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

by O. R. Simmonds

‘Okay, so what is it?’

  ‘You’re the keeper of the Timepiece now. I need you to take me somewhere, one last time. You grant me this request, and the key is yours.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  May 19th, 1984, 06:17

  The driver wheeled the car west through Knightsbridge and Kensington, darting through the traffic expertly, before heading south across the Hammersmith Bridge. He continued south into Barnes, then eastward down a series of narrow winding roads, which were flanked on either side by wetlands with unchecked plant and tree growth. Ducks drifted through the waters to their left, bees and dragonflies buzzed through the air above wildflowers and all manner of creatures scuttled through the tall grasses and up the thick twisted trees. The environment was in stark contrast to the bustling city they had left behind some six miles back.

  Neither Will nor Frenz had spoken a word since Madame Izri had made her request of them. The three of them sat in silence, choosing instead to gaze out at the beautiful landscape.

  After half a mile of weaving this way and that, the car came upon a set of high wooden gates. The driver barely slowed as he approached and just as it seemed as though the car was about to crash into them, they swung smoothly inwards. The gates opened to reveal a wide gravel driveway that wound its way towards a large property at the far end. Both sides were lined with large, full hedges, which eventually opened to a magnificent estate with vast green lawns and tall, imposing trees. Beyond the relatively well-tended gardens to the front of the property, overgrown lawns stretched off to the east and west, and to the north the Thames rushed past. Despite its unkempt appearance, the estate was grand and, Will sensed, full of history. A twang of sorrow struck him at that moment as he was reminded of Abigayle’s continued absence. This was another place she would have loved to see and explore.

  The car came to a stop in front of an expansive stately home, constructed from red brick and sandstone. Though impressive, the building itself appeared to be falling into disrepair. The western side of the house was almost completely covered with ivy, with many windows obscured by it entirely. Walls and fences around the perimeter had crumbled and toppled over. Bricks and mortar from the outer shell of the building had weathered and disintegrated. It was clear that – as wealthy as she appeared to be – Madame Izri was struggling to maintain the upkeep of such a substantial property. It was telling that the most well-tended part of the lands, just beyond the entrance gates, was also the only part visible to outsiders. The estate was large enough to require a full staff of possibly ten or fifteen people, but aside from the driver she seemed to have only one other permanent staff: a slow hunched woman in a dark, well-worn, long-sleeved dress who emerged from the heavy, crooked oak doors at the front of the property.

  The maid approached the passenger door of the car as it came to a stop. She pulled the door open and offered an unenthusiastic smile towards Will, who was sat closest to the door. He hesitated a moment, waiting for Madame Izri to exit the car first, but he was hurried into action when the maid snapped in a coarse Cockney tongue: ‘Come on, out! I haven’t got all day!’

  Will flinched a little, then began to clamber out, saying, ‘Okay, okay. Sorry!’

  ‘Hmph, a Yank.’ She spat the words out.

  ‘That I am. And what a pleasure it is to meet a ray of sunshine like you, ma’am,’ Will exclaimed sarcastically.

  The maid glared at Will, one eye twitching angrily as she stood holding the door open for the others.

  Madame Izri allowed Frenz to exit the car next. Once standing, he turned and offered his former boss a hand, much to the displeasure of the grumpy maid, who walked off towards the house, grumbling as she went. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting tea…’

  ‘Thank you, Frenz,’ Madame Izri said, taking his hand, ‘ever the gentleman. William, you’ll have to excuse Ms. Brockett. We don’t get too many visitors.’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s not the first time I’ve had that reaction. But please, call me Will. Before I came to London, used to be that my mother was the only one who ever called me William, I guess people on this side of the pond are more formal than back home.’

  Madame Izri said, ‘She is dead? Your mother?’ Will recoiled slightly at the bluntness of the question, something Madame Izri intuited. ‘Forgive me, William. I’m a plainspoken old French woman. Getting to the point saves so much time, which is something I’ve been sorely short of thanks to your companion Frenz here.’

  Will softened slightly and said, ‘Hey, no, it’s okay. And yes, she died. I came to London not long after the funeral. Needed to get away, I guess.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is she the reason for your interest in history?’

  ‘How did you…you know what, I don’t want to know. But yes, her and my grandfather. They were both pickers. I’m not sure if you guys have that over here in Europe, but they used to travel around looking for things of historical significance. Anything that had a good story behind it. They’d pull stuff out of barns and garages that had been forgotten and they’d give them new life. My mother had a real keen eye for that stuff.’

  ‘Losing a mother is life-altering like few other things. Now, let us get inside.’

  The three of them entered the building through a gnarled wooden door that hung crookedly in its frame. The building was of a similar state of disrepair inside as it was out. They were shown upstairs to a large open study with a frayed and worn dark green rug over timeworn wood floors. The walls were lined with family portraits and painted in luxuriant teal and deep yellows. Will reached out to touch the paint, which had a unique patina, when Madam Izri’s hand snapped around his wrist, stopping his fingertips millimetres from the wall.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Will said, embarrassed. ‘It’s pretty delicate, I guess? My mom always told me to look with my eyes and not my hands.’

