by Nick Jones
I hear Other Bill’s voice, ‘You have everything you need within you.’
‘Bill,’ I croak, ‘I don’t understand.’
I close my eyes, despair filling me. I’ve failed, fallen at the first hurdle. I knew the fog would be bad, but I totally underestimated how acrid it would be. In fact, this isn’t fog at all; this is blinding, killer smog. I should have packed a gas mask! I feel myself sinking deeper into self-pity and resignation. I am overwhelmed with the deathly silence and the impossibility of my task.
Then, within this barren stillness, I feel a tingling sensation in my chest. It’s not the watch; this is deep inside.
Within me.
My heart skips a beat.
With eyes pinched shut, I crawl to a bench, haul myself up and begin to walk the streets of London on gut feel alone. Don’t ask me how I know to turn left and then right and then right again. Don’t ask me how I avoid the obstacles in my path, because I don’t know.
I am a diver in a cave, no lights, just the sound of my ragged breathing and my instincts.
Trust, Bill said, I need to trust.
I continue like this for a while, walking without thought, following my internal sat nav. I wonder if this is what a bird feels like when it first migrates for the winter and nature takes over.
As if in answer to that question I open my eyes and through the milky gloom see the most beautiful sight, the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. There, illuminated like the famous obelisk in the film 2001, I see my salvation. A blue police box, topped with a pulsing red light, lashing into the night like a solar flare.
My lungs are in spasm, my eyes stream, but I laugh, remembering Vinny pointing one out to me on a previous trip. Perhaps he was right after all, perhaps I am Doctor Who! My laugh becomes a deep uncontrollable retch.
More like Doctor Whooping Cough.
But I don’t care. I know what I need to do. My instincts have brought me here. This is my link to the outside world, a way of cutting through the smog and summoning help.
Ready or not, Frankie Shaw, I’m coming for you.
And whatever happens, it ends tonight.
Chapter Seventy-Four
I stare at my TARDIS of salvation. A few years from now, they will knock these antiquated boxes down and replace them with radios. For now, though, it’s state-of-the-art and the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.
My direct line to the local police station.
I desperately wipe my eyes and find a panel that reads: FOR PUBLIC USE. I open it and lift the handset to my ear.
Nothing. The 1962 equivalent of NO SIGNAL.
I tap the cradle urgently, like they do in the old black-and-white movies, slowly accepting the truth. It’s dead… and so am I if I don’t get out of this poisonous hell.
I try the door.
It’s locked.
I smack my palm against it in frustration. Then I remember the key in my pocket.
There’s no way.
No way.
With trembling hands, I place it against the door lock. The key is a perfect fit and slides in easily. I twist, and the door opens. If I wasn’t nearly choking to death, I would cry out in joy. I step inside, close the door and give in to a convulsing coughing fit. The air isn’t clear, but compared to outside it tastes like a forest glade. Eventually my coughing subsides, and my eyes take in the interior of the police box.
This TARDIS is no bigger on the inside than out. It is, however, well-lit and the world’s neatest miniature office. Every inch is utilised. On a wooden table, there’s a rotary telephone, a notepad and a stack of pencils. The walls have mounted cabinets and three clipboards hang neatly in a row. There’s even a kettle and tea-making supplies. The coppers had their priorities right.
I wipe my nose and eyes, which are still streaming. My fingers come back black, covered in a thin, treacly coating. I’m going to be lucky to live through this. I’m not sure modern air-quality charts go this low.
I grab the phone and hear a dialling tone. It connects.
‘Hello?’ I say, voice desperate.
A serious voice replies, ‘This is Detective Inspector Price, Limehouse station. Who is this?’
Oh, joy.
DI Price. My favourite neighbourhood ball-breaker sounds like the perfect combination of suspicious and annoyed. He hasn’t interviewed me on a murder charge yet (that doesn’t happen until next summer) but he will remember my false claims about a van robbery.
