The Trouble With Time (12 page)

“No problem. I’ll take you home.” Jace leant back against a tombstone and focused on the screen. “23rd July 2015, 6.15 pm, London. This it?”

“Must be.”
And it took him all of five seconds to find it
.

“I’ll set it five minutes later.”

“Make it one minute in case my bike gets stolen.”

“Hold on.” Floss gripped his belt and shut her eyes. He held her waist and pressed the two buttons. Nothing happened. She opened her eyes. Jace swore softly and pressed the buttons again. She noticed beads of sweat on his forehead, which was not reassuring. He turned the TiTrav off and waited ten seconds, pressed the reset, and turned it on again. Floss prayed. Nothing. Jace tried once more, leaving it off for longer. A light drizzle began to fall; the sky darkened. Nothing happened.

Bitter disappointment turned to impotent rage. The beastly thing wasn’t going to work. Trembling with frustration and fear, she said on a rising note, “Suppose it never works again? We’ll be stuck here forever! When we could have been in
my London
– I could be back there now, in my flat! And it’s
your stupid fault!
All you had to do was pick that instead of this. Haven’t you spent enough time here already? I can’t
believe
you did this!”

Jace didn’t answer. He slumped against the headstone and shut his eyes. Floss let go of his belt and stared at him hopelessly. Her hand felt wet. She looked down and saw it was covered in blood. She gazed, horrified. “Jace! You’re bleeding. Where are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His hand went to his side and he swayed. “She shot me.”

Dear God
. It was her fault. If only she hadn’t thought of their phones at the last minute and delayed their getaway by those few seconds . . . if only they were in 2015, with hospitals and doctors a 999 call away. Floss held his wrist and pressed the two buttons, but the TiTrav was still not working.

She put his arm over her shoulder. First she had to get him out of the rain. “Can you make it to your house?” Jace leaned his weight on her, breathing heavily. They set off, stumbling over the rough grass, Floss trying to encourage him. “You’re doing fine, keep going, nearly there . . .”

Without warning his legs gave way; unable to support his full weight, she lowered him to the ground. He groaned and his eyes closed. She undid his waistcoat. The shirt below was more scarlet than white. Pulling it up, she saw blood welling out of a hole in his side.
Oh God, he’s going to die
. Desperately, she racked her brain for the little she knew of first aid. Keep him warm, stop the bleeding. She shrugged out of her coat and tucked it round him. She pulled off her sweater, folded it and pressed it against the bullet hole. There’d be an exit wound beneath him which she couldn’t reach. The rain fell faster. She felt terribly, appallingly out of her depth. Jace’s skin was pallid, his breathing ragged. His eyes opened briefly and closed again.

“Keep talking to me, Jace. You’ll be okay.” He had to be. She couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t.

“She meant to hit my arm. It was bright out there . . . darker inside, she couldn’t see . . .” He fumbled with the TiTrav. After a moment it came off and he gave it to Floss. “I didn’t change the password . . . 1234 . . . 56. Ryker . . . said it might play up . . . basically all right . . .” His breath was coming in long rasping gasps. She didn’t know what to do.

“Does it hurt?”

He gave her a wry smile.

She smiled tremulously back. “Stupid question. Can I get you anything? Water . . .”

“Don’t go,” he said. “Hold my hand.”

She gripped his hand in hers. It felt cold. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry . . .” His dark eyes locked on hers, then his gaze drifted off. His eyes closed. The ragged breathing slowed and ceased.

“Jace!” Her eyes filled with tears and she began to sob. A great and terrible grief welled up inside her. “Jace . . .”

Floss knew he was dead, but dragged him to his house anyway, slipping and stumbling and weeping. She couldn’t leave him out in the rain. When she had heaved him over the step and inside, she wasn’t strong enough to lift him on to the bed, so she laid him on the floor and put the stained duvet over him and her sweater under his head. The wound wasn’t bleeding any more. She sat beside him in the gathering dusk, hoping for a miracle; that his eyes would open and he’d be all right. She watched him, knowing this was not going to happen.

