Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  Lewis didn’t bother replying and hurried to the front door, snatching his coat from the end of the banister on his way out. It was a clear, cold night with the temperature already below freezing. Apart from a man walking a dog in the opposite direction, the road was deserted. Lewis buried his hands in his pockets and paced in the direction of Sam’s house. He was almost at the end of the road when he saw Lance coming the other way and called out to him.

  Lance glanced about anxiously and scurried over, his face haggard beneath the rim of his Peruvian beanie. ‘Dude, keep your voice down!’ he hissed.

  ‘Why?’

  Lance sighed and rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Lewis said. ‘How’re things back at the Rayners’?’

  ‘Not good,’ Lance said, and glanced over his shoulder again. ‘We stayed in a hotel while they searched the place overnight, and Chrissie’s spent all night and most of today with Sam at the police station. They’ve charged him, Lewis.’

  ‘I know, it was on the news,’ Lewis said. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

  They turned onto the road next to the park, taking slow, shuffling steps under the glow of the streetlights.

  ‘They’re placing him on remand in a young offenders institute,’ Lance said, staring straight ahead. ‘Those places are almost as bad as adult prisons, Lewis. Chrissie’s going out of her mind.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Apparently he told them the whole shebang – time travel, the Tempus Project, everything. You can guess what the police thought.’

  ‘That he’s bonkers?’

  ‘His lawyer even walked out on him. Chrissie’s trying to find a new one.’

  Lewis stopped and ground his teeth. ‘Listen, I was thinking maybe we should go to the police and tell them about meeting Malcolm Fairview at that research facility place and gambling and everything. You never know, it might help. The money we made last week proves that Sam’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Dude, think about it, the money doesn’t prove a thing except that we won a few bets. One lucky week, that’s it! Remember, in this timeline Sam was never recruited to the Tempus Project. There won’t be any record of him, and if we tell the police he took us to meet Malcolm Fairview the day before the murder it’s only going to make Sam look even guiltier, see?’

  ‘Well we’ve got to do something.’

  Lance took a step closer and gripped Lewis’s arm, squeezing it a little too hard. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Remember when Sam showed us the bottle of pills right before the police arrived yesterday? He was being all tetchy and weird about it.’

  ‘Yeah, course.’ Lewis hesitated as he realised what Lance was getting at. ‘Wait, you don’t think it might still be there, do you?’

  ‘No, Chrissie checked already. The police must have found it. But...’ Lance released Lewis’s arm, dipped his hand into the pocket of his duffel coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he unwrapped to reveal a small yellow pill.

  ‘You took one?’

  ‘Slowing down time perception?’ Lance said, a sheepish look on his face. ‘It sounded fun and…well, Sam had the whole bottle. I didn’t think he’d miss one pill.’

  ‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘I know,’ Lance said. ‘First we have to find a way to get it to Sam, though.’

  3

  Frances gazed at George across their table in a secluded corner of Chez Henri, the upmarket French bistro he’d chosen. The place was lavishly decorated, if a little overdone, with an elaborate water feature at the centre and a pianist tickling the ivories on the far side.

  ‘Anything whet your appetite?’ George asked, lowering his menu.

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ Frances said. ‘French was never my strong point at school.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll allow me the liberty of ordering for us both?’

  She let slip an involuntary giggle, then clapped her hand over her mouth. The thought of romance had never really entered her mind on their previous encounter, when if anything George had seemed a little standoffish. But perhaps that was just his professional persona.

  He smiled and turned in his chair to wave the waiter over, revealing a Union Jack patterned cufflink beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Ah, Mr Steele, nice to see you again!’ the waiter said, beaming as he approached. ‘We usually see you every week. I was beginning to worry.’

  George paused for a fraction of a second, his lip quivering. ‘I’m afraid that was somewhat unavoidable, Richard. I suffered an impairment last month.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘My right leg was amputated below the knee.’

  Richard gulped and took a step back.

