by Jenn Lees
The farmer’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he eyed Rory and Murray’s backpacks.
“Weel, the train from the Achnasheen station leaves at ten o’clock-ish. But Contin is yoor nearest station as ye’ll be going along oor road out o’ this glen, aye?” The farmer blinked as he looked past Rory.
“Ten o’clock!” Rory couldn’t keep the concern from his voice, always conscious of their time limitations. He screwed up his mouth and glanced sideways at Murray.
“Do you have a car we could hire?” Murray asked.
The farmer’s brows knotted. “Hire?”
In front of the house, apart from a tractor, there was a newish sedan, a four-wheel-drive, and a rusted older model sedan.
“Could we buy a car from you, sir?” Rory asked.
The farmer twitched his head, his brows continuing their knot. “Ye lads in any trouble?”
“Och, no. I just underestimated our walking time and, well, we need to get to work, ye ken. In Edinburgh.” Murray sounded odd. He never spoke with a thick accent, but his quick thinking had brought it on. A dampness of sweat formed on Rory’s forehead.
“How much for your wee sedan there?” Rory pointed to the rusty one.
“Och, weel.” The farmer’s eyes narrowed in thought. “How aboot six hundred pounds?”
Rory squinted. The farmer was an honest, hard-working Highlander whose life would be turned up-side-down within days.
“Here’s a thousand. Thank-ye for yoor trouble.” Rory opened his backpack and handed the farmer the notes.
“And yoor licence, please.” The farmer got out a small rectangular metal object, a mobile phone, most probably, and held it like he was about to use it for something. “I’ll take a photo for the paperwork part of oor transaction, aye?” he said when Rory hesitated.
“Oh, aye.” Rory got his father’s licence from the wallet he carried. The farmer held the phone above the licence and a clicking sound came from it, then he grunted his satisfaction.
“Och, well. I’ll check the oil and water for ye afore ye start.” The farmer smiled and made his way to the garage behind the vehicles, mumbling something. Rory thought he heard the Gaelic and a comment regarding city folk possessing more money than sense.
“Don’t flash the money around like that, Rory!” Murray whispered once the farmer was in the garage.
The ground began to vibrate, and a roar came over head. The sound pressed down on Rory and he squatted beside the car, heart pounding in his chest, and reached for his Glock in the back of his jeans. Murray also squatted beside the car, his eyes wide. The air pressed overhead as the sound, an entity in itself, moved in the air above them. Rory looked at the bright sky. Nothing.
“Wow!” Murray’s face broke into a smile and his eyes shone as he stood and looked well into the distance, ahead of the sound. “Jet fighters. The Royal Air Force.”
Rory stood to get a better view of the aeroplanes now almost out of view at the other end of the valley. The farmer returned, a scowl on his face.
“Aye, we have them come over every once in a while. Scares the life oot a ma coos. Here’s your keys. I’ll just check under the bonnet for ye.”
RORY’S GEAR CHANGES were jerky at first but smoothed out the more he drove. His face had a constant glow of warmth.
“It’s been a while,” he explained to Murray as they drove the narrow winding road edged by moss-covered dry stone walls, interspersed with forest. The signs beside this road which read walkers welcome were bright-shiny and new looking compared to how Rory knew them, rusted, old and barely readable. They found the road to Inverness, leaving their familiar grassy, grey-stoned mountains behind them.
“You know if you get stopped by the police you need to show your licence,” Murray commented as he faced the road ahead.
“So, we don’t get stopped.”
“Better improve your driving then.”
Rory squinted his eyes and repressed a growl. It was early morning and the traffic on the bridge over the Moray Firth was thin. Traffic lights operated at the roundabout.
“Red means stop,” Murray commented beside him.
“I know!” Now Rory’s neck heated.
Rory glanced sideways at the road signs to Fort William and Glencoe. He would need to make one very long detour to find his way there. And his father may not be at the crofter’s cottage yet. Rory’s chest ached again.
