Second Chance

Chapter Sixteen: Past Present

German Embassy

Dublin

24^th July 1940

Ambassador Eduard Hempel, German Ambassador to Ireland, knew that his tenure and his life hung by a thread. He rather enjoyed working in Ireland – both sides took care to avoid sinking Irish ships and they had no rationing – and it was peaceful. He knew that Churchill had invited the Irish to join in the war, and that the Abwehr had agents in Ireland, but relations between him and De Valera were cordial.

However, the new future Britain, if the wilder claims in their newspapers were true, was something else. They’d offered to give De Valera Northern Ireland and his dream of a united state for free; they hadn’t even demanded that Ireland toss him and his nest of spies out on their ears. The ambassador from some weird future Ireland, Ambassador Heekin, had buttonholed him and lectured him about the evils of the Nazi regime during a reception. He hadn’t enjoyed that conversation, not with an Abwehr agent ‘escorting’ him.

Still, as long as De Valera held out on the subject of Ireland remaining neutral – and the shockwaves of learning about the future of Ireland spreading through the population – his seat was assured. The Dail had – quite firmly – insisted on censoring some of the material on the future, aided by the withdrawal of what were now being called the Contemporary Forces from Northern Ireland. A five-sided civil war seemed to have broken out in the north, and news of their future had not gone down well.

He grinned, sipping his Spanish wine. The Germans didn’t send ships directly to Ireland – the British future newspapers, which had massive gaping holes on the front pages, had raved about the devastation unleashed on Kiel – but the shipping lanes with Franco’s Spain were still open. Spanish ships carried some Irish produce; in exchange transporting wine, ambassadors and some secure communications. He glared at his latest communication from Berlin, which had passed through France and Spain to reach him, ordering him to convince the Irish to join the war.

Outdated before I even got it, he thought grimly. De Valera would not be swayed, not now, not with his dream of a united Ireland in his grasp. Ambassador Heekin’s little gifts, including the tiny ‘mobile phone’ network, served to convince the Dail that opposing the future British would be suicidal. Besides, they had too many other problems – such as a string of people from Britain assisting the various civil war sides – to worry about a second war.

“Herr Ambassador, there is an Englishman to see you,” his secretary – an Abwehr man reported. Hempel nodded; several dozen Englishmen and more Irishmen had visited his embassy since the… Transition, as everyone was calling it now. Some of them had begged for asylum; others asking for German assistance for their attempts to forge Ireland into the kind of state they wanted. The purge of every member of future organisations had sent thousands scurrying for whatever hiding places they could find.

“Send him in,” Hempel said. “Let’s see what he has.”

The Englishman stepped inside the room and Hempel lifted an eyebrow. He was dressed neatly in contemporary clothes; only the strange object he was holding in his heads betrayed his future origins. He tapped his lips, waving the device around the room before closing the curtains and taking a seat.

“The room is clear,” he said. “It’s rather trusting of the government; given their advantages in electronic surveillance technology they would have no trouble in placing a unique bug in these rooms.”

Hempel inclined his head, inviting him to speak on. “I have been sent by a representative of an organisation that struck a bargain with SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth and his superior officers,” he said. He placed a parcel on the table. “That represents the first delivery of information.”

Hempel opened the parcel with care. It was full of the little shiny discs he’d seen before, from some of the technology that his agents had had a look at. He narrowed his eyes; how were they supposed to use them?

“You already have the ability to read them,” the man said, answering his unspoken question. He passed across a business card. “We have taken up lodgings here,” he said. “Should you wish to contact us, you can do so through there, but I would ask you to be discreet.”

Hempel nodded. “That CD at the top is for the personal attention of SS-Standartenfuhrer Herman Roth,” the man said. “I would advise you to be careful with it.”

“I will,” Hempel promised. “Thank you for your time.”

Ferns

County Wexford, Ireland

24^th July 1940

Ferns was a small town, situated near the east coast of Ireland, near a crumbling castle. History had once touched Ferns – and marched and trampled all over it – but by 1940 it had been almost forgotten by history. Mary knew that history would remember it again, and not in a kind way, but for the moment she was almost lost in its… innocence.

It had taken her several days to work up the nerve to step back into history. She’d even cancelled the trip several times, but she’d finally dared to go. Subconsciously, she’d been expecting tour buses and travel guides, but instead it was quiet, almost as she remembered. She’d been born later, in 1960, but Ferns hadn’t changed much at all in the intervening twenty years.

She parked her car on the edge of the village, carefully locking it with the village children looking on, and wandered into the village. The inhabitants were warm and friendly; finding a room at the local inn had been easy. Some of the children had begged for a ride in her car – a vehicle fifty years out of place – but she’d refused. There would be no petrol in Ireland for a long time yet; in 2015 the Irish had been fanatical about converting to hydrogen-powered cars.

