Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  ‘Ironic how being injured in the line of duty can transform one from a scapegoat to a hero, don’t you think?’

  ‘I should be going,’ she said. ‘It was good to see you again, Mr Steele.’

  ‘Likewise. And, please, call me George.’

  ‘All right then, George. In that case I’m Frances.’

  ‘You know, Frances, I’ve often wondered if our paths would cross again,’ he said, leaning on his stick and smiling broadly. ‘Since I’m no longer technically a government employee, I don’t suppose there’d be any conflict of interests if we took a spot of dinner together. What do you say? My treat, of course.’

  Chapter V

  Dead End

  1

  October 1940

  Ignoring the policeman directing the search from the pavement, Stephen rolled up his shirtsleeves and clambered onto the treacherous pile of rubble that had once been the greengrocers at the corner of Belmont Road, Stepney. Floral-print wallpaper lined what was left of a first-storey bedroom, where a fireplace and basin now hung suspended above his head, snapped planks of wood and loose clumps of mortar all that remained of the ripped-away floor. With a shudder he recalled what the place had looked like yesterday afternoon, when he had called by to warn the owner, a Mr Haverstock, of the coming night’s air raid.

  It was now over a year since Neville Chamberlain, the then Prime Minister, had declared war on Germany, which had prompted Stephen and Nell to move south to London. Aside from the rationing and the daily reports of Hitler’s armies sweeping through the continent, the immediate impact on their lives had been minimal, but when the first Luftwaffe attacks on the city began last month a clear opportunity to do God’s work had presented itself.

  Applying the same techniques used to avert the Upper Blinkhorn rail crash, each day Stephen would send his awareness forwards to the following morning, where he would then embark on the task of recording and memorising the location of new bombsites before returning to the present and encouraging the victims to move on. In this manner he had saved countless lives over the last few weeks, but as the bombing had intensified, both in frequency and ferocity, there became limits to what a single person could do, forcing him to focus on those explosions resulting in the highest number of casualties, or those involving children, which were mercifully rare thanks to the mass evacuations the year before.

  Sadly, there were also those who would not heed his warnings, the greengrocers on Belmont Road proving exactly such an instance. Mr Haverstock housed three generations of his family above the shop, including his eleven-year-old son, Oscar. Yesterday, in the face of Stephen’s pleas to abandon the building, Haverstock had become increasingly hostile in his rebuttals, stating that he had spent twenty years building the business and would not be cowed into leaving it to the whims of looters. There had been plenty of others to save that day, and after a heated ten-minute exchange Stephen conceded defeat. That night, however, he had been unable to sleep what with thinking about the dead child, and had returned directly the next morning to see what help he could lend.

  Bricks cascading with every step, he picked his way over the rubble to the spot at the rear of the site where Haverstock and his son would later be found, both asphyxiated, and then held himself still and listened. Nothing could be heard above the hubbub on the road, but if he were somehow able to direct the search this way then perchance some good might still come of the situation.

  After waiting another minute he turned back to the pavement and called out, ‘Over here, I think I hear something!’

  The policeman at the head of the search party peered up at him. ‘Sir, we don’t know how stable the site is yet. Two men were killed in Leyton last week when a wall collapsed and—’

  ‘Shh.’ Stephen raised a finger to his lips and cupped his other hand behind his ear. ‘There it is again!’

  Shaking his head, the policeman clambered up and over the mound of shattered masonry to join him.

  ‘Can’t hear nothing,’ he said eventually. ‘What sort of sound did you say it was?’

  ‘A tapping, like metal on metal.’

  ‘You sure about that, sir?’

  ‘Certain,’ Stephen said.

  The policeman turned back towards the pavement and waved over the group of waiting men, and in less than a minute they had organised themselves into a production line, shifting debris away from the rear of the site.

  By midday they had cleared a depression that reached almost to ground level. Stephen’s hands were calloused and cracked and his shirt dripping with sweat. He bent to shift another lump of brickwork, when all of a sudden he found himself looking down on a twisted bed frame and, beneath it, the startled, dust-caked face of young Oscar Haverstock, who apart from a few cuts and bruises appeared in perfect health.

  Immediately the production line broke up as the other men rushed to help free the boy.

  ‘My dad’s still down there!’ Oscar cried out as he was carried away. ‘I could hear him the whole time.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sonny,’ the policeman said. ‘We’ll have him out in a jiffy, too.’

  Although buried only a couple of yards from his son, it took them a further fifteen minutes to uncover Haverstock. A portly fellow with a dimpled chin scrambled down to the foot of the depression to help Stephen wrench him free, but Haverstock let out such a shriek that they had no choice but to release him.

  ‘My leg,’ the greengrocer moaned. ‘I can’t feel my leg!’

  Stephen continued to clear rubble until the source of the Haverstock’s discomfort became apparent: a wooden beam several yards in length had fallen across his legs, leaving his left foot protruding at a grossly unnatural angle.

  ‘Water,’ Stephen said to the man with the dimpled chin. ‘Fetch him something to drink.’

  The man nodded and clambered out, returning a moment later with a dented canteen. He unfastened the stopper and, with trembling hands, offered it to Haverstock, who took a long swig that ended with a splutter.

