Restoration

by Guy Adams

  "That's sorted then," said Miles, "leaving you, me and Tom to go chasing after the prisoner."

  "Yes," Carruthers smiled, "exciting isn't it?"

  "You are one mixed-up old dude," muttered Tom.

  "No doubt," Carruthers agreed, not having the first idea what Tom was saying. "One final point: might I suggest we all take advantage of the temporary reprieve from danger we seem to have found in order to gather our strength? As we intend to travel to the precise time and location we need using those infernal trains out there, a twenty-four hour reprieve to get our breath back can do no harm."

  "I don't see the point in hanging around," said Ashe, impatient to be getting on with things.

  "You, perhaps most of all, would benefit from the time," insisted Carruthers. "You need to plan your trip, gather what supplies you may need…"

  "There's a hell of a shopping centre," said Miles, "they've even got a bookshop."

  "I was thinking more of food and clothing," Carruthers replied. "But, more than anything else, we need rest. We don't stand a chance of succeeding unless we allow ourselves the opportunity to build up our reserves."

  "Okay," Ashe agreed, "I'll go along with that."

  "I'm in no rush," said Miles. "As much as certain death appeals I can wait a day or so."

  Tom shrugged. "Fine by me too. You reckon this place has a bar?"

  2.

  The group naturally broke apart. As is the way after something big has been discussed they all craved minutiae, the reassuring nonsense of finding lunch or a change of clothes.

  Ashe moved over to Alan once the place had cleared. "We need to talk," he said.

  Alan had an idea that he wasn't going to like whatever Ashe had to say. "I don't want to leave Sophie on her own."

  "Then bring her," Ashe replied, "we need privacy."

  They walked out of the cafe, Sophie in Alan's arms. Ashe walked quickly, not wanting the others to see the three of them and start asking questions. "This'll do," he said, nodding towards a clothes shop whose window display hid the inside from view.

  Once inside, Alan rested Sophie down on a table display of sweaters, figuring it would be as comfortable as anywhere else. Ashe was twitchy, keeping his eyes on the front door and pacing around the rotating racks of clothing.

  "You know who I am?" he asked.

  Alan felt his stomach churn. Of course he knew… but he still hadn't the first idea how to feel about it, let alone discuss it.

  "It's okay," said Ashe, "you only have to worry about the past – about who we used to be – I'm batting for the right team."

  "It's just…" Alan found he didn't even have the words, "it's hard to get the head around."

  "It gets worse," Ashe admitted, "but we have to discuss it nonetheless. There's stuff that the others don't know… haven't asked. And for the most part I'm grateful for that but I need you to be on the same page."

  "But isn't it bad to know your own future? Another paradox…"

  "You and I are beyond paradox, let's face it. You – we – were born in 1915, vanished into the House at the age of eighteen only to end up back in the real world, no older, found on a roadside in 1976. That's forty three years later…"

  "I don't really remember."

  "I know. You then end up back here, aged fifty-two…"

  "Fifty."

  "Fifty two… all people knew was your name, not surprising they got your age out by a couple of years is it?"

  "I…" Alan waved his hands in the air, this was too much to get his head around, far too much.

  For Alan Arthur life had begun on a roadside. He had been born covered in dust and grass stains, then weaned in a hospital room, plied with hot drinks and sympathy. In his pockets there had been nothing but a short note – handwritten – that said "I'm Alan Arthur, please help me…" And they'd tried – after running the name through a bunch of police checks, naturally, nobody had been willing to take that note on face value, including Alan.

  The nurses and doctors had flitted around him, drawn by curiosity as much as the urge to help. Who the hell was he? How did he come to be just lying there? Of course their first assumption had been drink or drugs and they were quick to run blood tests. By the time the results came through though it told them nothing they hadn't already guessed, after a few minutes talking to him you could tell he wasn't high; confused, yes… borderline delirious, but not caught on the tail-end of a bender.

  But beyond that… nobody knew what the hell to do with him. There seemed nothing wrong with him physically – beyond the odd bruise at least, certainly nothing that could account for his condition – and that was all they were set up to deal with.

  One particular nurse had taken only five minutes to pronounce – out of earshot of the patient – "That guy's shrink food." And she had been right. Once the police had run their identity checks he had been dumped into the hands of the Florida Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services.

  But even the shrinks didn't really know what to do with him. He was a mystery with no clues and that swiftly becomes irritating rather than intriguing. His state-assigned psychotherapist was a chain-smoking stick of a man named Whilcott who had been in the business of therapy long enough to hate most people on principle. "Humans suck," he frequently announced. Particularly when sat on his usual stool at Frankie's trying to scrub his brain clean with rum and coke after a long day of psyche-digging. Not that he wasn't good at what he did, he could turn a broken mind into a healthier one sure enough, you didn't have to love cows in order to make burgers.

