The Forebear's Candle: A time travel mystery and love story set against the intrigue of Henry Tudor's England

by Clive S. Johnson

  “Hello, lad. What’ve you been up to, then?” but the cat only pressed his purring neck against Colin’s stroking hand. Then he padded briefly, before circling a few times and contentedly curling up.

  “Doesn’t look like I’ll be going straight to bed, not with you in my lap, now does it?” and he ran his hand along the cat’s rounded back, its purr full and deep.

  And that was all it took: the soft reassurance of a contented cat. Without really thinking, Colin took out his lighter and removed one of the joss sticks from the cellophane wrapper.

  The nostalgic scent of patchouli filled the air about them, a thin thread of pale-blue smoke lazily drifting from the stick in his hand. The smoke snaked its way above Grimalkin and through the holes in the holder, leaving a ghostly trail his hand somehow seemed to follow of its own volition.

  6 Taken North

  Grimalkin twisted his head around and stared up at the joss stick as it passed over him, his Chartreuse-coloured eyes following its determined path as Colin slipped it into the holder. Then they both stared at it.

  The cat lost interest way before Colin, moaning contentedly as he stretched out. He twisted his upper body and raised his bent front paws endearingly above his chest, seeming to grin up at Colin.

  Sound eventually slipped from Colin’s open mouth, a simple “Eh?” as a raised cheek lifted one side of his lips. He snatched the joss stick out and peered at it, narrowing his eyes. Once more, he carefully inserted it into the holder, and once more both man and cat stared at it, expectantly.

  “Bugger,” Colin barely breathed.

  He lit another joss stick, but it proved no more efficacious than the first.

  “What’s wrong with it, eh, lad?” and he sat back, his body noticeably relaxing. He took out and lit a cigarette, filling his lungs with its even more settling smoke.

  It was with thoughts of times and places, of heatwaves and more youthful outlooks, each and all now consigned to an inaccessible past, that Colin eventually joined a fast-asleep Kate in bed. He lay there for some time, getting warm and wondering whether the phantasms had really happened at all, progressively doubting his own recollections.

  “They must all just have been hallucinations,” he for some reason reluctantly concluded, as he snuggled up against Kate’s warmth and finally fell asleep himself.

  The alarm startled Colin awake at seven-fifteen, the lightless curtains hinting at a clearly overcast morning. He was already up and cleaning his teeth before he remembered the previous night’s failure. He paused and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “I wonder if the joss sticks were too old,” he mused through his foam-filled mouth. “Maybe I should nip out at lunchtime and buy some fresh ones.”

  Soon finished and dressed, he rushed downstairs and into the dining room, finding a cup of tea standing on the table.

  “Your drink’s there,” Kate called from the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” and he slurped some of the scalding brew before taking it with him into the kitchen. “Morning,” and he kissed Kate’s neck as she bit into a slice of toast.

  “Good morning. So…what happened last night, then?” but he only stared at her. “I could smell the joss sticks when I came down, Colin.”

  “Oh.”

  “The ones I then noticed sticking out of the holder on the shelf in the front room.”

  “Right.”

  “So, despite not waiting until I could be with you, what more did you learn?” and Colin recoiled from the admonishing look in her eyes.

  “Er…nothing. It… It didn’t work, not that I’d actually been meaning to. It was just Grimalkin; he sort of—”

  “Twisted your arm, did he?”

  Colin drank some more of his tea, burning the roof of his mouth, then checked his watch. “Bugger; the time! Discuss it tonight, eh?” and he rushed off to find his wallet and keys.

  He finally popped back into the kitchen as he was putting on his coat. “Must dash,” and he glanced out of the window. “Looks shitty out there. You have a good day, Kate; I’ll see you tonight.”

  He was then out of the front door, swiftly through the light rain and fumbling with the driver’s door lock before finally slipping into the dry of his car.

  When he arrived at work, wet coats already hung from the backs of chairs and from coat stands tucked in between the desks in the long, wide, open-plan first-floor office. He finally dropped his own coat onto the back of his chair and flicked on his terminal before taking his mug to the brew-station. The only person there was Miguel. Now a colleague, they’d both been friends since university, Miguel still living the student lifestyle of cheap flats, plenty of ale and a good supply of dope. He was pouring boiling water into his purple-stained mug, the pungent smell of Vimto reaching Colin’s nostrils.

