by Dale Smith
The Albino slid to the floor and didn’t move.
Leiter looked at Emily. Emily looked at Leiter.
She shivered.
Leiter’s hand went to his side, and in the moment’s silence, Emily almost heard the slick slap of blood hitting concrete. His eyes clouded, and suddenly he seemed to forget all about Emily. He turned and ran into the bunker, leaving a trail of bloodspots behind him. Emily let out a breath that seemed to freeze in the air.
Emily turned, and saw the Albino lying broken against the wall. There was no blood, but neither was there any movement. His body lay at an odd angle to his head, and Emily tried hard to remember if she had heard his neck snap. All she could hear was the dull echo of the pistol’s retort: it lay to one side, where it had fallen, cold and dead. She didn’t even think about picking it up.
‘Are you–?’ she said softly, touching the Albino’s shoulder.
There was a hiss of air, and Emily jumped back.
The Albino unfolded out of his contortion, and in a moment was sitting up with his back pressed against the wall. His pink eyes shivered for a moment, and then brought the world into focus. They found Emily almost immediately, burning as they did so. She couldn’t see any blood, but it was clear that something pained the Albino greatly.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Can I help?’
The Albino’s hand went to his side, touching something broken there. Then both hands, probing and pulling, until whatever it was came away and could be lifted clear. The Albino held it out in both hands, offering it to Emily. She reached out for it before she even released what it was. Her fingers touched it, this cold dead thing, and she looked to the Albino in confusion. She looked at her hands, and Little Honoré lying broken there.
It was obvious what had happened: as Leiter had been shot, as he’d thrown the Albino against the wall in anger and pain, the belt that had brought them here had been caught between concrete and flesh. The impact must have been massive, as it had reduced the delicate components almost to powder. They crumbled and fell through Emily’s hands like dust.
The Albino looked at her.
Little Honoré was dead.
They had no way home.
Chapter Seven
7A. 23 February 1951, 03:13
Honoré didn’t run, refusing to let himself believe that things were that urgent just yet. He sauntered, trying to convince himself that he was just out for a late night stroll. Early morning: time was slipping away from him again, morning turning to evening before jumping to morning again. It made his head ache, either that or the dull memory of cold metal pushing him through time where warm flesh should’ve been.
He told himself that he was looking for Catherine – the younger Catherine, Kate – but he didn’t call out, because the name on his lips was Emily’s.
The bunker was a warren, a single blank corridor that seemed to wind around itself in a spiral, with doors leading off it every few paces. As Honoré strolled along, he threw open every door he could find and looked in. So far, each room had been deserted, and he had left the doors open and hurried along a little faster than before. But not running: things weren’t that urgent, not yet. He would find her. No-one had to die.
That was when he opened the door on the dead body.
For one frozen moment, his brain told him it was Emily, even though the body was clearly male and far too large for her slender frame. It was Leiter, lying in a pool of blood that had leaked from a raw wound in his side. His eyes were open, staring glassily accusing into space. Honoré looked into them. He wondered how a man who was all valves and wires could bleed to death.
Two dead, Li’s report had said: a giant and a girl.
Two dead.
He knew her should find Catherine and tell her. But if he did that, she would want to go back further and wait – without Emily.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said over Leiter’s body, but wasn’t sure who he said it to.
Regarding Leiter, Honoré noticed that around his waist was wrapped a belt that looked like the twin of Catherine’s: another Little Emily. It might even be the same one, lying here awaiting its fate. With it, Honoré could escape any time he needed to, slipping away into time without Catherine, without Emily. He knew he wouldn’t do it, couldn’t leave them knowing what was coming, but if anything happened to Emily – if she was unconscious and unable to help him travel...
‘I’m sorry,’ Honoré said again.
He lifted Leiter’s body as best he could, getting his arms under his shoulders and trying to hold the corpse with his elbows while his hands unbuckled the belt. It wasn’t easy, and by the time the belt slid from Leiter’s waist, Honoré was out of breath and sweating. He lowered the body as best he could, and tried not to think what his old minister would say about the desecration of the dearly departed.
He was definitely going to Hell. But not today.
Honoré wiped his brow, and looked down. The belt was lying on the floor, next to his wallet: it must have worked its way out of his pocket in the struggle. Both were lying in a congealing pool of Leiter’s blood. Honoré shook his head sadly.
Bending down, he pocketed his wallet and picked up the belt. It seemed to tingle with electricity as he let it dangle from his grasp. He told himself he was doing this for Emily, and buckled it around his waist. It was lucky that Leiter was such a big guy, otherwise it might’ve been a tight fit. As it was, Honoré didn’t even have to take it to its last notch: he had Little Emily back, and even though it was only a surrogate, it gave him hope that soon he might have the real thing again.
He looked down one last time at Leiter, lying stretched out on his back. The giant’s blank eyes stared up accusingly. Honoré didn’t feel like apologising again, so instead he let himself out of the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed himself respectfully, before turning back to search for Emily.
‘Don’t move,’ hissed a Scottish voice by his ear.
