Tamám Shud

O: How’s the beach?

…

I: Haven’t made it yet--decided I’m overdressed.

…

O: Too fancy?

…

I: Nope. Too hot. November isn’t autumn here.

…

HAHAHAHA-

RAAF Woomera Weapon Complex, Adelaide, Australia

30 November 1948

A train barreled through the outskirts of the city; farms and homesteads dotted the rugged desert. Little knots of locals leaned on each other under the sun and paid no attention as the locomotive roared by. It was weird how little the Outback had changed in 250 years.

Isaac Gilman split his attention between the countryside and the passengers around him. A pair of Italians spoke of horse racing near a window, and one fellow sat alone, casually reading The Stranger. Gilman didn’t recognize any of them as his mark--The Somerton Man allegedly rode this train. If he did, he was on a different cart.

The outlands turned into rolling suburbs. Cottages and bungalows punctuated winding roadways, interrupted by the occasional cluster of townhouses. It didn’t look so different from the Australia of the future.

“Yew lookin’ feh somun’?” a voice asked from behind.

Isaac turned and found a man unaccounted for--a sickly looking native. His eyes bulged out like milky balloons.

“Pardon me?”

“Ah,” he scoffed. “Yew ‘Merican?”

Isaac smiled and unfolded his arms, “Guilty.”

“Ooh yew looken’ feh?” the man gestured around the cabin. “Looks like’ya loss’ somthin’”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend in Adelaide,” Isaac lied. “He’s the only contact I have.”

The man had gray, blistered skin. In fact, the more Isaac looked, the more deformities he noticed. A hairlip warped his symmetry and his skull tapered up into an odd little cone. It appeared to be a hat with just a passing glance.

The man leaned back and nodded, “Nevous, then,” he concluded. “Wots tha’ bloke’s name?”

Isaac bought some time with a bullshit smile--the truth was he didn’t know. No one ever discovered the identity of The Somerton Man, which was Gilman’s sole purpose for being here.

I’m an Inspector for Rewind Archival Services, and I’ve been sent back two and half centuries to pinpoint the origin of one the greatest unsolved mysteries of all time.

“Danny Bott,” he said instead.

The man wrinkled his nose at the name as if assaulted by it.

“Prolly som inna’city bodger,” he muttered. “Can’t hep’yew.”

The leisurely suburbs developed into an Old Victorian cityscape. Little trams brambled up and down the roadways, stopped only by the occasional beep beep of a passing car. The train shuddered into the bustling station.

“Ejoy ya’time ‘ere, mate,” the odd man said when he got to his feet. “All o’it.”

Isaac nodded at the stranger and turned back to his booth, but not before receiving a slow, unsettling wink. He let the other passengers exit the cart before packing up his own things.

The coastal air was stiff--Inspector Gilman had been sweating since he first arrived. Like the stranger pointed out, his American logic associated November with chilly; alas, Adelaide existed in the other hemisphere. November meant spring, which meant the wool coat and trousers made him look like an asshole.

Isaac removed his trilby and dunked it in a trash bin--an honest shame. Tumbling through eternal lines of fashion was half the fun of the job.

The train station stood in a commercial block; old stone spires stood like lightning rods against the sky. He wandered down Memorial Drive until the business park dissolved into something more casual. The Inspector found a bench that overlooked a grassy embankment and took a seat.

Hot iron pressed through the fabric of his pants. He wiped the sweat from his brow and mumbled a curse at the sun.

All Gilman carried was a simple brown briefcase; he popped it open and produced a leather notebook. What looked like a mostly empty day planner was actually his radio. He twisted his pen and jotted a line:

I: No sign of him on train. Nothing at the station.

…

He closed the booklet on one finger and looked off toward the beach. Hungry waves lapped closer and closer toward the city.

When he opened it, there was a new line written below his:

S: No worries--we didn’t expect to find him that easy. Check the City Bathhouse before 1100AM.

The operator finished her message with an address. Isaac carefully secured his pen and paper back inside the briefcase.

Time travel didn’t require all the flashy gadgets of the future--at least not in his line of work. He was a historian, an inspector purely of past events. Rewind Archival Services took on clients with unresolved issues, even if that issue was a century ago. RAS couldn’t change the event, but they could tell you how to avoid it.

In fact, carrying around technology from the future was the only real danger for a time traveler. It wasn’t that you would encounter your younger self and maybe end the world--there were regulations for that. The hazard was if a piece of technology got left behind or stolen; no one really knew what would happen.

So Isaac and his colleagues relied on a paradox to keep communication open: a bootstrap book. It was simple, proper for the times, and had no effect on the future; unless of course you knew exactly what it was.

