by Mark Morris
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MAN FROM THE FUTURE
I was sitting in Benny’s conservatory, sunlight streaming through the window. Basking in warmth, I felt relaxed, content. Suddenly aware that someone had entered the room, I looked round and smiled.
‘Hello, Daddy,’ said Kate. Her eyes, magnified by the lenses of her pink-framed spectacles, were the blue of the sky that was visible through the glass around us. When she smiled back at me her nose crinkled, reminding me of her mother.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said, and noticed she was holding something in her hand. ‘What have you got there?’
Kate raised her arm. Squatting on her palm, like a gnarled black bullfrog, was the obsidian heart. It was pulsating, throbbing.
‘Where did you get that?’ I asked.
‘From here,’ she said, using her free hand to pull open the white doctor’s coat, which I only now realised she was wearing. She showed me the dark, ragged hole in her chest.
I lurched with shock – and awoke.
For a moment the mustard-yellow walls throbbed like the heart in my dream. I heard an animal-like panting, which it took me a few seconds to realise I was making myself. My eyes flickered about the room, snagging details – the gas lamps, the row of windows, the equipment on the workbench, the stained-glass wall.
As my thoughts settled, I remembered the Surgeon looming over me, the sudden cold pain of the needle penetrating my skin. Then numbness, my anger and fear dissipating, my consciousness crumbling.
My breathing slowed, quietened; the pulsing in my eyes began to recede. I felt relieved that the dream had been nothing more than that, and also surprised to be waking up at all. As the needle had gone in I had wondered whether my life was about to end, whether I would ever again see Kate or discover the secret of the heart.
Logically I should have realised that if the Surgeon had wanted me dead, he could have killed me any time I was unconscious. But why had he injected me, put me under again? I’d already guessed I was here because he wanted information, so why didn’t he just torture me and interrogate me, get me to tell him where the heart was?
I wondered whether he would believe me when I told him that I didn’t know. And if he did believe me, would that mean my usefulness to him would be over? Not for the first time I felt despair wash over me. How the hell was I going to get out of this? Even if I could break free of these restraints, which seemed unlikely, what would I do? Where could I even begin to look for the heart? And how could I get home without it?
I gave an experimental tug on my bonds, then slumped back, defeated. It was no use. Maybe it would have been better if I had died. At least then I’d have nothing more to worry about.
My stomach started to churn as I heard footsteps approaching, and I suddenly had a desperate urge to pee. I hadn’t felt like this since my first few days and weeks in prison. I wondered now – as I had then – what was going to happen to me, how much pain I would be able to endure. To my shame I felt my bladder loosen, felt urine squirt hotly down my leg.
The door opened and a figure entered.
I had expected the Surgeon, and so gasped with relief when the newcomer turned out to be a nurse wearing a long, black, ankle-length dress beneath a white pinafore. She was somewhere in her twenties and rather stout, her lumpy, freckled face devoid of make-up. The most striking thing about her was her copper-coloured hair, which she wore pinned up beneath a white lace-edged cap. She was carrying a wooden tray on which stood a bowl of water and a neatly folded cloth. She looked so startled when she saw I was awake that she jumped, water slopping over the rim of the bowl and on to the tray.
I forced a smile, trying to put her at ease. ‘Hello,’ I said.
Clearly flustered, she took a step back. ‘If you’ll pardon me, sir, I’ll inform Dr Tallarian that you’re awake.’
‘Please,’ I said as she turned towards the door, ‘wait a minute.’
She paused, her hand on the door knob.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
She hesitated, then said, ‘It’s Charlotte, sir. Charlotte Moynihan.’
‘And this Dr Tallarian,’ I said. ‘Is he a tall, bald man with glasses?’
Still facing away from me she muttered, ‘He is, sir.’
‘Then please don’t tell him I’m awake,’ I said. ‘I think he means to hurt me.’
Slowly she turned, astonishment on her face. ‘Oh no, sir. Dr Tallarian is a proper gentleman, and kind with it. There’s many a soul in Wapping who considers him a saint on account of his good works.’
