The Time Rip (21 page)

“Just get his shoulders.”

“Hey, girlfriend, chill. He’ll be cool.”

With the man grasping Martin to his chest and Freya lifting his ankles, they managed to heave Martin into the back of the van. Freya perched on the back of the van bed, pretending to fuss over Martin for a moment, bundling her sweater under his head and arranging his limbs more comfortably. She scooted back out of the van and shut the doors without ceremony in Martin’s face.

“If he don’t make it, give me a call.”

“You’ll be the first.”

Freya wiped her hands on her jeans, calmly got in the van and drove off. She stopped on a nearby side street and climbed over the front seats to check on her prisoner. He groaned again and moved slightly, his face frowning a bit.

She felt her heart lurch and scrambled to her toolbox, grabbed a handful of plastic tie wraps and joined them together. With difficulty, she rolled him onto his stomach and drew both hands behind him.

She did not want him to lie on his back anyway. The cut was to the back of his head and she thought he should not lie on it. Also, she knew unconscious persons were not supposed to lie on their backs or people wouldn’t bang on about the recovery position.

She made makeshift handcuffs with the tie wraps, securing them as tightly as she dared. She then bound his ankles and, as an afterthought, tied his shoelaces together.

He looked extremely uncomfortable, and she worried that his head would roll off her sweater so she tied it, carefully avoiding the cut, around his abused head to provide a cushion from the scuffed wood of the van bed.

He groaned again and, double-checking the sweater would not impair his breathing, she scooted back into the driving seat, heart pounding.

Freya drove cautiously, all too aware of her burden in the back. She was especially careful to drive slowly around corners. She might have taken advantage of his unconscious state, but she would not intentionally hurt him.

Her buckets and leftover flowers were secured in crates strapped to the side, but Martin had nothing to hold him in place and could not even put a hand out to save himself.

A part of her could not quite believe what she was doing. It seemed incredible that she could get away with it. The drive seemed to take forever but she did not stop, afraid that she would lose her nerve.

The M4 was a kind of nightmare, each minute dragging past as the road ground under the van. She was afraid to drive too fast, fearing the damage the bumps in the road would do to her prisoner’s head, and was grateful she was driving a van. Other road users would not expect her to make great speed, being aware, she hoped, of the possibility of a load in the back.

At one point she was sure he had regained consciousness, she even thought she heard him talking, but when she shifted to peer in the rear view mirror, he looked like he was still out cold.

Dark clouds had brought a false dusk as she turned down the rutted track. The van crawled and heaved through thick mud, finally finding traction for the last hundred yards or so.

Her palms were slick with sweat as she turned off the engine, every muscle screaming. She rubbed her hands on her jeans and sat for a few moments feeling slightly sick before clambering shakily out of the cab.

She fumbled with the back doors, her heart pounding, and took a nervous look around. It was completely deserted, the light draining rapidly from the sky.

The sweet smell of the meadows was almost overpowering after the rain, and Freya flashed back to the last trip she had made through here.

She was anxious about going near where Jeremy could find her, and had to remind herself continually that with his time device he could just as easily find her in 2008 as in 1908, yet had not done so.

She steeled herself for what was to come, and clambered somewhat clumsily over her seat and into the back of the van. Martin was lying as she left him, on his belly, head to one side wrapped in her sweater. He was motionless. Feeling like a murderer, she put her fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse.

It took some time to get over the beating of her own heart before she could be sure she was feeling his. Relief helped steady her; he would be fine, he was just out. She shoved open the doors from the inside, hopped out and turned back to her prisoner.

She began to work her hands under his shoulders to try to lift him towards her. He was a floppy deadweight, but she managed to get both hands under his armpits and heave for all she was worth.

Absolutely nothing. She did not move him so much as an inch. She paused for breath and tried again. His position, on his stomach, made her afraid to lift his head too much. She re-adjusted her grip; her hands on top of him this time, she hooked them under his arms to pull but still could not shift him.

For a moment, she debated other ways of pulling him out, but her original idea of pulling him towards her, hands under his arms, seemed the most logical choice. She braced one foot on the van bed and tried again.

In her mind, she had seen herself struggling to pull him out, but hadn’t imagined that she would not be able to shift him at all. She’d had it all worked out, how she would drag him out and pull him through the field to the farmhouse. Now it was looking like she would not even be able to get him out of the van, let alone across the field.

She shook her head and huffed She would do this, absolutely would do this. She grabbed him less gently and heaved and heaved, and it felt for a moment as though he may have moved forwards a bit. Then she realised that his body had, in fact, stretched slightly, but he still had not moved forwards an inch.

She stopped, gasping for breath, red in the face with exertion. How did murderers do it? How did anyone lug bodies through fields?

It then occurred to her that if she could get him out of the van she could probably roll him, which would be easier than trying to drag him, at any rate. The only question was how to do it.

Her gaze wandered over the straps holding her flower stall contents in place and a horribly brilliant idea came to mind. She stood for a few minutes gazing unseeing at the peeling paintwork interior. Then closed her eyes, took a breath, and tried to harden her heart a bit.