  In all fairness, the kid didn't bother Whilcott as much as his usual clients, he was a blank slate and there was much to be said for that. Their meetings were devoid of the usual sexual outpourings and childhood hangups. But then, they were devoid of pretty much anything… The kid would just stare at the walls of Whilcott's office, not unwilling to learn but unable, and it wasn't long before Whilcott had to admit there was little that could be done for him. Amnesia just didn't tend to work the way it seemed to have done on Alan Arthur – whatever the movies might lead you to believe – it was usually partial and temporary. To be faced with someone so completely empty… there was just nothing to latch on to, nothing to build from.

  In the end he did the only thing he could: marked him down as a minor – nobody really knew how old he was but the red tape was certainly easier if he was legally underage – and farmed him out for care.

  Alan Arthur became a child of the state, left with little choice but to get on with his new life.

  Something he managed to do, rather well, for thirtyfour years. Then things got a little more complicated…

  "I know it's a lot to deal with," Ashe said, "of course I do, but you need to pull yourself together. None of it really matters anyway, it's who you are in here," he tapped at his temple, "that's all."

  "But that's the point," Alan replied, "I'm not sure I know who I am…"

  "Bullshit," said Ashe, "you're Alan Arthur, a history professor and decent man. You've spent the last thirtyfour years of your life proving as much. Not to mention the extra twenty three years of hard work that'll put you in my shoes."

  "And you want to tell me what happens in those twenty-three years?"

  "Not all of it, just a little…" Ashe glanced once more at the door, they were getting to the hub of it now and, more than ever, this was something he didn't want the others hearing. "Think of this… at some point you must leave here so that you can age into me."

  Alan could grasp that, of course he could. "Yeah…"

  "And yet we know that something that just escaped from here that could ensure there isn't that future to grow old into."

  "A paradox again?"

  "No…" Ashe shook his head, "that's the thing. I left here – as you – knowing what had been set loose, knowing what had to be done to fix it. The question is, what sort of world did I leave here to live in?"

  Alan could see the contradictions now. His future self had come back here hoping to cha
nge the past, a past in which he should have been unable to have existed anyway… "What happens?"

  Ashe told him.

  3.

  "I might have guessed you'd end up here," said Penelope as she found Miles sat behind one of the bookshelves in Foyles.

  "I just wanted a little time to get my head around things," he admitted.

  "I don't want to interrupt."

  Miles smiled. "Sit down. A mind like mine needs interruption… I'll only get all maudlin otherwise."

  Penelope dropped down next to him, scanning the spines of the books in front of them. "Makes me think of the library," she said.

  "I was thinking the same thing," Miles admitted, "wondering what memories I lost exactly."

  "Not as many as some," Penelope replied.

  "No," said Miles. There was a pause then, as both of them turned their thoughts to Chester and the man – men – he had become. "I think he's okay," Miles said eventually.

  "I hope you're right."

  "It all comes down to nature or nurture doesn't it?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "What makes a man? Is someone born a monster or do they become one through the things that happen to them, the way their parents treat them…"

  "Chester's parents were certainly monstrous," admitted Penelope.

  "There you go. Wiped clean – utterly clean – he was given the chance to become someone new."

  "I hope you're right," Penelope thought back to the De Soto. As she thought about it she saw Chester's face changing, swelling up and becoming Alan, then thinning back out, wrinkling and becoming Ashe. "Reformed or not, I can't say I relish spending any time in his company."

  "Perhaps I'd better stay here to make sure you're safe, eh?"

  Penelope took Miles' hand. "Nothing to do with not wanting to face up to that thing we set free, of course."

  "Actually," Miles sat forward, "I mean it, it can't be safe to leave you here alone with him."

  "It's not safe anywhere, Miles, let's be honest. I'll be fine. Besides, at least I'll have all this to entertain me," she gestured at the bookshelves.

  Miles opened the novel he'd been flicking through. "Blank pages," he said, "the illusion only stretches so far. There's a lovely lingerie shop around the corner though, I'll help you try things on if you like?"

  She slapped him playfully. "You're getting altogether more sure of yourself."

  "I'll be dead within twenty-four hours if Carruthers has his way, no time to be bashful."

  "Don't talk like that," she said, "I don't want to hear it."

  Miles shrugged. "Sorry, I was trying to make light of it."

  "Don't, you're being brave to even consider chasing after him, that's not something you should just dismiss."

  "Honestly? It's not even bravery… more like momentum. If I think too hard about any of this then I reckon I'll just crumble. But, go with the flow. Don't question any of it too deeply… well, then I can just about get on with it."

  She turned and kissed him, gently but with intent, the sort of kiss that is the beginning of a journey rather than the end of one.