  ‘Let’s get about shifting this thing, shall we?’ Stephen said, turning to the half-dozen men now standing about aimlessly.

  With a barrage of shouted instructions he divided them into two groups, keeping half at the bottom of the depression with him and sending the other to half to the top, where the end of the beam jutted out. The second group began to lift, grunting with the effort as they raised the beam inch by inch to create a gap into which the first group were able to slide loose debris, forming a wedge that prevented it from dropping back down. As Haverstock let out another frightful cry, Stephen seized him by the shoulders and dragged him free at long last. The greengrocer’s left foot hung limply beneath his trouser leg.

  ‘Come on,’ Stephen said, draping Haverstock’s arm around his shoulder while the man with the dimpled chin took the other side. ‘Let’s find someone to take a look at that leg.’

  Haverstock’s eyes suddenly flashed with rage. ‘It’s you!’ he gasped, and yanked his arm away. ‘You was here yesterday, warning me about all this. It’s all I could think about while I was down there!’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ the other man asked.

  ‘Same bloke was here yesterday,’ Haverstock told him. ‘Said I needed to move my family on ‘cos the Bosh was going to bomb Stepney that night. Thought he was off his nut at the time, but now…’ He directed a mournful stare at the wreckage of his former home and livelihood. ‘Dear God, Margret! Please, tell me you’ve found my wife.’

  ‘Your son’s waiting just over there,’ their companion said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep looking until we find her.’

  Haverstock reluctantly tore his gaze away from the wreckage and allowed himself to be led down to the pavement.

  Once they had settled him onto a stretcher, the other man turned to Stephen. ‘Clifford Whitman,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Stephen Rutherford,’ Stephen said, shaking it.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Rutherford, is that true what he said about you war
ning him?’

  ‘The poor fellow’s been down there all night with a broken leg and no food or water. He’s obviously delirious.’

  Whitman studied Stephen’s face through narrowed eyes. ‘You know, old chap, there’s been talk of a man matching your description warning people their houses are going to be hit, and the next day they come home to a pile of rubble. Some have been calling him the Angel of the Blitz.’

  ‘I…wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Well, those are the rumours, in any case. Personally I have to ask myself how a man might come to possess prior knowledge of where a German bomb is going to hit. I’d be interested to know your thoughts on the matter.’

  Stephen tottered, feeling as though the exertion of the search must be catching up with him. ‘It was interesting to meet you, Mr Whitman,’ he said, and wiped his brow. ‘I really must be going.’

  * * * * *

  Stephen spent the remainder of the afternoon warning victims of the coming night’s raid. Dusk was approaching by the time he arrived home and the blackout curtains were already drawn. He opened the door to find Nell at the kitchen table, needlework in her lap and one of her rationing stews bubbling over the stove.

  After bringing her back to life thirteen years earlier, Stephen had fallen for the girl he had originally pulled from a burning train carriage, and had revealed the true circumstances of their meeting only a few weeks into their courtship. Once her initial shock had died down, Nell hadn’t run a mile as Stephen was expecting, but instead challenged him to prove his gift from above. He had recited the headlines from the following day’s Yorkshire Evening Post word for word, and the next day, his powers confirmed, had proposed.

  ‘Smells good,’ he said, lifting the lid on the pot. No matter how limited the ingredients, his wife had a talent for combining them in ways that made it nigh on impossible to tell. ‘When’s it ready?’

  ‘An hour ago,’ she said, and set down the stocking she was darning. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Disconcerting.’ He fetched a pair of bowls and began dishing out. ‘The owner of one of the properties I visited yesterday refused to move on. A greengrocer, name of Haverstock.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘True, but there was a child in the building, an eleven-year-old boy.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he evacuated?’

  ‘Apparently his father kept him behind to help out in the shop,’ Stephen said. He served her a bowl of stew and sat beside her with his own. ‘I went back this morning and was able to direct the search party to the boy and his father before they suffocated.’

  ‘Why so glum then?’

  ‘I think I was recognised, Nell. It seems word of my work is spreading. There’s talk of an “Angel of the Blitz”.’

  She sniggered, then stopped and frowned, a fingertip delicately rested on her lips. ‘Really, dearest, it just goes to show what a difference you’re making. That’s a good thing, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not so sure. For one thing it caused me to leave Haverstock’s early. The rest of his family were still down there and weren’t so lucky, I’d wager.’

  ‘Stephen,’ Nell said, and reached over the table to squeeze his hand, ‘you mustn’t torment yourself so. If you were only able to save two lives instead of three, that’s still two that would have otherwise been lost. As I keep telling you, you can only do so much.’

  ‘You’re right, as always.’

  ‘It’s why you married me,’ she said breezily. ‘I have some news of my own, as it happens. I paid a visit to the doctor today and—’

  ‘Not poorly are you, my love?’

  She paused for a moment and then smiled. ‘No, Stephen. He says I’m with child.’

  He leapt to his feet, lifted Nell up and spun her around before setting her down and showering her face with kisses. The couple had been trying for a baby for over a decade without success, and had arrived at the conclusion that it was not in God’s plan to bless them. That had all changed in an instant, but before Stephen could express his delight there came a loud rap at the door.

