The Light Between Us

by Katie Khan

  ‘So far, so familiar,’ is all Urvisha says.

  ‘That should cover our bases. But I keep thinking about something you’ve each hinted at but don’t seem to want to talk about,’ he continues. ‘That Rosy could be … stuck, somewhere, unable to return.’

  Ayo’s mouth cinches with worry, and Thea kicks a pebble on the road.

  ‘So if you three are covering the search in the here and now,’ he says slowly, ‘how would you feel if I searched back in time?’

  They all stop walking. ‘What?’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘You can’t jump back, too—’

  Isaac holds up his hands. ‘I’m an archivist. I could search through history for any sign of Rosy. I can look for mentions of her, before she could have been known.’

  Ayo meets his gaze, and the side of her lip quirks up; on any other day, it would be a full smile. ‘And how would you do that?’

  ‘Online. Databases. Research. Archives. I do –’ he gives her an imperious look – ‘have some skills in this area.’

  Urvisha’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘And here I was, thinking you were just the—’

  ‘Pretty face?’

  ‘Vacuous cheerleader,’ she finishes.

  ‘It’s only an idea. A group of American scientists ran a jokey study some years ago where they trawled the internet for time travellers – I remember reading about it at the time. They looked for any mentions of big events, like a comet being discovered, or the Pope seceding, before they happened.’

  ‘And you think you could do the same with Rosy?’ Thea asks.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Those researchers weren’t searching for physical time travellers themselves, but traces of information left by them.’ He shrugs. ‘That sounds right up my street.’

  ‘It’s a good idea. Although –’ Thea jumps across a small stream as their walk becomes a little more like an autumnal hike – ‘non-corporeal informational remnants may not be transmittable or visible to us across spacetime.’

  Isaac looks at her blankly.

  ‘We don’t know,’ she tries again, ‘if anything we change in the past shows up in our present. That might violate the laws of physics.’

  ‘I see. So if, hypothetically speaking, I went back and murdered Hitler …’ Isaac starts, and despite the tension of their search for Rosy, all three women groan. ‘What? We’re talking about time travel – all time travel discussions get to Hitler sooner or later.’

  ‘Isaac,’ Thea pleads.

  ‘What do we want?’ Isaac parodies a rally chant. ‘Time travel. When do we want it?’

  The others look at him, awaiting the punchline with dread.

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Oh, brother,’ Urvisha mutters.

  Thea smiles quietly.

  ‘After what Hitler did to my family during the war,’ Isaac says as the sound of running water gets louder, and Thea leads the group down towards the main river, ‘he’d deserve it.’

  ‘No one would argue with that.’

  Urvisha slips a little on the bank of the River Hodder, and Isaac assists Ayo across a stile.

  ‘You’re sure you want to help with this?’ Thea says.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Because you’ve never really been on board with my time travel project before.’

  Isaac sighs. ‘No, Thea. I was always on board with the project. What I wasn’t on board with was you sacrificing everything, including decent conversation, for your single-track-mindedness over this. It was like being friends with an obsession, rather than a person.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Urvisha reasons, ‘he’s doing this to find Rosy.’

  Isaac is quiet. ‘I just want to help.’

  Thea, too, is quiet. ‘What do you need,’ she says eventually, ‘to search through time? What resources?’

  ‘Libraries. Galleries. Museums. Research hubs. I need to head down to London to renew my visa, anyway – I can start work there.’

  ‘And you’ll let us know how you get on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. It sounds, then, like we have a plan.’

  ‘Can I check something?’ Urvisha asks, as they stroll up from the river into the village and past Puddleducks, deciding to stop in for some scones. ‘Isaac’s a member of the team now, right?’

  ‘It appears so.’ He inclines his head, his tone sombre.

  Urvisha ignores him and continues speaking to Ayo and Thea. ‘Because him stepping in to help – he’s not white knighting, is he?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ he says. ‘You’re smarter than me, with more knowledge than me, and we’re working in a field where the best course of action is to follow your lead. I’m lending a skill to a search party, that’s all. Rosy’s my friend, too.’

