by Ross Welford
“Look. Look at us. It’s incredible.”
I see what has astonished him. It is like looking at a picture of identical twins. Pye’s skin is very slightly darker than mine, but other than that – barely any difference at all.
He looks at the reflection for a while, and he keeps murmuring “Wow!” under his breath.
Then I hear steps in the hallway outside, the door opens and Mr Frasier’s standing in the doorway, but I can’t tell from his face whether it’s good news or bad. I just have to wait for him to speak.
“She was in a very bad way,” he starts, and I’m sure he’s going to tell us that the cat has died. “I’ve done everything I can.”
Pye and I are staring at the vet, expectantly. Eventually, a tiny, half-smile appears. “I cannit guarantee it, lads, but I think she’s going tae pull through. Come an’ see.”
Back in the surgery, Mr Frasier takes us over to a large cage on the floor where the cat is lying on a clean, folded blanket, totally still. Only the tiniest movement of her chest reveals she is breathing at all. Parts of her fur have been shaved off and there are dressings on her side and one back leg.
I see Pye swallow hard. “Wh … what will happen to her?” he says.
“Ah, well. I’ll make a few enquiries. She had a collar on and I don’t think she was a stray so I daresay I’ll be able to trace her owner. Bound to be someone local. I’ll make sure they know about your kindness.”
He walks with us to the front door and then says, “Ah … I don’t suppose you have any idea at all who these older boys were, do ye? Only this sort of thing can’t be allowed, can it?”
We shake our heads, answering both of Mr Frasier’s questions at once.
I’m aware that I haven’t said a word since the vet came into the waiting room.
“Thank you,” I say at last, as he’s shutting the door.
“No, laddie – thank you. That’s a grand thing you an’ yer brother have done!”
We’re on the path leading to the front door when I look across at Pye and his mouth is turned up in a perfect curve of happiness. The whole afternoon has been pretty intense, and for a second I think he’s going to cry (I can feel my own chin starting the first tremors of a wobble as well) so I turn to him and start to embrace him in a bro-hug, but if the other person’s not ready for you to do that – and Pye isn’t – then it can go a bit wrong, as it does now. Pye moves back warily and eases himself from me. I remember Grandpa Byron telling me that men didn’t hug much in the olden days anyway, and I’m hardly well-practised myself, as I think I’ve said.
(“Americans, close relatives and gay people were the only men allowed to hug, until the Male Embracing Act was passed by parliament in 1995,” he told me one day with a straight face. I believed him for a while.)
So Pye and I are both feeling a bit awkward when there’s a shout from the distance.
“Oi! Chow!”
At the other end of the street is Macca, and he’s coming in our direction.
“I’d better go,” I say. The thought of Grandpa Byron sitting in the cafe where I had left him has rushed into my head and I’ve got to go, even though I don’t want to leave Pye.
“No – don’t! I don’t want to see him either.”
But I’ve made my mind up. Before I turn to go, I fix Pye with a gaze. “Same time tomorrow? Same place?”
Pye gives a big grin and nods, before turning and waiting for Macca, even though he doesn’t want to meet him.
Standing outside the vet’s, the absolute lunacy of handing over my mobile phone to Macca has begun to seep into my head and I comfort myself (very slightly) with the knowledge that there wasn’t much battery life left, and he won’t be able to do much with it. But I will have to get it back, I know that.
I’m also now very keen to get back to my world, my time. The idea of flipping between the two as I wish, of setting destination and return times according to convenience, is something I’m only just becoming familiar with, and I’m very, very far from relaxed about the whole thing. You’d be the same. No one is born with an instinctive understanding of multi-dimensional time travel. Not yet at any rate. There’s also the risk element. It’s the breaking in, sneaking around, lying, hiding and stealing stuff that’s doing my head in, as much as the time travel itself. (Mind you, the time travel would be enough on its own, believe me.)
I wait till Macca and Pye have headed up the road away from the house and there is no one around in Chesterton Road. Then I head back to the bunker under his/my house.
