‘I’m not having it in my house!’ cried Mrs Lang.
‘I’ll have John take it to the gallery to be auctioned this very afternoon,’ said Mr Lang.
‘And have that French immorality corrupt some other innocent young soul?’ gasped Mrs Lang. ‘Oh, no, no, no, onto the fire with it at once!’
Mr Lang stood up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over. Snatching the painting from the wall, he carried it into the living room and hurled it into the fireplace. Mrs Lang and Emily followed, then stood clapping as the painting burned. Mr Lang folded his arms in triumph. Liore watched in silence from the doorway, her arms folded as well. Once the painting was ashes and the frame was well alight, they returned to the table.
‘Oh, look at Daniel smiling,’ said Mrs Lang, gazing at the photograph of her son on the table. ‘He approves of us burning that horrible painting.’
After dessert was served, Mrs Lang suggested that Emily and Liore go out to the bower at the back of the house for lemonade. Here they could be watched from the upstairs smoking room, yet talk in private. Mrs Lang, who thought Liore was a boy from an aristocratic family, was very hopeful about what they might discuss. Her very worst fears could not have approached the truth.
‘You keep talking in battlespeak,’ said Emily sharply, unconsciously transferring her need to dominate someone from Daniel to Liore.
‘Problem?’ asked Liore.
‘Yes! My parents are used to hearing you speak plain English.’
‘In future, plain English, reserved language, is courtly. Speaking courtly . . . difficult.’
‘But you are eleven decades into your own past. Battlespeak makes you stand out. Do you really want to attract attention to yourself ?’
‘On target,’ Liore conceded. ‘By your leave, speaking courtly.’
‘Well then, what did you think of the dramatics over lunch?’ said Emily as she poured the lemonade from a pitcher.
Emily’s question was loaded, as was her way when speaking with Daniel. Whatever Daniel answered, Emily had a criticism ready. In this way she made him accept that she was always right, and that he should do whatever she ordered. She had forgotten that Liore did not think like any other girl on Earth.
‘The painting on your dining room wall is Dreaming of Paradise by Thomas Brooks, painted in 1855,’ said Liore.
‘I think it is ever so elevating,’ said Emily, who had been expecting a strong opinion either way, but countered by a neutral remark of her own. ‘I wish I could dream of angels.’
‘It sold for twenty thousand pounds in a special war effort auction in 2009.’
‘As much as that!’ gasped Emily. ‘I mean, that’s more than our house is worth.’
‘The painting that your father burned was Red Cliffs, White Dresses, a lost painting by Tom Roberts, dating from the 1880s.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘You mean he was not French?’
‘No.’
‘Well it must have been painted in France.’
‘The cliffs in the background are about eight miles south, along the coast.’
Faced with evidence of a truly monstrous blunder on her part, Emily tried frantically to justify what she had done.
‘Well it was in a French style,’ she muttered.
‘A similar painting by Roberts, Slumbering Sea, Mentone, was sold for nine hundred and seventy thousand pounds at the same auction.’
The sheer size of the figure stunned Emily into silence. Liore sipped at her lemonade. For a winter’s day it was unseasonably mild, but Emily suddenly shivered.
‘Do you want to go inside?’ asked Liore.
‘No, absolutely not. Here we can talk in private, even if we have no privacy.’
Emily looked up at a window where Mr Lang was smoking his pipe and holding a book up to the light. She rallied herself for another attack.
‘The day will come when Father invites you into his study and demands to know your intentions regarding me,’ she pointed out, deliberately choosing a difficult subject. ‘What will you tell him?’
‘I have not thought about that.’
This was just the answer that Emily had hoped for.
‘Well, you can hardly tell him that you are a girl warrior from a hundred years in the future, and that you have travelled into the past to kill fanatical British patriots who are trying to start a war with Germany.’
‘If I did, he would certainly lose interest in having me as a son-in-law.’
‘Be serious! What will you do?’