No, he couldn’t risk it. Rory could not meet his father now. It would change many things. His pulse raced, either from the traffic or his thoughts of diverting. It went against all his self-imposed restrictions on the use of the Time Machine for personal reasons.
Stick to the mission.
Rory gripped the steering wheel and drove on, the tension in his jaw muscles reached into his skull; a dull headache formed.
Rory followed the A9 to Perth, then the M90 to Edinburgh. His hands tightened on the wheel once they were through the heavily forested mountainous regions and came closer to larger cities. Murray bringing the road map made it easier to avoid going into towns and villages and they could to stay on the motorway. The roads were populated by vehicles of all sizes. A large vehicle, with wheels almost the height of the car, drove up beside them on the outer lane, catching Rory’s peripheral vision as it passed. He held his breath as his heart rate increased along with the pounding in his ears.
“Och, that lorry is large!” He placed his foot on the brake pedal as they approached a roundabout.
“Give way to your right, Rory!” Murray yelled in his ear.
“D’you want to drive?”
After another long stretch on the motorway, the three great bridges that traverse the River Forth and lead into Edinburgh came into view.
“Wow. I’ve seen pictures of them, like on all those old calendars Mum never threw out.” Murray’s voice bounced off the passenger window, his eyes glued to the view. “But the real thing, wow. The engineering.”
Rory focused on the traffic. Their mother would be alive in this time and a nurse in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary’s Emergency Department.
No, we don’t have time. And what would she make of two strange guys wanting to see her?
Stick to the mission.
As they travelled over the Queensferry Crossing, Rory glanced sideways. Murray’s mouth hung open as he fixed his gaze on the red tubed, Meccano set-type structure to their far left. Murray would see the angles and geometry of the Forth Rail Bridge. Rory recognised how indefensible these bridges were, and it only needed a troop of good militia to block one end and it would be theirs. Well, three troops, he’d take all three bridges at once. Explosives would be helpful too.
History recorded, in the same year as The Stock Market Crash, a spate of terrorist attacks worldwide had severely crippled many major cities of the world. Newspapers were scarce and digital information no longer accessible. What had been the fate of the Forth bridges? They were a logical target. Rory glanced again at the elegant, white pillars and the straight, thick, steel cables as he drove past them on the newer road bridge, the Queensferry Crossing. His own thoughts had been speculative, but maybe someone had done it—destroyed these intriguing structures.
“You know when they finished the rail bridge in 1890, it was the longest cantilever-spanned bridge in the world, at that time?” Murray’s voice echoed off the window as he continued his gaze to the left.
“How do you know all this stuff?” Rory screwed up his face.
“I read.”
“Well, I read.”
“Yeah, but The Art of War by Sun Tsu won’t help us much today, will it?”
“So, once we get into Edinburgh, how do we find this scientist?” Rory ignored his brother’s sarcasm.
“Telephone book.” Murray’s eyebrows flicked up a fraction. “How many Kensington-Wallaces do you think there are?”
“And we can find a telephone book where?”
“Anywhere. Everyone has one in their homes.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. Som
etimes this kid didn’t always think it through completely.
“So, we approach just anybody and ask if we can look at their telephone book?” Rory asked. “I don’t think everybody will be as helpful as the farmer back there.”
“Post Office.”
“Okay and where do we find one of those?”
“Anywhere. I haven’t applied the-goodness-of-fit-test to this variable, but my hypothesis is that they’re a common occurrence in this time. We are almost in a suburb of Edinburgh now, keep your eyes out.”
“Do you always see everything in terms of statistical analysis?” Rory looked sideways at his brother, whose eyebrows had raised, and mouth opened in response to his reply. “I learned maths as well.”
“Yeah, but probably only as it pertains to the strategies of war,” Murray mumbled into the window.
A few streets later, Murray shouted, “There’s one!” He pointed to a glassed red-fronted building in the middle of a row of other glass fronted shops. “Just park.”
