The Master of Time

by David Wingrove

  The coincidence wrongfoots me. It’s too close to home, and it makes me reconsider what I know about Kavanagh. If that’s his real name and not DeSario. Because now that I think about it, the guy has a similar build to me, right down to his shoe size.

  Okay. But why? For what precise purpose would Kolya be doing this?

  ‘You okay, Otto?’

  I nod. Then, because I haven’t thought of a better strategy, I ask him if he wants a beer and he says ‘Sure’ in that rich, Illinois accent of his. I get two from the fridge – the last of last night’s six – then slide the others onto a shelf and shut the door.

  I turn to find him watching me intently.

  ‘You’re not from here, are you, Otto? I’ve been trying to work out what that accent is. It sounds a bit … Germanic, but there’s a bit of Russian in there too.’

  I smile. Or try my hardest to. ‘I’m from Berlin, but my mother was Russian.’

  Not that I know who my mother actually was.

  But Kavanagh is smiling now. ‘There are a lot of Germans in Chicago. Almost one in four of the population. In fact, my great-grandfather, on my mother’s side, was German. He came over from Hamburg in the 1840s.’

  He pops his can, the hiss of the gas in the beer filling the silence between us. A moment later, I do the same, and we raise our cans and touch them, to toast each other. But whether we’re friends or mortal enemies, I’m no longer sure.

  All goes well. We drink beer and talk and watch TV, and I’m about to call it a night and go to bed, when there’s a commotion outside in the hallway; the sound of someone trying to break down a door.

  Our friends are back. Slightly the worse for wear, it would seem, having consumed a few too many bottles of vino rosso. I look through the peephole and see that it’s the two who were here earlier, then turn to Kavanagh.

  He’s holding out my gun to me, his own tucked into his waistband.

  ‘They’re both loaded,’ he says quietly, suddenly more sober than I thought he was. I nod and take it from him, but I check the chamber anyway.

  It’s loaded.

  I turn back and look again. The bastard’s banging on the door now, not caring who he wakes. And beneath his Sicilian bellowing, I can hear the children screaming.

  I look to Kavanagh. His face seems determined. ‘You ready, John?’

  He smiles. ‘Sure as fuck am, Otto.’

  ‘Okay. You take the ugly fucker, I’ll take the mouth.’

  These are the pet names we’ve adopted for the two while we’ve been talking about them. But knowing who we’re each targeting is a necessity. We don’t want to be focused on the same guy.

  I throw open the door and step out, gun raised, aimed at Mouth’s head.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  The two thugs turn as one, reaching to draw their weapons. And freeze, seeing the two big revolvers we’re pointing at them.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mouth says belligerently. ‘This ain’t none of your business!’

  I cock the gun and take a step closer, aiming the gun at the centre of his forehead.

  ‘I’m a friend of the lady, and if you’re not gone from here in thirty seconds, I might just blow your damn head off!’

  ‘Ditto,’ Kavanagh says, coming alongside me, cocking his gun in the same fashion.

  ‘This ain’t none of your business,’ he says again, and glances to his right.

  I follow his line of sight and see there’s a window there. Maybe there’s a car outside the building, and reinforcements. Maybe that’s what he’s thinking. To shout down to them and have them help him out. If so, he’s mistaken.

  I yell at him, the force of my voice surprising him. ‘Now go! Now!’ And he jerks, and then, narrowing his eyes, the scowl returning to his face, he leaves, tailed by his buddy, the ugly fucker. ‘I’ll be back,’ he says. And beside me, Kavanagh laughs, as if what the guy said was funny somehow.

  ‘Terminator,’ he says, after they’ve gone. ‘You haven’t seen it? You see … there’s this guy from the future and—’

  I turn abruptly, staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just a film. With Arnie Schwarzenegger. You must have heard about it. It’s one of the biggest films of the year.’

  Only I haven’t. And now I feel I ought to. ‘Guys returning from the future, huh? Now how likely is that?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not human,’ Kavanagh says. ‘He’s some super-android and he’s lethal.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Only what are we going to do now?’

