Trace Memory t-5

by David Llewellyn

  'It's not that,' said Michael. 'It's just that that's exactly what you said last time.'

  Jack frowned, and then a moment later understood, and realised he already knew too much.

  'Come on!' he said. 'Follow me!'

  He climbed the steps in great strides, past the sculpture, towards the upper galleries of the museum, and Michael followed.

  'But what's so urgent?' asked Michael, and then, with vague disdain, 'You said we were just looking at beautiful things.'

  'True,' said Jack. 'But I also said we had questions that need answering. Who said we couldn't do both?'

  They walked through gallery after gallery, past gaggles of schoolchildren listening attentively to prim and proper tour guides, and Michael looked at the paintings and wondered whether there would come a day when all of them would be gone for ever; burnt or buried like the pictures that had decorated his house when he was a child. Some of the paintings, so Jack told him, were centuries old; they had survived wars and plagues; but surely something as flimsy as canvas wouldn't last for eternity.

  When he told Jack this, Jack felt a sudden stab of sadness. Michael had a point. Jack was beginning to realise that there was a very good chance he'd outlast every painting in the museum.

  They'd walked through several of the larger galleries, when Jack said, 'There he is.'

  'Who?' asked Michael.

  'Sam,' said Jack, gesturing towards an old man with a mottled grey beard.

  'And who's Sam?'

  'He's the knower of all things,' said Jack. 'Like a kind of sage…'

  'Like sage and onion?'

  Jack laughed. 'No. Like a wise man. A magus. He's a friend, or as close to a friend as I've got most of the time.'

  Michael looked at the old man and frowned. He didn't look all that special. In fact, he looked more like a tramp — sitting on one of the leather viewing couches with his shoulders slumped, his hands resting on a wooden walking stick, and an old and battered satchel at his feet.

  On seeing Jack, the old man broke into a near-toothless grin. 'Jack!' he said.

  Jack led Michael across the gallery to where Sam still sat. 'Sam, this is…'

  'Michael,' said Sam. 'I won't get up, if you don't mind. Old bones. Can't get up and down too many times these days.'

  His voice was deep, a soft growl like the voice Michael imagined an ageing lion might have if it could speak.

  'It's been a while,' said Jack. 'How are you?'

  'Oh, so, so,' said Sam. 'You know how it is. Never getting any younger. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

  'I need a little information,' said Jack. About some names.'

  Sam nodded and rested his chin on the top of his walking stick.

  'I'll see what I can do, Jack,' he said. 'I'm not as sharp as I used to be. Things get cloudier the older you get.'

  'I'm being followed,' said Jack. 'Any idea who it might be?'

  The old man pursed his lips and glanced up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be floating somewhere in mid air.

  'Yes,' he said. 'You're quite right, of course. But who? There's a warehouse. Near water. But it's not what it looks like, Jack. Inside… so many people. And so many rooms, and corridors. Oh, I'm sorry, Jack. Ten years ago, I'd have been able to walk you there myself, but now… What use ami?'

  'It's OK,' said Jack, patting the old man's shoulder. 'It's fine. What about the name Hugo? Does that mean anything to you?'

  Sam sucked air through his few remaining teeth and then smiled.

  'Hugo Faulkner,' he said, nodding and drumming both hands on the walking stick. 'Posh lad? Talks like he's got a mouth full of plums?'

  Jack laughed. 'That's him.'

  'There's clouds there, Jack. Like storm clouds. But he's not the one you're afraid of…'

  Jack shrugged this off and laughed through his nose. 'Afraid? I'm hardly a-'

  'It's OK, Jack. You don't have to play the Humphrey Bogart act with me. How long have I known you?'

  Michael looked at Jack and was surprised to see him blushing.

  'OK,' said Jack. 'But can you see anything else? About Hugo?'

  'Yes. He's not the one you're afraid of, but he doesn't know what he's doing. The man's as much of a fool as you think he is. There's a meeting? At the seaside?'

  'Yes.'

  'You want answers? Answers I can't give?'

  Jack nodded.

  'You'll go,' said Sam. 'To this meeting, I mean. And you'll get answers. They just might not be the answers to the questions you ask.'

  Jack sighed. 'OK,' he said, 'I think I understand.'

