‘Well … I hung around for a while and you didn’t come back,’ said Wobbler. ‘And then—’
‘But we did! I mean, we will!’ said Kirsty.
‘This is where it gets difficult,’ said Wobbler, patiently. ‘Johnny knows. Supposing you didn’t go back? Supposing you were scared to, or you found that you couldn’t? The possibility exists, and that means the future forks off in two different ways. In one you went back, in one you didn’t. Now you’ve ended up in the future where you didn’t go back. I’ve been here since 1941. Don’t try to think too hard about this, because it’ll make your brain hurt.
‘Anyway … first I stayed with Mr and Mrs Seeley,’ he continued. ‘I’d met them that first day. Their son was away in the Navy and everyone thought I was an evacuee who was a bit daft and, what with one thing and another, there’s too much to worry about in a big war for people to ask too many questions about one fat boy. They were very nice people. They sort of … adopted me, I suppose, because their son got torpedoed. But I moved away after a few years.’
‘Why?’ said Kirsty.
‘I didn’t want to meet my own parents or anything like that,’ said Wobbler. He still seemed out of breath. ‘History is full of patches as it is, without causing any more trouble, eh? Changing my name wasn’t hard, either. In a war … well, records go missing, people get killed, everything gets shaken up. A person can duck down and pop up somewhere else as someone else. I was in the Army for a few years, after the war.’
‘You?’ said Bigmac.
‘Oh, everyone had to be. National Service, it was called. Out in Berlin. And then I came back and had to make a living. Would you like another milkshake? I personally wouldn’t, if I were you. I know how they’re made.’
‘You could’ve invented computers!’ said Bigmac.
‘Really? You think so?’ The old man laughed. ‘Who’d have listened to a boy who hadn’t even been to university? Besides … well, look at this …’
He picked up a plastic fork and tapped it on the table.
‘See this?’ he said. ‘We throw away millions of them every day. After five minutes’ use they’re in the trash, right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Kirsty. Behind Wobbler, the staff were watching nervously, like monks in some quiet monastery somewhere who’ve just had St Peter drop in for tea.
‘A hundred years ago it’d have been a marvel. And now we throw them away without a second thought. So … how do you make one?’
‘Well … you get some oil, and … I think there’s something about it in a book I’ve got—’
‘Right,’ said Wobbler, leaning back. ‘You don’t know. I don’t know, either.’
‘But I wouldn’t bother with that. I’d write science fiction,’ said Kirsty. ‘Moon landings and stuff.’
‘You probably could,’ said Wobbler. A tired expression crossed his face, and he started to pat the pockets of his coat as if looking for something. ‘But I’ve never had much of a way with words, I’m afraid. No. I opened a hamburger bar.’
Johnny looked around, and then started to grin.
‘That’s right,’ said Wobbler. ‘In 1952. I knew it all, you see. Thick shakes, Double Smashers with Cheese’n Egg, paper hats for the staff, red sauce in those little round plastic bottles that look like tomatoes … oh, yes. I had three bars in the first year, and ten the year after that. There’s thousands, now. Other people just couldn’t keep up. I knew what would work, you see. Birthday treats for the kids, the Willie Wobbler clown—’
‘Willie Wobbler?’ said Kirsty.
‘Sorry. They were more innocent times,’ said Wobbler. ‘And then I started … other things. Soft toilet paper, for a start. Honestly, the stuff they had back in the 1940s you could use as roofing felt! And when that was going well, I started to listen to people. People with bright ideas. Like “I think I could make a tape recorder really small so that people could carry it around” and I’d say “That might just catch on, you know, here’s some money to get started”. Or “You know, I think I know a way of making a machine to record television signals on tape so that people could watch them later” and I’d say “Amazing! Whatever will they think of next! Here’s some money, why don’t we form a company and build some? And while we’re about it, why don’t we see if movies can be put on these tape thingies too?”’
‘That’s dishonest,’ said Kirsty. ‘That’s cheating.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Wobbler. ‘People were amazed that I’d listen to them, because everyone else thought they were crazy. I made money, but so did they.’
‘Are you a millionaire?’ said Bigmac.