Dear Mary, she thought, as a middle-aged man entered the room. The Innkeeper and he used to be good friends, of course, and she kicked herself for forgetting it. Time seemed to slow down around her as she stared at him; her grandfather as a young man.

He still had the same twinkling smile she remembered; a face that was warm, with a twinkle in his eyes. His beard was brown; the grey she remembered would develop over twenty years. Behind him, a little girl, no more than three at most, toddled behind him; her mother. Her grandparents had only had one daughter.

She was so distracted that she didn’t notice her grandmother coming up. “Is there a problem dear?” She asked. It wasn’t the subdued hostility of a person who’d grown up in a world of unfriendly child molesters, but a genuine warm concern. She’d died of cancer in 1970; ten years after her granddaughter had been born.

“Grandmother,” she whispered, and fainted.

Three hours later, Mary was in the odd position of bouncing her mother on her knee. Her grandparents had been delighted to see her, once they’d seen the photographs and artefacts she’d brought with her. One of them, the George Cross her grandfather had won on the Somme, lay on the table, next to an exact copy. They’d been chilled to see it; the scars on the Cross were exactly the same.

“So I have great-grandchildren now,” her grandmother said. The coloured photographs were a marvel to them – even though they’d tut-tutted at Cassie’s dress – and they’d thumbed through them. “When are they coming to see us?”

“I’m not sure,” Mary admitted. “They should have been on holiday, and then someone had the idea of bringing them back to school so they could learn more about this era.” She smiled. “They made a fuss about that.”

“Well, they’d be welcome,” her grandfather said. He’d gone very quiet when he’d seen the George Cross, even though she’d refused to talk about their future. “Who is Eileen going to marry again?”

“Shamus McManus,” Mary said, and set off a round of chuckles. Her father’s father was in the room; he’d been equally stunned to know his children’s future. She took a breath; the room was full of tobacco smoke. She had tried to warn them about that.

“If you don’t mind, I need to go for a walk,” she said, and hurried out, sinking onto a bench. It was all too overwhelming; she felt as if she were jet-lagged, but time-lagged. This little village wouldn’t change too much, but then…

“Are you alright?” A male voice asked. She looked up to see a young man in a priest’s formal robes. “I’m Father Brennan.”

The shock that ran through her body must have shown on her face, for he instantly grew more concerned. She stared at him; his voice was different, his face was young, but it was unquestionably the same person. He’d been young when he’d come to Ferns, she remembered, and he’d remained there for over sixty years.

“I know you,” she said, and he looked astounded. “I know you, Father.”

“I don’t see how,” he said, and smiled down at her. The smile was the same; warm, comforting, manipulative… and chilling. How had she been fooled the first time? How had her family been fooled? How had everyone been fooled? With the wisdom of sixty years, she looked though the mask and shuddered.

“Father, do you believe in predestination?” She asked. “Do you believe that we always walk the same paths time and time again?”

“The Church believes that God knows the future as easily as he knows the past,” he said carefully. She understood now; he hadn’t wanted to be a priest at all. “If you swear to pray in the future if He gives you something, he will know if you will keep your promise.”

“But if someone was to do something wrong in the future, might God still hold it against them if they died first?”

Father Brennen shrugged, losing interest in the conversation. On one level, she sympathised; he had to argue with older parishioners who understood more than he did. On the other level, had it been this even that had…

“I’m sorry,” she said. “In some ways, it could be said that I’m doing your soul a favour.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. He didn’t understand. She reached into her bag and pulled out the pistol; Sean had been issued it when young thugs had been attacking police officers. She shot him once, through the head, and dropped the weapon on the ground. She didn’t resist when the police officer arrested her; she even helped him to use her phone to call Dublin. Her Grandparents asked her why, but she refused to answer; they would never have understood.

British Embassy

Dublin, Ireland

25^th July 1940

Heekin had been offered the use of the British Embassy for as long as he wanted, along with Ambassador Darter. He wasn’t certain if Hanover had sent him a women who was so idealistic out of a desire to help or hinder him, or if he’d been simply getting rid of someone who had to have been getting on his nerves.

After all, she’d been getting on his nerves.

“Prime Minister,” he said, into the mobile phone, wishing that they had the bandwidth to mount a videoconference system, “Mary McManus has been remanded into our custody, but De Valera wants her to stand trial.”

“I see,” Hanover’s voice said. At least they’d gotten the connection strong enough for a proper conversation; Ireland would be dotted with phone masts soon. The Isle of Man, which hadn’t come through the time warp, had been just as astounded as Ireland, but at least they’d adapted better without the threat of civil war.

“Under the limited information I have, I can hardly make a decision,” Hanover continued, brushing aside Heekin’s thoughts. “The Police hadn’t turned up any reason for her actions; have you been able to interview her?”

