A Town Called Discovery

by R. R. Haywood

  The internal door reappeared while they drank coffee. One minute it was a scuffed wall seamless in design, the next there was a door.

  ‘The door’s back dudes,’ Thomas said mildly.

  They went through it. Or rather, Bear went through it on request of Zara.

  ‘Might be dangerous,’ she said.

  The warehouse was gone. Instead, there was an anteroom filled with rails of clothes and pairs of shoes laid in rows on the floor. A table in the middle on which the manilla folder waited for them with the word Jefferson hand-written across the front.

  ‘Money,’ Zara says, pulling three twenty-dollar bills from the folder clipped together with a small piece of paper. ‘For expenses, retain all receipts…Jesus…is this for real?’

  ‘Read it again,’ Thomas says.

  ‘For expenses, retain all receipts.’

  ‘Not that bit, the other bit,’ Thomas says.

  ‘The big bit?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, the big bit.’

  ‘Read the big bit,’ Bear says.

  ‘Bernard Jefferson will die of Typhoid Fever on May 28th, 1905 at his family home in Manhattan. Ensure he does not die. You cannot move him. Use the pen and notepad on the table to request your deployment date and location prior to commencing your incursion.’

  They look at the plain black pen on top of the small plain notepad on the table then up to the clothes on the rails and the shoes on the floor then back to the plain black pen on the notepad then finally back to Zara holding the folder in one hand and the money in the other.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly a bit more complicated than stopping little Jimmy going to the zoo,’ Zara points out.

  ‘You think?’ Bear asks.

  ‘Yes, that’s why I said it.’

  ‘Seen this?’ Bear asks, pulling two items of clothing from the rail. An old looking thick woollen brown suit jacket on a hanger in one hand and a modern pale blue checked shirt in the other.

  ‘Ah, now that’s interesting,’ Zara says. ‘Very interesting…’

  ‘See!’

  ‘Shush,’ Martha snaps, waving a hand at Pete while everyone in the planning department watches the giant screen projected against one wall.

  ‘I say she is smart; I said this, no?’

  ‘So, that’s Zara, right?’ Jennifer asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Jacob says. ‘That’s Zara…the tall one is Bear and the other one is Thomas.’

  ‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Bear’s kinda hot.’

  ‘Er, that is not appropriate language for the workplace thank you, Jennifer,’ Martha says pointedly.

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Well, don’t. He’s not a piece of meat to be ogled.’

  ‘I’d ogle his meat,’ someone mumbles from the crowd of workers, earning a round of chuckles.

  ‘Thomas is cute, too,’ someone else says.

  ‘Zara’s very attractive,’ another voice adds.

  ‘Enough!’ Martha says, glowering at her subordinates. ‘We are not gawping and grading on who looks fit.’

  ‘I see,’ Zara says. ‘Right, we need to put modern clothes on first. You two get changed in here, I’ll go in the other room.’

  ‘What?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘What?’ Bear asks.

  ‘Got an idea,’ she says, grabbing armfuls of clothes. ‘Get dressed and I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘On the way where?’ Bear asks.

  ‘To what?’ Thomas asks.

  She pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at them. ‘Nothing that stands out too much…come on, chop chop…work to do.’

  ‘I like her,’ Martha tells everyone, pointing at the screen.

  ‘You said we’re not to say that,’ Jennifer says.

  ‘I meant her attitude, thank you very much.’

  ‘I like her attitude too,’ someone mutters. ‘She’s got a fit attitude.’

  ‘Bear’s got a very nice attitude,’ Jennifer says.

  ‘Pack it in,’ Martha says. ‘Oh, right…er…everyone turn around,’ she adds at the sight of Bear and Thomas tugging their blue coveralls off. ‘NOW, PLEASE!’

  ‘Done?’ Zara calls out, tapping on the connecting door.

  ‘Yup,’ Thomas says.

  ‘Right,’ she says slowly after walking in and casting a visual inspection over their choice of clothes. ‘We have identified a weakness.’

  ‘Weakness?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘What weakness?’ Bear asks.

  ‘The ability to dress yourselves weakness,’ she says, moving to the rails where she starts pulling hangers off.