  ‘At this hour?’ Nell said. ‘Who can that be?’

  He shrugged, wondering the same, released her and went to the door. Standing on the other side were three policemen, their faces grim.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Stephen demanded.

  ‘You’re under arrest, sir,’ the policeman in the middle said. ‘On suspicion of treason.’

  * * * * *

  Stephen could hear the distant wails of air raid sirens beyond the walls of his cell. According to his father’s fob watch it was nearly three hours since his arrest, and although he had yet to be officially charged, he knew well enough the punishment for treason: death by hanging. They had no evidence against him aside from hearsay and coincidence, but in times such as these, when fear and mistrust ran almost as high as public outcry, people had been convicted for less.

  But that would only happen if Stephen allowed it, and he had no intention of proceedings going any further. Such had been his desire to save as many lives as possible that he had become careless. Soon, however, he would have a family to protect – a bloodline – and he could no longer operate with such impunity.

  He slid his boots off, lowered himself to the cold, hard floor and tucked each foot onto the opposing thigh in what The Principles and Practices of Buddhist Monks referred to as the ‘lotus position’. Then, resting his hands in his lap, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

  After a minute or two of concentrating on no more than the air passing in and out of his lungs, a warm shiver danced over him. He was about to send his awareness back to that morning when he heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. They stopped outside his cell. There was a brief jangling of keys and, as he opened his eyes and rose to his feet, the door swung open before him.

  ‘Hello again,’ Clifford Whitman said, stepping in.

  ‘Whitman!’ Stephen gawked at the man he had met earlier that day. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘I can only apologise for what must have been a distressing few hours, but I thought it best we speak in private.’ Whitman transferred a thin cardboard file from his right hand to his left and produced a packet of cigarettes. He offered one, which Stephen declined, and then lit up himself. ‘It seems you’ve been a busy bee, old chap.’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re suggesting,’ Stephen lied.

  Whitman shook his head, trails of smoke drifting from his nostrils. ‘Come now, let’s dispense with the charade, shall we? It may surprise you to know, but our meeting today wasn’t entirely coincidental.’ He opened the file and gazed down at the topmost page. ‘In the last month there have been more than thirty recorded sightings of this so-called Angel of the Blitz. The Prime Minister is extremely interested in your activities.’

  ‘The Prime Minister?’

  ‘He tasked me with looking into the matter. There was some speculation among the Chiefs of Staff that you may be a German spy, however Mr Churchill believes your actions to be at odds with that theory.’

  Stephen felt his cheeks burn. ‘I’m quite certain there must have been some mistake.’

  Whitman unclipped a page from the back of the file and passed it over. On it was a pencil sketch of a slender-faced man bearing a striking resemblance to Stephen.

  The mention of the Prime Minister had piqued Stephen’s interest, and since he planned to reverse his discovery the moment he was alone again there seemed little harm in satisfying his curiosity. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, handing the sketch back.

  ‘Why, to know how it is that you do what you do, of course!’

  ‘I suffered a cranial injury and a broken back in 1916,’ Stephen said. He sat on the edge of the bench and began pulling his boots on. ‘As well as gifting me the use of my legs again, God gave me the ability to see into the future. I use it to do His work, finding out where bombs will drop and then warning the victims beforehand
.’

  Whitman stared at him silently for a moment before dropping the end of his cigarette and grinding it under his heel. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.

  ‘What do intend to do with me? Am I still under arrest?’

  ‘The charges will be dropped immediately, Mr Rutherford. The Prime Minister would like to meet with you in person.’

  ‘Me? But why?’

  ‘There’s a war going on, old chap, and, in case you hadn’t noticed, our side isn’t winning.’ Whitman smiled and lit another cigarette. ‘Provided you can learn to keep a lower profile, I suspect we may have use for a man of your talents.’

  2

  Present Day

  Ordinarily Lewis avoided the news like the plague, but since Lance hadn’t returned any of his texts he was starved of information. He stared at the television as the end credits rolled by, unable to move until his father pressed standby on the remote.

  ‘Doesn’t look like we’ll be getting any more of them hot tips from your friend then.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Dad?’ Lewis asked, appalled at the man’s insensitivity. ‘It’s Sam they were talking about. You know, he’s been coming round here since we were, like, six years old? He’s even been on holiday with us. You don’t really think he’d do something like that, do you?’

  ‘Sounds like the police have already made up their minds, so it doesn’t really matter what I think.’ Lewis’s father sat upright, his eyes suddenly widening. ‘Hang on, you don’t think this has got something to do with all that match-fixing business from last weekend, do you? I warned him about that, you know.’

  Lewis shook his head and was about to take himself up to his room when his phone beeped. It was a reply from Lance at last:

  SERIOUSLY need 2 talk. Meet end of ur road in 5?

  He typed a quick reply and then stood up. ‘Um, I might nip out for a bit, okay?’

  ‘On a school night? Does your mother know?’

  ‘It’s Saturday, Dad. And I’m only going to the shops.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ His father drained his beer, scrunched the can and belched. ‘In that case pick me up another couple of tins.’