  His last words hang over them, the weight of her absence oppressive. They grab some food from the tearoom and head back to the farm, each with their individual task to undertake in the vain hope of finding Rosy, alive and well. Hopefully with a lively tale to tell about where she’s been – the alternative is too bleak even to consider.

  Nine

  Though she has become accustomed to the others’ noise and camaraderie, Thea quickly adjusts to living with only the ghosts on the farm again. And it means the others won’t witness what she’s trying to accomplish.

  She has a secret project.

  Terrified her kindest friend may never return, despite their extensive search, Thea has decided their plan has a flaw. (A plan split into four, which isn’t a number she particularly likes.) Thea knows sometimes the best way to find something is to retrace the steps you took before it was lost.

  So she’s using the opportunity to revisit the experiment.

  The group stay in touch constantly, sharing updates and having catch-up calls after each member has tried to find Rosy in their respective places. To allow them to all speak at once, they try a mix of video calls over the internet, and conference calls which they dial into the old-fashioned, corporate way. On the first video call they join haphazardly, two from mobile phones and two on laptops and desktops, their faces rendered in varying numbers of pixels. Ayo sits at a formal walnut desk, her young child on her lap as he snoozes.

  ‘Did anyone find anything?’ Thea asks from her farmhouse bedroom, the internet connection occasionally fragmenting her image. ‘Any sign of Rosy?’

  Ayo had visited Rosy’s accommodation in Oxford, a neat townhouse on the edge of the city that Ayo suspected was owned by the de Glanville family. There was no answer when she rang the bell.

  Playing up to the detective role they’d all been assigned, Ayo looked through the letterbox, spying a pile of post on the mat. She peered around Rosy’s well-appointed living room: the elegant cream sofas, the Moroccan rug. ‘Oh,’ Ayo breathed as she spotted a vase filled with lilies on the hall table. The flowers looked fresh …

  She needed to see them more closely. She scrabbled around on the ground for a pebble to throw, getting ready to sling it through the letterbox. But as she craned back her wrist, she hesitated, not wanting to break the pretty glass vase. What was she thinking?

  She looked again at the glass.

  There was no water in the base; the vase was totally empty. The flowers were made of silk.

  ‘Damn,’ Urvisha says, wrinkling her nose on the video call just as the screen freezes, holding her in that pose for several moments. ‘Good thought, though,’ she says grudgingly, when her image catches up with time.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ayo nods, then looks down as her sleeping child snuffles against her arm. ‘I also went to the Bodleian – chatted to a few History of Art types hanging around. Nobody has seen her – though I did find a man who’s dating Rosy and believes that she’s ghosted him.’

  Urvisha takes in a loud breath. ‘Oh, my.’ Despite herself, she starts laughing.

  ‘I know. Thought I might set him up with your dreambot, Visha.’

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Isaac asks. ‘Actually – I don�
�t want to know.’

  ‘Sorry, Isaac. Forgot about you and Rosy.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he says, somewhat uncomfortably. ‘But now it’s got a bit awkward, I’m going to go and check on a lead. Great chat, guys. Let’s do this again sometime.’

  ‘Capability Brown,’ Urvisha declares by way of introduction, when it’s her turn to update the group on an audio-only call.

  ‘What?’ Thea says, from the barn.

  ‘The de Glanville gardens were landscaped by Capability Brown. Do you know who that is?’

  ‘A … gardener?’

  ‘Yes, very good. He was only the gardener to bloody royalty,’ Urvisha says, her voice dipping in and out as she loses phone reception and regains it. ‘I Googled him. He did the gardens at Blenheim Palace and Warwick Castle in the 1700s. Imagine.’

  ‘They’ve probably handed down the family seat for years,’ Thea sniffs. She wipes her nose – the flu has subsided somewhat, leaving the remnants of a cold.

  ‘They have tennis courts,’ Urvisha says. ‘And a huge rangy lurcher dog who kept sniffing my crotch.’

  Thea’s scoff transforms into a coughing fit, disguising her laugh. ‘Any sign of Rosy?’