‘Oh, no. I was a millionaire back in 1955. I’m a billionaire now, I think.’ He snapped his fingers again. The chauffeur in black, who had silently appeared behind them, stepped forward.
‘I am a billionaire, aren’t I, Hickson?’
‘Yes, Sir John. Many times.’
‘Thought so. And I think I own some island somewhere. What was it called now … Tasmania, I think.’
Wobbler patted his pockets again, and finally brought out a slim silver case. He flicked it open and took out two white pills, which he swallowed. He grimaced, and sipped from his glass of water.
‘You haven’t touched your One with Everything,’ said Johnny, watching him.
‘Oh, I asked for it just to make the point,’ said Wobbler. ‘I’m not allowed to eat them. Good heavens. I have a diet. No sodium, no cholesterol, low starch, no sugar.’ He sighed. ‘Even a glass of water is probably too exciting.’
The manager of the burger bar had at last plucked up the courage to approach the table.
‘Sir John!’ he said, ‘this is a such an honour—’
‘Yes, yes, thank you, please go away, I’m talking to my friends—’ Wobbler stopped, and smiled evilly. ‘Fries all right, Bigmac? Properly crisp?’ he said. ‘What about that milkshake, Yo-less? Right sort of texture, is it?’
The boys glanced up at the manager, who suddenly looked like a man praying to the god of everyone who has to work while wearing a name-badge saying ‘My name is KEITH’.
‘Er … they’re fine,’ said Bigmac.
‘Great,’ said Yo-less.
KEITH gave them a relieved grin.
‘They’re always good,’ said Yo-less.
‘I expect,’ said Bigmac, ‘that they’ll go on being good.’
KEITH nodded hurriedly.
‘We’re gen’rally in most Saturdays,’ added Bigmac, helpfully. ‘If you want us to make sure.’
‘Thank you, Keith, you may go,’ said Wobbler. He winked at Bigmac as the man almost ran away.
‘I know I shouldn’t do it,’ he said, ‘but it’s about the only fun I get these days.’
‘Why did you come here?’ said Johnny quietly.
‘You know, I couldn’t resist doing a little checking,’ said Wobbler, ignoring him. ‘I thought it might be … interesting … to watch myself growing up. Not interfering, of course.’ He stopped smiling. ‘And then I found I wasn’t born. I’d never been born. Nor was my father. My mother lived in London and was married to someone else. That’s one thing about money. You can buy any amount of private detectives.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Kirsty. ‘You’re alive.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Wobbler. ‘I was born. In another time. In the leg of the trousers of time that we were all born in. And then I went back in time with you all, and … something went wrong. I’m not sure what. So … I had to come back the long way. You could say I had to walk home.’
‘I’m sure that’s not logical,’ said Kirsty.
Wobbler shrugged. ‘I don’t think time is all that logical,’ he said. ‘It bends itself around humans. It’s probably full of loose ends. Whoever said it shouldn’t be? Sometimes loose ends are necessary. If they weren’t, spaghetti would be merely an embarrassing experience.’ He chuckled. ‘Spoke to a lot of scientists about this. Damn fools. Idiots! Time’s in our heads. Any fool can see that—’
‘
You’re ill, aren’t you,’ said Johnny.
‘Is it obvious?’
‘You keep taking pills, and your breathing doesn’t sound right.’
Wobbler smiled again. But this time there was no humour in it.
‘I’m suffering from life,’ he said. ‘However, I’m nearly cured.’
‘Look,’ said Kirsty, in the voice of one who is trying to be reasonable against the odds, ‘we weren’t going to leave you there. We were going to go back. We will go back.’
‘Good,’ said Wobbler.
‘You don’t mind? Because surely, if we do, you won’t exist, will you?’
‘Oh, I will. Somewhere,’ said Wobbler.
‘That’s right,’ said Johnny. ‘Everything that happens … stays happened. Somewhere. There’s lots of times side by side.’
‘You always were a bit of an odd thinker,’ said Wobbler. ‘I remember that. An imagination so big it’s outside your head. Now … what was the other thing? Oh, yes. I think I have to give you this.’
