Temporal Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  “But what about my friend?”

  “Well I’m afraid he’s going to have to be a little patient like the rest of us.”

  Carl Taylor shook his head in disbelief, but his father was adamant. “Son, I’m sorry to have to do this but we can’t have a bunch of folk running around pretending to be us...”

  “But they are us!”

  “Son!” Frank placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “This is for the best, believe me.”

  He turned away from his son and picked up the doll’s house. His wife opened the basement door for him and he carried the house down the stairs. Carefully, he placed it in a wooden crate that had previously contained some old junk. He then replaced the lid and nailed it shut.

  As he rose from his crouched position, he looked around the basement. It was full of what could only be described as rubbish. What the hell did Tim Shepard do for a living? He would find out in due course, once he’d been through all of the bills, photographs and any other documents that he could find that would help his family settle into their new lives.

  He climbed the steps and as he shut the basement door, he locked it securely behind him.

  No Time for Goodbye

  By Shirley Blane

  It was nearly time to say a final goodbye to life. The clock in the hall struck three, telling me there were less than two hours left. I have to disagree with Douglas Adams. The answer to life, the universe and everything isn’t the number forty-two. It’s timing. Timing provides the balance to our world, the key to our fate.

  Just think about it. If the Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s driver had chosen a different route in Sarajevo in 1914, there would have been no excuse to start the First World War.

  If Kennedy’s driver had put his foot on the accelerator as they passed through Dealey Plaza, there would have been no death in Dallas that November day.

  And if I had not chosen that moment to enter the swing door of the Dorchester Hotel one Wednesday afternoon, Ellen and I might never have met. I glimpsed swinging blonde hair and bright lipstick as I pushed the door and accidentally knocked her over.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, leaning down to catch her elbow and help her up.

  She brushed herself down and looked at me with annoyance.

  “You could have looked first. The door scraped my heel, these shoes are ruined.”

  I picked up her handbag and shopping.

  “My mind was elsewhere, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about your shoes. I’ll pay for another pair.”

  “Don’t bother.” The reply was curt. She grabbed her bags and moved to go through the door.

  “At least let me buy you a drink to apologise.”

  “At four o’clock in the afternoon?” The tone was disparaging.

  “Well, tea, then. It’s the least I can do.”

  She looked outside at the wet and windy afternoon and sighed.

  “Oh, very well,” she said reluctantly. “I have some time before my train.”

  It took an hour, but eventually she thawed out and I managed to make her laugh. She checked her watch and I knew I didn’t want her to leave.

  “Look,” I said, “why not catch a later train and have an early dinner with me? There’s a little restaurant ‘round the corner where they know me. I’m sure I could get a table.”

  She pursed her lips, shook her head, but then changed her mind and smiled. Her glorious smile. I fell in love with her then and there.

  “Okay. You’ve convinced me.”

  “And we’ll have a glass of champagne here before we go.” I wouldn’t take no for an answer this time.

  That was how it started. Within six months we were living together. I was besotted and deliriously happy. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

  But then fate and timing changed the course of our relationship. Her boss got pregnant and Ellen was promoted. It meant she had to travel, stay away overnight. I hated those nights when we were apart. The flat was so empty without her. Meals for one were miserable non-events. I found I was drinking more when alone. Did she miss me in the same way? It seemed not. The telephone calls were brief and few.

  “I’m sorry, darling, I must go. Having dinner with a client. Phone you tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you going to phone me to say goodnight?” I hated how needy I sounded.

  “Sweetheart,” she laughed. “It will be late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. ‘Bye.”

  Of course, she was all smiles and glad to see me on her return. I’d cook something special. She didn’t want to go out to eat, was tired of restaurant meals, she said, after eating in restaurants all the week. I wasn’t the world’s best cook, but I tried. And she never complained. Whilst I cooked, she’d drink a glass of wine and tell me about her clients, the deals she had done. She loved her job and I was proud of her achievements.

  My own job was pretty mundane, although it paid well. Even so, Ellen’s income was rivalling mine now. We were doing pretty well financially as a couple and talked about buying a flat, rather than renting. We started to look at property on the internet.

  And then fate and timing threw another little jolt into our smooth running lifestyle. My company was downsizing, they told the workforce. I was given the option of taking redundancy. I had been there for years, so it was an enticing package. The lump sum would provide a deposit and I could start to work for myself, something I’d long had a yen to do.

  Of course, more time at home meant I missed Ellen even more during the week. One wet morning, when I was bored and fed up with making cold calls to try to find clients for my new consultancy, I checked Ellen’s diary to see where she was. She kept a copy on our computer. She was only in Bristol, I saw. Three nights at The Grand. Her company was very good with expenses and expected their senior staff to portray the company’s image in the right way.

  I had an urge to surprise her. I could drive down in less than three hours. If she was dining with clients, I’d eat at the hotel and afterwards we could spend the night together.

  I showered and changed, excited at the thought of spending the night with her. I was looking forward to the drive down, too. The car didn’t get used enough and once I was out of London I could open it up and enjoy the freedom of the motorway. Or so I thought.

