‘No freakin’ way!’ gasped Tom and his companions all turned to look at him in surprise.
He coughed in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Cat gave him a look that said ‘Is everything alright?’ He gave her a reassuring smile, but in truth, things weren’t even close to normal. He felt as though everything was slipping out of control, like he was on a runaway train, unable to slow it down.
‘They’re very good, aren’t they?’ said Lou, who was tapping his foot politely to the beat, but Tom couldn’t help feeling that this music was a bit tame for his taste. He looked around the crowd and noticed for the first time that every single person he could see, male or female, was wearing a hat of some kind. He realised that he was almost certainly the only bareheaded person in the park.
The brass band hit the final chord and the audience responded with enthusiastic applause. The conductor turned to face the crowd and bowed his head. He waited until the clapping had died away and then opened his mouth to speak.
‘Good evening, Edinburgh!’ he bellowed, his voice suddenly amplified to an echoing scream. ‘Are you ready to rock?’
Night fell in an instant, as though somebody had switched off the sun and around Tom, an appreciative roar went up from the crowd. The conductor was the DJ again, leaning in to a microphone to deliver his introduction.
‘Will you give a great big Edinburgh welcome to the best rock and roll band on the planet? Ladies and gentlemen . . . it’s The Deceivers!’
And the band were striding out on stage as thousands of cameras, held aloft, flashed a flickering, dazzling welcome. Chris Spencer, the drummer, slipped in behind a drum kit the size of a tank and launched into a four-four rhythm. Tom could feel the sound of the bass drum thudding in his chest like an amplified heartbeat. Steve Lampton, the bass player, took up his position to stage left and added an urgent, throbbing bass line. Adrian Langan, skinny and bespectacled, slid in behind a stack of state-of-the-art keyboards and began to layer slabs of brooding chords over the rhythm and then lead guitarist, Scott Griffin, plugged in his guitar and came in with a strident, sinewy riff. The crowd recognised the tune and a cheer went up, followed by an even bigger roar of approval, as singer/guitarist Jenny Slade strode out onto the stage, dressed in her trademark outfit of blue jeans and black leather jacket. She stepped up to the microphone, grinned down at the crowd below her and said, ‘Hello, Edinburgh. Are you ready to party?’
The screams that came up from the crowd announced that they were indeed ready to do exactly that.
‘Okay. This one’s called Time Traveller.’
This wasn’t a surprise to Tom. It was a recent hit record, a top ten single and Tom supposed it was what had attracted him to the band in the first place. When he’d first heard the song on the radio, it felt as though the lyrics had been written especially with him in mind.
I’m a time traveller baby, slipping through the years.
Said goodbye to sorrow, kissed away my fears.
Go wherever fate will take me. Don’t ever have a say.
Won’t let the future break me. I’ll live to love
another day.
When I feel the past is calling.
When I feel that I am falling.
Just say goodbye to the present. Live to love
another day.
Mum leaned in close. ‘They’re great, aren’t they?’ she yelled into Tom’s ear. He nodded, but he couldn’t settle to enjoy the music. He was waiting for the next time-shift to hit him. Annoyingly, it happened just as Scott Griffin went into the guitar solo. One moment Scott was unleashing a shrill barrage of screaming, gut-rending sound into the audience. The next, the music dropped in volume and turned into a polite, plodding hymn, but for a moment Tom could still see The Deceivers up there, seemingly crammed into the tiny bandstand and turning out the kind of music they wouldn’t have even known how to play. Then everything shimmered, rippled and once again it was daytime and the brass band was playing, the performers still and expressionless in their seats as they cradled their instruments.
‘I do love a good brass band,’ announced Lou and Tom turned his head to look. He registered with a dull sense of shock that Fran was standing to one side of Lou and Lloyd was on the other. But there was no sign of Cat anywhere.
‘Where is she?’ he yelled and once again, heads turned to look in his direction. ‘Where’s Cat?’
