My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (26 page)

But thanks to my costumed endeavours, the Time Machine now comes along apace, its building much speeded by the surveillance
of Herr & Fru Jakobsen, those two grim custodians of hope, who supervise Dogger most unrelentingly as he works, determined
that he should not slack. Insisting that whatever materials he should require, they shall supply themselves, they have ensured
that he does not leave the premises, & he grumbles that he is being kept a virtual prisoner. Ha!

But yet, the faster the contraption approaches completion, the more I smell a rat in the world of the Halfway Club, but figure
out what form it takes, & where it is hiding, I cannot. Even when I clap eyes on the modern version of the Time Machine that
Dogger has constructed, combining (as Herr Jakobsen demonstrates) antique & modern methods & materials, & thereby securing
a marriage made in technological Heaven – nay, even when I clap eyes on that, down in the community hall of the Halfway Club,
where it stands, almost complete, squatly in the centre of the room, a great gleaming box with a little door of wood & glass, an unquiet murmur swells inside me, whispering: hold your horses, Charlotte –
pige,
for
something is askew.

‘Come in, you naughty boy!'

And how do I know this, in my bones? Not least because Dogger, the architect of this creation, has been acting oddly of late:
he has been going through a curiously babyish phase, featuring much dog-like whimpering, & a regular demand to be slapped
& spanked – the one chore which (as you may imagine) is among the few I relish, & indeed perform with alacrity, to the point
of not having to be asked. But soon even the welcome infliction of much-deserved physical pain on my tormentor begins to wear
thin on me, for I have dressed as a Sexy Strict Nurse for five days in a row now, & administered more ‘nasty medicine', &
applied more unappealing suppository treatments than I care to mention: even sadism has its limits, I find, when the torture
is welcome. Yes: something is rotten in the state of Denmark-upon-Thames, & it niggles at me mightily that I cannot identify
it, for the great unveiling is nigh.

And indeed, upon us. O, we Danes do love a party! We have all dressed in our finest clothes (I in my Tin City garb) for the
occasion, which begins with a bubble of greetings & the consumption of fancy
pålæg
and schnapps as the Poulsen family, the Rosenvinges, Max Kong, Rigmor Schwarb, Ida Sick, the Jakobsens, & many more queue
up to investigate the new Time Machine. Murmuringly, we all take turns to enter its skimpy door, & on doing so note the modernizations
in its interior, where a white plastic garden bench has replaced the velvet chaise-longue, the original quartz tubes & orb
are reborn in transparent Plexiglas, the clocks tick digitally, & the starting lever resembles the hand-brake of a car. Disappointed
though some members of the Halfway Club may be with the functional appearance of the new machine, this is a minor matter,
given the achievement of its existence, so
skål, alle sammen!
With a patriotic cheer, our red & white flag is hoisted at full mast atop the building's flagpole, & we all cry
hurra,
hurra, hurra!
for king & country, even though there is now technically speaking a queen, & the size of the Danish territory has both shrunk
& swollen like a dieting girl since we last lived there, since (as I learned in one of Dogger's excruciating history lessons)
Denmark sold its Caribbean islands to the United States for cash, gulped back a piece of Sonderjylland as if to compensate,
but then relinquished the whole of Iceland.

The schnapps having done its work & warmed the hearts of all, Herr Jakobsen, who has appointed himself Master of Ceremonies,
takes to the makeshift orange-crate podium & announces that ‘a new era of hope' has dawned since the distressing disappearance
of our leader, Professor Krak, into the greedy stomach of time. ‘Although we shall never abandon our faith that Professor
Krak will one day be amongst us again, in this place & era, in the meantime we have resolved to keep the spirit of his enterprise
alive, & to this end have asked the distinguished time expert & seasoned time-traveller Herr Dogger to reconstruct the original,
by which means any of us who care to return to our beloved homeland can do so, just as Herr Krak hoped that we should, were
that to be our wish.'

