The Trouble With Time

by Lexi Revellian

  She was going to go home.

  CHAPTER 12

  The answer to the right question

  Finding her route to Islington wasn’t too hard; the roads were still recognizable, even though their surfaces were breaking up and well on their way to becoming linear forests. Floss only got lost once, in an area with new unfamiliar buildings. She kept a wary eye out for carnivores, but didn’t see anything larger than a fox trotting along the pavement. Cats stared at her but wouldn’t come near. A small herd of deer had taken possession of Shoreditch Park, which had changed very little. Floss remembered reading that tree seedlings won’t grow where deer browse.

  On the way, she climbed twenty flights of stairs in one of the more robust-looking skyscrapers, and from there she could see that the desolation spread to the misty horizon. No light, no fires, no movement, no aeroplanes. The view had a strange beauty, with trees flourishing in all the spaces between the buildings. There were more tall office blocks than she remembered. The city looked to have been abandoned for a long, long time. Something catastrophic had happened here, and Floss couldn’t work out what. Nothing seemed to add up.

  It wasn’t until she got to her street, a Victorian terrace facing a main road and backing on to the railway, that she fully acknowledged the futility of her journey. Doggedly, she worked out which was number eleven, and stood gazing at the house where her tiny attic studio had been. Most of its stucco had fallen off, and buddleia stems thrust out of the windows. The remaining portion of roof sagged, and a sycamore grew through what had once been her flat. She stood, staring, heart pounding, more alone than she’d ever been in her life. The longer she looked, the more panicky she became.

  Floss walked up the steps to the front door, part of her hoping a miracle would happen if she stood on the spot she’d been transported from. The door’s wood was warped and paintless, with only two panels in place. She pushed the edge, and what was left disintegrated and creaked wearily to the floor in a puff of dust. Inside was worse than outside. Fallen masonry, plaster and timber covered the floors, and furniture rotted where it stood, legs giving way, fabric frail and split with age, splotched with bird droppings. Books decayed on their shelves. In the rooms open to the sky, nettles flourished waist high, and birds, ants and spiders had moved in.

  Floss wept.

  The sky grew darker, and eventually hunger and cold drove her back the way she had come. There was nowhere else to go.

  When Floss climbed back over Bunhill Fields’ gate and headed towards the man’s house it was 8.45 by her watch, and dark. The clouds had cleared and a huge moon shone above the trees. She’d been gone two and a half hours.

  The yellow glow of candlelight glinted through the few non-boarded up panes. Floss approached cautiously, picking her way between stacked junk surrounding the building. A pipe sticking out from a galvanized water tank caught her shin painfully, tearing her jeans and drawing blood. She tiptoed to the window and peered in, grasping the tang of the knife she’d found in a ruined kitchen. Its handle had decayed to dust, the steel’s surface was brown and pitted, but she had spent half an hour whetting the edge on a wall to a ragged sharpness. Floss was not under the illusion that this would even the odds should the tramp attack her, but she was a believer in doing what you could.

  The man was sitting at a table, eating by the light of an elaborate seven branch candelabra, reading a book. Like everywhere else she had seen, the room was derelict, but it had been swept clean, and flames flickered in a square stove whose pipe went vertically through the roof. Beside the stove, wood was stacked to the ceiling. The room’s bareness and lack of personal possessions gave the place a curiously medieval atmosphere like a monk’s cell, dedicated to contemplation. A plank supported on bricks held an orderly row of rusty tools, several knives all bigger than hers, some convex lenses, a row of church candles and a dead rabbit. Strings of onions hung from hooks. A narrow metal bedstead with a sagging mattress, yellowed duvet and grubby blankets stood in one corner, with a pile of books on the floor next to it. Drips plopped from the ceiling into a metal bucket.

  The man looked up and saw her. She jumped backwards, feeling foolish. The door opened and he stood silhouetted on the threshold.

  “Thought you’d be back. You look freezing. Come in.”

