He stumbled out of his bedroom to find the flat was even more trashed than when he’d left it. From the state of the carnage, it was obvious that word had got around — it was now open season on Josh’s place. Every thief and their second cousin had been around and helped themselves to anything that wasn’t nailed down. There were no taps in the bathroom, no carpet in the hall and the kitchen was lacking a sink. Some inspired genius had even started on the boiler, but had given up and taken the doors off all the cupboards instead. The boiler hung precariously away from the wall, supported only by the pipes, a fitting end to something that should have been condemned years ago.
Based on the smell, Josh decided it was wiser not to go into the toilet, and simply changed his clothes before going across to No. 52.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Bateman once her door was finally unlocked.
‘Hi, Mrs B. Can I borrow your loo? Mine’s been nicked.’
It took more than an hour to get away from Mrs B. She insisted he finish a full English breakfast and two rounds of toast before she would discuss any other business. She was a cross between a grandmother and a sergeant-major — kind, but with the ability to make you do exactly as you were told. There had been times when she had been more like a second mum — in the early days she would take care of him when his own mother was too ill or hospitalised, before they knew it was MS.
‘Now I’m not going to ask how you did this,’ she said, as she brought out the first-aid kit and began to bandage his arm. There was a knowing look in her eyes, ‘but I do want to talk about that medal you left with me the other day.’
Josh felt a cold chill run down his spine at the thought of having to explain how he came by it; Mrs B had a way of making him feel like a six-year-old. He’d never been able to lie to her, she seemed to see through every one of his excuses, and she was certainly never going to believe what really happened. He was having enough trouble with that himself.
The face of the general loomed large in his mind once more. Because of Josh, the assassination of Hitler had failed, and Stauffenberg had been shot, not to mention the many others who had died in the extra year that the war had lasted.
He stopped the thought before it went into overdrive — could he seriously be considering that he’d travelled back in time and changed the outcome of the Second World War?
‘When you get old,’ she began, interrupting his train of thought, ‘your memories are all that you have.’ There was a wistful tone to her voice, the kind that old people used when they reminisced about the ‘good old days’.
She finished dressing his arm and carefully pinned it in place.
‘The mementoes we’ve collected throughout our lives become part of us. They help us to remember our past; they connect us to our memories and remind us of those we have lost.’ She looked up at him. Her skin was deeply wrinkled, and her hair fine and thin, but behind those bright blue eyes he knew she had a mind as sharp as any twenty-year-old.
‘Now I’ve known you since you moved here, Joshua, and you’re not a bad lad, not like some I could mention. You still care about things, but you never consider the consequences of your actions. Young people don’t — you’ve always been a challenge for your poor mother.’
She was possibly the only person who could say this to him, and he would take it.
‘So,’ she said, producing the medal still wrapped in the newspaper. ‘In all that time there’s never been a mention of a great-grandfather, and especially not one that could have come by this. It was precious to someone once. It may be all they have left of the person that earned it. No matter how bad the trouble is that you are in, is it worth the cost of someone else’s happiness?’
He hated it when she got inside his head. She was like his conscience, a moral compass, the one person he could rely on to tell the truth — something that had otherwise been missing from his life. He assumed it was the role that one of his parents was supposed to play, to keep you on the straight and narrow, but since Mum was always sick and he’d never known his father, it was a hard thing to imagine. He wasn’t sure he was missing anything, really, because most of his friends’ dads seemed to be utter twats and more than half of his mates’ parents were divorced . . .
She was right, of course. He couldn’t admit to her that the crazy man whom he’d stolen it from probably hadn’t a clue that it was missing, but that wasn’t the point. He stole cars because they were easily replaced; taking other people’s treasured possessions wasn’t his style.
‘Put it back.’ She patted him on the hand. ‘There’s a good boy.’
That was when the thought struck him. Maybe he could keep her happy and still get something out of it.
The bandage would be a perfect excuse for his lateness, Josh thought, as he walked into Churchill Gardens. Bell couldn’t punish him any more than he already had, but at least he might score some sympathy for the burn, which he could see from under the wrapping had already begun to fade.
He wracked his memory for any more details of what had happened last night. He could have sworn there’d been a fight. He had a vague feeling that he’d punched the posh boy, Dalton, but it was all so fuzzy and muddled. There had been some kind of argument with Caitlin, which would explain why he hadn’t woken up in her bed this morning — what the hell had he drunk that had screwed up the evening so badly?
Something was already kicking off when he walked into the park. All the community-service crew were crowded round in a circle shouting at someone. Mr Bell was standing in the centre of them, talking to whoever was sitting on the ground.
As Josh approached, Mr Bell looked up and frantically beckoned him to come through. The circle parted to let Josh pass and he saw the crazy colonel sitting crossed-legged on the grass, rocking back and forth, hugging a large bag of gardening tools that included the machetes. He looked very upset.
‘Joshua, this gentleman says that you have stolen something of his and he refuses to move until we summon you.’ Mr Bell put air quotes around the word ‘summon’.
The colonel looked up through his tangle of wild hair and smiled at Josh with a flash of amazingly clean, white teeth.