Martin had come after her and threatened her with a knife. He may well have been prepared to carve her up with it for all she knew. She would not feel sorry for him. Anyway, it was well known that if you were to suffer a car crash, then you would be less likely to break bones or suffer serious damage if you were relaxed, and, really, you could not get much more relaxed than unconscious.

She took a quick look around the road, but everything was deserted. Leaving the doors open, she strode purposefully to the cab.

Her mind full of what she was about to do, she missed her footing and slid in the wet mud landing hard on her backside. The shock of the fall had her sprawling backwards before she could catch herself, and water soaked instantly through her clothes to her skin.

It was obviously bad karma to be considering it. She stood up slowly, her muscles screaming at this latest outrage. She wanted to cry again. Pressing her fingers onto her closed eyes, she stood still for a moment while she overcame the tears. Then walked round to the cab and placed a plastic bag on the seat with shaking hands before climbing in.

Freya sat at the wheel, cringing, her resolve shaking, before she made herself start the engine. She put the van in reverse, took another breath for courage, closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, revved the engine and lifted her foot off the clutch.

The van shot backwards and she slammed on the breaks. For one horrendous split second, she envisaged the wheels skidding in the mud but, by the grace of God, they bit. She cut the engine and put her face in her hands for a moment before going to assess the damage.

As she had known would happen, Martin had flown out the back when she hit the brakes, and now lay in the mud a few feet from the van. He looked horribly uncomfortable; his leg was lying in a way that did not look good at all. Freya stared at him in dismay. Unable to believe what she was doing.

One fist half stuffed in her mouth, she gave a choked off cry. Was she murdering him? What if he had broken his neck or leg? She felt sick and grasped one of the van doors for support.

“Freya?”

She was aware on some level of someone saying her name, but it took a while for her to react fully to the implications of this.

“Freya, what are you doing?”

At first she thought she was talking to herself. It was exactly what she was thinking, after all. Then dread and shock rushed through her and she let out a sound somewhere between a squeal and a shriek, whirling to face a tall tough-looking man with dark eyes.

He looked eerily similar to Jeremy, and puzzlement overcame everything else for a few moments. It was not Jeremy, but closer to how he might look in five years or so, with a lot more muscle. She blinked; thinking of time travel and all its implications.

“Jeremy?” she said in a small voice.

The man smiled and stepped up to her, “It’s Brett. Are you okay? You look like the world’s come to an end.” He spoke in Jeremy’s voice, while his eyes tracked to where Martin lay in the mud. Then he crouched down, carefully running his hands over the other man. “My God, what did you do to this guy? Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Freya was still trying to catch up. Who was this man? She had never seen him before, but he obviously knew her. He resembled Jeremy closely and sounded exactly like him, but she could now clearly see he wasn’t.

This man’s build was stockier and his features were rougher. He was handsome, but without the feline grace that characterised Jeremy.

Brett pulled a penknife from his pocket and sliced easily through the plastic tie wraps binding Martin’s wrists.

“Hey, don’t untie him! What if he wakes up?”

Brett glanced up, a smile hovering as he pocketed his knife once more. “What happened to him, Freya? Do you know why he’s unconscious?” He pulled Freya’s sweater carefully away from Martin’s head, found the gash and paused.

“I couldn’t lift him. I reversed up so he would come out the back. I was gonna roll him through the field.”

There was a moment of silence between them and then Brett burst out laughing. It puzzled Freya even as it broke the ice. “You shot him out the back of the van? My God, Freya, what were you thinking?” He suddenly stopped laughing as a look of incredulity crossed his face.

“This is Martin, isn’t it? I always wondered how you got him through the field, and how you knew who I was when I had never met you before. Now I guess I know.”

He stood up, wiped his muddy hand on his jeans and held it out. “Hi, I’m Brett Sanders, Jeremy’s older brother. Well, one of them. I know you because we have been friends for a while now. This time travel stuff is fun isn’t it?”

Freya choked out a laugh and took his hand rather limply. She tried to get her brain to function but it was having none of it.

Brett pulled her toward him and hugged her close for a moment, not seeming to notice her wet, muddy clothes. “It’s good to see you again. I’m glad I got the timing slightly out.” He then crouched down and lifted Martin in his arms as though he were holding a child.

Freya looked on somewhat enviously and Brett grinned at her, “You’re gonna have to work out some more if you want to make a habit of this sort of thing. Grab some more tie wraps and that jumper of yours for his head. Try to keep the mud off it. Jeremy’s gonna think you’ve got magic wonder woman bracelets for lifting Martin through that field.”

“You’re going to carry him for me, why? I mean, I am glad you’re helping me, but shouldn’t we take him to the hospital or something? He’s been unconscious for ages now. It can’t be good.”

“Don’t worry, Freya. Martin will be fine; Jeremy will take him to the A & E later on for his concussion. I’m helping you out because not only are you my friend, and that’s what friends do, but it’s fun to keep my little brother on his toes.” He paused while Freya scrambled in the back of the van for more tie wraps, and then continued, “Besides, I need to borrow your van for a bit.”