‘Do you know,’ Mike began, ‘why there is no antimatter in the world?’ He reclined in his chair, tilting it backwards and drew a puff from his smoke, which rose in flitting curlicues against the ghostly light.

Stan rolled his eyes and shrugged. ‘Mmm…’ he finally said, shaking his head. It was hard to articulate an answer while gagged.

Mike let his chair fall forward, flicked his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. ‘Actually this is quite fascinating. The long and short of it is: no one knows. Even Stephen Hawking couldn’t figure it out.’ He paced round the table, hands latched behind his back. ‘Except maybe for this crazy castaway French guy and his Janus universe model. Ever heard of it?’ 

At this point, Stan didn’t even bother to answer.

‘According to this theory, we live in a coin-like universe. There is a head “foil”, as he calls it, and that’s where we live, a universe of “standard” matter. And there’s a tail “foil”, made of antimatter. We can’t see it, but we can feel it because matter and antimatter repel one another. Like, you know, dimples on one side of a sheet make bumps on the other. And that would explain about all the conundrums of modern astronomy…’ He stopped, eyes unfocused, as if actually contemplating global space topology through the thick walls of the pokey room.

Eventually, he shook off his vision. ‘But’, he continued, ‘the zaniest part is the claim that time would run backward in that antimatter universe. Reversed causality. Effect preceding causes. Do you realise what that means? Dying before you live. Beginning your life as a dotard, and ending as a baby in your nappies.’ He guffawed. ‘Jolly barmy, isn’t it?’

He glanced at Stan. Trussed tightly to the chair, Stan’s only perceptible reaction was another stunted shrug. 

‘You, for example, you know why you’re here. In that other world, you wouldn’t. But then, things would take a turn for the best, since in the future you’d be free and I’d eventually forget about your existence.’ He smiled, sighed and waved a dismissal gesture. ‘Bollocks. Ravings, like most Frenchmen ideas,’ he concluded.

He rounded the table back to his chair, and sat again, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray. ‘Which brings us back here,’ he said, dipping the butt in the flame of a lighter. ‘Did it ever occur to you that we may sometimes act as if pushed by yet unknown motives?’ 

Stan eyes widened. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead.

‘For example,’ Mike carried on, ‘take this gun here.’ He stretched his arm and stroked the Smith & Wesson which was resting on the table. He brought it closer and spun it several times, mesmerised by the light bouncing off the grey metal. ‘Powerful object, isn’t it? Able to terminate anyone’s life with only the lightest pull on a tiny trigger. Yet, when I bought it, I had no idea what I could use it for. It was a mere compulsive act. Gratuitous to the full.’

He grabbed the gun, stood up, shuffled to Stan, and pressed the muzzle against his temple.

‘That is,’ he added, ‘until I met you.’