Time Stranger

by Elyse Douglas

  His eyes were slitted, inspecting her.

  AS THEY DROVE PAST wealthy estates, south-flowing rivers and areas of downland and marsh, Anne was thoughtful, her mind bringing out impressions and recollections. While working at Bletchley, she’d learned that, somewhere in this area, there had been a finishing school for agents, operated by the Special Operations Executive or the SOE. There had also been a Royal Navy harbor at Portsmouth and an army camp at Aldershot. Now that her full memory had returned, these memories seemed fresh and immediate, because she’d left 1944 only a few weeks before.

  As they crossed the Thames at Westminster Bridge, entering London, Anne’s heart nearly seized up. The foot traffic was heavy; the car traffic was knotted with red, double-decker buses and taxis. A young woman sat playing an accordion, an old French tune Anne recognized but couldn’t name.

  And then a strange, unnamable fear washed over her as she took in the changed skyline. There was the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben and St. Paul’s, but what was that gigantic Ferris wheel doing there, and where were the industrialized sites along the Thames?

  As they drove on, towers in various shapes and sizes rose up, glinting in the early afternoon sun. It was a 3-D London in a futuristic world; a London feverishly recrafted into an expression of soaring, gleaming-glass dominance and surreal shapes, all super-imposed on the old London she remembered.

  A vision of the past seized and startled her. Where was the bomb damage? Where were the broken walls, the damaged chimneys, the piles of rubble and scattered bricks in the streets? Where were the war-weary, slouching survivors, picking through debris, searching for buried bodies or precious keep-sakes or furniture scattered helter-skelter?

  Where were the sturdy, unrelenting people, the ubiquitous soldiers in uniforms, the bell-ringing ambulance sirens, the barrage balloons, the Spitfires and Hurricane fighters soaring across the sky? Where was the thick smoke that hung over the heart of Britain after the German bombers had bombed through the night?

  At a stop light, Reese swiveled around. “Is there any place that you particularly wish to see, Miss?”

  Anne didn’t answer him. When her vision of the past cleared, she sat in a stupor of shock, unable to speak, as this new and unrecognizable London unraveled all around her, striking her senses with a violence she could have never expected.

  The war was gone—of course it was gone—because she was living in 2008, not 1944. It was a good thing, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it a blessing that the war had ended a long time ago and there were no more bombs, no more violence, destruction and death?

  Anne felt cold, and she hugged herself, feeling the chaos of emotions beat through her.

  Concerned, Reese glanced at her through his rearview mirror and saw that she’d gone white, her face blank with shock.

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Watson?”

  When they approached Trafalgar Square, Anne sat up, bolt erect, her eyes wide and searching. On reflex, she pointed and blurted out, “That’s it!”

  Reese jerked a look toward the square. “What is it, Miss?”

  “Kenneth and I met here, at Trafalgar Square, in 1944. Kenneth was a pilot… he flew a bomber out of the Ridgeway Aerodrome. When he was on leave, we often met over there, between those two bronze lions. The area along the Strand and Trafalgar Square was always crowded, so we’d meet here, at the statue of Horatio Nelson, on the square, between those two lions, one on each side of the admiral.”

  Reese stared, trying to understand.

  Anne’s face fell into melancholy. “It hasn’t changed so much... Not at all. It was so long ago now… So long… And yet, I remember, don’t I, like it was only yesterday.”

  Reese shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Anne shut her eyes, unable to take anything else in. There were so many places she wanted to see and remember: The Ritz, Piccadilly Square, Hyde Park, but she couldn’t face them and the old memories. She didn’t have the stomach for it.

  Anne lost track of time, and when she opened her eyes, they were driving through Charing Cross. Despite the tightness in her throat, she managed to say, “Please take me to Stratford. I want to go home to Stratford. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes, Miss Watson. It’s about ten kilometers from here to East London.”

  Anne braced herself for what was to come, staring out into the afternoon sun, watching the modern world blur by, not wanting to see it, not wanting to acknowledge a changed city that was no longer familiar; that was no longer her home.

