The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray: A thrilling new time travel adventure

by O. R. Simmonds

  Beardy John pushed the large boat away from the jetty with relative ease given the size of the vessel, and they began to slowly drift through the harbour and out to sea. As they reached the mouth of the harbour, Will looked back to shore and saw, high on the horizon, flashing blue lights moving along the main road into Ballycotton.

  * * *

  Hiring Beardy John had seemed a little too easy, and they found out why midway through the journey. As it turned out, they were crossing one of his regular fishing spots, so the two of them were quickly inducted as free deckhands to help Beardy John make his catch for the day. In total, the crossing would take almost fourteen hours. All they had in the way of food was the chocolate and salty crisps from the pub in Ballycotton. They hadn’t thought to bring any water so instead they had to survive on Beardy John’s impossibly strong coffee.

  Both Will and Frenz spent much of the journey below decks, with Frenz even suffering some of the effects of seasickness. Will had allowed Frenz to take the hammock, which swung and swayed far too much for his liking, while he took the slightly more stable pull-out sofa. Will rolled onto his side and said, ‘Hey, you asleep?’

  ‘After that coffee? No, I doubt I shall sleep for a week.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where did the Timepiece come from?’

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting question. All I can offer is an interesting story. But a story, nonetheless. The true answer, I’m afraid to say, is a little more elusive. The simple fact is, we don’t really know.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘The earliest record we have of it is from sometime in the mid-1800s. The story goes that it was won in a game of cards. An American named Alexander Cobb, a Frenchman named Michel Izri and an Englishman by the name of Warren Wainwright were lifelong friends. They were playing a game together in London, something of an annual event, when they were joined by a fourth player. This player claimed to have no money to enter the game but managed to come to an agreement with the other three to front him for the game. So, each man agreed to loan an equal share and they began to play. This mystery player soon found the other three to be no match for him, losing all of the money that had been loaned. The three men felt cheated and demanded they be compensated, even though each man had seemingly won their money back already. The mystery player then laid three identical but unusual timepieces on the table between the three men, offering each as a means of recompense. They were told that what was being offered was worth more than all the money in the world and that they must share this prize and the responsibility that came with it. This mystery figure then apparently disappeared from sight, never to be seen again.’

  ‘Did that really happen?’

  ‘No one knows. There’s no written record of the events, only hearsay and word of mouth.’

  ‘You said three timepieces. I thought this thing was one of a kind?’

  ‘It is. This is why many believe the story to be nothing more than a myth.’

  ‘Why didn’t the agency just go back and see for themselves? That’s what you were all about, right? Finding out things from the past and learning from our history.’

  ‘We tried, but we found nothing. We were never able to pin down an exact date or location, and after a while we moved on to other mysteries of our past and forgot about it. We had the Timepiece and that was all that mattered.’

  The rest of the journey passed by in silence, as both Will and Frenz, weary and in need of sleep, instead suffered through the relentless barrage of an angry sea. By the time they’d reached the shore they were broken men. Beardy John seemed completely unfazed by the whole experience, however. He had docked at the beautiful port town of Boscastle in northern Cornwall, arriving in the early hours of the morning. He weighed and unloaded his catch, taking payment in cash. He unloaded the Lambretta next, shifting it with as little difficulty as he’d stowed it, and then walked to a nearby café with his wallet significantly thicker than it had been the previous morning.

  Boscastle looked enchanting at this hour, with the sun creeping up over the horizon and catching the slate rooftops of the houses that lined the small river running through town and out to sea. The tide was high, and the village was quiet aside from the lapping waves beyond the harbour mouth and the distant bellowed laughter ringing out from the café that Beardy John had entered just moments ago. Perhaps he was regaling them with the story of the two foolish men who were ill-suited to life on the open ocean and the money he’d made from them.

  Will and Frenz gingerly pushed the Lambretta inland along the gently flowing River Valency until they came across a bed and breakfast. Although Will was eager to get moving, they decided that they ought not to attempt to confront a man like Cillian Gander in their current state. Frenz arranged the booking and paid for a room with the little remaining cash they had. Will, who was still the most wanted man in Britain at this point, slunk into the room unseen for some much-needed rest.

  They awoke later that evening refreshed but disorientated, having slept through the day and leaving their room to find the sun now setting. Their clothes were filthy from the ride from Dingle to Ballycotton and from the laboured channel crossing. They slipped into a local charity shop just as it was about to close and bought a change of clothes, dropping their soiled ones in a dustbin outside. With that done, they climbed aboard their trusty scooter, donned their helmets and goggles and set off for Barton Street, London, and the home of Cillian Gander.

  The journey north started out much the same as when they left Dingle, with painfully bumpy, unsurfaced roads. However, as they neared London, the surfaces became smoother and more manageable. Eventually, some seven hours, two refuelling stops and three toilet breaks later, they finally had Westminster in sight. They ambled slowly along Millbank. To their right, the River Thames was flowing rapidly past them at a seemingly faster rate. The poor Lambretta was low on fuel by this point and running on fumes. Frenz made a left turn, then a right, following the road around to the right until they reached Barton Street.