“I’m afraid so,” Heekin said. He scowled down at the transmitter. “She was apparently abused by the priest she killed, Father Brennen, in 1970. After seven years of hell, she came to Britain as a seventeen-year-old on a work program, married at twenty-one and moved to Edinburgh. Father Brennen himself apparently died in 1990; we found some records in the Internet archives to confirm that. She saw the tour trips to Ireland and… well, you know the rest.”

Hanover scowled. “The Police did find out how she got the weapon,” he said. “It was issued to her husband during the worst years of 2011, when we had the uprising. He never gave it back and no one caught him; clerical error.”

“Prime Minister, what do we do about it?” Heekin asked. “De Valera wants her to stand trial here, but she’s a British citizen and she did have good cause. He’s also worried about a scandal; there are bound to be plenty of others who would want revenge. Hell, sir, what about Americans such as Nixon, or Willy Horton, or who?”

“Willy Horton?” Hanover asked. “Never mind; you have a point. Do we grab someone who would have committed a crime in the original history? Do we allow a known criminal to be discriminated against for a crime he hasn’t committed yet? Hell, there must be dozens in the Contemporary Forces.” There was a chuckle. “The Oversight Committee never thought of that one.”

“And just wait until the Press gets hold of it,” Heekin said. “De Valera is sitting on the Irish press, but it won’t be long before our press learns of it. Coming to think of it, do we have a duty to warn people of possible abusers?” He scowled. “This is going to cause a great deal of trouble with the Church.”

“Fuck them,” Hanover said, with all the courage of a man who followed a different religion. “They didn’t condemn the Holocaust, so the Pope can go hang.”

Heekin scowled. “Sir, what are we going to do?”

“I’ll have a discussion with the Law Lords and then try and push some emergency legislation through Parliament,” Hanover said. “Dear God; I understand her point and I understand why she did it, but why now?”

“I’ll try and convince De Valera to give her a suspended sentence,” Heekin said. “With all the troubles up north, he has more to worry about than one semi-murderess. Still, once the press hear of it…”

Supreme Court of the United Kingdom

London

25^th July 1940

The Supreme Court of the United Kingdom, which still enjoyed the nickname of the ‘Law Lords’ despite having come into existence to replace the original Law Lords, had had very little to do with the Transition and the response to the Nazi attack. Indeed, so many of their functions were irrelevant to the ongoing war that they had even disbanded themselves for the summer, until Hanover had summoned them back to London.

Kristy Stewart, fuming over the Government’s ongoing refusal to allow her to slip into Nazi Germany and interview Hitler, paced in the pressroom. The debate between the assigned team of judges was taking place in private; they would provide a temporary ruling until Parliament decided upon its response to the crisis. The news had broken only two hours ago, and the Supreme Court had been in closed session ever since. Only the brief note that a decision had been reached had brought her and her fellow reporters to the chamber.

“I apologise for the delay,” the man said at the end of the room, striding to the podium. He didn’t fit her mental impression of a judge – being dressed in a conservative business suit rather than a robe and wig – but he seemed efficient enough.

“The Supreme Court” – he strongly resisted the term Law Lords – “has been asked to rule on the question of future crime and the criminals who committed them. This has proven to be an issue of some concern; there are reports that several other Irish expatriates are planning to bring a civil suit against the Irish Government. There is also the danger that someone in the Contemporary Forces will have a history of future crimes, some of them calling for the death penalty.”

Stewart nodded, wishing he’d get to the point. The death penalty had been reintroduced in 2010 for serious repeat crimes; she had no doubt that the Nazi leadership would receive the same penalty as they had before.

“We have had great difficulty in coming to even a temporary verdict,” the Judge continued. She used her camera to film him; knowing that dozens of photographers would be making the same decision. “In some regards, it is clear that their crimes have not been committed – yet – and so they do not deserve punishment. In other regards, their crimes were serious enough to warrant some observation, if not outright removal of their freedom.

“Finding a compromise was not easy,” he said. “Finally, we ruled that a Contemporary person, even a criminal, was not the same as the historical person. What that means is if Ordinary Seaman Jones committed a crime in 1950; Ordinary Seaman Jones cannot be discriminated against for a possible future crime. We drew a precedent from the genetic testing ruling of 2009; it’s illegal for employers and insurance salesmen even to ask about it.

“However, working from the Repetitive Criminals Act of 2012, we have endeavoured to warn everyone we could of any possible revenge acts, and we will regard a repeat – if that term can be used – of their crime as a repeat crime, and thus earning severe punishment. Certain people responsible for acts of child abuse will be quietly watched by parole services, although there will be no limits on their legal activities.

“This is not a perfect solution,” he said grimly. “Parliament is due to debate the matter in a week; there seems to be some thought that the war is more important than this. Still, it’s a compromise – and we hope it will stand long enough to let us get back on our feet.”