by C. R. Berry
Thinking about it, that made sense. Miss Morgan said that Skinner had been killed by Edward IV, who must’ve given Skinner’s chronozine to his sons. Did that mean he’d given them the book as well?
Snider and the boys were having some sort of altercation. They were shouting and Snider had a hold of Edward V’s wrist, waving a small wooden box in the boy’s face. Rawling got close enough to hear – but not too close. He found a shadowy spot between two streetlamps, removed his spectacles and slipped them into a pocket, and watched.
“Come on then, open it, you little weasel,” said Snider. “Show me what it is you’ve stolen.”
“Unhand me. I am the king!” screamed Edward.
“I told you I don’t speak your foreign prattle. Just open the damn box, boy.”
Four hundred years of language change were preventing Snider and the princes from understanding each other. To Rawling they all spoke Modern English, but that was because of his cognit and the psychic field it was generating, translating everything he was hearing. It was the main reason Rawling couldn’t get too close. If he did, the psychic field would get into Snider’s head, get into the princes’ heads, and they’d all be able to understand each other. At the moment Snider thought the boys foreign thieves in fancy dress. Rawling wasn’t about to risk further damage to the timeline if Snider were to find out that they were the famously long-missing Princes in the Tower after having time-travelled from the 15th century.
Rawling saw the younger of the princes, Richard, race down some porch steps and charge at Snider, who took out his legs. The boy fell flat on the pavement, then Snider dragged Edward over to him and placed his foot on the boy’s neck.
Despite Edward continually asserting his kingly authority, albeit in a child’s squall, Snider pressed down on Richard’s throat, demanding that he open the box. Finally Edward relented, removing a key from around his neck, and Snider freed his brother and ordered him to unlock it.
The box open, Rawling dug his fingers into his palms. Could the book be inside?
Snider let go of Edward’s wrist and lifted something suitably book-like from the box, reading the front of it aloud, “The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems…”
Yes! He’d found it.
“Sounds fascinating,” said Snider, hurling the box and stuffing the book into his coat, quite happy, it seemed, to steal from thieves.
Edward pleaded for it back and the arrogant son of a bitch whacked him across the face. As the brothers huddled together on the ground, Snider used a whistle to summon a horse-drawn carriage, which click-clacked noisily over to him.
“Good evening, sir,” said the driver.
“Take me to Whitechapel,” said Snider as he climbed into the carriage.
In response to Edward’s continued pleas, Snider rasped, “Away with you. Go back to the boat you stowed away on,” and scornfully tipped his hat to the boys.
As his carriage rolled up the road, an occupant of the house the princes were standing outside shouted through the window, “Oi, you noisy tykes, sling yer ’ook!” and frightened them away.
Rawling was torn. He had to go after the book but at the same time he couldn’t just let two missing royals from the 15th century continue wandering about 19th-century London. Their being there was Million Eyes’ doing.
He decided he’d catch up with Snider later and went after the boys. He saw them stop soon after running from the house. He couldn’t hear what they were saying anymore – he was too far away. He saw Edward pick up a stray sheet of newspaper and examine it.
A minute later, he saw them each take another chronozine pill and pull together in a tight embrace. A flash of light – white, blinding and silent – blazed from where they stood, lighting up the whole street for a split-second.
Gone.
The white flash had drawn confused looks from passers-by. A couple of people stopped, glanced around and moved on, slightly more haste in their step. Rawling hoped no one had been watching closely enough to actually see the princes vanish in front of their eyes.
One problem at a time.
It was still only a matter of minutes since John Snider had departed for Whitechapel with the book – Rawling could still catch up. He put on his spectacles and did a quick scan of the princes’ point of dematerialisation: out of temporal radius. That meant wherever the princes had gone, it was beyond the ambit of his chronode, the chip in his head that allowed him to read time and select time zones after taking a chronozine pill. Its ambit was ten thousand years in the future and ten thousand years in the past. Rawling hoped the princes’ destination was sometime beyond the former – then at least there was no chance of them fucking up the existing timeline (which was messed up enough as it was).
