Remember The Day

My computer was playing up. It was my own fault. Deleting one program, a dating app given to me on CD by a friend, at the same time as upgrading my Photos software, “PhotoShow”, was always likely to be problematic. As best I could ascertain, the introductions program, called “Datenight”, was reluctant to go and was hogging areas of computer memory supposedly reserved for the Photos program.

PhotoShow was in the habit of popping up notifications reminding me that, for only a little more money, I could get access to more of its wonderful features. To make the point really hit home, it would use my own photos to show me examples of how impressive the enhanced images would look. After the mix up with Datenight, these promptings became puzzling to say the least.

The first anomaly came with a prompt about collages. The example I was shown was of photos apparently taken late one evening in a nightclub that my group of friends at university had been in the habit of visiting some years before. I clearly remembered the scene. I was certainly there. Two friends got into a kiss and cuddle, one of whom I was enamoured with, though she didn’t know it. But I didn’t photograph anything. Emphatically not. My jealousy was acute; capturing the moment for posterity was the last thing on my mind. I assumed one of our group had taken the pic, sent it to me, and I must have saved it at some point. I could not, however, find any trace of it among my albums.

The next PhotoShow pop-up showed me a single photo, elegantly framed, of the inside of a packed train carriage. It was an unremarkable scene, and one that I was familiar with in a general way as I commute regularly into the City. What was interesting was the date stamp: 20/09/2026. In the future. I jotted a quick note of the date and time information. My assumption was that the system must simply have made an error with the date. What came next, however, made me question whether it really was as simple as a computer error.

Titled, “Remember the Day”, the next prompt was alarming: a single picture of myself, sitting in a wheelchair, looking distinctly anxious and under strain. I must stress I am not, and never have been a wheelchair user. In the photo, I appeared to be surrounded by assorted odds and ends, which I took to mean I was in some form of utility room. Again there was a future date: 7^th November, 2026; the time, 6.32pm and precisely eighteen seconds. I made a note of that time.

I was perplexed and could feel the hairs prickling on the nape of my neck as I stared at the image. I was not accustomed to dealing with the uncanny and the sinister. Why had the computer selected these scenes, one humdrum, one awful, to taunt me? However they came about, whether by a malevolent actor, or a mysterious entanglement of computer code, I was convinced that something wholly undesirable was happening. That final image implied I was to lose the use of my legs. Or be abducted and incarcerated in a dusty stockroom. Or both.

I had no intention of letting either thing happen. The first job was to put a stop to the mysterious notifications. I purchased a new computer and unceremoniously dumped my old one at the tip, but not before I’d run a strong magnet over the thing. For the new machine, I was extremely careful not to install any programs of dubious origin. These steps apparently fixed the problem as I received no more inexplicable pop-ups. Indeed, I might have put the whole episode down to the eccentricities of modern life and forgotten about it, were it not for what occurred on a seemingly innocuous morning many months later.

I was commuting on the train as usual. It’s always heaving in the morning. On the day in question, I was standing at one end of the packed carriage. It was raining, so most people had coats and umbrellas, adding to the crush. When the train stopped at an intermediate station, a girl I can only describe as Heaven squeezed her way on. She had the sort of looks one dreams about: pale skin, big, bright eyes full of intelligence and kindness; hair that managed to complement her appearance despite being wringing wet. And she wore a plain but tasteful bright yellow scarf. I could read in her face that she saw the funny side of being forced to stand well inside a stranger’s personal space when conditions demanded it.

Then it struck me: that view - the one of the girl standing in a crush of bodies glimpsed through coats and backpacks and dripping scarves - was the very view I’d seen in the pop-up picture on the old computer. To the last detail as far as I recalled, and from an identical angle; as though the photos I’d been presented with during that fraught time were not ones I’d taken with any camera, but rather those I had taken, or was destined to take, with my mind’s eye. I felt the strongest sensation of deja vu and it made me feel quite dizzy. At the next station I got out though it was not my destination, and sat on a bench recovering.

That’s when I heard, “Are you OK?”

I looked up to see that the question had been asked by the attractive girl I had spotted on board.

I told her I felt “woozy” due to the stuffy air in the carriage. Needless to say I was perking up quickly now that she was next to me on the bench. This was her station, she said, but she’d noticed me looking “peaky” so thought she ought to come over see that I was quite alright. How thoughtful. How selfless. How… Aah! Perhaps she regarded me in the same way I saw her!

Occasionally in life you get (often with very little notice) a golden opportunity. The time to either declare unequivocally that you’re interested, or regret it forever. I had to act quickly because, satisfied that I was not in need of an ambulance, she was making to leave. I didn’t hesitate in offering her my phone number. She looked a bit wide-eyed so I stammered, “In case you want to follow up on my health.” She had the good manners to stifle a laugh, but perhaps she was intrigued too because she not only took my number, she called it right there and then; to check that I hadn’t given her a dud, she said, but of course it also meant she was giving me hers.

