Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  It was hopeless.

  She didn’t belong here. She needed to give him what she had to and then return to 2013 and her empty apartment above the pub — the loneliness and nothing but Charlie’s record collection for company; wondering how she might one day work out what had happened in the previous hundred years since they’d saved Amy Parker’s life, which had wiped out Rachel’s existence.

  It was there somewhere.

  But it wasn’t here in 1934.

  She would find it one day and try to correct it. Or she’d never find it, and have to live the rest of her life as an exile from her own existence.

  She put her head in her hands and tried to think herself back to 2013. This was how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it? There was no touchstone. She was the touchstone. That was what Mitch had told her, and Mrs Hudson, and Kath Bright. You are so powerful, Kath had said. More than any of us.

  But she was still sitting on a cold bench in 1934. She would just have to go to the church yard and touch the stone and hope that it would work. It was all so hopeless.

  “You look a little lost, Miss Hines.”

  She opened her eyes. A kind smile. A raised hat. It was Henry.

  “No,” she said. “Just preparing myself for the journey home.”

  “Have you come a long way?” he asked.

  She nodded. “A very long way.”

  “I should apologize for my friend,” he said. “But I’m not as much of an ass as him, so I really can’t.”

  She smiled.

  “May I?”

  He indicated the space next to her. She nodded and he sat down. “Charlie is a nice man, but... well, a little bit scared of women.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Believe me; I’ve seen him in action. He’s terrible.”

  She was laughing now. There was something about Henry Curtis that made her feel instantly more cheerful. He was a nice person to be around.

  “You should try with him. He needs a gentle shove sometimes.”

  “I don’t know,” said Rachel. “I’ve got a book for him. I think I’ll go home and get it, give it to him and then leave him alone.”

  Henry didn’t ask about the book, even though he was burning with curiosity, she could tell. It was another nice thing about him: he saw everything, but didn’t intrude on your privacy.

  “I’ll meet him again someday,” she said.

  Henry stood up. “I hope so. He could do with a lady like you around. Give him a boot up the backside.”

  He turned around and brushed at the now faded boot print on his overcoat, smiling mischievously. Rachel covered her mouth, laughing.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She shook and he kissed her fingers.

  “Don’t leave it too long to see him again,” he said.

  He raised his hat and jaunted off.

  Rachel gazed up at the church clock. There was nothing to do but give Charlie the almanac and let it all play out from there — let it all play out just like it already had.

  She would go and touch the gravestone again. She wasn’t ready to think herself back to the present. She pushed herself up off the bench and headed up St Mary’s Row.

  She would meet Charlie again someday, she knew that. And those days would be happy ones. The problem was: for Charlie those days were all in the future. But for Rachel, they were all in the past, and this was the last time.

  — 7 —

  THE CHURCH BELL WAS clanging as Rachel walked through the lychgate on St Mary’s Row. Did that mean a service was starting or ending?

  There was a crowd of people gathered in their Sunday best by the church entrance. She hoped no one would be in the graveyard at the rear or she would have to wait to perform her disappearing act.

  She turned the corner and took the grass instead of the stone path, so no one would hear her footsteps.

  It seemed to be empty.

  She walked swiftly but softly down to the far end of the graveyard, looking behind every few yards, making sure no one could see her.

  There. The touchstone.

  But you are the touchstone. That’s what they said. You don’t need this.

  It didn’t matter. She couldn’t sit and meditate for hours and hope she ended up back in 2013. She knew that if she touched that certain spot on the gravestone, it would send her back, just like it always had.

  Almost always.

  She was ten yards from it and still glancing behind her when a movement made her stop.

  The air shimmered around the touchstone ahead of her. Shimmered and folded in on itself and then coughed up the shape of a man.

  She ducked behind a tall marble crucifix and peeped through its Celtic ring.

  The man was dressed in a baggy blue pin-striped suit, with brown loafers and green tie. He was holding onto his hat and clutching a brown leather suitcase. He glanced around and didn’t see her. The wind seemed to be whipping at his trousers, which was strange, because it was quite calm where she stood.

  She saw his face and caught her breath.

  The man marched down to the wrought-iron gate at the rear of the churchyard, pushed at it. It creaked open. He scooted through and was swallowed by the shadow of the alley.

  Rachel felt cold fear run its icy fingers up her neck.

  Danny had come to 1934.

  — 8 —

  RACHEL HAD THOUGHT about staying.

  If Danny Pearce had come to 1934, whatever the reason, it would probably spell trouble for someone. Usually it had involved him protecting Amy Parker and her ancestors at the expense of Rachel. But this might mean trouble for Charlie.

  What if he’d come there now to interfere in some way: wipe out Charlie before Charlie could begin to help Rachel?

  She watched him disappear down the alley, heading for the village green, and felt relief that she’d decided to be cautious and take the long walk around. If she’d taken the short cut through the alley, she’d be standing facing him right now.

  Should she follow; find out what he was up to?

  She stood frozen and tried to think it through. Everything told her to follow Danny and stop him interfering in her past again. But she also had to go back to the present, get the almanac and give it to Charlie.