  She followed him inside, cautiously, not sure what to expect. The air seemed warm compared to outside and smelled of damp plaster and wood smoke. He fetched a padded jacket from the bed and handed it to her. It was clean, nearly new. Only after she’d gratefully put the jacket on did she realize where it came from, and wondered what he had done with the corpse. On the table was a small pile of items, the contents of someone’s pockets; a penknife, a bunch of keys, a neat electronic gadget she couldn’t identify, a man’s metal cuff. She took off a sandal and rubbed her chilly toes, keeping a wary eye on the man who was doing something by the stove. He came back with a steaming dish in his hand which he pushed towards her.

  Floss’s mouth watered. “What is it?”

  “Rabbit stew.”

  The stew wasn’t bad; a bit smoky and consisting mostly of rabbit meat and onions, but she spooned it up eagerly. He poured wine into a smeary glass for her. It was so smooth and delicious, she reached for the bottle to view its label: Château Mouton Rothschild 2011. Food and drink made her feel more able to cope with the situation, whatever it was. She smiled nervously at the man, raising her glass.

  “Cheers. I ought to introduce myself. I’m Floss. Floss Dryden.” She nearly held out her hand, but thought better of it. His were no doubt filthy. And he was a killer. “Who are you?”

  “Jace Carnady.”

  She decided it would be best not to ask him straight away why he had killed her abductor. Or how he’d seemed to be waiting for him. Instead she asked the question that had been vaguely niggling her all the time she’d been exploring. “You know earlier, when you said I asked the wrong question? What did you mean?”

  “You asked where this is. You should have asked when.”

  “Why when?”

  “This is the future. Not sure which year, Quinn didn’t tell me. Some time after 2170.”

  A pause while Floss considered this information, sipping her wine and eyeing him uncertainly. He topped up her glass, waiting for her reaction, expression sardonic.

  “That’s crazy,” she finally said, her tone less convinced than her words. “You’re asking me to believe I’ve time travelled to the future?”

  “Nope.” He shrugged. “Your opinion is your own concern. I really don’t care what you believe.”

  “But there’s no such thing as time travel!”

  “Where do you think you are, then? Does it look like your own time? When was that, anyway?”

  “2015.” An eerie howl in the distance made Floss glance towards the window. Other howls answered it. That was either a pack of wolves, or . . . something else that made a noise exactly like a pack of wolves.

  Jace said, “Don’t worry, they can’t get over the railings. One reason I stayed here.”

  “Okay. Assuming this is the future, how did I get here, and why?”

  “Ansel Quinn – that man – brought you. Why, I don’t know. My guess is to get you out of the way.”

  “Out of the way of what, exactly?”

  “How should I know? But I can get you back home. Most likely.”

  “Can you really?” In spite of her revulsion towards a murderer, Floss couldn’t suppress her relief and gratitude. “That would be awesome!” She pictured Chris sitting in the bar, wondering what had happened to her friend, who was usually so reliable; trying to reach her on her mobile; in the end giving up and leaving. This vignette was small and distant, as if she was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. The ruined room was much more real.

  “In theory I should be able to get you back to the same minute you left. First we have to go to wherever Quinn left from.”

  “Why?”

  Jace picked up the cuff from the
pile on the table. It was stylish, made from matt silvery metal, and turned out to have a touch screen and buttons and a tiny ice-blue light that pulsed every few seconds. Near the top of the screen the metal was dented and scratched. Jace turned it in his hands, strong capable hands ingrained with dirt, the nails black-rimmed. “This is how Quinn got you here. You set the time and place, and the TiTrav does all the rest. Press these two buttons at the same time, and off you go. Anyone you’re holding on to goes with you. It seems to be working okay, though it got a bit battered in the fight. Only problem is, he’s used the limiter. It won’t go anywhere except the location and time he set.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I can’t tell where the co-ordinates are. The time’s 25th March 2050, 7.15 pm.”

  “Is 2050 your own time?”

