The Psychology of Time Travel

by Kate Mascarenhas

  ‘But, Teddy, this is the morgue!’

  If an employee died away from their home timeline, bodies were stored here while arrangements were made for their safe return. Occasionally an autopsy might be conducted, at the request of the Conclave’s Criminal Investigation team.

  Teddy grinned, and opened one of the cold chambers. Inside was the corpse of an elderly man. He was bearded, and the folds of his torso were tattooed. The pathologist must have cut him open, too, because there was a line of stitches running down the centre of the man’s chest.

  ‘Who is this?’ Fay asked nervously.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Teddy asked.

  ‘Of course. You want us to play a game with a dead body. I’ll say it matters.’

  ‘Oh ho, you’re checking that we have consent? If that’s what’s bothering you, the body’s mine.’

  ‘So you have the same tattoos?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s got a few years on me.’

  ‘This is a different man. You’re a liar.’

  Teddy stopped smiling. ‘I’m trying to make the game easier for you. If you’re going to be a bitch, what am I supposed to say? I’ll have to tell the others you wouldn’t play along. Old Maggie won’t like that at all.’

  This was the price of the job. Fay had come this far; she had played the Angel of Death game. That would be for nothing if she lost her job now.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Fay said.

  ‘Can you juggle?’

  Oh God. ‘I guess.’

  Teddy walked to a high double-doored refrigerator. When he opened it the light blanched his skin. He took a plastic pack of meat from the shelf, from among several, and checked the label.

  ‘Here we are.’ He returned, and Fay saw the bag was vacuum packed round a pair of kidneys. Large kidneys. Human sized.

  ‘They belong to this guy?’ Fay asked.

  ‘To me. Yes.’ Teddy tore open the packet. He proffered it to Fay. ‘Now. Juggle.’

  Gagging, she took a kidney from the bag. It was firm, cold, and leathery to the touch. She took out the second with her other hand, then stared at the kidneys that lay on her palms. If they did belong to Teddy then holding them was a morbid intimacy. She looked at his face.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged.

  He wasn’t disturbed at all. Was that because the body wasn’t his? Or because it was?

  Her soul seemed to detach itself. She felt far from her actions, as if she had floated above her body, and was now observing. One kidney arced through the air at the jerk of her hand. She caught it, and tossed the second kidney. Her palms were bloody.

  ‘That’s it,’ Teddy said. ‘Again.’

  Another jerk. Another arc.

  ‘Can I leave now?’ she asked.

  ‘Once more,’ he said.

  She half shuddered, half jolted the kidneys into the air, and caught them.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.

  Teddy took the kidneys from her, and suddenly seemed subdued. ‘All right. I’ll tidy up here. You can get going.’

  She stopped at the ladies’ loos on the way to the time machines. The blood spiralled down the sink until her hands were white again. She wiped her face with paper towels. Before she left for home, she wanted the taint completely eradicated. But the taint was deep, and despite her efforts, Fay did not feel clean.

  26

  AUGUST 2017

  Ruby

  While Bee ate brunch with Dinah, Ruby was in Birmingham, as she’d said, but not for a conference. She was there to meet Grace. Ruby was about to hear whether or not her grandmother had four months to live.

  It didn’t take long to find the hotel. The building was a conversion from a Victorian eye hospital, and grand if rather dark. On arrival Ruby asked the concierge where to find the restaurant. He informed her it was in the cellar; they were not yet serving lunch, but she could purchase a drink while she waited. She took the wrought iron lift downstairs. It was half eleven, but Grace was nowhere to be seen, so Ruby bought herself an orange juice and cracked open Sushila Pardesi’s phrasebook.

