Stone Message

by Peter Parfitt

  Steve moved to grab his coat. “Leave it to me. I will make sure that she is okay. Do either of you know where the keys to the Professor’s lease car might be?” For one instant all three of them thought that the keys may have gone with the Professor but they were soon found on the end of the work bench. Before he left, the Inspector wrote down the number that they had discovered was the combination for the lock on the building. He left Fredericks inside whilst he went outside with Steve and checked that it would work. Once satisfied, Steve ran after Alison. There was only one sensible route to Stonehenge and he was confident that he would catch her within a few minutes. As he went through the barrier at the entrance to the camp, he heard the thrup-thrup-thrup of a helicopter above.

  The Inspector and Fredericks did a last check of the Dagger Building, then grabbed their kit and made their way to the Helicopter Landing Site. The flight to London did not give Fredericks and the Inspector any opportunity to discuss the day’s events as the pilot was able to hear every word that they said over the intercom in the aircraft. They landed somewhere very close to Thames House and were through the front door three minutes later.

  The man on the reception desk instructed them to go to Gaskin’s office. The assistant in the outer office showed them in straight away. Inspector Morton-Farrell was surprised that someone as senior as Gaskin did not have a larger office. In front of a London Ministry issue desk was a small conference table. Gaskin and Waverly were already sitting at the table and the two new arrivals were invited to join them. Morton-Farrell gave a nod to his boss who smiled a “just wait ‘till I get you home” smile that many a small boy would recognise. Gaskin, as usual, took charge. “Take a look at this,” he said, as he pressed a button on a remote control which brought the TV monitor beside the table into life. They looked at an image from one of “the guest suites” several floors below ground level. They saw a man sitting in a chair in front of a formica topped table. He was clean shaven with short grey hair. He looked like an old man or someone who had some dreadful disease and was close to death. “This chap claims to be Tom Brooker. He has lost the tip of his right toe but it healed up a long time ago. So far we have done the minimum. He is in good shape and has had tea and biscuits. He has only been questioned about his identity and neither Chief Inspector Waverly nor I have been below ground to meet him. I hope that we might get some DNA results within three or four hours.” Waverly had seen the image before and was sitting back in his chair.

  Morton-Farrell and Fredericks were leaning forward to get the most from the image. “God, he has aged!” exclaimed Morton-Farrell. “Do we know where he’s been and how far back in time he went?” Gaskin was never likely to be an agreeable dinner party guest. “I told you. We only know that he claims to be Brooker and that he has lost a bit of flesh.” That shut Morton-Farrell up and provided little incentive for anyone else to even contemplate breaking wind. Gaskin continued. “Now look at this.” He pressed a remote control button and the TV monitor showed a view of the street about 150 metres away from the main entrance to Thames House. A chauffer driven Bentley pulled up next to the pavement and the same old man is seen to get out. He leans through the door to say something to his driver and the car moves away. The old man then made his way to the main entrance. “Interesting, I suspect that he will not know that we have spotted his arrival.” Gaskin stood up, the others followed suit and they made their way to the lift. They got out on the third floor below ground level.

  Part 2 – Tom’s Story

  Chapter 8 – Tom’s Early Years

  Gaskin, Waverly, Fredericks and Morton-Farrell entered an empty room on the third subterranean floor. The room was about the size of a large dining room and had a central rectangular table around which were six comfortable looking chairs, three on either side. There was a small chest of drawers at one end on which was a tray with a water jug and glasses. Gaskin told Fredericks to move one of the chairs to one side away from the table. He wanted their guest to sit on one side with Morton-Farrell next to him and he would sit on the central chair on the other side with Waverly and Fredericks next to him. Gaskin looked up towards the ceiling. “Graham, are you with us?” A familiar voice responded over the loudspeaker. “Yes, Sir, I have coffee on the way.” At that instant there was a knock on the door and a tray of coffee and biscuits was placed next to the water tray on the chest of drawers. “Thank you Graham. The coffee is here, so buzz through to have our guest brought in.” Gaskin then turned to Fredericks. “Once Brooker is settled, I want you to sort out the coffee.” He then made a general point. “This will be a free discussion, just use your common sense but let’s first check that this really is our man.”

  There was no knock on the door, it opened and a young woman led an elderly man into the room. He stood in front of the now closed door and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the slightly stronger lighting of the conference room. Gaskin and the others stood up politely and he was shown his seat by Morton-Farrell. The old man spoke for the first time. “Thank you very much. Are you Alfred by any chance?” Morton-Farrell glanced up at Gaskin and replied. “No, but he is here. Can you think who else I might be?” Gaskin allowed the merest hint of a smile of approval to appear on his face. The old man looked carefully at Morton-Farrell. “Are you the Inspector with the double barrelled name, er, are you Brian?” That was not enough to convince Gaskin that this old man was Brooker. He needed more evidence. “You have lost the tip of your right big toe. Can you tell me how that happened?” Gaskin’s tone was polite but his body language and manner lacked empathy.

