The Forty First Wink Read online

  Timbers had ceased his advance and was standing, hands on hips again, head to one side, as he regarded Marty curiously. "Work? You don't 'work' here. As far as I'm aware, nobody actually works here. Why would anyone dream about working? That's just twisted…well, unless your work involves ale or pies or nudity or something."

  Marty's fevered, panicked expression dissolved instantly as he grasped what Timbers had just said. "A dream? I'm dreaming? Of course, obviously this isn't happening. I'm not here talking to Blackbeard's action figure, I'm asleep. I'm dreaming!" He was almost giggling with relief. The thought he might, in actual fact, be going a bit peculiar had started to take root when this odd conversation had started, but logic was now making an appearance, albeit a fleeting one as Timbers interjected.

  "Dreaming? No, you're not dreaming. Well, not really. I mean, you're a dream aren't you?"

  Marty let out a short, uncomfortable sounding chuckle. A few awkward moments passed before he finally cleared his throat and darted a glance sheepishly at Timbers. "Well I'm flattered you think so, but in all honesty I'm not sure how to react to a compliment from a talking toy."

  Timbers held his hands up and took a few steps towards Marty, "No, no, no, I don't mean…wait, something's not right here."

  Marty, now confused beyond words, managed some anyway. "The word understatement doesn't quite do that statement justice." He stared off into the corner of the room, nervously chewing his lip and absently twirling a pencil between his fingers, clearly attempting to funnel in the vast amount of new information the morning had delivered.

  Timbers, who had busied himself with shimmying up the table leg during this lull in proceedings, strode purposefully across the table and appeared at Marty's shoulder.

  "Look, I know it sounds…" he began. The conclusion of that sentence was lost however, as Marty suddenly snapped back from his trance, whirled in shock and caught Timbers in the chest with the slipper he was still clutching.

  The little pirate pinwheeled backwards and loosed a tiny, shrill "Arrrrrr!" that would have sounded hilarious in other circumstances, and vanished head first over the side of the desk.

  Now completely overbalanced on the chair, Marty spun wildly, legs inexplicably both in the air at once, hands grasping at nothing as he tried in vain to make a graceful transition from the seated position to the sprawled on the floor position. With a resounding thud, he completed this maneuver with a glancing blow on the side of the table, which sent paper and pencils skittering in all directions and sent Marty spectacularly crashing to a painful rest on the floor.

  The moment it took to register what had just happened after falling duly passed, and Marty struggled to his feet, wincing at a sharp jolt of pain that was now dancing up and down his arm. He scanned the floor. Timbers lay face down, motionless, and bent impossibly back on himself against a waste paper bin at the foot of the desk.

  Hesitantly, Marty limped towards the stricken pirate, now seemingly as lifeless as a toy ought to be. Reaching down, he nudged Timbers' foot. Nothing. Again he nudged the tiny leather boot, and still there was no response. Grabbing the boot, Marty twisted and lifted, and Timbers flopped over onto his back, his one good eye staring blankly at the ceiling.

  Silent moments passed and Marty wondered with increasing concern whether, having been undoubtedly the first person in the world to converse with a living stuffed toy, he was also now the first person in the world to have killed a stuffed toy. Briefly, he considered how one would go about delivering CPR to a two foot tall pirate doll, but then wondered how he would check for a pulse, or even whether Timbers was actually breathing. These questions danced around Marty's head briefly like absurd, sanity-threatening pixies before he finally decided it was time to act.

  Squatting down in front of the tiny prostrate figure, he again cleared his throat in an 'Excuse me, hello?' sort of way.

  "Erm…Timbers…Timbers, are you…" Marty raised an eyebrow and shrugged, "…alive?"

  Timbers sat bolt upright, coughing dryly. "Ya scurvy dog! That was a cheap shot."

  Marty sprang backwards, arms outstretched apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you startled me. Are you all right?"

  "You broadsided me! If I had a plank handy, you'd be walking it now, me hearty." Timbers, already up on his feet, had drawn his cutlass and was waving it threateningly to and fro. Unfortunately, however, his hat had slid down over his good eye, and the cuts, thrusts, and lunges being directed at Marty were instead being aimed at the now overturned desk chair.