‘Listen to me,’ I say as forcefully as I can. ‘This is urgent, this is huge… a bank robbery taking place, right now.’
‘A robbery in progress, you say.’ There’s a long pause and, for a horrible moment, I think he may have hung up. ‘Tell me, oddball, why should I trust you this time?’
Oh dear. Double crap with extra sprinkles. The canny old bastard recognises my voice. It’s not hugely surprising. Language changes massively over time and I’m sure I must sound extremely weird to people here. As one example, nobody says weird in 1962. I make a mental note: work on my acting skills, planning ahead, and accents.
Not that I’m ever doing this again.
‘Well?’ he demands. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
It’s a good question. Why should he trust me?
A spark of inspiration.
I remember one of the local crooks talking to PC Green in the pub, an angle I could use if I could just remember the bloke’s name. Vinny recognised him, he looked like Woody Allen.
Seconds tick by...
I close my eyes and will the crook’s name to the surface. It explodes into my mind. ‘Squint Daley!’ I exclaim. ‘He’s my source, he’s reliable… he told me where the robbery is happening.’
DI Price sucks air through his teeth. ‘I’m not buying it. Stay indoors and stop wasting police time. I don’t know if you’ve looked outside but –’
‘Listen,’ I say insistently, ‘you have a chance to catch Frankie Shaw, tonight.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard this one before.’ The handset creaks.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘and I’m sorry, but this is the big one and if you ignore it, you will wake up tomorrow, see the news and spend the rest of your life knowing you could have caught him.’
I actually sound pretty convincing. Probably because I’m telling the truth. I’m handing Price notoriety on a plate. Like a good salesman, I wait.
‘Oh Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this.’ He exhales loudly. ‘Stay there. I will come and pick you up myself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he growls, ‘just be right this time!’
The line dies.
I blink at the handset and place it back in the cradle. I check my watch. Calibration is now complete. The local time is now nine-forty p.m. The jump dials read:
0 Days 10 Hours 32 Minutes
Plenty of time to alter history.
All I can do now is wait for the cavalry. During this time, it would be easy to imagine the many ways I could still fail. I don’t allow it, though, don’t allow this cold night to sap any more of my confidence. Instead, I focus on the job at hand: saving Lucy, securing Amy and getting back to my life. I think about Vinny and his parting words of encouragement. I imagine him with me and picture his face on seeing the TARDIS, excited and smiling. I think of Alexia, too. We all need something to believe in. I hold on to what we had. I can dream. I’m good at pretending life is great when it’s not.
Twenty minutes later, I hear a car pull up. Covering my mouth, I head back outside. Ghostly shafts of light flash across the gloom and settle on me. Even in this murky hell, I can’t help but admire Price’s car, a retro Ford Anglia. He winds down his window (it’s manual, so it takes ages) and glares up at me, his unruly grey hair ghostly in this light. ‘I can’t believe you persuaded me to do this again… we’re short-staffed as it is.’ He glances around. ‘And it’s fair to say you’ve chosen your bloody moment. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
No
one had. This smog claimed lives, changed the law, changed London forever.
‘Get in,’ he orders me.
No arguments there. The car is warm and welcoming, the seats like armchairs. I glance at Price. He’s wearing a thick sheepskin coat like a football commentator. He’s a formidable presence, heavyset.
‘Where are the other officers?’ I ask him.
He looks surprised and then laughs heartily. ‘Do you really think I’m calling in the troops, after the stunt you pulled with the van?’ He shakes his head. ‘No. You and I will go and check this out first, then we’ll see.’
I consider trying to persuade him, but the fact I even got him here feels like a minor miracle.
Like the key.
‘Well?’ He stares at me, eyes dark holes in shadow. ‘I haven’t got all night, sweetheart, where are we going this time?’
‘Barclays Bank, Brompton Road, Knightsbridge.’
He looks at the road ahead. ‘Usually that would take about half an hour,’ he says. ‘God knows how long in these conditions.’ He spins the car, wrestling the wheel like a captain turning a boat in high winds.