  ‘What’s wrong with our clothes?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘Nothing…I’m sure brogues are great with tracksuit bottoms in some parts of life…’

  ‘Huh?’ Thomas asks, looking down at his brogues and black tracksuit bottoms while Bear smirks a grin.

  ‘And you can stop smirking, Bear. You’ve put corduroys on.’

  ‘What’s wrong with corduroys?’

  ‘They’re green,’ she states, looking at them while Thomas smirks. ‘And they don’t go with red training shoes, red and green should never be seen, remember that. Right, get changed and hurry up,’ she adds, picking up the pen and notepad from the table before walking out.

  ‘I bloody love her,’ Martha states.

  ‘She was good on the circuit,’ Jacob says, ‘questioned everything. Nearly drove me mad.’

  ‘Gosh, a strong woman asking questions caused you some issues did it? Misogynist anyone?’ Martha says. ‘She’s writing on the pad,’ she adds as everyone in the room cocks their head over to see the words left on the pad. ‘Clever bitch,’ Martha whispers.

  ‘Modern times New York?’ Bear asks, reading the notepad in the dingy room while Zara checks them both over.

  ‘We don’t know what year we’re in,’ Zara replies. ‘Tuck your shirt in, Thomas. You need to look smart.’

  ‘What for?’ Thomas asks, tucking his shirt in.

  ‘Help you?’ the man in the white lab coat asks, walking behind the counter while looking at a smartly dressed Thomas smiling warmly.

  ‘Hi there. Are you the pharmacist?’

  ‘I am the pharmacist,’ the pharmacist says.

  ‘I’m doing some research,’ Thomas says.

  ‘Research?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. For a book.’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’m writing a book.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘Er, it’s about…time travel and…’

  ‘Time Travel?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. The main character has Typhoid Fever.’

  ‘Typhoid Fever. He needs to see a doctor.’

  ‘He’s in olden times, like 1905...’

  ‘1905?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘There was no treatment for Typhoid Fever in 1905.’

  ‘What did people do if they had it? In 1905, I mean.’

  ‘Prayed. Then mostly died.’

  ‘It’s a time travel book. He can travel to modern times and get medicine.’

  ‘He can’t travel anywhere. He’s got Typhoid Fever. He’s contagious.’

  ‘No, I mean…he can get modern medicine from here and…’

  ‘He’s got Typhoid. He can’t come here.’

  ‘No, I mean…to modern times and…’

  ‘He needs a doctor if he’s got Typhoid. I don’t want anyone with Typhoid coming here…’

  ‘No, Sir. What I mean is he can access modern medicine.’

  ‘He needs a prescription.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What for? You just said he has Typhoid Fever.’

  ‘No, I mean…’

  ‘Haven’t you got the internet?’

  ‘The internet? Shit…I forgot about the internet.’

  ‘You forgot about the internet and you’re writing a book?’

  ‘How did it go?’ Zara asks as Thomas comes out the pharmacy.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll need another chemist…’

&
nbsp; ‘Ceftria…Ceftro…’ Thomas says as the female pharmacist smiles at him, clearly taken with the nicely dressed charming writer enquiring about treatments for Typhoid Fever.

  ‘Ceftriaxone,’ she says.

  ‘Ceftriaxone,’ Thomas says.

  ‘Bingo, you got it,’ she beams.

  ‘Gee, thank you, Ma’am. I’ve been in a lot of pharmacists trying to work this one out. My computer broke you see, so I can’t get online…’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ she says.

  ‘How is it administered?’

  ‘Injection and then a seven-day course of tablets.’

  ‘Seven days? Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it. Just an antibiotic. Same with the plague. Medicine has come a long way since 1905…what’s your name?’

  ‘Thomas, Ma’am.’

  ‘Is that the name you write under?’

  ‘Oh, I see…er…Thomas Hardy.’

  ‘Thomas Hardy?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘That’s your pen name?’

  ‘It is, Ma’am…say, do you know what will help…if I could see what they look like, you know, so I get it right. Readers are quick to judge when you get a fact wrong.’