  "Please, calm down, it was an accident," Marty implored, but Timbers' swash was fully buckled, and he continued with his squeaky ranting.

  Although the little pirate was now whirling like a top, Marty managed to grab a handful of collar and hoist Timbers into the air, provoking a startled squeak, which punctuated his now barely audible grumbling and cursing.

  "Please, just stop for a second. I don't want a fight…stop!"

  Timbers ceased his struggling and raised a hand to adjust his hat. Finally able to see, he squinted up at Marty and grimaced.

  "All right, you got me. Nice move with the slipper."

  "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. Are you hurt?"

  Timbers seemed to be cheered by the apology, and the partially toothed smile returned. "Hurt? Well, of course not. We can't get hurt. Well, not really. I mean yeah it hurt, but I'm not…hurt. You see what I mean?"

  Marty really didn't.

  He let go of his handful of collar and Timbers dropped to the ground, where he deftly sheathed his cutlass and set about adjusting his manhandled coat. Looking at Marty, he gave a friendly nod and pumped his fists in a playful, pugilistic gesture.

  "Looks like I got off a few shots, too. You look knackered."

  The little stitched smile receded again, and a little sack cloth finger pointed at the patchy bruise that was making its way across Marty's shoulder. "Hang on, that's not right. You look hurt. I mean hurt-hurt, not…"

  "Can we not go into that again please?" Marty interrupted, as he, too, became aware of the source of the pain he had experienced in his recent tumble. "I need some ice for this."

  Holding his shoulder gingerly, he headed for the bedroom door, glancing back over his shoulder as he did so. "Don't go anywhere, erm, Timbers. I'll be back in a minute, and then I want some answers."

  "You and me both, matey!" The miniature corsair shouted after Marty.

  #

  Marty closed the bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, wincing as he did so. Some ice, or a bag of peas or something similar was needed from the freezer, but more importantly, what the hell was going on?

  Unsurprisingly, a conversation and subsequent scuffle with a half-remembered toy from his childhood had not thrown up too many answers, but it had proven beyond any doubt that something was definitely amiss.

  Hmm, yes, about four hundred or so miles amiss, give or take.

  That would have to wait, though. Pain has a way of becoming a priority, and even though the aspirin he'd chased down with breakfast were dealing mortal blows to his hangover, the post pirate fight injuries would need to be dealt with separately.

  Marty shifted from against the door and made for the kitchen, passing the mirror in the hallway again as he did so.

  "Ouch! Someone's caught you a right doozy there, haven't they?"

  The voice behind him was familiar, and Marty stopped dead, wondering whether to turn and discover who had spoken, or given the preceding events of the morning so far, to just make a run for it.

  Was discretion the better part of valor? He couldn't remember. What happened to he who fought and ran away? Did he laugh longest? How many was a bird in the hand worth? His mind had gone totally blank.

  His eyes tightly shut, Marty turned.

  The complete absence of anything horrendous, life-threatening, or even noteworthy caused curiosity to once again get the better of him, and Marty opened one eye, and then the other, to be
greeted by the sight of absolutely nothing.

  The hallway was deserted, and only his reflection stared back at him from the three-quarter-length mirror on the wall.

  Instinctively, Marty reached up and put a hand to his face. He wasn't smiling. So why was his reflection peering back at him with a smug, knowing grin?

  "My, we are a handsome chap aren't we?" The voice rang out again, and this time, Marty could see it was coming from the face in the mirror. His face.

  "Are you just going to stand there? It's a bit rude not to acknowledge a compliment, even if it is from yourself."

  Marty blinked, then rubbed his eyes, then moved closer to the mirror, studying his own image as it copied his movements in absolutely no way whatsoever. His face almost touching the mirror, Marty waved a hand in the hope of seeing his reflection do the same thing. It didn't. The same smug expression remained fixed on its face.

  At last, Marty found some words. "I'm sorry, is this some kind of trick?" He touched the mirror cautiously. "Can today get any more weird?"

  "I suspect it just might."

