The Trouble With Time

by Lexi Revellian

  For the last year or two, he had taken to foraging further afield.

  On this sweltering June day he had gone fishing in the Regents Canal. While waiting for the float to bob he was doing his best to wash himself and his underwear, an unsatisfactory process without soap, but pleasantly cooling. After ten minutes he levered himself out of the canal and draped his ragged boxers over a shrub to dry. He checked his fishing line and chucked a few more worms in the water.

  He had taught himself to fish by trial and error, having no experience of it in his former life. At first he had thought fishing in the abundance of nearby ponds might be easier than trapping rabbits. It was certainly easier than attempting to grow food, as he had later discovered – the sheer variety of pests and blight you could attract with one small vegetable patch had to be seen to be believed. There were plenty of fish swimming about wherever water had gathered, lots of different types he could not identify, all presumably edible. Lacking rod or line, he had attempted to catch them with his hands. The fish were too quick and slippery for him, even in shallow water; he wasted many hours in futile pursuit. Discouraged, cold, his clothes never dry and with each passing day shorter and colder, he had focused his efforts on the rabbits.

  He would never forget that first winter; the bitter cold, the gnawing hunger, the constant struggle against overwhelming odds, the loneliness, depression and sense of loss. Bottles of wine and spirits had survived better than almost everything else, and huddled in an indestructible orange nylon quilt each night, shaking with cold, Jace drank to drown out the silence. But after a while he knew he had to stop. His determination not to be beaten mattered to him more than temporary alcoholic escape. He imagined Quinn finding him a bleary-eyed drunken wreck, and putting him down with contempt. Hate was a big motivator to survive.

  The next spring he’d got lucky scavenging in derelict apartments, and found a reel of nylon thread. He’d thought he was on the home stretch, and that all he needed now was hooks, which he made out of wire coat hangers bent and filed to shape. But after many hours of fruitless hanging about various pond margins, he had done some research in a tattered encyclopaedia and realized he needed a float – a cork from a wine bottle would do – plus something to weight the line. It had taken him some time to finesse the equipment to a point where he caught his first fish; but time was something he had plenty of.

  These days he was quite good at fishing and if the weather was fine, enjoyed it. The biggest fish lived in the canal.

  Seeing the float dip, he tugged the line smoothly towards him, feeling something resisting; then he saw his catch beneath the water and flipped it on to the bank. The fish struggled against the air, twisting silver and white with orange fins. He killed it quickly with a blow to the head from the heavy stick he kept for that purpose. The fish wasn’t all that big, about eight inches long, and he needed more. He set the line again, and sprawled idle and naked on the warm stone, reading in a desultory fashion, one eye on the float, until the heat got too much and he moved into dappled shade. He had hacked his beard as short as he could for summer, but it still made him hot. Bees hummed on the flowers, loud in the silence, and he glanced up to see the brilliant blue flash of a kingfisher darting from the greenery. The air smelled of honeysuckle. For a moment he felt almost happy. Summer was his best time, winter a recurring ordeal he avoided thinking about. The heat made him drowsy and his eyes closed. He drifted off . . .

  He was lying in bed at home, breathing in the scent of Kayla’s hair, her warm body curled next to him . . . the alarm sounded, an insistent beep rousing him from sleep. Time to get up. Jace’s eyes opened to sunshine, blue sky and green leaves. The hard ground dug into his hip. For a moment he was disorientated, then he realized what had woken him. The locator round his neck had gone off. He sat up with a jolt and checked the distance and direction. Bunhill Fields. Shit. He jumped to his feet. Someone was about to time in, and he was the best part of a mile away, and whoever it was might go before he reached them.

  Cursing, he grabbed his britches and zipped them hastily, pulled on his boots, abandoned everything else and set off at a run for Bunhill Fields, hope and fear raging inside him. Though he’d cleared a pathway to the canal, its surface was uneven, tangled with roots and debris. Jace hurtled down the rough track, preferring to chance a broken ankle or an encounter with a lion, rather than risk missing whoever had timed in. He did not slacken speed, sweat stinging his eyes and running down his chest, until he reached City Road. Near the big gates he slowed to get his breath and see who – if anyone – was there, before they saw him. Quinn would have a gun, and use it. If Quinn was there, Jace needed to take him by surprise. If Quinn was there, Jace was going to kill him.

