The Fall

21

The library didn’t close until eight. But by ten to the hour library staff were jingling keys and asking the public to make their way to the exits.

Long before then Sam had to concede, at least privately, that there was little in the books that could help them. Scientists were hard-pressed to describe adequately the nature of time. Even the great Professor Carl Sagan conceded in a science book aimed at the ordinary reader, ‘Time is one of those concepts that is profoundly resistant to simple definition.’

Certainly there was nothing that could explain why 50 or so people had come adrift in time. And why they were slipping farther and farther back into history.

As they returned to the car in the library car park Jud said, ‘You know, the more I weigh up what’s happened to us, the more I think about the time-slips of folklore.’

‘Folklore?’ Zita echoed as she thumbed the remote, unlocking the doors of the Range Rover. ‘You’re not going to say we’ve been bewitched by fairies or the wicked witch of the west?’

‘Right now, I’ll grab any half-decent explanation with both hands and hang on tight.’ Sam opened the door. ‘Even fairy stories, because I feel as if I’ll go completely nuts if we don’t get to the bottom of this.’

‘Same here.’ Lee unbuttoned the collar of the white frilly shirt. ‘I went into town today with the intention of getting drunk. And it still seems a good idea right now.’

When they were in the car, Sam turned in the front passenger seat and said, ‘Okay, Jud, if you’ve got a theory, I’m all ears.’

Jud composed his thoughts for a moment. In a playground behind the car park children shouted and laughed on the swings; a girl chased a black dog with a bright yellow frisbee in its mouth.

‘Folklore is riddled with time-slip cases. In the past they’ve been treated the same as ghost stories. You must have heard plenty of them. You know, a couple driving through the countryside become lost. They find an old inn, stay there, and are surprised to see the other occupants are wearing old-fashioned clothes and there’s no electricity, only gas lighting. Later the couple will try and find the inn again, only to learn that it burnt down 50 years earlier. One of the most famous examples is the case of Charlotte Moberley and Eleanor Jourdain, who visited Versailles while on holiday in 1901. There they saw people in old-fashioned clothes and saw buildings they subsequently discovered no longer existed. Later Miss Jourdain wrote that as she entered the grounds at Versailles she experienced an “eerie feeling” as if she’d “crossed a line and was suddenly in a circle of influence”. There are some people who’ve concluded the two ladies somehow found themselves centuries back in time when Versailles was a royal palace.’

Zita said, ‘But had the ladies really travelled back in time or were they were seeing ghosts, or at least claiming to?’

‘No, not really. The buildings and the people were solid. Your modern ghost-hunter is more likely to attribute the couple’s experience to a time-slip. That is, due to some anomaly in the cosmos the palace of two hundred years before suddenly slipped forward through time.’

‘Or the two ladies slipped back in time,’ Sam said.

‘Oh, come on,’ Zita said. ‘Fairy stories. Nothing but fairy stories.’

‘Look at any half-decent book about the supernatural,’ Jud said. ‘There are dozens of similar accounts. In 1991 a farmer in Scotland looked out of his window to see a dozen or so men walking by his house dressed as Roman soldiers. He thought they were youths in fancy dress. When he went outside to ask them what the hell they were playing at, there was no-one there. And there have been cases of people waking up in old houses in the middle of the night and noticing that furniture has been mysteriously rearranged, or that there is a fireplace in the bedroom where there was no fireplace when they went to bed. When they get up in the morning the room is back to normal. These people experienced time-slips; somehow they either saw back through time, or were actually transported there.’

‘Time-slips, my foot,’ Zita snorted. ‘Dreams or alcohol abuse, more like.’

‘It’s something,’ Lee said.

‘It’s rubbish,’ Zita said with feeling as she slammed the gear-stick into first and drove out of the car park. Sam guessed she was pissed off because they’d found no answers. Now she drove aggressively, as if questions about what had happened to them were rising like ghouls from the road, and she, Zita Prestwyck, was intent on flattening each and every one of them beneath the fat tyres of the Range Rover.

Jud said, ‘It’s my belief that the amphitheatre and an area of land surrounding it have come adrift in time. Remember the front half of the cow, the neck of the bottle and the remains of the cyclist? I think they were straddling the boundary when the time-shift occurred.’

‘You mean just half of the cow and part of the bike and the cyclist’s hand were transported back?’

‘That’s what it looks like to me.’

