Future Tense

Boson Books by Frank Almond

Future Tense

Tempus Fugit

FUTURE TENSE

by

Frank Almond

BOSON BOOKS

Raleigh

Published by Boson Books

An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.

ISBN (print) 978-0-917990-77-9

ISBN (ebook)1-932482-10-5

© Copyright 2003, 2011 Frank Almond

All rights reserved

For information contact

C&M Online Media Inc.

3905 Meadow Field Lane

Raleigh, NC 27606

Tel: (919) 233-8164

email: [email protected]

URL:
http://www.bosonbooks.com

Cover image by Joel Barr

Designed by D.F. McAllister

Contents

Chapter 1

I hadn't seen Emma since the night they said I murdered her. But even though her back was turned to me and she was wearing what I can only describe as a Jane Austen dress, I just knew it was Emma standing by that window. Something about her bright brown hair, the way she stood—her whole aura—told me that I was looking at the real Emma Gummer. And it was such a relief to see her again that all the doubts and horrors I had been through simply melted away. At last we were together. I closed the door discreetly behind me—things were likely to get pretty steamy.

“Em?”

She jumped. “Sloane! Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on? Why am I a prisoner?”

I laughed. “You're not a prisoner.”

“That door was locked!”

“Was it? Oh.”

“Yes—it was! Something very odd's been happening.” She pushed up her fringe with her hand, and looked a little lost for moment. “I don't know how I got here—”

“I can explain everything.”

“Oh really? This had better be good. Well?”

“You're pregnant, Em.”

“What—? How do you know?”

“Believe me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.” She folded her arms.

“Well, I was there when we, um.”

“Just tell me how you know—because I certainly haven't told anyone.”

“It's a really long story, Em. Can't we just—?”

“I'm waiting.” She tapped her foot.

I didn't want to tell her—I knew how mad it was all going to sound. I took a deep breath. “All right—my father's a time traveller from the fourth millennium and he's immortal—it sort of runs in the family—”

“Oh, puh-leeze!”

“No, listen, Em—it's the truth. I swear. The future's controlled by a puritanical police state and they keep sending these—these robot things back through time to erase me—and anyone connected with me—”

She covered her ears with her hands and shook her head. “I'm not listening.”

“No, Em—I know how it sounds, but—”

“Sloane, I'm not in the mood!”

“Emma—they know that's my child you're carrying! But there's no need to look so worried—they can't get you here. It's about 1800, I think, and this is my old man's place, Duckworth Hall. His name's Sir Julian Duckworth and he's fabulously rich.” I laughed, nervously. I was getting some very strange looks from her. “Yeah, he-he only looks about nineteen—you wait till you meet him, Em. Ah-ah. We call him the Duck because he kind of quacks when he laughs, but his real name's Zebulon Zirconion and he's a Doctor of Temporal Engineering, and, I mean, he's obviously a lot older than nineteen—although, technically, he hasn't even been born yet. Do you want me to go on? What?”

“You must think I was born yesterday.”

“No. You won't be born for another two hundred years. You see, as I was trying to explain, this is—”

She pushed me aside and looked around the picture rails.

“All right. That's enough. Where's the camera? This is one of those stupid reality TV shows, right?”

“No. I'm not joking—this really is the past. There's a lot of other stuff I could tell you, but I won't scare you with all that right now. All that matters is you're safe—and we're having a baby!”

“Correction—I am having a baby.” She barged past me again.

“Well, that's what I meant.” I slumped down on the bed. “Now, do you think you could come to bed, love? I haven't—you know-er-seen you since the third millennium.” I scratched my head. “Although, since this is the past, I suppose the last time I actually saw you was the first time I met you. Ha-ha. Remember when we met, Em?”

“I remember when I dumped you!” She was still looking round the room for a hidden camera. She looked behind an old oil painting of a horse.

“Yes, but in view of the circumstances, I thought we could forget that little blip and move on.”

“Forget the spin, Sloane—I
have
moved on.” She sounded cold and distant, and kept searching. “That's why I'm not playing any more of your little games!” She said it loudly, as though she thought others might be listening in.

“There's no one there, Em.” I patted the empty space next to me. “Please come to bed.”

“That would be unethical,” she said, stooping down to look under it.

“Unethical? You sound like one of them! How long were you in the future?”

She checked behind the dressing table mirror. “It's over, Sloane. Get over it.”