Well… no changes yet.
With nothing left to do but go after Snider, Rawling hurried over to another carriage that had just pulled into the street. This one, unlike the vehicle he’d watched Snider get into, had four wheels, two horses and the driver sitting in front.
“Good evening, sir,” Rawling said to the driver. “Please kindly take me to Whitechapel.”
“Of course, sir. And a good evening to you too.” He seemed surprised by Rawling’s politeness. Perhaps Victorian Londoners were just as rude as 21st-century Londoners. Rawling climbed inside the carriage and closed the door. He heard the soft snap of the driver’s whip and the carriage rocked forwards.
He retrieved his phone from his waistcoat pocket and rang Miss Morgan to update her.
“Yes, Mr Rawling?” she answered sharply.
“I’ve found the book, ma’am,” he replied.
“You have it?”
“Not yet. A man called John Snider has it. I’m pursuing him as we speak.”
“Do you know how he got it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. He took it from… from Edward V and Richard, Duke of York.”
A pause, then, “So they had Skinner’s chronozine. Edward IV must’ve given it to them. And the book.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are the princes now?”
“They used the chronozine to travel in time again.”
“To when?”
“Out of temporal radius.”
Rawling could tell her teeth were clenched as she spat, “For fuck’s sake,” through them, but her exasperation tailed off quickly, probably as she realised its uselessness. Sighing deeply she echoed his earlier sentiment, “One problem at a time. Just get that book back, Mr Rawling. We have less than two hours till the Shield fails.”
Then it would be over. Rawling would be trapped there, with no future to return to. “Yes, ma’am. Understood.”
Miss Morgan’s anxiety-flecked voice cut to three short beeps, then silence. Rawling slipped the phone back into his pocket. Immediately worried that he wasn’t going to catch up to Snider, he opened the window and called to the driver, “My friend – any chance you can go a bit faster? I have an urgent engagement.”
“Yes, sir.” His whip snapped loudly and the horses sped up.
Shortly after, the carriage pulled into Whitechapel High Street and, a stroke of luck, Rawling caught sight of Snider walking up the road. His carriage must’ve been particularly slow, or Snider had got waylaid somehow. Rawling climbed out of his carriage, paid the driver and discreetly followed Snider.
Rawling checked his watch – 11.15pm. He saw Snider wander up Osborn Street and onto Brick Lane and followed, walking about a hundred metres behind on the opposite side of the road. Up ahead, prancing down his side of the road and swinging her hips inelegantly was a plump, unsightly woman in a rugged, red-brown overcoat, ample brown frock, black boots and a black bonnet. Hanging from her shoulder was a tatty-looking brown bag, shoddily woven from frayed, flimsy strands of rope. Her features lit up with excitement at the sight of Snider and she ran across the road to him.
Ah. Could this be her?
Rawling retrieved his spectacles and put them on.
Mary Ann Nich
ols. DOB: 25/08/1845.
Commonly known as ‘Polly’.
It was her. The woman destined to hand the book to Queen Victoria – which Rawling was there to prevent.
He stayed back, watching them embrace. Snider clasped Nichols’ face in his hands and buried his tongue in her mouth for such a length of time that it looked like they would both suffocate. Her hands slid up his back and her fingers bent into claws as she dragged them down again, her fingernails looking like they might rip the broadcloth of his coat.
They broke away at last. Nichols took Snider’s hand. She led him inside the front door of a house a little further up the road, shutting it behind them. Rawling waited in a shadowy alleyway between two houses and watched. He saw a low light flicker in an upstairs window.
He waited.
Fifteen minutes later, the front door opened and Snider and the woman emerged looking flushed and a bit dishevelled. With a parting kiss, they walked off in opposite directions, the woman towards the Frying Pan public house on the corner of Brick Lane and Thrawl Street, Snider towards Rawling.
Rawling wasn’t sure what to do. Had Snider given the book to Nichols? Or did he still have it?
