by RR Haywood
Nothing close though. Nothing moving near them, but Miri holds them for minutes longer until their eyes are fully adjusted to this light now and only then does she move him out and away from the staircase to hunker down in the shadows.
‘Options?’ she whispers.
‘Our portal’s out of reach. Hopefully Malcolm or the doc will turn it off, but even if they come looking they’ve got no chance of finding us so that rules out going back through our portal. Agreed?’
She nods once.
‘The agents have got one more visit left to Herr Weber in that street . . .’
‘Bundesstraβe 2,’ Miri whispers.
‘That one,’ Ben says. ‘They visit Herr Weber tomorrow, then after that they go to the airfield and take the bomb to London . . . That gives us two chances to get into their portal behind them and use their device to get back to—’ He reels back with a yelp of pain from the chunk of brick flying into his face as Miri dives for cover.
‘Shit,’ Ben gasps, pulling his hand back to see dark patches of blood.
‘Not a word,’ Miri hisses.
Another ping sounds out from the ricochet of a bullet hitting a brick on the ground between them. Neither hear a shot fired or a sound made other than that ping. Ben rolls to his front to look out into the street as a bullet hits the ground a foot from his head, making him roll quickly deeper into the shadows as Miri scuttles back and away.
They both hold still, the darkness of the night now coming fast, and they barely breathe for fear of making noise, but stare towards the edge of the building and out into the street.
Seconds go by. Ben’s face drips blood on the ground beneath his head. Miri slowly brings her hand up to her side, but she scuffs a tiny bit of debris that makes a scrape, and the shot comes, slamming into the ground by her hand and bouncing across her knuckles. She snatches her hand back, suppressing the urge to cry out at the pain and holds perfectly still.
Ben lifts his head a millimetre at a time, so slowly it makes his neck hurt, but gradually gains sight of the lip of the broken wall at the front of the ruined building. A snatched view of the ruins opposite and the ping comes again, whizzing past his ear to hit the debris behind and he hunkers down, hugging the ground.
Miri breathes slowly, easing her heart rate from the initial adrenaline dump that coursed through her body. Calm now. Easy. She starts moving her right arm, intending to draw her pistol, but slowly, so very slowly. Her arm lifts off the ground as she rotates her shoulder that starts to burn, but she gets her hand closer to the butt, stretching her fingers out, readying to grip and draw.
Ben glares across the ground, straining to see Miri in the shadows and just catching sight of her reaching for her sidearm. He starts doing the same, moving slowly to draw as the scuff sounds from the staircase from a foot pressing down.
‘Ben?’ Safa’s voice whispering out and the shots come fast.
‘Down,’ Ben hisses.
‘Contact,’ Miri whispers across as the pings of bullets hit the staircase. A yelp, a thud from Safa falling down. More pings hitting the ground and walls surrounding them. Miri draws quickly, using the time to get her pistol in hand, but the shooter detects the noise and aims his fire at her.
‘Safa?’ Ben whispers, fearing she’s been shot.
‘I’m fine,’ her voice whispers up as the bullets ping between them, sending chunks of wall and brick flying through the air. The pause comes with a faint click that Miri knows is the shooter changing magazines. She surges up, aiming out and trying to see where he could be positioned.
Ben goes up too, aiming his pistol and hearing the click of a fresh magazine going into the shooter’s gun. He fires once at the sound, the noise from his gun a deafening boom in the near silence of the ruins.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Miri hisses. The pings come back quickly, the shooter returning fire from a pistol fitted with a suppressor. She tries to run for it, intending to gain a better position in the distraction, but the round hits her stomach, sending her back against a wall with a grunt of agony.
‘Miri!’ Ben moves fast, breaking cover to dive for Miri. A bullet clips his arm, making him twist as he falls, grunting in pain while the wall above him pings from the rounds hitting it.
Miri gasps from the searing burning pain in her gut as Ben grabs her ankles to drag her across the ground behind a section of fallen chimney. She grunts again, wanting to scream at the pain, and looks down at her hands clutching her stomach now covered in blood and in the scrabbled panic of that second, in the darkness and while in utter agony she grabs Ben’s hand and forces it over her own mouth, pushing it down to clamp hard.
