yellow?

What if I don’t get sick? What if I replace Henry’s screwdriver, or hide his star-elbowed jacket?

Just one, almost imperceptible difference and it’s not the future anymore, by definition.

It’s an alternative universe, branching off immediately. So what

does that mean? Are the visions clues I’m meant to be following? Do I wander through the present, trying not to touch anything

so that I get to them safely? Or do I just accept that they’re futures that could happen, but they’re not set in stone?

This is exactly why humans aren’t supposed to see the future.

It is extremely discombobulating.

“No,” I say slowly, “I can do the video again.”

“If you’re sure.” Polly studies my face, which I’m assuming has the expression of a woman steadily losing her grip on reality.

“Do you want to... talk about anything? You seem... a little disjointed.”

I blink. She can say that again. I am so disjointed that it appears I am literally in two chronological places at once: two people at once.

Both me and Other Margot, whoever she is.

For a second, I consider telling Polly the truth: get some outside perspective, maybe get driven to a hospital for a quick

brain scan. Except... how would hallucinations caused by a medical issue tell me what color screwdriver Henry owns? That

doesn’t make sense either.

“I’m good,” I say, nodding. “Let’s do this.”

I look at my watch: it’s nearly midday already. My date with Henry is this evening and I’m almost painfully excited to see

him again. Even though I just saw him. Because I just saw him.

Would I even be going on this date if I hadn’t had these visions?

If I hadn’t seen the letters on his hand, the flash of orange card, would I have said yes?

In which case, am I seeing the future, or is the future creating itself by showing itself to me first?

Time, like a rainbow, is apparently not a straight line at all.

“Right.” Polly waits until I sit back down on the sofa. “Are you ready to start again, Margot?”

I look at the camera, feeling as if I’m in two places at once.

“Yes,” I admit. “I think I am.”