  The old man took a sip of his coffee, well aware of the question that hung in the air. He looked up. “You must surely know all this, but I suppose you need me to convince you that I am Tom Brooker. I was in the Dagger Building at Larkhill Camp working with Professor Gordon. I was inside his contraption, fixing something, and I called out for him to press a button. The next thing I knew I was falling to the ground just outside a large fenced Army camp. I had been kneeling down in the,” he paused as he made an effort to recall a lost name, “er, the Beast, and when I hit the ground I was slightly winded. My knee hurt a bit but it took several seconds before the pain in my foot registered. The end of my shoe had gone as well but I cannot explain just how it was cut off. I was in quite a bad way all told because I also had a big lump on the back of my head from a fall earlier that day.” Morton-Farrell knew that there was one fact that would clinch the identity issue. “What is the combination to the door into the Dagger Building?” Tom turned to his left and faced the Inspector. “802701, which is also the year HG Wells used in his Time Machine story.”

  Gaskin realised that he was a witness to the most amazing scientific story, not just the story of the century but the most significant story since history began. He changed his demeanour and treated Tom Brooker with some respect. “Mr Brooker, I must apologise that I failed to introduce myself and this gentleman on my left. I am Julian Gaskin and I work here in this building. This is Chief Inspector Mike Waverly who is Brian’s boss in Special Branch. Now we are satisfied that you are Tom Brooker, I would like you to tell us every detail that you can recall from the time that you were transported back in time. It does not matter how long it takes and, if necessary, we will have sandwiches brought in and there is plenty of coffee. But would you first explain why on earth you have come here to MI5? As far as I am aware you have never been anywhere near this building before.”

  Tom looked across the table at Gaskin. He was not the sort of person to have as an enemy, but equally not the sort of person to have as a friend. Tom had dealt with bullies before and he wanted to make the point that he would not allow himself to become a victim. He ignored Gaskin’s question and looked at Fredericks. “And by deduction you must be Alfred. I still remember that walk in Hyde Park. I guessed that you were in MI5 at that time you know.” He paused briefly to smile. “I have planned this visit for some considerable time. I could not come to you before I disappeared as it would have caused all
sorts of complications, and it would have been almost impossible to prove who I was. But I do want to make sure that the truth comes out before Angus Merchant has a chance to ruin James Gordon’s life.”

  At this point there was a swift exchange of glances around the table. Tom did not notice and continued. “Mr Gaskin, I came here because I had to. After so many years I was not certain of the precise date of my disappearance. It seems pretty stupid but I had other issues on my mind. I did my best to keep in touch with my younger self on my,” he hesitated, “er, on his weekends back in London. I did go down to Larkhill the day before yesterday, but the security was far worse than I remembered. The sentry on the gate said that nobody was being allowed in unless they had special passes and I did not want to create a fuss. The house in Durrington looked deserted. I thought that James Gordon may have had to come back to Town to explain my disappearance. So, I came back and tried to find someone in Special Branch. I couldn’t remember the Inspector’s last name and there are too many Brians at Scotland Yard. So, I came here. Once we are done, I would like to surprise the Gordons. I am sure you can point me in their direction. I have two bottles of champagne in the car.”

  ---oooOOOooo---

  Tom Brooker then settled back to tell his story. His audience were completely immersed in the narrative; they felt his pain, his joy and his fears as he recounted every detail of his adventure. “It was a bit of a shock being sent back in time…”

  Imagine a cool but bright day with a slackening easterly breeze. A lovely late spring day following one of the harshest winters for many years. There was no Dagger Building and Larkhill Camp was much smaller than it is today. Tom arrived at about 6.30am. His form appeared just over a metre above the ground, hovered for less than a second and then dropped to the grass below. He had been in a kneeling position when he appeared and this led to some bruises on both knees and a slight twist to his left wrist from the impact. A few seconds later the pain from his injured toe kicked in. At first he screamed with the sudden rush of pain, the realisation by the brain that there were urgent messages from the severed nerves. This was soon replaced by the more tolerable, deep cyclic pain and relief that allowed him to gather his thoughts and come to terms with his predicament. Tom looked down and saw that the end of his shoe was missing and that blood was flowing slowly from the wounded toe. As his nervous system adapted to the trauma of the toe, he then felt the pain from his knees and wrist followed by the throbbing from the earlier wound to the back of his head.

  He got to his feet and struggled to take a few steps forward. He managed some deep breaths and took stock. There was nobody around. He was outside the main fence surrounding Larkhill Camp, but within a tented encampment laid out in neat military lines. He looked into the main camp and did not recognise any of the drab wooden huts, set closely together and painted with the darkest of creosotes. Tom looked to the south and there was the road that ran east to west past the camp and on towards Devizes in one direction and, he assumed, London in the other. He walked towards the road and ducked down under the single strand of barbed wire that marked the boundary of the tented area. There he saw a young lad on a bicycle. “Hello Doctor,” he said. “Got more influenza in the camp then?” Tom realised that he was still wearing his white lab coat. Luckily the question was rhetorical as the lad continued cycling down the road and did not turn to hear any reply. Tom quickly checked the pockets of the coat, took it off and shoved it into some brambles not far from the road. His toe was hurting a lot.