‘Is that where we are?’ I said. ‘Wapping?’
‘You don’t know, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid not. I have no idea how I got here.’
She regarded me a little fearfully, as if she was unsure whether I was telling the truth. After a moment, however, she took a couple of hesitant steps back into the room.
‘What do you remember, sir?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. What happened to me?’
‘You were found not two streets from here, sir, lying unconscious on the pavement outside the premises of Mr Jalcombe, the chandler. It was Mrs Jalcombe and her son, Henry, who discovered you when they opened up their shop yesterday morning. At first they thought you…’ she blushed ‘…well, that you were a vagabond, or sleeping off the excesses of a night’s drinking. Then Mrs Jalcombe noticed what queer clothes you were wearing – begging your pardon, sir – and considered you might have been a foreign gentleman who had been led astray and attacked. The Jalcombes found themselves unable to revive you, so they brought you here.’
‘And where is here?’ I asked.
‘The Voluntary Hospital on Sovereign Street, sir. Dr Tallarian has been attending you since you arrived.’
‘And that was yesterday morning, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see. And what did Dr Tallarian think might be wrong with me?’
‘He was afraid you might be suffering from brain fever, sir, perhaps due to a blow on the head causing bleeding within the skull.’
‘Did he now? And do I have a head injury, Charlotte?’
‘Well… no, sir. But Dr Tallarian did say that an external injury is not always apparent in such cases.’
‘And is Dr Tallarian in the habit of strapping his patients down?’ I asked, tugging at my restraints to emphasise my point.
The nurse blushed again. ‘You’ve been terrible feverish, sir, tossing and turning and throwing yourself this way and that. It was feared that you might hurl yourself to the floor and injure yourself.’
I gave her a smile that I hoped would convince her of my sanity. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine now. So there’s no reason why you can’t release me, is there?’
Her eyes widened fearfully.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I told her. ‘I’m perfectly harmless.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, sir,’ she said unconvincingly, ‘but it’s not my place to make such a decision. I had better fetch Dr Tallarian.’
I could see there was no easy way out of this, no possibility of slipping my shackles and making my escape without encountering Tallarian again. However I consoled myself with the hope that Charlotte was telling the truth, that the doctor was a good man, and that whatever had happened to him, or would happen to him, was not yet part of his psychological make-up. Perhaps his transformation into the creature I would encounter in my own time was even my fault. Perhaps it would be as a result of taking pity on me that Tallarian would bring the wrath of the Wolves of London down upon himself and – maybe as a punishment – would be re-made into one of their monstrous foot soldiers.
The possibility that I might be indirectly responsible for the future downfall of a good and innocent man weighed heavily on my conscience, but I forced a smile.
‘All right, Charlotte,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble. But promise me one thing.’
Nervously she said, ‘I’ll try, si
r.’
‘Promise me that when I speak to Tallarian you’ll be close by, and that if you hear me shout for help, or scream out in pain, you’ll come running.’
She looked alarmed and unhappy, but she said, ‘I promise, sir.’
‘Thank you. Oh, and Charlotte?’
She had begun to turn away, but now she halted and looked back at me.
‘You don’t have to bother with all that “sir” stuff. My name’s Alex.’ She looked bewildered, but gave a quick nod and left the room. Grimacing at the piss that was now cold on my leg, I lay back. I tried to breathe slowly and deeply to ease the cramping discomfort in my stomach, part of which was due to hunger and part caused by tension at the prospect of a further encounter with Tallarian.
After a few minutes I heard measured footsteps approaching along the corridor. I adopted what I hoped was a composed expression – neither welcoming nor hostile – as the man who I had come to know as the Surgeon entered the room.
‘Dr Tallarian, I presume?’ I said.
The doctor regarded me thoughtfully, his eyes unblinking behind his spectacles. ‘You presume correctly. I trust you are feeling better now, Mr Locke? You certainly appear calmer than you did the last time we met.’