‘The Lionhearts that were sent to Australia are probably all dead, but there are more of them in Britain. I must go there and wipe them out before they start the war.’
‘But we stopped the Century War. Twice. Once when parliament opened, and again when you blew up the wagon at Albury.’
‘I thought so, too, but then I started to get new memories.’
‘I don’t understand. When did you get them?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you must have noticed.’
‘Have you thought about what you did last Christmas lately?’
‘No.’
‘So if the past had changed, and you had thrown a cake in Daniel’s face at the Christmas dinner, you would not know when that memory changed.’
‘I suppose so. But how could I know that the past had changed at all? How do you know the future has changed?’
‘My past is in the future, and it overlays what is happening here. I no longer remember being taught in the Imperial War Academy that Australia’s first parliament had been bombed, but I remember what I did to prevent it. Now I come from a future where the Century War was triggered by a third incident. Time seems to heal itself. Time apparently wants a century of war. In September, a single British ship, the Millennium, will go up against the entire German fleet at Wilhelmshaven. Using a very advanced but unknown weapon it sinks the battleships Brandenburg, Siegfried, Frithjof, Hagen, and Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, along with nine cruisers. The Millennium signals that Britain has a new, invincible weapon, and that unless Germany scuttles its entire battle fleet they will sink it anyway. Some torpedo boats attack the Millennium, but they are picked off one by one. The T97 is set on fire, but does not sink completely because it is over a sandbar. As the Millennium steams past the burning wreck of the T97, some very brave men launch a single torpedo. It scores a direct hit on the Millennium’s ammunition store. The explosion annihilates the Millennium, and the weapon is never found.’
‘I think I know what happens next,’ said Emily. ‘The Germans panic, and decide that they should strike Britain before it builds any more wonderweapons.’
‘Yes. It was called the Guillotine Campaign, because the head was removed from the British chicken, leaving the body to run about without any coordination. Acting out of sheer fright, the Germans brought down a total embargo on all news, mustered every soldier, sailor, ship and gun within a matter of days, and sailed for Britain. The British had no idea of what had happened, and were not expecting anything like this because there was always a build-up before any war. The British government soon found itself under lock and key.
‘The British fleet put up a fight, but it was caught dispersed and off guard. Many ships were captured at their moorings. Britain had more large ships thanks to the Millennium, but they now had to operate from Canada, and the waters around Britain were soon heavily mined. The royal family escaped through France, and gradually the empire organised a government in exile. That all took time, and in the meantime Germany was building replacement warships in British shipyards as well as in its own. Yet again there is a century of war between Germany and the rest of the British Empire.’
‘But – but if the British developed a weapon like that, surely that was inevitable.’
‘I do not think they did,’ said Liore softly, leaning forward and shaking her head. ‘That super-weapon has all the characteristics of my PR-17 assault rifle.’
Emily gasped in alarm, then noticed that Lio
re was staring at her with a disturbingly curious intensity. She thinks I will steal the weapon! thought Emily automatically before she managed to get a grip on herself.
‘You mean you sink all those ships and start a war?’
‘No, but it seems that someone will steal it in the near future.’
‘Who would do that?’
‘If I knew, they would already be dead.’
Liore’s answer had been in courtly, yet it was as blunt as battlespeak.
‘You can’t solve all your problems by just killing people,’ said Emily, yet again trying to take control of the conversation.
‘Why not?’
Emily finally admitted to herself that Liore was not as easily manipulated as Daniel. This is like a conversation between a vicar and a cannibal, she thought, and I am the vicar. Things that make sense to her are totally lost on me.
‘Liore, when I asked what we were going to do, I meant about us,’ she said, deciding that trying to manipulate Liore was a lost cause. ‘My parents want us to marry.’
‘But we are both girls.’
‘Precisely. What do we do about it?’
‘What worked for Daniel and Muriel will work for us. I shall go to Britain in a few weeks, then I shall write back that I have married some English girl. Your parents will think I am a faithless bounder, and that you are lucky to be rid of me.’
