Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  Humboldt popped the cork, topped up four glasses, passed one to Donna and then held another out to Sam.

  Sam heaved himself up and went to take it. For some reason he’d expected everything to be resolved that evening, and the prospect of having to wait another three months to save his dad felt like the ultimate anti-climax.

  ‘Don’t be so downbeat,’ Humboldt said. ‘I know it might seem like a long time, but you’ve already set in motion the events that will bring your father back. Have a little patience, won’t you?’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam said, and took a sip of champagne. It tasted slightly bitter, as though the bottle had been kept in the cellar a few years too long. ‘It’s just, what are we going to do until April?’

  ‘Given that we’re both wanted men, I think it might be sensible to keep our heads down. But take it from me, if you’re planning on laying low for a while, Swordfish Island is an excellent place to do it.’

  ‘What about my family?’

  ‘What, you want to bring them along too?’

  Sam laughed, imagining what his grandparents would make of the place. ‘No, but they’re probably worrying about what’s happened to me,’ he said. ‘The last thing they knew I was still at Knotsbridge.’

  Humboldt nodded slowly. ‘I expect the police will have already alerted them to your “escape”. No doubt they’re watching your house in case you show up there. They’ve probably got the phones tapped too, come to think of it. I’m sorry, Sam, but contacting them at this stage is an unacceptable risk.’

  ‘My sister will be going out of her mind. Literally. I’ve got to let them know I’m okay.’

  ‘I understand. Perhaps the safest thing might be to write a letter and post it on our way to the airfield tomorrow.’

  It seemed the true cost of helping Humboldt was the life of a fugitive, but if that was what it took to save Sam’s dad then it was a small price to pay.

  ‘It’s done, sir,’ Sebastian said, walking back in. ‘My team will drop everything and begin work on Option C immediately.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then.’ Humboldt passed Sebastian the final glass of champagne and raised his own in the air. ‘I propose a toast – to family, and a long and prosperous future!’

  ‘To family,’ Sam mumbled. He raised his glass and took another, longer sip. Once again there was an unpleasant aftertaste that lingered in his mouth. He grimaced but, whatever it was, the others were all happily draining their glasses and didn’t seem to have noticed.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Humboldt asked, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘Can’t you taste that?’ Sam tried to say, but his words came out slurred, sounding more like, ‘Gank goo gaysk gak?’

  ‘No,’ Humboldt replied. ‘Mine’s fine.’

  Sam blinked. White light was beginning to seep into his vision. He felt his knees give, but before he fell, the scene froze, leaving him staring into Michael Humboldt’s smirking face. The colour began to drain away from the image until all that was left was a vague outline. And then the white light overpowered that too.

  14

  George’s mobile phone had been unavailable since he’d departed for his mysterious job interview on Saturday morning. It was possible he’d lost it, Frances supposed, or that the battery had run flat and he’d forgotten to pack a charger, but the ongoing lack of contact was enough to make her question the foundations of their whirlwind romance.

  When she was woken by her own phone ringing in the small hours of Tuesday morning, she had fully expected it to be George finally replying to one of her numerous messages or texts, so her initial reaction on hearing Campbell’s voice on the end of the line was one of disappointment. That feeling had lasted only as long as it took Campbell to break the news that Esteban Haufner was dead, and less than five minutes later she was behind the wheel of her car, on her way to the address in rural Berkshire that Campbell had given her.

  ‘It’s really him,’ she said, looking up from Haufner’s mutilated, one-legged body.

  Kaur lowered his camera. ‘We found a packed bag containing several passports, all under different aliases. Of course, I’ll have to run his prints and dental records through the database for official confirmation. We were lucky to find the body so soon, really. A gas leak was reported in the cottage two doors up just before one a.m. and the landlady, a Mrs Granger, took it upon herself to alert her tenants. When Haufner – or Jones, as he’s been calling himself – didn’t open the door, she let herself in and found him like this.’

