TimeBomb: The TimeBomb Trilogy: Book 1 (2 page)

He was miles from the nearest town, in open countryside. He could see a copse of trees on the other side of the field, a dark interruption in a horizon which stretched away as far as the eye could see; undulations of ploughed fields and pasture.

He had hoped that by now he would see the welcoming orange glow of a small town or village, but there was nothing; if there was a town nearby, the clear skies and full moon were swamping its light pollution and keeping its location a secret.

Sighing, he decided that the copse offered his best chance of shelter. He trudged across the field, avoiding the sleeping cows. At least he was wearing the new Gore-Tex boots his father had bought for him before their fight, so his feet were warm and dry. Unlike the rest of him.

This was not the adventure he had been hoping for when he’d run away from home.

Not for the first time he replayed the afternoon’s events in his head, questioning his actions, wishing that just this once he’d managed to keep his cool and not shoot his mouth off. But even as he chided himself for his temper he found his pulse quickening and the sense of injustice and anger rising inside him again.

It wasn’t fair. He’d worked hard in the orchards all day, every day. He’d allowed himself to be exploited and abused, and had never complained about the hours, the accommodation, the flea-ridden mattress and the harsh, cheap vodka. To then find that his wages were docked to pay for the food he was given, food not fit to serve to pigs and which could only have cost a fraction of what the farmer was taking from his pay packet to cover it … it was too much for him to bear.

A week’s worth of beaten-down resentment, simmering anger and carefully nurtured scorn had burst out of him in a furious tirade directed at his employer. The farmer had shrugged and smiled the condescending smile of someone confronted by a powerless underling. It was that smug grin that had finally pushed Kaz too far.

He wouldn’t deny that he’d enjoyed holding the farmer down in the mud and forcing the pigswill down his throat, but he had to admit that it wasn’t the best choice he’d ever made. He’d been run off the farm at the barrel of a shotgun.

Now here he was, far from home, nowhere to sleep, no money in his pocket, and no passport; that had been confiscated by the farmer when he’d arrived in Cornwall ten days ago.

It was fake anyway. His father had the real one in safekeeping. The man who’d organised the whole thing, a minor gangster in the small Polish town Kaz called home, had provided him with a new identity to get him into the UK. It would have taken three months’ work to pay off that debt.

He stopped walking as a terrible thought occurred to him. The gangster would reclaim that money somehow. If he stayed on the run, there was a good chance he would go after his father, adding whatever rate of interest he chose.

Kaz cursed his own selfishess as he realised that it wasn’t just himself that he’d let down. As angry as he was with his father, he didn’t wish him any harm. But what could he do about it now? He dismissed the thought. He’d worry about that tomorrow.

He jogged to the edge of the trees, trying to get his blood pumping. An English boy might have worried about spending the night outside in such weather, but Kaz had spent many winters in parts of the world where the temperature regularly sat below zero for months at a time. He was unconcerned by the idea of a slight frost.

As soon as he walked under the canopy of the trees, he noticed the copse was not what it seemed. Once through the first layer of trees he found himself in the ruins of a formal garden. In the shadows he could just make out the ghostly impressions of old walkways winding between wildly overgrown hedges which loomed over him in the darkness. A crumbling stone statue stood forlorn in the basin of a long-dry fountain, wreathed in ivy. And rising above it all, the three turrets of an old mansion.

Kaz pushed through the thick undergrowth until he saw a glint of metal in the darkness ahead. He stepped forward cautiously and was confronted by a tall chain-link fence that weaved in between the brambly hedges.

He peered through the fence and was able to make out the silhouette of the house beyond the perimeter. It was huge and old, but it appeared derelict. Had it not been for the shiny new fence he’d have thought the house long forgotten.

Nonetheless, an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere was too big a stroke of good fortune to ignore. He was about to start climbing the fence when he noticed a gap at ground level where the wire had broken apart. He could fit through there, easy.

Had he not been so cold, tired and preoccupied by his earlier actions, he might have paused to wonder why a brand-new fence had a hole in it; he might have examined the hole more closely and noticed that the links had been cut deliberately; he might have wondered whether the hole was in fact an invitation, or a trap.