‘That sounds plausible,’ said Emily. ‘What will you really be doing?’
‘Killing Lionhearts.’
The cannibal is talking to the vicar again, thought Emily as she cast about for a suitable reply. Somewhere in the distance someone began blowing a whistle.
‘Police whistle,’ said Liore. ‘Distance, half mile.’
‘Whatever it is, it is far away,’ said Emily, glancing up at the window where her father was still watching them. ‘There is to be a family concert once lunch has settled, I hope you don’t mind. Father has been practising Sir Arthur Sullivan’s “The lost chord” on the harmonium for weeks. It’s been driving me mad. Mother and I are to sing Bach’s “Sheep may safely graze” as a duet, and then you will be expected to sing something.’
‘I am not sure that I know anything suitable. Sullivan’s music is considered frivolous in my time, and Bach was a German. We only learn patriotic songs like “Rule Britannia” and “Heart of oak”.’
‘I can play “Heart of oak” on the piano.’
‘Then that is what I shall sing.’
The family concert was a great success, but as is the way in show business, the reviews left something to be desired. As Martha brought in the tea and scones, both Mr and Mrs Lang had remarked that Daniel’s piano playing was so much better than Emily’s. While Emily had managed to keep her temper under control, the grinding of her teeth said more than could have ever been expressed in the King’s English. They had, of course, just been showing how much they were already missing Daniel, for Emily’s playing was cool and precise while Daniel was at his best when playing for dances or accompanying singers.
All through afternoon tea Emily had tapped a fingernail softly against her cup, and it was not until the seventeenth repetition that Liore realised that she was rapping out a sentence in Morse code. Daniel knew Morse code, his father had taught it to him because he thought it was something that modern boys needed to know. Inevitably, Emily had been hiding behind the sofa, taking notes, because no brother of hers could ever be allowed to know something that she did not.
It was five in the evening before Liore finally got away from the Langs, and even then she had to refuse an invitation to dinner. By now Emily had tapped out, ‘I shall get them for that’ four hundred and ninetyone times, and Liore suspected that an outburst could quite possibly happen when she reached five hundred. As she walked down Bay Street, Liore noticed that people were standing about in groups and looking uneasy. The further east she walked, the more nervous the people seemed. Finally at North Brighton Station she noticed the police and police wagons.
Instantly Liore’s mind went into combat alert, but she kept a blank, outwardly calm expression on her face. By your leave, speaking courtly, she thought as she went up to one of the bystanders.
‘I was hoping to catch a train to Flinders Street,’ she said. ‘Is there something wrong with the trains?’
‘The trains are fine, mate, but there’s two coves shot deader than a doorknob a couple of hours back.’
‘My word!’ exclaimed Liore. ‘Was it a robbery?’
‘Nah, nobody knows what went over. Harry Luker caught one between the eyes, and Porter the stationmaster got shot in the signal box and fell through the window to the platform. Then this cove takes a shot at Pete Lurker. I mean, you wouldn’t think he could miss someone as fat as Pete, but he did.’
‘Have the police caught the murderer?’
‘Nah, and there were four of them. Two coves and a woman what did the killing, and another minding the carriage they scarpered in. Lurker and Porter’s kid, Barry, shot off in the other direction on the station bike, so I reckon they’re involved. Stole something from a big-time push, that’s what I think. Not that I care. Crims killing crims just saves work for the police.’
Suddenly a lot of unconnected facts fell into place for Liore.
‘Which way did Lurker and Barry go?’ she asked.
‘North, up Asling Street. Oi, do you know something about this?’
But Liore had already vanished into the crowd. Mrs O’Brien’s house was a full mile away from the station, but she ran the distance in under six minutes. Dashing past Wellington and up the side path, she found that the door to her room was unlocked. She entered and looked around. Everything seemed to be in order, but she reminded herself that sensible spies did not leave a mess behind them. Liore tried her key in the padlock on the trunk. It did not fit. Going to her chest of drawers, she found that her Bergmann pistol and clasp knife were missing.