Remember, several hours ago but thirty years in the future, I had only just escaped being found in this same bunker by Graham, who was trying to force the door.
I’d had the brilliant idea of using the time machine to escape imminent danger. Brilliant, cunning … and completely stupid. Because I’m now sitting in front of the laptop with nowhere to go.
Returning before I had left was a non-starter because of Dad’s Law of Doppelgangers. Remember? I would risk bumping into myself and that’s not possible. And returning after I had left doesn’t work either – for the same reason.
That leaves the option I had rejected before as Graham was forcing the metal door: find somewhere to hide in the bunker and I would have only seconds to do it. I scan the layout of the little underground room. There’s only one possible hiding place, and it’s pretty pathetic.
I set the time coordinates for the time I left.
And then I hesitate, going through all the what-ifs I can think of. What if Graham just waits by the door? What if he locked the door from the outside? The main one, of course, is: What if he finds me … what if … what if …?
Sometimes, despite the what-ifs, you just have to act. I can’t be here forever, driving myself nuts with indecision. Instead, reclaiming Alan Shearer from the drawer and stashing him safely in my hoodie pocket, I climb into the tub, grip the laptop tightly, and press ‘enter’.
Seconds later, I’m back where I left. I can again hear the pieces of broomstick clattering to the floor, and the wheel that opens the door is turning rustily. One piece of wood remains stuck, jamming the door’s mechanism for a vital few seconds as I climb out of the tin tub and hit the light switch just as the final bit of wood gives way.
“Careful Graham! There might be a gang of them!” I hear Bella say as he pushes the door open.
There are five stairs leading down into the bunker from the doorway and all I can do I crouch in the space beneath them.
I know – I told you it was pathetic, right? Worse, the steps are made of grid metal like you see in factories and if he looks straight down, Graham will see me crunched up in a ball, eyes screwed tight shut as if that could make a difference to whether or not he sees me.
Half opening them, I see a shaft of dim light coming from the doorway and falling on the laptop and tin bath. The laptop is closed, but between the keyboard and the screen is a thin line of light because it hasn’t powered down properly yet. Can he see it? I can’t tell. He’s crouching by the opened door because at the top of the stairs there’s not enough head room to stand up properly, and his feet are directly above me.
“Hello?” he calls. “I know you’re in there. You’d better come out or you’re in trouble!”
He’s scared. I can tell from his voice. Then his feet move and he starts to come down the metal steps.
“Don’t go in, Graham. Come back, love.”
He stops, and I have an idea. Silently, I take Alan Shearer from my pocket and gently release him on to the floor, where he scampers across the patch of light behind the tin tub. He’s only visible for a moment, but it’s enough.
“Oh my God, Bella. There’s rats down here.”
“Yup,” I think to myself. “Rats for babies,” and I think I even smile a bit, remembering Jolyon Dancy’s sly put-down.
Bella’s voice has taken on a harsher tone. “Graham. Come away now. You’ll catch something if they bite you.”
His footsteps move back up the
stairs and I hear him say to Bella, “Come on love, we’ll call the police.”
“And the council. We need the pest-controllers.” I hear the door between the kitchen and the garage click shut and only then do I realise that I have been holding my breath for pretty much the whole time.
Seconds later, I’ve scooped up Alan Shearer and I’m out of the bunker, down the driveway, grabbing my glove and sprinting to the chip shop, where Grandpa Byron is waiting for me. I walk in trying to pretend that nothing has happened, and hoping that Grandpa Byron won’t notice anything. I mean – what is there to notice? I look fine.
“Oh my jolly goodness – what on earth is the matter?”
All right. So much for that theory. Grandpa Byron’s staring at me. He looks at his watch. “You were nearly twenty minutes,” he says. “Trouble finding it?”
I blink, then hold up the glove. “Uh huh. But I got it.”
Wow, I’m thinking. Twenty minutes!
For me, it’s been several hours, but Grandpa Byron has only been here twenty minutes. Except … those hours must still have happened. Those hours happened to me, so they must have happened to Grandpa Byron.