  Mirror Marty's reply shocked his real counterpart back a few steps, but he had spoken, and of his own volition. The voice was definitely Marty's, although it had a faint echo and a strange, unnatural quality to it, as though it had been spoken backwards, and then played back in reverse.

  "This might seem like a stupid question," Marty ventured, "but, who are you?"

  His image in the mirror chuckled, "Well, I'm you, obviously. I bet this is really taking your head for a spin isn't it?"

  In a morning of understatements, this one was a genuine contender for the gold medal spot, and while Marty's brain struggled to get a handle on the situation, his legs decided it might be a good time to take a time out. He slumped into a vaguely seated position against the wall opposite his reflection. "Please," he mustered. "What the hell is going on?"

  "Oh, you want answers? Well, you're in luck, my friend, I have answers, but you already know what they are. You see, I am your Id."

  Mirror Marty folded his arms and beamed as though he had just imparted the secret of the universe. However, since this revelation only drew a blank expression from Marty, his likeness continued. "This is going to take a bit of explaining isn't it?"

  Marty nodded distantly, his brow still contorted in a frozen display of disbelief and confusion.

  "Right, ok then. To put it as plainly as I can, you appear to have woken up in your own dream. I know this because I have been here many times. It really is great fun, I get to do whatever I want to because it’s my dream to shape and cultivate how I please. You see, your Id is the part of you that contains your basic drives and instincts. It compels you to eat that fourth doughnut and down that last drink you really shouldn't have. So as you can imagine, it's pretty much anything goes here for me.

  “Honestly, I can do anything I like here. There was this one time I was driving an open-topped busload of nuns through a car wash…" Mirror Marty's smile broadened and his eyes glazed for a moment, "…but I digress. The point is, my fun is always short lived. You wake up in your bed, and I have to climb back into the little box in your head. That is, until this morning, when you woke up here, through the looking glass, as it were. I know you're not still asleep because we're talking now, and that's way too metaphysical to be happening in a dream. You wake up, I go away. That's just how it works."

  Having understood almost half of what had just been said, Marty spoke up. "Well, how has this happened then?" He was as worried about this question as he was about the answer he would receive.

  "Hell, I have no idea. Maybe the planets were in alignment. Maybe someone spiked your drink last night. Maybe God got bored and decided to shake things up a bit. The long and short of it is that you've woken up on my side of the fence, and from the looks of your shoulder, you got up on the wrong side of the bed." Mirror Marty made a faux sympathetic face. "Interesting. Normally you can't get injured in a dream, but since you woke up here…" he winced theatrically, "…oh, that's gotta hurt."

  Marty tried to compose himself. He was not particularly enjoying the attitude he was giving himself here.

  "OK, let's say for a second I believe that all this is happening."

  "It is."

  "Yes, fine, so how do I get back to my own life?"

  That was the big question, and it was one that seemed to rob Mirror Marty of his increasingly irritating smugness.

  "Oh, well now, you see, that puts me in a bit of a difficult situation." The smile had retreated completely, and now Marty's reflection regarded him with a guarded caution that seemed to turn the air between them cold. Mirror Marty appeared to visibly shrink within the confines of the mirror as though he had taken a few steps back, and for the first time in their brief interaction, there was a flash of panic and a dark sense of purpose behind those reflected blue eyes.

  Awkward moments passed, and Marty stiffened. There was electricity in the air, and Mirror Marty seemed to be shrinking further into the framed distance.

  "Listen, if you know how I can get back, you need to tell me. I mean, you're me aren't you?"

  The reflected figure straightened. Indignant and suddenly defiant, his words were suddenly desperate. "I'm the you who has danced on rainbows, the you who has dueled with leviathans, the you who has skated across the heavens. You'll forgive me if I'm not particularly interested in going back into the box in your head." There was fire in those eyes now.

  Rising shakily to his feet, Marty realized he needed to choose his words carefully if he was ever to get out of this mess.

  "Excuse me. I couldn't help but, erm, eavesdrop."

  The squeaky, gravelly voice punctuated the silence like someone breaking wind in a Mexican standoff.

