Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  He stopped and stared, awestruck. It was the sort of place he imagined was used to shoot adverts for sports cars, or aftershave or expensive wristwatches, the sort of purchases that were as much lifestyle statements as functional items.

  On the other side of the pool was a wide balcony, where a table stood in the shade of an awning. Claybourne strode over to it, her long braids swinging behind her back.

  ‘Okay,’ Sam said, jogging to catch up. ‘You did just say that Humboldt left me the island in his will, didn’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You mean this place is mine? As in, I own it?’

  ‘And everything in it.’ She took a chair at the table and fanned herself with her hand. ‘Apart from the funds earmarked for medical research, Mr Humboldt left you, his sole living relative, everything he owned. In addition to his business empire, he bequeathed you an estate of approximately two dozen properties scattered across the globe, including Swordfish Island, several hotels and the house in Wales you just mentioned.’

  Even though he’d only been in the sun a few minutes, Sam was beginning to feel light-headed and flopped into the chair beside her. It appeared as though Humboldt had been telling the truth about his terminal brain tumour, which probably meant he’d also been telling the truth about saving Sam’s dad, and in spite of the old man’s reputation, Sam felt a pang of sadness at the passing of his first cousin twice removed.

  Carrying a pitcher of iced tea, a sweltering-looking man in a full butler’s uniform (coattails, white gloves and all) emerged from a door in the wall of glass where the mansion met the balcony. He filled a tall glass, ice cubes clunking as he poured, then passed it to Claybourne and filled another.

  ‘Iced tea, sir?’ he asked, passing the second glass to Sam.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sam said, and took a long swig, savouring the sensation of cold liquid sliding down his throat. Although it sounded strange to be addressed as ‘sir’, he supposed that, if he owned the island and everything in it, he was technically the man’s boss.

  ‘So I take it Mr Humboldt’s treatment didn’t work then,’ he said, turning to Claybourne.

  She shook her head and linked her hands in her lap. ‘He died March twenty-seventh, I’m sorry to say. The last few days of his life were spent in excruciating agony, but he declined the morphine I offered him, saying he wanted to stay lucid to the very end. A brave decision, but not one I would have taken myself.’

  Sam took another swig of iced tea. Tempting as it was to stay in this future timeline a little longer, he already had the information he needed. The first of Humboldt’s treatments had failed, and the sooner he relayed the news back, the sooner they could get on with the process of saving his dad.

  ‘I should be going,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Dr Claybourne.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Sam-Rayner-from-January. I’m only doing my job, and one I’m paid very well for at that.’ She displayed her dazzling smile again and raised her glass in a toast. ‘Until we meet again. Or, since we’re already acquainted, maybe that should be until we meet for the first time. I don’t know, what do you think?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Sam said. He clinked his glass against hers and silently mouthed the word, ‘Now.’

  The scene before him froze and then rippled backwards, gathering pace until all he could make out were the flashes of light that signalled the passing days. Once again he counted them off, and around about the two hundred mark the turning of the pages began to slow until he could make out the dining room of the house in Wales, with Humboldt watching him from the opposite end of the table.

  He blinked and then shivered as the temperature plummeted.

  ‘Welcome back!’ Humboldt said. ‘What news from August?’

  ‘I met Dr Claybourne like you asked,’ Sam told him.

  ‘Enchanting, isn’t she? And what did you think of Swordfish Island?’

  ‘Very nice. I like the mural in the swimming pool.’ Sam shifted his weight in his chair as he pondered the best way to break the bad news. ‘The first treatment didn’t work,’ he said, deciding there was no best way. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Humboldt, but you’re going to die on 27th March.’

  Humboldt stared back with cold, flat eyes, his lips curled into a grimace. ‘That so?’ he said, and let out a sigh. ‘Well, I guess it was too much to hope for that we’d strike it lucky on our first attempt.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Sebastian chimed in, ‘we chalk off one line of enquiry and move on to the next. Option A has failed, so we move on to Option B. Are you ready to try again, Sam?’

