The Fall

20

Sam Baker left the car in which Jud lay back, his head against the seat, looking all but overwhelmed. Zita appeared composed and had given Sam a little reassuring wave when he’d glanced back.

Hell, so this is 1978, Sam told himself. To be precise, this is 23^rd June 1978. He’d seen the date on newspapers slotted into racks outside a newsagent’s.

And this was a world full of people dressed in muddy brown clothes. Men wore Tom Jones hairstyles with hefty sideburns. They seemed noticeably plumper, too; their faces looked particularly rounded and full. He paused, pretending to look into a shop window, but really he was studying the reflection of those passing by. And he realised he was actually experiencing something close to shock at seeing so many teenage girls smoking. Already he was seeing different patterns of human behaviour even though they’d scrolled back only 20 years through time. In the 1990s there had been a growing gut feeling that smoking in public was becoming something mildly distasteful, like chewing gum in church or wearing a swimsuit in a shopping street: it certainly wasn’t illegal or shockingly ill-mannered, but it just wasn’t seen as ‘the done thing’.

Sam lingered a little longer. Suddenly, in close up, the faces of 1970s people fascinated him. Women wore pale blue eye-shadow that gave their faces a different look. Hairstyles were over-neat in a fussy kind of way. Young men wore flares and wide ties. Although punk fashions must be just around the corner as far as time was concerned, they hadn’t arrived yet in this Northern backwater.

As he stood watching the reflection of people passing by in the big plate-glass window he saw another reflection. And he realised someone was staring at him.

He turned his head slightly and saw it was the tramp Jud had referred to as Dirty Harry. He was a thin man with curly ginger hair and a beard. He was dressed in workman’s orange overalls and Wellington boots that were turned down at the top so they looked like rough-and-ready ankle boots. In one bony hand he gripped the neck of a bottle of cider.

Sam guessed the man must have been in his mid-forties. But what was most surprising was that the tramp stared hard at Sam’s face as if recognising a long-lost friend.

Dirty Harry took a couple of unsteady paces towards Sam. He raised the bottle, uncurled one filthy finger from the neck, then pointed a fingernail that was brown with nicotine – or something worse – at Sam. He made a jabbing motion with the finger, trying to put a name to the face.

Sam gave the man a nod that was definitely cautious, non-committal, then he began to walk away. Like most people, the last thing Sam wanted was to be buttonholed by the town nutcase.

Then Dirty Harry spoke to Sam. It was as if he’d kept the words bottled up for years; suddenly they burst from his lips in a rush. ‘See, wretched little man, how the delights of carnal lust cover up the terror of the coming damnation! Before your heart can burn with the love of Christ – the love of Christ! – it will have to get rid of its appetite for all passing vanity, whatever – whatever… A mind on fire with the spirit of Christ finds its sole nourishment in its love of eternity…’

With a very weak smile, Sam broke eye contact with the mad tramp and began to walk away. Others in the street barely gave Dirty Harry a glance. Perhaps to make eye contact was an invitation to the man to harangue you. ‘Love of eternity, and its gladness in joyful song. The heart that has turned to fire – turned to fire! – embraces nothing of the world, but strives always to pierce heaven.’

Dirty Harry hurried to stand in front of Sam, blocking his way. The man’s eyes blazed.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got any change,’ Sam lied. But then he wondered if it would have been wiser to pass the man a few coins, then hurry on.

‘I know your face. I know it, I know it…’ The tramp spoke in a low voice that was full of awe, as if he’d just met some famous rock star. ‘I know it.’

‘I’m sorry, I think you must be mistaken. I don’t live—’

‘You don’t live at all! Wretched little man, hiding from the terror of the coming damnation – no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t want to, but – but I am alight with the flame of heavenly vision and – and no, no.’ Suddenly he looked ashamed of himself and his voice dropped. ‘My apologies, sir. My tongue escapes me sometimes. Too many times. No, wait… I wanted to tell you something of great importance. Huge importance.’ His eyes suddenly clouded. ‘Only I forget; I have a memory that runs round and round the mulberry bush and won’t allow me to catch up. But aren’t there many with such a problem? Many, many are the same.’ He looked up, his eyes suddenly brightening. ‘Did I tell you, sir? That I am many. I am indeed numerous. I am beyond counting. A line of me would stretch from Casterton to the gates of Constantinople itself. Now… I’m sorry… I had something to tell you… something very important…very, very… oh dear, oh dear.’ With his free hand Dirty Harry pushed his fingers jerkily through his beard as if he’d find the words in there; the filthy fingernails probed and pushed through the knots of ginger hair.