  I turn and look to her door. It’s almost off the hinges. One more kick and it’d be gone. I walk across and knock. ‘Lady? You there? You can come out now. They’ve gone.’

  It takes a while, but she comes out, the door almost falling away from her as she opens it.

  She looks confused, and I can almost read her mind. Are we police of some kind? Special agents, maybe? Because ordinary citizens don’t get involved.

  ‘You can’t sleep in there,’ I say. ‘Not with the kids. Bring them through to mine.’

  ‘I …’ She makes to argue, then sees the sense in it. ‘You think they’ll come back?’

  ‘Not tonight. But we need to get your front door secured. I’ll phone first thing tomorrow. Arrange it.’

  ‘Thanks …’

  I turn and look to Kavanagh. ‘John … thanks, but you’d better get back to your hotel. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. They won’t come back tonight. They’ll expect us to call the police. And I suspect it was the wine that brought them here. Maybe they thought they could rough her up. You know how these guys are.’

  ‘Rough her up and …’ But he falls silent and doesn’t say what else, because suddenly she’s back, the two kids in tow.

  ‘Go through to the bedroom,’ I say to her. ‘I’ll have the sofa.’

  She nods her thanks and goes inside. I turn back and see that Kavanagh’s watching me again. ‘You’re sure,’ he says again, and I tell him, yes I’m sure, but if he wants to come back in the morning …

  ‘Take care, buddy,’ he says and pats my back and goes, the Magnum tucked into his waistband, beneath his coat, like he’s some ancient gunslinger. And I realise that he enjoyed it. As, strangely, did I.

  Doing nothing. That’s why I felt so low. It wasn’t just thinking about Katerina and the girls, it’s what I am. A Reisende. Yes, and a bloody good one, too.

  I close the door and, going through, briefly check on them before closing the door on them and stretching out on the sofa, the Magnum close at hand.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I hear him say.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say quietly to the darkness surrounding me. ‘And if you do, I’ll blow your fucking head clean off your shoulders!’

  325

  She comes to me in the night. She’s half-naked and smelling of some cheap perfume and she wants to say thank you in the only way she can think of. Only I can’t. I already have a woman, even if she’s lost to me.

  I tell her this. Try to explain. ‘She’s lost,’ I say. ‘We got separated, in a country far away from here. But she’s still mine, and I’m hers … for ever.’ And the woman looks at me in awe. I can almost hear the thoughts that are going through her head. How lucky Katerina is to have a man like me.

  ‘Look,’ I say quietly. ‘What do you owe?’

  She glances down, disturbed. It’s clearly not something she wants to discuss. But I press her on it.

  ‘It’s just … well, if it’s only money, then I can help you. I’ve five thousand dollars, if that’ll help.’

  At which her eyes widen even further. No one’s ever offered her so much, or taken so little in return. ‘I … I can’t.’

  I take her hands in mind. ‘You can. You have to. For the children.’

  She looks down, abashed. ‘Thank you,’ she says, then looks up, meeting my eyes. ‘Are you sure …?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Only I notice for the first time
how aroused she is. For all I’ve said, she still wants me to take her. As my reward. To thank me for standing up for her. Yeah, and maybe because she simply wants me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asks, and there’s the faintest smile on her lips; the first I’ve seen. It transforms her. Makes her face seem pretty in the half light. Only I’ve no intention of ‘cranking’ her. Not even if my body cries out for it. Because there’s only one woman for me, in the length and breadth of all the universes that exist.

  ‘My name is Otto,’ I say, ignoring the warmth of her where she leans against me on the sofa.

  ‘Maria,’ she says, and squeezes my hands.

  Maria. It’s a pretty name. Only she has to go, now, before I succumb to her.

  Her voice is low, almost a whisper. ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, Maria?’

  ‘Won’t you hold me? Just hold me.’

  326

  There’s a song playing on the radio. an example of what they call punk, and while I don’t care too much for the tune or the way they play it, a line of it catches my attention and I write it down – ‘It’s the aim of existence to offer resistance to the flow of time.’

  My life, defined in a single line!

  I determine there and then to find out more about the guy who wrote it. Some guy named Peter Shelley. Maybe he was an agent. Or knew one.

