by Andy Conway
An angry red sky strafed by searchlights. There was a flash like lightning, a huge explosion and it rained glass.
She shielded her eyes and staggered through the yard.
“Rachel! Come back!”
Charlie came up from the ground behind her, like a white-shrouded corpse rising from a grave.
She ran up the couple of steps, pushed through the wrought-iron gates into the churchyard, and headed for the touchstone and its promise of escape.
A thunderclap ripped the sky apart.
She fell to her knees, hands over her ears, wailing.
Charlie came running through the gates.
She scrambled to her feet, falling, stumbling, reaching out to the touchstone.
“Your father’s not back there, Rachel!”
She looked back, sobbing.
Charlie approached slowly, as if she were dangerous: a bomb that might explode. “You haven’t changed anything yet. He still won’t know you back there.”
This didn’t make any kind of sense.
“Who are you!” she cried. “How do you know that?”
“It’s me, Charlie,” he said, inching towards her. “We met five years ago. You asked me to help you.”
“I’ve never seen you before. I don’t know you!” she screamed.
He grimaced a funeral smile. “I know,” he said. “This is the first time you meet me. You told me that.”
She glared back at him through her tears and had never felt more lost and alone.
He reached out his hand and smiled.
“Come. You asked me to help you fix this.”
She felt the cold mud seeping through her skirt, the hard gravestone on her back.
“Let’s get to safety,” he said.
She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet and guide her back through the wrought-iron gates, down the black alley where a Moseley out of time waited.
— 2 —
DANNY CAME THROUGH, he thought the ringing and barrage of noise in his ears was an effect of the touchstone. He’d noticed that heat was sometimes a side effect of passing through – a burning of the fingers, sudden dehydration, a flushing of the face – and he’d wondered why that might be. He stumbled, trying to get his bearings. It was not St Mary’s churchyard on a Saturday morning in 1912, as he’d expected – the 1912 morning where he’d just saved Amy Parker’s life. The first thing out of place was that it was night. On each previous journey through the touchstone, the time of day had matched – hadn’t it been almost exactly 100 years’ difference? – but this time he’d passed from daylight through to night.
An overwhelming smell of sulphur and bonfires. Giant searchlight beams blindly fingered red clouds and silent hovering barrage balloons. An All Clear siren wailed, holding an eerie suspended chord before dying and leaving silence.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all.
He thought for a moment that this was the end of the world, some nuclear nightmare apocalypse – that he’d come through, the last man alive, to see the end of it all.
Footsteps and hushed voices echoed from the alley. He padded over on the soft grass to investigate, peeping through the wrought-iron gate.
A line of dark figures shuffled from a side yard, their steps echoing against the walls, heading for the village green. An old man counted them out. He wore a tin hat with a big white letter W painted on it.
Danny could see how they were dressed. It wasn’t the end of the world at all. This wasn’t the future, it was the Blitz.
He shrunk back into shadow. The touchstone had reliably provided a real-time link between 2011 and 1912, and now it had changed. If it had changed for him, surely it was the same for Rachel. Wouldn’t she be here as well? He should find her, but not dressed in his Edwardian suit.
The air warden turned suddenly, catching sight of movement in the churchyard.
“Hey, you!”
Danny flinched.
The old man approached the gate. “Who goes there?” His hand went to the pistol at his belt.
Danny ducked out of sight and rushed across mud to lunge at the touchstone.
Bright light blinded him. He thought someone had shone a torch in his face. Daylight. He staggered and swooned, and remembered that time he’d ridden his bike across a slick of water: one moment sailing along happily, then lying dazed on the floor. No instant of time as he fell – just a cut from riding to lying, as if the slip and fall had been edited out. Time could disappear like that, even just a second of time.
He was in the same spot, seventy years later, the hum of traffic replacing the wail of the All Clear. No searchlights, no barrage balloons. It was a Saturday afternoon in November 2011. He walked around in a circle, wondering what to do.
“Damn it!” he shouted.
— 3 —
RACHEL CLIMBED UP THE barrel skid steps, Charlie pulling her up. The cellar doors fell back with a bang that echoed around the moonlit yard.
“Last out,” he said. “All clear.”
Like this was normal. Like hiding in a cellar while droning planes bombed the streets to hell was no different to scuttling into a shop doorway waiting for a shower to pass.
Reg came dashing out of the churchyard, his pistol drawn. “Did you see him?”
“See who? What?”
“A fellah hanging around in the graveyard. He was spying. I chased him and he disappeared.”
Rachel felt her stomach knot. A familiar queasy fear. Danny, she thought.
“Are you sure, Reg?”
“I saw him, clear as day. Challenged him. He ran for it.” Reg scratched his head under his helmet. “I’ve searched the entire churchyard and no sign of him. He must have doubled back this way.”
“Perhaps it was someone who missed the air raid warning,” said Charlie. “Perhaps he was looking for the shelter.”
“But why would he run from an ARP, sir? He was spying. I’m ruddy sure of it. Dressed funny too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it was hard to see in the dark, but he was dressed... foreign. Old fashioned.”