  Floss, dressed for April in her smart wool blend trousers, was too hot. She tied up her hair to get it off her neck, and took off her boots and socks. Ryker wandered over to one of the tanks, and splashed his face with water. A black tomcat emerged from the undergrowth and stared at Floss as if he’d never seen a human female before. He probably hadn’t. She held out her hand. “Who’s a beautiful pusscat, then?” After considering this compliment carefully, the cat walked warily towards her. “Come on, I won’t hurt you . . .”

  Floss glanced up to see a man approaching. She jumped to her feet and the cat shot off.

  The man was instantly recognizable from the photos as Jace; which was not to say he had not changed. He wore only britches and boots, both dirty and the worse for wear; he was sunburnt and sweaty, lean and broad-shouldered, with well-defined muscles. He had a rough short beard and long shaggy hair. As he got nearer she saw his face was different from the photos. Older, of course, and leaner, but also harder somehow; the ready smile was missing. He looked wary and self-contained and his expression gave nothing away as he glanced at Ryker, then around the Fields and back to Floss.

  One thing had not changed. He was still hot.

  Floss felt herself blush like some silly teenage fan meeting her idol in the flesh. Not that she was infatuated with him . . . it was just that she had thought him dead, and now here he was. A confusing situation. Anyone would be a bit emotional. She said, “Jace Carnady?”

  “Yeah. Are you two on your own?” His voice was low, with a rough, husky edge to it, as if he hadn’t used it for a while.

  “Yes. I’m Floss. Floss Dryden. We came to rescue you.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I read Quinn’s diary. Ryker broke into his flat. Quinn said he brought you to London in the future and left you tied up, but didn’t say when. We thought we’d have to catch you before you died, and that might only be hours or days. Needle in a haystack stuff. But you must have escaped . . .” He just stood, listening to her. Her voice trailed off. Shut up Floss, you’re babbling. He knows he escaped.

  “I’ve been here five years,” he said bleakly.

  “I’m sorry.” Shouldn’t he be thanking us? He doesn’t seem very grateful. She shot a quick look at Ryker. “We tried five years ago, but you weren’t here. June 1st.”

  “Quinn dumped me late summer that year.”

  “Ah. We could go back five years and pick you up then if you like.”

  Jace stepped towards her and said, “No! Don’t go.” He took a breath and said more slowly, “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

  “You’re sure? Because it would be no trouble, we could just –”

  “I’m sure.” He turned to Ryker. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank Floss. It was her idea. I said, what d’you want to do that for? He’s a time cop. Leave him where he is.”

  Jace smiled at her with reserve, and the contrast with his happy smiles in the photos made her want to cry. “Thank you.” He said to Ryker, “Is that Quinn’s TiTrav?”

  “Nah. Used to be. It’s ours now. Where can we take you?”

  Jace thought. “Take me back to just after Quinn dumped me. I’m going to expose him to IEMA.”

  Floss said, “I don�
��t think you can do that. We came from 2050. If you go back to 2045 and get Quinn flung into jail, he won’t get me abducted from 2015 – that’s my home time – so I won’t be able to come and get you, and it’ll set up some illogical time loop or something. Like the grandfather paradox.”

  Jace growled, “You’re right. So what it comes down to is I’ve lost five years in my own time and I can’t get them back.”

  “Yup,” said Ryker. “Think of it like you’ve done five years in clink. Only with no visitors.”

  Floss said, “Basically, we can only take you back to some time in the last three weeks. The last three weeks in the time we just came from, that is. Between the 21st March and 14th April 2050.”

  Jace digested this. “What happened about the stolen TiTrav? I got the blame, right?”

  “Yes. You’re on the Most Wanted list for timecrime. A reward and everything.”