Sam eased himself around the man and began walking quickly away; even so, the smell of the man, an unwashed-hair smell, had already lodged itself in his nostrils.

Behind him the man still stood in his orange overalls, cider bottle in one hand, the other hand fumbling through his beard as he muttered to himself, as if trying to recall a message he’d once learnt verbatim long ago.

Sam saw a shop just ahead where he could buy the soft drinks.

He’d almost brushed aside his encounter with Dirty Harry when he heard a shout behind him. Glancing back, he saw the man’s face light up with pleasure. ‘I remember,’ he called after Sam. ‘I remember. You’ve got to get away from it; you’ve got get away from the Watchett Hole. If you don’t, you’re all going to die. Did you hear that? All going to die!’

The man’s voice dropped. Muttering to himself he returned to his bench where he’d left carrier bags full of his possessions.

Shaking his head, Sam headed for the shop. But he would never make it as far as the door.

‘Sam! Sam Baker!’

When Sam heard the voice as he crossed the pavement to the shop he thought for one surreal moment that the tramp had called out his name.

Instead, he saw Lee Burton rushing at him across the road.

His face was white and his black hair looked as if it had been brushed with a wild ferocity until it stood up from his head. ‘Sam!’ Lee sounded scared. ‘They’re going to take him apart in there. Everyone else is just going to stand there and watch. They’re just going to let it happen.’

Sam shook his head, bewildered. ‘Let what happen?’

‘Some thugs have got hold of Ryan – the guy in the Oliver Hardy suit. They’re going to beat the shit out of him. He spilt their drinks; he didn’t mean it; but they’re going to—’

‘Where?’

‘Back there in the hotel bar.’ Lee panted. ‘I was looking for a cop, then I saw you were—’

Sam looked up at the white-painted building standing four storeys high in front of him. ‘That’s the one? Oh, shit.’

Sam’s heart sank when he saw the sign in foot-high letters above the entrance:

Suddenly Jud’s words, heavy and potent with hidden meaning, came back to him. Just five minutes earlier Jud had said: ‘If you’ve developed a taste for English beer, you’ll find they do a very nice glass of mild in the Gryphon Hotel. And be sure to go into the public bar, not the lounge.’

‘Come on,’ Lee said quickly. ‘They’re going to kill him!’

Sam still stared up at the hotel: a premonition oozed through him. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation; it was cold and slick and turned his skin to tingling goose-flesh.

At that moment Sam reached a decision. Even though he didn’t really know Lee Burton (now without his Dracula cape) or the plump Ryan Keith, he did feel a kinship with them. They were a clan of travellers now – even though they were travelling in time. They’d have to look out for each other.

As he ran across the road he called to Lee, ‘He’s actually inside the Gryphon Hotel?’

Lee nodded. ‘They’re going to tear the poor sod apart.’

Again Sam spoke and again he knew full well what the answer would be. ‘He’s in the public bar?’

‘Yeah… Wait. How did you know that?’

Through clenched teeth Sam said, ‘Hang on tight, Lee. I think we’re in for a bumpy ride.’

By the time they were through the lobby and had reached the door of the public bar Lee had managed to tell Sam that he’d found Ryan Keith running through town, chased by two supermarket employees. He’d grabbed Ryan and had managed to get him away from the two men by hiding in the hotel. Only Ryan, naturally clumsy and now even clumsier from exhaustion, had blundered into a group of mean-looking youths at the bar, spilling their drinks. It hadn’t helped when a panicky Ryan had given them a banknote that wouldn’t be legal tender for ten years.

That’s when the shit had really hit the fan.

And that’s when Lee had rushed off to find help.

There would be no help to be had from the hotel’s usual occupants. It was a seedy, run-down place where rooms could be rented by the hour and fights in the bar were a more frequent event than the toilets being cleaned.

Sam could already hear a high-pitched warbling cry. Any betting that’s Ryan Keith? he asked himself. It sounded as if they were carving his nuts with a penknife.