For a while they fell silent as they digested Jud’s hypothesis. Meanwhile, Zita drove faster. Insects splattered on the windscreen.

A moment later, Lee leaned forward. ‘Is it a bad time to ask a question?’

‘Shoot,’ Zita snapped.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m going to do what I should have done hours ago. Have a damned good meal and plenty to drink.’

She slipped into top gear and barrelled the car along the country lane. By this time the sun was setting behind the hill. This was the end of a summer’s day in 1978, Sam reflected. Somewhere in America a junior version of him was probably playing with his toy cars in his parents’ New York apartment. It would be another six or seven years before that lightning strike in Vermont would knock him out of the pear tree and kill his two friends.

Earlier Jud had said he didn’t want to interfere with history, that even though they’d come back in time he’d do nothing to change past events.

Sam Baker wasn’t so sure. The extra fingers that served as his thumbs began to tingle again.

Now they had the opportunity to play God. What could they do?

What would they do?

Right now Nicole Wagner wanted time to go head over heels again. She wanted it so much she ached from head to toe. She wanted to find herself sitting there in the amphitheatre with the rest of them.

She’d be safe there.

She knew it.

She shifted her position in the tree so she could see what Bostock was doing. For the last ten minutes he’d been searching the ground around the tree. He’d even gone as far as the abandoned car that lay at the bottom of the rock face. When he’d reached the car, which seemed a good, healthy distance from her, she’d begun to climb down out of the tree in the hope she could outrun him to the river. Once on the river bank she might see someone.

But Bostock had seen what she was doing and he’d run back, laughing and holding up his arms like a parent ready to catch a child jumping down.

Instantly she’d clambered back into the safety of the branches.

Well, temporary safety, she told herself. It would be dark in an hour or so. She knew he’d try something then to get at her.

After a while she’d become so hot in the gorilla suit she’d wriggled out of it.

Even though she wore a T-shirt and cycling shorts underneath the outfit, Bostock had wolf-whistled and clapped. His mad eyes had watched her every move as she’d pulled herself out of the great woolly bitch of a thing. And, God, could she murder a drink! Her throat had dried out completely. Even her tongue felt rough and leathery.

Just then Bostock returned from foraging around the tree; in his hand he carried a hefty stick. He rapped the trunk with it.

Instead of making a thudding sound it rang like a gigantic tuning fork.

‘Solid iron,’ he called proudly. ‘You could break coconuts open with this.’ He sounded loonily cheerful. ‘Come down, blonde girlie.’

‘No.’

‘Promise not to hurt you.’ He beamed up at her with a sunny benevolence. ‘We can talk.’

‘No.’

‘Come down here. I won’t do anything to you.’

She shook her head.

‘Bitch.’ He slashed at the tree trunk with the iron bar.

Nicole felt the vibrations run through the tree into her hands and feet. ‘Bitch. I said, come down here. Now!’

‘Go away… please.’ Nicole’s voice was a dry croak. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘But you saw what I did to Marion. Now people are going to believe you when you tell them I killed her. They won’t believe me when I say how she used to go on and on at me, ridicule everything I ever said and did. Never satisfied, always comp – Hey! What are you doing? Shut up! Shut up!’

But Nicole had seen a man strolling by the river with his hands in his pockets.

‘Hello!’ She yelled as hard as she could. ‘Help! Help! Up here! This way! I’m over here!’

Already the man had heard and was looking round. She jumped up and down on the branch and waved.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up…’ Bostock looked round wildly, not sure who she’d seen.

She hissed down at him. ‘That’s scared you, you bastard, hasn’t it?’

‘Shut your mouth now… be quiet.’

‘Will I hell. You’re going to get caught, and they’re going to take you to jail and bury you there forever.’

‘Shut up!’ He was almost pleading now. His eyes looked wild, frightened.

‘Over here!’ Nicole yelled at the man on the river bank. ‘Help! I’m in the tree!’

The man paused, tilted his head to one side.

She jumped up and down on the branch, waving, shouting.

The man still stood there, cocking his head to one side, no doubt hearing the distant cries and wondering just what on Earth was going on.

Maybe it’s kids fooling around, he’d be thinking. Suddenly Nicole realised that he might just shrug his shoulders and walk on along the river bank.

She’d be stranded here until after dark.