Fru Jakobsen, sitting next to me, shed a small tear which she dabbed at discreetly with her pocket handkerchief; I squeezed
her arm, and whispered, ‘Coming soon – Gilleleje in the springtime!' & she smiled & blinked. Meanwhile her husband continued
by telling us that while Herr Dogger had been at work, he himself had not been idle. ‘Since time-travel requires careful geographical
planning, with regard (in this country) to the harmonization & conjunctification of both meridian and (at the receiving end,
as it were) the Time Sucker in Østerbro, I ascertained that there is indeed a suitable temporary parking-place for the machine in the grounds of the Greenwich Observatory.
Herr Dogger has himself inspected the site, & has constructed an outer casing for the Time Machine, which will disguise it
as an exterior prefabrication known as a Portakabin – several of which are already standing in the park in anticipation of
an outdoor concert there next month. Closed to the public by a strong lock, we believe our disguised machine can sit unremarked
for as long as three weeks, before anybody notices the extra facility amidst a cluster of twenty such temporary structures,
which includes movable toilets known as Portaloos.'

There were murmurs of impressed approval, & Herr Jakobsen flushed with pride at his ingenuity. Herr Dogger, meanwhile, was
looking most odd – on the one hand prodigously puffed-up, & on the other distinctly nervous. ‘When any members of the community
express the wish to undertake the (admittedly perilous) journey back to Copenhagen, as I know Charlotte here plans to do shortly,
as do my wife and I, then Herr Arnbach's haulage firm will transport the machine to Greenwich Park, & return it here once
it has served its purpose on the meridian. There will be room for three more passengers on the maiden voyage, but we can make
a second and a third on the same day, if the first is successful. I have a book here, in which all who are keen to travel
can sign their names. But I must warn you, you must see it as an irreversible decision, for we cannot guarantee any return
journeys in the immediate future, the original machine having most probably been destroyed.'

There was a murmur of nervous excitement, mixed with alarm. ‘But first, let me hand you over to Herr Dogger, who has agreed
to say a few words to all of you about his remarkable achievement, for which we as a community are all immensely grateful,
are we not?'

At which an enthusiastic cheer of approval goes up. Blessed are the pompous: he is dressed like a dog's dinner in a brown
three-piece suit, & on the podium he stands rocking on his heels, as though counting the size of his captive audience. His
moment has come. (‘A few words'? Shall we take bets?)

‘Mine damer og herrer,'
he begins, lugubriously as a bull munching on its cud. ‘It is my profound pleasure & indeed honour to be here today, at the culmination of the lengthy project I have undertaken …' Blah blah blah. I reach for my dictionary. Learning new English words is a habit I began when I was trying to impress Fergus, but which I have not dropped, firstly because I wish to continue impressing him, if we can but be together again, & second because how better to spend a few idle minutes (or in the present case, a good half-hour) than in the enlargement of one's vocabulary?

‘Meridianic principles …' he is saying. ‘Now known as “worm-hole" theory … special kind of leather to supplement the … delicate calibrations, whereby the merest millimetre can make a difference of twenty years or more … complex mathematical equations …' I acquaint myself with the words ‘labial', ‘laborious' ‘Labrador', & ‘laburnum', & it is just as I am investigating
lachrymose
that I sense a rustle around me – a change of mood in the audience, a restlessness – confirmed immediately by a nudge from Fru Jakobsen. I look up from my dictionary: her face is anxious, her hand raised in the air.

‘I must interrupt you there, Herr Dogger,' she says sharply, ‘& ask you to repeat that last part, please. I am not sure we have understood.' She looks alarmed: glancing about me, it seems that she is not alone. People are shifting in their seats, & a murmur has set up. What have I missed?

‘Yes,' comes another voice. ‘We'd like to hear that bit again. About the catalysing liquid.'