  Traffic was at a near standstill all the way to Heathrow and I was itching to find some open road and put my foot down. Of course, my motto came back to slap me in the face. Timing is everything. If only I had left half an hour before. Sally Traffic told me the bad news.

  “Roger the Dodger has phoned in to say that there has been an accident on the west-bound carriageway of the M4 just before the Maidenhead turning,” her cheerful voice poured from my radio. “Queues back to the M25 and growing. You might be advised to take a different route. More later.”

  I sat it out. Listened to the radio. Watched the wipers swishing back and forth. Thought about Ellen and how surprised she would be to see me. Two hours later, the motorway cleared and I was at last able to make some headway. I finally reached the outskirts of Bristol at four o’clock. Rush hour. Got to her hotel at five-thirty, after twice losing my way in the centre of the city.

  I pulled up outside The Grand, looking for the sign that said ‘car park’. A taxi stopped in front of me and Ellen emerged. I was just about to toot the horn, when a tall, good looking man stepped out of the taxi after her. Oh, oh, client, I thought. Can’t intrude on her business meeting. They went up the steps to the hotel entrance, laughing.

  I spotted the car park sign and drove the car in. I would go and have a drink at the bar, wait a bit before asking for her room and if she was still meeting with the client, would have dinner alone and catch up with her later.

  I found the bar and a quiet corner. Timing is everything, right? I should have left, or phoned her room. Half an hour later, in came Ellen and client and they sat at the bar. They didn’t see me. Probably because they seemed to have eyes for no-one but each other. They clinked glasses, touched fingers, laugh
ed together intimately. Pain and shock kept me hidden in my dark corner. Disbelief held me paralysed.

  I could hear his voice from time to time, over Ellen’s quiet murmur. Sounded like an accent. Was it French? What company was he from?

  I sat them out and sat stunned after they had left, hand in hand. What to do? I must give her the benefit of the doubt. There must be an explanation. But if there was, I couldn’t think of one. My heart was hurting, my head was aching, my eyes were watering. Coming down with flu, I thought. Ought to be at home. I staggered from the bar and left the hotel. Found my car and drove out of the city. Retraced my route to London as if in a dream. My car found its own way home. I couldn’t have told you where I was.

  I had a sleepless night. She phoned in the morning as she usually did.

  “Morning, darling. How are you?” Her voice was so cheerful, it sent splinters of pain through my heart.

  “Not so good,” I managed, hoarsely. “I think I’m coming down with flu.”

  “Poor dear.” She actually laughed! How cruel was that? “Man flu is always the worst. Stay in bed and keep warm. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Where are you staying?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “The Grand in Bristol. Bit of a dump, but looks good for the clients. Be here tonight and then leave about mid-afternoon tomorrow, with a bit of luck. If the motorway is clear, I’ll be with you by seven at the latest. Must go, darling. Work calls. Love you.”

  I put the phone down carefully. How much did I really know about her work and her so-called clients? It was time to find out. I checked her diary first. One meeting for today, at ten o’clock. So why the need to stay down there overnight?

  Then I checked her phone bills. Not our home phone, of course, but her mobile. She paid it and claimed it back from the company. The details were all on-line. It was hard to hide anything nowadays with modern technology. One number showed up repeatedly. Well, three, actually. One was our home number. The other two were used even more regularly.

  I recognised one. Her office. I rang the other.

  “Pierre Duval,” a deep voice answered. A voice I recognised from the previous evening.

  “Sorry, wrong number,” I said and replaced the phone.

  I checked her phone bills for the last three months, then four months, then five. The same number showed up. She phoned him nearly every day, sometimes more than once. More often than she phoned me. Sometimes the calls were brief, sometimes twenty minutes or more. Jealously, I reflected that she had never talked to me for that length of time when she was away.

  I couldn’t deny what was staring me in the face. Ellen was seeing someone else. Had been doing so since just after we had started living together.

  I sat for hours, incapable of doing anything, slouched in my chair in front of the computer. She was my life. Everything I lived for. I couldn’t imagine life without her. My life had changed so much since our first meeting that I couldn’t begin to think of an existence as a single man again.

  But perhaps this Duval guy was married. Perhaps she would stay with me. I shook my head and sighed. How could I keep up a pretence, embrace her, make love to her, knowing she had just come from the arms and bed of another man?

  How could I live from day to day, wondering if she was with him, wondering if one day she would leave and never return? I couldn’t. I knew that much.

  And now, here I sit, listening to the calming tick of the clock in the hall. Only another hour now before the end of the life I have known.

  At a quarter to five, I switched on the radio. Ellen would be driving home from Bristol. I listened for the report from Sally Traffic.

  “The M4 is closed from the M32 eastwards. Apparently the police are dealing with an incident. There is already a long tailback and I urge you to take another route if you are coming out of Bristol on the M32 or travelling east from the M5.”

  I waited for the news. The newscaster had ‘the incident’ as the first item.

  “We have reports of an explosion on the M4, east of Bristol. Police are at the scene and only one vehicle seems to be involved, although a number of vehicles have collided as a result. We will bring you more news on this as it becomes available.”

