The Commissioner’s House

He looked down at the steaming mug in his hands and frowned. He didn’t recognise the mug, but it was unmistakeably coffee. He didn’t drink coffee often, but he was grateful for it now. He felt disconnected, somehow … unreal. He couldn’t remember why he’d come into the room.

The woman crouched down before him watched him take a sip of the coffee and smiled. “Feeling any better?”

He forced a smile in return. “Yes, thank you,” he replied. He was lying. Looking around the room, it was starting to come back to him. The shock must have caused a kind of temporary amnesia, he figured. But he was starting to remember now … the horrible events that had led to his being here.

“Is there anything you can tell me about what just happened?” the woman asked.

Just? He blinked and looked around again. He almost felt drunk. Was there something in the coffee? The room looked emptier than he remembered, more worn and neglected. Or maybe it was him who was worn and neglected. He felt it. He looked back to the woman, who was staring at him expectantly. Slowly, he realised she had asked him a question. “I … I did my best,” he said. “With the men I had.”

The woman frowned, and something seemed to dawn on her. She drew back a little. “What men?”

“Sailors … dockhands,” he replied. Getting carefully to his feet, he walked slowly over to the little window that was tucked up into the eaves of the attic room. He looked out across the river outside, looked at the masts of the ships. He was glad that some were still there. “We didn’t have enough men to move them all.”

The woman stepped closer. “What were you moving?”

He looked at her reflection in the glass, her pale face hovering just over his shoulder, and smiled a little. How did she not know? “The ships, of course,” he replied. “They told me to move them upriver. Before the Dutch came.”

His gaze switched from the reflection in the glass to beyond it, out into the dockyard, to the river again. The hundreds of lights – so many more than he remembered – blurred in his vision until they became a wide, flickering mass of light … like fire on the water. Like ships burning. And he could see it now, as if it was happening again. He stood at this very window, watching as the Dutch swept upriver in boats of their own, setting fire to the ships in the dockyard. He saw those grand sails burning, curling up like leaves. He saw the dockhands running across the yard, fleeing for their lives. He saw the sailors on board the burning ships, fighting to protect that which was already lost. He could hear the crackle of flames hungrily devouring canvas and oil-treated wood. He could smell the choking smoke. Through the thin, warped panes of glass, he could feel the heat of the fire. The shadows of the falling masts and fleeing men danced in his vision, distorted behind glass, like rejoicing demons. Capering around the Commissioner’s House, waiting for him. If he stepped out onto the front steps, they would be waiting at the bottom. To sweep him off to his damnation.

“I did my best,” he said again. “We moved what we could. The ones we left … we had the models … we could rebuild …”

But that wasn’t going to sway them, he knew. He knew it as if it had already happened, even though he had been so sure of himself at the time. They would not accept the loss of such fine and expensive ships by the assurance that they could be remade. They would shout and scream about the cost, the cost! They would blame him. Though they had not left him with enough men, they would blame him. They would hound him out of his job, his position, and banish him to the country. He would bear all the blame. He would become a pariah. And not long from now, in a house far from here, he would put a rope around his neck and let the shame kill him.

He stirred uneasily, tearing his gaze away from the impossible number of lights reflected in the river. How did he know that? How did he know what had not yet happened? He would never kill himself. He was a good, God-fearing Christian!

But he would … he knew. He would.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he cringed away from the touch. A woman he didn’t recognise – no, the woman who had brought him the coffee – was looking at him with a mixture of concern and … was that fear?

“Is your name Peter?” she asked.

Confused, he nodded. “Yes. Do I know you, madam?”

She shook her head sadly. “Peter,” she said slowly, taking care to speak clearly. “Do you know where you are?”

“What kind of question is that?” He looked around once more. Yes, there could be no doubt – it was the attic room in the Commissioner’s House. A room he had been in many times; it gave the best view of the dockyard below. But it was different. It occurred to him again how tired and worn out it looked. And then he noticed that the furniture was all gone. There should have been a desk in here, and a comfortable leather chair. There should have been shelves filled with records and ledgers. But there was nothing … except for a thin wooden dining chair. The type the servants would pull up to the table in the kitchen to eat their supper. The fireplace should have been roaring, but it was blackened and empty. The window should have had thick curtains to block out the draft, but it was bare. And everywhere there was a thin layer of dust.

He looked at the woman and felt the first stirrings of fear finally break through the guilt that was holding him captive. “I’m in my office,” he replied. “Aren’t I?”

