by Nick Jones
‘Correct,’ she agrees, formally. ‘You can’t.’
‘Although it won’t stay there for long.’ I add, imagining how – shortly after serving its purpose – the money will disappear from some poor, unsuspecting cabbie’s wallet.
She nods slowly, deep in thought, and then runs a hand through her hair, which is down today, light brown curls bobbing on her shoulders. ‘Right, so you arrive in 2005, at the bloody time-travel conference.’ She grins, allowing herself a good laugh this time. ‘Sorry, it’s just –’
‘Funny,’ I butt in, ‘I know.’
Alexia rolls her shoulders. ‘Right Alex, come on, focus,’ she tells herself, resetting.
I draw in a deep breath and assure her I’m going to concentrate.
‘Okay, Joe,’ her voice is lower and more business like, ‘you are going to arrive and find a safe place, somewhere you can relax, maybe even fall asleep and then,’ her voice becomes the chocolatey smooth version I love, her words arrive slowly and deliberately, ‘you are going to slip back, deeper and further down, until finally, eventually, you will reach the fairground.’ She stops. ‘I want you to focus on your breathing now. I want you to listen to my voice and nothing but my voice. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I could listen to her forever.
‘Good,’ she assures me, voice like warm rain in a cool day. ‘Think of the photograph, of Amy walking towards those woods, but don’t let it worry you. It’s a beacon Joe, something you can hold onto.’ She pauses but I don’t know for how long because I’m not really here anymore. I’m under her spell and beneath the veil of reality, but as instructed, that doesn’t worry me, it actually feels good. ‘When you look at that photograph,’ she continues, ‘you’re going to feel power and energy, you’re going to feel like you do now.’
I feel amazing, I realise, a controlled energy coursing through me. Alexia’s words are like fuel, filling me. I feel as though I could go back a hundred years but I need to focus.
Focus Joe, Alexia purrs. You can do this. Aim for the Science Fair.
The Science Fair. Cheltenham Town Hall.
Don’t think about the host.
She was gorgeous. Dark skin, dark eyes and jet black hair like a wild horse’s mane. Her sultry Spanish accent holding the attention of every man in the room.
Man, she was hot… one beautiful señorita.
7.
Alexia’s voice and the present leave me, like a wave lifting you up off your feet near the shore. It’s a calm transition. Refined. This is the way to travel, I decide. This is the business class of time relocation. I’m aware of my surroundings, but can’t yet place them. It could be because I’m under hypnosis, which is a very strange thing to know, like waking up in a dream. A Spanish woman is talking, her accent round and beautiful. I catch up with her mid-sentence.
‘… It states that the time-traveller re-enters another parallel universe, and that the actual quantum state is a quantum superposition of states, where the time-traveller does and does not exist.’
I feel my ears pop, like pressure on a plane and a bright light fills my vision. I hear a loud gasp, the sound a crowd makes when a firework explodes dramatically above them. I feel the undeniable crackle of an audience in front of me.
‘My goodness!’ The woman exclaims.
I turn and see her, stood in front of a lectern, the host of the Science Fair, exactly as I remember. Tall, dark and impossibly sexy. She removes her glasses, hand noticeably shaking and stares at me, mouth agape. ‘Where did you come from?’ She asks, visibly shaken.
‘From the future,’ I reply easily, my words not only amplified by my own lectern microphone, but also arriving clearly and without thought or fear. Hypnosis is a wonderful thing.
Another loud gasp from the audience, accompanied by some laughter this time and then applause. I squint, shielding my eyes from the fierce spotlight and look out over a packed Cheltenham town hall, a sea of faces, rumbling with excitement. I raise my hand and smile and the place erupts with applause. I’ve not been on stage since Uni – when it was a form of complicit torture – and the thought of doing it again would normally strike me dumb with fear, but under Alexia’s spell I’m actually quite enjoying it. I look back at the woman and smile. She tries to return the gesture but it comes across as a nervous kind of sneer. She flashes another panicked look stage right and takes a step away from me. She swallows, looks out at the audience and says, ‘Well, ladies and gentleman, this is quite the surprise, a time-traveller from the future.’