Snider was crossing onto Rawling’s side of the road. Any moment now he would pass the alleyway. Rawling was going to have to confront him.
Snider walked briefly out of view, blocked by the house Rawling was hiding behind. Rawling listened for the tap of his shoes against the cobbles.
Rawling’s stomach churned. He’d known that he might have to resort to violence to recover the book. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d been in control for years now. Everything that happened – it was in the past. And it was going to stay there. There was no way he was going to lose it now.
Snider’s footsteps now clear and loud, Rawling stepped into his path, standing about a metre in front of him.
Snider stopped, frowning. “Do I know you?”
“No,” said Rawling. “Do you still have the book?”
Snider shook his head, looking confused. “Book? What book?”
Please don’t do that. Rawling hated liars. Time-wasters. “You know very well I’m referring to the book you stole from the two boys. Give it to me, please.”
“Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Snider tried to walk around Rawling – Rawling blocked him.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Not until I have the book.”
Snider barged past him but Rawling clamped his hand on his forearm.
Snider’s eyes flared at Rawling’s gall. He jabbed Rawling’s cheek with his free fist.
Rawling bounced back quickly. He was tougher than he looked. Why does everybody fucking underestimate me? Something hot and fast surged through his body and propelled him at Snider. He grabbed him by both shoulders and yanked him hard into the alleyway.
Snider fell face-first onto the ground, smashing his chin, and his bowler hat flew off. As he twisted round, mouth open, eyes darting about in panic, throwing up his hand to collect the blood dripping fast from the gash in his chin, Rawling arched over him, smothering him in his silhouette.
Rawling’s fingers were tingling. Why did the fucker have to provoke him like that? “Where is the book?” Rawling demanded one more time.
“Go fuck yourself!”
I haven’t got time for this.
Rawling dived to his knees, fastened a grip on Snider’s throat and squeezed, Snider’s chin wound bleeding all over his brown leather glove. Snider’s hands shot up and clawed at Rawling’s, desperately trying to prise open his fingers.
“Please don’t make me ask again,” said Rawling, trying to remain as calm as possible.
When Snider still refused to speak, Rawling closed his hand around his neck another centimetre. He could feel the fast throb of Snider’s blood through his glove, labouring through the veins that he was crushing. Purple tinted Snider’s face.
Something familiar stirred in Rawling. It rose from the pit of his stomach, rippled all the way to his fingers. The rush was back. The one he’d not felt in years. The life slowly fading from Snider’s eyes made him feel like he was waking from a dream. He didn’t want to let go. He’d missed this. Oh, how he’d missed it.
With no voice, just a sliver of breath, Snider finally choked, “Okaaay,” and stuffed his trembling hand into the left side of his coat.
So he did still have it.
Although the excitement coursing through him was difficult to part with, Rawling forced himself to loosen his grip slightly. He didn’t want to – he had to.
Snider’s eyes flickered with panic. He pulled out his hand – empty – and shoved it inside the right side of his coat. He withdrew his hand – still empty.
He didn’t have it. Fuck. Rawling released his throat. He couldn’t just pluck this man out of history. He was there to fix things, not fuck them up. He was better than that idiot, Robert Skinner, and he was going to prove it.
Snider doubled over, heaved for air, coughed and spat blood. Rawling must’ve burst something. “S-she… she must’ve… stolen it from me,” he spluttered.
Rawling left Snider sprawled on the cobbles and headed for the Frying Pan pub.
What just happened? He removed his bloody gloves and tucked them in his pocket. What did I just do?
He’d closed that door a long time ago. And it wasn’t a door that was easy to close. If what he’d just done had reopened it, he knew he’d never close it again.
Keep it together, James. Keep it together…
Reaching the Frying Pan, he gazed through the grimy window. He didn’t go in, just scanned for Nichols. Prostitutes loitered around men playing cards, swigging beer and occasionally making provocative gestures at them with their tongues and fingers. There she was. Standing slanted at the bar as though one of her legs was much shorter than the other, clutching the edge of the counter to stop from toppling.