  To fill the anxious silence, Reese began to banter away. “About Stratford, I read something interesting in the paper. Because of the financial crisis, they’re having difficulty raising funds on the commercial markets for the construction of the 2012 Olympic Village. Some politician said that Stratford is a forgotten part of London, and they need the Olympics. He said building hotels and shopping centers, cinemas and a casino would boost its economy and help the entire city. What do you think, Miss… I mean since you come from there?”

  “Forgotten part of London?” Anne asked, distracted, struggling to understand and follow the conversation.

  Reese continued. “The concern is over the infrastructure. They question whether Stratford can cope.”

  As they entered Stratford, Anne was rattled and miserable. “Where are the row houses and the old neighborhoods?” she said at a sad whisper. “Everything is gone… changed.”

  As Reese was driving by St John’s Church, Anne shouted for him to stop, and he pulled over. It was the main parish church in Stratford, standing on Stratford Broadway, the main thoroughfare.

  Anne gazed out the car window, clouds of anxiety in her eyes as she viewed the gray brick structure and the three-stage tower. She felt as though she were a ghost who’d risen from the dead.

  Anne spoke aloud, in a haunted voice. “During the war, the church crypt served as an air raid shelter. It was damaged by German bombs… Yes, I remember that, and all the windows were blown out. Mrs. Toomey and her daughter were killed just over there, by those trees… but the trees had been blasted away. There was a wrought-iron fence there then and a lovely flower garden.”

  Anne’s voice was strange, and low, and honest. Reese had a chill come over him, and he removed his eyes from the rearview mirror.

  Anne inhaled a deep breath and looked about. “I don’t even know where our house was. Nothing’s left. It’s all gone. Everything is completely altered.”

  Reese had a thought that made him wary and uneasy. Perhaps the reason Constance Crowne wanted Anne sequestered and protected in that grand house in Hampshire had something to do with the young woman’s mind. Is that why Mrs. Crowne wanted the pretty Anne kept under wraps? It made sense to him, yes. Anne Watson’s mind had twisted on her, and she’d gone a little balmy.

  Did she think she was living in 1944, or had lived in 1944? Mrs. Crowne had told him that Anne had been ill and needed rest. Now it all added up, and Reese cursed himself for agreeing to drive her to London. It had been a bad mistake; the mistake of an amateur.

  Reese twisted around. “We should return to Hampshire, Miss Watson.”

  Anne’s mind scurried for a hiding place. She couldn’t take much more, or she’d go completely mad. But where could she go? She didn’t have a home in this time, and she didn’t fit into this modern world.

  In a small voice she said, “Where can I go? Where? Please get me away from here. I can’t bear it any longer.”

  Reese saw her features falling apart, her eyes filling with tears.

  “All right, then, don’t you have a worry, Miss. We’ll start back straightaway,” Reese said, firmly. “You’ll be fine once you have yourself a rest, Miss Watson.”

  As they drove away, Anne leaned forward. “Can we go by way of Hyde Park? I must see it again… I have to.”

  “It’s a bit out of the way, Miss.”

  “Please…”

  Later, when Anne’s cell phone rang, Reese tensed up. Through the rearview mirror, he obs
erved Anne reach into her purse and draw out her phone.

  “Anne, it’s Constance. I’m going to be brief. I need to speak to you about some things, so I’ll join you in Hampshire tomorrow.”

  Anne was quiet.

  “Anne… are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to take my time getting there, in case I’m followed. Are you all right?”

  Anne stared ahead, speaking in a bland voice. “Yes… I’m feeling a little shaky but…”

  “… What’s the matter?” Constance asked, interrupting. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “I’m in London, Constance. I just visited Stratford.”

  “What? What did you just say?” Constance asked with alarm. “Did you say you’re in London?”

  “Yes, we’re stuck in traffic, near Hyde Park. There seems to be an incident ahead. We’re not moving.”

  “Dammit! Anne… What on earth are you doing in London?”

  “I asked Mr. Patrick to drive me. Don’t be upset. We’re returning to Hampshire as soon as the traffic clears.”