  Much as Sam would have liked a few minutes' rest, it wasn’t going to bring his dad back, so he nodded and closed his eyes, concentrating on his destination again: noon, the first day of August.

  This time he didn’t bother counting off the days as he traversed the months separating him from that date, but waited patiently until the turning of the pages slowed and he was once again presented with the image of a white-sanded beach leading down to the pristine ocean surrounding Swordfish Island. Everything was exactly the same as before, right down to the palm leaves at the edge of his view.

  He blinked and the temperature soared to what felt like somewhere in the low thirties.

  ‘Well now, by my watch it’s just gone midday, the time of our—’

  ‘Yeah yeah, I know,’ he said, turning to the sun lounger beside him, ‘the time of our so-called meeting. And yes, my alter-ego has arrived already.’

  Claybourne pushed her shades to the top of her head. ‘What, you mean it actually worked?’

  ‘Yep, a few minutes ago I was sitting at a table in Humboldt’s house in Wales. It’s much nicer here, etcetera, etcetera.’

  She laughed and banged her fist against her lounger, then stood and slid her feet into her flip-flops. ‘Sorry, but I was rather expecting the whole thing to fail miserably. Since it hasn’t, I suppose I should introduce myself. Dr Clarrisa Claybourne, at your service.’

  ‘Sam-Rayner-from-January,’ he said, standing too. ‘Believe it or not, Dr Claybourne, we’ve actually done this before. Next you’re going to tell me we’re on Swordfish Island, part of the estate Mr Humboldt left me in his will, and then you’re going to suggest we get out of the sun so you can explain. I like iced tea as much as the next person, but I think I’d rather just cut to the chase. Mr Humboldt died on 27th March in excruciating agony after declining the morphine you offered him. That about right?’

  Claybourne gulped and shook her head. ‘Almost. He died March nineteenth.’

  ‘The nineteenth?’ Sam said. ‘Are you sure? That’s over a week earlier.’

  ‘I was Mr Humboldt’s private physician,’ she said, a touch defensively. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget when he died. You are right about declining morphine, though.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam spotted a small green lizard with blue stripes scurry across the first of the stone steps leading up to the swimming pool and mansion. Everything else about this reality seemed the same, and he was certain he hadn’t misheard Claybourne the first time they’d met. Only one thing that made sense: Option B had been even less successful than Option A, shortening Humboldt’s life by a full eight days.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Dr Claybourne.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Sam-Rayner-from-January. I’m only doing my job, and one I’m paid very well for at that.’ She smiled and dipped her head. ‘Until we meet again. Or, since we’re already acquainted, maybe that should be until we meet for the first time. I don’t know, what do you think?’

  ‘Still haven’t a clue,’ Sam said, ‘but since I’ve got a feeling we’ll be doing this again in a minute, I’ll try to think of a better answer for next time. See you soon.’ He closed his eyes and mouthed the word, ‘Now.’

  The scene froze, framing Claybourne’s perplexed face, and then shot backwards. Sam watched the days and nights whizz by before his eyes. The sensation was beginning to give him motion sickness, and he wondered ho
w much more he could take before he could no longer go on. It was therefore something of a relief when the pages finally slowed and he found himself sitting across the dining table from Humboldt again.

  He blinked and the scene shuddered into life. Donna’s seat was empty and, glancing down, he saw that his empty plate had been cleared away.

  ‘So,’ Humboldt said, watching him expectantly, ‘Option B then. How’d that work out?’

  ‘Not well,’ Sam told him. ‘This time you die on 19th March.’

  Humboldt scrunched his napkin into a ball and flung it onto the table. ‘Even earlier than before? Oh well, I never expected this to be easy. Onto Option C, I guess.’

  ‘Right,’ Sam said, massaging his eyes. ‘I’ll do my best, but all this backwards and forwards takes it out of me after a while. How many potential treatments did you say there were?’