He does as bid, holding down to stop the noises coming out, feeling her breath blasting from her nose over his knuckles as she gasps for air.
The pings stop coming and the world goes silent save for Miri breathing and Ben easing his hand a fraction from her mouth.
‘Ben?’ Safa’s voice. The shots come again, only a few, but they hit the staircase, keeping Safa down.
‘Miri’s hit,’ Ben whispers.
Safa hunkers on the stairs, her pistol in hand, her face smeared in blood from the round that glanced her scalp. Emily is at the base of the stairs, Harry in the basement covering Charlie and Delta. ‘Miri’s hit,’ she whispers.
‘Miri’s hit.’ Emily passes it on to Harry and Konrad.
‘Must be Bravo,’ Charlie says.
‘Tell Ben not to shoot back without a suppressor,’ Delta says. ‘A gunshot will bring soldiers . . .’
‘We don’t have suppressors,’ Emily says.
‘We carry them,’ Charlie says, pointing at his tac-vest.
‘Quick, hand them over . . .’ Emily says, moving to them.
‘Let us take him,’ Charlie says urgently. ‘We’ll crawl out and flank . . .’
‘No,’ Safa whispers firmly. ‘Keep them covered. Give me the suppressors . . . Konrad, take this pistol and aim it at those two. They move then shoot them. Harry, take the other suppressor and come with me. Emily, stay here and watch them . . . Ben, do not shoot back.’ She angles her head up as she whispers.
Ben holds Miri, feeling her body tense and tremble from the pain. He looks at the staircase, wishing he could get her down into the basement, but not daring to break cover.
‘It’ll be okay,’ he whispers into Miri’s ear.
‘Don’t shoot back.’ She gasps the words out, bringing forth a volley of fire from the shooter.
‘How many magazines do you lot carry?’ Safa asks from the base of the staircase.
‘Bravo carries loads,’ Charlie says as Safa scowls, her hopes dashed that the shooter will run out of rounds. ‘Okay. Harry . . . go slow and stay down.’
‘Not my first war, Safa,’ he whispers, easing past her.
‘Where’s she shot?’ Charlie asks.
‘Charlie’s a medic,’ Delta says.
‘Ben? Where’s Miri shot?’ Safa whispers.
‘Stomach,’ he says softly, bringing more pings above his head.
‘Stomach,’ Safa relays.
‘Just put pressure on the wound if it’s bleeding heavily,’ Charlie says. ‘I’ve got morphine in my pocket . . . Reaching for it now . . .’ He slowly reaches down to draw out a small tube fitted with a cap. ‘In her thigh.’ He throws it to Emily, who passes it up to Safa, to Harry, who risks the shots coming in to surge up and throw it to Ben.
‘Morphia, in her leg,’ Harry whispers, dropping back down.
Ben pulls the cap off and pushes the needle into her thigh, squeezing the tube to empty the contents. She goes limp in seconds, easing down into a drug-induced sleep as Ben pulls his 1940s suit jacket off and tears one of the sleeves away before bundling it together to put under Miri’s head while he folds the sleeve to hold down on her stomach. She grunts at the motion that brings fresh waves of searing agony through her body. ‘It’ll be okay, just hold on . . .’ He looks up, wondering why the hell none of them have appeared from the future to fix it and the fir
st real fear hits that they die here and never get back.
A noise snaps his head up. A rhythmic sound of boots crunched from soldiers marching in step. A platoon walking into the street.
Harry lies flat on the stairs, easing up a fraction at a time to snake out. Safa behind him as the noise of the marching grows louder.
Ben feels the urge to call out and get medical aid for Miri, but they’ll be shot as spies. There’s nothing he can do so he holds Miri close and pushes his hand back over her mouth to keep her quiet.
Harry snakes out to the top of the stairs holding one of the agents’ pistols now fitted with a suppressor. The marching comes closer. The crunch, crunch, crunch of booted feet and this isn’t the first time Harry has used the passing of a German patrol to mask his noise and so he goes a bit faster, pushing out to crawl from the stairs into the ruined room with Safa coming behind him.