The woman hesitated, then nodded her head. “It used to be your office,” she replied.

“What the devil does that mean?” he spluttered. “They haven’t gotten rid of me yet!”

Now she shook her head. “Look around you,” she said.

He started to protest, to demand that she mind her manners when she spoke to him, but something in her eyes made him think better of it. Instead, he did as she said and looked around. Now he was seeing the peeling paint on the walls, the strange sign above the door in a lurid green reading ‘fire exit’. There was a table in the centre of the room – a small, square table, with strange instruments laid upon it, instruments with tiny blinking lights. He looked at the woman and realised that she was wearing breeches – but of no design he’d ever seen. And him? He looked at his hands and saw a large gold ring he didn’t recognise on one finger – a finger that he didn’t recognise. And an unfamiliar sleeve made of an unfamiliar fabric. And the coffee was going cold and forming a skin.

“What is this?” he asked, but his voice didn’t seem to carry. He tried again. “What have you done?”

The woman stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t feel it. “Peter,” she said kindly, “You died. You hanged yourself over four hundred years ago.”

He stared at her, unable to believe it – yet knowing it was true. “But the ships!” he cried, gesturing to the window.

“Replicas and salvaged relics,” the woman replied. “The dockyard is a tourist attraction now. It isn’t used by the military any more – it hasn’t been for decades.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he tried to say. But again, his voice didn’t carry. He didn’t seem to be able to gather the breath to make the sounds. He felt that strange disconnected feeling again, and realised with horror that his lungs were not breathing in the air the way he was telling them to. He lifted his hand to his throat … but his hands remained fixed around the coffee cup.

They’re not my hands, he realised. Not my lungs, either.

“Who am I?” he managed to croak.

The woman smiled sadly and patted a shoulder that wasn’t his. “You’re Peter Petts,” she replied. “And you did your best. Let go of your guilt and go toward the light, Peter. You’ve stayed here long enough. You can go home now.”

What light? He tried to ask, but that disconnected feeling was overwhelming now, making him dizzy and faint. He stumbled back, and when he managed to right himself he saw another man standing where he had just been. Another man with a large gold ring on his finger, wearing a coat made of strange fabric. Another man holding the coffee cup.

The woman seemed to be addressing the other man. “Look for the light, Peter,” she was saying. “Go toward it. You don’t have to stay here.”

What light? He screamed, without making a sound. Looking around wildly, he was amazed to see that the door from the room was starting to glow around the edges with a bright white light. He looked to the woman, then back to the door. What is happening?

Slowly, drawn by an undeniable curiosity, he edged closer to the door. He watched as his hand – yes, his hand this time – wrapped around the door handle. He hesitated. Was this really a good idea? Could he go?

He stopped. No. He had to stay. He had to be there to oversee the moving of the ships. The Dutch were coming, and they needed to move as many ships as they could further upriver, where they wouldn’t think to look. People were counting on him. They didn’t have enough men to move all the ships and still defend the dockyard, so he had to decide which ships would be moved, and which ones would stay.

So he would stay.

He let go of the handle, and the light behind the door faded and died.

The woman looked carefully at her companion, who was standing very still, staring into nothing. “Peter?” she asked.

The man stirred, blinked, and looked at her. “N...no,” he replied. “It’s me.”

She smiled, relieved. “Wallace,” she sighed. “Thank goodness. That was too creepy.” She paused, then added, “Is he gone?”

Wallace looked around the room, lifting the coffee cup to his lips to take a sip. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “He’s not here now, at least. Ugh. Coffee’s cold.”

The woman visibly relaxed. “Did he move on?”

“Impossible to say,” Wallace replied. “We’ll have to do some more observations to be sure. What does the equipment say?”

She hurried over to the table where the strange instruments where sitting, where the camera stood on its tripod, its red light blinking. “Temperature’s going up,” she replied. “Energy readings are dropping. It looks like he’s gone for now, at least.”

Wallace nodded. “Good. I’m shattered. I need sleep. Possessions really take it out of me.”

“Alright,” the woman replied. “Just let me pack this up, and we’ll go. Back tomorrow night?”

Wallace nodded. “Just to be sure.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?”

Wallace gave her a scornful look. “Please. I’m a professional.”

Peter watched them pack up the strange instruments from his spot by the window. He stood, motionless, until they had left. Then he resumed his pacing. Strange people, he thought, coming into his office with their bizarre instruments and outlandish clothing. Didn’t they know he had important work to do?

He had to oversee the moving of the ships. There were important military vessels here.