  Urvisha had pulled up at the gates outside the de Glanville family home near Malmesbury in the Cotswolds, marvelling at the warm yellow stone – not unlike the buildings of Oxford. Her voice had cracked as she’d spoken into an intercom box, but the tall iron gates eventually creaked open, allowing her entry into this strange world.

  Rosy’s father opened the door (she had been sure they’d have a butler) and shook her hand, beckoning her in and proffering tea.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, sitting down hard on a wooden chair she suspected was medieval, or made from the bow of a great ship. The Mayflower, perhaps.

  ‘You said you were looking for Rosalind?’ Lord de Glanville was kinder than she expected; he met her eyes straight on and his gaze didn’t wander the way busy, important people are prone to do – in search of someone more valuable, interesting or worthy of their time.

  ‘I wondered if she was here,’ Urvisha said, remembering to add: ‘She mentioned some books she needed for her thesis were back home, in your library.’

  Oh God, she thought. Please show me your library. Her nosiness was well and truly piqued as she sat on the ancient chair, sipping Earl Grey from a bone china cup.

  ‘I hope you haven’t travelled far.’ He rubbed his greying temple, a ring glinting in the light.

  ‘I was in the area,’ she lied, ‘on my way back to Oxford, so thought I’d stop in.’

  ‘I’m afraid she isn’t here.’ He smiled sadly. ‘We haven’t met many of Rosalind’s friends; she doesn’t bring anyone home with her.’

  Because she’d be judged for it, Urvisha thought – and judged incorrectly. A home like this, family wealth like this, is a leg up in the world, but Rosy’s best traits don’t come from her family or her heritage. They come entirely from her. ‘She’s a great friend,’ Urvisha said without hesitation. ‘If someone’s ill, she’s the first one there.’

  ‘That’s lovely to hear,’ the entirely unexpected man sitting opposite her said. ‘Will you tell her to ring me, when you see her? I miss my Rosy.’

  ‘So do I.’ Urvisha flailed momentarily. ‘I mean – I normally see her every day! The last few days have been quite rare. Of course I’ll tell her,’ she said kindly.

  ‘Thank you. Can I offer you anything else before you head back to Oxford?’

  Urvisha shook her head.

  ‘You know,’ Lord de Glanville said, standing, ‘Rosalind is very close to her brother, Edward. She may well be with him in London.’

  ‘Oh?’ Urvisha tried not to show her rising excitement.

  ‘He works at Sotheby’s. He was looking into getting her a job there.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Urvisha said, trying to look sincere. ‘You’re probably right – she’s probably down in London.’ The lurcher crammed its face into her lap and she laughed nervously, pushing the dog away and disguising it with much patting. ‘Good boy,’ was all she said, working out when she’d be able to get down to Sotheby’s to scope it out.

  ‘No news, then, but some news,’ Ayo says on the group catch-up, the timbre of her voice tinny as she tries to make the best of it.

  ‘I know,’ Urvisha says, ‘a mixed bag. This detective lark is hard.’

  But they’re all feeling the sinking sensation of failure, as they’re no closer to finding Rosalind. It’s been three days.

  ‘I can save you a trip to London. I’ll go and meet with Edward de Glanville at Sotheby’s,’ Isaac says, his voice unexpectedly loud and booming.

  ‘That would be great,’ Thea says. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘I’ll let you know on our next call. Sport, lacrosse and Rosy’s hobbies have all been dead ends,’ he says. ‘I’m moving on to her family history. What you said about Capability Brown and the family seat was interesting – that time period could be a good starting point.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Ayo says. ‘Wait a minute. Do you think she could have gone back that far?’

  ‘I have to start somewhere,’ Isaac says, reasonably.

  Urvisha snorts. ‘But Isaac, Rosy only went back five minutes during the first jump.’

  ‘Yes, but look at the power outage it caused,’ he says. ‘Your first attempt was campus-wide; when Rosy disappeared, it was nationwide.’

  They let that sink in.