At which my heart suddenly sets a-banging.
Catalysing
liquid.
That phrase seems uncannily familiar: now where have I heard it before? Or
over
heard it? Yes! Once, in one of many dull technical discussions in Copenhagen, did Professor Krak not mention a –

‘Yes. Of course,' says Herr Dogger, clearing his throat. His posture seems to change, & he wipes the side of his face with a handkerchief then clears his throat again. Do you recall that rat I smelled earlier, dear one? Well, now I smell it again, & its stench is more potent than ever! ‘As I said just now, the, er, four
ingredients
of the catalysing liquid remain a, er …' says Herr Dogger. ‘Shall we say that, er, in conclusion, Professor Krak entrusted me with the plans to make the machine, but he vowed he would never reveal the four components of the catalyser. It was a means of, er, ensuring that um … no one but he …'

All hell breaks loose. Fru Jakobsen leaps to her feet. ‘And you
knew this all along?
That the machine you have made could never be activated? Herr Dogger, you led us to believe you could provide a fully operational
replica of the Time Machine, not some … toy!' she cries, with unmistakable desperation in her voice. ‘Explain yourself,
please!'

A rumble in the audience turns swiftly to a roar. I feel myself go pale, & then hot, & then weak at the knees, & then a tidal
wave of fury rises up in my heart. Betrayal! I charge forward towards the stage.

‘Yes, Dogger, explain yourself!', I yell, grabbing him by the arm.

‘Hit him!' calls a teenage voice from the audience (it is young Mattias Rosenvinge). ‘You know you want to!'

Thus prompted, I slap Dogger hard on the face. This is met by a rousing cheer from the audience – to whom I now explain in
explicit & shocking detail the price I have paid for us all to be so monstrously & unfairly fooled. It does not take long
to acquaint the members of the Halfway Club with Dogger's sexual incapacities & creepy predilections. Parents cover the ears
of their children as I expose the role that the Eastern Princess, the Nympho Nun & the lustful dildo-wielding monarch Margrethe
have played in the construction of the Time Machine. But for all the jeering & indignation, there is rampaging anger too.
‘So Henrik Dogger here has not only used & betrayed me,' I finish. ‘He has abused the trust of every one of us here.'

‘Hit him again!' calls the teenager. So I oblige, making Dogger reel back, clutching his cheek.

‘I completed my part of the bargain!' Dogger protests above the fury of the throng. ‘It was a fair deal!' But his shameful
response is met with howls and boos, & as one, with a scrape & clatter of chairs, the members of the Halfway Club rise up
& hound Herr Dogger from the hall: the Jespersens unleash their mangy mastiff Bullet on him, who bites him hard on the leg
just as he reaches the door, & Mattias Rosenvinge & the Joergensen twins pelt him with eggs from the fridge.

The last we see of him is as a limping silhouette headed for the Crown & Thistle pub on the corner of Carnegie Street.

But where to now? Where to indeed, when one's heart is dripping blood? What words to describe the bleakness of what faced
me, now that all hope was dashed!

Love does not lie & nor does it die, when it is strong. But the world can smash to smithereens around it, & that is what happened
then. And that night in the lonesomeness of Fergus's half-occupied double bed you yearn for your Copenhagen days – oh those
days of innocence & cold but instead, on the sweaty pillow, you find yourself nightmarishly alone in the Milkmaid's Uniform
(complete with cowbell) thrust on you by your repugnant tormentor, your face streaked with tears, the love of your life lost
to you for ever, & suddenly it is unbearable, quite unbearable, & in your garbled hallucinatory thoughts you follow the satanic
fumes & speed wildly in the direction of Fru Schleswig (also gone for ever! Who would have thought that you could miss the
ancient one so greatly? Indeed at all?) & you hurtle heedless & headlong to the warmth of her fat imaginary embrace & bury
your head in her colossal bosom & weep, & you hear her murmur, ‘Ther ther chylde. Ther ther, my littel Charlot. Ther ther
my babby gurl. Ther ther,' & for the first time in your entire life you find yourself suddenly wide awake, screaming to the
skies: ‘O Mother, Mother!
Help!
MOTHER!'