  "What was that for?" he asked, before kicking himself for asking anything.

  "It was because I don't believe you, brave man," she replied and kissed him again.

  Miles suddenly felt incredibly shy. Eager but also fearful. He leaned back as she climbed over to sit on his lap, squeezing his waist with her knees.

  "I didn't think you'd…" he began to say but Penelope put her hand on his mouth.

  "Don't talk yourself out of this," she said, "not one word."

  So he didn't.

  4.

  Carruthers bumped into Alan as he was carrying Sophie back to the coffee shop.

  "Have you seen Ashe?" he asked, holding up his notebook. "Thought it might be a good idea to swap some historical notes, just to make sure we all know where we're going."

  "You need to be in Florida, Kissimmee Highway 192, just a few kilometres short of where it meets I-4," said Alan, "I was found there on the morning of March 23rd, 1976."

  "Oh," Carruthers replied, somewhat thrown.

  "Ashe just told me." Alan admitted, "If I'm honest I didn't know. I wasn't really processing at the time, I didn't take note of my surroundings until I got to the hospital."

  "Understandable of course, you must have been in a highly confused state."

  "I was borderline comatose by all accounts."

  "So, Ashe told you…"

  "I was always fully aware of my connection to him and Chester, though I appreciated you not bringing it up in front of Tom."

  "Oh, well… nothing to be gained really…"

  "I appreciate your trust too," Alan continued. "I promise I'll do my best to look after both Penelope and Sophie."

  "I'm sure she'll say the same about you," Carruthers chuckled. "Frightfully boisterous that one."

  Alan nodded and then made to walk away before something occurred to him. "A weird thing…"

  "We need more of those."

  "The place where I was found… it can't be more than a stone's throw from where I bought the box."

  "You bought it?"

  "I'd been hunting for it for years, after reading about you in a magazine…"

  "Really?" Carruthers struggled to restrain his pleasure, maybe later he'd ask the fellow whether he had a spare copy.

  "Of course, subconsciously I knew about the box, but I only realise that now. At the time it was a hobby… Anyway, I met the guy selling it at a tourist place called Home Town, pretty much right on top of where I'd turned up all those years before."

  "An extraordinary coincidence,"

  "Hmm… I don't think you believe in those any more than I do."

  "No, perhaps not."

  Alan shrugged. "Probably won't help, wasn't even built in '76." He carried on towards the coffee shop.

  5.

  Night-time in the station and the crowds had washed away, leaving only the driftwood of those who had missed their final connection. Homeless bundles of welltravelled blankets and stained woollens were curled on metal benches like musky caterpillars.

  Ashe sat beneath an advert for high-speed euro-connections. He had spent the day gathering notes on the box's journey. Sketching out a timeline taking in Tibet, the journey of the Intrepid, Spain and New York. He had a hard enough time keeping track of his own journey through the years let alone that of the box. Still, taken one at a time, he should be fine. If he could figure out how to use the trains that was.

  He cradled Sophie in his arms, having lifted her from her coffee shop sofa so he could talk to her without the others hanging on his every word. He sat her down on the seat next to him. She didn't like people hugging her so he tried to give her space.

  "Sophie honey?" he whispered, self-conscious despite the fact that the few people around him weren't real. "Sorry… 'not honey, plain, no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite or honey or anything, plain.'"

  "Plain," she said, her litany of 'build not break' pausing briefly, "setting number four."

  "That's right," Ashe replied, immeasurably pleased at this tiny sign of life, "don't want it too burned do we? We want that toast perfect."

  Sophie didn't reply, just returned to repeating "build not break" as before.

  "Build not break," Ashe agreed, "that's the thing. I need your help with that, Sophie. Need your help really bad." Sophie made no sign of having heard him, he continued anyway. "You see I need to do some travelling, all over the world, forward and back in time. Now that should be impossible but nothing's impossible here is it sweetheart? If it can be imagined it can be done. Look at this place… this wonderful place you made. I can get on any one of these trains and find myself anywhere – or when – in the world. That's amazing, you're so damn clever, Sophie. Thing is, I need to be able to come back, you see? Not just leave here but come back again. I could use the box I guess but there's no knowing where I'll arrive is there? Jungles or libraries? Oceans or cellars? I need to come back h
ere so I can jump on another train and go somewhere else again. Alan's got a lot of travelling to do… he needs to be quick, too. Make sure everything's alright again. Get us all home safe. You think that's something you might be able to help me with?"

  He sat down in front of her, his knees popping as he crossed his legs. He tried to make eye contact but her gaze was empty. He didn't have the first idea if any of this meant a damned thing to her. He looked around, watching an old woman, the worse for drink, tug her blanket tight around her and make her way along the polished floor as if ice-skating in slow motion.