  ‘Sure. Ceftriaxone is used to treat bacterial infections…here we go…’ she says, walking back with two small boxes ‘This one is for injection, the other is tablets…HEY!’ she screams out when the man behind Thomas snatches the boxes from her hands and runs for the door.

  ‘STOP THIEF!’ Thomas yells, bravely running after the robber.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ the pharmacist says, shaking her head. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Awful,’ Zara says, stepping up to the counter. ‘Cheeky sod. Hope you catch him.’

  ‘Catch him? This is New York. We never catch anyone…not even worth calling the police. Damn thieves…damn stealing…what can I get for you?’

  ‘Oh, nicely done,’ Martha says with her hands on her hips while watching the screen. ‘Very good, very smooth…not seen it this good since Roshi.’

  ‘Bloody Roshi,’ Jacob mutters.

  ‘Okay,’ Zara says, hands on her hips in the dingy room. ‘We know what it is, we know how to treat it. All we’ve got to do is find the house, find Bernard Jefferson, get the medicine into him then get back here.’

  Bear and Thomas nod in agreement. Both dressed in period clothing of checked trousers, white shirts, waistcoats and dark suit jackets with bowler-style hats perched on their heads.

  Zara purses her lips, thinking hard and looking down at her baggy dark grey dress that just borders on the side of frilly. Figure hugging on her upper body and flaring out. A high collar and a bonnet held in place with a hatpin through her tight curls.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Great,’ Thomas says eagerly, earning a look from the other two before clearing his throat. ‘Er…you look er…periodic and er…’

  ‘Right, not awkward at all,’ she says. ‘Anyway, ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bear says, staring at the crimson blush spreading deeper through Thomas’s cheeks.

  They leave the room and walk up the alley onto Fifth Avenue to stare at the road packed full of yellow cabs, trucks, vans and people walking by gawping at their costumes.

  ‘Arse,’ Zara says, ‘didn’t change the date.’

  Back in the dingy room, Zara takes the notepad from the table and writes 1905 across the front, placing it down as all three feel the lurch inside that signals the world just changed.

  They go back out, into an alley markedly different from the one they saw before. Narrower and longer with the brickwork rougher and no plastic strewn on the ground. Smells hit them instantly. Animal dung, faeces, urine, body odour, coal and wood-smoke. Strong and pungent and that assault to their senses increases with each step they take towards Fifth Avenue.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ Zara whispers at the view opening out in front of them. ‘It’s real…it’s actually real…’

  ‘I remember that feeling,’ Martha says in the silence of the planning office where every person studies the expressions on the faces of the three perched on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue, New York City, 1905.

  A wide road flanked by grandiose high buildings with each seeming to make a statement of wealth and opulence. First story flat roofs jut out with balconied gardens overlooking a street full of awnings, vendors, workers and life.

  Horses everywhere. Drawing coaches and flatbed delivery carts. Huge docile beasts fitted with blinkers with reins held by weathered men wearing soft caps and dark jackets. The odd motor-vehicle here and there. Noisy and spewing foul fumes and still designed on the style of a horse-drawn carriages.

  To think of a time so long ago suggests a lesser populace of the planet where there is more space and less development, but what they see is a city bursting to life with human beings from every race, culture and creed flooding the streets to carve a new existence. This is the America of old. The land of hope and dreams. The arrival point of European vessels disgorging masses that run for the promised streets of gold only to find them covered in horseshit and riddled with the stench of a city too new to have sanitation.

  Disconcerting to say the least. Jarring. Upsetting. Confusing and weird but also it gives a buzz, a sensation of seeing something so wholly unique, even if it is a construct or part of a training package. It looks real. It is real. Down to the unique details. Down to the styles of clothing worn and the roaring hubbub of a packed, filthy, wealthy, dirt-poor city teeming with millions of people.

  They see wealth everywhere. In the gilt lined coaches drawn by gleaming horses handled by liveried men with stern expressions. On the dresses of the women walking in flowing gowns of sumptuous design with sunshades held perched on shoulders. They see it in the menfolk wearing tailored suits and big hats who walk with sticks, carving a path through the poor people dressed in rags. Starving and emaciated with grimy faces and hands so filthy they look scarred.

  A thing to see. A sight to behold.

