Gideon 02 -The Time Thief

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  The previous Thursday, Reverend Austen told him, there had been a cricket match between Middle Harpenden and a neighboring village. It was an annual event, and as there was much rivalry between the teams, practically the whole village had turned out on the green to watch. At a critical moment Middle Harpenden’s best batsman hit a six over the heads of the spectators who sat near the pond. All eyes followed the fielder who charged after it, pushing through the spectators and into the field on the other side of the high street. Just as the young fellow bent over to pick up the ball, at least two dozen witnesses swore they saw a curious device, as tall as a man, materialize out of thin air and topple over into the long grass. The game of cricket was instantly forgotten and everyone rushed over to take a look. They did not dare get too close, however, for the machine shimmered as if it were made of molten liquid and, which was worse, there appeared to be two human figures attached to it in a most disturbing way.

  “Oh, you should have seen it, sir!” said the teenage girl who had been hovering in the doorway. “It was horrid! The most horrid thing I ever saw. You could see through it as if it were made of glass, and the man’s leg was trapped underneath it. It made my flesh crawl!”

  “Thank you, Augusta,” said her father and wafted her away with his napkin so that he could finish his tale. “I had arrived on the scene by this time and I can assure you that what happened next will revisit me in my dreams for many a long year. The bodies of Miss Dyer and Mr. Schock, which were attached to the machine much as flies are stuck to a spiderweb, were suddenly blown away from the machine and landed—happily in soft grass—several yards away. You would have said that an invisible giant had picked them up and tossed them as far as he could.”

  “Were they hurt?” asked Peter Schock anxiously, and found himself clutching at his forehead where he had been injured in that selfsame way all those years ago in Derbyshire.

  “Miss Dyer was unconscious but did not sustain any injury that she complained of. Mr. Schock, however, whose leg had been trapped under the device until that unworldly force expelled him, was injured and is, I am sad to relate, still in a great deal of pain. His leg is badly swollen and bruised. Thankfully it is not broken.”

  “I am relieved to hear it!”

  “Mr. Schock,” interjected Augusta, “has been demanding anti … anti … insipid … Oh, I cannot recall the word—to put on his leg….”

  “Antiseptic?”

  “Yes! You know what it is?”

  “Ah … I recognized the word, that is all. I cannot tell you what it is,” replied Peter Schock.

  Antiseptic. He had dredged the word from the bottom of his memory but instantly he caught a whiff of the antiseptic his mother would use after he had scraped his knees. Doubtless antiseptic would not be invented for decades yet. All at once his heart melted. In his mind’s eye he saw his mother. She was smoothing down a plaster as he sat on the kitchen sink. He saw her so clearly. She was young, probably ten years younger than he was now. He bent down hurriedly to adjust the buckle of his shoe so that he could recover himself.

  “Anyway,” continued Augusta, “I offered him tincture of wormwood, but in the end he used half a bottle of Papa’s malt whisky to clean his leg, which we thought very queer indeed, do you not agree, Mr…. er …”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” said the vicar. “Pray tell us whom we have the pleasure of addressing.”

  “I apologize … how remiss of me not to introduce myself. My name is … Seymour. Joshua Seymour.” Peter Schock colored slightly, which did not go unnoticed, but the vicar was a courteous and discreet man and made no further inquiry.

  “Perhaps you could tell me,” he continued, to cover his embarrassment, “why Mr. Schock and Miss Dyer are lodging with you? They remain here under your roof as guests, I take it? They are not detained here by force?”

  “Upon my word, no! Dr. Wolsey, who examined Mr. Schock’s injury, Colonel Brownlie—recently returned from India—and myself met here on the evening of the incident, in this very drawing room, while our visitors lay unconscious upstairs. While we agreed that they had not broken any law, we thought it best, in these dangerous times, to err on the side of caution until we could confirm that they were neither spies nor mad. There was talk in the village of sorcery which, being rational men, we naturally disregarded. However, we did request that they remain here until certain questions arising from the manner of their arrival and the purpose of their … machine … could be explained to our satisfaction.”