  'Oh, I doubt it,' said Sam, bursting into a hacking fit of laughter before covering his mouth with his fist. 'So,' he said, when he'd recovered, 'what about your young friend here?'

  Jack put one arm around Michael's shoulder.

  'He's like us,' said Jack. 'He doesn't really belong here.'

  'Oh,' said Sam scowling, 'here?

  I belong here.

  Can't think where else I'd go. I'm ninety-six years old. Four more years and I'll get a telegram off the Queen. My pension just about pays for my tobacco and my bus fare in the mornings, and if I'm lucky I'll have enough left over for some liver and onions come teatime. Where else am I gonna go, Jack?'

  Jack nodded.

  Sam turned to Michael. 'You know,' he said, his watery blue eyes twinkling in the soft lights of the gallery, 'when I first met Jack, I was… how old was I, Jack?'

  'You were thirty-one,' said Jack, smiling.

  'Thirty-one,' said the old man, chuckling to himself. 'Thirty-one, indeed. I'd just come back from the Boer War, and I was just as lost as you are now, I'll wager. Now look at us. You'd reckon he was my grandson.' Sam looked down at his liver-spotted hands. 'It's a funny old thing, getting old. For those of us who do, that is.' And now he shot a smile at Jack and winked. 'Handsome devil, isn't he?' he said to Michael. 'Bit of a charmer too. Never went on in my day, of course…' And he winked again.

  'OK,' said Jack. 'We need to go. But thanks. I'll see you around some time.'

  Sam looked up towards the ceiling once more, his brow furrowed, and then back at Jack.

  'Yes,' he said. 'You most certainly will.'

  As they were about to leave him, Sam reached out and held Michael's hand.

  'So lost,' he said, his face crumpling into a sad smile. 'But so brave. Safe travels, my friend.'

  They were walking down the steps of the museum before Michael spoke again.

  'What did he mean?' he asked. 'And how does he do that? How does he know things?'

  'Because he's Sam,' said Jack. 'And sometimes it's best not to ask. Sometimes you just have to accept things as they are.'

  Once they'd left the museum, they walked for a while around a nearby park, enjoying the last of summer, and Jack told Michael about the things that would happen in the world.

  Two years from now,' he said, 'man walks on the moon for the very first time.'

  'The moon?' said Michael. 'Now I know you're making it up. The moon?'

  Jack nodded. 'Uh-huh. He flies all the way to the moon. It takes them three days just to fly there, travelling faster than any car or plane ever did, on top of a giant rocket, and when he gets there, do you know what he finds?'

  'Aliens?' asked Michael.

  'No,' said Jack, laughing. 'He finds nothing. Just rocks, and a big black sky. You know, the moon is so small that when the first men are just standing there they can see its curvature, so that everywhere they look, it's curved, like they're just standing on this cold ball of rock in the middle of a black void. But do you know what else they can see?'

  Michael shook his head.

  'They can see the Earth,' said Jack. 'They can look up at the sky, and they can see the Earth, and they can blot it out with their thumb. Everything they know, every country, every single human being alive except themselves, and it can be blotted out with their thumb. But other than that, all they can see is black sky and that cold little rock.'

  'So
what's the point?' asked Michael. 'I mean, if there's nothing else up there. Why go?'

  'Because they don't stop there. In a couple of hundred years there are ships, like the ships that you saw in the docks, only bigger, floating through the black sky, finding other places, and those places are much more interesting. Believe me… Boy, some of them are very interesting.'

  'Hey…' said Michael. 'You told me I couldn't tell you anything about the future, and now you're telling me this.'

  'I told you you couldn't tell me anything about my future,' said Jack. 'That's different. Nobody should know what's waiting for them. If you knew your future, why… it would take all the fun out of living.'

  'But what about Sam? You asked him questions about the future.'

  Jack frowned, looking up at the sky for an easy answer. Then he smiled and ruffled Michael's hair.

  'Well, sometimes you have to cheat a little,' he said.

  It was starting to get dark when they arrived on the inaccurately named 'Island' at Barry-in reality a peninsula that had long been linked to the mainland with the construction of the docks. A chilled late-summer breeze passed along the promenade, where Jack and Michael sat, looking out at the sea.

