Once Upon a Starman

by Allie Marell

  Only what he told her. And that story was straight-up science fiction with a huge dollop of Disney Christmas magic on the side. Whatever the truth, she was too far in to back out now.

  The poor guy was watching the old newsreels on a loop. Searching for answers, clinging to hope. She wanted to cross the room, put her arms around his shoulders and tell him everything would work out. Wished she could do that and mean every word.

  “We can get a sandwich in town,” she said and joined Santar at the screen. Jess’s tail thumped the floor, as if the confused dog was beating out approval that his two favourite people had got it on. To his loyal little mind, it was probably that simple.

  “Thank you.” Santar changed the screen, turning his grey-eyed gaze to her with such hope, she wanted to weep. “I think I’ve found her location, Andra. My...the woman who lost her son in 1959. There’s a Mrs Nora Chapman of the appropriate age resident at a care home in a hamlet called Barley Mill. It’s within easy driving distance of this place.”

  “Is there any more information?” With one hand on his shoulder, because she just had to touch him, to feel his solid warmth beneath her palm, Andra leaned over the screen. She wasn’t going to ask how he got into the care home personal files. Let him work this through and be there for him.

  “I’ve not yet been able to access all the files, but she was admitted in the year of 2009, suffering from delusional outbursts mostly centred around the imminent return of her abducted son.” Santar’s shoulder tensed beneath her hand. “The notes say she’s convinced he will return to her. She’s waiting for him, Andra.”

  “That’s so sad. But Santar, think about this carefully. She lost her son in 1959. She could be in her eighties, even her nineties by now and likely suffering from dementia, from what you say about the outbursts. If you were William Chapman, you’d be sixty-eight years old.”

  Santar closed the screen with a weary sigh. Spun the chair slowly to face her. A traitorous stab of guilt made her want to snatch back the words that destroyed his hope. But the evidence was here, staring at her. Battle scarred, a few grey hairs and a little frayed around the edges, but definitely not an old aged pensioner.

  He wiped a hand over his face and she had to wonder if the love-making had been a dream. No longer the confident man who’d taken her to heaven and back, she saw the cracks in his armour. How devastating a few words could be.

  Well, that’s taken care of the embarrassing afterglow. She wanted so much to tell him it might be true. She refused to lie to him. Was more prepared to believe him an alien from outer space than a time traveller who never aged.

  “Andra,” he began, carefully gauging her reaction. “Time has many anomalies. I thought I’d explained all that.”

  “You did, but I’m no scientist. It’s hard for me to get my head around.”

  “I know.” With a brisk click of his finger, he closed the screens. “Very well. That is enough for now.”

  A good negotiator. Knew when to push, when to pull back and wait. He was going to ask to visit the old woman. She knew it and she’d deal with that problem when it came. They could maybe pretend to be distant relatives in the area and go bearing Christmas gifts?

  She’d pick something up in town in case Santar insisted on seeing this through.

  Lost in thought, she jumped when he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into him so abruptly, she landed in his lap with a breathless gasp.

  “I believe you offered me food, what you called lunch? And I’m always hungry after sex.”

  His dazzling smile nearly blinded her, making her belly quiver with the memory of them hot and sweaty in her bed. He’d showered while she dressed and she inhaled the clean scent of his skin. Wrinkling her nose, she caught the sweaty tang of his shirt and found it oddly alluring.

  “Are you indeed?” Arching a brow, she considered kissing the smile from his face. Decided to play it cool instead. He’d lightened the moment, broken the sad, heavy mood. It was her turn to do the same.

  “I certainly am. And after military rations, the food on your planet is food for the gods.”

  “You’re a silver-tongued devil. Do you know that?” She shook her head when his eyes actually twinkled with wicked intent. How did he do that? “Of course you do. Okay, I’ll get my coat and keys and we’ll need to shut Jess in the boot room so I can set the alarm in case our visitors return.”

