I could not rule out the possibility that this was a dream or an illusion and that I was still back home. Perhaps the flash of light that knocked me unconscious was a brain seizure or something, and I had only dreamt that I had awoken.
I could hear the hum of the conversation of the actors, or whoever they were, from down the corridor, and I decided to listen to their conversation from outside the closed door. I could achieve nothing by hiding myself in this bedroom. When I got there, they were discussing how they wanted to end their play.
"This is supposed to be experimental theatre, right?"
I could not make out the name of the speaker; all their accents had changed so much, but there was a murmur of agreement from the rest.
"Michael said that we involve the kid as part of the confession and break the truth to him in front of the audience. Julia and Jerry told him that this was a play, but he clearly did not understand what they were talking about.
Another voice. "But we have no idea what he might say.
"That's the point Michael was trying to make; we improvise. And not only us, but also the audience. We encourage them to say what they think, and we respond, entirely unscripted. The play will end with an interactive scene stripped of all the conventions of theatre, even down to 'the willing sense of disbelief' expected of a traditional audience. For once, we tell it as it is and create a consensus truth by removing all the artifices of theatrical trickery. We unite ourselves with the audience, and they take a collective bow with the players at the end of a drama in which they have played a part."
"It's an exciting concept, Gerald, but you forget that we can reveal the truth to the stooge only once. Once he knows, he knows.
"Yes. Unfortunately, we can never replicate the live experience, but on film, it would pack out the art houses."
The excited babble went on for a long time, and I turned back towards the bedroom, totally dispirited and not even wanting to understand.
"Here, Peregrine. I brought you something to eat."
It was Jack's voice, or whatever the actor playing his part called himself, and he followed me through the door.
I was very hungry and set about the tray of hot food he placed before me. I did not look up or even bother to speak. I just didn't care.
"Michael's been and changed the ending, but I don't know what it is."
I continued eating in silence.
"Not speaking, Peregrine?
"Don't blame you, mate, but they didn't intend for all this malarkey to cause harm. Aunty told me to give you this."
He handed me a sheet of notepaper on which she had written the following lines: "If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumbered here. While these visions did appear,
"That's Puck at the end, telling the audience that the play has ended happily," said Jack. "If all this magical intrigue has upset you—well, just think of it as a dream. There is no need to get upset. I'll soon have you out of here."
But I was upset, and dangerously so. It felt as if I were dying.
"What do you mean, 'out of here'? Where are you taking me?"
"The 'Gates of Rome', mate."
"I don't understand what you mean, and why are you still keeping in character by using Cockney rhyming slang?"
"It's the only character I know, Peregrine. This is your old mucker, Jack, speaking, and we are going home. They'll all be missing you back at the emporium."
"If this is some sort of sick joke…"
I looked up, and sure enough, it was Jack himself who stood beside me.
"No joke, Peregrine. Think I don't want to see Agnes again?"
"But where is the actor who plays your part?"
"Gone for a lie-down. I slipped a drop of laudanum that I happened to have about me into his coffee. He will kip for the rest of the day. Won't harm him, none."
"And you passed yourself off as him?"
"Yes. We look similar—good casting, I suppose—and I kept my face muffled up when I mixed with the crew, trying to find out what was going on. Even Aunty didn't spot me when she told me to bring you food and show you her note."
"Is this true, Jack?"
"Straight up, Peregrine."
"This is brilliant! But where are we now?"
"I went and slipped sideways into an alternative world."
"But how did you find me?"
"Albert scanned every frequency and was right down the line when he found this one. It was at the end of the spectrum, the place where the narrative starts to break down completely and diffuse into subcategories. There are two versions, and the original would have been virtually unrecognisable."
"Can we get back?"
"Reckon this version of reality doesn't suit either of us, Peregrine. A portal is arriving as we speak, and we exit stage left, quick as you like."
"But this world, the world of the play, will it persist?"
"Yeah, including Montana the actress and Peregrine the dupe."
"So, for them, there is no happy ending?"
"The play is scheduled to end happily."
"Of course, but I must admit I am concerned for the alternative Montana and my alternative self and how they will cope outside of this imagined world."
"Whereas our world… 'Whereas."
"It is the same," he said. It must be, Peregrine. There is no other way possible, mate. In a long sequence of slightly different worlds, you can't just select one at random and say that it is the only real world. All are equal in status, maybe, but not equal in preference. At least as far as I am concerned."
"Me too. But is there any sense in the process, Jack?"
"Life, you mean. I don't know. You are the smart one, Peregrine; what do you think?"
"I am not sure; everything on the outside is crazy, but inside I have Montana, and that makes total sense."
"There you have it, Peregrine; far greater minds than yours have said the same thing, and you said it straight off without thinking. And don't forget Puck when he said, 'Jack shall have Jill; naught shall go ill.' Well, I reckon that we have found our Jills, and that is enough for both of us."
There was the sound of somebody outside the door, and Jack jumped to his feet.
"Who is it?"
The door slowly opened, and the head of Montana peered around the door.
"Steven!" She said to Jack, "What are you doing here?"
She pushed the door open and walked into the room.
"I came to apologise," she said to me. "I was far too brusque with you before, but you frightened me. I wanted to make sure that you were all right."
She turned to say something to Jack, but immediately stepped back in surprise.
"You are not Steven, but you look like him a bit—who are you?"
Jack looked at me as if searching for guidance on what to say.
"It's Jack, Montana, and I am Peregrine," I said. "This is a huge mix-up."
She looked towards the door as if she were contemplating making a run for it.
"Please, Montana, don't be afraid; nobody is going to hurt you, I promise."
"My name is Julia," she said weakly, and she sat down at the end of the bed.
This was surreal. Jack watched anxiously as I stood before the person I loved more than anyone in the world, but she denied her identity and claimed we were all characters in a play. The room seemed realistically ordinary; the grey-painted walls and white ceiling looked exactly as you would expect them to; the mattress on the bed had sagged beneath my weight when I lay on it, but this had to be a dream, an illusion—none of it could be real. What do you do in stories when you want to wake up from a dream? You pinch yourself, and I did so very hard, but nothing changed. Montana looked up, our eyes met, and I felt the usual lurch in my chest, but her eyes stayed cold.
"It's no good, Peregrine," said Jack softly. "She is who she says she is; we don't belong in this world.
"I'm sorry, Julia," he said to Montana, "we have somehow crossed over into your dimension, and although it appears to be the same, it is not, and we are all completely different people."
Jack was right, and I had to come to terms with the situation. There was no point in continuing with this charade.
"He is telling the truth, Julia."
I looked at Julia, and all I could see was Montana.
"You see, back in our world, there is another young woman who looks the same as you, and we are very much in love. All those other people in your play, as you call it, have their counterparts in my world, but they are not actors taking part; they are individuals in their own right. Can you believe us?"
I was surprised to see that Julia's eyes were brimming with tears.
"Yes, I believe you, but you only came in at the very end of our play, and now Michael has changed the ending. You cannot just assume that the play is a replica of your own experiences, even if the characters are the same. I can't believe that this is happening. I should never have listened to Benny."