My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (32 page)

‘It's feasible,' he said slowly. ‘Yes, I believe it can be accomplished.'

‘It has to be! Please do it, dear Herr Jakobsen, for my happiness depends on it, as does the future of all of us!'

‘Don't worry yourself so much, my dear. I have spoken to my wife & she assures me all will be well.'

What presumption!
I thought, but said nothing for there was no time to lose: our flying-machine awaited us at the airport.

‘The other thing you must do,' I told him (my thoughts now assembling themselves under one roof), ‘is to procure some rather
particular ingredients, & have them all ready for me in a jar. Take note: two millilitres of human blood, another two of human
tears, & another two of sweat, mixed with ten parts of schnapps. Trust me, Herr Jakobsen, but unlikely as it sounds, this
is the secret catalysing liquid which will trigger the starting mechanism of the Time Machine. Please pack all that you &
Helle wish to bring back to Denmark, for you are going home sooner than you think – but now I must bid you farewell as we
must hasten to Kastrup Airport!'

‘Might you procure us some pickled herring on your way?' he asked, still sounding calm. ‘We do miss good Danish
sild
over here: the English are quite ignorant of the subtleties of marinade. Oh, & some
rémoulade?
The departure lounge is one of the most sophisticated in Europe.'

I had long suspected that, like his wife, Georg Jakobsen was in possession of a very cool head, but this was taking insouciance
to extremes, it seemed: our futures hung in the balance, & he was thinking of herring & savoury dressings!

Fru Jakobsen, equally nonchalant, buffed her nails all the way home on the flying-machine, while reading a magazine containing
many photographs of caviare. Georg Jakobsen met us at the airport, most enthusiastic & full of pep, with a free flow of assurances
that the new Time Machine was all poised & ready for activation, & their suitcases were in the boot: all that we need do now,
before setting off once more for Denmark (O vertiginous thought!), was to convince an organization by the name of ‘Greenwich
Social Services' that I was indeed Josie's legal guardian. And by the way, had we remembered his pickled herring?

In the car heading for Greenwich Herr Jakobsen, who drove the vehicle with impressive assurance, began elaborating on the
legal process of regaining custody of Josie which would involve providing proof of my identity & my employment as Josie's
au pair, & documentation which certified that Fergus was planning to return from his ‘business trip' on a given date. ‘I'm
afraid you may have been a little optimistic in hoping to secure Josie today, for we are likely to be looking at a long wrangle,'
he concluded, adjusting his seatbelt.

‘There will be no wrangling at all, dear Herr Jakobsen, if you & your wife will be good enough to humour me by doing precisely
as I ask you,' I countered. ‘For I have devised a plan.'

Once we had arrived in Greenwich, Georg followed a set of side-streets until we came upon a squat red-brick barrack-like building
with a high fence & security cameras at three different levels.

‘Georg, please be so good as to stay in our vehicle & keep on the alert, with the engine running,' I instructed. ‘And when
Helle & I come out with Josie be prepared for a quick getaway.'