Lou smiled. ‘Did you not see? She went with the entertainer. The man in fancy dress? He asked her to help him with an illusion.’ He pointed back into the thick of the crowd and Tom saw two figures moving away from him. Cat was now walking arm-in-arm with a tall figure, a man dressed in a long leather cloak and a strange beak-like mask.
‘No!’ whispered Tom. ‘Why did you let him take her?’ He turned and began to push his way back through the crowd.
‘Tom, where are you going?’ called Fran. ‘He promised to escort her back in a few minutes.’
Tom ignored her. He weaved his way through the ranks of bodies, intent on catching up with the two people ahead of him. But he’d only taken a few steps when everything went dark again.
Twenty
It was Hogmanay night and the crowd had mutated into a swaying, dancing, chanting press of drunken people, and somehow Tom could still see Cat and McSweeny, gliding through the throngs ahead of him, as though they no longer had any real substance.
Tom quickened his pace, but he was still entirely solid and had to shoulder his way through the audience. The world around him kept fading and flickering like a dodgy light fitting. For an instant it was full daylight again and the crowd were polite, well dressed people in nineteenth century clothing, staring at him indignantly as he jostled his way through their midst; the next, it was pitch dark and everyone around him wore hoodies and anoraks and some of them were far from polite when he bumped into them. The air smelled of beer and cigarettes and the music continued to pump out, one moment reserved and plodding, the next a head-splitting grind of heavy rock. Tom felt disorientated by it all, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.
Cat and McSweeny had emerged on the far side of the crowd as daylight dawned once more and they hurried along the path to the entrance. Cat seemed to have no fear of her companion, she was striding alongside him as though in some kind of trance and Tom saw that McSweeny had an arm draped around her shoulders, as though claiming her as his property. Finally, Tom too emerged from the midst of the shifting, changing crowd and began to run after the two figures, just as darkness descended once again. The sound of the band diminished a little as he began to catch them up, but Cat and McSweeny were halfway up the staircase to the entrance before he finally closed on them. The stairs were deserted now, everyone’s attention focused on the band.
‘Wait!’ he yelled and started up the steps.
McSweeny came to a halt and spun around to face him. He lifted his free hand and pulled the mask aside, revealing that hideous face. Cat didn’t react to it. She was looking straight ahead, her expression blank. It was obvious now that she really was in some kind of trance.
‘Tom,’ said McSweeny. ‘You are persistent, I must give you that.’
‘Let her go,’ said Tom. He began to climb cautiously closer, taking it one step at a time. ‘Please. This isn’t about her. It’s between us. You and me.’
‘Do you think so?’ The man’s exposed teeth clacked together in a rictus grin. ‘But Tom, I thought I explained. Anything I can do to inflict pain on you gives me the most intense pleasure. And this lady . . .’ He traced a gloved hand down the side of Cat’s face. ‘This lady is very special to you, isn’t she, Tom? Oh, yes. She was your sweetheart once upon a time and now . . . now she’s your closest friend. Which is why she has to die.’
‘No. You can’t hurt her.’ Tom licked his lips. ‘Cat, listen to me. He can’t hurt you. He’s just a . . . a bad memory.’
‘Keep talking, Tom,’ rasped McSweeny. ‘It’s music to my ears.’
‘Cat, can you hear me? Please liste
n. He can’t kill you. Shall I tell you how I know that? Because . . . because it’s not your time to die. I know when that is, I’ve seen it written down. And he can’t change that. He just can’t.’
McSweeny laughed derisively. ‘I know only too well when she dies, Tom. In 1882. Which by my reckoning, is in about two minutes time.’
Tom stared at McSweeny in dismay. He hadn’t realised how late it was. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch, the one that Cat had given him. He flipped it open and saw that McSweeny was right.
‘The dates you saw written down,’ murmured McSweeny. ‘I’m not arguing with them. But I doubt that they mentioned how far into 1882 it actually was.’
‘Even so.’ Tom pushed the watch back into his pocket and climbed up another step. ‘Even so, you . . . you can’t hurt her. I won’t let you.’
‘My dear Tom, what makes you think you can stop me?’