The chauffeur stepped forward.
‘Er … Sir John, you know the Board did want—’
There was a blur in the air. Wobbler’s silver-headed cane hit the table so hard that Bigmac’s fries flew into the air. The crack echoed around the restaurant.
‘God damn it, man, I’m paying you, and you will do what I say! The Board can wait! I’m not dead yet! I didn’t get where I am today by listening to a lot of lawyers whining! I’m having some time off! Go away!’
Wobbler reached into his jacket and took out an envelope. He handed it to Johnny.
‘I’m not telling you to go back,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no right. I’ve had a pretty good life, one way and the other—’
‘But,’ said Johnny. Through the glass doors of the mall he could see a car and four motorcycles pull up.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Wobbler.
‘The next word you were going to say was “but”,’ said Johnny. Men were hurrying up the steps.
‘Oh, yes. But … ’ Wobbler leaned forward, and began speaking quickly. ‘If you go back, I’ve written a letter to … well, you’ll know what to do with it. I know I really shouldn’t do it, but who could pass up an opportunity like this?’
He stood up, or at least attempted to. Hickson rushed up as Wobbler caught the edge of his chair, but was waved away.
‘I never had any children,’ said Wobbler. ‘Never got married. Don’t know why, really. It just didn’t seem right.’
He leaned heavily on his stick and turned back to them.
‘I want to be young again,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
‘We were going to go back,’ said Johnny. ‘Honestly.’
‘Good. But, you see … it’s not just a case of going back. It’s going back and doing the right things.’
And then he was gone, walking heavily towards the men with the suits, who closed in behind him.
Bigmac was staring so much that a long rivulet of mustard, tomato sauce, special chilli relish and vivid green chutney had dripped out of his burger and down his sleeve without him noticing.
‘Wow,’ said Yo-less, under his breath. ‘Will we be like that one day?’
‘What? Old? Probably,’ said Johnny.
‘I just can’t get my head around old Wobbler being old,’ said Bigmac, sucking at his sleeve.
‘We’ve got to go and get him,’ said Johnny. ‘We can’t let him get …’
‘Rich?’ said Yo-less. ‘I don’t think we can do anything about the “old” bit.’
‘If we bring him back, then he – the old one – won’t exist here,’ said Kirsty.
‘No, he’ll exist in this here, but not in the other here. I don’t think he’ll be existing anywhere for very long anyway,’ said Johnny. ‘Come on.’
‘What’s in the envelope?’ said Kirsty, as they left.
Johnny was surprised. Usually she’d say some thing like ‘Let’s see what’s in this, then,’ while snatching it out of his hand.
‘It’s for Wobbler,’ said Johnny.
‘He’s written a letter to himself ? What’s he say?’
‘How do I know? I don’t open other people’s letters!’
Johnny shoved the envelope back into his inside pocket.
‘The keep-fit club should have finished by now,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
‘Wait,’ said Kirsty. ‘If we’re going back to 1941, let’s go prepared this time, shall we?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bigmac. ‘Armed.’
‘No. Properly dressed, I mean.’
Chapter 9
‘Every Little Girl …’
It was an hour later. They met behind the church, in the damp little yard where they’d left the trolley.
‘All right,’ said Kirsty. ‘Where did you get that outfit, Johnny?’
‘Grandad’s got loads of stuff in the attic. These are his old football shorts. And he always wears old pullovers, so I thought that was probably OK, too. And I’ve got my project stuff in this box in case it helps. It’s genuine 1940s. It’s what they carried gasmasks in.
‘Oh, is that what they are?’ said Bigmac. ‘I thought people had rather big Walkmans.’
‘At least take the cap off, you look like Just William,’ said Kirsty. ‘What’s this, Yo-less?’
‘Me and Bigmac went along to that theatre shop in Wallace Street,’ said Yo-less. ‘What do you think?’ he added uncertainly.
He shuffled round nervously. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, shoes with soles like two bumper cars parked side by side, and tight trousers. At least, what could be seen of the trousers looked tight.
‘Is that an overcoat?’ said Johnny critically.
‘It’s called a drape jacket,’ said Yo-less.