Her shabby rope bag was swinging from her shoulder. Rawling peered hard to see if he could make out the dark green binding of the book through the bag’s loose weave. He couldn’t, but it was probably shrouded by the other things she had in it.
When Nichols moved away from the bar, she stumbled over an empty chair and let a good inch of her cloudy pint splash over the shoulder of one man’s frock coat. She laughed hysterically. The man was pink with rage and shot an obscenity at her, but she was already halfway across the pub, falling all over a bunch of people who appeared to be her friends.
Rawling waited for her to part with the bag, but she didn’t let it off her shoulder. Perhaps she’d realised the book’s importance and wasn’t letting it out of her sight.
He waited outside until half-midnight when Nichols left the Frying Pan, lurching and swaying down Thrawl Street, utterly wasted. Rawling was on the opposite side in a furtive pursuit, the street too busy and open to apprehend her. He watched her go inside a common lodging-house marked Wilmott’s.
Once again he waited. He would’ve waited till morning if he had to, but nearly an hour and a half later, the front door to Wilmott’s opened, Nichols stumbling out. “Sorry, Nichols,” said a man from inside. “No money, no room. I ain’t running no charity here.”
“Never mind!” Nichols squealed in reply. “Save a bed for me, will you? ’Cause I’ll soon get my doss money.” She pointed at her hat, “See what a jolly bonnet I’ve got now!”
The front door slammed and Nichols turned, staggering along Thrawl Street. It would’ve been easy to pounce on her and snatch her bag, given the state she was in, but Rawling couldn’t have done it without someone seeing. So he bided his time, maintaining a careful distance as she continued at a stop-start pace, occasionally colliding with walls, onto Commercial Street. It was even busier here, mostly with prostitutes looking for trade, along with a few pedestrians and the odd carriage. Victorian London didn’t sleep any more than 21st-century London.
Rawling watched Nichols knock on the doors of several m
ore lodging houses and get turned away. She turned left up Whitechapel High Street, tried another lodging house – to no success.
She reached the corner of Whitechapel High Street and Osborn Street, spotted someone she knew and made every house around aware of that fact with a jubilant scream, “Emilyyyy!” She floundered towards her, arms flailing like spaghetti, legs barely attached to the rest of her.
Emily looked like another prostitute but by her symmetrical walk was clearly less intoxicated. She was almost overturned when Nichols plunged into her arms.
“God, Polly, how much have you had?” Emily said, freeing herself from Nichols and propping her up against her hands.
“Only a couple,” Nichols lied, unleashing that loathsome, piercing, wince-inducing giggling sound she kept making at the pub.
This woman was getting on Rawling’s last nerve.
“Best get back to Wilmott’s, before you do yourself a mischief,” said Emily.
“Naaaah. Can’t, can I. Bastards kicked me out.” She continued to sway from side to side as she leaned against Emily’s hands.
“Why?”
“Couldn’t pay ’em. Made me doss money three times over today” – she hiccupped – “but I drank it aaaaall away.”
“Oh, Polly, what d’you go and do that for?”
“It’s fine. I’ll make it again. Won’t be long before I’m back.”
“Where you going now?”
“Work the streets, I guess. Got a new bonnet, see. They’re all gonna want some of this!” She did a graceless pelvic thrust as she said ‘this’.
“You be careful. Pickings are slim tonight. And it’s almost” – the bells of a nearby church chimed at that very moment – “no, it’s exactly half two in the morning.”
Nichols murmured as they parted, lips struggling to shape the right words, “Don’t you worry about me!”
Emily turned up Osborn Street, and Nichols continued her meandering course up Whitechapel High Street. Rawling resumed his pursuit.
He followed her to a narrow street called Buck’s Row. At last a road that was bare of people. The smell of stale urine that was common all around these parts was even more pungent here. To Rawling’s left were some warehouses, to his right the grim edifice of a school, with a stable yard and a row of dreary terraced houses just ahead of it, the only light on the street coming from a single gas lamp at the other end.