Honoré didn’t move. His hands reached for the sky almost automatically, as if they had gotten so used to this kind of thing that they no longer even needed telling.
‘Turn around,’ the voice ordered.
Honoré did, slowly.
He found himself face to face with the Albino, pretty talkative for a mute, with a knife in one hand and his other arm wrapped in a choke hold around the neck of Catherine. No, not Catherine: Kate. You had the belt, Catherine had said, and now he did: Honoré had to resist the urge to laugh. The Albino eyed him cautiously, his knife not wavering. Kate’s eyes were wide and scared – help me, they said. The Albino was looking to Honoré’s waist.
‘Who are you?’ the Albino asked.
One more thing to take in his stride.
‘Name’s Lechasseur,’ Honoré said, as casually as he could. ‘Insurance assessor. Who’re you?’
‘Burgess. This is my place, and I didn’t ask anyone to “assess” it.’ Burgess motioned with his eyes to Little Emily. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘There was a sale on at Fortnum and Mason.’
Burgess smiled coldly. Honoré realised that not only did he have a voice, but he was missing the grey scars that had crisscrossed his face at their first meeting. Somebody had something to look forward to, if any of them actually managed to make it out of here alive.
‘Funny man,’ the Albino said coldly, flicking the point of his knife. ‘Want to see if you find this funny?’
Honoré fixed the Albino with his coldest stare.
‘I wouldn’t, if you want to live.’
The Albino laughed. It made his arm tighten on Kate’s neck, and she gave a little gasp.
‘You want to try, big man?’
Honoré didn’t move. He didn’t have time.
He wished Catherine had told him more about this.
Too late now.
‘I don’t need to,’ Hon
oré said. His voice was cold and hard. A blade. ‘In about ten minutes, this place blows up. Can you get out of here in ten minutes? Without this, I mean.’
Honoré patted the belt like a proud parent.
The Albino flicked the knife.
‘All right,’ he hissed. ‘Get us out of here.’
Honoré shook his head.
‘Not yet. There’s someone I’ve got to find first. A girl by the name of Emily Blandish. Something tells me you know where she is. You want me to get you out, you take me to her first.’
The Albino’s eyes became two cold slits.
‘How about I kill you now and take the belt for myself?’
‘If you want,’ Honoré said, coldly nonchalant. ‘I guess you must be like me, since you don’t need that other belt.’ He smiled thinly.
The knife wavered for a moment.
‘All ri –’ the Albino started to say.
He was interrupted.
Kate pushed herself forward, pulling the Albino off balance and making the knife clatter to the floor. As the Albino fell – his arm still clamped around Kate’s neck – the young woman powered forwards, her fingers grasping for Honoré’s belt. Honoré tried to move, but found the Albino falling into him.
‘No!’ he managed to say.
Then Kate’s fingers found Little Emily, and activated it.
There was a sickening lurch, and suddenly the floor fell away from underneath them. Suddenly, they were flying again.
Emily!
7B. 23 February 1951, 03:18
Emily ran with her nose almost to the floor, sniffing the way like a bloodhound, blind to anything that might be coming up ahead. The trail of thickening blood led her onwards, sometimes taunting her by disappearing altogether – only to reappear around a turning she’d previously dismissed. As she ran, she wondered if Honoré was here, running after her. She wondered if she really was going to die down here, if someone would follow her blood back to her body.
The Albino had disappeared – Emily had to check her watch to be sure how long before: blank concrete and bare bulbs were starting to erode her sense of time. He had cradled the destroyed belt in his hands for a moment, and then sprinted off into the heart of the maze. He hadn’t looked at Emily once. It had taken her a good few seconds to realise that he must be following the trail of Leiter’s blood, seeping into the dusty floor in drips and spots.
There couldn’t be long until the explosion. She wondered what the normal way out of the bunker was, for those without Little Honoré and Emily to rely on. She wondered if Honoré was looking for it, even as she searched for the Albino.
It was foolish, of course. Utterly foolish. But thinking of Honoré – of everything he must have risked just to try to keep her safe... He had told her the explosion was coming, that he didn’t know if it would kill her or not, and her first thought had been how silly it all was: how could he be worried, when she had no good reason to be underground in a bunker she knew wouldn’t be there to see the morning? What could possibly make her face that kind of danger?
Now she was here, and everything was different: she could smell the crumbling concrete, and feel the knot of tension building in her stomach. Now it was hard to imagine that she wouldn’t die here: perhaps she already had. She had only herself to blame – Honoré had offered her the simplest way to make sure that didn’t happen, and she had turned it down. All it would take was a single trip into the past, just a single little thing changed could alter all this. The thought made her heart flutter.
It seemed so easy, so tempting, and yet at the same time so repulsive – her stomach was turning just from thinking about it. If she tried to do it... Where did this come from? Was it really so bad? The fabric of time could probably survive – she’d seen things changed and the world carry on as normal. And yet...