  “And have you reached any conclusions?”

  “Both our guests have the demeanor of educated gentlefolk despite the unseemly—not to say exotic—attire they arrived in. Thankfully, Colonel Brownlie’s wife has been able to provide more seemly apparel. Miss Dyer is charming as, indeed, is Mr. Schock, although he is forthright and not slow to express his opinions forcibly….”

  Peter could barely suppress his laughter.

  The vicar smiled. “I see you are acquainted with our guest….”

  That’s my dad, all right! Peter thought to himself. And it suddenly struck him that no one born in the eighteenth century would have come up with such a sentence. He said the phrase under his breath: “That’s my dad, all right!” That simple remark contained some of the rhythm of another century’s language. How strange, he thought, that a part of the future is buried deep in my memory and now comes out in this present…. A slow smile came to his face and then he realized that the vicar was looking at him in some consternation.

  “In fact, it was at Mr. Schock’s suggestion, nay insistence, that an account of the extraordinary incident be sent to the newspapers and that he and Miss Dyer should remain here in the hope that a member of the public might recognize their plight…. The Observer did not publish the entire story—I have not yet seen the article, but Dr. Wolsey tells me that its author omitted to include the reason for Mr. Schock’s journey here….”

  “Which is?”

  “His search for his lost son.”

  Peter’s heart missed a beat. His son. After all these years, at long last he was someone’s son again. He was this man’s own flesh and blood. The vicar scrutinized Peter as one emotion after another scurried across his face like clouds across a windswept sky.

  “I hope it would not be impertinent, Mr. Seymour,” continued the vicar, “to enquire what relationship, if any, there exists between yourself and my guests.”

  “It is possible,” Peter replied, “that they are former acquaintances, but I cannot say for certain as yet.”

  “Well, my dear sir, there is but one way to get to the truth of the matter—pray allow me to inquire on your behalf if they are prepared to receive you.”

  Peter’s heart suddenly started to race. The moment could be put off no longer.

  “By all means,” he said weakly.

  “I hope you will forgive me for remarking on it, Mr. Seymour,” said the good vicar considerately, “but you seem a trifle pale. Would you care for a glass of water or something stronger to fortify the blood? A glass of port, perhaps? Or we still have some of the Madeira wine Colonel Brownlie brought for us, do we not, Augusta?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. A glass of Madeira wine would be very welcome.”

  The vicar sent off his daughter to the kitchen and then excused himself, walking up the creaking stairs to announce Mr. Joshua Seymour’s arrival to Mr. Schock and Miss Dyer. He paused briefly, one foot on the bottom step, and turned to look at Peter.

  “It is a curious thing, but many years ago, when I was still a young man and embarking on my ministry here, three strangers came to the village in search of a gentleman and a girl with red hair who would be dressed in unusual attire. If they had arrived today, I would be able to help them.”

  “That is most curious, as you say….”

  Augusta soon returned and offered Peter a small crystal glass and a decanter of amber Madeira wine. Peter poured himself out a glass and downed it in one gulp. He closed his eye
s and felt the warmth travel down to his stomach. The sound of a muffled conversation reached his ears from the floor above. When he reopened his eyes he saw that Augusta’s gaze was fixed on the glass which he held in his trembling fingers. He immediately placed the glass on a small table and put his arms behind his back. He noticed that the girl appeared almost as agitated as he felt. Suddenly she stepped toward him and put her face very close to his.

  “I do not wish to speak out of turn,” she whispered, “but beware of the girl, Mr. Seymour. She is strange. I feel sure that she is possessed or that she is a witch. I dare not say as much to my father who prides himself on being a man of reason. You will not say anything to my father?”

  “You can count on my discretion, of course, but what moves you to believe that Miss Dyer is a witch?”

  “I saw her in the garden yesterday at dusk. She was flitting about like a bat! Too fast for the eye to easily follow … I swear it to be true! The sooner they are gone from this house the happier I shall be.”