  ‘An occupational hazard,’ George went on, seemingly unfazed. ‘And I escaped the incident with my life, so one can be thankful for small mercies, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s good to hear you’re looking on the bright side, Mr Steele. So, are you ready to order?’

  ‘We’ll start with the terrine, followed by the pan-fried Dover sole.’ George snapped his menu closed and handed it over. ‘And to drink, a bottle of sparkling water and the 2011 Pouilly-fumé, I think.’

  ‘An excellent choice.’ Richard jotted the order in his notepad, collected the menus and departed with a bow.

  ‘I like the cufflinks,’ Frances said. ‘Very patriotic.’

  George glanced at his wrists. ‘These? A small memento from my time at the Security Service, something they reserve for those injured in the line of duty. A parting gift, you might say.’

  ‘They couldn’t have kept you on in some capacity?’

  ‘I was offered a desk job, but…well, let’s just say I’m not cut out for shuffling paper. Rest assured though, there are plenty of opportunities out there for someone with my experience. I had a job offer only this afternoon, believe it or not!’

  At that moment the waiter arrived back with an ice bucket. ‘Your entrées won’t be a moment,’ he said, and topped up their glasses.

  Once they were alone again, George held Frances in his gaze for a long moment. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue she’d ever seen.

  ‘I managed to catch your television appearance,’ he said, breaking the silence eventually.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand that sort of thing, but it’s part and parcel of the job, I suppose.’

  ‘I thought you came across very well. A natural in front of the camera, you might say. You mentioned that you’ve charged a suspect?’

  Strictly speaking, discussing the case was off bounds, but George was hardly Joe Public and, after the brick wall she’d met with back at the Security Service, there was a chance he might be more forthcoming than his former colleague.

  She took a sip of wine and, lowering her voice, said, ‘Just between us, it’s Sam Rayner.’

  George spluttered on his mineral water. ‘Surely not the boy we interviewed together last year?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Well I never, what a strange coincidence!’ He dabbed his chin with a napkin. ‘Any idea why he did it?’

  ‘That’s actually what I was doing when I bumped into you. In spite of the evidence, Rayner denies the charges and claims he discovered the body by chance. He claims he met the victim after being recruited to something called the Tempus Project, a government-funded organisation researching people with time-travelling capabilities. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of anything like it?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have. And although plenty of things go on in the corridors of power that a foot soldier with my level of clearance wouldn’t know about, I suspect time travel isn’t among them.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Frances cleared her throat. ‘We found a bottle of pills containing a new molecule at Rayner’s house, so if he’s experimenting with mind-altering drugs a
more likely explanation would be that he suffered a psychotic episode and has no recollection of killing Fairview. Of course, the brain injury he suffered last year may also have contributed.’

  George blinked and took another sip of his water. ‘How very tragic,’ he said. ‘It sounds like, even months after, Esteban Haufner’s crimes have claimed another two victims.’

  Frances felt a sudden chill sweep over her. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Esteban?’ George nodded and stared down at his hands. ‘We met in Northern Ireland the year after I completed my training. We were friends, for a while.’

  ‘Your friend ruined my career.’

  ‘I said we were friends, Frances. Past tense.’ He twisted in his chair and hiked up his right trouser leg, revealing the alloy shaft of a prosthetic limb. ‘Trust me, it’s the sort of thing that can put a dampener on even the closest of friendships. After what Esteban’s done, what I wouldn’t give for ten minutes alone with him and no witnesses.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll just have to form an orderly queue then,’ Frances said, pleased to have found some common ground, no matter how macabre.

  George gazed at her for a moment, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Tell me, Frances, do you enjoy the opera?’

  ‘Opera?’ she said, recalling a school trip to The Magic Flute during which she had fallen asleep. ‘It’s not something I know much about, but I’ve always liked the music.’

  ‘Good. It’s the last week of Madam Butterfly at the Royal Opera House. It’s almost sold out, but I managed to get tickets to Tuesday’s performance.’ He lifted the dripping wine bottle from the bucket and topped up her glass. ‘I’d be delighted if you’d join me.’