  Ruby was still halfway through the section on sexual slang. There were a few double entendres – she could have guessed the meanings of flux capacitor and quantum tunnelling, although Tipler cylinder required a bit more specialist knowledge. A number of terms had no application outside the context of time travelling. For instance – intercourse with one’s future self was called forecasting. Intercourse with one’s past self was a legacy fuck. Infidelity committed with a past or future self was called me-timing. If colloquial usage was any indication, time travellers’ proclivities were overwhelming autoerotic. But there were some interactions with other people alluded to, as well. A palmist was a time traveller who used her knowledge of a person’s future to manipulate them into sex. That was a depressing insight into the Conclave’s sexual politics. Occasionally there was a surprising detour into more romantic waters. A trip to see a lover for the last time before one’s death was called a liebestod.

  It was at that moment that Grace Taylor arrived in the cellar bar. This Grace was ancient and bright-eyed. Her hair was as white as dandelion clocks. Her head was framed by a foot-high collar made from gold wire and lace, the kind of thing you’d see in portraits of Elizabeth I. Ruby wondered which year Grace had travelled here from – some future period, where they’d revived renaissance fashions? Or maybe Grace had dispensed with fashion’s whims altogether, and worn what she liked. She paused under the archway to survey everyone in the room. For an instant Ruby forgot she was there to discuss Bee’s death. So impressive was Grace, it seemed everyone should drop to their knees in allegiance. Grace’s eyes fixed on Ruby’s – and then Grace gave the most luminous smile – only seconds before her body folded to the floor.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ Ruby muttered.

  One of the barmen rushed to Grace’s side, claiming his knowledge of first aid, and informed the room she was out cold. The other barman called emergency services.

  ‘Her name’s Grace Taylor,’ Ruby said. ‘She was here to meet me.’

  Then she stood scratching her head, unable to give even the most rudimentary information about Grace’s next of kin.

  ‘We should probably ring the Conclave of time travel,’ Ruby told barman number two.

  ‘Wouldn’t they know already?’ said a patron, predictably. He had a point, though. How thoughtless of Grace to invite Ruby, merely to collapse in front of her. She seemed determined to play on Ruby’s last nerve. Yet again, Ruby would have to wait to hear Bee’s fate.

  She didn’t think that Grace was seriously ill. The installation at Tate Modern – not to mention several dozen scarves in the gallery shop – said her death date was still a decade away. By her own account, she was not in mortal danger. Barman number one was beginning to look sweaty, and Ruby wanted to reassure him: don’t panic; she isn’t actually going to die until 2027, but it didn’t seem very appropriate.

  The ambulance came to relieve him. There was terrible difficulty getting Grace out of the cellar. The nineteenth-century lift hadn’t been built to accommodate stretchers; nor had the narrow, spiralling stairway. Ruby followed the paramedics, maintaining a short distance so she didn’t get in their way. They reached the lobby, and Ruby was able to draw level with them as they carried her through the main entrance.

  Grace remained unconscious, yet Ruby felt compelled to offer some soothing words. Bee would have wanted Ruby to be kind; she loved Grace.

  Ruby took Grace’s hand.

  ‘I hope you feel better soon,’ Ruby said, ‘and that we can rearrange our conversation when you’re back on your feet.’

  These were polite parting words, for a woman she didn’t know. Later, when she knew more, Ruby would wish she’d been warmer.

  27

  SEPTEMBER 2018

  Odette

  Once Odette’s medical was completed, she was sent back to the waiting room with the others. After a short interval, Jim returned with a clipboard.

 
‘Ms Sophola, Ms Morris and Mr Jensen – you are all cleared to time travel. Mr Roberts, might I have a word?’

  Mr Roberts stood, rubbing the back of his head nervously, and stepped into the corridor with Jim.

  They closed the door but their voices remained audible.

  ‘I’m afraid, Mr Roberts, that your blood test showed levels of amitriptyline. Your medical notes didn’t mention a prescription for this drug.’

  ‘Is it a problem? I take it for back pain.’

  ‘It’s a tricyclic antidepressant, Mr Roberts. We have to exclude anyone on psychiatric medication. Our recruitment information is quite clear on this point.’

  ‘But I don’t take it for psychiatric reasons. I take it for back pain. The dosage is tiny.’