  “Hi,” Miguel said, in his laidback Burnley accent.

  “Morning, Miguel,” and they passed the usual pleasantries, but then Miguel glanced around, covertly, making sure no one was near before letting out a long telltale “Er” followed by his trademark “What’s-it” as he leaned in closer.

  “You’re not in need of, what’s-it, any gear, are you?” he quietly said. “It’s just—”

  “I tell you what, Miguel: I could do with a fag before I get stuck in. You coming down?” and Colin led the way to the ground floor and out through a turnstile into a covered walkway, the rain pattering depressingly on its metal roof. They rested their mugs on the glazed wall’s handrail and leant against it.

  “Er, it’s Electric Pete,” Miguel said into the chill, damp air. “He’s off on another one of his trips out of the country, so, er, what’s-it, I’ve arranged to score from Jimmy Wrigley.”

  “Jimmy Wrigley? Bloody ‘ell, Miguel, I’m amazed he’s still around. Thought he’d have been in an institution of some sort by now.”

  “No. He’s in Higher Broughton, in a flat on Great Cheetham Street. Near the park. It’s just that, well, er, what’s-it…getting to his place by bus is a real bummer. I just wondered if you needed owt, you know, and fancied—”

  “I don’t do much these days, Miguel, but…seeing you need a lift, I don’t mind running you up there. When were you planning on going?” and Miguel told him he’d arranged it for after work.

  As the day wore on into late afternoon, Colin forgot all about it, engrossed as he’d become in the design he was working on at an out-of-the-way workstation—until Miguel appeared at his side. “Ah, you’re here,” he said, the sky through the window behind him a yet darker shade of grey.

  Colin looked at his watch. “Oh, sorry, Miguel. Didn’t realise the time. Won’t be long. I’ll just finish off here and come by your desk on my way out.”

  When they left the building, Colin reckoned the rain had got even heavier, the light gloomier than was usual for a late afternoon in early May. He drove them down onto Ashton Old Road, where they joined the usual rush-hour traffic crawling into the city centre.

  “So, what’s around at the moment?” Colin asked when they soon came to a standstill.

  “Er, well, I think the, what’s-it, the Sheep-Shit’s finished, but Jimmy reckoned he could get some good Lebanese Red. I’ll see what’s doing when we get there. You still not interested?”

  The traffic moved forward a short way but again stopped, the traffic lights ahead back to red.

  “Probably not. Got the bank loan for this leeching my ‘Disposable income’,” and Colin tapped the steering wheel.

  “Well, what’s-it, there’s always cheap Moroccan around. It’s not what it used to be, but it still gives a good enough hit.”

  “Moroccan, eh?” Colin said, more to himself, something at the back of his mind beginning to stir, edging out thoughts of old joss sticks. Then a horn blared out behind, and he realised the traffic in front had moved off. Raising his hand in apology, he slammed into first and they were off again.

  By the time they got north of the city centre and into Higher Broughton the sky had gone a yet darke
r shade of grey. The backstreet where Miguel directed Colin to park glistened like oil in the car’s headlights. Miraculously, they found a space and Colin pulled in.

  “I hope we’re not that far from Jimmy’s,” he said. “I don’t want to get piss-wet-through.”

  “Ah, it’s only water, you mardy Yorkshireman,” and Miguel laughed in that avuncular belittling way he had as he got out of the car.

  He led Colin to a Victorian terrace of large, once-moneyed properties and up a short flight of stone steps to a front door, pressing one of its many doorbells. Then they both stepped back down and stood in the litter-strewn front garden, staring up through the rain at the first floor windows.

  A curtain twitched and a face briefly appeared. Presently, a dim light came through the grime of an arched window above the front door, which then swung open.

  “Hiya, Miguel,” came from the forty-watt-bulb-outlined silhouette of a short and skinny figure, the voice that of a seemingly unchanged Jimmy Wrigley. Then he vanished into the darkness as the hall light went out.