  Tom found the newsagent’s shop. On the hanging rack outside he was able to see that according to the Daily Herald it was Monday 21st April 1947. Slowly but surely he remembered the experiments with the Beast. The suspicion of time travel, the screwdriver and the argument with the Professor. His toe needed dressing, he was very thirsty and he needed to work out a strategy. Should he tell people that he was a time traveller or try and blend in? It took him seconds to realise that he would not only be a laughing stock, but might even be arrested if he took the former line. He had to blend in, but he needed help. He struggled to remain focused and, unknown to him, he was going into shock. He fell to the ground with uncontrollable shivers. The newsagent saw him drop and was kneeling down beside him shaking him. “Come on chum. Snap out of it will yuh” The shopkeeper clearly had no medical knowledge, but very soon a passing motorist, an Army captain in khaki service dress, came to the rescue. He was the Garrison Adjutant. They bundled Tom onto the back seat and he was driven to the medical centre in the main camp. There was no doctor on duty at this early hour and so Tom had the remains of his right shoe removed and a dressing put on the wound by a medical orderly. He advised the Adjutant that Tom should go to hospital as the wound to the toe was serious and so he found himself being bumped along the dreadful roads to the Tidworth Military Hospital in the back of a military ambulance. During the journey he decided that amnesia would be the best way to hide his true identity. He was alone in the back of the vehicle and so he was able to take his wallet from his back trouser pocket and slip it into the secret pocket inside the front of the trousers. He only had a banker’s card, one credit card and an old student union card which bore his name. He would dispose of these and the £10 note at the first opportunity.

  Tom was admitted to the male surgical ward at the TMH but was not examined until much later that day. He explained to the duty nurse that he had lost his memory and she suggested that they search his clothes to see if they could find anything with his name upon it. Tom was able to ask to use the lavatory before the search and once there he tore up the student union card and £10 note, wrapped them in a tissue from his pocket and flushed them away. The credit and banker’s cards were more tricky. He noticed that there was a small gap at the back of the high lavatory cistern above his head. He carefully, and with some serious discomfort, stood on the lavatory seat and pushed the two plastic cards into the gap. He went back to the ward where the duty nurse helped him search for ID. The nurse went through his wallet and found nothing. “Maybe you wuz robbed,” she said. Tom nodded.

  The duty nurse helped him change into Army issue pyjamas and commented on his marvellous clothes. He had already thought of what to say, “Oh some American chap got them for me.” An Army doctor examined him and then asked a colleague to give a second opinion. He was told that there was insufficient flesh and skin to stretch around the exposed bone. He would need an operation to remove a further quarter of an inch of bone so that the wound could be properly closed. That operation could not be done in Tidworth and so he would be transferred to London, to Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital Millbank. Tom had expected another bumpy ride in an ambulance but that was not to be. The ward Staff Nurse said that his foot would be dressed in the morning, he would be given a railway warrant to London and he could make his own way to the hospital.

  “We need a name to put on your railway warrant. What shall we put?” she asked him. Tom said the first thing that came into his head, “Tom Jones”. He knew that they would not ask him to sing. “And what rank shall I put?” The Staff Nurse asked. “I really don’t know. Does it matter?” The young lady told him that he was admitted to the TMH as it was assumed that he was a soldier. The referral to QAMH, as the hospital was known, was also on that basis otherwise, as a civilian, he would end up either in Salisbury or Andover. Tom just smiled and the rank of Private was entered on the warrant. He was given a brown envelope with his case notes and was able to practice using the heavy wooden crutches that he was expected to return at his earliest convenience. Then the following morning he boarded the bus to Andover station.

  This was the first journey that Tom had made since arriving, where he was able to look at life in 1947. The bus was amazing, with elegant curved lines, leather seats, but very much under powered. The driver wore a uniform and had his hat on at a jaunty angle. He was smoking as he drove along, as did most of the passengers. Tom found the stench of tobacco smoke disgusting and he longed to get out into the fresh air. At Andover s
tation the bus emptied and everyone made a beeline for the café opposite. Tom was told that he had to present his warrant at the ticket office and he would be given a second class ticket to London Waterloo. His train was not due for another 45 minutes and so he looked around for a seat as his foot was still very painful. He overheard two women deep in conversation about how difficult it was to feed a family with rationing and so few fresh vegetables around after the hard winter. There were still snow drifts in parts of Wales and the north of England, so he heard. The steam train pulled slowly into the station, its engine belching masses of thick dark smoke, hissing and fush-wumping before the brakes, squeaking and complaining, brought the whole thing to a juddering halt.