  ‘Candidates sometimes lie about their reasons for taking a particular medication, because they don’t want us to know their mental health diagnosis. We’re therefore vigilant about excluding anyone on antidepressants, whatever they claim to take it for. It’s really for your safety, you know.’

  ‘So that’s it? I’m out before I begin?’

  ‘Thank you for coming today. We wish you the very best in your job search.’

  Odette snorted with laughter – not from amusement, but disbelief. She thought again of Robert’s threat. If the Conclave found out she’d been traumatised, it was clear they wouldn’t give her a job.

  ‘Might not be very nice, but it’s all to our benefit,’ said the woman in tartan. ‘Now there’s one less competition.’

  *

  At eleven thirty an administrator led the applicants down several corridors, into a windowless gallery. Oil portraits hung from green baize walls. One of them was concealed with a dustsheet. Fifteen minutes passed in uneasy silence. Odette noticed a security camera above the door. They were on tape. Maybe the test had already begun.

  The doors swung open to reveal a pale, green-eyed woman in her late thirties. Odette recognised her with a jolt. This was the woman who had come to Mahé for her wedding. Odette wondered if she should mention having met before, and decided against. It would be awkward if the woman didn’t remember. After all, Odette had only been a little girl.

  ‘My name is Professor Elspeth Niven,’ the time traveller announced. ‘I’m the head of Criminal Investigation for the Conclave. You must be eager to start, so I won’t beat about the bush. Your task today is to answer the question: how can time travel help us to prevent a crime?’

  She walked past them, and pulled the dustsheet away from the hidden painting. It was a portrait, Odette observed, of a bullish man in an academic gown. The other paintings had small plaques with the sitters’ names, but this man’s identity seemed to have been removed, leaving a small pale oblong on the wall.

  A gold knife had been plunged into the canvas, and jutted from the man’s heart.

  ‘The Conclave have owned this painting for decades. It was worth about sixteen thousand achrons,’ Professor Niven said. ‘But no longer. Between eleven and eleven thirty this morning, somebody stabbed the painting. If you were investigators, how could you use time travel to prevent this terrible vandalism?’

  The square-jawed man spoke. ‘We could travel back to eleven this morning, and alter the course of events.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ demurred the woman in tartan. ‘Wouldn’t we cause a paradox?’

  ‘Or end up with whole new lives,’ Square Jaw mused. ‘Like Marty McFly.’

  ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ Professor Niven said. ‘In the next room are many dozens of time machines. One of them is at your disposal this morning. You may take one trip, into the past, to precisely eleven this morning. I will give you a set of tools, which you may use as you see fit.’

  From a leather bag, Elspeth took three screwdrivers, and three catapults. Screwdrivers and catapults had very specific functions. Why those tools, and no other? Were they specially chosen because Professor Niven knew in advance what the hopefuls would need? The questions were making Odette’s head spin.

  Professor Niven hadn’t finished. ‘There’s the knife too, of course. Does anyone want that?’

  The candidates exchanged glances; they’d have to be fools to turn down any aid.

  ‘Which of you should have the knife?’ Professor Niven asked. ‘Let’s leave it to fate.’

  Elspeth gripped the knife and pulled it from the canvas. She flipped the knife into the air with the ease of a circus performer. It landed, point down, at Odette’s feet. Odette picked it up. The handle was engraved: I HAVE A SHORT LIFE AND A SINGLE PURPOSE. She slipped the knife into her jacket pocket.

  ‘Why should she get an advantage?’ the tartan woman murmured. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Fate isn’t fair,’ Professor Niven said. ‘When you return, you will sit a timed essay where you will write your reflections and conclusions. Remember: the question you need to answer is, how can we use time travel to prevent crime?’

  *

  In the neighbouring hall, a technician explained he would set the machine for them.

  ‘I think we should talk about our plans,’ Odette said to the other applicants. ‘Elspeth Niven didn’t say we had to work alone. Why don’t we consult each other first?’

  ‘On what?’ asked Tartan.

  ‘We need to be strategic. The aim is to protect the picture, right? There’s no point us undermining each other’s efforts.’