Her thoughts went to Ryker, who’d been seen by the Time Police in company with illegal time travellers. He faced a minimum fifteen years’ jail. She thought of her mother, who wouldn’t see her again or know what had happened to her if the TiTrav didn’t work; and of herself, maybe destined to live out the rest of her life the way Jace had been when she first met him.

When it got too dark to distinguish Jace’s features, she reached out and touched his face. His flesh felt unnaturally cold and stiff. Floss got up and sat at the table, staring out of the window at the blackness, listening to the rain beating on the roof.

Wednesday, 8
^th
November, 2045

While the internal enquiry under Sir Richard Burbank rambled on, Quinn gave evidence along with the rest of his team and bided his time. Ryker was cross-examined but, predictably, failed to either provide any useful information or incriminate himself. Eventually Sir Richard concluded that all the evidence pointed to Carnady’s guilt, and no further investigation would be made on this score. Though tracking down the miscreant and finding the device remained an IEMA priority, in the absence of any leads at all, gradually the dust settled over the sensational disappearance of Jace and the TiTrav.

Three months after the enquiry, Quinn began time travelling discreetly to his apartment in the near future, where he printed out lists of stocks and shares prices. Armed with this information, he was able to make unerring investments – along with minor failures to allay suspicion. But, satisfactory as he found his growing fortune, this was dull stuff. Soon, he judged, he could begin to experience at first hand the most intriguing periods of history.

His first choice was the Colosseum, to see the shows that had held fifty thousand people in thrall. He would go the year it opened, 80 AD.

He planned the trip with care. To the surprise of his wife, he threw a fancy dress party, thus giving him the excuse he needed to obtain a Roman nobleman’s costume. He hired one from the National Theatre, whose wardrobe mistress assured him the designer was renowned for getting every last historical detail correct. And indeed, the plain white wool toga looked authentic enough when he tried it on in his clandestine Clerkenwell pied-à-terre before taking it home. He turned this way and that in front of the mirror. It suited him. At the party Kayla, becomingly attired as Nell Gwyn, said he looked the epitome of gravitas, and offered him an orange.

Quinn’s plan was to arrive at the Colosseum as people were going in, and blend unnoticed with the crowd. He knew that the classes were segregated, from nobles seated in the bottom two tiers nearest the action, to women and slaves right at the top. According to his research, entry was free but a ticket in the form of a clay disc was required. These tesserae had a seat number stamped on, and were distributed in advance. However, some things were a constant; where tickets existed, so did ticket touts. He took some carefully chosen items in a leather satchel to barter – disposable lighters, glass marbles, magnifying glasses, small jars of spices, pads of paper, pens and a few wind-up toys.

The trip started well. When he arrived just outside the building, at first he only had eyes for its magnificence. He could not help smiling with delight as he stood, eyes narrowed against the brilliant sunshine, and gazed upwards at a sight unseen for two thousand years. The white travertine stone cladding dazzled. Of course, he’d visited Rome in his own time and viewed the ancient ruins, but the Colosseum in its pristine state was something else. Huge, superb, embodying the might of Rome. Just for this, it had been worth the trouble of obtaining the TiTrav.

After a moment he looked about him. He was in an area lined with market stalls selling food, drinks and knick-knacks, all of which he could see clearly because of the total absence of milling crowds. Apart from the stallholders, beggars, a few bored soldiers a hundred yards away, and a dog scratching itself in the sun, the place was deserted. Thunderous roars from inside told him the show had already started.

Not a problem – he would reset the TiTrav to take him back half an hour. He had lifted his wrist to set the time when a feeling of being watched made him look up. The stallholders were staring at him and muttering in little groups. Perhaps they had noticed him materialize. Probably not the best idea to disappear while they watched; the last thing he wanted was to cause a stir, given that he planned on spending a few hours there. A man wearing a short belted woollen tunic detached himself from the huddle, approached and said something incomprehensible.

Quinn dropped his arm to his side and said, in his public school Latin, “Greetings. Can you tell me where I might purchase a ticket for the games?”

The man frowned and gabbled something else, a question.

Quinn said slowly and clearly, “I am a stranger here. Perhaps you can tell me how to obtain a ticket? I have valuable goods to barter.”