The bar was a gloomy cave of a place after the brilliant sunshine outside. It stank of beer and cigarette smoke. The boards were bare, sticky underfoot. Hell… a den of strife and trouble if ever I saw one, he thought.

Around half a dozen men in their late teens were gathered around a pool table. They could have been fascinated by a tricky shot into a corner pocket – but then Sam saw a pair of feet sticking out over the table and he realised that they must have Ryan Keith spreadeagled there like a sacrificial offering.

Again Sam heard a high-pitched, ‘No-ooo… Let me go-ooo…’ It sounded like the bleating of a terrified sheep.

Sam glanced at Lee, who stood panting at his side.

Hell, this was a suicide mission. From the amount of denim and shaven heads Sam could see this was nothing less than a skinhead gang. More fruit of ’70s culture. They looked like mean bastards. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Sam decided to take as tough a line as he could muster. ‘Okay, break it up. That one’s ours.’

One skinhead jerked his head up. ‘Who the frig are you?’

‘His pal, pal. Now let him go and there’ll be no trouble.’

Now the rest of the gang were taking an interest in Sam.

One leered. ‘A Yank? And a homo in a frilly shirt? Which planet are you two from?’

‘Look,’ Sam said, ‘we don’t want any trouble. We—’

‘Well, that’s exactly what you’ve got. You’ve got trouble! Big trouble!’

Another skinhead scowled. ‘Let’s take the fuckers’ heads off.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Sam murmured. ‘Showdown at the OK Corral.’

The gang left Ryan on the table as they started to advance towards Sam and Lee. The door swung open behind Sam; he glanced back, half-hoping it would be a bunch of coppers charging in to save the day. Instead, in walked a man of around 30. The hair was darker, the face unlined, the figure leaner, but his identity was unmistakable.

‘Jud… Jud Campbell,’ Sam spoke the words before he could stop himself. My tongue sometimes escapes me… Shit, Dirty Harry had put it perfectly. He realised he should have kept his mouth shut.

‘Oh, hello,’ Jud said. (At least, the younger version of Jud Campbell did – the older one sat in the car not five minutes’ walk from there.) Then he paused, obviously not recognising Sam. But in the next second he weighed up the situation at the bar: that there was one hell of a fight brewing.

Behind the skinheads, Ryan rolled off the pool table like he was climbing out of bed with a hangover. His head hung so low his chin almost rested on his chest. He looked exhausted.

But at that moment, when he looked as if he could do nothing more than curl up on the floor, he suddenly charged at the backs of the skinheads. Sam saw this was no heroic attack from the rear: the man merely wanted to push his way through to the door, then make good his escape from the hotel.

Again Ryan’s natural clumsiness brought him into contact with a skinhead, knocking the thug forward into Jud.

All hell broke loose.

Sam saw the ferocity in the eyes of the skinheads as they lunged forward, swinging their fists.

He backed away easily from the clumsy punches. Lee wasn’t so lucky and he was soon embroiled in a slugging match with a stumpy skinhead with arms as long as a gorilla’s.

Although this wasn’t Jud’s fight, and he was already halfway out of the door into the lobby, a skinhead dived at his back, swinging blows at the side of Jud’s head.

It was a big mistake.

Jud simply stopped, turned and fixed the skinhead with such a hard stare that the skinhead stopped slugging.

Sam remembered shaking hands with Jud, and having noted those powerful labourer’s hands. If anything, the young Jud Campbell looked even stronger, with hugely powerful arms and bulging muscles under the white cotton shirt.

The skinhead took another swing at Jud. It caught him on the cheek with a thin cracking sound. Jud didn’t flinch. But that was when his eyes began to burn.

Before Sam could fully take it in, Jud’s huge arm swung up, catching the skinhead a tremendous blow on the chin. Instead of a crack Sam heard a loud pop. The skinhead shot backwards to land flat out on the pool table.

Sam took the opportunity to plant a punch on the nose of the skinhead in front of him, who’d watched open-mouthed as his friend had become airborne.

The punch knocked the kid back, but not down. He looked back viciously at Sam.

Sam realised the contest would be reduced to a grim slugging match, but he still hadn’t appreciated Jud’s sheer muscle power. The man was wading into the skinhead gang. Just one of his punches was enough to floor any of the thugs.

