The Fall

37

Blonde-haired Nicole Wagner, who had once aspired to a law career, sat by the stream to watch men and women eating crusts of dry bread.

She’d become a stranger in a strange land. The mouse ears twitched on the back of her shoulder, lightly tickling her skin.

It was a strange sensation but she knew she must get used to it.

There was no question of being able to cut out the mouse head, or for that matter the whole of the mouse body that had fused inside her upper torso. Even the cells were melded together, so for a few cubic inches inside her shoulder it wouldn’t be possible to tell where the mouse ended and Nicole Wagner began.

‘Here, you must be thirsty.’ William held out to her a mug that bore the picture of a bearded man along with the words: Edward VII. God Save the King! This was just one of a huge haul of pots, cups and plates that these people had scrounged and salvaged from any number of periods in history. She didn’t doubt for a second that here people sat side by side drinking from Roman goblets, Viking tankards, Victorian mugs and McDonald’s paper cups complete with plastic lid and straw.

She thanked him and drank. It was beer, not something she’d normally drink, but this tasted good: a rich, nutty flavour and not at all gassy.

‘Thanks,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘I needed that.’

‘Oh, but if all our problems could be solved by a yard or two of ale.’

‘I know mine could,’ came the gruff Cockney voice from William’s stomach. ‘Now, William, if you could see your way to putting away a cup or two of good London dry gin I’d be in boozer’s heaven, so help me.’

William shook his head. ‘The answer’s a regretful no.’

‘I bloody well knew it,’ Bullwitt groaned. ‘Tell me we’re moving on to some other place, go on, tell me.’

‘Remember, Bullwitt, it will be my feet that will be carrying your noisy head.’

Nicole watched in silent bemusement as William held a conversation with the face that bulged from his stomach. It was like watching a pair of brothers talking – a mixture of banter and argument, yet all with an undercurrent of affection.

Bullwitt’s voice rumbled wistfully. ‘We’d all be best going back to the 1700s. It was quieter then, no hassles; besides, the beer tasted better.’

‘I don’t think it is a question as to which year we travel,’ William said. ‘We should endeavour to leave this place and put as many miles between ourselves and the amphitheatre as possible. Regardless of what time period we occupy, those troublesome rogues always find us and steal our possessions, and it’s as much as we can do to escape with our necks.’

‘What do you suggest? Board a ship and sail away to bleedin’ Tahiti?’

‘No.’

‘Because we’d look a pretty sight, wouldn’t we? Me, you, Billy across there with a neckful of frogs, and the rest of us all marching away along the road to the seaside.’

‘No, clearly we must all discuss what we should do next. Although it goes without saying that to remain here jeopardises the safety of us all.’

At last the penny dropped. Nicole looked up suddenly.

‘You mean you can choose what year you live in? So you can control this thing?’

William looked at her with surprised blue eyes. ‘Why, yes. Not as accurately as some of the Liminals, but if we choose to make landfall in 1766 or 1966, then we do it.’

For the first time since they’d somehow come unstuck from the normal flow of time, Nicole felt hope tingling inside of her. Maybe it was a fragile hope. But she realised that there was a chance – just an outside chance – she could somehow get all those people in the amphitheatre back home to their own date and time.

She leaned across and seized William’s hand. ‘You’re telling me you can travel in time? How does it work, exactly?’

The Reverend Thomas Hather took Sam and Zita home for a meal of ham and eggs. Bread and butter sat piled high on a plate in the centre of the table. Tea steamed in bone-china cups.

It was late in the evening and the summer sun cast a reddish glow through the tall windows. Outside on the rectory lawn a peacock fanned its feathers in a display of iridescent blues and greens.

Sam looked across at Zita. She held a cup in both hands.

As she drank she stared into space, clearly still wrapped up in what had happened that afternoon.

Despite everything, he still found himself comparing 1865 to 1999, noticing the changes in even mundane domestic objects. Of course, there were no electric lights. There was an alabaster lamp on the mantelpiece with a glass tube that was scorched and sooty at the top. There were candle holders. Furniture was chunky, ornate and carved – over-carved, in fact – so there were no straight lines, only curves, bulges, corkscrew chair legs, table legs that ran from elephantine thickness down to slender points. But this wasn’t a perverse taste for bizarre furniture on the part of Thomas: rather, it was the typical style of the time. This was opulent ‘in your face’ furniture, as strong and as enduring – and as noticeable – as the Empire that inspired it.

The meal had been served by a matronly woman of around 70 who ‘kept house’ for Thomas. She’d goggled her eyes in astonishment at Zita’s leggings and clicked her tongue, but had said nothing.

Thomas poured more tea into Zita’s cup through a silver strainer. ‘What kind of chance does the Middleton boy have?’