  I knew whose car it was. Timing is everything and I never get it wrong. I can’t afford to in my line of business. Oh, I didn’t mention my job earlier, did I? I specialise in timing devices for explosives. It was a simple job to drive back to Bristol last night and rig her car in the car park. I had the spare key. I didn’t bother to go into the hotel. Just turned around and drove home again.

  I sat and cried a little after that. After all, she was my life. I’m not looking forward to living without her and I curse fate, and the balance of timing, that can change our world in an instant.

  I am Downhill

  By Paul Murphy

  I gently slide myself forward using my ski poles. It’s dark in this cabin, but the blinding light flooding through the exit looms ahead. I check my helmet strap again for the umpteenth time; hey! I can’t help my little superstitions. Then a hand with a cloth appears in my vision and wipes my mirrored visor. I slide to a halt and I am in the sunlight, and it’s my turn to race for one final time. There is no wind and the sun sparkles off the snow like a myriad of scattered diamonds. I have to tell you, this is a feeling like nothing else on Earth, a high above all others. I place my poles either side of me, pushing them down firmly in front of the starting gate, and suck in the clean, crisp air. Ahead lies only blue sky and mountain peaks, which are poking through a thick layer of cotton wool clouds far below. I trace the first part of the course, the compacted snow, the piste, falls steeply, and I study the course from between the tips of my skis. It winds away, traversing the steep slopes of the mountain and disappears out of sight, appearing again thousands of feet below where the clouds will soon greet me. Within a minute of starting, I will be amongst those clouds, at breakneck speed, and my only thought will be to go faster. This is a crazy sport, for crazy people, and with all this beauty around us — the majesty of the Alps can only truly be appreciated with the naked eye — all we think about as we plummet down, is time. How fast can I fly down this mountain and cross the finish line?

  I must beat 1.55.

  That is the current winning time, and I must beat it. I am the last to go, the only remaining skier who can snatch glory. One minute and fifty-five seconds to ski down a mountain. The next two minutes of my life will define who I am, for one final time.

  1.54 will do, I’m not fussy.

  A hand taps my back, a warning that the buzzer is about to sound, and I concentrate on my start. The course drops in a straight line and then veers to the right, before a sharp turn to the left. This is it, the culmination of everything, when beautiful vistas and crisp air mean nothing. This is the time, the time when every second counts if you want to be the best. It all comes down to one moment and my time is now. Fear is not an option, time is everything and speed will be my weapon if I am to win. And I want to win, I want to win so badly it hurts. This is my last race, my last chance. I have to hurtle down this mountain, reaching speeds of over one hundred miles per hour, if I want the title of Downhill Champion. I breathe out slowly, my breath misting in the frozen air and clouding in front of me.

  I am downhill, I am downhill: this is my mantra and I repeat it over and over, waiting for the buzzer to sound, and my final race to begin. Come on, come on, I am downhill, I am...

  Beep.....Beep.....Beeeep.

  I slam my upper body forward, pushing as hard as I can on my poles and tipping myself over the edge. My whole body is in front of my boots and then I sweep forward, opening the small, wire starting gate with my shins. The clock has started, and time is everything. My whole world is now all about speed and time.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  I skate to gain more momentum, left, right, left, right, and then I tuck in, knees bent, leaning forward to gain maximum speed with minimum drag. I draw my hands up in front
of my face, with the moulded poles forced in to my sides by my elbows. I am now a sleek arrow, flying down the opening straight, hurtling towards the first bend. I pick my racing line, a neon guide only visible in my mind, and move slightly to my left so that I cut sharply across the shallow arc of the turn. I lean in to the mountain, almost touching it with my shoulder, with my legs at different lengths to keep the blades of my skis digging into the snow on the bend. The hiss of steel on ice cries out beneath me, as I force the slightly curved edges of the skis down to bite into the ice below the thin layer of snow which glides me around and down. The air is whistling past my head now, and I am descending at a velocity of eighty miles per hour and gaining speed rapidly.

  The next bend is on me before I have a chance to relax and I lift myself slightly upwards, so that I can whip my legs to the right and again dig the edges of the skis in. I am now leaning left, at an acute angle where only speed keeps me in an upright position. The pressure on my thighs is immense but I carve through the snow and keep compact.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  The seconds are mounting up as I come out of the turn and the course plummets away before me. I lean further forward, my arms tucked in front and my back bent. I am now a bullet, sleek and fast. The cloud is rushing at me now and a gentle curve, again to the left, awaits me. Beyond the curve, the course drops away even steeper and I must try to keep on the ground. If I go airborne, I will lose speed and even more vital seconds. The turn comes up and I sweep round. The roar of ice screams out behind me, and the hump is before me. I must compress my body, my knees acting as shock absorbers, dropping as much as possible to retain contact with the snow.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  I am on the hump where I try to drop with the gradient and push myself down. I am over and past the hump, and only air caresses the underside of my skis. I am flying down a mountainside at a pitch of seventy degrees. Everything is a blur to either side of my vision. I am travelling at one hundred miles per hour down the side of a mountain and I am a free spirit, truly alive. I am at terminal velocity, a missile. I am downhill.