Timelines: Stories Inspired by H.G. Wells' the Time Machine

by Jw Schnarr

  Maura was there, as he knew she would be, blowing on her coffee to cool it. “Hey stranger,” she said.

  He smiled, holding his briefcase behind him in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. “Hey yourself.”

  “Looks like you need those new shoes after all.”

  Dave felt his mind go blank, remembered only after a moment his shoe wrapped up with duct tape. “Oh. Right,” he said. He flashed her another smile and turned to the shelf where his mug sat, picked it up with his free hand and put it down by the coffee maker.

  “Might be easier with both hands,” she said.

  He laughed nervously. “Right,” he said, put down the briefcase so that his legs pinned it against the wall. “I forgot to put my lunch in the fridge. Just remembered it now.”

  Maura glanced from side to side, took a sip from her coffee. “Well,” she said finally, “I should get back. Performance review’s coming up.”

  “Sure.” Dave nodded. “Have a good one.”

  “Mm.”

  Dave took a breath and then poured his coffee, his hands trembling. He wasn’t sure how to read that conversation, if there was anything to read: the mention of the briefcase, the reference to performance reviews after that business with Geraci…No, he was being foolish. On the other hand, he knew that the Agency often put informants close to the people they were investigating. It was hardly impossible that they were using a double-pronged approach, Geraci the obvious threat to make him nervous, drive him to confide in his friend Maura…

  When he returned to his desk he felt a sudden compulsion to look inside the briefcase. Was the record even still in there? Of course it was, he had kept the briefcase in his sight since he arrived—but still the need to look inside nagged at him. He looked quickly over his shoulder, picked up the briefcase and shook it. He thought he could hear the record inside, bumping up against the briefcase, but he wasn’t sure. Putting it on his lap he leaned over it, trying to block the sight of it with his body, then snapped the catches. He looked around again, to see if the sound had attracted any attention, then turned back to the suitcase and lifted the lid slightly. There it was, the record, still sitting flat; as soon as he saw it he shut his briefcase and snapped it closed again, but his anxiety had not been dispelled. Feeling as though he might throw up he leaned over further, slipped the briefcase under his desk and then lifted up his feet and rested them on it. Finally he sat up again, forced himself to take a dozen deep breaths in and out and then went back to his work.

  Somehow he managed to make it through the rest of the day. At least it was Friday. He had survived the week, he thought as he reached the door to his apartment: tomorrow he would be able to sleep in, replace his shoes, and figure out where he could hide the record.

  His hand hesitated over the doorknob. The door was ajar, just slightly: he gave it a push and it opened. Fighting his rising sense of panic he stepped inside and saw that his apartment had been ransacked. All the kitchen cupboards were open, their contents spilled out onto the counters; all the books on his shelves had been pulled down and opened, left spread-eagled on the floor.

  Dave’s fingers were clenched around the handle of his briefcase. If he hadn’t brought it with him…But there was no question, now: they were watching, and their not finding anything would only make them look harder. He had to get rid of the record before it was too late. Holding the briefcase close he turned around and went back outside, looking for a working payphone. The evening fog had set in, making it hard to see anything; he passed by the first phone he found—better safe than sorry—eventually settled on one that was a half-dozen blocks from his apartment. The duct tape on his shoe had come loose, and the slush was soaking into his sock.

  He let the phone ring ten times but nobody picked up. Was Gil just out, or had they gotten to him too? Dave forced himself to keep the panic down, think rationally. Who else could he give it to? The only one whose name he even knew was Paul Beatty; he flipped desperately through the phone book tethered to the booth, felt bile rising in his throat when he found no listing under the Bs. Maybe he should just get rid of the record, he thought, throw it away—but Gil would never forgive him, nobody in the group would, he had been trusted with this—

  A thought came to him and he flipped to the business directory. There it was: Beatty Electrical. The dial moved stiffly as he turned it to each digit then let it fall back to zero; after an eternity the number was completed and the call went through. Dave held his breath as it rang once, twice—

  “Beatty Electrical,” the voice on the other side said. Was it Paul’s? Dave had never spoken to him on the phone.

  “This is—is this Paul?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Who wants to know?”

  “It’s, um—I’m calling about the record we talked about…”

  “What about it?”

  “I—I was wondering when I could drop it off.”

  Another pause, long enough for Dave to wonder if he had hung up. Finally the voice said “I think you must have mixed up your number. Drop dead,” and hung up.

  Dave stood there for a second with the receiver in his hand, openmouthed, before realizing what Paul had meant: mixing up “drop dead” gave dead drop, the locker they used for dangerous handoffs. He wasn’t sure if it had ever actually been used before, but he was glad Paul had remembered it. He looked around, peering through the frosted glass and the mist, left the booth and started walking towards the train station.

  It being Friday night, the downtown streets were packed: this was when new goods arrived in the stores, and many were not willing to pick over what was left Saturday morning. He pushed into the crowd, hoping that it would camouflage him, at the same time keeping a death-grip on his briefcase. If he could just make it to the station, just drop it off, it would be somebody else’s problem…He glanced behind him, wondered if he had seen the tall man in the long black coat.