‘Bright red,’ said Kirsty. ‘Yes, I can see no one will notice you at all. And those trousers … you must have had to grease your feet to get them on.’
‘It looks a bit … stylish,’ said Johnny. ‘You know … jazzy.’
‘The man in the shop said it’s about right for the period,’ said Yo-less defensively.
‘You look like you’re about to play the saxophone,’ said Johnny. ‘I mean … well, I’ve never seen you looking so … you know … cool.’
‘That’s why it’s a disguise,’ said Yo-less.
Kirsty turned to Bigmac, and sighed.
‘Bigmac, why is it I get this feeling you’ve missed the point?’
‘I told him,’ said Yo-less. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’
‘The man said they wore this in 1941,’ said Bigmac defensively.
‘Yes, but don’t you think that people might notice it’s a German uniform?’
Bigmac looked panicky.
‘Is it? I thought Yo-less was trying to wind me up! I thought they had all swastikas and stuff!’
‘That’s the Gestapo. You’re dressed up like an ordinary German soldier.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s the only one they had left, it was this or chain mail!’
‘At least leave the jacket and helmet off, all right? Then it’ll probably look like any other uniform.’
‘Why’re you wearing that fur coat, Kirsty?’ said Johnny. ‘You always say that wearing the skins of dead animals is murder.’
‘Yeah, but she only says it to old ladies in fur coats,’ muttered Bigmac under his breath. ‘Bet she never says it to Hell’s Angels in leather jackets.’
‘I took some care,’ said Kirsty, ignoring him. She adjusted her hat and shoulder bag. ‘This is pretty accurate.’
‘What, even the shoulders?’
‘Yes. Shoulders were being worn wide.’
‘Do you have to go through doors sideways?’ said Yo-less.
‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’
‘What’s worrying me is when old Wobb … I mean, old old Wobbler … said we’ve got to do the right things to bring him back,’ said Yo-less. ‘What things?’
‘We’ll have to find out,’ said Johnny. ‘He didn’t say it was easy.’
‘Come on,’ said Bigmac, opening the door. ‘I miss old Wobbler.’
‘Why?’ said Kirsty.
‘’Cos I don’t throw straight.’
The keep-fit people had long ago staggered home. Johnny shoved the trolley into the middle of the floor, and stared at the sacks. Guilty was still asleep on a couple of them.
‘Er … ’ said Yo-less. ‘This isn’t magic, is it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s probably just very, very, very strange science.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Yo-less. ‘Er … what’s the difference?’
‘Who cares?’ said Kirsty. ‘Get on with it.’
Guilty started to purr.
Johnny picked up a bag. It seemed to wriggle in his grasp. With great care, he loosened the string.
And concentrated.
It was easier this time. Before, he’d just been dragged along like a cork in a current. This time he knew where he was going. He could feel the time.
Minds moved in time all the time. All the sacks did was let your body come too, just like Mrs Tachyon had said.
Years spiralled into the bag like water down a plughole. Time sucked out of the room.
And then there were the pews, and the scent of highly-polished holiness.
And Wobbler, turning around with his mouth open.
‘What—?’
‘It’s all right, it’s us,’ said Johnny.
‘Are you all right?’ said Yo-less.
Wobbler might not have been the winner of the All-Europe Uptake Speed Trials, but an expression of deep suspicion spread across his face as he looked at them.
‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘You’re all looking at me as if I’d gone weird! And what’re you all dressed up for? Why’s Bigmac wearing a German uniform?’
‘See?’ said Yo-less triumphantly. ‘I said so, and does anyone listen?’
‘We’ve just come back to fetch you,’ said Johnny. ‘There’s no problem.’
‘That’s right. No problem at all,’ said Yo-less. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Yeah, fine. Everything’s fine,’ said Bigmac. ‘Er … you’re not feeling … old, are you?’
‘What? After five minutes?’ said Wobbler.
‘I’ve brung you something,’ said Bigmac. He took a square, flat shape from his pocket. It was rather battered, but it was nevertheless the only styrofoam box currently existing on the planet.
Johnny and the Bomb Page 11