Rachel gripped Charlie’s hand and pulled at it. He seemed to sense her thoughts – that he should cut this conversation, bury it.
“Good work, Reg,” Charlie said. “Report to me tomorrow and tell me everything you remember.”
“Yes, sir.” Reg saluted and clicked his heels.
“We’re the last out. All clear now.”
Charlie turned and led Rachel away, down the black alley to the dim door of light at the end.
They came out to the village green and she stopped, taking it in. Eerie, haunted, lit only by moonlight. A few dark figures scurrying home. The street lights were dead, and every window at every building was black. A car drove through the crossroads, slowly, without its headlights on. She noticed the kerbs were painted white and that was the only way you could possibly navigate a car at night.
“Better be careful as we cross,” said Charlie. “Can’t always see the cars in the blackout.”
She looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.
“Come on, it’s over here.”
He pointed across the street to the corner, where the ornate Baroque Revival façade of her favourite building looked over the village crossroads. They crossed over and to her surprise he entered a dark ginnel between two shops. Her hand in his, walking blindly up a black alley, so narrow she had to walk behind him.
He turned right into a back yard, scraped a key in a lock and they trudged up steep, dark stairs to an apartment. When he turned the lights, on she found herself standing shyly in the flat of an eligible bachelor. A wealthy bachelor.
He took off his trench coat and cap and watched her looking over the contents of his place.
Black curtains at several points around the long, curved room. She rushed to the curtain at the far end and pulled it open.
“Don’t!” he said. “Blackout.”
She peeped out of a narrow sli
t. Leaded windows looking down on the village green.
“It’s the castle,” she said. “My castle.”
“I’m sorry?”
She let the curtain drop and turned to him. “This is my favourite building. I’ve always called it the castle. I’ve always imagined living here. You live in my castle.”
“Yes,” he said. “You told me how much you loved it.”
“Oh.”
This was too much. How well did she know this man? How much time had she spent with him? How much did he know about her?
“We need to get you out of those clothes,” he said. Then he blushed and stammered, “That sounded terrible. I mean, I have a change of clothes for you. Come and see.”
She followed him through to a cramped box room where he opened a wardrobe.
“There are a few outfits there for you. I expect you won’t even need them all but I thought I ought to give you a choice.”
Rachel looked them over and stroked her hand across silk and cotton dresses.
“And there are nylons and, er... underthings. In the drawers, er, the drawer. There.”
She smiled inside for the first time.
“It was a little embarrassing sourcing them, but, there you are. Can’t have you walking round in clothes from thirty years ago, can we?”
“These clothes are from my time,” she said. “Fifty years from now.”
He looked her up and down and shrugged. “Oh, I see. Is that how they dress in the future?”
“Not really,” she said.
As modern clothes went, it had a slightly Victorian look. A black maxi skirt, boots, a cheap Goth velvet jacket she’d bought from Oasis. It had been a dress that could pass for both then and now, in the dark. If you didn’t look too closely, she might be a poor Edwardian street girl. But the Edwardian walking suit from Mrs Hudson’s shop had been better.
She realized with a sudden pang of loss that Mrs Hudson’s Edwardian walking suit didn’t exist anymore. It was in her old bedroom, and that wasn’t there, because Rachel didn’t exist. She’d never been born. Danny Pearce had saved the life of a teenage Edwardian girl, Amy Parker, and that had somehow wiped out Rachel’s life.
“This must be all a bit queer for you,” Charlie said.
She nodded and tried to laugh through the giant knot in her throat, and then looked at him expectantly.
“What is it?” he said.
“Are you going to watch me change?”
“Oh crikey, no! I’ll leave you to it. Call me if you need any — no, just come back into the lounge when you’re dressed. I’ll fix us a drink. We both need one.”
He flustered out, eyes on the floor, coughing, and she listened to his boots scurry back to the long lounge room.
She opened the drawer and scanned the selection of silk underwear laid out for her.
— 4 —
DANNY RAN BACK TO HIS student flat on Chantry Road, his mind buzzing like a wasp’s nest. He’d saved Amy Parker’s life back in 1912. He’d stopped her mad father from murdering her, and now Rachel’s life had somehow disappeared. She’d gone home and said her father hadn’t recognized her. She’d rushed back to the touchstone intending to kill Amy Parker to somehow set it right. But it wasn’t 1912 anymore on the other side. It was, what? 1940? 1941?
He let himself in with his key. Music from the kitchen, a mournful ballad with some warbling female singing I’ll go wherever you will go... Jessica was on a stool, painting her toenails scarlet.
“Who was that awful chav girl at the door? You don’t know her do you?”
Somehow, this had happened. A world without Rachel in it had carried on and only he remembered her.
“No,” he said. “Do you know her?”
“God, no.”
“She said her name was Rachel Hines. Something about being on our course.”
“Ugh, they’re letting anyone in university nowadays.”
Jessica knew Rachel. She’d seen her, joked about her, laughed at her clothes. She’d been right there when Mr Fenwick had paired Rachel with Danny for their research project.