Over on the stage the music came to an abrupt halt and Tom heard Jenny Slade’s voice calling out over the PA system. ‘Are you ready, Edinburgh? There’s just two minutes to go!’
A metal blade seemed to sprout from McSweeny’s gloved hand as if by magic. ‘If there’s something you’d like to say to Catriona,’ he murmured. ‘Now would seem like a good time.’
Tom shook his head. He couldn’t . . . wouldn’t allow this to happen.
‘Cat,’ he said. ‘Cat, listen to me!’
Her eyes seemed to widen a little, her head shifted slightly to the right. Now she was looking directly at him. Encouraged, he took another step closer.
‘I wish, I wish I could have stayed with you in 1829. It felt right being with you. It felt like we belonged together.’ The ghost of a smile played on Cat’s lips, as if she was remembering something. ‘What if I told you I thought we could go back there. The two of us. So we could be together again?’
‘Oh, so now who’s trying to change history,’ sneered McSweeny. ‘You can’t do that, Tom, don’t even pretend that you can.’
‘I’m not pretending,’ said Tom. ‘I really think I can do it.’
‘Don’t you understand? Haven’t you caught on yet? Time doesn’t exist, Tom. It’s a concept created by man. There are no rules, none of it makes any sense. You might think you’ve got the measure of it, but that’s just when it will leap up like a mad dog and bite you!’
From the stage, Jenny’s voice cut through the silence. ‘One minute to go, Edinburgh!’ Cheers rippled out from the crowd. Anticipation was mounting.
Tom held out a hand and took a step closer. ‘All we have to do, Cat, is hang on tight to each other. And we can do that, can’t we? You remember how I brought you back with me that time? Well, we could move in the other direction. I’m sure of it.’
McSweeny was moving his head from side-to-side, his neck bones making a strange creaking sound. ‘Empty words,’ he jeered. ‘Empty promises. From the boy with everything to lose.’
‘No. No, I think . . . I think I know how to do it, Cat! Let me show you how. Please.’
‘Twenty seconds, Edinburgh! Will you count with me? Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen . . .’ Yells of anticipation from the crowd as the old year leaned dangerously towards the new one.
McSweeny’s hand moved a fraction. The blade glittered malevolently beside Cat’s throat. ‘Say goodbye to her, Tom. It’s your last chance.’
It was now or never. Tom concentrated really hard and willed himself to make something happen. He knew he didn’t have to go back far. Just a few moments and a few short steps. The world shimmered and rippled around him, he felt the stone steps melting under his feet and he was gone, slipping through the cracks in time. Almost instantly the world solidified again and he was standing on the steps, directly behind McSweeny and Cat. He twisted around as he heard Jenny Slade yell, ‘One minute to go Edinburgh!’
He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed McSweeny’s wrist in one hand and pulled it away from Cat’s neck. Then with the other hand, as hard as he could, he punched the side of McSweeny’s head and sent him flailing down the steps in a tangle of bone and leather. He grabbed Cat and shook her awake. ‘Get back up to the gates,’ he yelled at her. ‘Cat, move yourself! Now!’
She gazed at him blankly, a sleeper rudely awoken, but she obeyed him instinctively, moving up towards the entrance gates. Tom turned back to see McSweeny lying in a sprawl at the bottom of the steps. He was recovering himself. He glared upwards and dull red lights seemed to glow in his empty eye sockets.
‘You slippery little swine,’ he growled.
He got to his feet, retrieved the knife from where it had fallen and started back up, his gaze fixed not on Tom, but on Cat, who was waiting now, beside the gates. Tom saw his enemy’s intention and ran down the steps just as McSweeny began to fade away. Tom leapt, threw his arms around the man’s bony frame and clung on tight as the two of them went hurtling headlong into a blizzard of sound and light. The world was a spinning maelstrom but Tom wasn’t going to let go this time. He managed to release his right arm and launched punch after punch at that hated, skull-like face, putting all the force he could muster into each blow. The face came apart beneath the onslaught, shattering into white splinters and flying off in all directions. McSweeny went spinning away with a yell of terror, falling to bits as he tumbled.