Zita shook her head. ‘I’ve really no idea. If he can survive the next 24 hours or so that should give the antibiotic time to work.’

‘Antibiotic? I’ve not heard of such a medicine.’

‘It kills bacteria in the body.’

‘A poison?’

‘More or less, I guess. But it won’t harm Harry.’

Unless he’s allergic to penicillin, was the unwelcome thought that ran through Sam’s brain.

Zita sipped her tea, her hands shaking slightly. Watching her administer the drug earlier had been like watching someone making a record-breaking dive from a high cliff. She’d examined the medical textbook, gazed at the ampoules of penicillin. Then she’d simply gone for it. Quickly filled a syringe, then injected it directly into a vein in the little boy’s leg.

A leg as grey as putty, Sam had remembered. And cold to the touch, Zita had said later. As cold as a can from the refrigerator.

Sam had half hoped that during the couple of hours they were there they’d see the boy miraculously rally; see his eyes open and that grey face break into a smile.

Of course, nothing ever happened as neatly as that. Harry Middleton’s condition had not altered. He remained all but unconscious, the slightly parted eyes gazing dully up at the tear in the wallpaper above the window.

After a while all they could do was promise that they’d call again later. Zita would have to administer another injection the next day.

If they were still here, that was, Sam told himself. If this weird run back through time continued like it had been doing, at any moment they could open their eyes and find themselves back in the amphitheatre.

Sam bit into a slice of bread. He found it coarse, slightly gritty, as if grains of sand had found their way into the flour from the millstones, but it tasted good. The butter was good, too; in colour a very pale yellow, it was the creamiest he’d ever tasted.

Thomas was still talking about the penicillin. By now he was wanting to know why the drug wasn’t widely available, mentioning about a dozen children who’d died in the last 18 months or so.

‘It’s a new drug,’ Sam told him. ‘Still experimental. It’ll be a few years before doctors will be using it. But it—’

‘No, no.’ Thomas gave a smile that was nervous, awkward, yet clearly determined. He wasn’t a man who became angry or assertive often, but Sam saw he wasn’t going to be kissed off with any platitudes this time. ‘No… look.’ With a trembling hand he made a slow-motion karate chop onto the table. ‘Look. You’re in my house, eating my food, I deserve the courtesy of an honest reply.’

‘Thomas, penicillin is a new—’

‘Please, Mr Baker, credit me with a fraction of intelligence. Clearly you are not what you say you are. First, I find a group of you in most peculiar dress in the amphitheatre. And you simply appeared there with no advance warning. Surely there would have been mention of you in the local newspapers. And you, sir, were hatless.’

‘I left my hat in the—’

‘No, no, no. You don’t normally wear a hat. Look at my face… no, lower down.’ He pointed to his nose and cheeks. ‘The lower part of my face is tanned by the sun. Above my eyebrows there’s no tanning at all. Every man in this town, with the exception of yourself, has exactly the same tanning pattern. Browned face, pale forehead. Because we all wear hats whenever we are outside. You clearly never wear a hat. Your forehead is tanned.’ Thomas’s keen eyes studied Sam. ‘It is the mark of a modern civilised man to wear a hat out of doors. Even in North America. You say you are part of an archaeological team, yet I saw no-one digging at the amphitheatre. You have in your possession extraordinary vehicles that require no horses to pull them but are impelled by what you maintain is some form of explosive process that drives pistons. And this afternoon I have seen you administer a medicine that I’ve never heard of, which you say is experimental, but then in Heaven’s name why are archaeologists – so-called archaeologists – in possession of it?’

Sam leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Now that is a deduction Sherlock Holmes would shoot his own granny for.’

‘And,’ Thomas continued, not willing to be deflected, ‘you employ phrases and words I have never encountered before. My parish might be in the provinces, but I dare say no other civilised man, at least of this nation, has heard them before.’ The Reverend Thomas Hather was trembling but still in control. And without a shadow of a doubt he wanted answers – this time straight ones, not those that were so bent they couldn’t stand on their own two feet.

‘So,’ Thomas continued firmly. ‘Will you tell me why you are here? And just where you are from?’

‘The truth?’ Sam looked at Zita and said, ‘I think it might be easier to tell Thomas everything.’

‘Sam? Is that wise? And is it even necessary?’

‘I think so.’

‘But we could be pffft… out of here at any second.’

‘And what if we aren’t? We’ve been here a day and a night already. Remember what Rolle said? He told us that the mechanism that’s dragging us back is going on the fritz.’

‘We can’t be sure about that.’

‘I know, but what if it is? What if it dumps us here for good? We’re going to need people like Thomas here to help us. We’ll need a roof over our heads, for one thing. Jobs, so we can buy food.’

‘But you’re going to have a tough time convincing anyone what you say is true. Have you thought that it’s all going to sound a bit on the crazy side?’