“You definitely haven’t seen her before?”
Jessica looked up from her nails. “What the hell are you wearing? Are you going to a wedding or something? And what happened to your face?”
He touched the cut on his cheek, where insane Mr Parker had smacked him across the face. “No,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
He left her and climbed the stairs to his loft room. Rachel had been here, a fellow student on their course and now no one knew her. She’d gone back to kill Amy. That was what she’d implied. He’d saved Amy and that had wiped out Rachel, so Amy had to go. But she’d gone back to the Blitz, not 1912.
He scanned the wall above his desk – his ‘shrine’, she’d called it – photographs of Amy, photocopies and printouts of all the research, the green death certificate for her father, and the one for Amy. He tore it from the wall, scanning the entries, noticing the handwriting was different, less ornate.
Cause of death: Cardiorespiratory failure.
The date said 1966.
It had said Murder, 1912 before. He’d saved her life and that had changed everything. Amy would live to be, what? 70.
She was alive in 1940.
And Rachel was there to change that.
He hit his seat and switched on his laptop, swearing as it booted up with the speed of a turtle.
Was there any need to rush? He’d gone through in a blind panic to stop Rachel killing Amy Parker – she’d looked mad enough to do it – but what he’d seen had scared him, thrown him, made him retreat, run back home... to do what exactly?
To find out what year it was there now, on the other side. If it was the Second World War, then Amy would be in her forties now. She was safe from the bombs falling, but not from Rachel.
He would need money again, and the right clothes. It was Sunday tomorrow. Could he wait till Monday morning? Could he give Rachel a whole day and a half head start? She was unprepared. She had no help. He could research and find out exactly where Amy was living first thing Monday morning when the Central Library opened. He could find Amy before Rachel got to her. He would be armed with information, whereas Rachel had gone through blind. She’d know nothing.
His laptop screen came to life and he waited for it to find the house’s wifi signal. Then he googled When was Birmingham bombed in the blitz? and hit the Enter key.
A list of sites flowed down the screen. He chose one and found a detailed list of dates and exact locations when Birmingham was bombed during the war. It looked like Amy, and Rachel, were some time in November, 1940.
He hit the print button and his laser printer whirred into life.
— 5 —
RACHEL UNDRESSED AND slid into the silk cami-knickers in the drawer, not sure if she was fastening them up the right way. She pulled on stockings, mimicking Hollywood screen sirens in old films, and spent half an hour trying to fasten them to a garter belt. How did any woman in the forties get out of the house before noon, going through this palaver? There was a pair of black slingback shoes with a two-inch heel. Should she wear these in the house? There were no slippers. She prised them on and tottered. Heels were not really her thing; she’d always been more of a DMs girl. She found a hair brooch and pinned one side of her hair up, which she’d seen in war films. It made her look roughly the part, but she felt stupid and overdressed.
She wrapped her DMs and Goth jacket inside her maxi-skirt and hid the bundle in the wardrobe.
Wobbling on the heels, she ventured out into the lounge. Charlie was sitting in an armchair cradling a fat brandy glass. He looked up and there was something curious in his eyes.
“You look... smashing,” he said.
“Thanks. I feel ridiculous.”
“Here, sit down,” he said, rising from his chair and pointing her towards the sofa. He went over to the Art Deco cocktail cabinet and poured a brandy for her. “Drink this. I don’t know why brandy helps, but
it does.”
She perched on the edge of the sofa and took a sip, lugubrious warmth radiating through her. She hadn’t realized how cold she was.
Charlie sat and raised his glass. He had pulled his tie loose and, despite the crisp lines of his khaki shirt and trousers, he looked dishevelled, as if the bombardment was only now affecting him.
“This is all a bit strange,” he said. “You obviously haven’t met me yet. Even though you have.”
“And I asked you to help me?”
“That’s why I knew you’d come here tonight. Because you knew it when you first met me. Which has yet to happen.”
“This is too weird,” she said.
“You gave me a list, you see.” He pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “It’s a list of dates and times I should meet you, and have clothes prepared for you.”
He offered it to her.
“No,” she said, shaking her head and looking at the faded rug. “I don’t think I want to see that, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. All right, then. I suppose that would feel strange, reading something you haven’t yet written. Don’t you want to know how we met?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t mean to be silly. It’s just that... a couple of hours ago, I found out my dad and my nan don’t recognize me, because I was never born, and it’s all because of this Amy Parker, and I go back to 1912 to fix it and it’s...’ she sighed and shrugged, nonplussed.
“It’s 1940. November the nineteenth.”
“And you’re here and you know everything about me, including my dress size.”
“I understand,” he said, suddenly enthusiastic. “But Amy Parker. This is what I can help you with. I hope.”
She looked up. He had a kind face, eager to please.
“She still lives in Moseley. I’ve spent the last five years making friends with her, and with your family.”
“My family?”
“You’ll see them properly tomorrow, and we’ll hopefully see Amy Parker too. Then we can work out what to do about her.”