  She levered herself reluctantly from his lap, relieved he didn’t protest. They really did have clothes to buy for him and a sick child to visit. While Santar worked through his traumas, life outside moved relentlessly on.

  Thinking of the men in black sobered her. That cold, hard voice asking, no assuming she’d just sell General Jo after all the trouble she went to search out the toy. Santar finding the guys skulking around her property.

  For all the complications he brought into her life, she was glad to have him here, standing between her and whatever threat they might pose. On impulse, she rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs, seeking out a backpack for Santar to stow General Jo. Safer with him than leaving it hidden in the house.

  He was in the kitchen, squeezing his feet into his snug dress uniform boots. Black with a contrasting band of lighter colour under the knee, they reminded her of the tall, hessian boots men wore in the Regency period.

  Maybe he was a time traveller after all?

  He stood, pushing at the boots as she placed the backpack on the kitchen table.

  “Put General Jo in that. I know you’ll want to keep him close.” She left it with him. Retrieved the white scarf and black gloves she loaned him earlier.

  “Good thinking.” The toy bulged beneath his tunic. He pulled it out, transferring the package to the backpack with a stealth that amused her. Did he think she had the strength to fight him for it? No, she had a way better plan than that.

  A plan called little Oliver.

  “Let’s go then.” Jingling her keys, she beckoned him to follow. He opened the barn doors, standing sentinel as she backed out the car. Locked them behind her.

  She could get used to this.

  Hard to believe he was the same thief who hijacked her car. Things had changed so much in a day.

  She parked up in a small mill town in the valley bottom. Once a satellite town of the greater industrial city of Manchester, now with the old cotton mills closed, a trendy place of restaurants and bars, gift shops and heritage trains pulled by vintage steam engines.

  A gleaming engine linked to period carriages sat waiting at the restored village station, black smoke huffing from its stack. A volunteer station worker pushed a wide broom over the platform, clearing away the snow while Santar stared in wonder at the great iron beast, making her laugh out loud.

  “Men and trains,” she murmured and got out of the car. When she looked around, Santar had walked away, towards the station entrance, his eyes never leaving the engine. She ran to catch up.

  “Are you up for some clothes shopping?”

  “Eventually. I need to see this first.”

  “What, you’ve never seen a steam train before?” Market day so the place was humming, the scenic steam railway doing good business hauling nostalgic passengers in a journey back in time.

  “I’m not sure. I need to be closer.”

  “They run the Santa specials in the weeks before Christmas. See the decorations and the overexcited kids? Santa walks through the train distributing early Christmas presents. And the parents get to drink sherry and eat mince pies.”

  “Who’s Santa? Remind me.” He was only half listening, his eyes riveted to the engine taking on water from a huge tank on legs at the far side of the platform.

  “Santa’s the guy who brings presents, remember? Oh, all right then. I suppose we have a few minutes.”

  At the platform entrance, a man in a vintage British Rail uniform, a sprig of holly in his cap, smiled and politely enquired whether they had a platform ticket. Hastily, Andra forked out for two and followed Santar ont
o the platform. Eyes closed, he breathed in the sooty fumes and reached out to touch the black metal engine bearing the name Duke of Lancaster.

  “Be careful.” Grasping his jacket, she yanked him away. “It might be hot.”

  “Not this part. Who’s Thomas? Why do I remember a Thomas and trains?”

  “You mean Thomas the Tank Engine?”

  “I don’t know. When I saw the engine, the name appeared in my head.”

  “Maybe you’ve been to the village before? They do Thomas the Tank Engine weekend specials too. The kids love it.” She took his arm, linking with hers. Steering him away from the puffing monster. All around them people full of Christmas spirit snapped with their phones, herded eager children into the tinselled carriages.

  “No. I remember a book. A story.”

  “There’s a bookstore in town, I’ll show you. And Santar, the Thomas stories were first published well after 1959 so William Chapman couldn’t have known about them before his abduction.”