But he didn’t.

He slithered through the opening and approached the moonlit house thinking only of dryness and sleep.

The man in the security centre nudged the joystick, guiding the CCTV camera to follow the boy’s progress towards the building.

He’d been sat in the Portakabin for months waiting for the boy to arrive, and he almost couldn’t believe the moment was finally here. He felt a rush of adrenaline and shifted nervously in his seat. He’d waited a long time for this.

The boy had no idea at all what was waiting for him inside those walls. The security guard did, and felt sorry for him. He knew what it meant, what it would cost, and who would die if he let the boy set foot in that house.

He could still change his mind. He could pick up his torch and run out after the boy, scare him away. Or, perhaps, give him shelter, share a cup of coffee, send him on his way at dawn. He could do that. He could change everything.

He sat back in his chair and took another sip of tea. No, it was too late to second-guess himself now, way too late. He’d made his decision, he had to abide by it.

He watched on the monitor as the boy stepped across the threshold of the great house and was swallowed by the waiting darkness.

Dora cracked open the heavy oak kitchen door, poked her head out into the stone-flagged, wood-panelled corridor, and listened intently.

The silence was absolute. Again she doubted her ears, but as she was about to withdraw she heard a soft rustle of fabric and a low moan. It was hard to be sure, but it sounded like a woman.

She felt a thrill of fear.

In the village they spoke of Lord Sweetclover in deferential tones of respect. No one had a bad word to say about him. He was good-natured, front and centre at all the big festivals of the year, everything a lord of the manor should be. True, there had been some concern when his father died a few years back, rumours that the young master was wayward and wanton, but he had assumed the role without complaint and had done nothing to bring disgrace to the district.

But here in the house there were whisperings amongst the staff. No one knew Dora well enough yet to confide any details to her, but there’d been enough knowing winks and slow, meaningful nods of the head from the stable boy, gardener and kitchen maid. She was aware of an undercurrent of disapproval and caution. The master, she had surmised, was not as lily white as everyone believed; he had just decided to be more discreet once he had assumed the title and its responsibilities.

She had seen him only twice, when she’d taken platters into the dining room. He was a tall man in his mid-thirties, dark haired with a hint of grey at the temples; heavy browed, with deep brown eyes and a fine, square jaw. Somehow all the fine features, which should have rendered him rakish and handsome, failed to fit together as they should. The impression he gave was of solidity rather than panache.

Still, he was unmarried and Dora, unworldly though she was, was not entirely naïve. She had little doubt that he rarely took to his bedchamber alone unless he desired the solitude. Dora thought it likely that he took liberties with the kitchen maid, probably Mary, the coach master’s daughter, and possibly even Cook.

However, he did not flaunt his conquests, and nobody seemed to find his behaviour outrageous enough to require their departure. He was lord of the manor, and rank had its privileges.

Now here stood Dora, in a dark corridor lit only by the candle she held, hearing the moans of what sounded like a woman in pain emanating from the open door of the undercroft.

Her every instinct was to close the door and go back to the baking. This was not her business and it could only lead to trouble. Imagine her parents’ disappointment and shame if she were sent back to the village in disgrace, dismissed for prying into the affairs of her betters.

On the other hand, they would not want her to stay in a house serving a master who might place Dora’s virtue, or even her life, in danger. She held the lowest position within the household. If the master were to take a fancy to her and drag her down into his undercroft to share the fate of the poor woman whose moans now disturbed the silence of the house, she would be powerless to stop him.

She had to find out. It was probably her imagination running away with her, but it had never so much as strolled before so she was quite surprised to find it running, especially at this ungodly hour.

Maybe Cook had got up early, gone down there for some wine and slipped on the stairs.

That was it. Only explanation that made any sense.

Satisfied that she had hit upon the truth, Dora stepped confidently through the undercroft door and peered down the steps.

And screamed.

The security guard was suddenly aware that he was not alone. A tiny creak, the softest of rustling, a gentle shift in the lean of the Portakabin.

‘Hello,’ said a soft voice in his ear. ‘I wondered how you were going to do this.’