Sam noticed that Thomas had watched the exchange with profound puzzlement.

‘What will sound crazy?’ Thomas asked. ‘Surely you would do me the courtesy of telling me your story?’

Sam looked at Zita. ‘If you want me to keep my trap shut I’ll go along with that, but we might be in for a long stopover here.’

Zita finished her drink and replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘Okay. You’re right, Sam. We’re going to start needing help before long. After all, Rolle said that there might be trouble from some of these Bluebeard characters. We’re going to have to warn these people to be on their guard.’

‘I am utterly lost,’ Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t understand a quarter of what you say. Bluebeards?’

Zita gave Sam a little smile. ‘Okay. Go for it, Sam.’

Sam thought for a second, looking for the most appropriate words. But the opening sentence that rose flippantly into his mind was: Once upon a time…

Instead, he rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment. I’ll be right back.’

Sam returned from the car with a cardboard box.

When the dining room table had been cleared of the plates and cups, Sam asked Thomas to light the lamp since the daylight had all but gone.

Then, under the light of the oil lamp, which was surprisingly bright, Sam took a number of objects from the box and laid them out on the table. After that, he emptied the contents of his wallet onto the table.

He couldn’t help but notice Thomas’s eyes growing more and more round.

After a moment Thomas stood up and bent over the table to examine the astonishing artefacts, yet he kept his hands behind his back as if afraid of breaking – or being contaminated by – these objects that shone brightly in the light of the lamp.

‘Amazing, truly amazing,’ Thomas breathed.

Sam glanced at Zita as he laid out the last of his exhibits on the tablecloth. She nodded her approval.

Then, like a professor of anatomy naming body parts to curious students, he pointed at each item in turn. ‘Magazines. Cosmopolitan, SFX, Sunday Times magazine. CD cases – REM, Rolling Stones, Mike Oldfield… Englebert Humperdink?’ He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Zita.

Zita flushed. ‘My mother left it there the last time I went home.’

‘Akhenaten by Philip Glass. And a compilation entitled Road Runners.’

Music to cruise to ran the caption.

‘Mozart’s The Magic Flute.’

‘Ah,’ Thomas said in recognition.

Sam continued, now listing in a dispassionate way. ‘Two A-to-Zs – one Birmingham, one London – and a road atlas of Great Britain. Half a dozen coins, a couple of credit cards, driver’s licence. Filling-station receipts. Business cards. Two postage stamps… US postage stamps, that is. Dollar bills and pounds sterling. And this.’ He held up a dictaphone, then put it down with the rest of the exhibits.

‘Good Lord,’ Thomas marvelled.

‘All this…’ Sam waved his hand across the table, ‘is evidence to support what I’m going to tell you next.’

Now Thomas lightly touched each piece in turn – from magazines to money to the CD cases – as if he’d pick up a psychic charge from them.

‘The forms and usages of some I recognise,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Magazines, coins. But some not.’ He touched the dictaphone, then the credit cards and CD cases. ‘What on Earth are they?’

Sam picked up the dictaphone again, thumbed the rewind button then hit the play button.

Sam’s voice came sharp and loud from the speaker. ‘…support what I’m going to tell you next.’

Thomas lurched back as if someone had touched him with an electric cattle prod. Then came Thomas’s own voice. ‘The forms and usages of some I recognise. Magazines, coins. But some not. What on Earth are they?’

‘Good Lord,’ Thomas breathed, stunned. ‘My Good Lord. An echo machine?’

‘Dictaphone. They’re used all the time.’

‘But—’

‘Used all the time where we come from.’

Thomas looked at Sam, then at Zita. He looked closely, as if trying to gauge from their expressions whether this wasn’t some monumental practical joke. Then he snatched one of the magazines from the table and looked at the cover, rocking it from side to side so it caught the light.

‘Photographs that are coloured,’ he said, examining the cover. Then he looked at the top of the magazine. ‘19^th May 1998.’ After that he picked up the coins, reading off the years stamped on them. ‘1991, 1993. Another 1991. 1995. 1999. Good heavens, my word.’ He put his hand to his mouth in wonder.

‘I thought the easiest way was to show you, rather than tell you.’

‘So you two are from… my word.’ He looked at Zita’s face as if seeing her properly for the first time. ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Thomas picked up the dictaphone and turned it over in his hand. Then he raised it and lowered it, as if gauging the weight. When he looked at them again his face wore a look of sheer excitement; his eyes blazed behind the spectacle lenses. ‘You’ve travelled back from the 1990s to here: 1865! My word, you must have fabulous tales to tell!’

‘We have,’ Sam agreed. ‘And unfortunately we have a warning, too. Casterton and everyone in it are in imminent danger of attack from some extremely unpleasant characters.’

Sam realised he had a lot of talking to do. So he took a deep breath and began at the beginning.