“Where?” Rory asked.
“In the gap. I won’t be long.”
Rory drove into the parking space and onto the curb, then Murray got out.
“You’d better fix that parking,” Murray said through the partially open window.
Rory glared at his brother as he walked into the post office. This driving was exhausting. His eyes were gritty, and his brain was foggy from the concentrating. So much to see all at once. And the noise! Trucks were loud. Cars were noisy, and now in the city, loud music came from some of them. Sometimes, the thump, thump of drumbeats vibrated in the car as they sat next to those vehicles at traffic lights. He’d be glad when he could get back to the country.
People walked past and never looked his way. They were intent on their own lives. One woman passed pushing a pram. She wore a brightly coloured garment which wrapped around her. Another man vaped. Rory had seen it before. The cloud of mist following this passer-by brought back memories of another visit to the past. Rory tried to push those aside. They came too frequently.
The one who vaped lies dead on the living room floor of the slaver’s half-way house.
Four thuds sound along the corridor.
Four bullets.
His father yells for him.
He turns. A beautiful young woman dresses hastily and flees out the back door.
He runs in the direction of the room she left. A dead man obstructs the door.
His father lies collapsed against the bed.
“Rory, do ye have yoor mither?” His father grips his belly as a sheen of sweat covers his pale forehead.
“Alistair’s got her.”
“Time to go, son.”
His mind is numb. The cool evening darkens.
His mother, as a young woman about his age, walks out the back door of the crofter’s cottage and sits next to him on the bench.
The light from the back-window glistens on her damp face and reveals bloodshot eyes.
“I’ll take you to his body,” he says and takes her hand in his.
The car door slammed shut.
“He mustn’t live here anymore.” Murray peered at him. “Rory!”
Blinking, Rory left his vivid thoughts of his mother and focused on Murray in the seat next to him.
“You hear me?” Murray asked. “He’s not in this year’s phone book. Kensington-Wallace doesn’t live in Edinburgh anymore.”
Rory took in a breath, willing himself into the present.
This present.
“Okay. Where did he work? We’ll go there and ask.”
“Welson Nuclear Power. Its offices are near Torness Nuclear Power Station.” Murray grabbed the road map and looked. “Here it is. We need to head to Berwick.”
“Okay, navigator, lead the way.” Rory wound the window to let in fresh air. “Think I need to eat soon too.”
“Oh okay, I’ll look for services on the way.” Murray smiled as he perused the UK A-Z.
Glad one of us is enjoying himself.
THEY PARKED OUTSIDE the offices of Welson Nuclear Power, a grey-brick, single storey building that sat apart from the power station, which was the size of a small island in the middle of a bitumen-ocean, surrounded by flat fields. Soft waves rolled in along the beach that ran beside the coastline fence of the power station’s eastern perimeter.
“No, you stay here. I’ll go in.” Murray rested his hand on Rory’s forearm.
“Why can’t I come?”
“I look like a student. You...look like what you are. Military. Messy military, but military. They’ll get all defensive. You stay here. I’ve got this.” Murray raised his eyebrows as he shut the car door.
Messy military?
Murray walked in through the doors of the building, which were glass from top to bottom, giving Rory a view of a guard in a navy-blue uniform standing at the doorway. Behind him, directly inside the clear-glass doors, was a reception desk where a young woman sat. She looked up at Murray, a tight smile on her lips, then she shook her head and frowned. Rory had his hand on the car door handle as Murry walked out. Murray gave a sharp shake to his head as he glared at Rory. Rory relaxed back into the seat.
“What?” Rory snapped as Murray sat in the passenger seat.
“They won’t tell me anything.” Murray slumped and pursed his lips.
“Did you say it was for your project at school?”
“Uni. I’m not a kid.”
“I’m going in,” Rory opened the car door.
“Not with weapons, Rory! There’s a security guard.”