  ‘I was thinking I’d unscrew the picture from the wall before the vandal arrives,’ said Square Jaw. ‘If we arrive at eleven, we’ll have enough time to remove the painting, and bring it back to the present, undamaged.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Odette said. ‘Before we come back we could use the catapults to smash the chandelier bulbs. Can’t destroy any of the other pictures if it’s too dark to see.’

  ‘I’ll be good at that,’ said Tartan. ‘My aim’s straight as a die. I took the county cup for archery three years running.’

  Odette hesitated. What was left? ‘I suppose I could intercept the vandal – or distract them – do something to stop them getting to the gallery at all.’

  Tartan rubbed her forehead. ‘I still don’t understand how we won’t cause a paradox. If we succeed in stopping the vandal, our old selves will never hear that they’re supposed to stop them.’

  ‘I don’t understand either,’ Odette said. ‘But Elspeth told us to try preventing the crime. So let’s… try.’

  With their plan agreed, they entered the time machine. Anxiety about the test curbed Odette’s wonder at time travel, and something was bothering her about the task. The most interesting questions, to Odette’s mind, were the vandal’s motives. Why was this painting singled out for vandalism, rather than any other in the gallery? Surely the answer should shape how Odette used her time in the past? How could they prevent a crime before knowing the reasons for it?

  In the darkness the engines shrilled, and Odette breathed a strange, pungent mix of scents that reminded her of photocopiers, and burning rubber. The time machine stopped. They waited until the decontamination phase was complete, then the trio walked into a room near-identical to the one they had left behind. Only the great clock on the wall confirmed they had moved back in time.

  They returned to the gallery, where the painting was intact again. The top corners were screwed to the wall.

  ‘I’m tall enough to reach,’ Square Jaw said. ‘You two support the base of the frame.’

  Tartan and Odette did as he asked. The screws were impacted with rust, and Square Jaw grunted as his screwdriver repeatedly scraped the surface. A few red flakes fell to the floor.

  ‘I can’t get any purchase,’ he said. ‘I’ll try the other side.’

  As he stepped away, Odette noticed there was a plaque on the wall. The plaque that had been missing when Dr Niven unveiled the portrait. It read:

  HEADMASTER

  CHARLES THURROCK.

  A man who caned his charge for her vulgar accent.

  Artist: Grace Taylor.

  Grace
Taylor must be the charge he caned. Why else would she paint him, and add that particular detail, if it weren’t from personal experience? Odette understood about accents; the loss of one, the gaining of another, and what the switch signified.

  Odette let go of the frame.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Tartan.

  ‘Collecting a clue.’ Odette took the other screwdriver from her pocket, and applied it to the plaque.

  ‘A clue to what?’ Square Jaw asked, pausing in his own efforts.

  ‘Dr Taylor’s life, I think.’ The last screw wriggled out of its fitting, and she slipped the plaque into her bag.

  ‘I don’t think we can get this picture off the wall,’ Square Jaw said. ‘I can’t get either corner to budge and we’ve only got fifteen minutes left before our old selves arrive.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Tartan. ‘We can start catapulting the chandeliers, before we run out of time.’

  They took one chandelier each, a slingshot and ball at their right shoulder, and none of the trio – not even Tartan, archer for her county – made a direct hit. Their missiles arced too soon and too low every time. Odette’s sailed past the security camera, and she noticed that its light wasn’t flashing.

  When Elspeth Niven had briefed them, the security camera was switched on; Odette was sure she had seen its light flashing, because she had believed they were on tape for the assessment.

  Now the camera was off. Was the difference significant?

  It might be. If the vandal did succeed in slashing the painting, the evidence should be captured on camera, and could help with prosecution.

  The camera was too high for Odette to switch on manually. In the interests of experimentation, she raised her catapult again, and took aim at the camera.

  With god-given precision, the ball struck the side of the camera, and the light flashed. Her success must be fluke. Yet Odette had known she was going to be successful, because she had seen the camera was switched on in the future.