  “I suppose it is now. I left in 2045, and I’ve been here five years.”

  “So time travel is a thing people do – will do – did do in 2045?” Time travel really messed with your tenses.

  “No. The government had it locked down. Time travel to the past’s hardly ever sanctioned. It’s just too risky. The minimum penalty for unauthorized travel to the past is fifteen years, no remission. Part of my job was tracing illegal time travel.”

  Floss considered this insight into the future, while simultaneously modifying her assessment of Jace Carnady. He was more intelligent than she’d thought, though still a killer, unpredictable and violent. Short on social niceties, too. Though she needed him, she wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of him.

  “Can’t you take the limiter off?”

  “I haven’t got the code, and I don’t want to try to get in in case I stop it working. Then we’d both be stuck here. There’s a man I know who should be able to do it, if he’s still around . . .”

  “Is that illegal?”

  Jace nodded. “And I doubt I have citizen status any more. So, d’you want to come?”

  However dodgy, criminal and uncertain his plan, whatever her abhorrence of him, this was her only chance. She said, “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “We’ll leave when you’ve finished eating . . . actually, you’re probably wasting your time eating, you’ll just throw it up again.” Jace swiped and tapped the screen, saying absently, “When you do get back, you might want to be careful, in case they send someone else after you.”

  At that moment, Floss didn’t care. She just longed to be away from here, back in her proper life, even if Jace Carnady was right and she would be at risk. She wouldn’t mind having to be careful. She put down her spoon.

  He glanced at her unfinished plate. “Are you done?”

  Floss nodded. She’d lost enthusiasm for the meal after what Jace had said about her throwing it up.

  “Then let’s go.” He took off his jacket and undid the buckle of his leather belt, threaded the belt through the cuff and fastened it again.

  “Why not put it on your wrist? Aren’t you supposed to wear it?”

  “It’s locked. I don’t have the code.”

  “So how did you get it off Quinn, then?” Pause, while Floss realized how he had got it off Quinn, and imagined him doing it. “Oh.”

  He seemed to find her revulsion faintly amusing. “At least he was dead. There are some nasty stories from the early days, when more of these were kicking around.” Jace put on his jacket and stashed the pile on the table into various pockets. He added a rusty tobacco tin from the shelf, then did a visual check of the room, apparently not finding anything else he needed to take with him. “Hold on to me. Grab my belt.”

  He put his arm around her waist. Floss tried not to breathe in the rank stench of his clothes and body.

  “I hope he set off from his apartment,” he muttered. “We don’t want to materialize into an office full of people wanting to know where Quinn is.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Back to the future

  Friday, 25th March 2050

  Jace’s plan, should they appear in the Event Modification Authority’s offices, had been simple; use Quinn’s gun to threaten the eight or so people likely to be present before they could raise the alarm, then run away. He could see there were various problems with this. Serious problems, problems that would likely result in sudden death. So it was a relief when they arrived instead in a luxury penthouse which had to belong to Quinn. Its floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic vista of City of London skyscrapers, their lights sparkling in the night.

  While the girl was spewing macerated rabbit in red wine on to the marble floor (displaying a pleasing rear view in old-fashioned tight jeans) he did a quick tour of the place to make sure it was empty, then sat at the desk. Luckily, given Jace did not know the password, Quinn had left the computer on, expecting to return immediately. “Food. French bread and cheddar. Diary.”

  “Does it ever get better?” Floss gasped, gazing up at him, her eyes huge in a white face. She was a looker, no doubt about it, even doubled up heaving her guts out.

  “Probably. There are pills you can take.” He turned back to the screen. Quinn had an appointment that evening with a woman called Jinghua. Jace went to his mail and after a bit of research cancelled it, fastidiously pastiching Quinn’s writing style: Sweetheart, something’s come up. We’re going to have to reschedule . . . Five years ago the man had been married and living in a Fulham mews; apparently he was now playing the field. Or had been. The bread and cheese arrived and he took a bite. God, that’s good. He looked up to see Floss about to clean the floor with a cloth she must have found in the kitchen.

