Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  He blinked again and, with a slight lurch, found himself standing beside James Cardwell, one of the porters at the station.

  ‘Deacon wants you in his office,’ Cardwell said, and bit into an apple.

  ‘Tell him it’ll have to wait,’ Stephen replied.

  He turned away and tore down the platform towards the signal box once more. On this occasion nobody followed.

  Stephen maintained his pace, ignoring the stitch in his side and pushing himself even harder than before. On rounding the embankment, he found the track up ahead empty, a few puffs of steam visible around the bend the only sign of the impending disaster. Without slowing, he bounded down the embankment and then up the stairs to the signal box.

  On bursting through the door, he discovered Potts asleep in his chair, the man’s chin on his chest and a near-empty bottle of whisky in his hand.

  ‘Wake up, you drunken fool!’

  Potts stirred, peering at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘Rutherford? What the bloody hell do you want?’

  Through the window of the cabin, Stephen glimpsed the engine of the freight train appear around the bend. ‘That train!’ he roared. ‘You need to divert it before the Wakefield express arrives!’

  Potts glared and heaved himself up. ‘You might have my uncle wrapped around yer little finger, Rutherford, but don’t think for a minute you can take that tone with me!’

  ‘Just do your damn job and divert the train!’

  ‘Gerrout!’ Potts yelled, staggering slightly.

  By now all twelve cars of the freight train had pulled into view. With a hiss of braking pistons, it slowed before coming to a stop outside the signal box. In the distance, puffs of steam from the advancing Wakefield express rose ominously from behind the hill

  ‘Out of my way!’ Stephen demanded, realising his only hope rested in diverting the second train instead.

  As he stepped towards the lever frame beneath the window, Potts moved to block him, whisky sloshing from the neck of his bottle. There was no time to argue about it. Stephen clenched his fist and landed a firm blow on Potts’s chin. The signalman’s head snapped to one side, the bottle slipping from his hand as he crashed to the floor in an inelegant heap.

  Stephen stepped over him. The machine consisted of approximately thirty interlocking levers that needed to be applied in specific combinations to control the various signals and points along the approach to Upper Blinkhorn. Although he had been given a rudimentary demonstration on his promotion to assistant stationmaster two years ago, for the life of him he could not remember which lever controlled the points for the siding.

  The Wakefield train suddenly appeared around the bend, sunlight reflecting off its chimney. There were less than two hundred yards of track separating its front buffers from the last car of the stationary freight train, and that was closing fast.

  Stephen let out a silent gasp and began haphazardly pulling levers.

  One hundred yards…

  A whistle sounded from the Wakefield express, followed by another screech of braking pistons as the driver realised too late what was about to happen. Stephen kept tugging levers, hoping to somehow stumble upon the correct combination.

  Fifty yards…

  The train began to decelerate, not enough to avert the collision but enough to buy him a precious second or two. He pulled another lever, then released it and tried another. There seemed something familiar about the configuration in front of him, but he couldn’t be certain. Perhaps it was the lever to his left?

  The fate of the train and all onboard rested in the decision he was about to take. There was no time to think, just to act, one way or the other, for better or worse. He reached for the first lever, ready to return it to the vertical position, when suddenly the engine of the Wakefield train veered to the right. It continued to brake, its carriages following until they came to a rest on the tracks of the siding, side by side with the stationary freight train on the main line.

  Stephen let out a breath and stumbled backwards, his hand over his chest. His heel caught on Potts’s outstretched leg, and he was sent tumbling onto his backside beside the unconscious man. He dragged himself to his feet again, lurched to the door and, gripping the handrail, staggered down the stairs. In the distance he could see several of his colleagues approaching from the station, Deacon close to the back.

  ‘What the devil are you playing at?’ the driver of the freight train shouted as he descended the rungs of the engine.