‘Ah, the thief has finally surfaced!’ he said, standing up and handing the bag to one of the bystanders. ‘Thank you.’
Mr Bell managed to look both relieved and concerned at the fact that the crazy man had surrendered the bag of very sharp knives. Josh knew the supervisor was only thinking about the mountain of paperwork and inquiries that would result from this.
The colonel grabbed Josh by the arm and frog-marched him back towards the park gates. ‘You still have the medal?’ he hissed under his breath as they walked. ‘Eddy told me you tried to sell it to him.’
‘Ye-ah,’ Josh stuttered. The old man stank of sour beer and sweat — being so close to him was making Josh gag. ‘I was going to give it back.’
‘Of course you were,’ the old man said sarcastically. ‘Couldn’t shift it without provenance so you were going to try to sell it back to me no doubt.’ His voice was rough, as if he’d gargled with gravel.
‘But —’
‘But what? You think you’re the first light-fingered Johnny I’ve had in my house? In another age, they would have had your bloody hand off for this! Now, for the sake of our audience, try to look like you’re in a whole lot of trouble. Which, by the way, you are.’
Josh looked back to see the dumbfounded Mr Bell staring at them, his mouth flapping like a fish. The rest of the crew were laughing and pointing at Josh — clearly amused by the crazy man’s abduction.
‘Let go of me!’ demanded Josh, struggling to free himself from the iron grip.
‘I swear if you don’t play your part I’ll cut your nuts off and use them to stop that trap of yours from flapping. In twenty seconds your supervisor is going to think about calling the police, and young Delland hasn’t gone for the knife yet.’
They were already through the park gates and onto the street when Mr Bell had the sense to rea
ch for his mobile. He was on the verge of dialling 999 when one of the other lads sliced his hand open getting a machete out of the tool bag.
‘Brian Delland, where were you when they were handing out brains?’ Mr Bell said as he put the phone away and reached for the first-aid kit. The others were hooting with laughter as the blood sprayed out over anyone that got too close.
Once out of sight of the others, the colonel released Josh, or, to be more precise, dropped him. Josh was impressed by the strength of the old man; his feet hadn’t really touched the ground the whole way across the park.
‘Now,’ said the colonel as he walked towards his front door, ‘do you have the vestige?’
‘The what?’
‘The medal,’ the colonel growled.
Josh stopped and produced the newspaper bundle from his pocket.
‘Ah!’ The colonel shook his finger and lowered his voice once more. ‘On second thoughts — maybe not out in the open. Wait until we are inside the house.’ His head flicked nervously in all directions as if they were being followed. ‘You never know who might be watching.’
A minute later they were standing in the hall of the house, which still smelt as badly as it had before. The colonel took off his greatcoat and pulled out a notebook from one of the pockets. He checked his fob watch, which hung from a dirty, dark green waistcoat. ‘Eleven fifteen on the dot,’ he said, closing the book. ‘Now the medal, if you please.’
Josh unwrapped the parcel and offered the open package to the old man who produced a single, garish pink, rubber glove and proceeded to put it on while staring at the medal.
‘The Stauffenberg incident. Well, you’re nothing if not predictable. How much did Eddy tell you it was worth?’
‘Thirty grand.’
‘Ha. I don’t know who is the bigger thief!’ he muttered, picking up the golden cross by the ribbon. ‘I take it you checked with an expert?’
The colonel rummaged through one of the drawers in the Welsh dresser and took out an unusual magnifying glass that seemed to have numbers running over the glass.
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘Someone bought one for £200,000 a couple of years ago.’
The colonel nodded. ‘Good. You’re not as stupid as you look. Now, let me see, which variation does this hail from? Hmm. Fourth or maybe fifteenth variant.’
He muttered a stream of random numbers and probabilities as he consulted his notebook. Page after page of nonsensical symbols flickered in front of Josh’s nose, symbols that looked a lot like the ones on his hand. He pulled his sleeve down a little further.
‘Yes. Stauffenberg. Tried to kill Hitler in 11.944, sorry 1944. I sometimes forget the temporal context.’ He closed the notebook and placed the medal on the side, taking off his pink glove with a thwack.
‘He succeeded.’ Josh blurted. The colonel obviously knew his history so he thought that maybe the man might be able to help solve the mystery.
‘What?’ The colonel’s eyes narrowed.
‘The past has changed somehow. I was taught that Stauffenberg killed Hitler. The Second World War finished in 1944. But no one seems to remember that any more!’ Josh blurted it out quickly before he changed his mind, but it still sounded completely mental.
This disturbed the old man, who became very flustered and went off to rummage through a set of drawers, mumbling to himself about remembering where he put something.
He returned to Josh and held out a handful of old dice.
‘Throw these,’ he demanded, closing his fist and shaking them.
Josh took the dice and threw them onto the floor. They all came up sixes.
‘Six sixes,’ the colonel said as he gathered them back up. ‘One in 46,656.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Josh.
‘Highly unlikely,’ the colonel mumbled as he pulled out an old pack of playing cards. ‘Pick four cards at random.’
Josh did as he was told. They were all aces.
‘What are the chances of that?’ said Josh.