In the leaflet-strewn entrance hall, Helle Jakobsen & I noted a device by which one triggered a fire alarm, whose simple instructions
indicated that one should ‘in case of emergency, break glass'. This, we whisperingly agreed, could be put to use in the latter
stages of our rescue mission, but for now each had her own task – hurriedly agreed upon – to perform. What the chubby bespectacled
girl at Reception made of Fru Jakobsen's declaration – expressed in the most ornately polite Danish you could wish to hear
– that we were planning to kidnap a child from the premises, & would appreciate her remaining as incompetent & flustered as
possible for the duration of the operation, I do not know, for while Fru Jakobsen was thus fulfilling her role as decoy, I
was surreptitiously slipping past the desk & embarking upon a frantic search of the building. Many of the empty rooms I happened
upon were designated as quiet areas, conference rooms & places of worship but in a side-wing I was in luck, for hearing the
sound of children's voices, I followed a corridor that led me to a spacious dining hall in which I spied, through the door's
small window-pane, a tableful of twenty or so little ragamuffins of all colours, sexes & ages, fighting, throwing balled-up
napkins at one another, & munching on a British snack of breadcrumbed meat shaped into dinosaurs, under the supervision of
an immensely fat woman clad in tracksuit & trainers, whose main focus of interest seemed to be securing the children's Jurassic
left-overs by sliding them on to her own plate, where she snaffled them down as though she were dying of starvation. And there
amongst the excitable throng of children, clad just as she was when I first clapped eyes on her, complete with mask, cape
& gloves, was little Spiderman! Mentally, & with all the psychic energy I could muster, I exhorted her to look up, but she
was too busy screwing her napkin into a small ball, ready to hurl at any child who attacked her, for it seemed there was a
game going on that involved hair-tugging & missile-throwing, in which she was an active participant, if not a ringleader.
I waved through the glass-paned door, but I could see no human eyes through the mask. I was just giving up hope when a flying
napkin grazed the child's head, causing her to swivel in my direction, whereupon I caught her attention at last. Quickly,
I gestured ‘silence', & that she must try to slip out & join me. Cottoning on immediately (for had not gesture been our very
first means of communication?), she stood up & addressed the fat lady who, still munching, then noticed that Spiderman was
clutching her little
tisserkone
& suddenly looking most piteous. The toilet! Our ingenious superhero had asked to be excused! The fat lady nodded her accord
& continued her ruminant chewing, while Spiderman left the hall, closed the door behind her, & hurtled straight into my arms.

Silently, we hugged one another until it hurt. Pulling off her mask & mussing her thick tangle of hair, I saw that her darling
little face (so grown-up she seemed, all of a sudden!) was alight with relief.

‘Lottie!' she cried. ‘I knew you or Dad would come and rescue me! Get me out of here! They make us sing “If You're Happy and
You Know It Clap Your Hands" five times a day, & they tell you off if you won't join in!'

Upon which I impressed on her the need for concentration on the task ahead, if we wished to be reunited with her dad, who
had become stuck in ‘the wee theme park' & needed our help at once. She became most rigorously attentive, so I outlined the
plan of action, confident that she would absorb it in all its detail, & follow my instructions without hesitation, for Miss
Josefina Prudence Rosenberg McCrombie, much like her indomitable hero Spiderman, lacked not in courage, & could be counted
upon to keep all her senses about her in a tight spot.

Next I made use of the mobile telephone to send Fru Jakobsen a text signal, as we had agreed, indicating that she could terminate
her one-sided Danish conversation with the receptionist & make a dignified exit, pausing only to set off the building's alarm
by breaking the safety glass in the entrance hall.

Pandemonium!

‘Run!' I cried, & Josie & I set off at high speed.

The broken glass not only set several sirens a-wailing but also triggered an indoor rain-shower device that drenched us most
thoroughly, but in the panic that ensued, we were able to make a most pleasingly nifty dash to freedom via a side-exit which
led directly, as luck would have it, into the very car park where Georg & Helle Jakobsen now anxiously awaited us, whereupon
I bade Georg
apply the pedal to the metal,
as the English expression goes.

‘For Fanden,
Charlotte-
pige
, how did you manage that?' he asked, dumbfounded.

‘Are you quite certain you want to know,
skat?
asked Helle Jakobsen, offering us all
salt-lakrids
pastilles.

‘Perhaps not,' he said, looking at his wife with a doubtful expression, ‘because one thing I do know about bureaucrats, be
they in the past, the present or the future, is that they like their forms filled in, & their paperwork triple-stamped. Yet
you emerged from that building, good ladies, without so much as an advice leaflet!'

‘Uha,'
said Fru Jakobsen a moment later, for there were now sirens to be heard in the distance, ‘it seems that the authorities have
been quicker off the mark than we bargained for.' As we drove through the wrought-iron gateway of Greenwich Park & headed
up the hill towards the Observatory through the dusk, the siren noise intensified behind us. Above us, darkness was falling,
& seagulls slewed across the sky like shooting stars.

‘The Portakabins are round the back: I'm going to drive right up there & park in that woodland, as we've no time to lose,'
said Georg as he expertly turned the wheel & we began heading across the grass.

‘This is surely not allowed!' cried Fru Jakobsen – to which Georg replied that indeed, it most certainly was not, but why
should not
both
of them become criminals at the end of their stay in England, & in any case, where we were headed, no one could reach us with
an on-the-spot fine. The car crawled steeply uphill towards a collection of white box-like structures in the shadow of the
lit-up Observatory, its satellite apparatus & its spherical ball now starkly silhouetted against the darkening sky.