Then no doubt that homicidal maniac Bostock would find some way to reach her; he’d bring that iron bar down on her head. After that, he’d bury her body in a shallow grave alongside his cooling wife.

‘Hey! Over here!’ She shook a branch vigorously. ‘Help I’m here! Please help me!’

‘Shut it,’ Bostock hissed, striking the tree trunk with the iron bar. ‘Shut it, or I’ll shut it for you.’

He’s going, he’s not going to stop, he thinks it’s kids, were the panicky thoughts whirling round her head.

The man, still with his head tilted to one side, walked a pace or two in her direction. Nicole snatched up the gorilla mask and waved it over her own blonde head. All the time she was shouting.

Now the man walked more quickly towards the tree. He still had his head tilted to one side, obviously wondering just what the deal was.

Then she recognised the man. Brian Pickering, the ice-cream man in his caterer’s white suit.

‘Brian! I’m here! In the tree. Brian! Help!’

Now Brian realised there was something wrong. He was a stumpy man, but he broke into a surprisingly rapid jog through the scrubby bushes towards her.

‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’ Bostock spat in frustration. With that, and a look of white-hot fury, he was gone.

‘Oh thank God, thank God,’ Nicole croaked, her throat sore now, painfully sore.

Bostock had run for it.

She couldn’t wait to get out of that tree.

Brian Pickering had almost reached the tree now and was looking up at her in amazement. ‘Nicole? Nicole, is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What on Earth are you doing up there?’

‘Oh, just help me down, please. He was going to kill me.’

Brian held up his arms. In the dying sun his ice-cream seller’s white suit seemed to gleam like shining armour.

‘Who was going to kill you?’ He looked baffled as if suspecting this was some leg-pull.

‘Bostock… one of our tour group.’ Nicole lowered herself down from the branch, ready to jump the last eight feet or so. Her whole body was shaking now. A watery sensation filled her stomach.

But, Jesus-sweet-Jesus, the relief was enormous. Brian looked so solid and reassuring as he stood looking up at her with concerned eyes, his hands outstretched to help her down.

‘Bostock killed his wife in the wood… He was – Brian!’

‘Neee – yah!’

Bostock materialised from the deepening gloom.

As if he was swinging a baseball bat at a ball, he swung the iron bar at the back of Brian’s head.

Brian didn’t even make a noise as he staggered groggily from the blow. Nicole watched his body go all rubbery as he slumped face forward against the tree. With a yell, Nicole hoisted herself back into the branches, every fibre of her muscles quivering.

She saw Bostock raise the iron bar high over his head. It glistened wetly in the gloom. She knew what would happen next.

Screwing her eyes shut, she hugged herself against the tree trunk. Although she saw nothing, she heard Bostock’s excited grunts, heard the iron bar smacking against Brian Pickering’s skull, and felt the vibration of the blows transmitted up the tree and into her body.

‘No, no,’ she whispered over and over. ‘No, no, no…’ Then she began to sob. She felt helpless, alone, vulnerable. And night was falling fast.

Ryan Keith jogged along the road from Casterton to the amphitheatre. He was exhausted. His legs ached, a stitch pierced his side. He’d hardly stopped running since leaving the Gryphon Hotel. For quite a time he’d repeatedly shot looks back over his shoulder with huge, terrified eyes.

He expected at any moment to see the mob of skinheads chasing after him to beat him to a pulp on the road.

It took a while but he eventually realised they weren’t in hot pursuit after all.

Nevertheless, he still ran. He didn’t want to take the risk of being spotted in town.

Now it was nearly dark. The road was flanked by fields. Only the occasional car passed him. Once someone honked at the sight of the plump, round-faced youth in an Oliver Hardy costume. He’d jumped and yelped at the sound of the horn.

A mile out of town he’d passed a tramp striding purposefully along the road. He wore orange overalls and Wellington boots and sang the hymn ‘Jerusalem’ with loud gusto. Every so often he would pause to drink from a bottle of cider. Then he’d draw the back of his hand across his mouth in a hugely dramatic gesture to wipe the drops from his ginger moustache and beard.

For a moment Ryan slowed down. Would the tramp attack him too? Anything was possible in this crazy, topsy-turvy world.

