The Time-Thief

by Patience Agbabi

  I desperately want to talk with Big Ben about Francis and the Infinity-Glass but there are cameras at every angle of the corridor and up the stairs so it will have to wait. The Art Department is clearly marked. We’re about to knock on the door when it opens and Anno beckons us inside.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your trip to Mr Johnson’s house,’ she says. ‘Anon’s heart is 18th century but I prefer the 21st. Welcome to our fundraising project, Planet Plastic!’

  I blink. Before my eyes is a massive rectangular room like an art gallery but there’s nothing on the whitewashed walls. Instead, there are larger-than-life-sized sculptures made of wire, mangled plastic bottles and sweet wrappers. Some of them are on pedestals and others are hanging from strings like mobiles and constantly moving. They’re all modelled on people: jumping, throwing, running. Athletes!

  ‘Wow!’ I say.

  ‘I thought you might appreciate these, Elle. They were begun last year for the 2020 Olympic Games that never took place. I became interested in non-events in leap years, discarded things. This exhibition’s called On Your Marks, Set, Gone!’

  Big Ben and I smile at the wordplay.

  ‘So you’re telling a story with art?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anno says.

  I notice a sculpture in the corner that looks like it’s doing the high jump, taking off from the left leg made of grey metal sheets; the right leg hasn’t been made yet.

  ‘Is that like prosthetic limbs?’ I say.

  ‘Yes. We’re working on the Paralympics next.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  Anno gestures for us to sit down on a couple of wooden chairs that have dried yellow paint on them. When I make a face, she shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘My daughter, Portia, whom you’ve met. And local students who aren’t scared to get their hands dirty. They called the project Planet Plastic. The primary materials are junk, rubbish, litter. Non-recyclable stuff that would end up in landfill.’

  ‘But you recycle it into art?’

  ‘We do. In fact, I have a private view this Saturday at the Museum of the Past, the Present and the Future. Would you and Big Ben like to attend? It would be wonderful if you could read your poem. I regret you never had the chance to share it on Monday.’

  I’ve never been to an art exhibition before but I like Anno’s sculptures and I DEFINITELY want to read my poem.

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘And you, Ben?’

  Big Ben pauses before he answers. ‘Yes.’

  Big Ben and I get changed early for the athletics meeting so we have a chance to catch up properly outside the building but away from the athletics stadium. Even here, we have to be careful about hidden cameras. We must text Francis; we can’t ask him about the Infinity-Glass directly in case we spoil the surprise. But we CAN request to meet him the day he receives it, the 24th of June. Mr Johnson said he was giving it to Francis in the morning so we could ask to meet him in the afternoon. Big Ben decides it’s best to let Francis know we’ve already visited 1752.

  We met Mr Johnson for tea. Sorry we missed you!

  Can we visit you 24 June at 2?

  Where can we meet?

  ‘Can you think of anything else?’ I say.

  ‘No. He’s ten. Keep it simple. Elle . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong, BB?’ I press send.

  ‘We wasted time today. We should leap to The Vicious Circle and find the ancient Glass.’

  ‘But we don’t know where The Vicious Circle is. They only tell adults when they take their children there to swear the Oath. I could ask Grandma, I guess. You could ask your mum. But the Infinity-Glass might not be there any more. It could be anywhere!’

  ‘Can you remember any clues in the room? Were there papers?’

  It’s a good point. If I’d seen some paperwork, it might have revealed an address. But I didn’t see any.

  ‘Even if we find the Infinity-Glass, MC2 could still get a prison sentence, BB. We have to prove he DIDN’T steal it.’

  ‘Maybe he did. Maybe they have proof that he did so he’s in prison.’

  I sigh. ‘I still think we did well today. We went to 1752—’

  ‘We ate cake.’ Big Ben rarely interrupts me. I can tell he’s frustrated. ‘We didn’t meet Francis.’

  ‘We will. We must. Francis might . . . BB, my Chronophone’s buzzing!’

  Even though there’s nobody else outside with us, I still look around to make sure. I try to stay calm but my heart is pounding in my chest. I don’t get many messages so it has to be . . . it IS. A message back from Francis!

  Meet me at the front of the Cathedral of St Paul in London on the 24th day of June 1752, at 2 of the clock.