  In the bookstore, she discovered that Thomas the Tank Engine went way back to the nineteen forties. Feeling a little freaked, she bought Santar a copy of the first book. He tucked it away like a precious thing and her heart melted a little more.

  “Let’s try the Hospice store first. They tend to go for the more upmarket cast-offs.

  And Santar definitely looked like an upmarket kind of guy.

  “Are you ready to be a civilian?”

  “I welcome it.”

  Again, she indulged the smug feeling of walking with a hot man on her arm. No real need to hold his arm other than women were looking and checking out the tall, dark-haired man in the tight pants and high boots with keen interest and she was determined to milk the moment.

  Who knew when this would ever happen to her again?

  Inside the store, Christmas songs rang merrily from a speaker on the counter. With an expert eye, Andra perused the neatly laid out racks. Charity and thrift stores had come a long way in the past few years. No longer peddling piles of unwanted used junk, so she whizzed through the racks, picking out several pairs of Levi jeans, an assortment of tee’s and a smart cashmere sweater still bearing its original store label.

  “Try these for size and I’ll find you a jacket.”

  Santar studied the clothing, nodded and snapped open his tunic jacket.

  “Not here.” She stopped him reaching for his belt. “There’s a private changing room over there. I’ll clear it with the assistant.”

  “I can change just as well here.” He eyed the cubicle dubiously, as if the curved curtain wall hid some terrible secret beyond.

  “Believe me. You can’t. It’s my duty to protect the females of this town from the sight of a half naked Santar casually stepping into thigh-tight jeans.”

  His eyes did that twinkling thing again while two teens peered from behind a rack of hats, phones held aloft.

  “Why deprive them?” Santar threw out the challenge and then thankfully gave in, gathered up the clothing and ambled over to the changing room while she scuttled to speak with the assistant and threw a glare at the two giggling teens.

  At least the man had a sense of humour beneath the stern cloud he wore as a shield.

  Rifling the hanging racks, she rejected the winter coats one by one and realised she’d already formed a picture of him as a country gentleman in a green, waxed jacket, leaning casually on a mud spattered Range Rover. None of the boots looked suitable for snow, but there must be four or five other stores they might try.

  “Do I pass?” A deep rumbling voice echoed close to her ear, making her jump and drop the furred hat she’d been perusing. She turned and oh my, he was a sight to behold in the black jeans and soft burgundy wool sweater. He’d pulled his boots over the fitted jeans and she thought perhaps they’d do for now. Oliver was waiting and time marching on.

  “You’ll do fine. Let’s go and pay. We’ll hit a few more stores to find you a jacket and then I’ll buy you lunch before visiting Oliver.”

  At the cash desk, she found a tiny inlaid musical box displayed with an assortment of costume jewellery in a glass stand. A nice gift for Mrs Chapman if Santar insisted on visiting. If not, she’d keep it for herself.

  The volunteer assistant looked just shy of eighty as she creaked towards the till to take her money. Age didn’t stop her casting an appreciative eye over the Adonis walking like a model on a runway towards the pay point.

  “He’s wearing those to go,” Andra explained. “And we’ll take these other things, too.”

  The assistant’s smile broadened. “Come here then, my lad. I need to take those price labels off.”

  The old woman spent more time than was necessary pushing gnarled fingers into the back of Santar’s jeans, making him bend to retrieve the price labels tacked to the neck of the tee shirt and sweater.

  The backpack bulged at his feet, the zipper half open revealing his folded jacket and dress pants.

  They found a barely worn padded Barbour jacket in another store, reduced because it was red and not a popular colour with the men. The colour didn’t seem to bother Santar, so she went with it and when he found a matching red beanie hat in one of the pockets, the transformation was complete.

  By the time they finished a lunch of ham sandwiches with slabs of rich Christmas cake to follow in the tea shop overlooking the scenic railway, they were laughing together at all the things he could do to pay her back and he actually looked as if he was enjoying himself.

