Story 1
There were seventeen elastic bands on the floor inside his bedroom, by the door. Wallace had been trying to turn off his bedroom light for about an hour, just so he could get some sleep, by firing elastic bands at the light switch. He was down to his last five.
He was convinced he could do it. He had nearly made it with three. This time, he said aloud, as if anyone could hear him. Hope he isn’t gonna be my dad, Wallace thought. His mum was downstairs, watching the telly with Arnie.
He took aim and… missed. Only four tries left.
Wallace aimed, tongue out, eyes focused. He fired.
The light went off. He had hit the switch.
He cheered so loud you’d think he had just won the World Cup for Scotland.
He ran downstairs in a state of triumph, only to find his mum and Arnie tangled together on the couch in a way he couldn’t understand. They froze.
“I just hit the light switch,” he said, holding up the last three elastic bands.
They stared at him. Wallace backed out of the room slowly.
I think Arnie will be my dad now, he thought, slinking upstairs to bed. Well done, champ.
Story 2
It was in his own handwriting.
Martin found it in the back of the kitchen drawer, behind takeaway menus and a screwdriver he never returned to the shed.
He did not remember writing it.
Inside was a train ticket. Manchester to Glasgow. Open return. Dated tomorrow.
There was a note.
You will want to talk yourself out of this. Do not. Platform 9. By the clock. 14.17.
He had not been to Glasgow in twenty years. Not since Claire.
He almost binned it. Instead, the next afternoon he stood beneath the clock at Glasgow Central, heart knocking like he was twenty again.
At 14.17 a girl stopped in front of him.
“Are you Martin Shaw?”
He nodded.
“My mum said you wouldn’t come.”
His mouth felt dry. “What’s your mum’s name?”
“Claire.”
She showed him a photo. Claire, older, smiling. On the back of the photo, written in black marker, were the words DO NOT OPEN.
He understood.
He had written those words once before. On a letter he never sent. The letter that explained why he left. The letter he told himself was kinder unopened.
“She said if you came, you were ready,” the girl said.
“For what?”
“To stop pretending you didn’t know.”
The station clock ticked loudly above them.
Martin had been two minutes late to everything that had ever mattered.
But this time, someone had left him instructions.
And this time, he had arrived.
Story 3
The flying saucer was the shape everyone knows from history, flat with an oval look about it. This particular one flew low and hit Josh on the head, followed by the cup and teapot. Sarah didn’t throw the tray or cutlery. Her mother had bought that years ago for her first flat.
Josh had agreed with Sarah all the way through the argument about nothing in particular. Sarah wasn’t happy about that. She knew he was only agreeing so she would stop badgering him, whatever it was about.
Then Josh got into his car and drove away. He had to get out of there.
That was ten years ago. He hadn’t been seen since.
Until today.
The police pulled his car from a loch in the Trossachs of Scotland.
He had obviously lost control and ploughed into the water. Possibly at night, as that was when he left the house.
It had been about shoes.
Story 4
Walter had the house to himself for the week. Simone was off to Benidorm with the girls she’d been at school with, determined to prove they still had it.
He had meant to sort Deiter’s security card before the weekend. Deiter had left the bank on Friday for a new job, but his pass was still live.
Walter hadn’t got round to it.
On Monday morning he walked into blue lights and police tape. Staff stood outside in small knots. Inside job, someone was saying.
Deiter’s card had been used.
Walter felt the shift immediately. He was the one meant to deactivate leavers.
He hadn’t.
By mid-morning they’d confirmed Deiter had started at his new firm as planned. He’d signed in there first thing.
Walter rang Simone. Straight to voicemail.
Later, it turned out she’d never checked in at her hotel in Benidorm.
Then someone mentioned Michelle, the cleaner. She hadn’t shown up either. No word. No explanation.
By the end of the day, the bank was missing money. And three people were unaccounted for.
Three days later, two women arrived in Colombia.
They closely resembled Simone and Michelle.
Story 5
John was about to tell his psychiatrist that he had been here before when he stopped himself.
That was what had gone wrong last time.
In his previous life, he had said it out loud. They had listened carefully. Then they had listened too carefully. He had spent the next twenty years in an institution, dying there quietly.
But he had also learned something.
Déjà vu was not a mistake. It was a marker. A gentle nudge from a life already lived, offering the chance to turn a different way.
So this time, John said nothing.
He smiled politely. He spoke about work, about sleep, about ordinary worries. He left the office and went home.
He lived thirty years longer than before.
He was never wealthy, but he was rich in sons, in grandchildren, in noise and Sunday dinners.
In his next life, he never once experienced déjà vu.
He had finally lived it right.
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