  ‘How long’s he been dead?’ Campbell asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  ‘The pool of blood around the body is still damp towards the middle,’ Kaur said. ‘Coupled with the relatively high body temperature that would place the time of death somewhere between eleven and twelve yesterday evening. Probably no more than an hour or two before Granger found him.’

  Campbell clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘I can’t get my head around what the bastard’s doing this close to London. I know he looks different, but that takes some serious nerve in my book.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight,’ Frances muttered.

  ‘Indeed,’ Kaur said, unwrapping a mint. ‘The sheer volume of blood indicates that the victim was still alive when his leg was amputated. Apart from the shotgun over there – which is loaded, by the way – there’s no sign of a struggle or defence wounds of any kind, so he was probably sedated at the time. Again, I’d have to run a toxicology report for confirmation one way or the other.’

  ‘Victim?’ Campbell repeated. ‘Hard to think of him as that! If we ever catch up with Rayner again, I might be tempted to shake his hand before bringing him in.’

  ‘You think Rayner did this?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Or whoever he’s working with. Come on, think about it, first he escapes Knotsbridge in one of the most audacious prison breaks this country has ever scene – “a military-style operation” some of the papers are calling it – and then, two days later, this?’

  Frances nodded. The theory had some appeal, but maybe that was because, since first laying eyes on Haufner’s missing leg, she had been desperately seeking an alternative to the possibility that George was somehow responsible. ‘Why would Rayner want Haufner dead though?’ she asked. ‘And why cut off his leg?’

  ‘Don’t forget, his father was killed in the crash of Flight 0368,’ Campbell said. ‘He’s got as much reason to want Haufner dead as anybody. As for the leg, perhaps he just wanted the bastard to suffer. I know I would.’ He turned to Kaur. ‘Any sign of a murder weapon yet? Or the missing limb?’

  ‘No, Detective, although judging from the cut marks I’d say we’re looking for a hacksaw or something similar. I’ve come across a few killers taking trophies in my time, but what anyone would want with a severed human leg is beyond me.’ Kaur gestured to a member of his team who was shining a light source over a matching pair of armchairs positioned on either side of the fireplace. ‘Julie’s been dusting for prints. So far the only ones we’ve lifted have been from the shotgun, whisky bottle and a pair of tumblers, all of which are consistent with the victim.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Very little. Apart from the mess down here, we’ve turned up barely a shred of evidence in the entire cottage. The bedroom upstairs doesn’t appear slept in, and there’s not so much as a toothbrush or bar of soap in the bathroom. It’s almost as if Haufner was preparing to run when he was killed.’

  ‘Right,’ Campbell said, and tucked his notepad into his jacket pocket. ‘I suppose we should have a word with the landlady then. Any idea where we can find her?’

  ‘She lives in the first cottage in the row,’ Kaur told him, ‘but I expect you’ll find her with the crowd outside still. It’s not often something like this happens in these parts. It’s caused quite a com—’

  ‘There’s something here!’ Julie suddenly exclaimed.

  Frances turned to see Kaur’s colleague straighten up with
a metal object clasped between a pair of tweezers. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Looks like a cufflink,’ Julie said. She dropped the object into a plastic evidence bag and handed it over.

  Frances felt an ice-cold chill strike her very core: the cufflink had a Union Jack emblazoned on one side, exactly like the ‘parting gift’ George had worn on their first date.

  Chapter VII

  Fight and Flight

  1

  Following what was the best night’s sleep he had enjoyed since before his injury, George awoke on Tuesday morning feeling every inch a new man. Exacting his revenge had been like sampling the sweetest elixir ever tasted, and he remained in bed for several more minutes, smiling up at the ceiling of his Fitzrovia flat and mentally replaying the look of wide-eyed astonishment as he had plunged a hypodermic needle into his old friend’s neck.

