The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray: A thrilling new time travel adventure

by O. R. Simmonds

  O.R. Simmonds

  The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray

  First published by Appellation Press 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by O.R. Simmonds

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-8384777-0-7

  Editing by Heather Sangster

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For my boys Emmett and Elliott

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THITY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Please review this book!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgement

  This book simply wouldn’t have been possible without all the encouragement, hard work and patience from friends, family and a not insubstantial number of total strangers.

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife Rhiannon for reading every draft of this book and for her thorough and invaluable notes on each one. That very first draft was an unrefined mess that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone and I feel like there ought to be an ‘Apologies’ section to atone for that!

  A big thank you is also due to Ollie Trimble-Rodriguez for all the honest feedback, advice, breakfasts and help with the book launch. It’s tough enough to self-publish a book as it is, and I can’t imagine how much tougher it would have been without him.

  The book you are about to read would have been a very different beast (and with more unintentionally humorous typos) were it not for the great work done by my fabulous editor Heather Sangster and I really can’t thank her enough.

  I know it’s already dedicated to them, but I absolutely must thank my boys Emmett and Elliott for being the book’s biggest fans (even if some scenes needed to be edited on the fly for their young ears). If they end up being the only two to enjoy it, I’m just fine with that.

  I also want to thank my brother Jack for letting me take up near-permanent residence at The Dabbling Duck cafe in Shere where he is head chef. A huge chunk of this book was written at that round table in the corner where the only distraction was the irresistible food he’d serve up.

  Of course, I would also like to thank all other family and friends who have played a part in making this book what it is, but I’d really rather keep this to a single page! Besides, they all know who they are.

  Last and by no means least, I’d like to say a final, massive thank you to all of my Kickstarter backers, reserving extra special thanks to both Stephen Robertshaw and Karlita Gesler for their unbelievable support.

  Kickstarter Backers:

  Alex Crouzen — Alice Ryland - Amy Simmonds

  Andy Davenport — Benn Simmonds — Bet Davies — Brian Welsko

  Brian A Morton — Bryan, Joy, Alamea, Kai, & Millie Hill — CJ Kenny

  Calista Wielgos — Callista Welsh-Marshall — Ceredig Davies — Chrissey Harrison

  Cory Padilla — Dan McDonald — Daniel “The Bear” Ashwell — Dave Holets

  Darren Pankhurst — Donna Pankhurst — Deborah Tucker — Dom Garner

  Dre Lotthammer — Edward Beale — Elia F. — Emma Nash — Eron Wyngarde

  Francesco Tehrani — Geneviève Hannes — Greg Levick — Greg Smith

  Keith ‘Hurley’ Frampton — Jack Simmonds — Jane Exton — Jenna H

  Kai Enna Aedan Holmes — Karlita Gesler — Kerstin Bodenstedt — Lenne Wheeler

  Livey Mumpower — Martin Lingonblad — Matthew Bennett — Micha Schlieper

  Michael Burnham — Michael J Howe — Nathan Law — Dr. Nicholas R. Watkins

  Owen Davies — Patrick Veale — Peter Martinez — Peter McQuillan

  Rachael Treagus — Rajiv Kumar — Robert Kickbush — Roger Sinasohn

  Sherry Mock — Simon Reveley — Solomon St. John — Stephen Robertshaw

  Steve Prior — SwordFirey — The Bumpy Beauty — Vicki Hsu — William McGill

  William Stocks — Wilma Jandoc Win — Zach Sallese — Zachary Williams

  By O.R. Simmonds

  PROLOGUE

  London, present day.

  It hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather around the man’s body as it lay on the pavement. Its limbs were arranged in an unnaturally splayed position: head pointing awkwardly upwards and a knee bent back on itself so that the foot was almost touching the hip. Despite this, it was otherwise surprisingly intact given the height from which it had fallen. Onlookers snapped stills and took videos with their phones as blood seeped from the dead man’s mouth and ears. Modern society seemed to have developed a morbid fascination with tragic events; and for some, documenting and sharing them with others had become the norm. No one offered assistance, even though any efforts would have been futile. The dead man might have pondered this disturbing behaviour had he still had the capacity for thought.

  Twenty-three seconds earlier, there had been no sound as the man had fallen from the belfry at the top of Elizabeth Tower.