  The streets were slick, the ice that had formed at sundown melted by all the people walking. Craning his neck around Dave bumped into a heavyset woman in a bright green parka, lost his footing and fell forward. Without thinking he threw his hands in front of him to take the impact and the briefcase slammed onto the ground, skittered a few feet away.

  Dave chased after the briefcase on his hands and knees, wiped his hands off on his pants once he’d reached it and drew himself back up onto his feet. He looked around again: nobody seemed to be taking much notice of him—it was hardly unusual to see someone take a header on a Friday night. He swung the briefcase back and forth, trying to feel if the record had broken, but he knew the jacket would hold the pieces in place if it had. The only way to know would be to open the briefcase, and he could not do that here.

  There was the train station, by the canal. Unwilling to risk another glance back he quickened his steps, turned a few zigs and zags in hopes of losing any pursuit and finally made it to the grand colonnaded entrance. There were fewer people here, and he made a quick scan left and right before stepping inside. His hand fumbled in his pocket for a dollar coin to rent the locker, felt it slip from fingers slick with frost and sweat. He stood in front of the ARRIVALS board, pretending to read the schedule, until his heart slowed. Then he looked around again and made his way to the lockers. They were in a narrow hallway, by the washroom; he picked one in the corner, dropped a coin in the slot and turned the key. The locker door swung open and he pulled his briefcase up to his chest. He was tempted to put the whole thing in there, to avoid exposing the record, but anyone who saw him entering the station with the briefcase and leave without it would have no doubt what had happened. Instead he held the briefcase so that the hinges faced away from him and undid the catches. He took a step back, giving himself enough room to open the briefcase, drew out the album. For a moment he simply held it there until, unable to resist, he reached into the jacket and pulled at the record itself. When he felt it come out in one piece he exhaled, let it fall back in and put the album into the locker, shut it and pulled
out the key. Then he walked into the bathroom at a steady pace, went into the furthermost stall, lifted up the lid of the toilet tank and dropped the key inside.

  By the time he had left the train station he was already feeling better. He remembered now how the meetings used to make him feel, like he was part of something important: that he was contributing to something that mattered. The cold air outside felt crisp now, invigorating. He decided not to wait for the morning, but to buy new shoes now. Why not?

  Turning, Dave felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Wait a moment, please,” Geraci’s voice said from behind him.

  Dave tried to turn around, but Geraci held him fast. He craned his head instead; saw Geraci, in his black plastic coat and red scarf, flanked by two men similarly dressed. Geraci led him forward to the train station’s loading zone, where the car Dave had seen in the parking lot was waiting. Even in the mist it looked clean and shiny, its windows black.

  He knew better than to resist when they bundled him into the back seat. The windows here were as dark on the inside as the outside, and a black plastic partition separated him from the rest of the car. One of the silent men accompanying Geraci sat with him, looking straight ahead during the whole ride.

  Finally the car stopped and he was led out. They were not treating him roughly, not yet, and Dave looked to this for some measure of hope: the ride could just as easily have ended in the car.

  They were inside, or else underground. He followed Geraci down a corridor whose walls were featureless gray concrete, heard the echoing footsteps of the two men behind him. Finally they stopped at an unmarked door. One of the men opened it and guided Dave inside, sat him down on a folding chair by a small, square metal table on which sat a thermos and two paper cups.

  “Coffee?” Geraci asked from behind him. Dave craned his neck to see Geraci come into the room, sit down across the table.

  “Sure.”

  Geraci nodded, unscrewed the thermos and filled both cups, handing one to Dave. The coffee smell was strong, filling the small room. Dave brought his cup up to his lips, sniffed at it carefully and then took a sip.

  “No milk,” Geraci said. “I am sorry. My men, they do not always think of such things.”

  “It’s all right,” Dave said. He took another drink and set down the cup, casting around for something else to say.

  “It’s a long time you’ve been working at Broadcast?” Geraci asked.

  Dave nodded. His head was starting to swim, his stomach churning.

  “You enjoy it there? It is a good fit for your skills?”

  “Sure,” Dave said, the words pouring out of his mouth like syrup. The chair seemed to have tilted under him, and he tried to right himself.

  “You are editing videotape currently? Cutting inconsistencies?”

  “Yes.”

  Geraci leaned down, lifted a briefcase off the ground and set it down on the table. For a moment Dave thought it was his briefcase, but saw that it was black where his was dark brown. Geraci opened it and drew out a beige folder, opened that and spun a page around with splayed fingers.

  “This is a copy of your log, from Wednesday. Do you remember this?”

  Dave nodded again; the room shook with the movement of his head and he swallowed hard to avoid vomiting. He didn’t understand what this was about—he couldn’t think—

  “Here,” Geraci said, placing his little finger on a few words Dave had written halfway down the page. “Do you see what this says?”

  Squinting, Dave tried to bring the page into focus. “I’m sorry—I can’t—”

  “‘Thirteen minutes forty seconds to fifteen minutes twenty-five seconds,’” Geraci read, “President Nixon mentioned. Watergate reference.’ Do you remember this?”

  “I—yes,” Dave said.