  ‘Seventeen in total,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Seventeen!’

  Humboldt chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Sam. Let’s give it one more try. If it doesn’t work, we can call it a night and try again in the morning. What do you say, maybe third time’s the charm?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sam said without holding much hope.

  He closed his eyes and focused on the date of the meeting once more. As the intervening months flashed by a day at a time, he wondered what would happen when all seventeen treatments ran out. Obviously he would never get his dad back, but would Humboldt still write Sam into his will?

  As the pages finally began to slow, the scene changed, the beach and ocean replaced by the view of a large mahogany desk. Sam blinked and felt a cool gust of air-conditioning against his skin. He was in what appeared to be a home office, with soft classical music playing in the background. On the other side of the desk, Michael Humboldt was sitting in a high-backed, almost throne-like chair beneath a portrait of himself on horseback.

  ‘Welcome, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  12

  ‘You’re alive,’ Sam said, immediately realising this was somewhat stating the obvious.

  ‘Yes, thanks to you.’ Humboldt leaned back in his oversized chair and spread his hands, one real and the other artificial. The signs of approaching death had been erased from his body in the space of what felt like just a few minutes; a powerful reminder that it was, in fact, more than half a year since Sam had laid eyes on the man. Gone were the frail, huddled posture, the shadows beneath the eyes and the pale, withered skin. In their place Humboldt now sported a deep tan and, truth be told, could have done with shedding a few pounds.

  ‘So the treatment worked then?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Third time lucky, didn’t I say something like that?’

  ‘I think it was third time’s the charm.’

  ‘Ah, that it was!’ Humboldt pointed his left index finger at Sam like a gun and fired off an imaginary round. ‘Option C, a breakthrough new tumour-shrinking drug, turned out to be more effective than Sebastian or any of his team had envisaged, reducing my tumour to an operable size after only a few weeks’ use. I had the tumour removed in April, and Dr Claybourne assures me the surgery couldn’t have gone better.’

  ‘That’s…great.’

  ‘Of course, I’m not out of the woods yet. There’re biopsies every other week, but I’ve been in remission for over three months now. And the icing on the cake is I also own the patent on a new drug that could potentially save thousands of lives every year while earning me a tidy income in the process. Not bad for a night’s work!’

  ‘What about my dad?’

  ‘Straight to the point as ever, Sam.’ Humboldt laughed and rose nimbly from his chair. ‘Follow me, I have something to show you.’

  Hardly placing any weight on his walking stick, he led Sam out of the office and down a long, whitewashed corridor with terracotta floor tiles. More portraits hung along the walls, depicting Humboldt in a variety of improbable poses, such as fly-fishing, at the seat of a concert piano and planting a flag at the peak of a mountain. His appearance had been touched up to varying degrees, with a chiselled jaw line and an athletic physique that he probably hadn’t possessed even as a young man. Without exception, his scars and disabilities had been completely overlooked.

  ‘Where are we?’ Sam asked as they reached the bottom of a spiral staircase.

  ‘My place on Swordfish Island,’ Humboldt said, taking the stairs like a man half his age. ‘It’s pretty much our permanent residence these days. Your room’s this way.’

  ‘My room?’

  ‘You’ve lived here with me since the end of January.’ Humboldt stepped out onto the second-floor landing. ‘With Tetradyamide in full-scale production and you by my side, Sam, the last few months have been by far and away the most productive of my career.’

  He opened a rustic-looking door onto a large room with a king-size bed on one side. Sam stepped through and glanced about. At the far end a set of sliding doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the ocean. Mounted on the near wall was a huge telly with an array of top-of-the-range gaming hardware that would have made Lewis weep with jealousy. There were also a surfboard and a wakeboard leaning in one corner and, through the door to the en suite bathroom, the curve of an enormous Jacuzzi bathtub.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Sam said, turning back. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  From his position by the door, Humboldt raised his walking stick and directed the tip at the bedside table, where a picture frame was positioned facing the other way.