  ‘Thea?’ Urvisha says. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m only surprised,’ she says slowly, ‘that Isaac didn’t start with the Nazis. You’re right,’ she says to him, ‘you have to start somewhere, and family history is a good shout.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Isaac says. ‘Because if I got stuck somewhere in time, the first thing I would do is track down my relatives.’

  There’s a noticeable silence on the line as Thea doesn’t answer.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Urvisha says, filling the gap. ‘Like Thea said – good shout.’

  ‘Let us know how you go,’ Ayo says. ‘I’m going to head back to yours tomorrow, Thea – if you don’t mind. I feel useless in Oxford – I’d like to help you with the science.’

  Urvisha huffs. ‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet.’

  Thea is out in the barn, after the call, when Isaac messages her. She checks her phone, wondering if it’s a group text – it’s not.

  Do I need to say sorry? Isaac has written. Feel like I do.

  What for? she types one-handed with her thumb, shifting the prism into her other hand.

  Being blasé, talking about relatives. Didn’t mean to be insensitive, he writes back.

  She’d felt the familiar freeze when people spoke about their families. She’s felt the same when people have talked about Christmas at home, or Mother’s Day; that sort of wrongly inclusive chat which presumes everyone is like you, that everybody has the same home life.

  I’m not THAT sensitive, she types, dismissing it. You’re fine.

  I’m sorry, Isaac writes anyway, and the lack of emojis and any fun punctuation makes her think his tone might be serious.

  I don’t have any family, she puts, deleting and retyping the last character three times – causing her to nearly drop the phone. She sets the prism down and grasps the phone properly. I’ve confronted my ghosts. There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.

  He doesn’t reply for a minute. Want me to come back?

  Here? No – it’s fine. I’m fine.

  Damn. I wanted to get more of those scones from Puddleducks, he writes, and she sends the pig emoji.

  Pig. Do you know Dunsop Bridge isn’t even the true centre of the country?

  Sacrilege! I bought the tea towel and everything. He sends a photo of him holding up a Dunsop Bridge tea towel, beaming, a foreign kitchen in London gleaming behind him in brilliant gloss white.

  She steps inside the glass house, pulling the door shut. The true centre is Whitendale Hanging Stone
s, 4 miles away, she tells him. Creepy place.

  Standing stones usually are. There’s a pause as Isaac types – she may be imagining it, but the pause seems longer than usual. Like gravestones, aren’t they? he writes eventually.

  Perhaps she should build a seat inside the cubicle, out of glass. It could fold out, like a little stool.

  They’re … meditative, she replies, praying she won’t be crossing a line for Isaac, as she understands now that he was probably trying not to cross it for her: Like the Holocaust Memorial.

  Been there, have you? His tone is easy, and she’s relieved. Tourists taking photos, posing on top of those big grey blocks, posting them to Instagram with #culturevultures #holocaust. Not for me.

  We make our own memorials, she writes. From memories.

  Or out of prismatic glass.

  She looks around at the glass house, her life’s work, wondering if maybe he’s right. How are you getting on with the great search back through time? she writes.

  Tricky, he types, before a lengthier message, which takes some time to appear on her screen. It’s hard looking for people before they could have been known. Not just the person: cultural markers made by the person.

  Like what?

  Tell you more later. I’m off out in a sec – following another lead. Sure you’re okay?

  She signs off with a thumbs-up, already hating herself for the lazy reliance on a graphic that could never accurately sum up the depth of her feelings.

  On the one hand, she’s worried Rosy is never coming back. Which would be her fault. She’s sick with guilt. And on top of that, she’d have been wrong all this time. The thought makes her numb.

  But she’s also excited Rosy is missing, because then she’d have been right.

  Most of all she feels the conflict between both, a strange sensation that mostly results in a roiling stomach.

  ‘Oh, hell.’

  Thea’s voice bounces off the glass door opposite her, making a small echo. She steps out, focusing her attention on the array of prisms on the workbench. If Rosy is lost, could it be because Thea didn’t use the right prism? And if so, what would the right prism look like?