  Three minutes and twelve seconds later, the dead man’s assailant had completed his descent from the tower and made his way onto the streets. He pushed through the crowd and knelt beside the body. He checked for a pulse, more as a predilection for thoroughness than with any expectation of finding one. His hand slid down to the man’s pockets, perhaps searching for identification. The crowd – which moments before had collectively approved of capturing images of a corpse to be shared among their friends, family and the many social voyeurs of the world – appeared to find this behaviour unacceptable. Their delicate sensibilities offended, they frowned and shuffled, looking at one another to see who might object to the dead man having his pockets searched in this way. They all
murmured to one another.

  ‘Is this guy a doctor? I think he’s robbing him,’ grumbled one.

  ‘What’s he think he’s doing?’ spluttered another.

  ‘Should we call an ambulance?’ someone else asked.

  All the while the cameras continued to flash and roll.

  One camera elicited a familiar sound that the assailant was surprised and perplexed to hear in this setting: the distinctive mechanical shutter of a Polaroid-style camera. Turning to the direction of the sound, there was no doubt from where it came. The young woman holding the camera and fanning the photograph through the air was a flash of neon colours. Her voluminous hair was held up in a rough side ponytail. She wore high-waisted jeans with leg warmers bunched around her calves and a polka-dot jacket with wide shoulders and flouncy sleeves pulled up to her elbows. A silver cassette player was hooked into her waistband, a pair of bright orange headphones slung around her neck. She looked as if she was from a different time period altogether.

  Twenty-seven seconds earlier, the man had been surprised by the unexpected turn of events that had led to him being pushed to his death. He was one and a half seconds into his fall by the time he even realised he was falling. He spent the remaining three seconds of his life paralysed by fear. Had he had more time, perhaps a scream would have escaped his lips. The ninety-six-metre height of the fall was roughly one-fifth the distance required to reach terminal velocity, but even so, he had still accelerated to almost one hundred miles an hour by then and his body struck the pavement with a crunch. He died instantly.

  Three minutes and forty-two seconds later, the assailant turned his attention back to his frantic search of the body. His fingers passed over a shape inside the dead man’s jacket that could have been a wallet, but before he could secure it a police officer pressed his way towards the scene behind him. Still hunched over the body, the assailant’s eyes met the officer’s. The officer pointed an authoritative finger at him and said, ‘Sir, please step away. Nice and slowly now.’

  The assailant did as instructed. Still kneeling, he moved backwards so he was sitting on his heels. As a sign of compliance, he raised his arms with his palms facing forwards.

  The officer seemed to relax slightly, lowering his hand as he approached. The assailant took his chance and rose quickly, springing upwards from his crouched position, shunting the officer aside and hustling towards the crowd. The woman in the polka-dot jacket was still wafting the Polaroid back and forth when he plucked it from her hand as he passed. He was a slight man but wiry and powerful, and he bulldozed his way through the conglomerate of people, shoving to the ground anyone who stood in his way. As he breached the huddle he broke into a sprint, pursued by the officer he’d locked eyes with and another who’d just arrived at the scene. He ran east across Westminster Bridge, away from Westminster Abbey and Elizabeth Tower.

  Fifty-four seconds earlier, the man had argued with his assailant in the belfry. He needed something from him, something that would help him escape this place. He had been trapped here, alone and confused, for weeks. His assailant could help him get back to his normal life if only he would listen. He’d asked this of his assailant, but the request had made him more agitated. The man had approached him passively, pleadingly, but it was a mistake. His assailant saw the approach as an act of aggression and the two of them fought.

  Five minutes and six seconds later, the assailant had reached the opposite bank of the Thames. He descended a set of steps to his left, passing the famous aged green-ceramic Southbank Lion statue before doubling back under the bridge, the officers in close pursuit. As he raced through the underpass, the officers momentarily lost sight of him, but there was nowhere else he could run. One officer followed him down the same steps to the left, while the other crossed the street and descended the steps to the right of the bridge, hoping to pen him in from both sides. When the second officer reached the bottom of the steps, she expected to find the man running towards her, with her colleague close behind. Instead, the two officers were alone, regarding each other with confused looks. They spun around to check that the assailant hadn’t somehow doubled back or changed direction, but the riverbank and underpass were clear. They looked over the low wall into the flowing river below, but neither had heard a splash and they saw no one in the water.

  One minute and thirty-seven seconds earlier, the man had stood high above the rooftops, looking over London’s night sky. He’d begun to lose hope that he would ever get home. It was an unseasonably warm evening, but he suddenly felt a chill breeze break against the back of his neck. He turned, and in the dim light of the belfry he could make out a disturbance in the air: a strange spherical ripple. Something like a heat haze, only cold. When he passed his hand through the undulating air around this phenomenon, his fingers became instantly cold. This sphere seemed to have its own microclimate, and goosebumps covered his flesh. Without warning the man’s assailant suddenly materialised in front of him as if from nowhere.