Soon they were retreating to the back of the bar in confusion – and in more than a little pain, with a few wiping bloody noses. Jud pushed their retreat harder, picking up stragglers like they were rag dolls and throwing them at their mates.

‘Get out!’ he roared. ‘Get out! And if I see your ugly faces round here again I’ll tear them off and stuff them down your bloody throats!’

Realising they were no match for the raging bull of a man, they ran for the door at the back of the bar. Finding it locked, they rushed forward frantically once again.

Like panicked cattle they were thinking only of running away, but catching Jud off balance they shoved him backwards over an upended table.

He fell awkwardly.

Sam immediately saw the man’s face screw up in pain. One of the skinheads who was last in the mad scramble to escape saw that the man who’d made mincemeat of the gang was at least temporarily disabled. As Jud lay flat on his back in a pool of spilt beer, clutching the upper part of his thigh while grimacing in pain, the skinhead grabbed a glass from another table, then doubled back.

Sam saw that the skinhead’s intention was to smash the glass into Jud’s face.

In one second Sam had crossed the floor of the bar. As the skinhead raised the glass, Sam shoulder-charged the youth right in the middle of his back.

With a startled ‘Uph!’ the youth went crashing forward, landing face down in a mess of upturned chairs, the glass smashing in his own hand.

Sam saw blood pouring freely from a cut in the palm of the youth’s hand.

‘Oh, bastard, bastard, bastard,’ groaned the skinhead, climbing to his feet. Then, clutching his bloody hand to his chest, he decided enough was enough and ran for the door.

The young Jud lay on his back. Despite the pain, he said through gritted teeth, ‘Thanks for that.’

‘The least I could do, Jud,’ Sam said gently. ‘Thanks for saving our necks back there.’

‘Christ… they can be little toe-rags at times. Thing is… thing is, they’ll grow up to be good men one day. Ack… I reckon I’ve busted my leg. Hurts like shit…’

‘Take it easy,’ Sam said kindly. ‘Lee, pass me the towel from the bar. No, one of the dry ones. Thanks.’ He took the towel and rolled it into a pillow before placing it carefully under Jud’s head. ‘We’ll get you an ambulance, Jud.’

‘Hell, I think I need one. First time in my life as well. I’m usually pretty resilient when…’ Jud broke off and looked up, narrowing his eyes. ‘Wait a minute… How do you know my name?’

‘Don’t worry about that now, let’s get you fixed.’

‘Christ, I hope I’ll be able to walk again.’

‘Don’t worry, buddy, I know you will.’

Again Jud gave him what could only be described as an old-fashioned look. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you?’

‘Not yet, Jud. Not yet.’ Then Sam scanned the bar. ‘Oh, no. Where the hell did Ryan run off to?’

Lee shrugged. ‘He just legged it when the fighting started.’

‘Christ, and after we saved his nuts, too. That guy’s got a yellow streak up his back that’s wider than an eight-lane freeway. You stay here with Jud, I’ll phone for an ambulance.’

The bar staff had disappeared sharpish when the fight began so Sam climbed over the bar, found a phone, dialled 911, clicked his tongue as he remembered the right number, then dialled 999.

Ten minutes later, as Jud was stretchered into the back of an ambulance, Sam and Lee walked back to the car, where Zita fumed impatiently. There was no sign of Ryan Keith. He’d done a bunk, Sam guessed. At least the gang had done him no serious harm.

The older version of Jud, wiser, greyer, a little heavier around the jaw, stood leaning back against the car.

He smiled broadly at Sam before slapping his leg.

‘I always know when it’s going to rain, because this starts to ache again.’

‘You son of a gun, you remembered, didn’t you?’ Sam said, smiling. ‘You remembered we’d met before.’

‘I did.’

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘What could I say? That you’d get into a fight in the Gryphon Hotel? That I – or at least a younger version of me – would be there to give you a hand?’

‘Something like that would have been fine by me. You know, it was scary back there.’

‘Sure it was. But what do you suggest? That I try and change history?’

‘Why not?’

‘The repercussions could have been enormous.’

‘Those hoodlums could have killed us.’

‘But it turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

Zita flicked back her plaited hair. ‘Are you letting me in on this secret, boyos? Just what on Earth happened back there in the hotel?’

‘Tell her on the way to the library, Lee.’ Sam said. ‘It’s time we started to try and find out just exactly what’s happening to us.’