‘You know my name?’
He confirmed this with a tilt of his head. ‘After our last encounter, when you seemed unaccountably afraid of me, I took the liberty of examining your clothing in an effort to discover your identity. I confess that upon doing so I came across certain…’ he hesitated, as if at a loss for words, and then with a wave of his hand he said, ‘…items on your person which intrigued me.’
From the hip pocket of his jacket he lifted a square of cloth that had been made into a bag by tying the four corners together. He carried it across to the workbench, put it down, and then carefully – as though afraid something might leap up and bite him – untied it and folded back the four corners. Frowning, he picked up my mobile phone (inactive, of course) between his thumb and forefinger and held it up.
‘What is this?’ he asked in a voice so thin and uncertain that in that moment I almost felt sorry for him.
I took a deep breath. This was going to be awkward. ‘What do you think it is?’
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyes seemed to cloud over. Looking at the utter bafflement on his face I realised that he had no frame of reference for the object in his hand. My phone might not be the latest model – only a couple of weeks ago Candice had sniggered at how archaic it was in comparison to hers – but it was still so far advanced from the technology of the age that Tallarian couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess as to its function.
Not at first anyway. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then eventually, hesitantly, he said, ‘Is it a… perhaps it’s… these numbers? A calculating device of some kind?’
He put the phone back down with a grimace of distaste, as if it had squirmed in his grasp.
‘If you undo these straps I’ll tell you,’ I said.
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. ‘I’m not sure that that would be entirely wise.’
Pressing home my advantage, I said, ‘Oh, come on, Dr Tallarian, I can see that curiosity is gnawing at you. So why don’t we show each other a bit of mutual trust? You release me and I’ll tell you about those items of mine. I mean, you can hardly keep me a prisoner for ever, can you?’
Tallarian was silent, though I could almost hear the cogs in his head whirring as he decided on the best course of action. At last he said carefully, ‘It isn’t that I wish to keep you a prisoner—’
‘So don’t,’ I urged.
‘…but the fact is, Mr Locke, I’m intrigued by you… so much so that I cannot afford to risk losing you. And, if truth be known, I am also a little afraid of what you might be capable of.’
I laughed as lightly as I could. ‘Afraid? You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m not out to harm anyone.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Tallarian said, and turned once more to the square of cloth. His hand hovered above it for a moment, and then, as if plucking up the courage, he lifted the mobile again. ‘How do I know that this isn’t a weapon of some kind? How do I know that you won’t use this device to incapacitate me the instant I release you?’
‘Who do you think I am?’ I asked. ‘Where do you think I’m from?’
His eyes clouded again. ‘I’m certain I don’t know.’
Was it my imagination or had a certain shiftiness crept into his manner?
‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that. I think you at least have a theory.’ Instead of rising to the bait he put the phone down and picked up my wallet. Opening it he took out one of my credit cards. Holding it up, he said, ‘What is this image? Why does it appear to have depth when it clearly does not?’
‘It’s a hologram,’ I said.
‘Hologram.’ He scowled in bewilderment. ‘What does that mean?’
I smiled. ‘Undo these straps and I’ll tell you.’
He dropped the credit card back on to the pile and wiped his fingers on his coat, as if afraid it might have contaminated him in some way. ‘What are these items even made of? The material, the design, the manufacturing techniques, it’s…’
‘Impossible?’ I said.
‘Yes, impossible!’ High spots of colour had appeared on his pale cheeks.
‘Undo these straps,’ I repeated.
He glared at me, and then plucked one of the coins from the pile. It was a ten pence piece. He snapped, ‘Explain this to me. Who is this woman? Why does the date read 2008? Is this a ruse of some kind?’
Calmly, pleasantly, I said, ‘The straps, Dr Tallarian.’
In an abrupt explosion of rage he hurled the coin at the wall above my head and brought his clenched fist down hard on the workbench, causing the items on it to rattle. ‘You will tell me!’ he hissed. ‘I will make you tell me.’
