by Martin Gunn
“Are you okay boy?” implored the man, excitedly, as he placed his hands under von Brandt’s arms and hoisted him upright, “I nearly had you there.”
The driver was middle-aged, balding and about five feet ten. A plaid shirt was open to reveal an off-white vest stretching over a pot belly, which overhung his greasy denim jeans. Von Brandt could smell his sweat but then maybe it was his, at this point it was impossible to tell. Manoeuvring von Brandt round to the passenger side, the man struggled to hold him as he endeavoured to open the door. Eventually, with a helping push, the beleaguered time traveller sat in the passenger seat, with his carry sack slung onto his lap and the door closed behind him. As the driver stepped in and sat down, he extended his right hand and barked,
“Jerry Richardson, but most people just call me Jez.”
Von Brandt shook his hand and suddenly found himself in a dilemma. Should he give his real name or lie? It was difficult to think straight, but then it came to him. Remembering his first meeting with Justin at Harrow, who had thought he was Dutch, von Brandt replied,
“Gary Brand.”
“I can’t quite place your accent – Australian?”
“No, Dutch,” lied von Brandt succinctly.
“Hell Gary, what were you doing out there in the middle of nowhere?” chuckled Jez, as he fired up the truck and moved off.
This was von Brandt’s next dilemma, how on earth is he going to explain himself? There was little else he could do for the time being. He was going to have to feign amnesia.
“I don’t know – I can’t remember. I have been walking in the desert for some time.”
“How in hell did you make it this far? Have you any idea how close to Death Valley we are? Folks have died out there. You’re lucky I came along when I did.”
“Have you got any water?” gasped von Brandt, suddenly realising that he was parched.
“No but I have a bottle of soda,” replied Jez, pointing to the glove box, “you’re welcome to that.”
Von Brandt had no idea what soda was but opened the glove box and retrieved the bottle. It was Coca-Cola; von Brandt had heard of, but never tried it. He twisted off the top effortlessly, much to Jez’s surprise as he normally had to knock the top off against something solid. With one guzzle, von Brandt nearly finished the bottle, stopped to get his breath and then emptied it. The brown liquid was sickly sweet and far too fizzy for his taste, but it was wet and served a purpose. He wiped his mouth and looked around for somewhere to put the empty bottle.
“Just put it on the floor with the rest of the trash,” proffered Jez, blithely.
Von Brandt looked around him, the truck’s cabin was indeed a mess. Empty bottles, candy wrappers and food packaging were strewn everywhere. Then he noticed a folded-up newspaper on the dashboard.
“May I?” he entreated, leaning over and pointing to the paper.
“Sure, go ahead,” smiled Jez, “its yesterday’s though.”
Picking up the newspaper, von Brandt opened it out and looked to the top of the front page. In small letters it read, The Orange County then below that in a much larger old English-style font it read, Register. A thin black strip underlined the paper’s title, and centrally on this strip, printed in white was the date – June 24 1985. Incredible, thought von Brandt, he had leapt over forty years into the future. He was obviously in America near somewhere called Death Valley. From what he could remember Death Valley was in California, so now he had a time and place. Scanning down to the headlines he read, Sabotage suspected in Air India jet crash. An illustration of a map showing where the disaster happened, was just below the headline. It pointed to a position close to the United Kingdom.
“Bad business with that plane going down,” stated Jez, “329 people on it. If that happened over here there would be hell to pay, I can tell you that, yes siree.”
Von Brandt placed the paper back on the dashboard. He thought, what sort of a world is this, where passenger planes are blown out of the sky. Not that he cared per se, it’s just that this kind of thing never happened in his time, even during the war.
“I’m surprised that you can read the paper in this light anyways,” observed Jez.
Von Brandt didn’t reply, he had closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep. Jez just smiled and left him to it.
***
“Look, if you don’t go now you’ll be late,” urged Kimberley, as she tried to usher her father out of the door.
“I know,” replied Jez, “it’s just that I don’t feel happy leaving you on your own with him. We know nothing about him.”
“Well, you brought him here, and in any case, Curtis is coming over soon, he’s bringing some clothes. He’s about Gary’s size.”
“Is that a good idea,” frowned Jez, “you know he’s still sweet on you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Kimberley didn’t need to be reminded of this understatement. After dating Curtis for a short while and finishing with him, he had become a little obsessive.
“Just be careful,” advised Jez as he made his way over to the truck in the large yard outside their bungalow.
Kimberley waved him off as his truck trundled out of the yard and onto the main road, kicking up a cloud dust as it did so. Just as it disappeared from view another vehicle turned into the yard – a black nineteen-fifties GMC pick-up. The truck stopped close to where Kimberley was standing and a tall slim man in his mid-twenties stepped down. He had short dark hair and was wearing a faded denim shirt and jeans. Removing his sunglasses, Curtis approached the bungalow.
“Will these do?” he frowned, shoving the clothes grudgingly into her arms. He couldn’t believe that she would ask such a favour, and only did it to stay in her good books.