The book, for example, rested securely in Gilman’s briefcase, but also existed in the future--by having two copies of one book, whatever is written in one can be read in the other. It reminded the Inspector of a tin-can telephone.

He checked his watch; only ten o’clock.

Pretty strangers wandered up and down the avenue, daubed with the carefree styles of peacetime. Some of the more astute gave Gilman’s wardrobe a second or even third glance as they strolled to and from the beach.

One woman looked at him a little too long. Isaac feigned not to notice, but he was a problem-solver; pattern recognition was literally on his resume. Past Inspectors weren’t temporal law enforcement, but they still acted as regression agents. He had to prevent unnecessary high strangeness.

He looked over to meet her passing gaze. The woman had the same marbled complexion as the stranger on the train--her nose had a horrific underdevelopment. Her blackened eyes darted between his and the briefcase beside him.

I wonder if they’re related or just married? Gilman thought.

He snickered as she disappeared down the lane.

The inspector peeled his coat off and left it discarded on the bench. The fieldbook didn’t say anything about leaving the uniform in limbo, and he was already catching more attention than necessary.

He gathered his briefcase and headed toward the City Bathhouse.

Each mission was generally the same; Inspectors were dispatched with a loose itinerary of their mark. Sometimes they were step for step, other times they didn’t mean shit--it was a timeline of honest guesswork on the leadup to wherever the scene of the crime was.

The Somerton Man was infamous. Every level of Inspection had heard about the case, probably even logged some personal hours trying to piece it together. Isaac remembered many nights spent looking at some of the weirder details.

A dead body is discovered tomorrow morning on Somerton Beach. One male, early to middle age, bare of all identification; not even his clothes have a mark of origin. His organs will have coatings and trauma similar to a dosage of cyanide. The subsequent autopsy and investigation don’t yield any result--not even on a global level. Out of two and a half billion humans, no one comes forth to claim The Somerton Man as kin or colleague.

He had the same untraceability as a time traveler. That was a real headline from an Aussie newspaper the same year.

Now Isaac got the callback to come figure it out.

He started way outside Adelaide at the Weapons Testing Ground at Woomera. Isaac didn’t think The Somerton Man was a time traveler, but he did appear to be legitimately cunning; this led him to the notion of espionage. Adelaide is near a Uranium mine and a secret government weapons base, so a spy would fit the bill. It was even 1948, the years rolling into the Cold War. This is when nations were so obsessed with reconnaissance they’d entertain the idea of mind control.

The unlabeled clothing, the cyanide, the placement of the corpse--it conjured an image in Gilman’s mind. A Russian operative tooting from one place to another, relaying the goods, and committing svidaniya on the beach before dawn. His manager liked it, his operator liked it; they generated a time map and sent him packing to the year of Rat.

City Bathhouse appeared on a corner. Isaac expected a public bathing facility, but discovered a public pool instead. He thumbed his nose and made a few laps of the building.

The culture has me two steps behind, he ruminated.

The inspector posted up across the street and pretended to be lost.

All manner of folk drifted in and out of the Bathhouse--Isaac only had to sift through a portion of them. White male, six feet, clipped ears, sharp nose. The Somerton Man was a rough looking cat with peasant proportions, probably dressed like a middle class stiff.

Gilman flipped through his notes. The Bathhouse wasn’t directly tied to the case, but future investigations would turn up an unclaimed briefcase after The Somerton Man’s death--Isaac thought it could belong to the suspect.

He glanced up and caught the unmistakable profile of his target. Isaac had never seen him in color, or alive for that matter, but this was definitely him. He marched down the other side of the street and into the entry of the Bathhouse.

He turned and gave Gilman a wink.

The Inspector felt the pull of a pitted, sinking feeling. The Somerton Man disappeared into the building without a second glance.

Isaac took a shaky breath. The nausea threatened to bubble right up his throat.

“See? Oi wos roght,” a familiar voice explained. “Yew ar’ a nevous littl’ mutt.”

The inspector turned to find the same strange man from the train, casually slurping an ice cream cone. He looked Gilman up and down while he ate.

“Greetings, again!” Isaac chirped, reverting to autopilot pleasantries. His mind raced with all manner of weirdness; who were these inbred stalkers? Why had The Somerton Man winked at him, just as all the others had? He used the smalltalk to buy a little time to reason.

“Greetins’, indeed,” came the stranger’s reply. “Foind’em yet?”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed at the question. He looked left and right, surveying the sidewalk in all directions. He briefly spotted the ghoulish woman who passed him at the park.

Surrounded.

“Who?” the inspector asked.

“Yer contac’ friend,” he explained around the dripping ice cream. “Think yew called ‘im Danny?”