  'Is it like this?' Michael asked. 'When you're looking out at space, I mean? Is it like when I'm looking at the sea?'

  Jack nodded. 'Yeah, I guess,' he said. 'Depends what it's like when you're looking at the sea.'

  Michael looked back at the ocean and frowned, deep in thought.

  'It's like I can go anywhere,' he said after a while. 'Sometimes, when I was working, I'd be up on one of the cranes, looking at the sea, and it was like you could see for ever. I kept thinking maybe, if I squinted my eyes, I'd be able to see America, on the horizon, but I couldn't.'

  Jack laughed. 'No,' he said. 'Well, America's a few thousand miles thataway.' He pointed out toward the horizon. 'And the Earth is round, so you won't see it.'

  'Are you making fun of me?'

  'No,' he said, laughing again. As if I would.'

  'But that's what it was like,' said Michael. 'That's why I always wondered whether I should just join up with the Merchant Navy, get on a boat and go out there, go anywhere. I could see America, and China, and Japan. I could go places where I wouldn't feel so…' He shrugged. 'I don't know… different.'

  'Yeah,' said Jack. 'I know that feeling.' He looked at his watch. 'Ten to nine,' he said. And it's already getting dark. Summer's almost over, I guess. Another summer, anyway.'

  'How many summers have you seen, Jack?' asked Michael.

  'A lot of summers,' said Jack. 'Too many to count. Some good, some bad. And on lots of different planets.'

  'Really? You've really been to lots of different planets?'

  Jack nodded, and Michael laughed.

  'You know, a few days ago I'd have said you were gone in the head, but now… I don't know…' He looked up at a moon that was almost full, hanging on the darker edges of the sky. 'Two years?' he said. 'Two more years and man's walking on that thing?'

  'Walking,' said Jack, 'playing golf, looking at the rocks. It's a start, at least.'

  He looked at Michael with a soulful, almost apologetic gaze.

  'I've got to go,' he said. 'To see people.'

  'I'll come with you,' said Michael.

  'Oh, no. You're staying here. I won't be long.'

  'But you said you were going to ask questions and get answers,' said Michael. 'What if I've got questions? I'm tired of not knowing anything, Jack. I'm tired of running away from things, from people, and monsters. I'm tired of being on my own.'

  Jack nodded.

  'OK,' he said. 'But stay out of trouble. If anything happens, you run, OK? Don't worry about me.'

  'I said I'm tired of running,' said Michael. 'And I meant it.'

  They walked up an embankment towards the funfair. It had, Jack supposed, seen better days; rickety rollercoasters and a decrepit Ghost Train decorated with painted images of Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi. The whole place was illuminated by the flashing lights of the rides and the amusement arcades, its soundtrack one of howling sirens, ringing bells, and the chaotic strains of 'Surfin' Bird' by The Trashmen. Any other night and Jack might have been able to cut loose and enjoy it for what it was worth, take in the sweet smell of hot dogs and candyfloss, and take it on its own terms, but not tonight. Tonight there was something sinister about the noise and the lights and the shuffling crowds.

  'We came here once,' said Michael, 'when we were kids. Dad said we couldn't afford to come every year.'

  But Jack was no longer listening; he was scanning the faces of the crowd, looking for… looking for…

  Hugo.

  Hugo Faulkner stood beside the dodgem cars, still dressed immaculately in a pinstriped suit, holding an oversized lollipop. He'd been watching them the whole time.

  Jack paced across the funfair and Michael followed.

  'Jack!' said Hugo, smiling. 'And you've brought a little friend with you. How nice. Though that wasn't a part of our arrangement.'

  'He's OK,' said Jack. 'He's with me.'

  'Yes. I can see that,' said Hugo, and then, turning to Michael: 'Are you enjoying all the fun of the fair, young man?'

  Michael didn't answer.

  'Ah,' said Hugo. 'Silent and subservient. Just your type, eh, Jack?'

  'OK,' said Jack. 'Now what?'

  Hugo laughed, and took one lick of the lollipop, mashing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if it tasted bitter. 'I never was one for sweets,' he said. 'Always more of a savoury person.'

  'Cut this,' said Jack. 'I'm here, just like you said. What do you know about me? About who I am?'

