1.
He found out the exact time and location of his death. She told him. But no matter what steps he took to prevent it, death stayed on course. The exact same shape.
She said his death would take place on August the 15th, 1999, at 4 o'clock. Not around 4 – not a few minutes either way – but bang on the hour: 1600 hours Greenwich Mean Time. It would take place in Aberdeen. Simple, thought the man. I'll just not go to Aberdeen that day. Or that month. Or that whole year. Scratch that – maybe he'd just never visit Aberdeen ever again.
There was nothing for him there that he couldn't find somewhere else.
But the fates conspire and talk among themselves. This is a known fact.
Sure enough, 1999 rolled around. The air was thick with panic over Y2K. Children wore metal chains on their trousers and listened raptly to “rap metal”. And his work scheduled their annual conference – unmissable, on pain of death – in a new location.
“It's not in Edinburgh this year,” said someone. “Instead, we thought it'd be nice to have a change. Perhaps in...”
Aberdeen. He knew before they'd said it.
Of course, the event would be taking place from August 14th to 16th, a window which included that fateful instant: 4 o'clock, the 15th of August, 1999.
He had to get out of it. Everything else about the prophecy had come true so far – including the horrific storm of Ash Wednesday '99.
And, after that, the sinkhole at Dalkeith Country Park. He'd phoned the Lothian council (anonymously) to warn them about that one, but they didn't listen, didn't evacuate the place, and those people died there just as she'd said they would. Of the 37 people lost to the sinkhole that day, five were police officers – extra police presence due to his “suspicious” phonecall. 37, she'd prophesised, and 37 died. After Dalkeith, the police tried to track him down. But there was no record of a name or phone number.
The first part of her prophecy to actualise had been one week after she'd made it – the man on the bus.
Protagonist sat on the commuter vehicle, heading home. He was edgy. Watching out with sceptical eyes for what she'd told him was to come. Though her certainty had been convincing, he didn't quite buy it. He'd believe it when he saw it. They were almost at his stop, so…
So when the old man spoke, Protagonist jumped out of his skin. The man was sat in the seat to his right – his breath pungent with a smell so strong you could taste it. But this was it. There they were. The words, as she'd told Protagonist that the man would say:
Time is marching on
And time is still marching on...
– “Older” by They Might Be Giants
It is important to note that this song was originally released to the public as part of the album Long Tall Weekend, on the 19th of July 1999 – only 27 days before Protagonist's death date. TMBG fans are probably more familiar with the later one on Mink Car (2001). Needless to say, even if he'd bought Long Tall Weekend on release date – and there is no evidence he did this – 27 days would not have been enough to get familiar with the lyrics so that they might effectively chill him to the bone. Besides, the event with the old man on the bus took place months before Protagonist's prophesised death date – possibly years before.
But she who made the prophecy was not bound by rules such as these – rules of space and time. And she was a lifetime fan of They Might Be Giants – past, present and future. So if she wanted to use their song lyrics in an elaborate soul-destroying scheme, then it didn't particularly matter to her whether “Older” had been released yet or not.
And so, the old man said: “Time is marching on. And time is still marching on...” He croaked these lyrics in loop, over and over, ten or eleven times. No, not ten – eleven. Eleven times, just like she'd said.
Protagonist leapt to his feet and stumbled over to the bus stairs. He had to get off. First, to the lower level of this double-decker. He knew what was next. She'd been right so far.
He could have stopped to warn people. But there was no time. His cowardice got the better of him.
“Driver, let me off here,” he'd half-shouted.
The driver raised his eyebrows. Kept driving.
“Please?” said Protagonist.
The bus door hissed as it slid open.
Out on the side of the road, he watched the bus move off. Dread filled his stomach. The bus drove, slowly, to the next intersection –
Whereupon a motorcycle barrelled into it from the east, which provoked a chain reaction of swerving, crashing, and the crushing of vehicles. Nine cars, two buses and the motorcycle were destroyed. 31 people died on scene. 11 more died later in hospital, including the old man.
Protagonist walked the rest of the way home. If he'd believed it sooner he'd never have got on the bus on the first place. If he'd seen real proof… But now he had all the proof he needed; her prophecy was accurate. If he could find no way to stop it, on the 15th of August, 1999, at 4 o'clock, he would die.
Further confirmation came with the Ash Wednesday storm – wherein she'd prophesised 50 dead, and, sure enough, the 50 died. Hundreds more were maimed beyond repair. Protagonist watched it unfold on TV, shaking. Several news journalists were sucked up into the vortex, and spat out, broken. Live on air. Well, “dead on air” was more like it.
2.
He found himself in July 1999. One month before the deadline. The conference. But this time it would be different. If he could – and he'd damn well try – he would change things.
So he told his superior at work, “Sorry – and again, I'm really sorry – but I've booked a holiday for that week. I know, I know. Yeah, driving tour of the US.”
Fern wasn't impressed. “You're putting us in a difficult position,” she said.
“But it can't be changed,” he continued. “I booked it ages ago.”
This was a lie. In fact he'd booked it ten minutes before this meeting.
“We're going to have a little talk when you get back,” said Fern. “Career prospects. Your future at this company.”
Great. Well, no job was better than no life.
On the 15th of August 1999 around 3 o'clock GMT – 8am local time – he was lost. Travelling down some unfamiliar stretch of American road. He was in Washington, that much he knew.
But how had he got there? The last week or so had been a haze. His plane had touched down safely. He'd picked up the rental car without a hitch. And so, he'd spent the last while aimlessly drifting from town to town, state to state…
Washington, yes. He must still be in Washington state, but hadn't seen any road signs for a while. Just empty landscape, industrial grey buildings, and people at roadside gas stations drinking from brown bags.
And there was one such person now, coming up on the right. Protagonist slowed the car to a halt. Perhaps he could ask for directions.
“Excuse me,” he asked, “Where are we just now?”
The stranger stared blankly, probably not understanding the Scottish accent.
Protagonist enunciated more clearly: “What town is this?”
The stranger pointed to a sign to the right, behind him.
Protagonist read it and understood. “Ah. I see.”
So when the stranger's blade sank into his neck, he almost felt like smiling. Because the prophecy had not specified “Aberdeen, Scotland”. No. Just “Aberdeen”.
How strange that it should happen here, at 4 o'clock on the 15th of August, 1999, in Aberdeen, Washington.