  Stephen ignored him, circled around the signal box and, closing his eyes, slumped in the same position as before. He had done it, but a second later and he would have released the lever controlling the points for the siding, thereby condemning those onboard to death.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  Stephen opened his eyes, and found that he was back in the signal box. Deacon was in one of the chairs and Potts in the other, his nose bloody and a bruise that would soon deepen to a black eye smouldering on the side of his face.

  ‘Ah,’ Stephen said, ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Grand.’ Deacon lifted his pipe, placed it between his teeth and leaned back with his hands over his belly. ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  ‘He was drinking on the job, Phil,’ Stephen said, glancing about for the incriminating bottle, which had inconveniently disappeared. ‘I had to do something otherwise there would have been a collision.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Potts stated, sounding as though the blow to the head had sobered him up somewhat.

  ‘Then why wasn’t the freight train shunted to siding as it should have been? Answer me that!’

  ‘Because you stormed in and attacked me before I could do it. There nearly was a collision, Uncle Phillip. Honestly, it’s a miracle I was able to push him off and switch the tracks in time.’

  Stephen stared at the man, struggling against the urge to pick up where they had left off.

  ‘Besides,’ Potts went on with a shrug, ‘how could he possibly have known there’d be a collision? It doesn’t make any sense, at least not to me.’

  ‘Well?’ Deacon asked, arching his eyebrows at Stephen.

  ‘Call it a sixth sense.’

  Potts chuckled and shook his head. ‘See, his mind’s completely addled! Away with the fairies, by my reckoning.’

  ‘Thank you, Andrew,’ Deacon said. ‘That’ll be all.’

  Potts rose from his seat, smirking as he barged past Stephen on his way out.

  ‘This is most disappointing, lad,’ Deacon said. ‘I had such high hopes for you.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth,’ Stephen protested. ‘Come on, Phil, you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Aye, that I do. But all the same, it’s hard to fault in his reasoning. A sixth sense? What are you saying, lad, that you read it in the tea leaves?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Stephen said, for want of anything better. ‘Now and then I get a feeling just before something bad is about to happen and…and…’

  ‘You’re putting me in one heck of a position here. Leaving your post without permission, then striking a workmate? And now all this sixth sense mumbo-jumbo?’ He let out a sigh, stood and hiked his trousers up. ‘It pains me to say this, but I’m going to have to ask you to take the rest of the day off while I consider your future.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’ll be all.’

  Stephen turned to leave, hanging his head at the memory of his fleeting pride upon being offered the stationmaster’s job. His disappointment was short-lived, however; on opening the signal box door he saw a crowd of disgruntled passengers gathered on the field of wildflowers. He approached, recognising several familiar faces, at least one of whom he had clambered over in the burning carriage.

  ‘…an absolute bloody disgrace,’ one man said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said another. ‘My boss is going to have my guts when I show up late again.’

  Stephen allowed himself a smile. It may yet cost him his job, but the opportunity to do God’s w
ork had at long last presented itself and he had not let it slip by.

  There was a sudden gust of wind and a woman’s cloche hat blew against the toes of his boots. He stooped to retrieve it, straightened up and found himself face to face with a beautiful young woman. She had a fringe of soft brown curls and a gold locket around her neck. He stared at her, momentarily lost for words.

  ‘I think that’s mine,’ she said, nodding towards the hat.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and handed it back.

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman pulled the hat over her curls and looked up again, smiling. ‘You know, you look awfully familiar. Have we met?’

  Stephen remembered the sight of a splinter of wood protruding from her stomach and shook his head to dispel it. ‘Not that I recall,’ he said. ‘I’m Stephen Rutherford.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ she said. ‘I’m Nell.’