  Brilliant! We’re meeting Francis straight after he’s received the Glass. We’re one step closer to solving the crime.

  Chapter 12:00

  12 SECONDS DEAD

  The athletics stadium looks even better in the early evening light, with groups of teenagers limbering up in their bright sports clothes. On the back straight I see a mixed-race girl with two ginger plaits do a three-point-start and sprint 30 metres. She’s wearing a yellow running vest with a number 3 pinned to the front and back. Ama! I want to sprint across the grass to greet her but it’s forbidden since the throwers have started their warm-ups. I jog round, enjoying the feel of the bouncy track in my borrowed trainers.

  ‘Ama!’

  She turns her head and gives me her gap-toothed grin. ‘Elle!’

  We hug. I only usually let Grandma or Big Ben hug me because they hug hard but these are exceptional circumstances. I haven’t seen Ama since last year. My mouth starts speaking before my brain’s had time to process my excitement.

  ‘What are you signed up for? Have you seen Kwesi recently? Did he tell you about MC2?’

  ‘One thing at a time, sis,’ she says and we both start gently jogging, remembering we need to warm up our bodies not our tongues. ‘I’m down for the 100 metres and long jump. What about you?’

  ‘The same. Anno said we’re in the same heat for the sprint. She knows I want to race you, even though you’re Under 17s and I’m Under 15s. We won’t be in the same race if we make the finals, though.’

  ‘Wreckage!’ says Ama, which means she thinks it’s great. ‘What’s your PB now, Elle? Wasn’t it 13.12 last year? Gone under 13 seconds yet?’

  ‘12.79,’ I say. ‘What about you?’

  ‘12 seconds dead!’

  My eyes go bigger than Jupiter. ‘That’s brilliant! Kwesi never told me.’

  Ama laughs. ‘He’s too busy with graffiti and Infinite stuff to talk athletics. I’ve been training hard with the elites. You should leap to 2049, join our group.’

  ‘I can’t decide now, I’m on a case. But maybe when it’s—’

  We hear a guttural roar from the shot put circle, see the heavy black ball launch into the air like a missile and drop almost outside the pit! There’s loud applause. It’s a woman athlete, squat with cropped black hair. It can’t be. It is. Nona. She’s obviously helping the teens warm up and can’t resist showing off her skills. She may be Evil Nine but she certainly knows how to put the shot! She leaves the group in the charge of one of the coaches and I see her chatting with a couple of lanky boys, one white with blond hair, the other black with cornrowed hair.

  Talking of long-legged boys, Big Ben joins us on our second lap. He’s warming up for the 800 metres, which is the first track event. Big Ben’s super fit this season because he’s been running in football practice as well as athletics but I think he’s more interested in the scores than the game. They keep putting him in goal when he’d be better at attacking. I notice Portia jogging behind us, her peacock hair glinting in the sunlight. She catches us up.

  ‘Better than Intercalary International,’ she says, meaning the track.

  ‘How do you know?’ I say. ‘It’s not open to outsiders.’

  That came out the wrong way. I wish I could be relaxed around Portia.

  ‘I saw a photo online.
Secret Leapling website, of course.’

  I try to think of something pleasant to say. ‘Are you running today?’

  ‘Yes, Elle. I’m doing the 100 metres. I’d normally be Under 20s but there weren’t enough of us so they lumped me in with the Veterans. I’m racing Aunt Nona. She’ll probably beat me.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘How fast can you run the 100 metres?’

  ‘14 something. Sprinting’s not really my thing. I prefer long distance but it’s too hot today. Big Ben’s very brave doing the 800.’

  What a stupid thing to say. The 800 is middle distance not LONG distance. But thankfully I don’t say anything. I just nod.

  The Under 15 boys are on the start line for the 800 metres. The starter looks like a teen himself. He’s short, wearing a black back-to-front baseball cap and matching shades that contrast with his white skin. His red blazer and white trousers are too formal for his headgear. He holds one orange starting pistol in each hand: one for the start, the other in case there’s a false start. He reminds me of someone but I can’t think who.

  ‘On your marks,’ he says in a loud voice.

