It was a face that, until a few weeks ago, George had believed he would never see again. His pulse quickened as he raised the radio to his lips and uttered the words: ‘Target is green. Engage.’
Four shots rang out, deafening in the enclosed space, and a crimson spray fanned up from the side of the man’s head, settling over the back of the truck.
George was first out of the surveillance van. He reached the truck at a sprint and threw open the rear doors. Eight plastic barrels stood before him, each wired to a central detonating device. As the bomb disposal team arrived, he stepped away and slumped against the bumper next to the bullet-riddled body of Esteban Haufner, the only person he had ever truly considered a friend.
An hour later, George had found himself seated before the Director General. Once the customary handshakes and slapped backs were out of the way, the Director passed him a sealed envelope and said, ‘I have an interesting opportunity for you, my lad. Dr McHayden has asked for you in person.’
The existence of Lara McHayden’s research was a badly kept secret within the service. The Tempus Project was funded in part by government research grants and in part by private backers, and as such could operate as an independent enterprise with no official ties to the government. George’s achievements would remain out of the public eye, but the potential for career advancement made the offer too good to refuse and he accepted on the spot.
‘Tell me, George,’ the old lady had said as he drove her to Sam Rayner’s doorstep later that evening, ‘what are your views on the subject of time travel?’
George paused for a moment, unsure if this wasn’t a test of some kind. ‘Not a thing I’ve given much thought to, ma’am. However, after what happened today, I’m prepared to keep an open mind on most subjects.’
‘Good,’ she said, gazing out of the window. ‘I suspect you’ll need it.’
* * * * *
George had been sceptical of the boy’s alleged capabilities – like any rational-minded person would be, of course – but then he’d seen Rayner on the random chance generator and been forced to stretch the boundaries of what he thought was possible. If George had previously hoped that his skills and past achievements were the main reasons behind McHayden’s job offer, he now began to suspect that his prior association with Sam Rayner was a more significant factor.
Now that the boy’s ability was scientifically verified, the Tempus Project’s activities had been rapidly intensified as years of careful planning and preparation came to fruition. George estimated that he’d managed a total of five hours sleep in a three-day period. Tiredness was catching up with all involved and the first hairline cracks had appeared in McHayden’s otherwise calm demeanour. On one occasion she’d lost her temper with a technician at the research facility when an ape had died during surgery, resulting in a very public outburst. Next week she intended to utilise the boy in a live assignment and, given his value, had instructed George to keep a close eye on him. Such donkeywork was a misuse of George’s talents, and was most definitely not what he’d signed up for, but when he protested the old lady had shouted him down, insisting there could be no mistakes and that he do the job himself.
So here he now was, sat in a company car as snow settled all around, struggling to keep sleep at bay as he watched Rayner’s house. After finishing the last bite of his sandwich, George swept the crumbs into an empty paper bag and then folded the plastic wrapper until it formed a neat equilateral triangle with sharp corners and straight edges. He stared down at the notepad on which he’d been logging the day’s comings and goings. The boy’s grandparents, Maureen and Alfred Rayner, had departed the house at 10:36 that morning (to attend a hospital appointment, the phone taps had revealed) and were not due back until later that afternoon, which left Rayner himself, his sister Christina and Lance Asquith, until the boy’s friend, Lewis Fisher, had arrived at 11:24, and, more recently, Eva Bernstein at 12:17.
George picked up his camera and zoomed in on the house. The curtains in the attic room remained drawn, as they had been all morning, but he could detect intermittent movement behind the windows on the first and ground floors.
All of a sudden the front door flew open and several people rushed out, skidding over the icy path. George pressed the shutter release as the group piled into the back of Asquith’s dilapidated 1992 Volvo. A cloud of thick, black smoke belched from the exhaust. The car swerved from the curb, the engine rattling loudly, and took off, turning left at the end of the road without indicating.
Shaking his head at such flagrant disregard of the Highway Code, George took out his phone and checked the location of the GPS tracker he’d attached under the Volvo’s rear wheel arch. A small, pulsating red dot was working its way across the map in a south-westerly direction.
He scanned back through the photographs he’d just captured. Five people had entered the car: Lewis Fisher, Eva Bernstein, Lance Asquith, Christina Rayner and Sam Rayner. The house was now empty: this was the chance he had been waiting for.
George stepped out onto the pavement, pulled on his leather gloves and removed a small canvas bag from the boot of the car. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he crossed the road and made his way up the path. Kneeling at the door, he withdrew a lock pick from the bag.
In less than ten seconds he was inside and wiping his feet on the mat. The house looked exactly as he remembered from a few weeks earlier, with the addition of a line of Christmas cards stuck to the banisters in the hall. He decided to work his way top-down, so climbed the stairs.