  2

  Present Day

  The time following Sam’s arrest passed in a dreamlike daze, although what took place felt more like the stuff of nightmares. After being escorted into the back of a waiting police car with his family staring on in disbelief, he was driven to New Scotland Yard. Once his fingerprints and mugshot had been taken and his personal possessions removed (including his belt and the laces from his shoes), he was led to a cell and left to stew in his own juices for several hours. Then, about twenty minutes ago, a pair of uniformed officers had arrived to take him to a narrow room where he was made to line up alongside six other boys, all roughly his age and with a similar build and hair colour to his own. They’d stood there facing a mirrored window, each holding a numbered card and nobody saying a word until Hinds had eventually opened the door. She’d shown the others out and then led him to a dingy interview room where his sister was sitting on one of the chairs around the table. The clock on the wall said it was almost four in the morning.

  Chrissie half-stood as they entered, then faltered and sat back down. Sam rushed over and threw his arms around her, blubbing into the collar of her coat. Hinds stood watching them for a moment, then shook her head and closed the door, leaving them alone.

  ‘You didn’t do what they’re saying, did you?’ Chrissie asked, pushing Sam back and holding him at arm’s length. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her fingernails were chewed down to stumps.

  ‘Chrissie, how can you even think that?’

  ‘Sorry. I know you’d never hurt anyone, it’s just…’ She looked down, pinched the bridge of nose and then looked back up. ‘I know there has to be a reasonable explanation for all this, I just don’t get why the police would think you’ve got anything to do with that poor man’s death. But whatever happened, we’ll get through it together. As a family. Like we always do.’

  Sam sat beside her and let out a sob, tears blurring his vision. Reasonable explanations were in alarmingly short supply. He’d been at the crime scene. He’d called an ambulance on Fairview’s house phone. In fact, he’d even touched the dead body when checking for a pulse. Given the remarkably thorough job he’d done of implicating himself, the police had every reason to suspect he was involved. The worst part was Sam only had himself to blame. He had been so blinded by the prospect of getting what he wanted that he’d allowed himself to think Fairview’s death was the result of natural causes. And with the bottle of Tetradyamide in his possession for over a week (more than enough time to go back and change what had happened), he’d instead used it for his own selfish purposes. Had the events of December changed him so much that he was willing to put his desires above the life of an innocent man? And, if so, what kind of person did that make him?

  There was a rattle of keys on the other side of the thick metal door, followed by the clunk of a lock sliding back. He looked up to see a man wearing a crumpled suit and a green tie stained with what looked suspiciously like tomato ketchup enter the room.

  ‘Good evening,’ the man said, and adjusted his comb-over. ‘I’m Gordon Levine, the criminal defence lawyer assigned to your case.’ He joined them at the table, opened his briefcase and pulled out a handheld tape recorder, which he placed between them. ‘Excuse the outdated technology, but I’ve been using a Dictaphone for over twenty years and if it ain’t broke. Anyway, Mr Rayner. Sam. You don’t mind if I call you Sam, do you?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ Sam said and sniffed.

  ‘Good.’ Levine tweaked the knot of his tie and forced an awkward smile. ‘At the moment, Sam, things don’t look very promising. From what I can tell the police have the foundations of a strong case against you.’

  ‘But he didn’t do it,’ Chrissie said.

  The lawyer gave another smile that was even more awkward than the first. ‘And rest assured I’ll do everything in my power to help your brother, Miss Rayner. What I need from you, Sam, is to tell me exactly what happened last Thursday, starting at the very beginning.’

  Sam shifted his weight in his chair and glanced at Chrissie. He really didn’t know where to start, or how much he should say.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered, reaching over to take his hand. ‘Whatever happened last week, now’s your chance to explain.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, I was there but, like my sister told you, I didn’t do it. Until this evening I didn’t even realise anything had been done. When I found Malcolm Fairview he was already dead. I thought it must be a heart attack or something, so I called an ambulance from his house phone.’

  ‘And then left the scene, correct?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Very well,’ Levine said. ‘And what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Mr Fairview?’

  ‘I—’ Sam stopped and looked down at his hands. What was he supposed to say, that he’d met Malcolm Fairview in an alternative reality that no longer existed? His lawyer would think he was a raving lunatic.