And then, abruptly, Tom was alone. He made contact with hard stone and went tumbling, rolling over and over down the steps, pain hammering through his body with such force that it snatched his breath away. He came to a halt and gazed up the steps to see Cat, looking down at him in horror.
‘Tom!’ she gasped.
He was aware of a warm wetness on his chest. He put his hand to it and the fingers came away soaked in blood.
Jenny Slade’s voice was booming in his ears.
‘Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .’
He clung grimly onto consciousness as Cat started down the steps towards him, one hand outstretched.
‘Six, five, four, three, two, ONE!’
And then the world seemed to explode in a roar of sound and fury and Cat’s anxious face was lit by a bright red glow. Tom twisted his head to look towards the silhouette of the castle, high above them, and he realised it was fireworks, an incredible display of them, bursting out of the building on columns of fire and smoke like some futuristic war, illuminating the night sky with their brilliance. The steps seemed to shake and shudder beneath him as giant rockets bloomed in the heavens like gigantic, exotic flowers. At a different time he would have watched in open-mouthed awe, but a terrible pain was spilling through his guts. He felt as though he’d been torn in half and he knew in that moment that he was dying, that he was more badly injured than a fall down a flight of steps could possibly have caused. The injustice of it made him gasp and his eyes filled with hot tears.
Cat got down the steps and knelt beside him. ‘Tom,’ she gasped. ‘Tom, what’s happened to you? You’re bleeding.’
‘I, I don’t know. I think . . .’ But even as he spoke, Cat seemed to be moving away from him, she seemed to be gliding along a dark corridor into the distance and though he shouted out her name again and again, he realised that she could no longer hear him. He was heading somewhere beyond her reach. The world breathed out, a great mournful sigh of discontent and he went down, one last time, into the darkness.
Twenty-One
He was hanging upside down in the dark and there was a stench of petrol in his nostrils, the mournful wailing of sirens in his ears, and when he managed to open his eyes he was dimly aware of flashing lights coming from somewhere outside. But outside where? He looked around, blinking with the effort, and realised he was inside Hamish’s overturned car. Below him, on the roof, he could see his Kindle lying there, still illuminated at the page he had been reading. As he looked at it, red spots splattered down onto the screen and he realised that it was blood. His blood. Then the pain hit him, unbelievable pain, rippling through his chest and stomach and making him gasp for breath.
Hands groped for hi
m and then two men in fluorescent jackets were gently unstrapping him from the seat belt, they were easing him out through a shattered open doorway into a chaos of moving vehicles and flashing lights. They lifted him onto some kind of stretcher and when he looked down at himself, he was shocked to see that his shirt was absolutely soaked with blood. He heard somebody screaming. It seemed a long way off but when he turned his head to one side, he saw Mum, struggling to get to him. She was shouting his name and there was blood on her face. Hamish and another man in a yellow jacket were holding her back, telling her to let the professionals deal with it. She was fighting them, trying to push them away but they held onto her. Hamish had tears in his eyes and it occurred to Tom that he had never seen the man cry before. He told himself that maybe old Hamish wasn’t so bad, after all.
Tom was sure of one thing. This was no alternative reality. This was actually happening. He tried to speak, to tell Mum not to cry, that he was okay, but when he opened his mouth he found he didn’t have the strength to make a sound and that was when he knew how serious it really was.
He was being lifted now, into the warm glow of light, and he realised that he was in an ambulance. There was a sliding sensation beneath him and something clicked firmly into position. A rubbery mask was clamped down over his mouth and he felt a rush of icy air flooding into his lungs, but he was still having difficulty drawing breath. He was dimly aware of his shirt being opened, gloved hands touching him, applying sticky things to his chest, things that he couldn’t quite see. There was the sound of an engine and the ambulance lurched into motion. A few seconds later he heard the sound of a siren, a long lonely wail. Then he heard more sobbing and realised that Mum and Hamish were in the ambulance, over by the doors, but they were being kept back by a grim-faced man, while a young woman in a green uniform attended to Tom. Her face was kind but grave and he could see in her eyes that she was concerned.
One for Sorrow Page 16