  Frowning, Sam walked over and picked it up. The photo behind the glass showed Chrissie and Lance outside a church with confetti scattered around their feet. Chrissie was wearing a strapless wedding gown and Lance a grey morning suit with a white carnation in the lapel. Although Sam had no memory of any such event, he was standing to the left of the photo next to his grandparents. On the right side of the shot were his mum, a baby cradled in her arms, and his dad, grinning like an idiot and very much alive.

  13

  Sam spun around, the picture frame gripped in both hands. ‘When was this taken?’

  ‘Last month at your sister and Lance Asquith’s wedding,’ Humboldt replied. ‘Unfortunately I couldn’t make it myself. The baby your mother is holding is their son. From what I understand, the three of them are currently enjoying an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Barbados. A most generous wedding gift on your part, I must say.’

  ‘But my dad,’ Sam said. ‘He’s standing right there.’

  Humboldt drew his shoulders back and chuckled. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, remember that?’

  ‘You mean he’s alive?’

  ‘Of course. In this timeline Esteban Haufner was apprehended the day before Flight 0368, meaning the crash never took place.’

  ‘So the Thames House bombing…’

  ‘Likewise never happened.’

  Sam glanced down at the photo, his eyes welling with tears. Apart from finding Eva again, this was everything he could have wished for. ‘I want to see him,’ he said, looking back up. ‘I want to see my dad.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Humboldt said. ‘All that’s required is for you to return to January, keep your end of our bargain and this is the future that awaits you.’

  Sam’s hands had begun to tremble. ‘Okay,’ he said, returning the picture frame to the bedside table. ‘Thank you, Mr Humboldt. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

  Humboldt crossed the room and rested his left hand (the real one) on Sam’s shoulder. ‘I think saving my life is repayment enough. It’s what we agreed on, Sam, and my word is my bond. And we’re family, right? You can call me Michael, if you like. Or…how about Uncle Michael?’

  Sam nodded and sniffed. ‘Okay, Uncle Michael. See you back in January,’ he said, and closed his eyes, mouthing the word, ‘Now.’

  The scene before him froze, then shot backwards. He briefly saw himself looking down on the photo of Chrissie’s wedding again before everything became a blur, leaving only the flashing strobe eff
ect that signified the passing days and nights.

  Eventually the turning of the pages slowed and he found himself sitting across from Humboldt at the dining table in the house in south Wales once again. The man’s sickly complexion had returned, supplanting his previous healthy tan.

  Sam blinked and the scene gained motion. On the table before him was a bowl of ice cream.

  ‘When do I cash in my chips this time around?’ Humboldt asked, eyeing him cautiously.

  ‘You don’t,’ Sam said. ‘You were alive in September. Or at least, you will be. I saw you with my own eyes.’

  ‘Option C worked then?’

  ‘Apparently you have the tumour surgically removed in April. We were on Swordfish Island together. You said I’d been living there and working with you. You even asked me to call you “Uncle Michael”.’

  Humboldt grinned. ‘That’s got kind of a ring to it, you know. I’ve never been an uncle before. Donna, fetch a bottle of champagne, would you? This calls for a celebration!’

  ‘Yessir,’ she said, and retreated to the kitchen.

  Sam spooned chocolate ice cream into his mouth. After everything he’d been through he was finally within touching distance of putting things right.

  ‘I’ve kept my end of the bargain,’ he said after a moment. ‘Now it’s your turn, Uncle Michael. What about my dad?’

  ‘All in good time,’ Humboldt said. ‘Remember, I’ll only be able to save your father once my tumour is removed and my ability to travel through time returns. First we need to contact my research team and instruct them to drop everything and focus on fast-tracking Option C. Sebastian?’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ the little man said. He dabbed his moustache with his napkin, pushed his chair back and headed out into the hall just as Donna bustled in through the other door with a bottle of champagne.