  And that was the only thing she should do.

  It didn’t matter. Whatever, she had to get the almanac. She might as well do it immediately. She could be back here in 1934 in ten minutes and then warn Charlie about Danny.

  If he would ever listen to her.

  She marched over the sodden grass to the touchstone, looked around one more time, and reached out.

  She yelped as her fingers burned, a ghost whispered in her ear, the church bells became white noise traffic roar and the grass at her feet grew half a yard.

  She steadied herself, looked all around.

  The grave stones around her had gained decades of moss. The gate was rusted and padlocked. She was back in 2013.

  She marched out through the lychgate and onto St Mary’s Row, confectioners, watchmakers and milliners replaced by an art gallery, hairdressers, Balti restaurants.

  It was no longer a cold January morning at all. It seemed like summer.

  She wondered how long she’d been gone as she walked quickly down St Mary’s Row and slipped into the ginnel between two shops, unlocking the iron gate swiftly and scooting down the dark alley to the back yard. Her keys were on a string around her neck. She was in and running up the stairs, as if someone were chasing her.

  The apartment was just as she’d left it. One of Charlie’s jazz albums laid out by the Dansette. A half-drunk cup of coffee on the table, a crust of green mould floating on it.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last been here. She’d found herself back here the day Charlie sort of proposed to her and she was ready to accept and stay with him in 1966. She’d visited the library and researched her maternal grandmother’s suicide. After that there was nothing. She�
�d found herself suddenly in the rest room at Kings Heath station, trapped in her own personal nightmare.

  The station at the end of time.

  She grabbed the almanac and shoved it in a canvas bag, then looked around for anything else she might take.

  She realized she could give Charlie the book, but unless she could tell him something that happened the day she appeared to him, there was a good chance he might throw it away.

  But he didn’t, she thought. Yes, but that was before Danny went back there. He might be there right now telling Charlie I’m a lunatic who wants to kill him.

  She needed something more.

  She switched on her laptop and waited for it to boot up. She googled Oswald Moseley’s mass meeting at Bingley Hall in Birmingham and verified the date as Sunday 21 January, 1934. From there she found a newspaper front page for the next day and scanned the blocks of clustered print for stories that might be reported as breaking radio news the previous afternoon. There was only one story that looked suitable. Everything else seemed to be general news from the whole weekend that anyone might know about that Sunday afternoon in 1934.

  She wrote down a few details of the story and then looked up a list of football results for January 1934. She’d printed them off and folded it in her pocket when the doorbell rang.

  She froze.

  No one ever called her here. No one knew her here. She peeped out of the window but couldn’t see anyone down on the pavement. Whoever it was, they were standing close to the gate.

  She crept down the stairs and out through the back yard, peeping up the long, dark alley to the daylight at the end.

  A woman. Sunlight glowing on bright red hair. It was Kath Bright. She saw her and waved.

  Rachel walked up the cool ginnel, realising she was a black silhouette to Kath, and stood at the gate.

  “You’re back then, Rachel?” Kath said.

  “I was just leaving, actually.”

  “Oh really? Going anywhere special?”

  Rachel looked down at the 1959 suit she was wearing, which did not look too much out of place in 1934, and clutched her canvas bag closer.

  “Or should I say anywhen?” Kath smiled at her own joke and seemed friendly.

  Rachel felt a pang of guilt. Kath had picked her up off the floor, at the absolute darkest point of her nightmare; picked her up and given her the strength to escape it.

  “Thank you,” said Rachel. “You rescued me. I don’t think I’d have done it without you.”

  Kath shrugged. “I bet you would. Like I said, you’re more talented than any of us.”

  Rachel shook her head. She didn’t feel talented at all. She didn’t feel like she understood any of this. She unlocked the gate and stepped out into the sunlight, closing it behind her.

  “You should come with us,” said Kath. “We could do with your help.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I haven’t got time.”

  Kath frowned and Rachel realized what she’d said. She clutched the bag tighter.

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s something I have to give to Charlie.”

  Kath grabbed at the bag and opened it, seeing the book before Rachel snatched it back.

  “I have to give it to him,” said Rachel. “Actually, I already have.”

  Kath bit her lip, nodded and seemed to understand. If she knew she’d already done it, then she had to do it. “When are you going?” she asked.

  “Now.”

  “I mean to when?”

  “Oh,” said Rachel, feeling stupid. “January, 1934.”

  Kath’s face fell. “Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  Kath took Rachel’s hand, squeezed it gently. Rachel remembered how much that same touch had saved her from dying in a padded cell.

  “Look, Rachel. I understand you have to go back. I really do. And I’m not going to stop you. But... well, it’s too much of a coincidence. There’s something you need to know before you go back there. You have to come with me. Now.”

  — 9 —

  KATH TOOK RACHEL TO the car park behind the shops where her Mini was parked.

  “Get in,” she said.

  Rachel paused. “Where are we going?”

  “Newport Road,” said Kath, matter of factly, as if it were obvious.

  Rachel got in beside her and Kath pulled out down the car park slope to the exit. Rachel giggled to herself as they waited for a break in the traffic.