The security guard swivelled in his chair. The figure before him was short and slender, clothed entirely in black, even the head and face. Only a small slit allowed him to see his visitor’s eyes. The handle of a sword poked up behind their shoulder. Ninja-chic.

‘I applied for a job,’ he said. ‘Seemed the best way. Keep a low profile. Hacked the system, got myself posted here. Sat and waited. It’s been fun, if I’m honest. I’ve actually lived in one time and place for three months. No one hunting me. I lived a normal life for a while. Followed a soap opera. Even dated a bit.’ He slapped his thigh, as if providing a full stop. ‘Over now, though. He’s here. It’s starting.’ He considered the black-clad figure curiously. ‘Surprised to see you. Checking up on me?’

‘Just passing through. Making sure things go as they should.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said the security guard with a small laugh. ‘You’re my back-up.’

‘Something like that.’

The shadowy figure leaned forward to read the security guard’s name badge. ‘Steve. Hmm.’

‘What?’

‘I never took you for a Steve.’

The visitor turned to the screens. Kaz was visible on one of them, picking his way through the overgrown garden to the hall. ‘So. Everybody’s on their way.’

‘He tripped a pressure alarm about five minutes ago,’ said Steve. ‘A team’s already en route.’

‘I’ll get out of your hair, then. Good luck.’ The black-clad visitor stepped out of the Portakabin and was swallowed by the night.

‘You too,’ said Steve, more to himself than to his already departed guest.

Then he put the kettle on, made another cup of tea, took a sip, thought again, tipped it out the door onto the soft earth, pulled a small flask out of his jacket pocket, poured a large measure of whiskey into the paper cup, drank it in one, then poured another and resumed his seat, ready to watch the fireworks.

Jana was expecting a bone-shattering impact and a long silence. Instead, a second or two into her fall, she felt a tug upwards. Her first thought was that it was a freak gust of wind momentarily slowing her descent, but the tug increased. It felt as if the gravity that pulled her down was fighting an opposite force that wanted to pull her skywards.

She opened her eyes and gasped. She was hovering in mid-air, surrounded by a halo of coruscating bright red sparks, like some kind of human firework.

Instinctively Jana activated her ENL chip, intending to scan the quantum physics database for anything that could explain the impossible phenomenon that hovered above her. The chip at the base of her skull responded with a treatise on eating habits during the English Civil War of the seventeenth century.

Jana was so surprised by this that it took her a moment to realise that the world around her was darkening, as if a huge cloud was blocking out the sun.

She hadn’t made a sound as she’d fallen to certain death, but she screamed in terror as the darkness deepened and she felt her body being crushed by forces too strong to resist. She only stopped screaming when blackness entirely filled her sight, blotting out the sky, and then …

She was lying on a hill, cool grass in the crisp morning air. Bright blue sky, birdsong, the buzz of insects. She heard a noise above her so she sat up and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Squinting, she could see a plane – no, a missile, a huge missile – arcing down from heaven, trailing fire and smoke, screaming towards the Earth and then …

Hot, bright sun, sound of surf, dry air in her nose, sand underfoot, the eyes of a lizard regarding her with listless, heat-sated lethargy. It flicked out its tongue at her. Unsure what to do, she flicked her tongue out in response and then …

In a crowd, jostled and shoved by hot sweaty bodies. Smell of stale beer and cigarettes. Loud noise, almost deafening, screech of electric guitar, flash of coloured lights, big screens above her displaying a man in a gold lamé suit smoking a cigar and wearing red plastic devil horns, and then …

A clean white room, sterile and silent but for the soft hum of air conditioning and electric lights. A door flung open and a tall, fat man in a white lab coat running towards her, shouting, ‘Take my hand, quickly, take my hand.’ Reaching out to the man and then …

A street. Ruined buildings to her left and right, sound of gunfire and explosions. Impossible butterscotch sky. A tank, hovering above the rubble, floating towards her through the smoke. A hand on her shoulder, turning to face … herself, with a gash across her forehead and blood in her eyes. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she told herself. ‘I can’t tell you how or why, but you’ll be all right. I promise. Oh, and—’ Then …