  “What about Quinn? Is he still running Timecrime?”

  “No, he’s Chief of Intelligence.”

  Jace’s frown deepened. He turned to Ryker. “To take Quinn down I’ll need fake ID, a chip and a phone.”

  Ryker said, “I got contacts who could help you, if you’ve got the dosh.”

  Jace’s face was blank. How could he have any money? Floss thought of the almost untouched £500,000 IEMA had given her, sitting in her bank account in 2050; but knew it would be madness to attempt to retrieve it. She said to Ryker, “We could use the TiTrav to win the lottery.”

  Ryker looked at her the way he had when she suggested he dress up as Darth Vader. “We? You’re on the run, and as soon as IEMA notices I won the lottery – and you may not know, but they do automatic checks on all big lottery winners – I’d be screwed. It’d be, Go directly to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.”

  “I could do it in my own time. You’re going to lend me the TiTrav anyway. I could buy gold bars or something with the money, and bring them back to 2050. Jace could stay with you while he sorts himself out.”

  Ryker shook his head. “Bad idea. I’ve taken a chance as it is, nicking Quinn’s TiTrav. Wouldn’t put it past him to come sniffing round my gaff when he realizes you’ve done a runner. He finds Jace, we’re both in trouble.”

  Jace had stood and watched them during this exchange, his eyes flicking from one to the other. “It’s okay.” He looked calm and hard, as if well used to dealing with disappointment. “I can do this alone. Just take me back to my own time. I’ll cut out my chip. I’ll be all right.”

  Floss really didn’t see how he would be, an outlaw with no resources. Surely not having a chip was suspicious in itself in a society where everyone had one? If he got caught it would be his word against Quinn’s, and they’d believe Quinn, who was well-connected and part of the establishment. And Quinn was no longer guilty of owning an illegal TiTrav. There was no evidence. Jace would most likely end up in prison for his pains.

  Hesitantly, Floss said, “You could come with me to 2015, and stay at my flat for a bit, while we make you some money. If you like. It’s only small, you’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

  “Thanks.”

  She glanced at the others. “Are we off then?”

  “Hang on.” Jace went into the house and came out putting something small into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Back to the past

  Thursday, 23rd July 2015

  After dropping Ryker in his workshop, Floss and Jace set off for 2015. The Titrav refused to take them into Floss’s flat. They had to arrive outside, in a quiet street round the back. When Jace followed Floss through the duck-egg blue front door and looked around him, he could see why. It was tiny; nowhere was there the 6 by 6 by 8 foot space a TiTrav needed to time in. This was good, meaning as long as they were there, there was no way they could be unexpectedly joined by an unwelcome time travelling guest.

  Evening sun streamed through a dormer window into an L-shaped studio flat, with a double bed in the short part of the L. The ceilings sloped. The kitchen was in the corner beside the entrance to the flat. Another door was open, showing a bathroom with a skylight. The flat was decorated in black, blue and white, and though compact had an idiosyncratic appeal. Floss was looking around and beaming, clearly thrilled to be back home. She switched on an old-fashioned laptop and checked the date, got a greyish long dress out of her bag and hung it in the fitted wardrobe next to the bed, then turned to him. He could see his presence alone with her made her shy and she was trying not to show it.

  “We ought to get you some clothes. Fancy a trip to Primark? They’re open till nine.”

  “That’s a clothes shop?” Jace frowned. “I haven’t got any money.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll treat you.”

  Jace wasn’t having that. He got the small rusty tobacco tin out of his pocket and carefully removed the lid. Light sparkled and flashed; the tin was half full of loose diamonds, interspersed with a few rings.

  Floss’s eye widened. “Wow.”

  “I got them in Hatton Garden.” After he’d learned how to stay alive, and before he’d despaired of rescue. “Choose something.”

  “You really don’t have to . . . any one of those must be worth thousands. Primark’s cheap.”

  He picked out a diamond solitaire ring, and held it out towards her. “Take it.”