Power steering.
You don’t know you’re born.
‘By the way, fair warning,’ Price says determinedly. ‘Before this night is done, I fully intend to arrest you for something.’
Price is a cliché, his views are probably old-fashioned and I’m sure he smokes and drinks too much. But he’s also a proper, decent copper and he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt. Part of me is almost envious, too. I’m here alone. Price could call back-up if he needed it, and that must be a nice feeling.
We drive through the cold lifeless murk, through traffic jams, past abandoned cars. London is a battlefield. At best, we can see ten feet in front of us.
‘I’m not messing you around,’ I tell him as we crawl along. ‘You’re going to catch Frankie this time, but we need to be careful.’
His hands grip the wheel, he peers intently into the gloom. ‘Let’s get there first shall we?’
We pass a traffic conductor waving a flashlight, trying to control the immediate chaos all around us. An iconic double-decker bus emerges from a sea of mist. Inside are masked, ghostly looking pedestrians. I remember seeing this bus in one of my viewings. A sense of dread builds within me.
Was I supposed to call DI Price?
I feel uncertainty wrapping itself around me, like the heavy air suffocating London. Fate is a dangerous word when you are a time traveller.
We continue through the war zone in silence, my dread continuing to build. Price takes a right and informs me that we are nearly there. The smog is thick, there are no other vehicles on the road now. Price spins the car around, his headlights flashing across the unmistakable frontage of what will become the most famous bank in history. The windscreen wipers smear sludge over the glass. We are both coughing.
Just gone eleven p.m.
According to my research, Frankie and his crew should be in there now, but the time of the robbery was only estimated; all we can do is hope we’re not too late. My thoughts turn to Vinny; he would be bouncing around in the back of the car and DI Price would be telling him to shut up. I miss him.
‘So, what happens now?’ I ask Price, scared he’s going to go running in and get himself captured or worse.
He frowns at me, a troubled expression.
‘What is it?’
‘Something has been bothering me.’ He blinks, shaking his head. ‘Has been keeping me up at night.’
‘Listen, I really think we should –’
‘How did you and your fat mate manage to escape?’ he interrupts me. ‘You were tied up, being watched, and you just... disappeared.’
Of all the times to ask about how Vinny and I escaped from Frankie Shaw. How the hell do I explain that we….
I stare at him.
My face slackens. The dread that’s been building swells and explodes in a wave of horrible realisation. It pulses against my temples and then squeezes through my body like liquid nitrogen. Trust my instincts, indeed.
Price smiles and pulls a gun from his jacket.
I stare down at the pistol, helpless. ‘But you weren’t there,’ I say, dry-mouthed.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ he says, ‘but I know a man who was.’
Chapter Seventy-Five
Price continues to talk but I can’t hear him. I stare at the gun. A huge part of me wants to dive out of the car and run screaming into the night, but I know if I do that he’ll shoot me. Instead I squirm involuntarily, as though I’m trying to invert myself, my arms and legs jangling.
Fear. It’s a powerful thing. It ices you to the core and I was pretty frozen already. I try to swallow, lick my lips which are dry as sandpaper, and glance up at Price. I decide my best bet is to try and keep the conversation going. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask him, voice thin and shaking.
To my surprise, he seems to genuinely consider this question. ‘I didn’t much like Tommy,’ he says, ‘but Frankie is going places.’
He’s right about Frankie going places – to prison and then straight to hell. ‘So, you’re doing it for the money?’
He scowls at me. ‘Do you know how hard we work?’ He leans in towards me. ‘Do you know what we get paid?’
I shake my head.
It’s always money.
His expression becomes almost wistful. ‘It’s my missus’ fault, really,’ he tells me. ‘Retirement’s looming and she has… well, let’s just say she has expensive taste.’