  4

  That first, awful night at Knotsbridge felt like it would never end. Sam lay curled under an itchy blanket, crying for his mother and willing himself to smell burned caramel again. It didn’t work, and the long, sleepless hours stretched on and on. Regret, self-loathing and the image of Fairview’s lifeless face circled one another in an endless loop around his head, until at long last a light bulb behind a wire mesh in the ceiling flickered on.

  Sam’s cell was approximately eight feet by ten, just big enough to take three strides down the middle before having to turn back. Damp from a roof with a thousand leaks had bubbled the paintwork and gave the place a dank, funky, cave-like smell. At one end were a basin and a lavatory beneath a narrow, barred window, and, at the other, a thick metal door through which he could now hear the assorted murmurs and yells of Unit B stirring into life.

  With a groan, he pushed his blanket back, swung his bare feet from the bed and rubbed his eyes. The clock on the wall said it was seven in the morning. Being a Sunday, the rest of his family would still be tucked up in bed, with the possible exception of Grandpa, who always got up early. Sam would have given anything to be back home with them, but at the moment it didn’t seem very likely he’d ever set foot in his house again. Or, for that matter, return his mum to the person she had once been, bring Esteban Haufner to justice or win Eva back.

  He pulled on the grey jogging bottoms, blue t-shirt and white plimsolls he’d been issued the evening before. After another minute or so he heard the door to his cell being unlocked and went to peer out. Her Majesty’s Young Offenders Institution Knotsbridge was situated in a crumbling Victorian building that had once been an adult prison and now housed close to a hundred inmates between the ages of 15 and 18, with cells spread over four units (A, B, C and D), all fanning out like the spokes of a bicycle wheel from a central hub where a canteen, IT suite, library and other communal areas were situated. The other inmates on Unit B were gradually emerging from their cells and lining up against the railings of the walkway, so Sam did the same and turned to face his empty cell with the handrail against the small of his back. A guard holding a clipboard paced down the central aisle on the floor below, reeling off a string of prisoner numbers.

  Once the roll was complete they formed a line and traipsed through to the gloomy canteen in the central hub, where a breakfast of cold, lumpy porridge was served. Sam sat at a table in the far corner and was thankfully left alone. In spite of how awful the porridge tasted, he cleaned his scuffed plastic bowl and went back for seconds.

  At seven-thirty they were instructed to shelve their trays and form another line. Instead of returning to their cells, the twenty or so boys were handed a blue windbreaker each and then led to the door onto an exercise yard enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. Sam’s windbreaker was several sizes too big and hung almost to his knees.

  As he rolled up the sleeves, the guard with the clipboard approached.

  ‘Rayner?’

  ‘Er, yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘This way,’ the guard said, and waved him out of line.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ Sam asked as he left the other boys to file out into the breaking of a grizzly, grey-skied day.

  ‘Medical room.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, matey,’ the guard said, leading him back through the cafeteria. He pointed at his clipboard. ‘Says here you need your medication. For your epilepsy, right?’

  Sam stopped in his tracks. In this timeline his medication had prevented his seizures throughout December, and since he was pinning all of his hopes on their return, there was no way he could start taking his pills.

  The guard took another couple of steps before turning back. ‘Come on, we ain’t got all day. Things to do, places to be and all that.’

  Sam followed him up a creaking metal staircase, desperately searching for an excuse. At the top they turned down a dimly lit corridor. Halfway along was a door with a windowed counter. The guard pressed a button on the frame, and the frosted panel slid back to reveal a shaggy-haired man in a white coat. The guard passed him a sheet from his clipboard. The man studied it for a moment and turned away, returning a few seconds later with a small plastic cup, which he handed to Sam.

  Sam stared down at the triangular pill at the bottom, his muscles tensing.

  ‘Come on,’ the guard said. ‘Down the hatch.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s that? I don’t think I heard you right.’

  ‘I’m not taking it.’