  'Hmm,' said Hugo. 'Not very gentlemanly or polite, Jack. I don't respond well to such blunt questioning. Follow me.'

  They followed Hugo out of the funfair and back along the promenade, past holidaying families and elderly couples, until they came to the crumbling façade of the Empire Pavilion. A sign above its entrance announced a concert for a singer who had died some years ago, and the framed posters had all faded and curled in the sun. The doors were chipped and peeling, with broken windows boarded up by sheets of plywood.

  'Beautiful building, don't you think?' said Hugo. 'A crying shame it's in such disrepair. Its days are numbered, I feel. Progress hates a ruin.' He reached inside his jacket and produced a small bunch of keys, checking each one in turn before holding one of them up. Ah,' he said, 'this one. Follow me.'

  'We're not going in there,' said Jack. Anything could be in there.'

  Hugo nodded sagely. 'Quite,' he said. Anything could, indeed, be in there. Answers, for example, could be in there.'

  'What kind of answers?' asked Jack.

  'Answers to your questions, Mr — oh, I'm sorry — Captain

  Harkness. So many questions which your little circle of friends seems unable or unwilling to answer. Answers regarding your inability to shuffle off this mortal coil, perhaps? Or might we find answers for your little time-travelling companion?'

  Jack looked at Michael, and saw in his eyes the same look of anguished hope he knew he had in his.

  'But of course,' said Hugo, 'if you choose to distrust me, you'll never find out. Will you?'

  Jack sighed heavily, the only signal Hugo needed to unlock and then open the peeling, graffiti-covered door. With his hand on his pistol, Jack followed Hugo into the cavernous gloom of the Empire Pavilion, with Michael close behind. For a moment they stood in impenetrable darkness, until Jack and Michael heard the loud clunk of a switch somewhere, and a number of lights flickered into life.

  Compared with its worn and weathered exterior, the interior of the pavilion had a certain, threadbare glamour to it. With just the right amount of imagination it was possible to picture its halcyon days, when men in dinner jackets and women in evening wear might have passed through the doors for dinner and a dance, not so many years ago.

  Hugo led them up a sweeping staircase and past a bar room full of upturned stools and tables before t
aking them down into the pavilion's ballroom. In the centre of the dance floor, beneath a single spotlight, three men and a woman sat around a small, round table. They weren't the kind of people Jack had been expecting. He'd expected a dozen more Hugos, with public-school voices and folded handkerchiefs in their breast pockets. These people were young, and dressed like students. The men had long hair and beards, and the woman was bedecked in beads and ribbons.

  'This is our gathering,' said Hugo.

  'These?' Jack said, laughing. '

  These are your friends?'

  'They are,' said Hugo, flaring his nostrils. 'And what of it, Jack?'

  'How old are you all?' asked Jack. 'Twenty? Twenty-one?

  I was expecting… Well, I don't know what I was expecting, but this? Beatniks? You've brought me here to meet a group of beatniks?'

  'We're not beatniks, actually,' said a young man in a black polo-neck sweater with a peace sign pendant around his neck. 'We're revolutionaries.'

  'Oh,' said Jack, 'you're revolutionaries.

  Well, excuse me, but this is one revolution that most definitely won't be televised.'

  Hugo and the people around the table frowned.

  'We know things,' said the man with the peace sign pendant. 'There are eye-witness testimonies. Albion Hospital, London, in 1941. Maidens Point in 1943. The Torchwood Estate in 1879.'

  'Torchwood…' said Michael.

  Jack turned to face him. 'You know that name?'

  Michael nodded.

  'We could continue,' said the woman in the beads. 'St Teilo's Hospital, 1918; Cardiff, 1869; the so-called "fairies" of Roundstone Woods… All evidence of paranormal activities and extraterrestrial visitors to this planet. All officially denied or debunked by Her Majesty's Government.'

  'Well there's your answer, then,' said Jack. 'Denied and debunked. Did it ever occur to you that none of those things mean anything? That people might just be making stuff up?'

  The people around the table laughed.

  'Oh, come, come, Jack,' said Hugo. 'What use is there in denying it any further when you know that my friends here are telling the truth? There have been many unexplained goings-on this last century. Strange things that defy all logic, unless one applies an open and analytical mind to them. You, for example, Jack.'