  Peter stared back at her, alarmed and confused. The vicar chose that instant to descend the staircase and he eyed his daughter suspiciously.

  “I hope you have not been troubling Mr. Seymour, my dear.”

  “No, Papa!”

  The vicar turned to Peter. “Mr. Schock and Miss Dyer will be delighted to receive you and have requested—for a reason best known to themselves—that you go up unaccompanied. It is the door at the far end of the hall.”

  The vicar seemed put out. Peter took a deep breath and started to climb the steep stairs, his heart pounding in his ears. Soon he caught sight of a generous-sized landing. Bare floorboards were covered with a royal blue runner. Several doors led off from the landing, all of which were closed except for the far door, which was partly ajar. The remains of the soft evening light poured through the doorway onto the blue carpet highlighting an intricate pattern traced in scarlet and gold. Through an open window, swallows called as they swooped and dived beneath the eaves. Peter heard someone pacing impatiently around the room.

  Holding his breath, Peter stepped forward across the narrow carpet, so nervous he could have been walking the plank. Halfway across the landing he halted and rested his hand on a console table to steady himself. He looked down and what he saw made him gasp out loud. There, laid out neatly on the polished wood, Peter saw a canvas backpack, two cans of Coca-Cola, and a key ring made of brushed stainless steel. Without even needing to look at it, he knew that the key ring—which his mum had given to his dad after her first success at a film festival—was engraved with a picture of a camera on a tripod and the words: FESTIVAL DE CANNES…. Peter reached out to stroke the canvas of Kate’s backpack and then laid his hand on the key ring as if it were a sacred relic. With his index finger, he gently traced the contour of a small brass key. He recognized it instantly. Two centuries into the future it would open the front door of the Schock family’s home on Richmond Green. His spine tingled with the thrill of it. Then he picked up one of the cans of Coca-Cola and pressed it against his cheek. It was cold, though somehow not as cold as he was expecting….

  “What’s keeping him?” said a man’s voice. Mr. Schock suddenly appeared in the doorway, clearly illuminated in golden sunshine. He was squinting, for Peter was standing in deep shadow.

  “Hello there?” Mr. Schock said uncertainly.

  Peter was so stunned he could not help taking a step backward. He felt winded. Just as if someone had punched him in the stomach. His father was exactly as he remembered. Exactly. He had not aged a day. His well-cut blond hair flopped over his forehead. He was tanned and lean and, apart from one bandaged leg, in the peak of health. Why, they must be the same age! How could this be? Then a young girl with long, bright red hair appeared in the doorway next to his father.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering into the dark landing.

  It was Kate! It was his Kate, but she was still twelve years old! Peter’s mind reeled. He was dumbstruck. I have grown old and they have stayed the same! It cannot be!

  “Forgive me!” he muttered incoherently. “I cannot stay…. I must leave at once…. Forgive me….”

  Peter fled down the stairs. The vicar and Augusta stood waiting for him.

  “How old is the son they are looking for?” he almost shouted at them, although he already knew the answer.

  “Why, twelve years old, I believe….”

  “Then I cannot help you. I am sorry….”

  And with that Peter ran out of the house and leaped onto the horse, who was drinking from a pail of water by the front door. Two bewildered faces looked down at him from the upstairs window as he galloped down the gravel drive.

  “Did you recognize him?” Mr. Schock asked Kate.

  “No. I’ve never seen him before…. And the cheek of it—whoever it was, he pinched one of my cans of Coca-Cola!”

  Called back to NASA headquarters by her boss, Dr. Pirretti was determined to fit in at least one pleasurable afternoon before catching her plane for the States. Apart from the fiasco with the antigravity machine, she was becoming increasingly worried about her constant headaches and the disturbing sounds she could often hear inside her head which would stop as suddenly as they started. The doctors said it was tinnitus, a condition probably brought on by an ear infection, and that it would settle down in time. She was not convinced.