The soldiers reach the edge of the building. Torches shining, giving weak flashes of light as they look into the ruins on the left and right. Harry hugs the ground, waiting and knowing when to move. Safa copies him, going still when he does.
The platoon passes out front. Harry moves again, getting behind a broken wall as Safa stops a few metres to his side, both of them waiting as the crunch, crunch, crunch goes past. A glimpse up and Harry spots the last of the columns of men going by and lifts his pistol to aim across the street into the ruins on the other side. Safa the same, both of them settling into position to wait while they examine every shadow they can see for anything that looks other than how it should or anywhere big enough to hide a person.
The soldiers fade away, the noise easing. Everyone holds still, the only sound coming from Miri breathing fast and shallow while Ben feels her body temperature plummeting in the cold air. Still they hold. Breaths mist. Bodies start to tremble in the chill. Harry and Safa feeling the pain of holding position.
Minutes go by and the standoff continues as the moon rises to bathe their side of the street in a silvery glow with an unfair advantage given to the hidden shooter, who spots the barrel of Safa’s gun and opens fire.
She drops fast at the bullet whizzing by while Harry sends return fire into a few of the deeper shadows before dropping down, and so they lie in the freezing cold, unable to speak, unable to move and unable to stop Miri slowly dying mere feet from them.
Then it comes. A thing that gives sudden hope. The air-raid siren spreading through the city in warning of the heavy bombers advancing slowly overhead.
Thirty-Three
Bertie’s Island
‘Okay,’ Malcolm says, nodding at the portal. ‘I’m ready.’
‘I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ Doctor Watson says.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ Malcolm says. ‘Turn it on, Bertie . . . Turn it on . . . Same date they had, the fifth of February nineteen forty-five but later, like . . . three, no, four . . . no, five hours later. Yes, do five hours later . . . and lower! Not in the same place . . . A few metres away and on the ground . . .’
‘Malc,’ the doctor says gently.
‘No, doc, they came for me and Kon, they did. Albeit a few months later, but still . . . How do I look?’ he asks, glancing down at the spare 1940s clothing he cobbled together from the bits lying around.
‘Awful,’ the doctor says honestly.
‘You done it, Bertie?’ Malcolm asks.
‘S’just binary,’ Bertie says, jabbing at the controller.
‘Ere, gimme one of them new ones that you throw in the air,’ Malcolm says. ‘I’ll take one just in case. Oh blimey,’ he adds when the Blue comes on. ‘That it, is it?’
‘Yes, Malcolm,’ Bertie says. ‘Can I come?’
‘No!’ Malcolm and the doctor say together. ‘Right, wish me luck . . .’ Malcolm swallows, summons courage and leans in to look through the portal at a dark street seemingly deserted. He steps through, feeling the instant change from hot island weather to Berlin in February at night, his breath misting. His steps echo as he walks out and looks up and down the empty street. Nothing here. Smoke in the air and the glow from nearby fires left to burn out.
A few steps. A few steps more. He doesn’t know where to look or even where to begin. He doesn’t even know where Bertie placed the portal, what street this is or where it is in relation to the street Miri and the others used. He only knows he must do something. He bites his bottom lip, hesitating and feeling terrified, then setting off down the street to the junction at the end and the soldiers standing together smoking in the cold night air.
He stops dead and starts backing up into the street he came from with the instant realisation that this really is an awful idea and he lets the air go when he slides back into the shadows.
‘What are you doing?’ the soldier asks him from behind while doing his trousers up after taking a piss. Malcolm doesn’t understand the question though; he just hears someone German speaking German and turns to stare.
‘What was that?’ he asks, then a second later realising he just spoke English in wartime Germany to a Nazi soldier. ‘Oh, arse . . .’ He runs away, sprinting as the soldier gives chase calling out for his comrades.
Malcolm goes left into an alley, then right into another one, then left again and remembers the new portal in his pocket and picks it up to throw ahead. It hits a wall and bounces off and he curses at remembering he has to use the controller at the same time as throwing it. He scoops it up as he runs, yelping on hearing the soldier behind and jabs at the screen of the controller while trying to hold the ball and then throw it. It works instantly, arcing into the air, then forming an instant shining doorway and in that split second he remembers that Emily said she saw him so he screams her name as he runs through into the main room of the bunker and a stunned Emily looking through the window.