  Maria has gone, hours back, along with her children, the door to her apartment repaired, new locks fitted.

  Yes, and I’m glad that she stayed, for I needed someone to hold on to in that dark night of the soul. Someone to give me comfort. And no, I didn’t fuck her, much as my body wanted to. And I know that Katerina would have understood.

  But for once the dreams didn’t come, and for that I am immensely grateful. Even so, I didn’t sleep well, and, having sorted everything, I went back to bed, the smell of the woman, Maria, on the sheets, the memory of her eyes, so like Katerina’s eyes, haunting me still.

  I slept. And woke to a hammering on the door.

  It’s Kavanagh, who, unknown to me, has been watching the front door of the building. I try to calm him down, because he seems to be panicking, only he’s got good reason to. There are two big black cars – limos – downstairs and half a dozen or more black-suited thugs, big men bristling with guns, and Kavanagh thinks that they’re heading my way. And that’s extremely likely. Only suddenly I can’t find my gun. I thought it was on the bed beside me, but it’s gone, and I wonder what that means.

  Only there’s no time. I can hear them on the stairs, huffing and cursing, and suddenly they’re there, in the apartment, shouting and gesturing with their guns, and as one of them grabs hold of me, another slips a needle into my arm.

  Kavanagh, too, has been taken, kicking and struggling, and as we’re dragged away, so I glimpse the woman’s apartment, see that the door’s wide open and that there’s no sign of Maria or her kids.

  And then the drug hits me, and I slump …

  327

  … And come to, in a room in Washington, DC. Through the window to my left there’s a view of the Lincoln Memorial.

  ‘So what happened to DeSario?’

  I shake my head to try to clear it, because this is surely a hallucination.

  ‘I beg pardon?’ I say, and Phil, who’s the man in the chair facing me, repeats it slowly, word for word, like it’s something I would know.

  ‘What … happened … to … DeSario?’

  ‘I’ve never met him.’

  Phil leans towards me, his dark eyes studying me. ‘So why were you in his apartment? And why don’t you have any identification on you?’

  ‘Just why am I here?’

  He laughs. ‘Don’t you know?’

  I’m silent for a moment, then: ‘I gave you the owl.’

  ‘You gave me …?’

  ‘You were living with Kleo. I came to see you one morning, with a gift. Remember?’

  Phil’s eyes open wide. ‘That was you?’

  Only, now that I think about it, it can’t have been, because if it had, this wouldn’t be a cul-de-sac timestream. Unless …

  Well, maybe what I’ve done is to create a major alternative timeline by giving Dick the owl, unless this has become a central reality – the main trunk of the Tree of Worlds – and just how likely is that?

  ‘I slipped over,’ I say. ‘Like Jason Taverner.’

  Phil laughs. ‘You’ve read my stuff, huh? A lot of people have. But I don’t write that kind of thing any more. Not since …’

  Since Kleo’s death, I guess. But he doesn’t say.

  It’s then that I remember something.

  ‘Someone phoned,’ I say. ‘Left a message for DeSario.’

  ‘And?’

  I close my eyes, trying to remember the exact wording, but the drug has muddied my memory.

  ‘He said … Tell Lersch Chinese is fine. Will meet as scheduled.’

  Phil jumps up at that and claps his hands, a big beam of a smile on his face. It’s almost like this is what he’s been waiting for, only he makes no attempt to explain.

  ‘Who are these people?’ I ask. ‘Are they agents? And where’s Kavanagh?’

  But Phil’s not listening. He goes to the door and, flinging it open, speaks to the two men who are standing out there in the corridor.

  ‘He’s sent the signal.’

  I try to turn my head, to see what’s going on, but the effects of the drug prevent me. Even so, I’m wondering what I’ve got myself into here. I thought these guys were mobsters, and it turns out they’re government agents – CIA, in all probability.

  And Phil, as president, in charge of it all.

  So just what is going on?