  ‘These walls are almost two hundred years old and probably delicate,’ Madame Izri said, ‘but that’s not the reason for my concern. It’s the paint. To achieve these vibrant colours, they used a pigment that contains high levels of arsenic.’

  Will pursed his lips, nodded, then said, ‘Okay, looking with my eyes it is then.’

  They followed Madame Izri and sat down on elegant but not very comfortable sofas on either side of a low, glass-topped coffee table. Ms. Brockett arrived with a tray of tea shortly thereafter, before being dismissed by her employer.

  ‘Ms. Brockett, she used to be Cillian Gander’s secretary, did she not?’ Frenz asked.

  ‘She did, for her sins.’

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Madame Izri said forlornly.

  Frenz edged forwards, his elbows resting on his knees and worry lines etched deep above his thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Madame Izri, what you’re asking of us – of Will – you must realise the danger this puts us in. All of us.’

  ‘Oh of course I do, Frenz. I was Section Head for almost twenty years before you pulled your little disappearing act. I know full well the consequences of this request.’

  ‘Then why ask it of us? The moment Will uses the Timepiece, Cillian and his mob of Timekeepers will descend upon this house, take the Timepiece by force and probably kill us in the process.’

  Madame Izri dismissed Frenz’s pleas and began idly brushing small traces of lint from the arm of the sofa. ‘William, did Frenz tell you,’ she said, now looking up to meet his gaze, ‘that for six generations a member of the Izri family has held the position of Section Head at The Office of Time Dissemination?’

  Will’s eyes shifted from side to side. He couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by this woman. ‘In a manner of speaking. He told me the story about how the Timepiece was first discovered. About the three friends playing a game of cards. And that one of them was named Michel Izri.’

  ‘Yes, he was my great-great-great-grandfather. It saddens me that I will be the last to bear the Izri name at the agency, but thanks to Frenz, the agency is no more. A not altogether bad thi
ng, perhaps.’

  ‘Are you telling me they picked their leaders like the Royal Family? By birthright?’

  ‘Of course. I may be French, but the Izri family – like the Cobbs and the Wainwrights – followed the great British tradition of nepotism.’

  ‘What happened to those other families?’ Will asked.

  ‘The same that will eventually happen to me. The last of their family line died with no natural-born heir. When a Section Head reaches a certain age without an heir, they are required to personally select one – usually a trusted, capable subordinate. That person must then be ratified by a vote from all agency members. Though tradition dictated that this was usually a formality.’

  ‘So, the agency was like a constitutional monarchy, one that occasionally flirted with democracy?’ Will enquired.

  ‘That is not inaccurate,’ Madame Izri replied with a satisfied smile. ‘I suppose it is a rather outdated practice, but it is a custom that has been vehemently upheld by the most senior members of the agency for decades. For my family, it was always the first-born lady of the house who inherited the position of Section Head. Men have a tendency to be reckless and to think with their balls rather than their brain. The agency had too much power to be left solely in the hands of men.’ She smiled a mischievous smile at Will.

  She continued, her features becoming sterner: ‘That is, until my father. If you’ll allow me to tell you about him, you may better understand what I’m asking of you. Once I’ve told you my story, you can then decide whether to grant my request or not. Fair?’

  ‘Sure, that’s fair,’ Will said, glancing at Frenz for his approval. He received a curt nod in response.

  ‘Thank you. My father and mother met when she was only seventeen and he was in his thirties. This was before she had the opportunity to assume her position at the agency, of course. Our family has always had great wealth; though, as you can see, we were not always blessed with beauty.’

  Will was about to offer some kind words to the contrary, but Madame Izri held up a hand, cutting him off. ‘Please. I know what I am and what I am not. My mother was no different; she was a wonderful woman, but some might call her… homely. My father, on the other hand, was a dashing, tremendously handsome man. He could have had his pick of any woman he desired but he chose my mother. Her mother – my grandmother – was suspicious of his motives and didn’t approve of this at all. One wouldn’t call my father low-born, but he certainly had no real wealth to speak of and she could see him for what he really was: a gold digger. Despite her parents’ disapproval, my mother’s infatuation with him resulted in their marriage. I was born a year later.’

  Madame Izri paused to take a sip of her tea. Will and Frenz waited patiently for her to continue. ‘Over the early years of their marriage, my father managed to win over the rest of the family and appeared to be an honest and caring husband. He even took my mother’s family name when they married, something my grandfather approved of immensely. But he had them all fooled; my father was a wicked man.

  ‘My earliest and most enduring memory of him was from when I was three or four. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I would creep out of my room and roam the halls. One summer’s evening I came across my father. He was standing on the west balcony watching the sunset, or so I thought. Instead, his focus seemed to be on a figure who was moving towards the house through the grounds. My father had a gun with him as he often did – he rather liked to shoot foxes or rabbits or any bird that strayed into our land. He looked at this man in the same way that one might look at a rodent, and I saw him smile before he picked up the gun and without hesitating shot him dead. I saw the body the following morning through my bedroom window as they carried it away. It turned out to be a homeless man who had wandered onto the property. The authorities ruled it to be self-defence and my family’s ties to the British government through the agency saw to it that the case went away. Although at this time my father was unaware the agency even existed.’