“Aye, I saw.” Rory removed his hunting knife from its sheath strapped around his calf and his Glock from his belt and shoved them under his seat. “You come with me, aye?”
Rory stalked up to the door, Murray trailed behind like a puppy. Rory walked past the security guard and went straight to the desk.
“Hello,” Rory said.
The young woman looked up from behind the glass up-stand at the front of her desk, separating her from everyone but giving her enough room to see anyone who entered. Her gaze ran from Rory’s face all the way down his body to his feet. A curve arose on the left side of her lips and she raised the corresponding finely plucked eyebrow in approval as her gaze scanned his body on its way up to his face, lingering on the tight fit of his shirt. The heat rose to Rory’s cheeks at her perusal and intensified as she smiled fully.
“Hello, miss, my wee brother here needs to get in contact with Professor Kensington-Wallace.” Rory swallowed as the woman ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “I know he used to work here, and we were wondering if you would kindly tell us where he is now.” Rory forced his smile past his discomfort.
The young woman leaned forward in her seat, her upper arms pressed her breasts together, making her cleavage more pronounced in her low-cut neckline. Rory fought to keep his eyes above it.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Privacy laws.” Her top teeth scraped her bottom lip.
“But he worked here?”
“Can’t even tell you that.”
“What? This is ridiculous. We need to contact him. How are we going tae do that?” Rory’s voice rose, and the security guard took a step closer. Rory sensed, rather than saw, the posture of the security guard tensing. Standing behind him, Murray tugged at his shirt.
The young woman mouthed ‘Google’, then smiled.
Rory blinked.
“Thanks anyway.” Murray spoke from behind as the guard took another step forward. “We’ll be on our way now.”
“Thank you, miss, hope the rest of your day goes well.” Rory tilted his head and walked out, noting the security guard’s posture relaxing as he passed him.
Once in the car, Rory faced Murray. “What’s Google?”
THEY SEARCHED FOR AN internet café in the towns on the way back to Edinburgh and came across one in its outer suburbs.
“You can get coffee there too, aye?” Rory’s mouth watered.
They walked into a shop with computers in bo
oths along the wall. They paid a fee and Murray sat at a computer and started clicking the keys.
“You understand all of this, don’t you?” Rory sipped the cappuccino as he stood behind Murray. The froth stuck to his upper lip, and he licked it away.
“Yep.” Google in big letters was on the screen. Underneath it, Murray typed Kensington-Wallace into the elongated box and pressed a larger button on the keyboard. Immediately a picture and writing appeared. It was the same photograph as the one in the article.
“So, where is he now?” Rory asked.
“He’s now a professor at Oxford University, England.” Murray’s tone held awe.
“So, we need to go there?” Rory’s shoulders drooped. It was a long way to drive.
In traffic.
“Don’t get excited, Rory. We’re not at war with England anymore.” Murray had pressed more keys and different writing was now on the screen.
“Och, it’s no’ that. Just dinnae want to go all that way in the car, ken. It’s hard work. I’m a wee bit tired from all o’ this already. Och! Give me a horse any day!” Rory whispered to Murray’s back.
Murray stood, scooted the chair out from under him and started walking to the door.
“What, that’s it?” Rory asked. “Do you no’ want to write it down?”
“No. It’s all here.” Murray pointed to his head.
“What was all o’ that about privacy?” Rory finished the coffee and followed him out.
“So, we’ll go back to Edinburgh and park the car somewhere. Long Term, I think they call it. Then we’ll catch a train to Oxford. The train station is right in the centre of town and we can walk to wherever we need to go to find him,” Murray said as he got into the car.
“I REALLY DON’T LIKE leaving ma weapons in the car,” Rory whispered under his breath.
“Ssh.” Murray glared at him sideways as they walked to the ticket counter in Waverly Station, Edinburgh.
Murray spoke to the woman issuing tickets from behind the glass-fronted counter. “Two First-Class tickets to Oxford, please.”