  Two sets of eyes belonging to Marty darted towards Timbers, but it was the reflection who moved first, looming imposingly within the mirror's frame. His face was wild and desperate, with his arms, outstretched in front of him. He seemed to be lunging for his real counterpart on the other side of the mirror.

  In the moment that it seemed as though Marty would be unceremoniously shoved over by his own Id, however, the reflected hands appeared to hit something solid. The mirror's pane. The frame jolted impossibly, and then clattered back against the wall.

  "I'm not going back. I'm staying!" bellowed Mirror Marty, and another thud sent the mirror swinging dangerously on its hook as a second charge was delivered to the inside of the pane.

  Marty, seemingly frozen to the spot for what felt like an age, sprang forward with a dawning realization of what was happening. He grabbed the mirror by its frame, pushing it back against the wall with a crash that he was afraid, for a moment, would send him diving through into the arms of his reflection. On the other side, his teeth gritted and his arms braced against his side of the frame, Mirror Marty heaved back, eyes bulging with frantic effort.

  Pain shot down Marty's arm, and he resisted the urge to retreat and nurse his injured shoulder, pressing still harder, his face now inches from the struggling visage of his mirror self. Their eyes met, and Marty could feel the pain in his shoulder being betrayed in his face. He couldn't keep this up for long. Mirror Marty could see it, too, and he leaned closer.

  "I'm off, mate, see ya," he whispered mockingly before ploughing a shoulder into the mirror pane.

  There was a heavy crunch, and the mirror cracked raggedly down the middle. The impact from the other side sent the mirror flailing outwards, and Marty was flung across the hallway, coming to rest where he had crumpled just moments earlier. The mirror followed him, wrenching its hook from the wall and plummeted to the ground.

  "I've got it," came a shrill cry from Marty's side, as Timbers flung himself dramatically in the direction of the descending mirror. Time slowed, and Marty blinked, mouth agape as his new ally sailed past him, delivering a battle cry as he did so.

  "Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

  Timbers hit the floor in the center o
f the hallway and rolled, cat-like before springing to his feet and holding his little arms aloft. Marty thought for a second that he could detect a proud grin on the pirate's face as he completed his impossible maneuver before the mirror landed, coming to rest with a splintering crash on top of Timbers.

  For a moment or two, there was total silence. These moments of silence would have to be dealt with, Marty thought. Nobody ever got anywhere by dithering. He scrambled over to the wreckage of the mirror and hauled the frame to one side.

  "Timbers! Are you all right?"

  Amidst the chaos beneath the frame, Timbers lay on his back, motionless. Brushing shards of glass aside, Marty surveyed his stricken comrade. "Come on, Timbers, speak to me."

  Timbers once again sat bolt upright, spluttering. "Man overboard," he brayed, "What just happened? Did I get him?"

  Peering into a large piece of broken mirror, Marty sighed. "No, looks like he got away."

  Timbers grunted. "Well, he didn't seem to want to hang around. Literally. Friend of yours?"

  "I suppose you could say that. He said he was my Id, and he seemed to know what the deal was here."

  "I see." The little pirate appeared to be amazingly chipper for someone who'd just been flattened by a mirror. "Well, we'd better go and find him then I suppose. Any other mirrors in this place?"

  Marty wasn't listening. He was eyeing the large, pointy fragment of mirror that was lodged in Timbers' left leg. "Erm. Are you sure you're all right, Timbers?"

  Timbers followed Marty's gaze and let out a startled squeak. "Yowsers! How'd that happen? I don't get hurt. I never get hurt!" His good mood appeared to have momentarily abandoned him.

  Marty reached over to assist his new friend. "I don't know. The mirror said I can get hurt here, so maybe you can, too? You have to admit, this does seem to be a bit of an 'all bets are off' kind of situation."

  "Don't touch it!" Timbers barked. "I'll do it." He reached out a tiny cloth hand and gingerly prized the shard from his leg, grimacing as he did so. The wound it had created gaped alarmingly, frayed cloth and stuffing poking from the hole in Timbers' leg. Deftly, the doll reached into the pocket of his frock coat and produced a small sewing kit.