  Five minutes and fourteen seconds later, under the Westminster Bridge, the dead man’s assailant had apparently vanished into thin air.

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 14th, 1984, 17:13

  Finally, he’d found what he was looking for. It felt as if he’d asked every resident, business owner and taxi driver in and around Shoreditch, Spitalfields and Whitechapel about the small shop that Abigayle had described to him over breakfast that morning. That was almost nine hours ago. He’d become convinced that the place didn’t exist at all and had just about given up when he stumbled across it almost by accident, foolishly lost as he was.

  To say William Wells wasn’t from these parts was somewhat of an understatement. To a midwestern boy like him, London was a literal maze of stone and concrete, whose confused layout was established hundreds of years before the place he called home even had a name.

  He was an unspectacular-looking specimen for a man in his late twenties. He was average height but scrawny, which gave him the appearance of being taller than he was. He couldn’t be described as athletic with such a wiry build, but he had a dancer’s grace when he moved, almost gliding across the ground. His chestnut-brown hair swung lazily in front of his deep blue eyes, set evenly in the otherwise plain features of his face.

  At the head of a narrow alleyway, he was doubled over, his hands on his knees. He was hot and his clothes were damp with sweat. Arching his back, he stooped upwards as a creaking groan forced its way through his lips. He took a step into the alleyway and almost immediately lost his footing as he felt a blister burst on the heel of his foot. He gasped in pain, then said to no one in particular, ‘William Wells, you’re an idiot.’

  Hobbling forwards gingerly, he continued to admonish himself under his breath, replaying in his head the conversation he’d had that morning.

  * * *

  Abigayle’s directions had been clear: ‘This place is easy to find. All you need to do is catch the number 58 bus – the same one we catch whenever we go to Borough Market – it leaves every twenty minutes.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t call in sick and come with me?’ Will said half-heartedly, already knowing her answer.

  ‘I really wish I could, but I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment,’ Abigayle said as she arranged some paperwork in a well-worn leather holdall. ‘Besides, I’ve been dozens of times before.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Everything just seems a whole lot more fun when we go together, that’s all.’

  ‘Will, you’re very sweet, but are you sure you’re not just worried about venturing out into this big city without me to look after you?’ she said, glancing over her shoulder with a playful smile.

  ‘Now come on, that’s not fair. I do okay on my own,’ Will said, raising his hands in mock offence, unable to suppress a smile himself.

  ‘Right, well what about the other week then, when I asked you to take Footloose back to Blockbuster?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Abby,’ he said, crossi
ng his arms and studying his fingernails.

  ‘What I’m talking about is you going missing for three hours because you got lost on a walk that should have taken ten minutes. I was worried sick!’

  ‘I got the video back before we had to pay the late fee, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but only because I managed to find you. At the other end of Kensington, I might add. I was riding around on my bike in my nightie at nine o’clock at night, scared out of my wits that something bad had happened to you.’

  ‘I don’t know if I was gone for that long. Like I told you at the time, I was just taking in the sights, familiarising myself with the area.’

  Abigayle gave Will a teasing nudge and said, ‘Fine, you stick to that story if you like, but I’m giving you directions to this place whether you want them or not. Get a pen and write this down. Number 58 bus.’

  ‘Number 58 bus, got it,’ Will replied, smiling at Abigayle, unable to take his eyes off her as she turned and continued to haphazardly shove various items into her undersized bag.

  ‘Get off the bus outside the Happy Shopper,’ she went on. ‘Then cut through the park opposite and turn left when you come out the other side. Keep walking until you see Woolworths, and Frying Pan Alley is a little farther along the road on the right. The shop is…hey!’ Abigayle stopped as she turned to look at Will. ‘You’re not writing this down!’

  ‘Relax, I’ve got it. It’s all up here.’ Will tapped the side of his head. ‘You forget, I’m a genuine Iowan boy. I don’t need a map or detailed directions. All I need is a name and my natural sense of direction.’

  It would come as no surprise, of course, that although Will found himself sitting on the number 58 bus, five minutes into his journey he realised that there was an empty space in his memory where Abigayle’s directions should have been. Too late he realised that the only thing he could remember with any degree of accuracy was the delicate features of Abigayle’s face. As beautiful as she was in his eyes, it was going to be of little use to him now.