  ‘We need to go,’ Zara says, striding as fast as before with the two men rushing to keep up.

  People start paying attention as they walk by and even the handlers on the coaches and carriages cast eyes in their direction.

  ‘Zara, slow down,’ Thomas urges.

  ‘Pardon?’ she asks, looking back at him.

  ‘Slow down,’ he says again. ‘People are looking at us.’

  ‘I can bloody see that,’ she snaps, glaring at a man walking by whose expression hardens on seeing the defiance in her face. ‘Problem?’ she snaps.

  ‘Talkin’ to me, nigger?’ he asks, spinning to face her.

  ‘What did you fucking say?’

  ‘Whoa,’ Bear steps in fast blocking the man walking at Zara. ‘Easy…’

  ‘Fuck off,’ the man says, trying to force past Bear. ‘Damn, uppity nigger…’

  ‘HOW DARE YOU,’ Zara shouts out.

  ‘Zara, stop it,’ Thomas urges.

  ‘Stop it? He called me a nigger! Racist prick…’

  ‘Fuckin’ nigger whore,’ the man growls, shoving a hand in his pocket.

  It happens fast. Faster than the eye can track. The man pulls the knife out as he lunges at Bear who blurs with motion, gripping the wrist that he turns and breaks while snatching the blade free from the man’s hand who suddenly finds his own knife held to his throat.

  ‘Walk on friend,’ Bear says quietly, looming over him. A second of eye contact and Bear pushes him away before stepping to Zara, taking her arm in his and walking on leaving a few people standing open-mouthed and stunned.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Martha whispers in the planning office.

  ‘We told you,’ Jacob says.

  ‘Did that just happen?’ Zara asks, trying to look back.

  ‘Yep, just keep going,’ Bear says.

  ‘He called me a nigger.’

  ‘Everyone was looking at us,’ Thomas says, falling into step on the other side of Zara. ‘You were striding out too fast.’

  ‘T
oo fast?’ she snaps.

  ‘Too fast for here,’ he says quickly. ‘We’ve got to blend in…’

  ‘He was a racist fucking prick…I can’t believe that just happened.’

  Zara glowers, seethes and clenches her jaw with righteous rage. The words he used were one thing but the hatred in his eyes was something else, and the speed in which he pulled a knife too. The fear starts to hit. The shock of it and suddenly the gleam vanishes and what she sees are dirty streets and dirty people almost feral in nature with generational evolution separating whoever she is from whatever they are. She moves closer to Bear, clinging to his arm as Thomas quietly steps in to flank her other side as they move on through a world that was never their own.

  They find the houses they need in a row that will be one day be demolished to make way for grand skyscrapers feeding the demand for expensive residences. A slight transition from bustling city to a quieter street that feels strange until they see the paper signs pinned to doors.

  WARNING. TYPHOID FEVER

  ‘How do you catch it?’ Bear asks.

  ‘Bad water,’ Thomas says. ‘People not washing their hands after having a shit, sneezing, coughing…it’s bacteria in human fluids.’

  ‘Are we at risk?’ Bear asks, suddenly thinking it might be part of the test, and then also thinking that the guy with the knife was part of the test, and that everything they do is part of the test.

  ‘I don’t know, dude, I guess don’t touch your nose, mouth or eyes with your hands?’

  ‘There’s the house,’ Zara says, pointing across the street to a gorgeously built Georgian town house of red brick with a high arched gloss black front door. ‘Sign’s there,’ she adds. Noticing the warning label pinned to the door.

  ‘Explains why it’s so quiet here,’ Thomas says, looking about the deserted street.

  ‘Right, let’s get it done,’ Zara says. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yep, guess so,’ he takes the lead, walking out across the empty road to climb the short flight of stone steps up to the gloss black front door to grip the heavy solid brass knocker that thumps down, seemingly echoing a boom throughout the house.

  Footsteps are heard. Locks are pulled back and the door opens to a tall woman with dark hair staring out. Stern and imposing. A white apron tied about her waist and her sleeves tugged up to show bare hands and arms dotted with flour that she wipes on a filthy rag. ‘Got the fever here so we have,’ she says without preamble in a strong Belfast accent.