‘Where’s Margaret?’
‘You’re not at work, sweetie. This is the hospital.’
‘You don’t understand. Margaret brought me here. She saw me get hurt.’
Angharad stroked her daughter’s head. ‘Don’t try to talk. You need rest.’
‘We were playing a game.’ Julie closed her eyes. ‘A secret game.’
Why would they be doing such a thing? Playing shooting games with Margaret had to be an anaesthesia dream, didn’t it? Angharad watched Julie sleep for a while. She gave up on the cold coffee dregs and went in search of the nurse who’d checked Julie’s vital signs. She was in the corridor, a sombre woman with a Spanish accent.
‘She’s disorientated,’ Angharad said.
‘That’s to be expected,’ said the nurse. ‘We’ve treated her for infection but she still has a fever. Give her some time to come round properly.’
‘Were you on duty when she was admitted?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I just wondered if she was alone when she was arrived.’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ The nurse opened the door to another patient’s room, and Angharad returned to Julie’s side.
*
By the next morning, Julie was lucid.
‘How did you get to the hospital?’ Angharad asked. ‘Whoever helped you, I’d love to thank them.’
‘I don’t know.’ Julie smoothed the creases out of her bedsheet.
‘Yesterday you said Margaret brought you here.’
‘That’s not true,’ Julie said, quickly. ‘Why would Margaret be with me?’
‘That’s what I wondered. You said you were playing… secret… games.’
‘How silly.’ Julie laughed, then her shoulders began to shake, and Angharad realised the laughter had turned to weeping. Angharad leapt up. She put her arms around Julie and felt, with dismay, how slight her daughter was beneath the gown.
‘You can’t tell anyone this,’ Julie whispered. ‘But Margaret did bring me to the hospital. She said we were going to tell everyone I’d been attacked – by a mugger. No one could know what we were really doing.’
‘Which was?’
‘Playing Candybox roulette. Do you know what that is?’
Angharad did. She’d taken it for an urban myth; an artefact of Conclave gossip, rather than a real game. ‘Why would Margaret play that with you?’
Julie gave a juddering sigh. ‘This was the first time we’d played roulette, but there have been other games. So many – for years. It was because I told her I couldn’t cope with time travelling. With seeing what comes after me. I told her… that time travelling made me feel like a ghost. And she said the games would blunt my feelings about death. But this time, the game went too far.’
Angharad’s stomach lurched. A memory returned to her, from decades before: not brutalising, but hazing. Margaret hadn’t stopped at the initiation rites to toughen wenches – rites that Angharad had encouraged. But Angharad never anticipated her daughter would be among the worst affected. ‘Why would you keep this secret?’
‘Margaret said that was the only way to stay at the Conclave. I can’t leave.’
‘You can leave, Julie. You must.’
The crying intensified. ‘I didn’t before… because…’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t want to disappoint you.’
‘You could never do that,’ Angharad whispered. She kept her guilt to herself – that it was her fault Julie had been subjected to years of damage, and lay in this bed now.
Over Julie’s shoulder, through the internal window, Angharad could see one of her silver selves in the corridor. Not much more silver. At Angharad’s age, there weren’t many silver selves left.
‘I’m going to fetch you some water.’ Angharad pulled back from Julie, and stroked her cheek.
‘Don’t leave me for too long,’ Julie said.
‘You won’t even miss me.’
The silver Angharad had disappeared, but only into the waiting room.
‘What are you doing here?’ Angharad asked. ‘It’s not bad news, is it?’
‘No,’ her silver self said. ‘Not for us, anyway.’
‘Then for who?’
‘Keep your voice down. Do you want Julie to hear you get overexcited? I’ve brought you a genie.’
‘What kind of genie?’
‘Information. I’m going to tell you what you need to pay Margaret back.’
‘Pay back?’ Angharad swallowed. ‘Are you saying I should hurt her?’
‘Yes. Because of how she’s treated Julie,’ her silver self said calmly. ‘You’ve let Julie down dreadfully. Revenge is the only way to atone.’
55
NOVEMBER 2017
Ruby
Ruby was hyperalert when she arrived in the museum’s boiler room. She was wearing her motorbike leathers. The visor of her helmet functioned as a mask. It made her anonymous, and that freed her of her conscience.
Margaret was already waiting for her.
‘You take a turn first,’ Ruby said.
Without saying a word, Margaret pointed her pistol at the Candybox, fired with precision, and stepped neatly to the side before the bullet ricocheted from the machine.
She handed the pistol to Ruby. The trigger guard was a tight fit, due to Ruby’s gloves.
‘Have all your bullets ricocheted?’ Ruby asked.
‘Yes,’ Margaret replied.
‘What about the other players? Did their bullets bounce back too?’
‘Only Julie Parris attempted it. Barbara was like the others – she refused to even try. Whose footsteps will you follow in?’
‘I’ll shoot. Don’t you worry.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’d like to give my professional opinion of you.’
‘Really? I think that might be the most flattering stalling tactic I’ve ever heard. Do go on.’