  “Hang on a sec’,” he said, before a moment later the light came back on, Jimmy now standing with his hand pressed against a timer switch. “Go on up, then, ar’kids” and Colin followed Miguel to the first floor landing.

  A bright, warming glow escaped around a partially open door, putting the landing light to such shame it went out as Jimmy got only half way up the stairs.

  “Fuck,” he gasped, clearly missing his footing, then bowled past them and into the flat. “Hey, Cheryl,” Colin heard him say as they followed him in. “Move up, flower. Make room.”

  Jimmy turned, his eyes widening at his first proper sight of Colin. “Hey, Magic! What’s up, mate? Long-time, and all that.”

  He wove his way between a huge colour television against one wall and an equally gaudily-coloured three piece suite set against the other. In the middle of the sofa lounged a girl, feet outstretched, midriff on show, eyes fixed on the television’s soundless picture.

  “Come on, Cheryl, move up,” Jimmy said to her, then directed “Sit down, ar’kids” at Colin and Miguel. “Crap day, innit? Drink, anyone? Go make us some brews, Cheryl, will you? Go on; be a love,” but the girl remained almost comatose, seemingly lip-reading what kept her glued to the screen.

  As Colin and Miguel sat either side of her, Jimmy pulled a large square pouffe from beside the sofa. He whipped off its cushioned top, revealing an Aladdin’s cave of plastics bags, Tupperware boxes, Clingfilm-wrapped blocks of dope, and a large set of scales.

  “Def’ no Sheep Shit around,” he told Miguel. “Sorry, mate, but this Red’s fucking ace; you’ll like it; just in; have a try,” and he quickly skinned up, passing the spliff to Miguel after drawing it to a raging inferno with his own single but protracted toke.

  Miguel seemed impressed, enough to ask after the price as he passed it across an unflinching Cheryl to Colin. Colin took a good toke himself then almost choked at hearing Jimmy’s response: forty-two a quarter! Shit, he thought, but prices are definitely keeping pace with inflation. Miguel ended up asking for a half, and Colin felt thankful he’d largely given up.

  “So, you after some, as well, Magic?” Jimmy asked as he cut and weighed Miguel’s.

  Colin had intended saying “No” but ended up asking if he’d any Moroccan, holding his next toke and his breath after Jimmy said he had. Twenty-five seemed a reasonable price in comparison, but Jimmy warned it wasn’t the best.

  Colin, though, wasn’t that bothered, for something else now drove his decision, or to be more precise, the thought of another but stronger Moroccan—one Arab called Jusuf.

  7 The Furtherance of Science

  The windows of Colin’s car immediately steamed up when they leapt in from their dash through the bouncing rain. Miguel wiped his face and pushed his dripping hair behind his ears before letting out a long “Yuck” of disgust.

  “Fucking ‘ell,” he exclaimed, followed by a long sighing whistle. “Jeez,” he blew in exasperation. “Where did that come from?”

  “Ah, you’re just being a nesh Lancastrian, Miguel,” Colin told him, grinning as he wiped his glasses.

  Once he’d started the car and set the heater to “Demist” Colin waited for the windscreen to clear. The rain became even heavier, drumming more insistently on the roof, the backstreet deserted.

  “Hey, but that Red’s pretty good stuff,” Miguel presently said, staring out through the rain-laced windscreen, as though seeing Valhalla.

  Colin bent to check the quarter of Moroccan in his sock—its secretion there an old habit born of hippy paranoia.

  Miguel then turned to Colin, his head tilted to one side, his brow knotted. “Magic?” he said.

  “Eh? Oh, Wrigley’s name for me. Yeah, well, it’s funny now,” and Colin remembered the old car he’d had at university. “I once went to score from him when he lived up Bury Old Road, but he didn’t have anything in. Said he could get some, though, if I had wheels and could take him; some place the other side of Manchester; turned out to be Sale. I spent the whole drive freaked out we’d get stopped, especially as he kept rolling spliffs all the way. So I drove as carefully as I’d done on my Driving Test.”

  The windscreen had by now cleared enough, so Colin pulled out of their parking space and set off, unknowingly slowly and cautiously towards Miguel’s flat in Seedley.