More men had arrived, short sunburned men smelling of sweat and garlic and fish. They gathered around him, pointing at his sandals and toga and fingering the fabric – the seams fascinated them – making comments he did not understand. The TiTrav came in for some attention, too, and he tried to keep his left arm by his side so the screen was out of sight. One man held out a broad-brimmed hat he seemed to think Quinn should buy. They seemed amiable enough, just very interested.

Quinn felt a sudden urge to impress these simple folk. He delved in his bag, got out a disposable lighter, and flicked it on. The men all started back with murmurs of astonishment, then pressed closer. He handed the lighter to the first man.

“A gift from the future.” He spoke in English, momentarily giving up on Latin. The man tried and failed to make the lighter work; Quinn demonstrated and handed it back. The man produced a flame, gave a gap-toothed grin, and raised his eyebrows, pointing to himself.

Quinn smiled benignly. Back to Latin. “Yes, the fire maker is yours, you may keep it.”

The man bowed, and left quickly with his loot. The others, though, remained, looking expectant. Perhaps the gift had been a mistake. Quinn found himself hemmed in, unable to move. He said firmly, “It has been delightful meeting you all, but now you must excuse me.” When this had no effect and they still stood there, plucking at his garments, he looked grave and said, “I really must go, I am missing the entertainment. Unless you are able to help me with the purchase of a ticket, please return to your stalls. I am sure you have work to do.”

A red-bearded man seemed to take this amiss. He addressed the group, gesticulating as he did so. Quinn could only make out a couple of words,
nobile genere
, but the gist was unmistakable; the man was mocking the way he talked, his toga, his sandals. Now he was crudely mimicking Quinn: strutting around, speaking in a superior, patronizing way. His fellows grinned. The mood of the group changed subtly, became less friendly. One or two of them cast glances towards the soldiers.

Resolutely, Quinn turned on his heel, but they tagged along, surrounding him, jabbering in their incomprehensible patois. He stood still and crossed his hands then moved them apart decisively, miming
enough
, and walked with determination towards the nearest arch, hoping the men would lose interest. Someone inside the Colosseum would tell him where he could buy a ticket. However, the men stuck with him. They had time on their hands and nothing better to do.

From inside the amphitheatre the crowd was bellowing like a monstrous animal, baying for blood. It irked him to be missing the show. Stepping through the archway into cool shade, he found himself in a spacious corridor curving out of sight left and right. Ahead were steep stairs. It was deserted. His companions became bolder and rougher, jostling him and tugging at his bag. He realized that they were now out of view of the soldiers, and perhaps coming inside had been a mistake. He gripped his bag. Someone seized his left arm in strong fingers and turned his wrist to show the TiTrav’s screen, poking at it like a chimp with a stolen dataphone, exclaiming at the changing display. This was too much and without thinking, he lashed out. Quinn had little experience of hitting people, but this time he got lucky – or unlucky. He felt the bone crunch as the punch connected with the man’s nose. Blood poured out.

With that blow a line had been crossed.

For a moment all was still. No one was smiling any more. Then knives appeared in their hands like a jagged row of shark’s teeth. For the first time in his successful and confident life, Quinn felt seriously frightened. Red-Beard pushed him hard against the wall with his hand, scowling. He hawked and spat, then thrust his knife at the top of Quinn’s chest, stabbing through the cloth and lightly piercing his skin. He moved the knife lower and did it again, then again, staring into Quinn’s eyes, hissing something unmistakably menacing, speaking slowly and emphasizing each syllable, so for the first time Quinn was able to distinguish some of the words – the rest he could guess. The pain was shocking.

He dropped the bag, fumbled for the TiTrav and pressed the two buttons.

The National Theatre did not refund his deposit on the toga. He had to be careful not to let his wife and Kayla see the cuts on his chest until they had healed. But that was the least of it; the experience gave him an unshakeable aversion for trips to the past.

In spite of this, he made a couple of further forays, neither of which re-ignited his enthusiasm. The Titanic had at first seemed rewarding. Its doomed splendour, the indefinable texture and flavour of a bygone age, enchanted him. He wandered around the vast first class areas, and mingled successfully with passengers in the Verandah Café. But after less than an hour a suspicious purser started to hound him and ask awkward questions in front of the people he’d been chatting to and, humiliated, he’d had to leave.