Isaac nodded; the lie he spoke on the train. Keeping up false narratives was another layer of the job. They were temporary but sometimes proved difficult to maintain; ending up in someone’s memory could be just as damaging as the front page of any newspaper.

What people remembered usually shaped the future for them.

Isaac tightened his grip on the suitcase at his side and let his free hand move toward the .38 Special tucked into his waistband. A shootout was an absolute last resort, but it was still an option at the end of the day; he doublechecked the position of the woman behind him just as his fingers grazed the handle.

“Haven’t reached him yet. I think he mentioned spending the afternoon by the pool,” the Inspector explained, nodding into the City Bathhouse. “I think I may have just seen him, actually.”

The stranger grinned and took a crunchy bite out of the cone. White, melted ice cream dripped down his chin while he chewed. Isaac saw the woman move along his periphery, slinking along one step at a time, until the two of them were shoulder to shoulder.

“Came ta’ visit me sista,” he said. They both offered a hideous smile under the late morning sun. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

She offered her hand to Isaac, who took it slowly in an attempt to mask his disgust. Her fingers were long and slender, sickly, with cracked, stained nails. The skin was dry and flaking to the touch, and the Inspector shuddered as he pressed his lips against them. He could taste a rank odor all the way to the back of his throat.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Isaac muttered through a smile.

He glanced up and found them both grinning down at him, toothless, on the verge of giggling.

The crowd grew larger around them, bustling in every direction. Dozens of patrons cycled in and out of the City Bath, most already dressed in swimwear. The Somerton Man was dressed more like Isaac; pants, buttoned shirt, even a light topcoat.

In other words, like an asshole. What was he doing at the pool?

“I beg your pardon, but you’ll have to excuse me,” Isaac said, reaching for the phantom hat no longer atop his head. Sweat started to matte the hair to his forehead, and dark stains reached out from beneath his armpit. “I need to find my friend.”

“Yew won’t believe who kills’em,” the stranger said, nodding over his shoulder. “Goo’day, mate.”

Isaac rocked back on his heels and watched the deformed strangers disappear down the road. They never looked back at him.

He looked down to find himself white knuckling his briefcase. Isaac dabbed the sweat from his brow and stepped into the City Bathhouse; no more riddles, no more weirdos. It was answers from this moment forward.

He checked his watch: 10:59 AM.

Right on time.

“Pardon, sir?” a meek voice came from beside him.

“Yes?” Isaac said, looking up. There was a pretty young girl at a counter. She blushed when he spoke.

“Oh, American?” she asked.

“Guilty,” came Isaac’s preprogrammed response. “How can I help you?”

“If you’re entering the facilities, you’ll have to check your briefcase at the door. We can’t be liable for anything getting damaged. It’s a pool, afterall,” she explained.

Isaac pursed his lips, nodding. Besides the bootstrap book, what else was really in there? A change of clothes, and some nondescript equipment? A comb?

“Okay,” he said as he handed it over.

“Do you need a pair of trunks?” she asked.

Isaac shook his head and moved to enter the facility.

“Sir,” the girl spoke again.

“Fuck me, what is it?” he spat.

She shrank under Isaac’s voice.

“Sorry,” he corrected with a smile. “Having a bad day.”

“I just need a name for your locker,” she explained, staring down at the counter with a pen in hand. Her fingers trembled as they held the manila tag.

“Tamám Shud,” Isaac said with a smile. “After my grandmother.”

The girl nodded and gestured for him to enter. Isaac sighed as he shuffled through the door.

Tamám Shud was actually a secret code found on The Somerton Man's body; one of few clues. Isaac made a mental note to collect the briefcase so as not to muddy the waters. The term simply meant it is finished.

The City Bathhouse was packed to the gills; kids ran up and down the length of the pool, cannon balling and jack knifing with a total disregard for those already treading water. Life guards tried to keep the peace but it was an uphill battle. Inspector Gilman couldn’t help but chuckle as he slunk into the men’s locker room.

He peeked around the corner to ensure it wasn’t too crowded. The changing room was empty, save for a couple of older guys jawing in the back. Isaac stepped between the lockers and did his best to look natural; scanning lockers numbers, looking for his imaginary belongings. The old guys turned an eye on him for a moment, to whom the Inspector gave a nod. They waved and went back to their half-naked discussion.

There was no sign of The Somerton Man--he wouldn’t even know which locker to check. He’d have to come back later, when the place was closed, and ransack everything top to bottom. Time rendered City Bathhouse a complete bust; Isaac needed to let his operator know before he carried on to the final event.