  The guard let out a deep sigh and massaged his forehead. ‘Listen, matey, I’ll let that slide seeing as it’s your first day here, but my instructions are to make sure you take your medicine. We can do it the easy way or the hard way, your choice.’

  Sam stared at him for a moment, then tipped the pill onto the floor and crushed it under his foot.

  ‘Hard way it is then.’ The guard unclipped a walkie-talkie, held it to his mouth and pressed a button on the side. ‘Leroy, it’s Pete,’ he said. ‘Reckon we might have a problem here – the new boy on Unit B is refusing to take his meds.’

  There was a fizzle of static and then a crackly voice replied, ‘Right you are, Pete. Take him back to his cell and I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Pete lowered his walkie-talkie and clipped it onto his belt again. ‘You,’ he said, turning to the pharmacist, ‘grab some of them pills and follow me.’

  He gripped Sam by the elbow and, with the pharmacist scurrying along behind, propelled him back along the corridor, down the metal staircase and through the cafeteria once more.

  On reaching Unit B, Sam looked up to see another guard waiting by his cell: Leroy, he supposed. The man must have been at least 6’5", and his frame was wide enough to fully obscure the doorway.

  As they approached, he stepped to one side and pulled his nightstick out. ‘In!’ he barked, pointing it through the door.

  Sam hesitated, then thought better of it, walked to the middle of his cell, stopped and turned around.

  Leroy narrowed his eyes and shot him a dirty look. ‘So, won’t take your meds, will you?’

  ‘Little sod stamped it under his foot,’ Pete said. ‘Right in front of me, too.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll take ‘em all right,’ Lero
y said. ‘All he needs is a bit of motivation. Where are they then?’

  The pharmacist scuttled forward like a crab, a strip of Sam’s epilepsy medication extended in his hand. ‘Can I go now?’ he asked feebly. ‘I’m only supposed to dispense the inmates’ medication. There’s nothing in my duties about administering it.’

  Leroy snatched the pills from him. ‘Fine, get lost then.’

  The pharmacist nodded and, looking very much relieved, bolted through the door.

  ‘Last chance,’ Leroy said, turning back to Sam. ‘You going to take the damn things or not?’

  ‘Um…’ Sam raised his chin and squinted at the ceiling, ‘…not, I think.’

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ Pete yelled, his eyelid twitching. ‘I’ve had just about enough of your—’

  ‘Hold his arms,’ Leroy said, his voice disturbingly calm, and popped a pill from the strip.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You hold his arms, I’ll make sure he takes it.’

  Pete nodded, stepped behind Sam and seized his wrists, pinning them behind his back.

  ‘No, wait—’ Sam began, but Leroy reached over and squeezed his nose shut. He spluttered, panic exploding in his chest, but as he tried to take a breath, Leroy shoved the pill into his mouth and clamped his jaw shut.

  Although Sam swallowed the pill almost immediately, they held him like that for a further thirty seconds before releasing him. With a whimper he dropped to his knees, his chest burning and his eyes stinging with tears.

  Leroy crouched beside him. Squeezing Sam’s cheeks, he forced his mouth open and tilted his head from side to side as he peered inside.

  ‘Good,’ he said at last. He released Sam’s face, wiped his hand on his trouser leg and stood. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ Pete said quietly, and glanced at Sam in an almost apologetic way. ‘Appreciate your help.’

  ‘No worries,’ Leroy said. ‘Maybe next time he’ll think twice about refusing his meds.’

  5

  It didn’t take long for the dull fog brought on by Sam’s epilepsy medication to settle over him, and he spent the rest of his first morning at Knotsbridge locked in his cell, sobbing uncontrollably. Any hope of an escape route through his seizures had been snuffed out, and it occurred to him that, after everything he had done to escape a terrible future at the hands of Dr McHayden, all he’d really achieved was to swap one prison for another. As he sat on the corner of his bed, watching the hands of the clock circle with glacial slowness, the idea began to form in his head that perhaps this was his destiny, a thing he could no more outrun than his shadow.