More applause and some wolf whistling. I shrug and say, ‘I have to go I’m afraid.’ The on-stage microphone squeals and the crowd offer a murmured wave of good-natured laughter.
The host nods, putting her glasses back on. ‘And where are you going?’ She asks, playing along, but with all the subtlety of a lion tamer.
I sniff and flick my thumb over my shoulder. ‘I have to try and time-travel again,’ I explain, earnestly. ‘It’s a second jump, a new thing we’re trying.’
More applause and some whoops from the very engaged and entertained audience.
‘Fascinating,’ the host marvels, her voice finally returning to some kind of normality. ‘And tell me, what is your name?’
I blink, watching the particles of dust dance in the beam of light that separates us from them. The question of whether it was wise to share my plans out loud finally arrives. She wants to know my name. I’ve just told Cheltenham Town Hall I’m a time-traveller.
Shit.
Fuck.
I’m on stage. In front of a load of people. My clothes might… Oh God, no, don’t even think about that, I’ve got plenty of time before that…
‘Are you okay?’ The woman asks, her eyes flashing nervously towards the assembled security who look ready to pounce on me at a moment’s notice.
‘I, er, I better not tell you my name,’ I murmur, blood pounding in my temples. ‘I really, probably should… I mean, I have to go now.’
The host takes another nervous step back and addresses the crowd, ‘Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a huge round of applause to our first bona fide time-traveller.’
They do as they’re told by their ever professional speaker and the place erupts with a standing ovation. I stare out at the vast canvas of faces, most seem happy at the unexpected interruption in proceedings, some appear a little confused, but they are all clapping. All that is, except one; a man standing just off to the left hand side of the front row. He’s staring at me, intently, his jaw set, eyes dead like stone, a statue whose expression is unaffected by the applauding fools around him. I raise my hand against the spotlight, trying to get a better look at him, but he turns and walks away. For a moment I think I recognise him – perhaps we met when I was here the first time – but the feeling passes and I can’t place him. Before I can try again I’m interrupted by one of the security guards, a large bulldog of a man who has taken my left arm firmly and is suggesting I exit with him.
It finally breaks the last remnants of the spell I’ve been under.
This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan at all and it won’t be long before somebody wants answers; real ones, not the stage versions that have so entertained the crowd.
‘I need to find somewhere safe,’ I murmur, to myself.
The guard shrugs, ‘This way.’
I follow him into the dark wings to the side of the stage, moving past sound and lighting engineers, all of them with a confused look, and down a set of wooden steps into a small back office. There, another man is waiting, short, round, middle-aged and mousey looking. He stands, blinking rapidly, like a rodent chewing corn. ‘So,’ he squeaks, eyes fixed on mine, ‘you decided to have a little fun, yes? To arrive on stage during Miss Barquero’s presentation, to create a scene, yes?’ He pauses, folding his arms. ‘Yes? That about right?’
‘No,’ I reply, ‘I didn’t mean to…’ A pain in the base of my neck forces me to wince. ‘I really do have to go,’ I say, eyeing the
only door.
He scowls at me. ‘Not until you explain what you were doing up there,’ he insists, nodding at the security guard who moves to cover the only door. ‘Appearing out of nowhere like that.’
‘You can’t keep me here,’ I say, each word squeezing me a little further out of my previous trance-like state, my situation becoming more real with every breath. Relax Joe, I feel Alexia’s words rather than hear her voice, stay calm.
I draw in a deep breath. ‘It was just a joke,’ I say, ‘I just wanted to be on stage.’
The mousey man – I’m presuming he is the event organiser – studies me. ‘Hmmmm,’ he replies, ‘well, you can wait here and explain to Miss Barquero – when she’s finished her presentation – what you were doing and you can apol–’
‘No,’ I snap at him.
