“Please,” Julie said, “please don’t let me stop you from having your lunch.”
“Thank you, Miss Taggart,” he said picking up a tuna and cress sandwich. “What was this unusual request?”
He held out his lunch plate to Julie.
“Thank you,” she said with a polite wave of her hand, “I’ve already had lunch.”
Julie smiled.
“The unusual request?” prompted the clerk.
“Yes. You remember that he claimed that he didn’t commit the… murder because he was… err… time-traveling?”
“Yes, Miss Taggart, I do.”
“Well, apparently, according to his lawyer, he asked for his time-machine when he was in the cells here. Just after he was sentenced.”
“No,” the clerk said with a shake of his head. “I can’t see that happening. I’m sorry, Miss Taggart, but the lawyer must be wrong. We definitely would not let a convicted man have a piece of suspect machinery in his cell.” His face became set and pompous. “Especially such a contentious device.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, but Mr Smythe was quite sure that it did happen.”
The clerk rose from his desk and went to a filing cabinet. He slid out drawers in turn until he found what he was looking for and returned to his desk. He held up the ledger he had retrieved.
“You’ve got me very curious, Miss Taggart. I want to see who was on detention duty that day. Ah,” he said, consulting the ledger, “Charlie.” He looked up. “I can’t see any way Charlie would allow such a thing.”
“I’m really sorry to be such a bother, but is there any way we could… check with him?”
The clerk was ahead of her and had already picked up his phone and dialled a number. He held up his hand, indicating for Julie to wait.
“Hello,” he said into the phone, “is Charlie in today? Ah, right, excellent… Is he on duty by himself?… No… Perfect. Then would you please tell him to come straight to my office… Thank you.” He looked at Julie. “Well, hopefully he’ll be able to confirm that there was no way Professor Phillips could have had his machine in the cells.”
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the clerk’s door, and a late middle-aged uniformed man entered.
“You wanted to see me, Sir,” said Charlie.
“Yes, this is Miss Taggart. She’s inquiring about the detention of Professor Edward Phillips.”
“Yes Sir, I was on duty that day.”
“Apparently, the Professor’s lawyer claims that he was allowed to have his… device in the cell with him?” explained the clerk. Charlie went very quiet and chewed his lip. “That didn’t happen, did it Charlie?”
“Well… Sir… it was a very unusual day. The place was teeming with reporters and the poor old Professor seemed to sort of… lose his marbles a bit, Sir… And I was all by myself.”
“Charlie, are you saying that you did let him have this device in his cell?”
“Well it was a very small device… I couldn’t see what harm it would do.”
The clerk turned to Julie.
“Well, it seems I owe Mr Smythe an apology.”
“What happened to The Device after the Professor was taken to prison?” asked Julie.
“I locked it in the evidence room, Miss,” responded Charlie.
“Will it still be there?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Julie turned to the clerk.
“Is there any chance I could see it?”
“If it’s there, I don’t see any reason why not,” said the clerk. “I mean, it’s not evidence, is it?”
Charlie led Julie into the bowels of the courthouse where the evidence room was situated. After a couple of minutes rummaging, Charlie presented Julie with the small black box. Julie examined it carefully.
“So this is the famous Time Machine?” Julie said.
“Not as impressive as H. G. Wells’, but yes, Miss.”
“This display on the top,” Julie asked pointing to the date and time indicator on the upper face of the device. “Is this as it was left by the Professor?”
“I’m pretty certain it is.”
“You see,” Julie indicated the display, “these numbers… they haven’t been moved since the Professor was here?”
“As I said, Miss, I’m pretty sure this is how he left it.”
“Excellent, Charlie… I don’t suppose… I could take the machine?”
Charlie grabbed the black box from her.
“No, Miss. This is staying locked in here. It’s caused me enough grief for one day, thank you very much!”
“Of course, of course,” Julie said sympathetically. “May I just jot down the date and time from the display, though?”
“If you’re quick, Miss. I need to be getting back to work.”
Julie wrote the data in a small notebook, then Charlie locked the machine away.
“Thank you for your help, Charlie,” she said as she turned to go.