As a child he’d watched the old Benny Hill TV shows. They always ended with Benny being chased by old men, blowzy women, policemen and pretty girls in high heels and stockings. Those chases always fascinated Ryan, and he’d imagine what it would be like to be pursued like that, with people shaking their fists after him. Now he knew. Today the whole of humankind seemed out to get him. It was horrible. Now even that tramp might chase him, laughing gutturally and making horrible suggestions about cuddling together under the bushes.

If Ryan’s shadow had been visible he’d have been frightened of that, too.

Taking a deep, controlling breath he began jogging again. Jogging as fast as he could, so he could get by the scary tramp.

The moment he passed the tramp he heard a bellow.

‘I know no pleasure sweeter, than in my heart to sing you a song of praise, Jesus, my love…’

Dear God, thought Ryan in deep, deep terror. It’s happening again. He ran harder, feeling his stomach pull heavily from side to side beneath his shirt.

Behind him the tramp held up the cider bottle triumphantly while shouting, ‘We shall sing to Christ with sweet voices and delightful melody. His love conquers all things. Therefore let us live in love, and in it die!’

Shit, shit…

Ryan gasped for breath as he ran. Any second the tramp would run after him, grab him, and haul him into the bushes.

‘Wait… wait,’ the tramp shouted. ‘We need to speak… Listen to my words. I know you. I know you!’

Ryan ran on, shaking his head in terror, his breath coming in sobbing grunts.

‘Listen to me!’ shouted the man. ‘You’ve got to get out of that hole in the ground… the Watchett Hole! If you don’t, it’ll be the death of you. Did you hear that, my mate-ee-oh? You’ll all die!’

Closing his ears to the shouts, Ryan ran on.

From her perch in the tree, Nicole Wagner peered down cautiously through the leaves. On the ground, gazing up at her once more, was Bostock. In the gloom his face appeared to glow whitely until she could almost believe she was looking at a replica of the moon lying on the dark ground. His eyes were merely shadows in his face.

At times she wondered if he’d fallen asleep there, with the iron bar lying diagonally across his chest.

Then, as she was thinking of sneaking down from the tree and making a run for it, she’d hear him click his tongue. He’d wag a finger at her as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, girl, I’ve still got my eye on you.’

And from her high vantage point she could see the darker stains on the earth, the broken grass stalks and trampled nettles where Bostock had dragged the body of the man who sold ice creams into the bushes.

Now she felt cold as the night air closed around her like a hand. Taking the gorilla suit, she held it to her chest, buried her face in the synthetic fur and prayed for a guardian angel.

Ryan Keith no longer walked straight. He moved in long zigs and zags, and he was muttering to himself. Every so often sobs would judder through his body so strongly he had to stop. Then he’d unscrew the cap from the half-bottle of brandy he’d bought from an off-licence on the edge of town.

He was so drunk he thought at times he’d simply barf the whole lot into the gutter. But somehow he kept it down. Now the alcohol was singing through his veins.

Above him stars appeared in the night sky. Bats swooped around the street lights.

‘Top of the world, ma,’ he said thickly to himself. ‘I’m top of the world… No, wait… that’s Cagney,’ he muttered, suddenly preoccupied with the role he’d been playing as a tour rep for God knew how many days, months, years or whatever. He hiccupped.

Still walking in those long zags that took him into the road, and the zigs that took him tottering into the hedge bottom, he said to himself, ‘My name is Oliver Norvelle Hardy. Pleased to be at… at your surface… no, service. Service.’ He gave a giggle that was actually closer to a cackle. Manic-sounding. He blundered against a telephone pole and banged his forehead. ‘Doh!’ He rubbed the bruised skin. ‘Oh, Gabriel, blow your horn.’

In the public house at the end of the lane that led from the road to the amphitheatre, Zita, Lee and Sam sat round the table. Jud had already left them to walk back to his narrow boat where his wife would be waiting.

‘I’ve never been so hungry in my life,’ Zita said, watching the waitress bring plates of ham salad to the table. ‘That first mouthful’s going to taste like heaven.’

Sam smiled. ‘Believe it or not, but we haven’t eaten in over 20 years.’

‘And it damn well feels like it,’ Zita said.

Sam watched her pick up the knife and fork and eagerly cut a triangle of thick York ham. ‘Boy, am I looking forward to tasting this.’

She raised the fork to her mouth.

At that moment Sam felt his skin crackle, as if static was running across it; his fillings tingled uncomfortably. He just had time to breathe, ‘Oh, God.’

And the pub was no more.