“Yes, they will do fine,” replied Kimberley inspecting the clothes. Curtis had brought an old pair of jeans, trainers and a navy-blue polo shirt.
“Who is this man anyway?”
“Just some guy that Dad picked up in the desert last night. He was close to collapsing. He nearly ran him over. Couldn’t just leave him there.”
“Well, what do you know about him?” enquired Curtis frowning again.
“Not much,” shrugged Kimberley, “he seems to have some memory loss.”
“Huh – very convenient,” muttered a sullen Curtis.
“Look if you’re going to be like that, you’d better go before he gets up.”
Kimberley physically pushed Curtis towards his pick-up.
“Okay, okay I’m going,” Curtis opened the door, climbed in and started the engine, “I know when I’m not wanted. Just be careful is all.”
“Thanks for these,” replied Kimberley, relieved that he was on his way again, “I’ll have them back to you in a few days.”
“Washed and ironed.”
“Sure.” Kimberley turned her head to the door, distracted by some activity coming from inside the house, and as Curtis roared away, she turned and looked apprehensively towards the bedroom where the stranger had spent the night.
Waking up with a start, von Brandt looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. He could hear a man’s raised voice coming from outside, and that of a girl also. They seemed to be arguing. His mind was racing, trying to make out what had happened the previous night. He just about remembered being undressed and put to bed. Standing up, he saw that he was still wearing his white vest and shorts. The overalls were gone and he frantically looked around for his knapsack. Breathing a sigh of relief, he found it on the floor on the other side of the bed. He picked it up and checked the contents; everything was there. His gun, stiletto and the diamonds. No sooner had he buckled the knapsack back up again, when there came a knock at the door. Von Brandt slipped back under the covers and called, “come in.”
Tentatively the door opened to reveal an attractive girl in her early twenties, slim with short slightly spikey hair. She was wearin
g tight denim jeans and a white blouse, tied up in a knot at the front to show off her midriff.
Von Brandt hadn’t seen anything like it; is this the way people dressed now?
“Hi,” she beamed nervously, “I’ve brought you some clothes, though I guess you’ll be wanting a shower first. My name’s Kimberley by the way, but you can call me Kim. All my friends do.”
“I’m Gary,” replied von Brandt shaking Kim’s hand.
“Well Gary,” she announced with a friendly grin, “get yourself clean and dressed, then come through for some breakfast. You must be starving.”
As she left the room, von Brandt suddenly realised that he was indeed famished, and made his way to the bathroom to freshen up.
Kimberley turned and smiled as she heard von Brandt enter the kitchen. Curtis’ clothes seemed odd to him, having never worn such attire before.
“Sit down,” Kimberley motioned to the breakfast bar with its three stools, “I’m making pancakes with maple syrup, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” nodded von Brandt.
With a pile of pancakes and streaky bacon placed in front of him, von Brandt started to tuck in enthusiastically. Kimberley switched on the television opposite them and as it sprang into life, von Brandt stopped dead in his tracks. A fork full of pancake just short of his mouth, he stared with disbelief and astonishment at the screen. Noticing his reaction, Kimberley remarked, “I know, right, it’s a bit old but hey, why replace it if it still works.”
Von Brandt stared at the screen for a little longer, then got on with the important business of filling his stomach. By now Kimberley had expected some sort of interaction with him and was beginning to find his reticence a little annoying. She decided to try a different tack.
“So, have you remembered anything yet?”
“No, it’s still a little hazy. I can remember being in the desert, but not how I got there.”
“Well,” smiled Kimberley reassuringly, “I’m sure it will come back to you soon.”
“You have both been very kind to me,” smiled von Brandt changing the subject, “I can’t thank you enough.”
Kimberley found herself gazing at the stranger for longer than she intended. It had suddenly hit her just how handsome he was. Inwardly shaking herself out of it, she looked at the clock on the wall.
“Jeez, I need to get going or I’ll be late for work.”
“Do you need to go far?”
“I work at a bar in LA, it’s not that great, but helps pay the bills,” she shrugged.
Von Brandt thought quickly and surmised correctly that LA must mean Los Angeles.
“Can I drop you anywhere?” she added.
“Yes, that would be helpful,” retorted von Brandt, with genuine appreciation, “if you could drop me off in town that would be fine.”
As Kimberley was getting her car keys from her purse, von Brandt quickly re-entered the bedroom to retrieve the diamonds from his knapsack. When he returned, Kimberley was waiting for him outside. Von Brandt squinted as he walked out into the bright sunlight, then he looked around him. The yard was large, square and somewhat untidy. In one corner were two derelict trucks, long since relegated to the scrap heap. A large tipper truck stood in another corner, but what caught von Brandt’s eye was the massive lorry with a crane attached. Perfect, he thought for retrieving the time machine.
“Quite a setup, huh?” enthused Kimberley, noticing von Brandt’s interest in the yard.
“Indeed,” nodded von Brandt, “quite a setup.”