  He fires the gun, the digital timer starts timing and the 800 metres gets off to a good start. I’m standing on the grass verge opposite the start so I can cheer Big Ben for the final lap. I can sense the excitement in the stadium for the first race. Most spectators are sitting under the shelter beside the home straight. I can just make out Anon, and she gives me a wave. She’s cooling herself with a mustard silk fan to match her dress.

  I know how Big Ben likes to run this distance: keeping to the back of the pack for the first 400 metres then surging forwards to take the lead down the back straight. There are ten boys in total and I notice the two Nona was speaking to earlier, blond and cornrow, are also keeping to the back. But the pace is slow, too slow for Big Ben, so he’s going to have to change tactics. He does. By the time they reach the end of the first lap, the pack has split into two groups of five and Big Ben’s at the back of the first group behind blond and cornrow.

  The bell jangles to mark the final lap!

  There’s a sudden increase in pace round the bend and as they approach the back straight, Big Ben moves to an outer lane to overtake cornrow but cornrow also moves further out, like he’s blocking. Big Ben sees the gap between blond on the inside, cornrow on the outside and accelerates to overtake between them. But as he does, both of them close the gap and jostle Big Ben hard. He falls to the ground. I gasp. He’s out of the race! The second pack are catching up.

  But Big Ben gets up immediately and begins running faster and faster until he’s again at the back of the front pack. And he doesn’t stop there. He goes super wide round the bend, overtaking blond, till he’s level with cornrow inside him, then moves into third place. Before cornrow can respond, Big Ben continues to accelerate up the home straight, inching towards the boy in second place. He doesn’t quite make it and finishes third but the stadium goes crazy. It’s only then that I realise I’ve been shouting ever since he got up from his fall. My throat is sore from cheering him on.

  Big Ben’s lying down on the track, getting his breath back. His right knee is badly grazed where he fell and he’s also been spiked. But I can see he’s happy.

  ‘2 minutes 10.437102943,’ he says, consulting his stopwatch.

  ‘You did good,’ I say.

  I don’t want to spoil his moment by saying he might have won if he hadn’t been jostled. I look across the track to see his two rivals looking over. I give them the cat’s eye and they look away. I KNOW it was deliberate but I can’t prove it. What good did it do them? The losers lost, as they deserved.

  ‘Elle Ifíè, number 12, lane 1; Mandy Jones, number 7, lane 2 . .

  The official’s reading out our lane draws for the 100 metres. My heart sinks. I HATE lane 1. It’s the inside lane next to the field events and I always find it distracting. It’s not so much the shouting when someone throws, it’s the green of the grass, the constant movement out of the corner of my eye. Your senses are heightened before a race and mine often go into overdrive. Panic begins to rise and my mouth goes dry. Ama comes over to me.

  ‘What’s up, sis?’

  ‘I hate lane 1.’

  ‘Then swap with me. I’m in lane 6.’

  ‘It’s against the rules!’

  ‘It’s not the Olympics. They’re scoring by vest numbers, not lanes.’

  I’m not sure what to do. I WANT to swap; it seems so easy. But anxiety roots me to the spot; pre-race nerves mixed with the bad lane draw make it hard to think clearly. Ama shrugs.

  ‘Up to you. You got ten minutes to make up your mind. But let me know. I don’t want to nail my blocks in the wrong lane.’

  At that precise moment, there’s a massive cheer from the high jump. Maria just cleared 1 metre 60! I’m pleased for Maria, it’s a PB for her, and it’s helped me make my decision. I’ll definitely be better off in lane 6, away from the field events. I tell Ama and she gives me the thumbs up.

  The whistle blows and the starter takes his place by the 100-metre start line.

  ‘On your marks . . .’

  I leap into the air, walk forwards and settle down onto the track, placing my feet in the blocks and my hands just behind the white line.

  ‘Set . . .’

  I slowly raise my body and lean back against the blocks, my heart pounding in my chest.

  BANG! My reaction time’s good! I drive out of the blocks like my life depends on it and pound down the track. Around 30 metres I’m upright and in my stride. I relax. I’m totally in the zone, my body and mind in the moment, and all that matters is the bright orange track and the two white lines that are lane 6. That’s the best thing about running: the world slips away. I’m focused, I’m fast and I’m finishing. I dip at the line, suddenly aware of a movement on my left. Someone else got there first. Ama? She should easily have won since her PB’s almost three quarters of a second faster than mine. I decelerate round the bend and turn round to see how Ama did.