‘Yes,’ he sneers. ‘You can’t just –’
Right. This requires quick thinking and my very best Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’. I flash them both a look, one that hints strongly at madness and then shake my head and shudder, a deliberate attempt to appear unstable. When I talk, I do so quickly and with deliberate, nervous tension. ‘Okey Dokey,’ I almost shout, ‘I’m just going to leave okay, no problems, no need for screaming and shouting and kicking, okay, okay, okay?’ I hold up my forefinger as if stopping myself not them and then speak quietly and with sinister conviction, ‘Screaming, now we wouldn’t want that would we?’ I nod, bobbing my head deliberately like a clapping monkey, eyes dancing with fake madness.
The mousey man swallows and I hear a loud click in his throat. ‘Well, no,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s just stay calm and…’ He nods to the security guard, ‘Why don’t you escort Mr… er, just escort him out, yes?’
I smile, baring all of my teeth and follow the guard out into a corridor. My attempt at madness worked well, but if I don’t get out of here quickly I strongly suspect the police will show up. I follow the surly Guard to the main doors where he folds his arms, waiting for me to leave. I offer him a brief smile and walk out into bright, afternoon sunshine.
Brain freeze has started but it hasn’t taken hold yet. I have some time. I look around at the hordes of people and then down at myself. I really don’t want to end up naked here. According to Mark’s spreadsheet of time-travel I have seven hours before I get pulled back, which means three and a half hours before my clothes go ping and my belongings go pong.
Jump one; complete. Slightly rough landing but near enough. Jump two was supposed to be completed in a state of hypnosis. Alexia planted some stuff in my head. As I walk to the nearest clothes shop, cash in hand, I cross my fingers – literally – and hope that my secret hypnotic trigger still works, still gets pulled somehow.
8.
After some speed shopping (man style), I have a new set of clothes. Jeans, checked shirt and deck shoes; a good look. The clothes I was wearing on my arrival are in a shopping bag in my hand. Like me, they can’t stay here and in a few hours will be sent back to where they belong. According to Mark’s spreadsheet I have seven hours to get this done, meaning my clothes, money and copy of Amy’s picture will get exactly half that. I hail a taxi.
‘Where to?’ The driver asks.
‘Cox’s Meadow please,’ I reply, climbing in.
The driver nods and we pull away. I lean back in my seat, looking down at the picture of Amy walking towards the woods. She is my beacon, I need to focus on her, remember that this place is just a stepping stone. Alexia’s words are in me and the rumble of the road helps ease me back into a more relaxed state. I begin to feel something, a buzzing within me, a kind of charging energy. I continue to stare at the picture and realise that this is my trigger. Alexia has programmed me to feed off the photograph and I can feel my batteries charging up in preparation for a second jump.
‘You’re a genius, Miss Finch,’ I whisper, energy building in me, ‘and I love you.’
We arrive at the entrance to Cox’s Meadow, which is nothing like I remember it, but why would it be? This is 2005, thirteen years after the fair. I step out of the cab and pay the driver, telling him to keep the change. He thanks me and drives away. He won’t be thanking me later when that money goes bye bye.
Cox’s Meadow was just one big field back in 1992 but it’s been utterly transformed. The surrounding trees and fences are still visible here but the centre has been excavated as part of Cheltenham’s flood defences. I look around and decide that a nearby field – one that I remember and appears to be identical to the past – will be my best bet for a safe jump. I feel brain freeze take a chilling nip at the back of my head and then travel the back of my skull like the firm, deadly lick of an icy snake. I manage one last look at the photograph in my hand before it disappears along with the clothes and my bag. Whatever power that photograph gave me, it will have to be enough.
The large agricultural field is quiet, recently mown and surrounded by hedgerow. I walk to a large tree in the very corner of the field and look back towards Cox’s Meadow, imagining the fair in full swing. I want to be sure to arrive safely, without being seen or landing in the middle of a stall, so decide on a direct jump back to this spot.
Okay then. Time to relax. Time to start my breathing, to find my inner peace and calm; or something like that anyway. I’m just doing just what my hypno-kitten told me, which is yet another nickname I must never tell her.