  They stopped some distance away from a four-storey townhouse built with dark brick. A set of steps led up to a large green front door, black iron fences topped with sharp spikes on either side of it. This was it: the home of Cillian Gander.

  Will and Frenz climbed off the Lambretta, which finally spluttered and died. Will pulled the goggles away from his face and onto the top of his helmet, then rubbed his eyes. Frenz joined him on the kerbside, keeping his helmet and goggles on for fear of being spotted. Will looked up and down the street, blinking and frowning. Frenz could see that something was troubling him. ‘William, is everything okay?’

  Will paused for a moment, gathering himself, and then said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Come on, Will, spit it out.’

  ‘I recognise this place.’

  ‘Recognise it? From where?’

  ‘The house with the green front door. I’ve been there before.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  December 23rd, 1983, 04:51

  Although the series of events that had ultimately prompted his decision wasn’t part of any kind of plan, it had always been a lifelong ambition of Will’s to travel to Europe and specifically to London. The wealth of history surrounding Europeans might be taken for granted by many, but it fascinated Will completely and he would seek out information on the history of the world wherever he could find it.

  He loved his country, but there was no escaping the fact that its history only went back so far. He’d once read about a drinkable wine that was almost as old as the US Constitution, and for most Americans the only castle they’d ever seen was made from fibreglass. What he really wanted was to walk the halls of a real castle, one made from stone and mortar, one where real kings and queens had lived and died. Places where history had been made and written in the floors and in the walls. There was something
intoxicating about the idea of seeing these buildings and relics of the past, each with their own story to tell, first-hand. That he would eventually end up witnessing history in the making was far beyond his wildest dreams.

  The first thing Will did upon arrival was to take a tour of Westminster, the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace. He could swear that he saw Prince Charles and Princess Diana walking through the gardens with Prince William in their arms at one point. It was all a dream come true to see these places in the flesh. Unfortunately, that was all the sightseeing Will had been able to afford and he found himself – three months later – out of money and facing a return home.

  Returning home was not an attractive proposition, but he’d just about managed to pick up enough side jobs to keep a roof over his head and food in his belly – but no more than that. He’d done everything from manning market stalls, digging footings for driveways to clearing and repairing gutters. He thought his fortunes had changed when he landed a job at a painting and decorating firm. They paid in cash and didn’t seem to be overly concerned with his lack of a work visa. He’d worked there for five weeks when he was given a job painting the entire ground floor of a plush townhouse in Westminster. Will got the impression that none of his colleagues particularly wanted the job, but he needed the money and had volunteered for it. He’d visited the house Monday to Friday for three weeks; each time he was shown into the house by a person who he assumed was the butler or doorman and never once did he see the owner of the house. When the work was complete, he was told that no payment would be forthcoming until the master of the house had personally approved the quality of the work.

  Under pressure from his employer, he returned to the property the following week to collect payment but found the place apparently deserted. Will had explained the situation to his boss, who didn’t seem particularly surprised by nor sympathetic to the situation. It was made clear to Will that should he not return with payment by the end of the week, then he shouldn’t return at all. So, Will had ventured to the property three times a day for the remainder of the week, every time finding the house seemingly empty. On one occasion Will saw movement at a ground-floor window, but when he rang the bell there was again no answer.

  It was the last Friday before Christmas and also his last chance to keep his London adventure alive. If he couldn’t get a face to face with the owner and get the money he was owed, then he would lose his job and have no choice but to return to the US with his tail between his legs. The thought was unbearable.

  Will had been living in a hostel in Elephant & Castle, as much for the enjoyment he got from writing the address on postcards and letters he sent to his sister as for his interest in investigating the theory behind its name in his spare time. He discovered one theory, or rather urban myth, that the name was a corruption of La Infanta de Castilla, after Catherine of Aragon, far more romantic than simply being named after a local inn.

  It was the end of the week and his last chance, so he’d been giving some careful thought to his approach and wanted to make sure all bases were covered. He’d never been able to catch the owner leaving the house; perhaps he worked in the city and left the house very early in the morning and returned late in the evening. Therefore, Will would be there early in the morning and late in the evening also. He made an effort to wake up before sunrise and head over to the address on Barton Street. He even took the step to wear his dirty overalls and to carry some painting supplies with him just in case the owner had been mistaking him for a Jehovah’s Witness in all his other attempts throughout the week. He wouldn’t be mistaken for anyone else this time.

  It would take him around thirty minutes to walk there on foot, so he left just after 4 a.m., confident that his target wouldn’t leave the house before 5 a.m. He headed west towards the river, through Lambeth and over Lambeth Bridge. He then turned north along the bank of the River Thames towards Westminster.