  “I have seen this sequence you edited. The character who is speaking, he speaks only of Nixon.” Geraci leaned forward. “So tell me, Mister Lawson, how is it that you know of a Watergate?”

  Dave laughed despite himself. Was that all this was about? They didn’t know about the record, about—

  He was reeling, knocked back by the force of Geraci’s blow. The door behind him opened, and strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright.

  “I do not find this so funny, Mister Lawson,” Geraci said. He cradling his right hand in his left, stroking it with an aggrieved expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. The room was spinning around him.

  Geraci looked down into his open briefcase, pulled out what looked like a small tackle box. He reached for its latch with his hand, paused and looked up at Dave. “Are you convinced of the seriousness of this business?”

  “Yes,” Dave said.

  Geraci’s hand rested on the tackle box, his fingers idly playing with the latch. “Then please tell me. Why is it you feel you must record this mention of Watergate?”

  “I—I must have heard it once before, remembered it.”

  Giving him a look of intense fatigue, Geraci said “It is neither your job nor your place to remember, Mister Lawson. Your job is to find things that can only confuse the people, and to help them to forget those things. You are to forget those things as well.” He glanced down at the open folder in front of him. “You were a student of history, Mister Lawson. Was this not made clear to you?”

  “Yes. I—it was. I’m sorry.”

  “Good.” Geraci drew a page out of the folder with his free hand, spun it around so that it faced Dave—his other hand still on the tackle box. “This is a confession to the denial of history and also an apology, most heartfelt and sincere. You will sign it at the bottom, please.”

  One of the men behind Dave put a pen in his hand. “And—that’s it?” Dave said. “I just sign it, and—”

  “Of course there will be consequences,” Geraci said. “Before you can be once more in a position of trust you will have to prove yourself worthy of it—but that chance may be given, in time. All you need do is sign.”

  Dave leaned forward, tried to read the page; the letters swam in front of him. “I can’t read it,” he said.

  “It is of no consequence.”

  He reached out with the pen, felt his arm being guided to the page. A blot of ink formed at the beginning of a horizontal line, and after a moment he signed.

  “Very good,” Geraci said. He picked the tackle box up by the handle, put it carefully back in his briefcase. “I am pleased to see you begin the path to rehabilitation.”

  The hands holding Dave upright released him, and he slumped forward. He watched Geraci stand, pick up his briefcase and go to the door; on his way out somebody stopped him, and they spoke briefly.

  Geraci turned back to face Dave. “A moment more, please,” he said, and Dave heard a change in his voice: a crack in his superiority, a hint of bitterness. “My supervisor wishes to speak with you.”

  Dave watched as Geraci stepped back to let the tall man with the long black coat come in. The tall man gave a small nod and Geraci stepped outside, closed the door.

  “David?” the tall man asked, moving to stand where Geraci had sat. “Or is it Dave?”

  “I told him,” Dave said, his voice cracking. “I signed the paper. I signed it…”

  “I know,” the tall man said. He leaned down to reach under the rim of the table, and Dave could hear his coat creaking; it was real leather, not plastic. The man drew a small metal device out from under the table, twisted it. “There. We can talk freely now.”

  Dave frowned at him, daring now to look the man in the face. He had brown curly hair that swept back from his forehead, a sharp nose and a thin mustache. “What are we going to talk about?” he asked.

  The man tucked the tail of his coat under him, sat down. “History.”

  “I told you—I already signed —”

  “Not that.” The man leaned back in his chair, dropped his arms to his sides. “You made a copy of that clip Geraci was fussing about, didn’t you? You collect things like that.”r />
  Dave said nothing.

  The man shrugged. “It’s not worth denying it. I only raised the subject because it should make some things more clear to you; so without you confirming or denying it, let’s say we both know there are things that don’t fit anymore, pieces of a puzzle that no longer exists. That’s not an accusation. All right?”

  He took a breath. “All right.”

  “Good. Now I want you to understand—I am one of those pieces.”

  Dave’s head was starting to clear, recovering from Geraci’s blow and whatever had been in the coffee; still, he wondered if he had heard the man right. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “That group you belong to, I know you collect things that are remnants of the old history—things the device didn’t manage to change along with the rest of the world. I’m like that: the new history put me here, but I remember who I was. Who I am.”

  “So—you’re not—”

  The man glanced past Dave, at the door. “There are a few of us, and we’re very close to control of the device. The problem is, a weapon is only useful if you know where to aim it. That’s why I need you.”

  “Because I know the history,” Dave said. For a moment he hesitated, not sure how much to say, but the man seemed to know everything already. “The old history. You need me to help you change it back.”

  The man was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s what you know of this history we want—the differences between the histories, so we’ll know how they put themselves in charge.”

  “But you have to change everything back. That’s why we’ve been gathering all those pieces—so we can reconstruct the old history—”

  “Which is why they’ve left you alone,” the man said. “Your little group is a joke—you think you can change the world by collecting stamps.” He stood up, swung a briefcase from the floor onto the table and opened it. From within he drew out the album, reached into the jacket and pulled out the record, holding it in both hands. “You think this can change the world.”

  “Please,” Dave said.