Liore always moved in near-silence, and thus it was that she heard the soft creak of the back door to the house being opened. She flattened herself against the wall beside her door. The barrel of a shotgun pushed it open, then began to enter. Liore seized the barrel with her right hand and wrenched the owner into the room, where she lay sprawled on the floor.
‘Yourself, explain!’ demanded Liore, pointing the gun between the eyes of her landlady.
‘Don’t shoot,’ quavered Mrs O’Brien.
‘What happened?’ said Liore with an edge on her voice that could have scratched glass.
‘Some ratty little boy tried to burgle your place, but I saw him off with my shotgun while he was still picking the lock. I thought he’d come back.’
Liore turned, pointed the shotgun at her trunk’s padlock and fired. Mrs O’Brien shrieked and backed away. The lock was reduced to a dozen or so fragments. Liore opened the trunk. As she suspected, it was empty.
‘Robbed,’ said Liore. ‘When?’
‘It was about three hours ago. Wellington tried to chase him, but his legs aren’t what they used to be. Then I saw Mrs Miller, who’d come out to see what all the fuss was about so I says to her, says I, “Is your Jack up to a trip to the police station?” and she says –’
‘What time?’ demanded Liore.
‘Don’t you speak to me like that!’
Liore grasped her by the neck and began to squeeze. Mrs O’Brien finally realised that although her tenant was a little young to be Jack the Ripper, he was probably no less dangerous.
‘Crushing throat, is easy,’ prompted Liore, then she eased the pressure a little.
‘No, no, spare me, please,’ wheezed Mrs O’Brien.
‘What time?’
‘I was having me après-lunch snooze, when Wellington started barking. I didn’t look at the clock.’
‘Afternoon sleep, yours, 1.30 pm to 3 pm. Regular. Correct?’
‘Well, I suppose.’
Barry Porter burgled my room while Emily kept me occupied, concluded Liore. The Century War has found another way to star
t.
‘Am leaving,’ declared Liore, releasing Mrs O’Brien.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ said Mrs O’Brien, her courage suddenly rallying. ‘There’s been a crime here, and the police will be wanting to talk to you, even though you’re the victim – and anyway, you owe me a pretty penny for that damage from the shotgun to my floorboards.’
By way of answer Liore brought the shotgun down across the edge of the trunk, breaking it in two. She opened the door, only to find that a policeman who had been questioning the neighbours about the burglary had arrived to investigate the gunshot. He had a pistol in his hand, but he had spent his career threatening criminals with it, rather than doing any shooting. By contrast, Liore had spent her life acting before other people could make up their minds to shoot.
Liore raised her hands as if surrendering, which immediately made the policeman think that he had nothing to worry about. She was watching his eyes, and saw his attention flick from her to the interior of the room where Mrs O’Brien still knelt on the floor. Liore brought both hands down on the policeman’s wrist, and twisted her body as she forced the gun upwards. He fired a shot into the ceiling before she slammed his hand into the frame of the doorway. He cried out and dropped the gun. She twisted his arm around to bend him over double, then drove her knee up into his face. As the policeman collapsed, Mrs O’Brien crawled for the fallen pistol, but the heel of Liore’s boot came down on the back of her hand, breaking three metacarpus bones. She shrieked with the pain and backed away. Liore scooped up the fallen pistol, then removed the policeman’s badge and papers before flinging his body onto her landlady as if he weighed no more than a child.
‘Behave morally,’ she said before pulling the door shut and locking it.
Wellington recognised Liore and wagged his tail as she wheeled the policeman’s bicycle down the path beside the house. Soon she was pedalling away as fast as she was able. The sun was already down, but the moon was high in the sky so she was able to see where she was going.
Changing Yesterday Page 7