I can’t think of any reason good enough to justify what he’s done. Although his gun remains fixed on me, I can’t help myself. ‘Frankie Shaw is a killer,’ I remind him, ‘and if you’re helping him, you’re going to have blood –’
‘Shut up,’ he growls, baring his teeth. ‘You don’t know anything.’
I tip my head and raise my eyebrows, ‘Actually, when you think about it, I know plenty,’ I tell him. ‘I knew Frankie was robbing the bank tonight and I was right about the van last time too, I guess until you warned him off.’ I offer him a humourless smile. I’m goading him, but I can’t stop. My fear has mutated into bitterness and anger. If I’m going to die, then I’m going down as Captain Sarcastic of the good ship Know-It-All.
Price leans in. ‘I don’t know how the hell you know this stuff,’ he says, voice calm and deliberate, ‘but you keep popping up like a bad penny.’ He pauses for a moment and then says, ‘And you’re involved now, sunshine.’
A radio on the dashboard crackles into life, sending my heart racing. ‘Viper to Stingray. Are you here yet?’ It’s Frankie.
Price grabs the radio. ‘Stingray receiving. Yes, we’re outside.’
‘Is he with you?’ Frankie asks.
Price turns to me, eyes flickering with enjoyment. ‘Oh yes, he’s here.’
‘Well then,’ Frankie says cheerfully, ‘come in and join the party.’
Hearing his voice again sends fresh waves of panic through me. Especially as the person I trusted to arrest him is one of the gang. Price gets out of the car, hauls me out by the shoulder and pushes me down the street. He presses the gun into the small of my back. The smog is so thick I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me.
‘Hands where I can see them,’ Price orders.
I think he may have watched too many Westerns. I lift my hands in the air. As we walk, I’m racking my brains for a plan, but my options are rather limited. I could run away, howling into the mist. I might make it if Price is a poor shot. Somehow I doubt that.
We reach a familiar door, the house with the basement. 108 Brompton Road. Price taps the door in a deliberate sequence. Someone slides two bolts and the door opens.
An undesirable-looking man nods at Price and lets us in. I’m led through a horribly familiar scene, one I have walked in my viewings many times. It’s dark, but I recognise the hallway and the kitchen. We descend the stone steps towards the basement, gun still pressed into my back.
‘After you,’ Price says when we reach the bottom. I open the cellar door and am greeted by a scene Vinny and I studied in the history books. A black-and-white photograph brought to life in full colour.
The entrance to the tunnel is as wide as a doorway, surrounded by tonnes of rubble. I decide not to think about The Great Escape because I don’t think I’m going to get one.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I am alone in 1962, the night London was adrift, shrouded in a blanket of secrecy. And in the darkness, bad men pillage and plunder.
In the darkness, Frankie Shaw is waiting.
Part VII
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Chapter Seventy-Six
Price marches me into the tunnel, his gun pressed into the middle of my back. The tunnel is well-constructed, supported by a wooden frame and reinforced every ten feet or so. A string of lightbulbs snakes into the distance. I would imagine this is what it feels like to enter a pyramid, cold and claustrophobic with an undeniable omen of death. After about twenty feet I become acutely aware of the huge amount of earth, concrete and tarmac above us; a London street just waiting to collapse.
Of course, I needn’t worry, because I have knowledge on my side. The tunnel remains intact. As we near the end, I smell burning, a bitter chemical stink that reminds me of chemistry lessons, of Bunsen burners and phosphorus. We reach a set of ladders propped against the end of the tunnel.
‘After you, sweetheart,’ Price says.
I climb the ladders.
Price follows, gun trained on me. We emerge directly into the bank’s vault. To my left is one of those portable light stands, the kind you might find on a building site or buy from a hardware store. It illuminates a robbery in progress.
Scattered around us are leather holdall bags, crammed full of money and jewellery. I spot Mad Harry Hurst stuffing one like he’s packing laundry. A thick-set bearded man is busy drilling the locks of a wall of safety deposit boxes. The drill squeals and grinds. The men work methodically; they seem relaxed, as though they have all the time in the world.