  A few moments of respite. Glancing at the time on her phone, Andra dropped a tip onto the table and scraped back her chair.

  “Visiting time,” she said and glanced pointedly the backpack sheltering General Jo. Santar rose from his chair, eyes flaring in surprise when she placed a hand over his chest, right where his heart was.

  Or should be.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking to see if you have a heart.” She closed her eyes in mock concentration.

  “You think I may be a cyborg?” he nudged her with his foot, still in the playful mood they’d fallen into while eating. “I could almost pass as one with all the implants they gave me.”

  “Okay, so you have a heart in there. That’s a good sign.”

  “I will not give up the toy. Not until I find out what it means.” He scooped up the backpack, swinging it onto his shoulder.

  At least he had the decency to look the teeniest bit sheepish as he followed her from the cafe.

  “Whatever you say. Why don’t you watch the train pull out? I just remembered something.” She pointed to the supermarket across the road, trying not to blush as she thought of the last condom sitting lonely in her bedside table drawer. This morning was a one-off, she told herself firmly.

  But still her feet walked briskly into the supermarket. Her eyes scanned the assorted products, and she almost let out a nervous giggle at the variety on offer.

  Did they come in assorted sizes? John, and boyfriends before had always taken care of this side of things when required and she’d let the pill lapse since her self- imposed seclusion on the moors. She opted for a standard pack and paid using the self-service till to avoid facing the servers on the regular tills.

  The pack almost burned a hole in her pocket when she crossed the road to find Santar watching a green-liveried engine decorated with a set of reindeer antlers puff out of the station in a cloud of billowing smoke.

  Deep in thought, his hands stuffed into the quilted jacket pockets, she could almost see the memories dancing in his head.

  “Are you ready?” Andra dragged her mind to Oliver, waiting on her in his hospital bed. Time to ramp up her quest to take possession of General Jo before Christmas. And if that meant visiting bemused pensioners in care homes to bring Santar closure, then so be it.

  Santar folded his long body into the passenger seat, hugging the backpack protectively to his chest. He fastened his seat belt with a series of awkward contortions while, at the same time keeping a tight grip on the ba
g.

  “You don’t trust me.” She was having a hard time biting back the laughter. But she was on a quest. Time for a serious face.

  Santar moved the backpack out of her reach. “As far as the toy goes? I’d sooner trust a Grogan Tagran.”

  “We’ll see,” she said and indicated to turn right for the main road. Only the hardest of hearts would resist an injured child lying in a hospital bed the week before Christmas.

  “Next stop the hospital. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  Chapter 13

  Instinctively, Santar scans for recording devices at every junction. No current intelligence on Centrum Command’s connection to this outpost, but he’s beginning to suspect he’s right and it is a major harvesting point for juvenile recruits. If so, infiltration and surveillance of these sourcing planets are standard procedure and he’s taking no chances at being seen.

  He was too careless during the interlude in the town. Too relaxed after his sexual encounter with Andra. Caught off guard by the camaraderie of purchasing his new clothes, the sharing of food. And he spent too much time in idle fascination watching the steam trains that sparked so many half-memories.

  Centrum Command might well have located him on the first day, wandering befuddled and bemused through the Christmas market, when he’d been more concerned with determining his location than avoiding their ever-watchful eyes.

  If they care enough to slap a bounty on his head, the hunters will be looking for him. If his tracking device still works at full power, they will find him.

  It’s a quiet ride to the hospital, each of them immersed in their own thoughts. All he knows is that his tracking device is compromised, but he has no idea how much. Finding a way to disable it is becoming crucial.

  On the road bearing direction signs to the various hospital departments, he suddenly feels too many eyes watching. Bounty hunters rivalled Centrum Command spies in stealth and mastery of disguise. A top operative like him was a valuable commodity, worth the chase.