On her way back to her car, her mobile rang. She pulled it from her pocket and placed it against her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Julie Taggart?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling from the prison about Professor Phillips.”
“Yes…”
“I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Are you a relative?”
“Just a friend. What sort of bad news?”
“I’m afraid… I’m really so sorry… Professor Phillips… passed away this afternoon.
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Part Seventeen
“We didn’t know who else to call, Miss Taggart,” said Boyce-Futch. “The professor’s wife is deceased and he has no other relatives, so… I thought of you.”
“No, that’s all right,” said Julie, “I’m glad you called me.” There was a long awkward pause. “What… what happened, exactly?”
“At the moment… we’re not absolutely sure, but it seems to have been a dispute between the Professor and another inmate that got out of hand.”
“A dispute? What sort of dispute?”
“People in here can act very out of character, Miss Taggart. As much as we try to run a clean ship, it’s not the most comfortable of places. Tempers get frayed, people get desperate. They do things that they’d never do on the outside…”
“Please, can you just tell me straight,” Julie interrupted with some passion. “The man is dead, and you don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.”
“Miss Taggart, I assure you that we take prison deaths extremely seriously, and we are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this. But you must understand, some of the inmates really don’t help themselves.”
“What exactly are you accusing the Professor of doing?”
“As I said, Miss Taggart, people on the inside can do things that are very out of character.”
“So,” insisted Julie, exasperation turning to anger, “what did he do?”
“He seemed to have developed a… drug habit,” said Boyce-Futch.
“A what!?”
“As I’ve been trying to tell you, very out of character for someone like the Professor, but I have seen it before. Some just find the pressure of incarceration simply too much.”
“You are seriously claiming that the Professor had a drug habit?”
“The man that has been arrested for his murder is a notorious drugs dealer. He’s now been taken to a maximum-security prison. I’ve wanted him out of here for a long time, but until now we couldn’t find enough proof.”
“So the Professor did you a favour. Is that what you are saying?”
“No,” Boyce-Futch pleaded, “no, believe me, we are all very shocked and saddened by what happened. I’m just saying that at least the culprit is in a place where he can do no further harm.”
“Or give you further headaches,” Julie concluded.
Boyce-Futch sighed deeply and moved his gaze to a large cardboard box on hi
s desk.
“We weren’t sure what to do with all his papers,” he said. “Normally we give the personal belongings to the next of kin, or if there isn’t one, simply burn the effects. The Professor’s stuff seemed too important to just incinerate. We thought you might like to have it.”
Julie rummaged through the box.
“Thank you, for not just destroying it all,” she said. “Is there anything else?”
“Well, yes,” said Boyce-Futch, “his burial. What would you like to do?”
“Me?” said Julie. “He was killed on your watch. I think that’s your responsibility not mine.”
“But I thought…”
Julie interrupted Boyce-Futch.
“I was just someone that was working with him on his research. He was not a friend. We just worked together.” Boyce-Futch’s mouth gaped a little. “Is there anything else?” she repeated.
“No,” said Boyce-Futch. “You just need to sign for his belongings.” He pointed to a form on his desk. “If I could just have your signature here.”
Boyce-Futch offered Julie a pen. She signed quickly, then picked up the cardboard box.
“Thank you,” she said as she turned to go.
“Erm… sorry,” said Boyce-Futch.
Julie turned and looked blankly at him. Boyce-Futch was holding the form Julie had just signed. She shook her head questioningly.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“You’ve signed ‘Julie Newton’,” said Boyce-Futch, “I thought your name was Taggart?”
“Oh, did I sign Newton? I usually go by my maiden name, Taggart. I wasn’t thinking. Newton’s my married name. Do you need me to sign again?”
“No, that’s fine,” said Boyce-Futch. Julie turned to go. “It’s just that?…” She stopped and looked quizzically at Boyce-Futch. “Your married name’s ‘Newton’?” Julie nodded. “Wasn’t that the name of the man that the Professor was accused of killing, Alan Newton?” Julie stared silently. “Is that just a coincidence?”
“I… err,” Julie stammered.