  After leaving the village in Berkshire late last night, George had driven back to London, Esteban’s right foreleg in a plastic bag on the passenger seat of his stolen car. He had stopped near Embankment and then strolled across one of the Golden Jubilee Bridges, pausing halfway to drop the severed limb into the dark, swirling waters of the Thames. It would probably wash up somewhere further downstream (bodies and their constituent parts almost always did), but by then he would be thousands of miles away and far beyond the jurisdiction of anyone who might be able to connect the dots.

  In taking Esteban’s life, in addition to those of the guards who had stood in his way at Knotsbridge, George had transitioned from custodian of the law to outlaw, thereby crossing a line from which there could be no return. In truth, however, that line had already been crossed when he had removed the pill bottle from the evidence room at Scotland Yard using the key he had copied from Hinds, or, come to think of it, on the very day he had accepted Michael Humboldt’s proposal. Still, at this stage it made little difference; if MI5 no longer had any use for George’s services then it was only logical to sell them to the highest bidder, and moral qualms had never been something to hold him back.

  After a while he climbed from his bed and hopped his way to the shower, where he remained for his customary six minutes and thirty seconds before returning to the bedroom to attach his prosthetic leg and dress. He selected a sharp Savile Row three-piece from his wardrobe (handcrafted by artisan carpenters in Catalonia) and began filling his suitcase. There would be no need for winter clothing where he was going, which was a shame, really, since it meant leaving behind some of his favourite attire. Although there would be plenty in the way of financial compensation, what bothered him the most was the loss of the home and possessions he had spent the last five years refining into the pinnacle of minimalist sophistication. Auf wiedersehen to the light fittings from Liechtenstein, heippa flooring from Finland and annyeong kitchen cabinets from Korea. All gone but not forgotten.

  With his suitcase filled, George went to close the wardrobe door when a glint of metal near the back of the top shelf caught his eye. He pulled the object out, a thin smile of reminiscence raising the corners of his mouth. It was a bronze trophy shaped like a man striking a football: the Academy Player of the Year award George had won as a fifteen-year-old at Newcastle United, the highlight of his brief and ultimately doomed sporting career. The thing must have been up there since he’d purchased the wardrobe shortly after moving in. Quite why he had hung on to it all these years, he couldn’t say.

  With a wistful shake of his head, he returned the trophy to its place, then zipped his case up and checked the mobile phone Humboldt had provided him.

  There was a single text message from the only number on the contacts list:

  The package is secured. Pilot informs me weather conditions are now favourable.

  We eagerly await your arrival.

  George replied that he would be there in a few hours, traffic permitting, and hastened to the door of his flat.

  Halfway down the hall he pulled up, doubled back and retrieved his football trophy before cramming it into his case. Shaking his head at such an uncharacteristic bout of sentimentality, he stepped out of his flat and, after a mournful glance behind, closed the door for the final time.

  2

  Sam came around to the sensation of movement. His headache had returned, only worse. Once again he had the impression that something bad had happened, but the details were strangely missing.

  He forced his sticky eyelids open and took a moment to absorb his surroundings. It seemed that he was strapped to the back seat of a people carrier. The view through the windows was of fields rushing by on a clear winter’s day. His hands, secured at the wrists by a cable tie, rested limply in his lap. Beside him was an old woman who was knitting what looked like a half-finished scarf. Two men, also around retirement age, were sitting on the backwards-facing chairs across from them. One was short with sideburns and a handlebar moustache, the other taller with a bald head and a sickly complexion. A third man was behind the wheel up front, but Sam couldn’t make out his face from this angle.

  ‘Ah, welcome back!’ the bald man said. He had a faint mark down one side of his face and was holding a walking stick with a handle shaped like a dragon’s head.

  ‘Where am I?’ Sam asked.

  ‘In transit to an airfield near the Dorset coast. Shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sam said. And then his memory returned, crashing through his muddled mind like a car with the brakes cut. The man was Michael Humboldt – or was that Uncle Michael? – an internationally wanted criminal who had broken Sam out of Knotsbridge. They had struck a deal, the two of them, Humboldt’s life in exchange for that of Sam’s dad. Sam had kept his end, using Tetradyamide to travel through time to find a cure for the old man’s brain tumour. He’d succeeded, meeting Humboldt alive and well in August, and then…then…

  ‘What happened?’ he yelled. ‘What did you put in my champagne?’