Soon they were heading down the road in an old powder blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible. At least this was something he was familiar with. The warm air whistled past them as they sped along, though neither noticed, however, the black GMC pick-up following them at a safe distance. It was Curtis, who had been observing their activities and had decided to stalk his ex-girlfriend and the stranger, on which she seemed to be lavishing what to him was improper attention.
Running his fingers through his fair hair to get it out of his face, von Brandt turned to Kimberley and asked,
“What happened to your mother? Is she still around?”
“She left my dad when I was very young,” frowned Kimberley, “I barely remember her.”
This brought back the painful memories of his own early childhood.
“Parents have a lot to answer for,” he replied in a rare moment of empathy.
“I have often wondered whether I was to blame.”
Von Brandt could see that she had tears in her eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” replied von Brandt turning to look at the scenery, “how could it be?”
The conversation abated and they both became pensive, contemplating how different their lives might have been.
Within half an hour, they were on the outskirts of Los Angeles and von Brandt noticed how busy it was getting. He could see the high-rise buildings as they approached and the traffic was beginning to get heavy. To him it looked like pandemonium, with these large angular automobiles buzzing up and down, crossing in front of them as they stopped at traffic lights. His senses were going into overload, there was so much to take in.
Kimberley pulled over on Hill Street in downtown LA to let von Brandt out. Grand Park could be viewed either side of the road.
“Okay, if I drop you off here, I could pick you up again after my shift at around 7.30 tonight.”
Von Brandt nodded.
“I know your memory is a little shaky,” she frowned with a modicum of concern, “you won’t forget, will you?”
“No, I’ll remember,” replied von Brandt trying to mask his irritation. He understood why Kimberley had asked, but still couldn’t help feeling as though he was being patronised.
Walking around the busy streets, von Brandt was mesmerised by everything around him. He stopped dead in his tracks at an electrical shop with several television sets in the window. They were much larger than the one back at the house, and all were displaying the same image. Dragging himself away von Brandt continued, checking out the current fashions in clothes shops for both men and women. Everything had changed so much, but then, he reasoned, why wouldn’t it? Eventually he found himself on 7th street; the jewelry district, staring in the window of a jewellers. The shop was quite large inside and fairly busy. He had three diamonds on him and needed to raise some cash, so he decided to enter. Inside he began to browse the array of merchandise on display in glass cabinets, until an assistant approached him.
“Can I help you Sir?” enquired the man. He was middle-aged thin, with a gaunt face and dark deep-set eyes. Von Brandt suspected, quite correctly, that he might be Jewish.
“Yes,” stated von Brandt, forcing a smile, “I have a diamond which I am looking to sell. I assume you buy here as well?”
“Indeed, we do,” confirmed the assistant, “may I see the item?”
Taking a small leather pouch out of his trouser pocket, von Brandt opened it, retrieved a diamond and placed it on a black velvet pad on the counter. The assistant picked it up and examined the gem through an eye-piece. Turning it so as to catch the light. He looked at von Brandt in astonishment.
“This is a very fine example, the cut is a little old fashioned, but it is virtually colourless and flawless. Where did you get it? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” lied von Brandt, who felt he had to say something plausible, “one of three that I own. Can you value it?”
“Of course,” the assistant replied, placing the diamond on some scales, “the current trade price is twelve thousand dollars for a gem of this quality.”
“You would give me twelve thousand dollars for this?” exclaimed an astounded von Brandt.
“No, it’s twelve thousand per carat.”
“And how many carats is it?”
The old man peered at the r
eading on the scales, then looked up at the expectant face opposite him.
“Four carats,” he confirmed in a matter-of-fact tone.
“What!” gasped von Brandt, “but that’s forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“If you still want to sell we would very much like to buy it from you.”
“Can you give me cash?”
“Well,” mused the assistant, rubbing his chin, “we would prefer bank transfer or cheque, but I am sure that I can authorise a cash payment.”
With an envelope containing a large wad of money, von Brandt realised that he needed a jacket to secure it in. He found a gent’s clothes shop and entered. Eventually he came out wearing a light-weight grey jacket which he had purchased, with several zip-up pockets. Ideal for concealing his newly acquired wealth.
Sitting in a café with a coffee in front of him, von Brandt contemplated his priorities. He needed clothes but most importantly the time machine had to be secured. Having an idea of how to retrieve it, the problem was, where to store it. He decided to search out some real estate agents. He needed some kind of warehouse. After visiting several with no success, he eventually found an agent with commercial buildings to let, displayed in the window. As he entered, von Brandt was greeted by an attractive woman in her late thirties.
“Can I help you?” she smiled.
“I’m looking for a warehouse to rent,” he confirmed, “something not too large, and out of the city.”
The woman motioned for him to sit down, whilst she looked through her books. Eventually she pulled out several sheets of possible locations.
“Have a look through these.”
Von Brandt sifted through them until he came to what looked like a slightly dilapidated wooden building that was clearly out in the middle of nowhere.
“How about this one,” he proffered.
“Yes, I know this place,” frowned the woman, “are you sure? It hasn’t been occupied for years.”