  “When we got to Sale,” Colin went on to say, “Wrigley turned to me, wonder in those crazed eyes of his, and said, ‘Wow, you’re a really good driver; dead smooth’. Then he took a last toke, threw the roach out of the window and told me it had been like ‘Flying ‘ere on a magic carpet, ar’kid’.”

  Miguel laughed. “Sounds like Jimmy Wrigley.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t know him that well back then. The bummer was: his contact in Sale didn’t have anything, either. Complete waste of time,” to which Miguel fell into a fit of giggles, but it could just as equally well have been the Lebanese Red.

  Having dropped Miguel off, Colin drove down through Weaste and Eccles, finally out of Salford altogether and into the leafy suburbs of Manchester. The rain never eased the once. When he got home, Kate had clearly only just got in from work. The lights were all on, her sodden umbrella standing open in the utility room, a pool of water beneath it.

  “Hiya,” he called upstairs, her reply coming from the bathroom. “Want a drink?” he asked and she shouted down that she could kill for one. Colin went to put the kettle on.

  “You’re back late. Traffic?” Kate said, rubbing her hair with a towel as she came into the kitchen.

  “You look like you got drenched.”

  “The earlier bus hadn’t come, so the shelter was full to bursting. Had to wait out in the rain for half an hour before one finally turned up.”

  He passed Kate her tea.

  “So,” she then asked, “did you book those first two weeks in August?”

  “Oh. Damn. Forgot.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t your company recently spend a shedload of money putting you all through a Time Manager course, with all its daft paraphernalia, just so you wouldn’t forget things?”

  “Yeah, but I forgot to put it in my Time Manager, didn’t I. I’ll make sure tomorrow, though. Don’t worry,” but Kate didn’t look convinced. “Oh, and I’ve had an idea about the joss stick holder.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Colin took the quarter of Moroccan out from down his sock and put it on the worktop, relating his visit to Jimmy Wrigley’s.

  “Jimmy Wrigley? Bloody ‘ell, Colin, I’m amazed he’s still around. Thought he’d have been in an institution of some sort by now.”

  Colin stared at her, open-mouthed.

  “What?”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Miguel. Weird. But no, he seemed a lot more normal than I remembered him. But then, when Miguel suggested I could get some Moroccan, it dawned on me what else there’d been in common each time—I’d always been a bit stoned.”

&nbs
p; “Hmm, sounds like a good excuse, to me.”

  “It’s a legitimate scientific procedure, Kate, I’ll have you know. There are always sacrifices to be made for the furtherance of science.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And funnily enough, it was always Moroccan; at least I think it was. Bit of an odd coincidence that, don’t you think?”

  That evening, sitting warmly before the gas fire in the front room, Colin once again stared at the joss stick holder and the pack of sticks. In one hand he held a passably well-rolled spliff, and in the other a lighter.

  “Last time was a few months back, on my birthday,” he absently reminded Kate, before lighting up and taking a long first toke. He held it for a while then took another, soon feeling dizzy. When he offered it to Kate, she shook her head.

  “Best stay straight, Colin, as your observer.”

  “Right,” he wheezed, coughing out smoke before having a drink of his coffee. “I’ll finish this spliff off then give it a go. Then we’ll see, eh?”

  “Well, one way or the other.”

  Finally stubbing the roach out in his ashtray, Colin steeled himself to light a joss stick, its trail of smoke once again snaking towards the holder. He glanced at Kate who carefully watched his every move.

  “Here we go, then,” and holding his breath, Colin slowly slid the joss stick into one of the holder’s holes.

  8 In the Land of the Gallants

  The steady approach of the Nao Providência to a quay on the larboard side met Colin’s startled gaze, from where he stared out from the quarterdeck. Sun-bleached, whitewashed buildings hemmed in the narrow harbour front, yet more rising a short way up the steep hillside beyond, all higgledy-piggledy and close-pressed. A square tower topped their reach, its lofty outline stark against an azure sky.

  Seagulls swept overhead in turning arcs, their raucous calls pointing the rhythmic chant of a team of men turning the galleon’s capstan. From this ran two ropes, each to a block slung fore and aft, their taut lengths to the quayside shortening all the while.