  Levine cleared his throat. ‘Sam, I really cannot overstate the seriousness of your predicament. The police have placed you at the scene of the crime beyond reasonable doubt. You yourself freely admit you were there. Unless you can explain what you were doing there and why you left before the ambulance arrived, there really is very little I can do to prevent you being charged with Mr Fairview’s murder.’

  Sam bit his lip and wrung his hands. In this timeline there was absolutely nothing linking him to the Tempus Project or the dead scientist. He was, to all extents and purposes, a stranger who had blundered into a crime scene, left incriminating evidence all over the place and then walked out again.

  Levine switched the Dictaphone off and returned it to his briefcase. ‘Very well,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘I can see we’re not getting anywhere here. I’m on your side, Sam, but unless you can give me a reasonable explanation for what you were doing at the crime scene, I’m afraid that there’s not a lot I can do. The arresting officers will be here to interview you shortly. I suggest you take the time available to think things over.’

  3

  Sam watched his defence lawyer bang twice on the door and step out the moment it was opened. Once they were alone again, he turned to face his sister. Chrissie stared at him for a long, agonising moment before raising a shaking hand to her forehead.

  ‘God, Sam, what have you got yourself into?’

  ‘Nothing good,’ he said.

  ‘Then tell me! Please, I want to believe you had nothing to do with this but I’m struggling to make sense of anything that’s going on.’

  He met her gaze, his jaw clenched. ‘All right,’ he said eventually, ‘but I need you to promise to hear me out before you say anything. Can you do that?’

  She folded her arms and gave him a light-lipped nod.

  ‘Okay, here goes then,’ he said, and exhaled a loud breath. ‘The reason I stopped taking my epilepsy medication is that I don’t have epilepsy.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You agreed to hear me out, didn’t you?’

  ‘Fine, go on then.’

  ‘Okay, so…I suppose it all started at the
end of last year when I came out of my coma. The brain injury did something weird to me, something that messed up the way I process time. My fits are actually these episodes where I come round in a different time and place, often several hours in the past or future.’

  ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’

  ‘I know how it sounds, Chrissie, but it’s the truth. That’s what happened the other day when I collapsed at college. Remember the family meeting we had about Dad’s life insurance?’

  ‘It’s kind of hard to forget.’

  ‘That was me from earlier that morning. It was how I knew about the letter from Imperial Insurance before it was even delivered.’

  She pressed her fist to her mouth and puffed her cheeks out. ‘I remember now,’ she said, ‘just before the postman arrived…’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But that’s not possible. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘I’d probably say the same if I were in your shoes, but if you want to help me then you’re going to reconsider what you think is and isn’t possible.’

  Chrissie frowned in a way that did little to fill him with confidence, but didn’t otherwise object.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘during the seizure I had at Dad’s funeral, I suddenly found myself back home, later that evening. We were all watching telly and there was this news report about the Thames House bombing. They showed CCTV footage of Esteban Haufner. I recognised him from the day of the plane crash, and when I came round again I rang Sergeant Hinds – or Inspector, as she was then – and told her what was about to happen.’

  ‘You mean that woman who arrested you?’

  ‘I know. What are the chances, right?’ Sam said, wondering if Hinds wasn’t somehow stalking him across multiple timelines. ‘But what I’m trying to tell you is that the police managed to stop Haufner before he could set off the bomb. I prevented the Thames House bombing, Chrissie.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, Sam. The bomb did go off. Loads of people were killed, and the police are still searching for Haufner.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he said. ‘And I’m coming to that. But what happened next is that I created a separate timeline, one in which I’d prevented the Thames House bombing from happening. In that timeline I was recruited to a secret organisation called the Tempus Project who were researching people with time-travelling capabilities. They told me I’d become a government asset, a sort of early-warning system to help prevent anything like the Thames House bombing from happening again, and I spent pretty much the whole of December training at their research facility, which is how I ended up meeting Malcolm Fairview.’