“Sometimes a thing has to be broken before it can be mended,” I said. I got up and tried to put my arms around her. “Let's mend our love, Em… you're expecting our little baby.”

She shrugged me off. “Don't remind me. Now, where's the camera crew?”

“Don't remind—? There isn't one. I've been to hell and back looking for you! The police think I murdered you and my so-called best friend—Matthew bloody Turner—says the kid's his and the two of you have been at it behind my back! You haven't, have you, love?”

She spun round and slapped me hard across the face. All in one swift movement. And it bloody hurt!

“I'm getting a cab back to London!” she screamed—in my face—and stamped towards the door.

I jumped up in front of her. “No—listen, I mean, you can't! The only cabs round here use real horsepower and take three days.”

“Get out of my way, or I will kick you very, very hard.”

“Emma, please—in that dress?”

“Get out of my way!”

“Just let me explain—”

There was a ripping sound and I felt a sharp pain in my shin.

“Aunt-Blood-y-Nor-a!”

I tried to hop away in retreat, but she hooked her ankle around the back of my standing leg and pushed me over. Then she tore open the door. The Duck, who had obviously been listening through the keyhole, tumbled into the room.

The Duck and I were now both lying flat on the floor, looking up at a startled Emma. She suddenly realized the Duck was looking up her torn dress, and quickly covered the split.

“May I present my father, Sir Julian Duckworth,” I said.

“Charmed,” smirked the Duck, extending a hand up to her.

Emma was so surprised to see the elegantly dressed youth fall at her feet, that she almost accepted it. She recoiled.

“What am I doing?” She picked up her skirts, skipped over the Duck's legs and fled down the hall. “You're mad! All mad!” she cried.

I tried to go after her, but the Duck grabbed my ankle.

“Let her go, mate—she won't get far,” he said. He used my trouser leg to haul himself up, adjusted his big red spectacles and flicked his ponytail straight. “I've told my staff not to let her off the estate.”

“Every time you're around, my life goes down the toilet.” I rubbed my shin. “Have you noticed that? You're like Elizabeth Barrett Browning's bloody dog!”

“Hey?”

“The mutt was called Flush.”

“Charming. But if I know Lizzy she meant a hot flush, mate—not a wet one. Racy filly that Lizzy Barrett. You know, I nearly got off with her once at one of old Coleridge's, er, parties—what a night that was—if those harpsichord strings hadn't snapped, I might have been in there—I was nearly up the pleasure dome.”

“Is this leading anywhere? Only I'm in a hurry—I'd like to catch up with Emma and explain why my father looks like my kid brother.”

“Ha-ha, no, I mean—we're young—full of high spirits—plenty of time to play the field yet—come here. I want to show you something, Son.”

“Can we please drop the ‘son' bit?”

He closed the door and led me over to a writing bureau. He pulled a secret lever somewhere in the back of a drawer, and a decanter of wine and two glasses popped out of a hidden compartment. “Glass of Madeira, me dear, uh, mate?”

“You know, this was not the reunion I had in mind,” I said, as the Duck did the honours.

“I know what you had in mind,” smirked the Duck, handing me my wine, while raising his to his mouth to guzzle it down.

“I'm not talking about
that
, I'm talking about love,” I said.

The Duck sat on the edge of the bed and bounced up and down. “Yeah-yeah. This brings back a few happy memories,” he laughed. “Anyway, there'll be plenty of time for all that lovey-dovey stuff later—we have a mucho problemo, old son—ah-ah! Old son—get it?”

“Yes, I get it, Father. And you can forget it.”

“Forget what? I haven't said anything yet.”

“You don't have to. I can hear it coming. The day I go on another one of your freaky little time trips, cuckoos will be crapping from the clouds.”

“She'll come round,” said the Duck. “Stuck here, in beautiful Georgian Gloucestershire, waited on hand and foot, living in the lap of luxury—preggers. Now, ask yourself: where's she gonna go?”

“I'm not leaving her,” I said. “She's confused. She can't get her head around all this. Neither can I.” I took a large gulp of wine.

“I'll ask Emily to have a little heart-to-heart with her. They'll have stuff to talk about, what with 'em both being in the pudding club,” smiled the Duck.

Suddenly, I felt faint and had to sit on the bed.

“All right, Son?”