  “Vacwash.” The machine hummed into the room, homing in on the mess, nudging Floss out of the way. She perched on the sofa arm and watched as the floor became pristine once more. The vacwash sprayed an ocean perfume and put itself away in the kitchen visible through an archway off the living room.

  “What do we do next?” she said.

  “Nothing until I’ve had a shower. Make yourself at home. If you want food or anything, tell the computer. Don’t answer the door.”

  The shower was fantastic, his first for five years. There had been no running water where he came from, unless you counted the rain. In summer he used to dip in the canal while fishing. No soap, though, or shampoo. He smiled with pure pleasure at the hot water running down his back as the shower went through the leisurely cycle he had selected.

  When he’d finished he found scissors and trimmed his beard, then used Quinn’s shaver set to stubble. Jace hadn’t liked his bearded backwoodsman look, but for anyone living rough the style had its advantages; it was effort-free and kept your neck warm.

  He walked naked through the bedroom and into the vast walk-in wardrobe. Who needed this many clothes? Quinn had been his height, luckily, and had lost some weight in the last five years, so they were much the same size. His taste wasn’t quite Jace’s, but everything was expensive, stylish and nearly new. He’d clearly done as he intended, and become obscenely rich. Bastard. Jace chose britches, a shirt and a gilet, and put them on.

  He picked up his pile of old clothes. He had not realized, while wearing them year after year, day and night, just how much they stank. After taking them to the chute, he went into the living room, carrying his own boots since Quinn’s were a size too small. He had wondered if a bit of polish would make them pass, but now that he took a good look at them, he could see they were beyond redemption.

  The girl was sitting feet up on the sofa eating the last slice of a pizza and drinking champagne, vintage music pounding, a light display pulsing. As he walked in she swung her feet to the floor, gave him a startled look, and told the computer to put on the main lights and stop the music.

  In the sudden silence she said, “Is that what people are wearing these days?”

  He glanced down. “Yes. Why? This is maybe a bit fancier than I’d choose . . .” He handed her a comb and the scissors while she stared at his altered appearance. “I need you to cut my hair.”

  “I’ll give it a go.” She swallowed the last mouth
ful of pizza. “After that we’ll go and see your friend and get me home? How short do you want it?”

  “Just shorter. I’m going to catch up with stuff first, find out what’s going on. All my information’s five years out of date.”

  “Can’t you do that after?”

  “No.”

  He pulled out a dining chair and sat in front of a long mirror. Floss combed and snipped carefully, studying the result in the mirror as she worked. He was amused to note his transformation from squalor to respectability had made her less wary of him, more relaxed. Amazing what soap, water and new clothes could do. She started to speak, stopped, paused, started again. “That man. Why did you kill him?”

  “I needed his TiTrav. His time travel device.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him. You had him overpowered. You could have just left him there.”

  “Yeah, I could. That’s what he did to me. Left me to die. After he’d handcuffed my wrists and ankles, then tied them together.”

  Jace would never forget that night. When dawn came and he finally got free, he’d realized he had another mountain to climb just to survive. It had taken him three days to trap his first rabbit, two weeks to make fire. Ravenous, disgusted, he’d had to eat the meat slimy and raw. The cold at night had made sleep impossible except in snatches interspersed with jumping about to warm up.

  “Why did he leave you to die?”

  “Because I found out he was a crook. He’d killed a man, too.”

  “Who is – was he?”

  “We worked together. He was my boss.”

  “When we arrived, you seemed to be waiting for him. You were right there, you jumped him straight away.”

  Jace almost smiled. “Ah well, he didn’t search me carefully enough. He missed a locator in my pocket. Careless, that. I’d borrowed it for the job I was working on.” From Kayla. His heart beat faster at the thought of seeing her again. “He didn’t know I’d got one. I’d forgotten myself.”