I smile, take a long, deep breath and begin, and against all my expectations, within minutes, it starts to happen. I sense the fabric of my location moving, the silk veil of reality fluttering gently as if caught by a breeze. This field, this place, is just an illusion and I can move through and beyond if I wish. I close my eyes and think of Amy, of the fair and the night she disappeared. This is going to work, just as Alexia said it would. My heart is beating faster but I command it, with the lightest touch I can muster, to steady itself. I feel a shifting of the earth beneath me and the sudden cool air of a winter evening. I open my eyes and it’s dark. The world appears to be phasing somehow, in and out of itself, breathing through time like a lung inhaling and exhaling. Day becomes night, grass becomes soil and then tall grass again, long stems that sway in a summer breeze followed by cool stubble; the seasons accelerating around me. People appear, flickering into life, but they are shadows, gone before I can make out any detail. I watch time cascade around me. This second jump is very, very different, nothing like my normal way of travelling. I can feel panic setting in and nausea too as my mind spins faster.
‘What’s happening?’ I whisper, dropping to my knees, looking down at my hands. My skin is pearlescent, like fish scales, it shines in the brief moonlight but then – as the sun returns – becomes translucent, the blood beneath pulsing and coursing like an angry river. I whimper, crying out for it to stop, but it won’t. The merry-go-round of time accelerates, faster and more aggressive, spinning and swirling around me.
I look down and unbelievably find myself floating, thirty feet above a building, hovering in the air like ‘Wile E Coyote’ in Road Runner, realising much too late that I’m done for. I flail helplessly and scream but there’s no sound. Colours and shapes blur and I’m instantaneously transported into the middle of a road, traffic thundering, a huge truck about to smash me to pieces, but then it, too, is gone. I’m in and out of time and space and for one horrible moment I feel as though I’m going to explode, but then it all stops and there is nothing except the wonderful, steady warmth of early evening.
I open one eye, wincing, trembling.
I’m in the field, thirty feet at least from where I expected to be but near enough. It’s early evening. I smell summer, see the sunset; candy pink and red, exactly as I remember it. In the distance the fairground, its lights not yet owning the night.
1992. I made it.
I swallow, my head still spinning from the tumbling journey. I go to move but a huge surge of pain rushes through me, so strong I nearly puke. I try again but I’m pinned somehow. Fresh pain courses though me, forcing me to cry out in agony.
I look down and it all makes terrible and horrifying sense.
I’ve landed, have arrived, right in the middle of a barbed wire fence. Sections of it protrude from my clothing at sickening angles, pinning my right thigh, left arm and mid section. I manage another scream but then the pain forces my mind to shut down and the world I was aiming for turns black.
9.
Time has passed but it’s done so under my radar, stealthily and without reference. The all-encompassing darkness that engulfed me lifts slightly, shifting to a warm grey with shimmers of golden light. I swallow, my throat dry and sore and try to open my eyes, but they aren’t playing that game today. I try to move but my body isn’t playing either. I’m deep somewhere, at the bottom of an empty well perhaps? Or a cave, or a tomb…
I hear a man’s voice, deep and authoritative, echoing around me. Then a woman, soft and kind, and a small supporting cast of background discussions, muffled by my addled brain. I hear machines too, whirring and beeping their self-important little tunes.
I realise four things simultaneously. I’m drugged. I’m in a hospital. I’m alive.
And, oh my goodness, I’m in pain.
Whatever those machines are pumping into me, it isn’t enough. I try to do the eye opening thing again, hoping to catch the attention of a sympathetic nurse, one who understands my low pain threshold, but can’t.
The man’s voice arrives again, this time cutting through the fog. ‘We’ve just received these X-rays,’ he says, followed by the familiar sound of acetate being unfolded. ‘Look, three sections of barbed wire and two more here.’ He taps something. ‘One embedded in his thigh and through his side and here, another right through his abdomen. He’s lucky it didn’t pierce any major organs, but…’ He trails off, his breathing irregular.
‘But what?’ A woman to my left asks. I recognise her voice. It’s Alexia.