She couldn’t escape the feeling that it was wrong, that it would lead to no good. If she let Honoré change this, then what would be next? Who would they be if they granted themselves the right of veto over history? No, they were going to have to do this the hard way. The dangerous way.
Emily asked herself just what she was doing, but that was a question that she did know the answer to: she was finding everybody who was threatened in this squalid little hole, and she was going to pull them out of the rubble alive – with Honoré’s help. Not because they were anybody special, not because history needed them any more than it needed her. Because they weren’t special, in the grand scheme of things, and if she saved them, maybe that might make her somebody special. Because maybe that might give her a memory she could cherish, and hold on to.
Emily stopped suddenly.
On the wall in front of her was a giant, red handprint.
Leiter had stumbled here, put his hand against the wall to steady himself. The amount of blood he’d lost, the distance he’d run... There was no way that the man who made that handprint was running on much further – the next turn, the one after that at most. Emily tried to catch her breath, but it was fast running away from her.
She could save them.
She turned the corner, and saw them there: Leiter was laid out neatly on his back, his remaining blood pooling around him and slowly holding him tight; the Albino was on his knees beside him, his pistol on the floor as he pulled at Leiter’s clothing. For a moment, Emily wondered what he was doing, then she realised: he was looking for Leiter’s belts. But Little Honoré and Little Emily had gone, and Leiter was just a corpse.
Emily wouldn’t be saving him now.
The Albino stood, slowly. He never stopped looking down at the body, but his hand went slowly up to touch his own throat – gently caressing it, like a lover. As Emily looked, she saw tears starting to appear in his eyes and roll down his pale cheeks to the floor. Once there, they mingled with the blood, swallowed whole.
Emily took a step forward. She wanted to say something, but nothing would come. She could barely bring herself to make the Albino aware of her existence. It would seem like an intrusion.
And then Kate appeared at the end of the corridor.
‘No,’ she said. There was flint in her voice. ‘You... no.’
Emily realised this wasn’t Kate. This was Catherine, some months older and infinitely colder. Most likely because of the Albino, and the death of the man lying at their feet.
‘No,’ Catherine said.
There was fire in her eyes now.
7C. 23 February 1951, 03:18
Catherine had left Lechasseur, and by taking the belt with her she might have condemned them both to death. But all she could think about was the memory of him in the darkened corridor, of her launching herself at him, desperate to escape. Catching the belt that he wore around his waist and activating it, jumping them all...
It was such a little thing, but she had changed it. Lechasseur would have to find her, or they’d both die. But what was death, compared with the life she’d be escaping?
All that mattered was finding –
‘No,’ she said. She could feel blood starting to pulse at the edges of her eyes. The world contracted down to a single image. ‘You... no.’
There on the floor, just as she’d imagined him. Just as she’d seen him in her dreams every night since what seemed like forever. Since this night, this moment: poor Leiter, her giant.
‘No,’ she took a breath.
This wasn’t real.
Or at least, in a few moments, it wouldn’t be: she was too late, that was clear – but she had the belt. All she needed was to find Lechasseur and go back, further back, and then this wouldn’t be real, not any more. This was just a dream, a phantasm of a dying time-stream. That was all.
Poor Leiter, lying on the floor: he was almost as pale as his killer now.
‘Leave him alone,’ she ordered.
The Albino didn’t even look at her.
He had
taken so much – the only spark in her cold, desolate life – and extinguished it for nothing more than greed. Leiter had come to her when she was only 15, barely in the grip of womanhood, and he’d shown her how the world could be so much more than the drudgery she was trapped in. Nursemaiding her sisters’ children, her own father, giving up every dream she had ever held so that they could go and live theirs: ‘Bloody stupid, you ask me’, he’d said, and flicked her nose.
He had been magnificent in life, and his memory had grown only more so in death. But how could that be Catherine’s fault, when the Albino wouldn’t let Leiter’s memory rest and fade? He was her everything now, so much so that she couldn’t even remember if he had been then or not. She had killed for him. She would die, for him. She would pull the universe apart stitch by stitch to bring him back again.
Catherine only half registered that the Albino had a pistol and that he was pointing it at her. It didn’t occur to her to move – instead, she only wondered if the mute would find some other way to warn her, or if he would just kill her in cold blood.
But if she died, she would never save Leiter.
The Albino pulled the trigger.
And Emily stepped out, swatting the pistol down with a single swipe of her hand. The pistol’s retort echoed unbearably in the corridor, and the bullet disappeared into the crumbling concrete in a puff of smoke and dust. But Emily didn’t flinch, her eyes holding the Albino. Emily Blandish, time channeller: the woman who had started all this by bringing the Albino to this place.
There was a brief scuffle, but Catherine couldn’t bring herself to watch it all that closely: Leiter was looking at her, a hint of an accusation is his cold eyes. It was only a matter of time now, before his augmented body was pulled from this ruin, before his dead brain was replaced by the Albino’s primitive calculating machine. Before he became the living dead, a cold reminder of her love’s fire. She didn’t break his stare as something clattered away around her feet, but she could guess that it was the pistol, knocked from the Albino’s grip.