  ‘Jesus. Did your father ever talk to you about what had happened?’ Will asked.

  ‘I never really had much of a relationship with him. When I was young, he always seemed to be out late, and I have no doubt that he was having numerous affairs behind my mother’s back. But despite all that, I had a wonderful childhood and my mother was the kindest, most loving mother a child could ever wish for. However, things changed when my grandfather was killed during the First World War. He was a high-ranking officer in the infantry and was killed by a sniper’s bullet when a rookie infantryman saluted him. My grandmother was Section Head when this happened. She was distraught and fell into a deep depression, but never shied away from her duties at the agency. A few lugubrious years later though, she too died, such was her grief. My mother was immediately instated as the new Section Head. Of course, she’d been aware of the agency from a young age and had been groomed for this very moment. She, like myself, never attended traditional school. Instead, we had private, home tutoring, usually from former agency staff. When we reached the age of thirteen, we were told of the Timepiece, the agency and our future role in it. We were to speak to no one of what we were taught, including other family members. Such secrecy made for a rather lonely, friendless childhood.

  ‘My father, despite all the goodwill he’d managed to build in the family, was expressly forbidden from finding out about the agency. My mother had to keep her new role from him, but he became instantly suspicious of her increased absence. She’d told him she needed to take over the family business after her mother’s death, but he’d convinced himself that she was having an affair. Despite his own infidelity, that was something he couldn’t allow. Not because he loved my mother, but the affection of another man would endanger the lifestyle he’d become so accustomed to.

  ‘One evening he confronted my mother and at just six years old, peering through a slit in the door, I watched my father assault my mother with a belt until she would admit where she’d been going to for so many hours. This continued for weeks and the first time she told him the truth about the agency, he thought she was taking him for a fool, and he beat her further. My mother was an immensely powerful woman, but she couldn’t escape my father’s poisonous hold over her.’

  ‘Madame Izri, I’m sorry, but I have to ask, why? Why didn’t she leave him?’ Will said. ‘She was one of the most powerful people on the planet, wasn’t she?’

  ‘It is not an easy question to answer. She kept the abuse from everyone, perhaps through shame, perhaps out of a sense of duty to keep the family together, no matter the cost. But I often wondered if it was love that kept her from fighting back. It sickens me to recall the happier moments between my parents, but my father really could be a charming man when he wanted to be. For my mother and me, growing up with the sole focus on what you are one day destined to become makes for a lonely and loveless existence. I think that she craved the moments when my father would show her love and affection, whether it was real or not. And I think she clung to that feeling, knowing she may never have it again.

  ‘Over time, my father’s persistent attacks broke her will and eventually she agreed to take him to the agency and to show him the Timepiece and the power it had. My life would be forever altered from that moment on.’

  Madame Izri paused once again, taking another long sip of tea from her cup. She took a moment to compose herself, wiping some of the moisture that had pooled in her eyes as she relived those painful events from her past. Then she continued, ‘From the moment that my father discovered the existence of the agency, he realised that my mother’s wealth was not in the money she had but in the power that the Timepiece could give him. I was only six, but I could sense a change in the way he talked and the way he moved about the house. He began playing the part of willing househusband and did something that I’d never experienced in my six years on this earth: he began eating dinner with us as a family. As a child there was no way of me knowing what was really happening.

  ‘He administered the poison to m
y mother slowly, over seven or eight months, I think. She was eventually forced into constant bed rest, and in the last few months she’d become delirious and often experienced hallucinations and spoke of strange visions, often becoming violent. He took advantage of my mother’s worsening condition and, despite her obvious mental incompetence to do so, had her sign numerous orders that would see him named her heir at the agency. This wasn’t seen as especially odd by anyone since I was too young at the time to take her place, having only just turned seven, and my father was thought to have a good standing in my family. With this, he had succeeded in becoming the first male Section Head in the family since Michel Izri almost two hundred years earlier.

  ‘To make matters worse, my mother’s violent behaviour meant that I was unable to spend any time with her at all. I awoke one morning and walked to her room to see if her condition had improved only to find her room empty. I had a sudden rush of excitement: perhaps she was better and had gone for a walk in the grounds. I immediately rushed outside, where I saw a casket being loaded into the undertaker’s wagon. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother and I had spoken to each other or the last time she’d plaited my hair or pushed me on our garden swing or bathed me. But my mother was gone, and I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. My father, on the other hand, seemed happier than ever. He was finally free of her and had all her money and her power to himself. He enjoyed playing the part of grieving widower and loved the attention it brought him, but soon enough he began bringing other women home.

  ‘I quickly became a nuisance to him and a reminder of my mother and the things he’d done to get where he was. As a result, he had all the photographs of my mother and I removed from the house. They were either destroyed or put into storage. Whatever the case, I never saw them again. Whenever he had company, I was banished to the study, which is where we sit right now. He didn’t know it at the time, but this became my sanctuary, as you can see.’ She gestured to the walls all around them.