  After catching a cab to Tate Modern, she walked over the Millennium Bridge for the unique view of London it afforded, took far too many photographs, and then strode toward the building she had wanted to visit ever since her first trip to England as a teenager. She knew little about architecture but she loved big buildings, big enough so that, if she looked up, they would make her feel light-headed. If they were old, too, that was even better. While skyscrapers were good, what she liked more than anything else was domes. She found them magical. Over the years she had been drawn to visit domes all over the world. This one had been at the top of her list for a very long time. And in spite of her scientific training, she always felt the urge to stand directly below the center of the dome she was visiting, as if some benevolent force might wash over her if she found the exact spot, or, rather like dogs being able to hear higher frequencies than humans, she felt that if she could just manage to tune in her mind, she might discover a secret world…. Although she would not dream of admitting it to her colleagues, it was a little how she felt about her research into dark energy.

  She walked around the perimeter of St. Paul’s Cathedral, craning her neck to get a good view of the famous dome, and then, finding herself facing the West Front, she admired the carved stone and the symmetry of its form. Soon her neck started to ache, and she climbed up the deep flight of stone steps toward the entrance. She stopped for a moment in front of the massive doors, about thirty feet high. As she turned around, she tried to picture cheering crowds stretching back down Ludgate Hill, and the thought of the long line of kings and queens in whose footsteps she was currently standing made her spine tingle with the thrill of it.

  She entered the cathedral. The dimensions of the building when viewed from the inside were breathtaking. How many lives must have been lost building St. Paul’s? How much money must have been poured into its construction? You would not undertake such a gargantuan project with thought only for your own time—St. Paul’s was built for those who came after…. What faith in the future!

  She walked slowly up the aisle, feeling a surge of electric excitement as she approached the symbol, set into the stone floor, that indicated she was at the true center of the dome. Only then did she allow herself to look upward, and she let out an involuntary gasp. Its diameter was staggering. It towered over her head, supported by eight pillars and adorned with sumptuous mosaics and murals, while far, far above, shafts of pale sunlight streamed through vast space into the inner dome, so distant it appeared misty. The dome made her feel at once tiny yet proud to belong to a race who could design and construct and protect such a stupendous building for future generations.r />
  Reborn from the ashes of the Great Fire of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral had witnessed a nation’s history: weddings and funerals of the great and the good, the outbreak of wars and the return of peace. Suddenly Dr. Pirretti felt a tremendous sense of time passing, of history, of mankind’s slow and hard-won progress. She sent up a silent prayer that all of this would not be about to crumble into dust. The future can only be built on the past, she thought—she would oppose the arrival of time travel with every last bone in her body.

  It so happened that while Dr. Pirretti was staring up at the dome of St. Paul’s, the Tar Man was also approaching the cathedral, picking his way through the crowds on Ludgate Hill. His thoughts were focused on less high-minded topics. His dark hair was slicked back in a ponytail and he wore jeans and a suede jacket. Only his shoes could give cause for comment—they were black and buckled and of the eighteenth-century variety. He had come early for his meeting with Anjali, not because he thought she was likely to be punctual—on the contrary he would take a bet that she would be late—but because he was running out of cash, or rhino, as he thought of it, and he needed to acquire some more.

  It offended the Tar Man’s sense of morality that he should have to pay to see St. Paul’s, particularly since theft and not tourism was the purpose of his visit, and so he walked past the ticket desk with a party of young Dutch schoolchildren, a solemn and respectful look on his face, pretending to be one of their teachers. A small boy at the edge of the group stared up at him, eyes glued to the scar running down his cheek. Seeing him about to tug at his teacher’s sleeve, the Tar Man put a finger to his lips, winked at him, and slipped a one-pence coin into the boy’s hot little hand. When he still seemed uncertain, the Tar Man, continuing to smile at the boy, mimed slitting someone’s throat. The poor boy’s gaze dropped to the floor and when he looked up again, fearful and eyes brimming with tears, the hateful figure had disappeared.