‘Look!' cried Josie. For there, high above us, hummed the laser line, pulsating its eerie green light. Herr-Jakobsen parked
& we bundled out of our vehicle, each carrying a bulky Jakobsen suitcase, & rushed pell-mell towards the row of temporary
cabins & toilets. Recognising our own bespoke one by virtue of the discreetly painted Danish flag it sported on its roof,
Georg Jakobsen unpadlocked the door, & we all squashed tight inside Herr Dogger's version of the Time Machine, ready for take-off.

The sirens were growing ever louder as Herr Jakobsen shakily removed a jar from his pocket & filled the orb with the pinkish
mixture it contained.

‘I hope I have mixed the quantities aright,' he murmured, ‘and that Rigmor's tears of penitence are of a sufficient standard.
For if not, God help us! Now hold tight, everyone!' he cried.

And pulled the lever.

Say what I might about Herr Dogger, I must grant him that he had improved on the original Time Machine, for our journey was
swifter & smoother than any before, & it was almost pleasant to see the blurring images of rocks, stones, savannah, forests,
deserts, waves, moon, stars, sun, & sea that whizzied around us like assorted clothes inside a tumble dryer as we hurtled
through time.

We landed softly enough, for the ground was clad in a thick eiderdown of white, white snow that sparkled in the sunshine.
But O, the chill! In our haste, we had quite forgot the season, & Josie & I were wet to boot, after our encounter with the
sprinkler system.
For Fanden,
we would freeze to death in minutes!

‘Take my jacket, Miss McCrombie!' cried Herr Jakobsen, shedding it in a most gentlemanly manner & wrapping it tight over Josie's
little Spiderman cape – but I noted that her lips had already turned blue.

‘We must find warmth & shelter immediately, or we shall perish from frostbite!' I cried, picturing our photographs on the
front page of
Politiken:
four inexplicable corpses, one a child dressed as the Devil, frozen rigid as statues, discovered by Pastor Dahlberg & his
new bride, in their snowy garden – if that was indeed where we found ourselves, for in principle this was where the Time-Sucker
was located. Sure enough, there now came confirmation in the form of a loud & angry barking from a snow-clad kennel that stood
by what I now recognized to be Fru Krak's front porch.

‘The Alsatian guard-dog!' I cried, remembering Franz's journal. ‘The creature is attached by a chain, but he will alert them
to our presence: we must swiftly away!'

By now Georg had furnished himself with a sturdy beech-wood stick with which he bravely insisted he would keep the madly barking
brute at bay while we ‘ladies' ran past its kennel & out into the safety of the road.

‘Are you ready?' cried Georg, upon which the dog – a huge brute with dangling testicles – reared into view, brandishing yellow
teeth & a fanatical glare. ‘Then prepare to run for all you are worth, and do not look back until you are beyond the reach
of its chain!'

The dog had by now smelled conflict, & was leaping about, tugging vigorously at its leash, so it was with shivering trepidation
that we all set forth towards it – knowing, too, that at any moment the righteous Pastor & his invisible companion, the Holy
Lord, along with his fine lady wife Fru Dahlberg/Krak/Bischen-Baschen, might appear at the doorway.

The dog had been well coached in violence, for it did not hesitate to leap for Georg's throat the very instant he approached
to distract it, but Georg was quick on his feet, stepping jauntily out of the animal's reach & waving his stick at it in a
taunting fashion; snarling, the infuriated creature sank on its haunches & then proceeded to circle him threateningly, its
chain pulled to the maximum, while Fru Jakobsen, Josie & I ran helter-skelter for safety. Once at the gate, & out of the dog's
reach, we turned – only to see that events had taken a frightening cast, for Georg, having had the upper hand, had lost it
& was now struggling with the creature, which had grabbed one end of the stick in its teeth & was tugging at it madly, growling
all the while! The valiant Georg looked momentarily hopeless, for it was evident that if he released his grip he would be
weaponless, & the animal upon him, tearing his flesh & crunching his poor bones. Yet he could not ward the creature off for
ever!