I called after her as she walked off, “Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Caroline,” she called back, “You?”

“Charlie.” And I asked, “Are you a nurse or something?”

“Or something,” she replied with a smile.

Rarely, if ever, had my emotions been so overworked. I had met and established contact possibilities with my ideal partner - I couldn’t conceive of ever meeting anyone else so perfect - yet still faced the prospect of future calamity. The notion that the two might be connected had not diminished.

Having successfully exchanged numbers, I waited for her to contact me. The wait seemed interminable, as it might very well have been. So I could barely contain myself a week later, on November 5^th, when my phone pinged whilst at a bonfire party. It was Caroline setting up a date for two days later. Drinks after work at a sensibly chosen central London venue, ideal for a first meeting with someone one did not know well. I accepted, resisting the temptation to place a ‘x’ at the bottom of my message, though I felt a strong desire to do so. It did not escape my notice that I had arranged to meet at a time matching that on the wheelchair-bound photo. As my worry mingled with growing fondness for Caroline, I watched a roman candle glowing pink and resolved that I would just have to meet head-on whatever situation came my way in the next 48 hours.

By the end of the working day on Friday, during which I could hardly say I did much meaningful work, I was wracked with nerves. It was now only around one hour away from the time stamp on the wheelchair photo. No accident had befallen me; no unwelcome encounter with a gang of thugs; no appalling disease invaded my body. So, what, then, lay in store for me? Abduction by the innocent-seeming Caroline? To be bound, gagged and then kneecapped, or whatever it is they do?

At around quarter to six I received a message from her. She was running late at work, or so she claimed. Could I come to her workplace and we’d go somewhere local for a drink? The last-minute change of plan threw me off what little stride I had left. I was ninety-nine percent in favour of not going. It could be a trap: lure me away from the previously agreed safe, public area to mug me. In the end, however, I sided with the one percent who argued, She’s nice! After all, she could easily be running late. People often do. She sent me the address of where she worked and said I should ring the bell when I got there. Whether I was then to be worked over by heavies, I would have to wait to find out.

I arrived at the address and approached the door, surprised to see it had been door-stopped open anyway. The building appeared to be one of nondescript office units. There were male and female voices from within. I checked the time: 6.29pm and 30, 31, 32… seconds. Two minutes and 48 seconds from the time of the final photo. I was still fine physically, but felt wrung out with stress. Going inside, a short corridor led to some stairs which in turn took me up to the source of the voices. It was a bright, open-plan space full of desks, very much strewn about, and a lot of mobility equipment, again, placed haphazardly. There were a few people around, all concerning themselves with boxes and logistics. I gathered I had walked in on an office move which had over-run. Now I imagined a plausible scenario for what was going to happen to me: conscripted to help shift a desk, I’d suffer a strain, and be forced to sit out the rest of the evening, or longer, in pain.

Someone, who eyed me a bit suspiciously, asked if they could help. When I told them I had arranged to meet Caroline, I learned she was not “going to be too long.” Apparently all the chairs had been removed but a helpful person pulled up one of the many wheelchairs, applied the brakes and said brightly, “Take a seat!” I found myself sitting surrounded by all sorts of equipment, so much in fact that the area looked very much like a like a storeroom.

I glanced at the large clock they had on the wall: 6.30 and 11, 12, 13… seconds. “She won’t be much longer,” I was assured, before being left alone.

I checked the time: 6.31 and 2, 3, 4… seconds. It was very quiet. Had they all gone off to discuss what they were going to do with me? Was the appearance of an office move in progress an elaborate deception?

As I sat in the wheelchair the quiet continued, draining my nervous energy. I glanced again at the clock: 6.31 and 52, 53, 54… seconds.

Then: voices, solely men’s voices this time, gruff-sounding; at least two of them, and they were man-handling something. Their sounds grew louder as they approached me.

Two workers in overalls appeared carrying a full-length mirror.

‘Yeah, over ‘ere, Jeff… down ‘ere.’

They set the mirror down against the wall then walked off. I swiveled the chair to look and see myself in the mirror, at the same time glancing at the clock above: It was time. Six thirty-two and 18 seconds. I was pale, sweating, tense.

Caroline appeared. ‘Hi! So sorry, got caught up with… Oh, you ARE a picture!’

I was quite sure I was. I must have looked like I needed assistance because she helped me out of the chair like a pro. She put on her coat, said we could probably both do with a drink and I didn’t disagree.

“What do you do here?” I asked, as we headed out.

“I’m an O.T. Occupational Therapist. And what do you do?”

I told her I was a financial analyst.

“That sounds clever.”

“Not really; we use computers for the majority of…”

“Oh, are you good with computers? You could take a look at mine. It’s been behaving very strangely recently.”

© Richard F. Walker 2025 All Rights Reserved