My guts churned at the sudden threat, but I was determined to remain composed. ‘By torturing me, you mean? Would you really do that, Dr Tallarian? Because I don’t believe that’s the kind of man you are.’
Tallarian leaned in close. His breath smelled bad, like rotting cabbage; I wondered briefly whether toothpaste had been invented yet. ‘You have no idea what kind of man I am,’ he murmured.
‘That’s true,’ I said reasonably. ‘But even so, I won’t tell you a thing unless you release me.’ I forced a smile and bluffed, ‘Nothing you can do will make me tell you.’
His face was so red now that even the whites of his eyes had been stained pink with anger. He leaned in closer yet, and I wondered for a moment if he was going to bite me.
‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ he muttered.
TWENTY-NINE
THE MENAGERIE
After making his threat, Tallarian had gathered up my belongings, stuffed them into his pocket and marched out of the room, since when I had been attended to at various times by one or other of three nurses. As well as Charlotte, there was a thin, painfully shy girl called Agnes, from whom I discovered that the year was 1895, and a bustling, plump, red-faced woman with curly hair called Ruby. They had cleaned me up, fed me a thin, salty stew of vegetables and chewy bits of what I think was mutton, and had given me – surprisingly – a nutty, dark brown beer to drink. Charlotte had offered me milk too, but I had declined; it looked greasy, had yellow globules of fat floating in it, and smelled weird. At one point, the mutton stew having made me thirsty, I had asked Agnes for some water, but what she returned with was a glass of liquid the colour of weak tea swimming with black flecks.
‘What’s this?’ I asked her.
Her voice was little more than a nervous whisper. ‘It’s the water you asked for, sir.’
‘But it’s filthy,’ I said.
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘It is pure rain water, sir. We collect it in barrels on the roof. It has been strained twice over.’
Oddly, despite what I had already been through, it was this exchange which caused t
he full, stark reality of my situation to hit home for the first time. I suddenly realised that I had been hurled back into a society in which so many of the things I took for granted – clean water, pasteurised milk, refrigeration, antibiotics, telecommunications – simply did not exist. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been aware of this before, of course, but until this moment I had thought about it only in abstract terms – as though I was outside it all, as though it didn’t really affect me because I didn’t belong. It had taken the sight of a bewildered young girl holding what looked like a glass of dirty ditchwater for the terrible implications of my predicament to suddenly overwhelm me in a choking wave.
‘I don’t want it,’ I said in a cracked, suddenly breathless voice. ‘Please take it away.’
Unhappily, clearly wondering what she had done wrong, she scurried from the room.
When she had gone I clenched my eyes tight shut and tried to fight down what I can only describe as a kind of temporal equivalent of culture shock – time shock maybe? I wondered how I could ever hope to survive here – assuming, that was, that I managed to escape from Tallarian’s clutches. I had nowhere to live, no job, no money, no identity. The food and water – if I could get any – was crawling with bacteria, to which I would most likely have no resistance. If I became ill or had an accident my prospects would become almost too horrendous to contemplate. I had fallen into a world with inadequate medical resources; a world that was only just stepping on to the springboard of technological advancement, but which, as yet, was still basically primitive, even savage.
Lying there I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life. I felt like I’d crashed in the middle of a jungle, with no weapons, no means of communication, and predators closing in on all sides. My chest tightened and I started to hyperventilate, but with my eyes still closed I told myself to calm down, pull myself together. Whether that worked, I’m not sure; all I know is that I rode the waves for a while, until eventually, thankfully, I found myself drifting into calmer waters.
So okay, I thought, I had nothing in terms of material wealth or security here, but what I did have was intelligence, knowledge and foresight – all of which, surely, would enable me to get by? As for Tallarian, maybe I could drip-feed him tantalising bits of information, keep him dangling long enough to persuade him that I was too valuable to mistreat, perhaps even convince him I was his friend? Course, it would help if I knew what his motivation was for keeping me here. Was it simple curiosity or something more sinister?