  After a moment, Floss took the ring and found a finger it fitted on her right hand. The diamond flashed in the sunlight. “Cool. Thank you.” She went to the window and peered down at the street, her expression anxious. “I think we should use the TiTrav. I’m a bit worried IEMA might be waiting outside to get me back.”

  “I’d like a bath first.”

  She nodded, went into the bathroom and turned on the bath taps, then got a towel out of a drawer and handed it to him before closing the door and leaving him to it. He stripped and lowered himself into the hot water, smiling with pure pleasure. Only the most upmarket apartments had soaking baths this length in his own time; space was at a premium, and showers took up less. Through the wall he could hear Floss on the phone, sounding happy.

  He reached for the soap to scrub away the dirt of years. This done, the water was beige and scummy, so he pulled the plug, ran a second bath and washed again. Once out he cleaned the ring of grime from round the bath, then found a disposable razor in a mirrored cabinet and shaved. His face was leaner, older, and grimmer than the last time he’d looked in a mirror five years before. Maybe he should have let the girl go away and pick him up soon after he’d been dumped in future London, before his hopes and ideals had flaked and rusted away. His nerve had failed; he hadn’t been able to face the chance of something preventing her coming back; the possibility of his life going on with the knowledge he’d had an opportunity of escape, and turned it down. This was better.

  He put on his grimy britches with distaste. They were filthy, but he had not realized while wearing them year after year, day and night, quite how much they stank. Gutting fish and butchering rabbits was a messy business. Back in 2180, he had been unable to find any garments not already in an advanced state of disintegration. Even clothes he had found stacked in boxes, individually plastic-wrapped, fell apart at the creases as he ripped open their ancient packaging. The aging remnants of humanity had no doubt relied on foraging as the population dwindled; he doubted anything had been manufactured for fifty years or more. Since then, time, damp, light, heat, cold, rodents, moth and mould had done their worst.

  After a last critical glance in the mirror, he went to find the girl.

  She looked up from her laptop. “Wow. You look . . . several shades lighter.” She handed him an oversized black sweater, still staring. “This is the only thing I’ve got that might fit you. A bare chest would attract attention.”

  He pulled it over his head. On him it was a snug fit. “I need you to cut my hair.”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  She sat him at a narrow desk in front of a mirror. He regarded his reflect
ion disapprovingly; the sweater made him look like a male ballet dancer at rehearsal. She had crossed to the kitchen and came back with scissors.

  “How short do you want it?”

  “Just shorter.”

  Floss didn’t say anything for a while, combing and snipping carefully, studying the result in the mirror as she worked. She wasn’t doing a bad job.

  “You’re not a hairdresser, are you?”

  She laughed. “No. I used to cut my boyfriend’s hair at uni.”

  Now she was back in her own time and had rung her mother (who told her she and Ryker had just left her flat) and Chris to say she couldn’t meet her that evening, Floss felt like dancing about; hugely relieved, triumphant and in celebratory mood. She’d done it, got back to her own time, a mammoth achievement; she just had to sort Jace out, and be a bit wary of IEMA for a while – her mother had reminded her of this at least three times on the phone – then she could get on with her proper life.

  Before they went shopping, they took turns to cut out each other’s chip. Hers came out easily, if painfully; she had to dig for Jace’s. His stoicism was impressive. After that, Floss set the TiTrav to materialize one minute in the future, in a backwater the other side of Oxford Street, hoping it would be secluded. Jace had explained that, though TiTravs needed a certain space to time in, there were no restrictions on timing out. You could leave from under a bed or inside a phone box.

  Floss glanced discreetly at Jace just before they left. His trousers were filthy, threadbare and torn, and smelled rank as an uncollected rubbish bag sitting in the sun. Her black sweater with the deep V-neck looked a little odd on him. But he’d probably pass in a crowd; London was full of oddly-dressed people. She felt very aware of the ring on her finger; she seldom wore jewellery. Strange to think the craftsman who made it had been dead for half a century . . . or looking at it another way, had not yet been born.