  That’s when I realise something’s wrong.

  Several girls are walking off the track post-race but no Ama. I look back down to the start and see her, lying on the ground in lane 1. Poor Ama! She must have pulled a muscle at the start. That’s rare. You usually get injuries mid-race from straining too much. I run back down the track, even though you’re not supposed to. I have to help my friend.

  By the time I get there, one or two officials have beaten me to it. Ama’s face is screwed up into a ball, like she’s old and wrinkly. She’s obviously in agony. She’s holding her left calf.

  ‘Ama,’ I say, ‘don’t move. They’ll get a stretcher.’

  ‘I’ve been shot!’ she says.

  ‘What? There’s no blood.’

  She doesn’t answer. The officials are frowning. Then the truth hits me like a punch in the stomach. Ama would know if it was a pulled muscle. They happen all the time to athletes. When the starter fired the starting gun, he must have fired at lane 1 at the same time. Not to kill but to hurt. Ama and I swapped lanes. That shot was meant for me!

  Everything seems to happen in slow motion after that. Big Ben’s by my side and starts stimming because he’s so upset by what just happened but I don’t think he knows all the details yet. He was looking forward to our race as much as I was. The stretcher arrives, a person in a white coat appears out of nowhere and Ama is taken away. I start following the stretcher when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a small figure in a red blazer disappearing behind the main school building. I make my decision. Ama’s in safe hands. We need to stop the gunman!

  ‘BB,’ I say, ‘Ama’s been shot. The gunman went that way. Come on!’

  He stops stimming.

  ‘Too dangerous!’

  ‘He’s behind the school building.’

  ‘He could shoot us too.’

  ‘He COULD but . . . I think he’s escaped by leaping. Something tells me . . . BB, I need to go somewhere quiet.’

  Big B
en understands immediately. Everything’s happened so quickly on top of the adrenaline of a race and it’s too much for me to process. If I don’t get to a quiet place, I’ll go into shutdown. But the only quiet space we can think of, where no one will disturb us, is the other side of the school building.

  By the time we’ve walked to the quiet space, I feel much calmer. But as soon as we get there, I realise I’ve made a big mistake. For a split second, we’re alone. Then, in front of the school entrance, the faint outline of a short figure in a cap and blazer comes into view. The gunman obviously leapt away after the shooting but is leaping back now to finish the job. At exactly the same time, out of nowhere, a red sports car screeches to a halt in front of us and the gunman’s forced to dive sideways to avoid getting run over! It’s the Lamborghini, the same car that tried to kill US! The driver winds down the window and the back doors spring open.

  ‘Get in the car. Now!’ says a familiar voice.

  I look at Big Ben; Big Ben looks at me. We’ve got one second to make a decision. Refuse to enter the car that almost killed us two days ago and face the gunman, unarmed; or get in the car and risk a totally unknown fate.

  We get in the car.

  ‘Fasten your seatbelts,’ says Portia. ‘Flight-time!’

  Chapter 13:00

  PORTIA

  No time to process what’s happening. No time for what-big-eyes. Big Ben and I clunk-click our belts on the two back seats while the car turns left out of the school entrance and down the main road. Portia has one hand on the wheel; the other is furiously tapping into the dashboard. I look at the screen:

  MMM School: Wednesday 23 June 2049: 20:02

  Same place, same date and same time we left but 28 years ahead.

  ‘Is this your car? Why are we leaping? What’s happening?’ I say.

  ‘Hold on,’ she says. ‘I need to concentrate on take-off.’

  The main road’s empty. One minute we’re going at normal speed, the next, the car makes a roaring sound, my back’s glued to the seat then a jolt, and the wheels leave the ground! Big Ben punches the air but I feel like I left my stomach behind on the tarmac and my heart’s in danger of jumping out of my chest onto the empty front seat. I’m scared to speak in case I throw up. It takes us about a minute before we level up. The clouds are wispy and beautiful against the pale blue sky but I wish I was on the ground.