by Anthony Burn
My eyes followed its course downstream past the apartment, and I thought once more about the time devices lying somewhere deep in the river’s embrace; I hoped by now they would be covered in silt and mud, never more to be seen. I wondered how much their condition would have deteriorated, or whether they would still work after so many weeks of submersion, and I sincerely wished they were damaged beyond repair. In my mind, I pictured them covered in rust or seized solid, but then it occurred to me that I had never known what material they were made from, nor anything about their origin. I’d assumed the casing was some kind of metal that had been painted black and lacquered, but it was so highly polished that it was impossible to tell for sure. Neither did I know if the device was man-made or in some way other worldly, but now I was never going to find out, and to be honest I no longer cared.
I had resumed my passage to the bathroom when a sobering thought stopped me in my tracks, and without thinking I went back to the window to stare sightlessly at the vista. On the day I had found it, I had mused over how the original device had appeared at my flat, but once I’d learned what it did I’d quickly forgotten that it had been seemingly impossible for it to be where I found it. Could it be that it had been left there by another time traveller? Someone who had put it down while he or she did whatever it was they had come for, and then not gone back far enough in time to retrieve it? Maybe they had inadvertently created a second time turner in much the same way as I had.
The question was, what were they doing in my flat in the first place? Had he or she been committing some atrocity against me? The idea that I could have been a victim of the same sort of crimes that I had perpetrated chilled my blood. My instinct was to dismiss the thought as nonsense, but I could think of no other reason for whoever it was to have been in my flat otherwise. I’d been foolish enough to believe the first device was the only one in existence, but I’d easily been able to create another, and on consideration, whether it was man-made or not, there was no reason to think there weren’t more.
For all I knew there could be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of them all around the world, which meant there could be just as many people using them and abusing others in the same or even worse ways than I had done. It could be that none of us are safe from them.
I remembered seeing a quote from Professor Stephen Hawking that read: If time travel is possible, where are the tourists from the future? I’d always considered it to be a good argument, but now I’ve realised it doesn’t take any account of human nature. If time travellers are all around us, the only reason for them to be here is to further their own nefarious ends. That being the case, the last thing they are going to do is tell the rest of us.’
Especially not their victims. Which just leaves me wondering this: is the loving, kind and considerate person you live with, or that stranger in the street, smiling to be friendly or because they have already raped or murdered you? If so, how would you ever know?
A flash of light hit my eyes as a particularly bright reflection bounced off the choppy water, like a spark of memory looking for a connection. Somehow it seemed as though the river and the abandoned train of consciousness were intertwined. I stared at the glittering current as though it held the secret of a lost idea while I backtracked my thoughts, trying to pick up a clue. I’d been thinking about the devices in the river, about how many there might be in existence, and about how easy it had been to unwittingly duplicate them…
Suddenly, the link became clear. But as soon as the thought formed in my head, I wished it hadn’t. The image was as unnerving as it was unwelcome, and much as I might want to, I knew with the idea locked into my consciousness it was impossible to un-think it. I sat down on the nearest chair to ponder this new unpleasant problem and exactly what I should do about it.
On the day I’d collected the spare time turner from the safety deposit box, I’d gone back twenty-four hours to try and catch Lauren before she left. I’d arrived at a time before I’d been to the bank, so once more I’d created a duplicate and the spare was still safely locked away in the vault. Having stupidly thought I’d ridded myself of the last device and its associated dilemmas, the prospect of having to deal with it all over again left me despondent and the fullness of my optimism drained away.
It would be a simple matter to get rid of it. All I had to do was collect the hateful object from its box, and without turning it throw it into the same watery grave as its counterparts. Then it would be gone forever and I would be completely free from the influence of its power. Yet I hesitated to contemplate retrieving it from the bank; a tiny part of me worried that if I touched it, the madness would return and I wouldn’t be able to resist using it again.
I told myself I was being ridiculous, that it was only a gadget without any way to control my mind. In any case, I hadn’t needed it in my hand when I’d done all of those things; just the knowledge that I possessed it had been enough to allow me to do them.
Perhaps I didn’t need to get rid of it. After all, I’d only stopped because I got caught, and I’d only been found out because I’d been careless and arrogant. I’d learned those lessons now, and I knew it would be easy to take better precautions, just as I knew it would be a simple matter to make sure I never did anything that would get me caught again. A whole new world of possibilities was opening up in front of me.
I shook my head in dismay at what I was thinking, unable to believe I could even consider using it again after all the misery I’d caused. No, I would not give in to it. It was not going to ruin my life for a second time. I would not contemplate that I could benefit from keeping the device. I would definitely get rid of it. It was the only sensible thing to do.
The decision was made. At some stage I would go back to the bank, take it from the vault and hurl it into the river. But for now it could stay exactly where it was.
You know, just in case…
The Last Echo
It could have been the perfect lunch date.
For Tom, the setting, the atmosphere and the warmth of Emma’s demeanour all lead him to believe that she will be responsive to what he has to ask her – if only he could find the courage to voice the question.
But before he can do so, he has an unnerving experience, something so striking and unsettlingly deep, that it leaves him shaken and Emma mystified.
In order to explain what is troubling him, Tom is prompted to recount the story of his first true love; a girl named Claire, and a time of change and trauma that he hasn't thought of for many years.
As Tom nears the end of his story, it becomes clear that there is an intriguing connection between Claire and Emma. But is it real or just a figment of imagination brought on by a series of bizarre coincidences.
Scrap Metal
It was supposed to be easy…
As an international dealer in stolen art and antiquities, Sam is well used to danger, but his latest trip to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus has taken an unexpected and menacing turn for the worse.
His usual contact is dead and now Sam has to decide whether or not he can trust the creepy stranger who claims to be the dead man’s nephew.
His instinct is to walk away but that would mean not only losing a valuable commission but would also put in jeopardy any future contracts with his demanding client.
Sam is pretty sure he can handle himself if the deal goes sour, but something else is troubling him: who is the mysterious ‘goddess’ who appears from the sea with a fatal warning?
Escape from Migration
‘The City’s calling us home.’
Several generations ago many of our people left the city to make new homes for ourselves in the towns that had been left abandoned in the desert. Some say that it was the will of ‘The Maker’ that led us to take this course while others claim that it was because life in the City had become too routine.
Either way, life in the desert is harsh, with no access to the facilities that we used to take for granted and no one to help when things go wrong
or when we get sick and start to fall apart.
Now some have decided that they can’t take it here anymore and are heading back to the City.
Not all of us are going back, though. Some of us remember why we left and what it would mean to return. For us, there is still a purpose in these tough conditions. Now we have a sense of place and belonging. We have a life to build and we have our own stories to create.
This is one of them.
About Anthony Burn
Anthony Burn was born in Felixstowe, Suffolk in 1957. He is one of very few people born in the area who can claim to have had their birth heralded by the sound of lions roaring – there was a circus in the recreation field behind his family home, and at that time (long before animal rights) lion-taming was a big part of those shows.
He was educated at Felixstowe High School but left at age 16, bored by academia and lured by the world of work. He has worked in motorway construction, shipping and forwarding, marine surveying and for twenty-seven years as a driving instructor.
He has written sporadically for most of his adult life and has produced a number of titles, but work and family commitments meant that his creative ambitions have remained largely in the background. He turned to full time writing in 2016.
You can find out more about Anthony, as well as keeping up-to-date with his writing, at www.anthonyburn.com