‘One in 265,825,’ replied the colonel. ‘You’re right — something is very definitely out of kilter.’
He consulted something in his notebook and then went to the large stacks of newspapers and began to rifle through them. They appeared to be in chronological order as the old man worked his way over the years, calling them out as he checked a random date from each.
‘Well, don’t just stand there! Look for 1944,’ he barked at Josh as he pulled the papers out.
Josh chose a yellowing edition of The Times dated 1812. Its headline read ‘American Attack on Kingston Harbour’.
‘American War of Independence. Wrong end. Wrong century. You need to start over there.’ The colonel, who was halfway up a small ladder, was pointing to a spot a few stacks to his left.
Josh put the newspaper back carefully and moved past the colonel. He climbed the stairs and began searching the upper parts of the stacks.
‘What exactly am I looking for?’ he asked.
‘A date. And, if possible, a time and a bloody location.’
Josh had more luck on his third attempt. It was from the right year. 1944. But too early: the news was mostly of battles and propaganda about the war.
Then he found it: 21 July 1944 edition. It came quickly out of the pile — as if it were waiting to be discovered. Although the edges were a little tattered, the paper itself was still crisp and white, as if it had just been delivered that morning. It was strange to think that it was nearly seventy years old, that it had been printed before his grandparents had been born.
‘Got it,’ Josh shouted, holding up the paper. The colonel jumped down off the ladder and snatched it out of his hands.
‘Good. Now where is it?’ he muttered, flicking through the pages without any respect for the age of the document. ‘Ah. Richardson. Now he was a real war correspondent. Got to the heart of the matter. None of this celebrity blather we have to put up with these days.’
The colonel folded the paper over so that Josh could see the page. There was a blurry photo, taken from a distance, and some copy about the location. ‘Wolf’s Lair . . . rings a bell. Think that’s in Poland somewhere . . .10.20am. 20 July 1944. So that would be sometime along the lines of 71.3219.’
‘71.3219 of what exactly?’
‘Years — approximately. I could wait for the clackers at HQ to send me the exact details.’ He pointed at the notebook. ‘But they’re getting awfully slow these days, and we don’t need to be to the exact second.’
Josh would have thought the man a complete nutter if it hadn’t been for the memory of the washroom.
‘I think — I think I’ve been there.’
‘Really? And how do you think you did that?’
‘It happened when I touched that,’ Josh said, pointing at the medal.
The colonel’s face hardened. ‘Tell me exactly what you saw.’
So Josh did exactly that. He recounted everything he could remember: the sound, the feel of the cold tiles under his feet, the look on the officer’s face when he dropped the suitcase. The colonel listened intently, showing no emotion until Josh stopped talking. Then he shivered as if there had suddenly been a cold draught.
‘So it appears you may have changed history,’ he said, walking off down the hallway towards the back of the house. He stopped at a door that had been slightly obscured by a stack of papers. ‘We’ll have to go back and check,’ he added nonchalantly, pushing the piles aside and opening the old door. ‘Not one of my favourite decades that one.’
Inside the room, there were rows of costumes on rails, like a theatrical wardrobe department. The rails were on rotating racks that stretched up to the ceiling and further back into the room than should have been possible. Each contained a selection of the most authentic-looking pieces of fancy dress Josh had ever seen.
The colonel turned a series of wheels using a large brass crank and the racks reorganised themselves until one with the numbers 11940 appeared
at the front. He then began to search through the garments like a Paris couture designer, ‘No. No. Hmm, maybe. No. Wrong side.’ And then, ‘Yes, of course. SS. Who would question a member of the Gestapo?’ He handed Josh a black uniform and took one for himself.
‘Put this on. I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, making for the door.
‘What’s this for?’ asked Josh, holding up the uniform.
‘Well, you don’t want to turn up naked again, do you?’ He smirked and left.
Josh stood staring at the elaborate collection of vintage clothes. There were so many incredibly realistic costumes hanging around him that he felt like a child in a toy shop — except this wasn’t kids’ stuff — this was like cosplay or re-enactment. Josh had no real idea what the old lunatic was up to, but dressing up like a Nazi was not something he thought he would be doing when he woke up this morning.
He tried the door but it was locked. The mad bugger had bolted the door on the way out. He had little choice but to play along and part of him wanted to see whether he could go back there again. The colonel seemed to think he’d changed history, which meant maybe he could help him change it back again, or at least explain what the hell was going on.
He undressed and put on the uniform. It was a bit big for him, and heavy, the cut of the jacket spoke of fine tailoring, the stitching was so small as to be nearly invisible and he was pretty sure the buttons were made of silver. His knowledge of the SS was patchy, but from what he could remember they were the top dogs in the Third Reich, the badasses that everyone else was scared of.
The colonel came back into the room wearing the uniform of an SS officer. His beard had gone, and his hair was shaved down to a grade two. It had taken years off him; he looked more like a man of forty, and the uniform made him look respectable — even if you could still see the remnants of the shaving foam on his collar. The man had been out of the room for less than five minutes. Josh was amazed by how he could have got a shave and a haircut so quickly.
The Infinity Engines Books 1-3 Page 8