The attic room was in disarray. Dirty clothes lay discarded across the floor. The walls were plastered with posters, many curled with age. George detected a lingering stench of burned incense that reminded him of his flatmate’s room at university. Holding his nose and trying to push the unpleasant memory aside, he strode over to the unmade bed. A silver picture frame comprised of entwined skeletons sat on the bedside table. He picked it up and examined it. The photograph showed Lance Asquith and Christina Rayner on a beach, their arms around each other’s waists. Apart from a bad case of sunburn, Asquith looked much the same, but Christina’s appearance differed drastically to recent surveillance footage, with dyed hair, heavy black eye shadow and piercings in her nose, lip and eyebrow. George turned the frame over, undid the clasps and removed the back panel. He then took a listening device from a zip-lock plastic wallet in his bag, secreted it behind the photograph where the bump would remain hidden by the edge of the frame, reattached the back panel and returned it to the bedside table in the exact position in which he’d found it. Next he crossed the room to a lacquered wardrobe in the corner. Standing on tiptoes, he ran his finger along the top edge. It came back dusty, so he positioned a miniaturised video camera at an angle that would capture the whole room.
After testing both signals, George descended to the first floor. Once he’d bugged the bathroom and each of the bedrooms, he checked his watch. He’d been in the house close to eight minutes and still had the whole of the ground floor to complete. With each passing second the risk of discovery rose. He needed to hurry, so picked up his bag again and trotted down the stairs.
In the hallway he positioned a camera on top of the dresser and a listening device behind the large mirror hanging opposite the front door. Then he stepped into the lounge. This was the room where he’d first met Sam Rayner, the place where he had watched Clive Kalinsky produce the disturbingly accurate facial reconstruction of Esteban Haufner. A large Christmas tree now stood in the alcove of the bay window, decorated in gaudy baubles and multi-coloured tinsel. George placed a camera on the highest shelf of a tall oak bookcase in the opposite corner of the room and hid another listening device in the frame of a photograph that showed Christina riding a carousel as a young child. There was now only one room left and George could be on his way.
Upon entering the kitchen, he immediately froze, paralysed by revulsion. A mountain of washing-up had been left festering in the sink. George could almost visualise the bacteri
a crawling over it. He felt his stomach turn and a cold sweat spring out on his forehead.
How could anyone live like this? Were they animals?
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water. As he tore off the lid, the bottle fell from his shaking hand and spilled over the floor. Cursing, George reached for the kitchen roll on the counter and began to dab up the mess. Exhaustion had left his nerves frayed and raw. He had to pull himself together and do his job. Everything would be fine if he could just think logically. All he needed were two well-hidden places, one with a clear line of sight, and then he could be out of this godforsaken cesspit once and for all.
He stood up, dropped the wad of wet kitchen roll in the bin and drank the remaining water from the bottle in a single gulp. Feeling slightly better, he planted the final listening device behind the skirting under kitchen units and a camera in the gap where the extractor fan met the wall, then checked his phone again. The tracker showed that Asquith’s car was now 2.4 miles away and still moving in a south-westerly direction. It was twelve minutes since George had first stepped through the door, which meant that even if Sam and his friends turned around, he had at least that much time before they returned.
He had done it. He was home and dry. He—
The front door slammed.
George snatched up his bag. A set of French doors beside the sink led onto the garden. He tried the handle and found them locked.
Muffled voices were approaching from the hall.
He was trapped.
George reached for his shoulder holster and took out his Glock. The voices were now loud enough for him to make out what was being said.
‘...fancy a nice cup of tea, pet?’
‘Not half, Maureen, I’m parched...’
Twisting on the silencer attachment of his pistol, George stepped into the nook behind the door.
7
Chrissie looked into her mother’s distressed and disorientated face. Her hair seemed thinner and her skin paler, although strangely Chrissie had never noticed this on the many occasions she’d visited while her mum was in a coma.
‘But I don’t understand, I’ve never even been to America.’
Sam leaned forward and stroked their mother’s arm. ‘Mum, we were there almost three weeks.’
‘Why are you telling me these things?’ She brushed his hand away. ‘Where’s your father? I want to go home now.’
‘You can’t yet,’ Chrissie said. She glanced at Sam, who was staring down at his rejected hand with his mouth open. ‘You’ve been out for a long time, Mum. There’s tests and stuff they need to do.’
‘So you intend to keep me prisoner, do you? Just wait until Matthew hears about this! Where is he, by the way?’
‘He…he’s…’ Chrissie broke eye contact and took a deep breath. ‘He’s dead, Mum. He was killed in the crash, remember?’
Their mother laughed, a single, bitter bark. ‘Don’t be silly, Chrissie. What crash?’
‘The crash on the flight back from America,’ Sam said. ‘Don’t you even―’
‘Why do you keep saying that? I’ve already told you, I’ve never been to America.’ She turned her head towards the window and, for a moment, seemed miles away. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s snowing. And in the middle of summer!’
There was a knock on the door. Dr Saltano stuck his head in and beckoned for Chrissie and Sam to join him outside. Chrissie stood and kissed her mother on the forehead. ‘We’ve got to go now. We’ll come back to see you tomorrow, okay?’
Her mum smiled. ‘Okay, sweetie. Can you ask your dad to have a look for my nightie? This one itches.’
‘Will do,’ Chrissie said, the lie burning in her chest. Sam got up as well, kissed their mother and, shaking his head, followed Chrissie into the corridor.
Dr Saltano blew into a steaming paper cup and smiled at them. ‘Well, the good news is she’s conscious and doesn’t seem to have sustained any loss of speech or motor function.’