  “What?” said Kath.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rachel. “It’s just the thought of you travelling in a car. Instead of, you know, just thinking yourself somewhere.”

  “Oh.” Kath laughed. She inched into the traffic on Alcester Road, turning right, through the traffic lights at the Moseley village crossroads.

  They sailed up the gentle rise and past the Prince of Wales pub. Rachel wondered idly about her bar job there. She’d probably been replaced already, disappearing with no notice given. She felt bad about letting them down. There was no way she could explain why she hadn’t given them a phone call or an email. Whatever the emergency you could always do that. Unless you’d disappeared into a nightmarish Untime that looked like Kings Heath train station. There was no point explaining that one.

  “Do you still use the gravestone in St Marys?” asked Kath.

  It felt strange discussing this with someone, out in the open, as if it were normal. Other than at first, with Danny, before he changed sides, this thing had always been a secret she carried alone. She wondered if Kath Bright might become her friend.

  “Yes. I do. I mean, I did just now. I know I’m supposed to be able to do it by myself, but... It’s just easier.”

  Kath nodded. “I still use the Dovecote. That’s where it all began for me. I’ve done it without a few times but it’s difficult.”

  “It seems to have a life of its own. I mean, I fall asleep or faint or something and I’m in a different time.”

  Kath drove on down the hill towards Balsall Heath, past the derelict tram depot and the near-derelict Moseley Dance Centre next to it. Rachel noticed that Kath kept her eyes on it as she passed, as if looking for signs of life beyond the grime-coated windows. A bright new banner flapped in the breeze and promised a vintage dance night called Hot Ginger.

  “That’s your innate talent trying to tell you how easy it is,” said Kath. “It’s your logical mind that’s refusing to believe it.”

  They took a sharp right down Brighton Road, under the railway bridge.

  “Yes, maybe,” said Rachel. It truly was much easier to believe it was a spooky gravestone causing this rather than any ability she had.

  Kath turned right again up Kingswood Road and then took a sharp left into Newport Road.

  “Mitch can do it better than me,” she said. “But even he has trouble. He’s more of an empath. He feels it.”

  Half way down the quiet back street, she parked up. Mrs Hudson and Mitch were standing before a derelict house, deep in conversation.

  The row of terraces all looked recently renovated, except for this one ruin that stuck out like the rotting tooth in a newly-capped row. The roof was dark and sunken like the bruise on a peach, the few square yards of garden were overgrown, and the door and window frames a tired blue that was a mass of flakes, the glass panes all grey and cracked.

  It was a total dump.

  Mrs Hudson and Mitch turned and looked surprised to see them.

  “I know I shouldn’t have,” said Kath. “But wait till you hear where she’s just visited.”

  Mrs Hudson forced a kindly smile that hid her alarm. “Let me guess,” said the old woman. “January, 1934?”

  Rachel frowned. “How do you know?”

  “Why then?” said Mrs Hudson, suddenly stern. “What are you up to?”

  Rachel stepped back, stammering. “Nothing. That’s where I arrived. After I escaped the station. You helped me get out of there and that’s where I woke up, so I don’t know why you’re implyi
ng that I’m up to something.”

  “No one’s implying...’ said Mitch.

  “I didn’t want any of this! I just want my life back!”

  Kath took her arm and whispered soothingly, “We know, Rachel. And we’re going to try and help you.” She shot a warning glare at Mrs Hudson, who turned and faced the house again. “But it’s quite a coincidence to us that you’ve just returned from 1934, because that’s where we’ve only just detected something very strange happening.”

  Rachel tried to read their faces.

  Mitch urged her forward, pointing at the house. “January 1934,” he said. “Here. Something happens.”

  “Saturday the 27th of January,” said Mrs Hudson bitterly.

  “What happens?” Rachel asked. “How do you know?”

  “I told you Mitch can sort of feel things,” said Kath. “He gets a sense for things: disruptions, ruptures in time. He feels them. And he’s felt one happening here, on that date.”

  “Well,” said Mitch. “This is where the anomaly is at its most powerful. And it’s off the charts. As if there’s a great deal of activity around this house.”

  “But at the Institute too,” said Mrs Hudson.

  “She means Moseley Dance Centre,” whispered Kath.

  “Yes,” said Mitch, impatiently.

  Rachel could tell they’d argued about this a lot.

  “But here it’s really powerful,” said Mitch. “Multiple visits. This is where the problem’s located.”

  Rachel looked from one face to the other. “Is it someone’s touchstone?”

  Mitch shrugged. “The level of activity matches that. But there’s something else too. A very bad energy. Something very wrong happens here.”

  Kath pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolded it to reveal a photocopied page from Kelly’s Directory 1934.

  “Here. It lists a Mrs Alice Ogborne living here. A widow. The 1931 census says it’s her; a son, Harold, aged 18, and daughter Judy, 15. Do you think that’s who it is?”

  Mitch shrugged. “I can’t tell.”

  “Sometimes,” Kath whispered to Rachel, “we get a lot of disturbance around girls in their late teens. We don’t know why.”