  ‘Remember the antiserum I told you about?’ Humboldt gave a what-can-you-do sort of a shrug. ‘You’ve actually come round even faster than before. I make it a shade under fifteen hours.’ He turned to the little man beside him. ‘Hey, Sebastian, you sure you got the formula right this time?’

  ‘Of course!’ Sebastian whined. ‘It’s an exact reproduction of the drug Dr Barclay created in 1976. Unlike Tetradyamide, I actually had a sample to analyse on this occasion. Perhaps – I don’t know, I’m just putting this out there – his tolerance might be higher than yours? Either way, he shouldn’t be able to use his ability for several hours yet.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Humboldt said. ‘We’ll give him another dose as soon as we’re in the air.’

  ‘But why?’ Sam asked. ‘I did what you wanted, didn’t I? What about your end of our deal?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that will never happen,’ Humboldt said, twirling the shaft of his walking stick. ‘You see, Sam, what we have here is something of a paradox. Consider this, if you will – your father was killed in the same event in which you yourself were injured, thus gaining your ability to travel through time. If I alter the timelines to prevent said event from taking place, I would, in effect, be creating a new timeline in which you’d never developed your powers and would therefore be unable to save my life. Obviously I could never allow such a thing to happen.’

  Sam stared back, dumbfounded. He’d been so eager to believe there was a chance he might get his dad back, so blinded by the prospect of becoming Humboldt’s heir, that he hadn’t even considered the consequences such an alteration to the past might create in the present. Now that he really thought about it, however, Humboldt’s logic was impeccable; if the plane crash that had killed Sam’s dad were ever reversed, Sam would also lose his ability to turn the pages of time.

  But there was one thing that still didn’t make sense. ‘My sister’s wedding,’ he said. ‘When I met you on Swordfish Island, you showed me a photo. My dad was there. Alive. How can that be if you don’t undo the plane crash?’

  Humboldt chuckled, pulled a photograph from his jacket poc
ket, leaned over and slid it between Sam’s bound hands. ‘This what you’re talking about, by any chance?’

  Sam looked down. It was the same photo that had been (or would be) sitting on his bedside table on Swordfish Island half a year in the future, right down to the baby in his mum’s arms and the cheesy grin on his dad’s face.

  ‘B-but how?’ he asked, looking back up. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Come on, Sam, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Photoshop? I acquired the original picture from a company specialising in stock photography – it was first used in a wedding brochure, I believe – and had someone to digitally insert the faces of your family over those of the models.’ He shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. ‘And here I was thinking your generation were all supposed to be technological whiz kids!’

  Sam felt his stomach turn. He looked across to the woman beside him (Donna, her name was), hoping against hope she’d wink or give him some sign that it was all a joke. Instead she continued knitting, a faraway look on her face as if the whole shakedown was of no more interest than a conversation overheard on the bus.

  Sam squinted down at the photo again. On closer inspection he realised that the shadows on his family’s faces didn’t quite match up with those their bodies cast on the ground. His dad’s hair was a little less salt and a little more pepper than Sam remembered, and he and Sam were also the same height, whereas in reality Sam had been a couple of inches shorter.

  With a groan, he let the photo slip from his fingers and drift to the floor of the car. How had he not spotted the inconsistencies earlier? Perhaps, in his desire to believe Humboldt’s promises, he hadn’t really wanted to.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked, his voice barely more than a whimper.

  ‘We fly back to Swordfish Island where I can begin the course of tumour-shrinking drugs you identified,’ Humboldt said. ‘As for you, Sam, we need to set up the conditions for your consciousness from last night to enter your body and keep its appointment with Dr Claybourne. Until August, that’ll mean keeping you on a continuous supply of antiserum, but needs must. I wouldn’t want you bailing out on me, now would I?’