He turned to exit when he spotted something familiar: Isaac doubletook and saw a man pushing a cart down another row of lockers. It was loaded with different luggage, and amongst the bags and bundles was Isaac’s briefcase. Why go back and bother that innocent girl when his stuff was right here? The Inspector fell into the shadows and followed the man back to the storage rooms.

The trip was short, as the clerk stopped the cart and wandered around the front of it. He fumbled with his keys before the dingy metal door in front him. Isaac took the opportunity to sneak up and play with the latches of his briefcase. He placed his fingers over them, popped the lever with his thumbs, and silently cracked it open. All he took was the bootstrap book, and didn’t bother to seal it when he was done.

The clerk never turned around. Isaac couldn’t help but feel like leaving his briefcase behind only contributed to the mystery at hand. Still, he tucked the manila tag into his waist pocket to be sure.

There was only one place left to go now. The scene of the crime.

* * *

Future autopsies revealed that The Somerton Man died somewhere around 2:00 AM the morning of December 1st. His body lays limp on a rocky outcrop just outside of town, and passersby claim to have seen him lounging there as early as six in the evening the night before. They say he lay motionless, even when mosquitoes blanket him at sundown.

Isaac lurked along the upper banks of the beach. Dark waves lined with foam curled up the coast, the only motion on the beach. A steady beam from the moon cast wicked shadows this way and that, the longest of which belonged to a public restroom building just above the tide.

The rock outcropping lay between the restrooms and a staircase that led up to the road. There, Isaac could see The Somerton Man laying exactly where he should be.

All the hassle leading up to this sighting felt meaningless. Inspector Gilman was good at his job, didn’t need to shoulder his way through issues as they aroused. Hell, he played a tourist half the time. The truly mysterious ongoings spooked him, and the legend of the case only added to his anxiety. He looked up at the stars and hoped they were aligned.

Isaac stepped out of the shadows and wandered toward the beach. He could almost taste the truth he’d carry back to the future.

“Oi, Inspecta,” The Somerton Man offered. He didn’t move as he spoke.

Isaac stopped in his tracks and frowned. More familiar bullshit.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Aven’t put it togetha, mate?” he said, pushing himself to a sitting position.

He was The Somerton Man, with the folded ears and thin lips. His features were deformed, just like the guy on the train and the woman at the pool.

“No, I mean all of you. Who do you work for?” Isaac spat.

Time cults weren’t unheard of; zealots for wealthy conspirators from different ages and eras. They usually sought to make contact with time travelers, but many of them had more nefarious intentions.

“Tha Old Ones,” was the garbled response.

Isaac licked his lips and checked the perimeter. Slender shadows started to dance along the fringes of his vision. All he could smell was salt in the cool coastal air.

“Well, clearly you’ve been expecting me,” The Inspector reasoned. “What’s the play here?”

He kept the revolver tucked in his waistband, but his right hand pulled the hammer back.

“Isn’t hard ta lure yew lot, iz it? Even tha slightes’ enigma, and yew always come scramblin’ ta see why,” he slurred as he climbed to his feet. “We jus’ nee’ ya little book iz all.”

Isaac felt the rigid form of the bootstrap book in his waistband, just beneath his shirt. He moved to pull the revolver from his beltline just as a pair of hands clapped down on his shoulder. They were firm, strong--he couldn’t budge his arm beneath them.

“Things go a lil different thiz time, mate,” the stranger said. “Fro’ what the boys say, you’ve neva’ jus’ walked into it like this before.”

Isaac began to struggle. He did his best to shrug his captors free, but their grip held firm. When he looked back he could see it was actually two different people holding him in place, with others spawning out of the darkness. They were all inbred ghouls with odd shaped heads.

They began to yank his clothing off, including the book that enabled his time traveling. The Somerton Man did the same, stripping off his topcoat and trousers right there on the beach.

“Iz it all makin’ sense yet?” he asked as he disrobed. “It waz me for a long time, but now itz yew, mate.”

Isaac opened his mouth to argue, but from behind, someone slapped a hand over his mouth. He felt the chalky residue of cyanide coat his teeth and tongue.

____________________________________________________

This was actually originally written for the Time Traveler Challenge back in February. I never finished it because it coincided with the emergency birth of my first and only son, Greyson Graham.

I felt like I had a great story based on a real event, but the chaos of February was too much for my schedule and I never opened the document again. It was already a Whodunit by nature, so when I saw this latest challenge I thought I'd polish it up and send it.

The Somerton Man is a real person who was never identified to this day. Per usual, I put my Lovecraftian weirdness all over it.

It's pretty surreal to have my son crawling around my feet as I finish editing this--almost like it time traveled. Thanks for reading.