‘You’re narcissistic. You empathise with people only to further your own ends, you charm people as long as you receive admiration in exchange, and you feel shame, but not guilt. You think you’re entitled to people’s compliance. You try to enliven your loveless world by inflicting pain on others and sensation-seeking with games like Candybox roulette. The Conclave is dysfunctional because anyone who doesn’t fulfil your narcissistic needs is eliminated, or self-selects out. You’ve made the whole organisation narcissistic. Convinced of its specialness and distinction from everyday people, obsessed with novel and high risk activities, and blunting its members’ empathy from the first day of their employment.’
‘You’re boring me. Shoot, or give me the atroposium.’
Without taking her eyes from Margaret, Ruby shot all the remaining bullets at the Candybox. Fate would dictate if she hit her target. She didn’t see if she’d succeeded. She saw Margaret’s reaction and knew the bullets had dematerialised.
The director of the Conclave tottered, taken aback by Ruby’s success. For the first time Ruby saw Margaret’s frailty. Ruby knew something that Margaret did not: Margaret had just edged closer to death.
That was when Ruby felt ashamed. She’d repaid Margaret for past cruelties. But the victory didn’t assuage her grief for Bee. It just lost Ruby her moral ground.
She threw the gun at Margaret’s feet and ran from the basement, out of the museum and into the night. The bike was waiting for her on the road. The emptiness of the streets was a blessing, because she wove at too high a speed. Perspiration condensed on her visor. By the time she hit traffic she thought she’d regained self-control, then she had to stop to vomit in the gutter. Her stomach heaved long after she was hollow. She wanted someone to tell her everything would be all right. Only one person could do that. Grace, with her secrets from the future; Grace, who Ruby had discarded.
56
OCTOBER 2018
Odette
Odette was working at her desk when Tech Ops rang.
‘Good news,’ said the Tech Ops manager.
‘Go on,’ Odette said.
‘We have the images from November the nineteenth. Margaret was definitely playing Candybox roulette that night, and she wasn’t alone.’
‘Who was she with?’
‘Looks like a woman, but she’s in full motorbike leathers, and she never takes off her helmet.’
‘If she came by motorbike, get the number plate.’
‘We did. The bike belongs to a Ruby Rebello.’
Odette stood up. Her stomach lurched. The name was a shock. Why would Dr Rebello be playing Candybox roulette? She wasn’t a time traveller, like Barbara Hereford, or Veronica, or Julie.
‘I’ll bring her in,’ Odette said, and hung up.
She contemplated walking out of the Conclave. She’d come to solve a mystery, and she had: she knew who the dead woman was, and who killed her. But if Odette waited, just a little longer, she might hear Dr Rebello’s own explanation; and Odette realised she wanted this very much. Her thoughts went back to the day she’d found the body: how Dr Rebello had been waiting to give Odette the therapy card. At the time Odette assumed the police must have alerted Dr Rebello she was in need of victim support. But now she guessed Dr Rebello had come of her own accord, trying to keep tabs on the case.
Yes; Odette wanted to wait for Dr Rebello’s explanation.
It was Elspeth who lent greater urgency to proceedings. Odette had just finished a telephone call, arranging for Ruby to be picked up, when the Beeline receiver on her desk started ringing. She hadn’t known it ring before, and stared at it momentarily before lifting the handset.
‘Hello?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Odette? It’s Elspeth.’
Through the office door, Odette could see her boss was talking to a colleague.
‘Which Elspeth?’ Odette asked.
‘A day ahead of you. I wanted to say you have four hours until Dr Rebello’s trial.’
‘Why so fast?’
‘The trial is usually scheduled this quickly, we don’t have the administrative burden that the English courts do. But, Odette – this is important, you must listen – Dr Rebello will let slip you were her patient. Do you know what that means?’
The Conclave would demand Odette’s resignation. Her lies at the time of her application would cost her the job. Odette would join all the other men and women the Conclave had discriminated against.
‘Should I leave now?’ Odette asked.
‘Wait until Dr Rebello reveals you were her patient. You won’t be escorted off the premises until the end of the trial – once you’ve entered the courtroom no one can leave till the ordeal’s over – but as soon as it’s done you’ll be out the door. So tie up any loose ends now.’ Elspeth was breaking an embargo to help Odette leak information. Odette wondered whether she’d been an ally all along, or whether the investigation had persuaded Elspeth that the Conclave was rotten.
‘Thank you,’ Odette said. Her eyes fell on the case notes, splayed over her desk. Four hours was enough time to find a better home for them. First she needed to know whether the threats against Zach Callaghan and his family were ever acted upon in the future. She asked Elspeth if she could obtain any connected medical and police records in the coming decades, via Beeline.
‘I’d do it myself, but I don’t have the clearance to make outgoing transmissions. I’m not senior enough.’
‘Well, I am,’ Elspeth said. ‘I can get that to you in seconds.’
*
Odette ran to the station. She caught the train, and then she ran to the college where Zach Callaghan worked. She checked the lecture theatre where they’d first met, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he in any of the other theatres. There was a wall map on the second floor, which she deliberated over for some minutes. It was no help because it didn’t mark any of the staff rooms or offices where he might be hiding – only the halls that she’d already searched.
It was important to see him in person. She didn’t trust the receptionist to pass on the message he needed to hear. But she was running out of time.