But when?
That’s the question I simply cannot answer. How could something happen, yet not happen?
All of this is going through my head while Grandpa Byron keeps asking me questions. “Where have you been? I was about to come lookin’ for you, man. Are you a’reet? You look terrible. What happened?”
There’s a big mirror down one wall of the chip shop and I look at my reflection. Well, honestly – I don’t look that bad. A bit dishevelled, maybe, and my hands are filthy, and there are a few smudges of dirt and sand on my face from brawling with Pye, and my feet are wet from where a wave caught me and … yeah, OK, I look a bit messed up.
“I, er … I couldn’t find it, and then I was running back, and I tripped up …”
“What aboot yer feet? They’re soakin’, man!”
“Puddle? I, er, stepped in a puddle.” If Grandpa Byron realises the absurdity of this – it’s a sunny, dry day with no puddles – he isn’t showing it. He stares at me, really carefully, as he slowly eats a chip. Then he makes a face.
“Yuck. They’re cold. Ha’way – let’s go.”
I’d love love love to tell Grandpa Byron that I’ve just met Dad. But I can’t. The frustration keeps me quiet and I can’t talk on the back of his scooter anyway. And besides, one thought is crowding everything else out: I must save the time machine from discovery when Bella and Graham’s builders get to work. That could be as early as tomorrow.
One way or another, I’m going to be back in Culvercot tonight.
Same taxi, same time, and that is the very end of my savings, including the five pounds Grandpa Byron gave me this afternoon, just, well, just because he does sometimes.
And this time, Carly is with me.
I know, it wouldn’t be my first choice either, but in fact I had no choice. I needed twenty pounds for the taxi fare, and I knew Carly would be good for it.
“It’s tonight,” I said, trying to sound mysterious, when I put my head around her bedroom door, but the effect was lost because she had her headphones on and didn’t hear me.
I went in and touched her on the shoulder, making her jump. She swung round.
“For God’s sake, Al—” she started.
“It’s tonight,” I repeated and her expression changed from one of fury to one of awe.
“There’s no moon, so we have to go back to Culvercot tonight.”
“What do I need to bring?”
“Well, I’m twenty pounds short on the taxi fare, but we’ll need some other things as well. Some candles for a start, and a lighter, and –” I was a bit stuck, so I made something up – “a mirror.”
“A mirror?”
“Yes. I’ll see you downstairs at twelve thirty.”
We avoid each other, mostly, for the rest of that Sunday evening. Mum and Steve go to bed as normal, and at twenty-five minutes past midnight I hear Carly’s bedroom door open, and the sound of her footsteps padding down the stairs.
At twelve thirty we’re in the taxi, and it’s only then that Carly pushes back the hood on her top and I see she’s done herself out in full-on Goth style: black lipstick, the lot. I say nothing, but the look on my face must have given it away.
“What?” says Carly. “Do you think it’s too much?”
“No. Not really. I mean, you wanted to look nice for Dad, yeah?”
She gives me a puzzled frown and I dart my eyes towards the taxi driver. She picks it up.
“Oh yeah. Yeah. Dad. Right,” and then she shuts up for the rest of the journey, plugging her ear buds in and listening to music.
When we get there, and I’ve paid the driver, and asked him to wait for half an hour, we start walking towards the patch of bushes in front of the old house.
“What happens now, Al?”
I need to keep her busy and occupied while I go into the bunker and start taking out the equipment that’s in there.
“Did you bring the mirror?”
From a pocket she pulls out a small handbag mirror.
“Perfect. Light a candle, and position the mirror so that the candle reflects in it.” This is total mumbo-jumbo of course, but it sounds like the sort of thing they do in séances. “Meanwhile, I’m going in there to get some of Dad’s stuff.”
Carly looks alarmed. “Stuff? What sort of stuff?”
“Oh … just some computery sort of stuff.”
“So what’s it doing here still?”