  Constance held back anger. “Anne, give the phone to Mr. Patrick.”

  Reluctantly, Anne obeyed, with a face of apology to Reese as she did so.

  While Constance shouted at him, Reese apologized and worked to smooth the situation. Anne’s attention was drawn outside. There were dozens of police about, waving people away. A cordon was being expanded near Hyde Park.

  As the past and present collided, memories clashed, and old conversations clattered in. On a whim, Anne shoved the door open and climbed out. She heard Reese’s urgent voice calling out after her, but she ignored him and started off.

  She drew up to a policeman and asked him what was going on.

  “Both the north and south bank of the Serpentine are closed off,” he said, glancing about.

  Anne knew that the Serpentine was a vast recreational lake in Hyde Park, close to Kensington Palace. She and Kenneth had walked the area several times on their strolls through the park in 1944, and her father had brought her there when she was a little girl.

  “Why is it closed off?” Anne asked.

  “They discovered an unexploded World War Two bomb—a fifty pounder, I was told. Specialist officers have been called to the scene to diffuse it. They said it’s close to the Serpentine Lake, near the Pavilion. You should step away now, Miss. We’re evacuating this entire area for safety’s sake.”

  “Did you say it was a World War Two bomb?” Anne asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s not the first, and it won’t be the last. A few months back, a five-hundred-pound bomb was found near Soho’s Dean Street by construction workers. They cordoned-off that area as well. My dad’s a bit of a history buff, and he told me that during the Second World War, German air raids dropped more than twelve thousand metric tons of bombs on London, so some are bound to still be hidden in the ground and the streets. Step back now, Miss, and keep a safe distance.”

  Anne turned away, her eyes cool, direct and intense. In a sudden burst of wind that blew her red beret from her head, Anne heard the call of her time, 1944.

  In her head, she heard a still, small voice whisper, “It’s time to make it right again, Anne. Go!”

  An air raid warden blew his shrill whistle, and Anne heard him shout, “Step lively, now! Step lively!”

  She heard Tommy’s terrified cries. “Mummy… Are they going to drop bombs on us?”

  Reese boiled from the car as horns blared all around him, as traffic stalled, as tempers flared. Whipping his head from side to side, he searched for Anne. But he was too late.

  She’d bolted away, breaking through a crowd and entering the park. Two startled policemen spotted her and shouted at her to stop.

  But she didn’t stop. Hearing the echo of war all about her, she dashed off toward Serpentine Lake.

  CHAPTER 33

  England 2008

  Constance left The May Fair Hotel as the afternoon sun was eclipsed by a dark cloud. The air was chilly, but the mood festive, the Christmas lights glittering, the streets and stores wrapped in the many colors, styles and moods of the season.

  She started toward Hyde Park, heading northeast on Stratton Street. With lengthening strides, she turned onto Berkeley Street, not bothering to glance back to see if Alex Fogel was following her. Getting to Anne as fast as possible was her priority. She’d deal with Alex when the time came. Her .38 caliber handgun was tucked snuggly into her designer bag and, if he got in her way, she wouldn’t hesitate to brandish it, if it came to that.

  Constance was certain he wouldn’t risk creating a scene in a foreign country, and surely he knew, by this point, that she didn’t give a damn. She’d even welcome it, pointing her gun at him with any and all to see. She had nothing to lose but money for legal counsel, and maybe a few hours in a London police station. On the other hand, he would embarrass the agency, lose his job, be a laughingstock, and never work in intelligence again.

  When she reached Park Lane, she called Reese. He was out searching for Anne.

  “Is there any sign of her?” Constance asked, urgency in her voice.

  “No, Mrs. Crowne. They’ve got the entire area blocked off. I spoke to a policeman, explaining that she’d entered the park, but he refused to let me search for her.”

  “All right. I should be there in a few minutes. Did the policeman say where the bomb is?”

  “Near the Serpentine Pavilion, in one of the gardens. He said a park attendant found the bomb.”