She was heading back downstairs, contemplating the best way to get his home address, when she caught sight of him through the centre of the stairwell. He was on the ground floor, talking to a student.
‘Mr Callaghan!’ she called. He didn’t hear her. He was turning to go.
She ran the rest of the way, just in time to see him leave by the main entrance. She followed him outside. He was opening his car door.
‘Zach!’
He looked up, and waved in acknowledgement. She ran across the car park to meet him. All she wanted to do was lie down. She had to make do with leaning against the bonnet.
‘Are you all right?’ He touched her shoulder in concern.
‘Sorry. Let me catch my breath.’ She pulled at the collar of her shirt. She must look sweaty from her trek through London grime. That didn’t matter, she thought, what mattered was what Elspeth had found in the records.
‘Here…’ He took a bottle of water from his car. She drank it gratefully.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she said. ‘I know you said you’d given up on Conclave stories. This might tempt you back. I infiltrated the Conclave. And I got this.’
The transcripts and fingerprint report were in her bag. She handed them to him.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Enough material for several reports. I’ll help in any way I can.’
He read the first few paragraphs of transcript, then skipped ahead, skimming the later pages. ‘This is incredible, Odette.’
‘I know!’
‘But I can’t write this story.’ He held out the transcript. ‘I told you why before.’
‘You did,’ she said. ‘I haven’t forgotten. When I was in the Conclave I could check your future – and your family’s futures. You will cover this story. You need to, to call the Conclave to account. There won’t be any retaliation. I can say that for certain.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ He looked at the transcript again. ‘You’ve been brave, Odette.’
It felt so good to give away the case notes. Odette felt physically lighter. For nearly a year she’d thought of nothing but the body in the museum. Now, she might finally be ready to leave it behind.
‘Have you thought of becoming a journalist?’ Zach asked her.
‘It’s not the most stable career path,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I have a future in it.’
He laughed. She saw he was lighter too, and she saw, as well, what her silver selves might like about him. Elspeth had unearthed some surprises in his documentation. The most notable was his marriage certificate, dated six years hence. Odette didn’t really know Zach. She didn’t know yet why anyone would want to marry him. But she was curious. He was, she realised, a new mystery to solve.
‘If I were you I’d take a holiday,’ he said. ‘Better to be away from everything when the story breaks. You’ve earned it, anyway.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
They smiled at each other, neither speaking nor moving away. Until Odette remembered Ruby’s trial and swore.
She darted from the car towards the road. If she hurried she could still make it back in time.
‘Where are you going?’ Zach called.
She ran backwards as she shouted her reply.
‘My therapist’s being tried for murder, and I have to be fired by the Conclave!’
‘What?’
‘I have to be somewhere! I’ll call you!’
She waved, and he waved back.
57
JANUARY 2018
Margaret
Margaret didn’t expect Julie’s gunshot wound to cause trouble. November ended, and so did December, without anyone challenging Margaret’s version of events. So she rested easy. She didn’t realise those two months were being used to plot against her. Not until the New Year.
She was reviewing the year ahead with her senior staff. When the meeting came to a close, all of her subordinates stood to leav
e – except for Angharad. And Margaret felt a flicker of premonition. Angharad wouldn’t meet her eye. Margaret waited until the last departing time traveller had closed her office door, and she was alone with Angharad, before saying, ‘Is there something you’d like to discuss with me? Only I’d rather you make a separate appointment—’
‘Julie’s wound’s healing well.’ Angharad sat with her hands clasped at the knee, her fingers white. Normally her movements were fluid – the muscle memory of a ballerina, even at her advanced age – but her pose today was rigid. ‘Now that Julie’s stronger, she intends to take you to court. To the Conclave court. She wants to tell them about Candybox roulette.’
So Julie had squealed, and intended to squeal some more. What a little fool. ‘I see.’
‘We’ve been friends a long time, you and I.’ Angharad’s fingers unlocked. She reached for Margaret’s hand. ‘With each other’s help we can dissuade her.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘If there were a trial, it would come out that you acted on my advice. Julie can never know I was involved. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘If you eliminate all the evidence, perhaps I can persuade Julie that she won’t be believed.’
That would be for the best. And then Margaret would take her much delayed retirement. Disappear, in case Julie changed her mind, into some halcyon year of Margaret’s choosing. She thought about the blank death certificate in her drawer: was it blank because she was missing, believed dead? To vanish, Margaret must liquidate her assets. At the first opportunity she would sell her property for achrons. She could covertly exchange them, for local currency, in her destination decade. But not before doing the necessary clean-up.
‘The bullets in the wall,’ Margaret mused. ‘Blood in the basement.’
‘And the Candybox,’ Angharad said. ‘You must go back for the Candybox, too.’
Margaret laughed. ‘You don’t have to worry about that my dear. I destroyed it.’
‘Destroyed?’
‘Smashed it into little pieces.’ As soon as Bee’s granddaughter scored a direct hit. Margaret didn’t want anything flying out of the Candybox at a time she could no longer choose. She’d envisioned buying a new machine, before the next game.
The Psychology of Time Travel Page 23