‘. . . ILY . . . EMILY . . . GET HIM . . .’
A few seconds later, and with one dead Nazi soldier shot by his own gun, Malcolm runs out from hiding. ‘Oh my god . . . thank you, thank you.’ He rushes over, aiming for the portal then veering off to her side. ‘Emily, thank you . . . you’re a bloody lifesaver.’ He leans in fast to kiss her cheek with an action so natural and unexpected she doesn’t even think to shoot him. ‘I hate this bloody job . . . I’m Malc, by the way . . .’
He runs back out, knowing he has to turn this one off and get back to the first one. Jabbing the controller then catching the ball as it drops before running round the block a few times while panicking at being lost, then seeing his portal and diving through to a shocked John Watson and Bertie. ‘Yeah, bad idea,’ he says as Bertie turns it off. ‘Really bad idea . . .’
‘I think,’ John says, rubbing his jaw. ‘I think we’d better get young Ria . . .’
‘I don’t care,’ Ria says a little while later after being found in the café in Lambeth-not-Lambeth. She idly turns the pages of the history books open on the table in the clearing outside the shack on Bertie’s island.
‘Ria,’ Malcolm says, looking wretched to the core. ‘Konrad’s there. We don’t know what to do . . .’
‘Sorry,’ she says bluntly. ‘I told you I want nothing to do with this now. What have they done for me? My mother is dead . . . My whole life was taken away from me . . .’
‘You’re being selfish and immature, Ria,’ the doctor cuts in, speaking gravely. ‘They saved me from drowning, Harry and Safa died doing it, then Ben came back for them. They saved your brother. They tried to save your mother . . . They’re genuine people just trying to . . .’
She shrugs, zoning them out and looking back down to the pages of the book and the notes left in the margins by Ben. A series of five dates in 1945 and she knows enough to understand what they mean. Something gets her attention. The way Ben has written a note above the five dates in 1945. The agents’ visits to Herr Weber. Her eyes narrow. Her lips purse in thought.
‘How many visits have they made to Berlin?’ she asks.
‘Er . . . they were on the third one,’ Malcolm says, exchanging a lo
ok with the doctor.
Ria reads the date of the third visit, 5 February 1945, then looks at the fourth visit the day after, 6 February 1945. The agents’ visits to Herr Weber.
That’s where Miri will aim for. She’ll know the agents will have a portal open for that visit and she’ll use it to get back here.
‘No problem,’ she murmurs, looking up at Malcolm and the doctor with a bright smile. ‘Leave it with me . . .’
Thirty-Four
Berlin, 5 February 1945
They hold still in the ruins of the building while Ben keeps the pressure on Miri’s stomach, feeling her body grow colder by the minute as she slips in and out of consciousness.
The air-raid sirens scream out and, in the distance, they hear the AA guns opening up and they wait for it to get closer. The noise will give them cover and distraction.
Emily hears it in the basement beneath the ruins. Wishing she could go up and give aid to the others, but that would leave just Konrad against two highly trained agents.
‘We can help,’ Charlie urges.
‘Shut up,’ she whispers angrily.
‘Emily, we can help . . . Bravo’s good . . .’
‘Another word,’ she says, aiming her gun at him while Konrad gulps.
It takes time for the bombers to get closer. Too much time and Ben frets, knowing that each minute takes Miri closer to death. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he whispers into her ear.
Her lips move, air comes out, a word, something said.
‘Shush, just rest . . .’ he whispers.
‘Timelines,’ she says, the word barely heard.
‘Miri, just rest.’
‘Think . . . Ben . . . time . . . timelines . . . you said . . .’ She gabbles words, soft and missed, slurred and almost drunken in sound. ‘Ria . . . he . . . extracted after Ria . . . doc . . .’
‘Miri, shush now, just rest.’
‘Listen to me!’ she hisses, surging to wakefulness as Harry and Safa snaps their heads over at the noise and the ruins fill with the pings of shots fired. She tenses, then just as fast she fades away, her breathing coming fast and shallow. ‘Timelines . . . Mother . . .’