  He had prepared and rehearsed what he would say to the owner should they finally come face to face. He marched along the bank of the Thames running things over in his head, thinking through any excuse that the owner might have for not paying, until he was certain that he was ready for any outcome. All he needed was to catch the guy. He headed away from the river, weaving left and then right, admiring the architecture as he walked until he reached the now-familiar Barton Street. Even in the early morning light the entire street was aglow with hundreds, thousands of brilliantly festive Christmas lights and decorations. Large, sparkling banners hung between the buildings, spanning the road below. Christmas stars, stockings, bells, reindeer, snowmen and Santa Claus himself were depicted in one way or another. Lights twinkled in whites, reds and green on almost every house apart from one. Even from the end of the street he could see his destination: the house with the green door.

  This guy is a regular Scrooge, Will thought.

  As he got closer to the house, he could feel his face reddening and the anger increasing at the sense of injustice for his current situation. He tried to calm himself down and to silence the butterflies swirling in the pit of his stomach. He failed miserably and without realising had picked up his pace to the extent that he was now closer to running than walking.

  He was no more than ten metres from the house when he saw a figure turn away from the front door and proceed down the steps to the footpath. Will couldn’t tell if this person had come out of the house or was simply another visitor like him, unable to rouse anyone from inside. Whoever this person was, they moved in an elegant, almost balletic way, gliding down the steps as if they weren’t there. As the figure reached the bottom and stepped onto the footpath, they turned and came face to face with the on-rushing Will. The figure was startled by his sudden presence and let out a high-pitched yelp as they both narrowly avoided running directly into each other. It was only now that he could see, under the thick cream woollen hat and matching scarf and the sturdy upturned collar of her dark coat, a strikingly beautiful woman. The butterflies in the pit of his stomach fluttered to rise up through his chest.

  Will felt guilty immediately for rushing towards the house at such a fast pace and wouldn’t have begrudged her thinking he was an attacker of some description. He raised his hands in way of apology and said, ‘Gosh, lady, I’m so sorry!’

  The temporary look of shock on the woman’s face subsided and was replaced with a frown, which quickly turned into a thin, enquiring smile.

  Will said, ‘Entirely my fault, I’m sorry.’

  The woman continued to smile at Will, but there was something like suspicion in her eyes. Will could only smile back dimly. He’d never been a natural when it came to talking to the opposite sex, and found himself even more inept when it came to ones he found quite so exquisite. An awkward silence fell between them, both seemingly unsure what to say next. For a fleeting moment during the silence, Will thought he saw movement in the curtains from the corner of his eye. He began to look towards the house, hopeful that finally someone might be home, but quickly returned his gaze to the woman in front of him when she spoke. In an English accent, which made Will go weak at the knees, she said, ‘Okay, so what are you, some kind of magician?’ She was looking him up and down, taking in his paint-stained overalls.

  Will looked down at his soiled work clothes, mildly confused, and said, ‘What, these? Well no, I’m a painter and decorator. It’s why I’m here, actually. I painted this place’ – he gestured towards the house, jabbing the air with his thumb – ‘and the owner never paid me. He’s been dodging me for almost a week. If I don’t get the money today, I’m out of a job.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she said, still smiling.

  ‘Sure, it’s so,’ Will said, feeling a little uneasy that this woman seemed to find him so amusing. ‘Hey, do you know the guy who owns this place? I thought I saw you just come out of the house a second ago.’

  She looked coy and said, ‘I’m afraid he’s not home. Sorry.’

  ‘Dammit. That’s it, my boss is going to fire me.’

>   ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, but thanks anyway. Sorry again if I startled you.’

  ‘It’s fine, no harm done. Well, I should be going. Good luck with your boss. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time?’

  ‘That’d be swell, but that job and a plane ticket home was all I had left. So, unless you find yourself in Iowa any time soon, I’m afraid this is goodbye. Forever,’ he added theatrically.

  ‘God, are all Americans so melodramatic?’

  An uncontrollable toothy grin shot across Will’s face as she spoke. There was something in the warm, jovial tone of her voice that he found terribly disarming. He started to relax; the nerves he’d felt when he first set eyes on her had evaporated. He said, ‘Not all of us, no. I know a bunch who’d take issue with the blasphemy, though. And anyway, I wasn’t being melodramatic. I really do need this job to pay my rent. If I can’t do that, then I’ve got to go back home. But I don’t want to do that. I really do love it here.’

  ‘What do you love about London?’

  ‘Well, everything, I guess. I love the history. I love the sound and smell of the city. And I love the people.’ As he spoke those last words, he felt himself suddenly flush with colour. He attempted to rescue the conversation. ‘Well, not all of them,’ he said, gesturing towards the house with the elusive owner.

  ‘Yes, well, not all us Brits are like that, I assure you,’ she said, smiling warmly once more.

  Will cleared his throat. ‘Look, um, I’m not normally this forward, but it’s Christmas, it’s really early in the morning and it’s cold out, so what the hell.’