  Phil comes across, looking down at me where I’m seated, like he’s a mile high. ‘Kavanagh’s safe. For now. He’s waiting for you, in fact. Back at the apartment. But you, Otto … It’s almost like what you said was true. You’re a bona fide mystery. It’s like you appeared out of thin air … like Schwarzenegger in that movie. Our guys have tried to trace you, but … Nothing.’

  ‘Terminator,’ I say, and he nods and places a hand on my shoulder, like he’s an old friend. Which is the truth. Only not here. Not in this timeline.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Dick says, in a mock Austrian accent. And then he laughs.

  328

  Three hours later and I’m back in New York, in the apartment, Kavanagh cooking up some scrambled eggs for the two of us while we chew over what has happened.

  Kavanagh, it seems, was questioned for more than six hours, then released after signing a ‘good conduct’ document. I don’t know whether I believe his account – I find it easier to believe he’s an agent – but I keep my doubts to myself.

  And me? I’ve been told by Phil to behave myself and not leave the locality. More ominously, they say they’re going to be watching me all the while, and maybe that’s a good thing – especially if the two guys were Mafia.

  Speaking of which, Maria’s apartment has been boarded up, a heavy padlock securing it. Of Maria herself there’s no sign, and when I mentioned her to Phil earlier on, he didn’t seem in the least bit bothered with her. Which seemed strange, though I’m not sure why.

  The scrambled eggs are good. I wolf them down, then, when he asks if I want some more, hand Kavanagh my plate. I’d forgotten just how hungry I was, and the thought of it reminds me of my plan to have steak, and I mention it and Kavanagh says he’ll buy me one, then adds – as if in explanation – that he’s heading home tomorrow, a day earlier than he planned. And the thought of being on my own again hits me hard, and I tell Kavanagh about Katerina – my story doctored to make it believable – and he sympathises in a friendly way, and yet again my doubts about the man vanish, and we end the evening at Joe’s, both of us tucking in to one of his wonderful sixteen-ounce steaks, with all the trimmings.

  And there, on the TV behind the bar, my old friend Phil is suddenly on-screen, announcing a new treaty with China, and also a new phase of NASA’s space exp
loration programme, which aims to have a rocket land on Mars by the year 2000 – another US–Chinese collaboration. And, hearing that, Kavanagh turns to me and laughs.

  ‘Now that really is weird, huh?’

  Which is true. But only if you haven’t read any of Phil’s books.

  And then he’s gone – vanished into the night – with the promise of calling in on me before he leaves tomorrow lunchtime.

  And I turn, facing the building, noting how still, how quiet it seems at that late hour.

  329

  The door across from mine is open, the padlock gone. I stand there for a moment, wondering what that means. Someone’s been here, certainly, but why?

  I know that I ought to ignore it. To walk on by and lock my door behind me. Only I can’t. I need to know what’s happened. Whether she’s safe.

  Only I know, even before I find her, there in the bathroom, the white tiles spattered with her blood spray. Her skin’s as white as alabaster. Her tights have been pulled down over her ankles where they’ve raped her, her breasts exposed, her right eye put out on the edge of the sink. There’s clotted blood in her hair and her throat has been cut from ear to ear. Finally, the bath, over which her body’s draped, is filled with her blood to a good two inches’ depth.

  But worst of all is her eye – a single dead eye that is open wide, as if staring into the eternal nothingness that ultimately swallows everything. And it reminds me of the awful dream I had, where Kolya put out Katerina’s eyes.

  I swallow, feeling nauseous, then go through to find the children. They’re in the bedroom, lying side by side on the bed, holding hands, a single bullet hole through each of their tiny foreheads, two big, circular patches of congealed blood on the blankets beneath their heads, the browny-redness overlapping to form a lazy eight, that universal symbol of infinity.

  Kolya’s calling card.

  The sight of it makes me groan. This is my greatest fear. That I can do nothing to help my girls; nothing to prevent this from happening to them. I can see it plainly. How one of them kept them here, while the other did that to the woman. How then he’d shot them; the boy first maybe, and then the sister. And as I think it, so I notice what I missed at first glance. They are not holding hands. Or not just. No. The bastard wired their wrists together, the steel wire cutting deep into the flesh where they had tried vainly to escape.