“Er, yes, I just felt a bit funny then.” I peered into my glass. “Sort of queasy.”

“Spot of time lag catching up, I expect,” he grinned. “Close your eyes a sec and hold your nose—soon clear it.”

I did as he said and when I opened my eyes, the Duck was right, I felt much better. But, strangely, the room appeared to have darkened somewhat.

“Wow, that was really odd,” I rubbed my eyes. “Anyway, I'm—I'm, um, staying here,” I said, “until you can fix me and Emma up in another time period—a safe one—and then I want you to stay as far away from us as possible. I fancy the 1920s—the Charleston, Scott and Zelda, flappers—”

“And then the Great Depression,” added the Duck.

“You're the great depression—that's why I'm off. You can come and visit your grandchild from time to time, but keep it short, and I don't want you turning up every five minutes either,” I said. “Has it got darker in here or is it me?”

“It's you,” said the Duck. “Remember Jemmons?”

“Of course I remember Jemmons. Why—what's he done now? There's something wrong with my eyes.”

“Only got himself nabbed by a Temporal Criminal Pursuit snatch squad—the duffer.”

“Well, I can't help that—I've got enough on my plate,” I said. I blinked my eyes repeatedly. “It was definitely brighter in here…”

“Oh, that's nice,” said the Duck. “That man risked his neck for you, and this is all the bleeding thanks he gets. Remind me not to do you any more favours, mate.”

“Please don't do me any more favours,” I said. “And consider that a final reminder.”

The Duck got up on his high horse and started strutting up and down the room. “You couldn't give a toss, could you, Stephen? There's poor old Roger, rotting away in the worst hellhole on Earth and all you can say is: I can't help that. Well, I just hope you end up sharing the same cell some day, then you can explain to him why you just couldn't be bothered.”

“It's not that I can't be bothered. Anyway, I seem to remember it was me who did all the rescuing last time—you both owe me. Big time. I had to save you from getting sent down, while good old Jemmons went walkabout.” I got up and walked over to the window to look up at the sky. “Did a cloud just pass over?”

“I explained all that—Rog was arrested and I offered myself up as a sacrifice to save you and the others. Just like whatshisname in that book by whatshisname. If you hadn't interfered we wouldn't be in this mess. Dickens.”

“Wouldn't be in this mess? They were about to cart you off to the human vivisection farm! In case you'd forgotten,” I said. “Sydney Carton.”

“Yeah, that's the geezer. I would have escaped. I had it all sussed,” said the Duck.

“I'm not even going to discuss this. If you're so keen, you go and spring him, you don't need me.”

“It's a two-man job.”

“Well, take Emily's dad with you, he likes a good punch-up. I'm staying here to get my love life sorted. And that's that.”

“Roger has been sent to the Castle!” said the Duck. “I can't ask Tree to go back there—the poor bloke did a seven stretch in the place. He nearly has a heart-attack if he sees a sandcastle.”

“That's funny, because you told me he's never even been anywhere near the Castle. You said he made it all up.” I looked around the room for something to explain myself with.

“Well, I might have bent the truth a bit.”

“Yeah, you are to the truth what Uri Geller is to spoons, mate.”

“You're coming—I'm your father—you've got to do as I say!”

“Bollocks.”

I chose a heavy looking metal clock from the mantelpiece.

“Not that!” quacked the Duck. “It's a Louis the Fourteenth!”

“I want to get it through your thick skull, once and for all!” I said. “I am not going to the fourth bloody millennium!”

I swung it at his body—missed—and it slipped from my grasp and smashed into the wall.

“That was ormolu!” He charged into me, with his legs kicking and fists flailing.

Now, the Duck liked you to think he was an expert in the martial arts, so his assaults were always accompanied by lots of oriental-sounding screams and extravagant posturing. But since he only has the physique of an apprentice jockey, I easily grabbed him by his ginger ponytail and slung him out of my way. And then I dashed out the door to find Emma.

* * *

I didn't have far to look. I found her talking to some bloke at the foot of the stairs, a tall, smartly dressed, foreign-looking guy, with a 'tache. And Emma had changed her torn dress and was looking very fetching in an elegant floral morning gown. She was leaning against the banister, girlishly trying to conceal a blush with her fan, while they shared what looked like an intimate joke. I wasn't a bit jealous, but thought I should break it up before the jumped-up little poser got the wrong idea.