  Constance weaved her way past dog walkers, skipping little girls holding hands, and tourists. Just as she was about to enter the park, near a sidewalk artist’s display, she heard a voice that chilled her.

  “They won’t let you in, Mrs. Crowne.”

  She whirled about to see Alex Fogel standing a few feet away. A shadow crossed her face. “Get the hell away from me.”

  He pointed. “See the cops, Mrs. Crowne? Neither one of us will get in now. And who knows where Anne went? She’s scared to death, running like a stampeding wild animal. But don’t worry, they’ll catch her.”

  She glared at him. “What is it with you? Just leave her alone. She needs friends. She needs help so she can adapt to this time. The last thing she needs is you, and others like you, making her life miserable.”

  Alex wasn’t moved. “She’ll have the life of her dreams, and I’ll make sure she gets all the professional help she needs, all the money she could ever want, and a house she could never dream of. On top of all that, she’ll give us insight into things we never could have dreamed of.”

  He stepped closer. “Anne Billings, or Watson, or whatever you want to call her, has actually time traveled, Constance. It’s incredible, and impossible, and I’m not going to let her get away. All I want is for her to share her experiences with us. Perhaps we can even learn what actually caused a break in time, and how she time traveled from East London in 1944 to Central Park in 2008. No, Mrs. Crowne, I can’t, and I won’t, let her go.”

  Constance was snaking her hand into her handbag, feeling for the grip of the gun, when she heard an explosion, a rumbling roar that shook the ground. There were screams. People dived for cover; ducked away or pointed, faces tense with shock.

  In horror, Constance swung around to see an orange fireball shoot up into the air, forming an ugly, dark, mushroom cloud.

  Constance screamed out, “NOooo!” and then darted off, breaking through a line of stunned policemen who had turned to see the explosion. Alex tore off after her, the policemen suddenly alert, breaking away, giving chase, waving their arms and shouting for them to stop.

  TWO DAYS LATER, CONSTANCE sat slumped in a chair in her May Fair Hotel room, with the curtains pulled and the lights out. A silver wine bucket was stuffed with an upside-down champagne bottle, and on the floor beside the chair was an empty champagne glass, toppled over on the carpet where she’d dropped it.

  The darkness, and the wind outside, and the rain striking the windows, wer
e all full of Anne’s voice. Constance heard the many conversations they’d shared; heard Anne’s soft British accent and the smooth tone of her words. Most of all, Constance heard her own words echoing back at her: the promise that she’d protect Anne.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Constance said aloud, in a low, self-mocking tone; in a slurring voice filled with loathing.

  The champagne had dulled her, and loosened her, and made her mean. “You good-for-nothing bitch,” Constance shouted. “You lost her… You lost her, just like you lost Ashley… Gone!”

  Constance had called the police every hour, on the hour, to ask if they’d learned anything new.

  “Have you found her?” Constance demanded. “You must have found her by now.”

  “No, Mrs. Crowne,” the deep, impatient voice said on the end of the phone. “I’ve told you, if we learn anything new at all, I’ll ring you straightaway.”

  Sitting in the chair, a dull weariness came over her. She listened to the storm outside and felt pain wrap itself around her pounding heart and squeeze it, like the fingers of a fat hand, tightening, applying pressure.

  It was that damned bomb exploding that tormented her. That freak accident. How could something like that happen?

  With a struggle of effort, she pushed up on unsteady legs, her temples beating with pounding blood.

  That tall, irritable police inspector had told her he’d received reports from two policemen, who had both seen a woman running toward the area where the bomb specialists were working to diffuse the bomb. After it accidently detonated, killing three men and injuring four others, the woman was nowhere to be found. They also didn’t find a woman’s body. Since that time, Anne Watson had not been located in any hospital, airport, train station… or anywhere else.

  Later, the police inspector informed her that another policeman had reported seeing a woman blasted into the air when the bomb detonated but, when pressed, he said he wasn’t absolutely sure.

  Her cell phone rang. Constance moved toward it, picked it up and saw the call was from Jon Miles. He was home in New York, and he’d been calling for two days, but she hadn’t answered or called him back.