“It was kind of hidden. But I have to get it back, you see, because, well … I just do.” Poor, I know, but it seems to satisfy Carly who nods seriously. I then add, “It was a prized possession of his. That’s why we need it. It is imbued with his aura.” Carly’s still nodding slowly, but she has the candle in front of the mirror, and she has lit it. “Picture, Al – go on! This is going on Facebook!” and she hands me her phone and sits cross-legged behind the candle arrangement posing while I have to take a picture. “Great!” she says when I had her back her phone. “I’ll send it to you!”
Everything is dark in the driveway, but something’s missing. Where the Skoda stood is now an empty space.
They’re out! Graham and Bella are out, which is great. It means I’m less likely to get caught. On the other hand, anyone who’s out at one a.m. is likely to be back soon, and catch me in the act of robbing their garage.
There isn’t really time to consider all of this, so I ease open the crack in the garage door and I groan inwardly. There is the Skoda, parked right over the planks covering the concrete stairs.
There is no way I can get access to the bunker.
Although …
Squeezing through the gap in the door I try the handle of the driver’s door and it’s not locked. I ease the double garage doors open, and then stand, wondering how I’m going to get the car out. I can release the handbrake, and put the car in neutral and push it out of the garage silently, where the slight downward slope of the driveway will carry it into the road. Only I have no control over it at all. It might swerve and crash into the gateposts, or it might not stop when it gets to the road, and carry on and hit something else. In short, someone needs to push and someone needs to be in the car.
Which is how Carly comes to be an accessory to not-really-stealing a car.
I sit in the driver’s seat, and she is pushing the front of the car. Slowly, it inches out of the garage. I use the car’s brake pedal to control its speed down the driveway, and I stop it, and pull on the handbrake. All this time, I’m watching the bedroom windows, terrified that I might see a light go on.
By now, Carly’s in a spin of terror and curiosity, even more so when I start lifting up the planks of the stairway.
“Al! What are you—”
“Shhh,” I say, sharply. “Just help me,” and, to be fair, she does. It’s a quicker job with two of us, and in only a couple of minutes, I’m t
urning the circular handle of the bunker door and it pops open with a breath of musty air.
Carly puts her head in the doorway and gives a low whistle. “Frea-key!”
But there’s no time to stand and admire it. “Here,” I say, and hand her the laptop and cables. “Take them up the stairs and come back.”
While she’s gone, I lift up the zinc tub: it’s not so much heavy as really unwieldy. Carly’s back, panting, and together we get it out of the bunker until it’s resting next to the computer on the floor of the garage.
Back go the planks, and we take the tub and its contents to the waiting taxi. All we have to do now is push the car up the driveway and into the garage.
Have you ever tried to push a car uphill? It weighs a ton. Or to be precise, it weighs a tonne. No, really, it does.
Carly’s in the driver’s seat this time, and as soon as she releases the handbrake, the car starts to roll back, completely ignoring my efforts to push it into the garage. I’m heaving my whole weight against it, and I manage to stop it rolling, but I can’t push it back, however hard I try.
That’s when I see the light go on in the upstairs window. It’s only a sliver of yellow through a crack in the curtains and I know Carly hasn’t seen it. I crouch down behind the car and tap frantically on the back window. Peering through the glass my heart sinks – her ear buds are in again and she can’t hear me. The light is on now in the house’s front door window, and still she hasn’t seen it! I scramble round to the passenger door of the car and begin thumping on the window, when the front door opens and Graham is silhouetted in the light. I see Carly’s head turn in alarm towards the light, and then spin round looking for me.
I hear the clunk of the car’s central locking system. Graham has locked her in the car with his remote key! Meanwhile, I’m backing out of the driveway, shielded from his sight by the car and the hedge.
“Bella!” calls Graham back into the house. “We’ve got ourselves a thief!” He walks towards the car, clutching his dressing gown around him, and looks in. “Aw. It’s only a young ’un as well. What will the police say, I wonder? Was that you earlier today in our cellar, eh?”