‘But she doesn’t remember a thing,’ Sam said. ‘She doesn’t even remember moving to America.’
‘Rebecca is suffering from Post Traumatic Amnesia. The weeks preceding her accident are a complete blank to her and she appears to be experiencing difficulty retaining new information.’
‘I see,’ Chrissie said. ‘And how long will this last?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no way of telling,’ Dr Saltano said. ‘Her memory could come back at any time or, in the worst case scenario, never at all.’
‘But there must be something you can do,’ Sam said. ‘She doesn’t even seem like the same person. She’s so…so angry.’
Dr Saltano pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighed. ‘Sam, you should know as well as anyone that there are no guarantees. The best thing you can do is be patient with her. You need to bear in mind that it could be much worse. She remembers who she is, at least, and recognises the two of you.’
‘Thank you, doctor. Let me know if there’s any change in her condition,’ Chrissie said.
‘Of course.’ Dr Saltano bowed his head, turned and walked away up the corridor.
‘I suppose we should go and find the others,’ Chrissie said. ‘Have you managed to reach Grandma and Grandpa yet?’
Sam took out his phone, keyed the number and held it to his ear. After a while he lowered it again. ‘The house phone’s just ringing and ringing.’
‘That’s strange,’ Chrissie said. ‘They should be back from Grandpa’s appointment by now.’ As they walked towards the lifts at the opposite end of the corridor, she linked her arm through her brother’s. ‘Don’t look so miserable, Sam. She’s awake, and that’s more than we could have hoped for a few days ago.’
‘I know, but you heard what Dr Saltano said. Her memory might never come back. This might last forever, and I don’t know how many more times I can take hearing her ask where Dad is.’
‘Same, but we just have to be patient. There’s nothing anyone can do.’
She pressed the button to call a lift. Several seconds passed as they stood side-by-side, arms linked, and then the doors opened. A hospital porter pushed an empty trolley out and they stepped in after.
‘But what if there was something someone could do?’ Sam asked as he pushed the button for the ground floor, where Lance, Lewis and Eva were waiting.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think I can change what’s happened, Chrissie. What if I could make Mum better and bring Dad back?’
Chrissie felt tears at the back of her eyes. She was tired of always having to be the strong one. Sam had seemed so much better recently, with no more seizures since the funeral. ‘Will you please stop talking like that?’ she said. ‘Dad’s gone. The sooner you accept it, the better.’
‘But what if he didn’t have to be?’
The world seemed to narrow to a point. Sam was still talking, but his voice sounded very, very far away. Chrissie’s legs wobbled. She might have fallen if her brother wasn’t there to hold on to.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look so good.’
She blinked and fanned herself with her hand. ‘Yeah, just came over a bit faint for a second.’
The doors opened and Sam guided her to a row of chairs on the other side. Once Chrissie was seated, he crouched in front of her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want us to be a family again.’
She felt a sensation like tiny bubbles popping inside her and realised it was the baby moving. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, placing a hand over her belly. ‘We will be.’
8
Sam left the hospital sandwiched between Lewis and Eva on the back seat of Lance’s car. As they drove, he felt Eva’s hand, cool and dry, slide into his own. He glanced over, saw her smile and squeezed her hand back. Although she’d only been in the country a few days, the fact that she would soon have to return to Montclair filled him with dread, making him want to hold on to each moment in her company as long as he possibly c
ould.
When they reached Doug’s block of flats, Sam walked Eva to the door. ‘Were you okay today?’ he asked. ‘A trip to the hospital wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’
She turned on the top step so that she was an inch or two higher than him. ‘I was fine. Things certainly never are dull around you.’
‘A bit of dullness might make a nice change.’
The wind blew Eva’s hair across her face. She brushed it away and looked down on him. ‘I’m really glad about your mom,’ she said. ‘And it was nice to meet your sister, and Lance and Lewis too.’
‘Look, what Lewis was saying earlier about time travel―’
She grinned. ‘You don’t need to explain, I know when someone’s yanking my chain.’
Sam wanted to tell her that every word of it was the truth, but when he opened his mouth he discovered that he couldn’t speak the words. The car horn honked behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see Lance circling his hand, motioning for him to hurry up.
‘You better go,’ Eva said.
‘I...I...’
‘I’m free next week. I know it’s Christmas and you’ve got a lot going on and everything—’
‘No, I’d like that,’ he said, his tongue finally returning to life. ‘Maybe it’s safer if you choose what we do next time.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’ She placed her hand on his shoulder, leaned forward to kiss his cheek and then disappeared through the door. Sam stood on the steps for a few seconds and then climbed down to the car.
Some things aren’t that hard to put right, Eva had told him. He very much hoped she was correct.
* * * * *
They dropped Lewis off on the way back and drove the last few streets home. Sam could tell something was wrong from the moment he opened the front door. The Chubb lock wasn’t on, which meant his grandparents must be home, but the house was freezing and strangely quiet.
Lance stepped in after. ‘Whoa! Why’s it so cold in here? Is the heating off or something?’
The Pages of Time Page 20