“Are you the widow of Alan Newton?” Boyce-Futch asked plainly.
Julie swallowed hard and her eyes began to water.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I am.”
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Part Eighteen
Two years later
Julie Taggart stood at the front of a lecture theatre at Trinity College, Cambridge. She looked at the eager-eyed first year physics undergraduates.
“The main thing you need to understand,” said Julie, “is that whatever you have experienced in your life up to now will be of absolutely no help at all in your understanding of quantum physics. As Richard Feynman once said, ‘If you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don't understand quantum mechanics’. Don’t look for answers that you, at the scale in which we all live, can understand. Simply concentrate on what fits.
The laws that govern the infinitesimally small appear to be so radically different from the classical laws that govern all that we see with our naked eyes that it would be madness to try to understand. To work in this field you must abandon understanding and embrace acceptance. In the subatomic realm, the impossible is normal.” She paused and looked around the room at the terrified faces. “If I’ve managed to scare you half to death, I’ve achieved fifty percent of my work in teaching you about quantum physics.” A bell started ringing. “Go on, go and have some lunch.”
Julie walked to her office and sat down at her desk. She stared at the clock on the wall. It had a large analogue face that read almost exactly one o’clock, and next to it, a date display. She stared unblinkingly at the date for which she had been waiting for six months. The enormity of the event that she believed would occur today might prove to be both a revelatory vindication of her scientific theories, but also a challenge to her deepest held morals.
After the Professor’s death two years ago, she had continued to study his theories as well as becoming totally familiar with the work of her late husband. Six months ago she had had a eureka moment that had left her so dazzled by its conclusions that she had called in sick and found it impossible to return to work for a whole week.
The Professor’s device really did work. It caused, via apparent quantum uncertainty, the splitting into two of an infinity of universes. The outcome of which meant that the operator would either travel forward in time or would not, depending on which side of the split one ended up.
But the Professor had reported time and time again an anomaly that he couldn’t understand; what he described as a strange memory aberration that came with each use of The Device. In one instance, he would jump a period of time and on returning, hear reports of what he did while he was jumping, but he would have no memory of the period. However, on occasions the jump would not work. He would go through the event he was trying to avoid, but find that although he had full recollection of the events he had just lived through, everyone involved had no memory of him being present at all.
The revelation Julie had had six months ago was based on something she had suspected from the very beginning. When the device operator used the machine, they would either jump into a parallel universe at a future time or jump into a parallel universe remaining at the present time. But the particles that made up the actual body of the operator in both universes became quantumly entangled, and when the operator that hadn’t jumped forward in time reached the future time set on the device, the two identical operators returned to their own universes, but retained all the memories of their experiences during the universe exchange.
This in itself was beyond extraordinary, but the consequences of this took eighteen months to coalesce in Julie’s brain. After being sentenced to three years in prison, the Professor had tried to use The Device to jump the whole three years, but unluckily he was the operator that jumped to a parallel universe, but at the same time; he didn’t jump forwards.
Julie glanced at the clock again. Today was the date the Professor had set on the device to jump his prison sentence. Today at five o’clock the two Professors would swap back to their own original universes. But the Professor in the universe that Julie lived in was dead and had been buried in a Cambridge cemetery two years ago. If Julie was correct, at five o’clock today the living Professor in the other universe would swap places with the rotting corpse in this one.
It was four o’clock when Julie parked her car in the cemetery carpark. She opened the boot and retrieved a spade and a stethoscope, then went in search of the Professor’s grave.
It took her a little while to remember the location of the Professor’s burial site from when she had attended his funeral two years ago. Now, she stood over his neglected gravestone with her spade in one hand and her stethoscope in the other. She glanced at her watch; it was ten past four. If she was right, the living Professor would materialise in fifty minutes six feet beneath where she stood.
She looked around. It was a Wednesday afternoon and the graveyard was totally empty. No one would witness her actions, and that is exactly as she wanted it. She looked at her watch repeatedly, confused by the emotions she was feeling. Part of her was impatient for five o’clock to arrive, while another part of her was terrified by what that may bring.
She turned her wrist to look at her watch for the umpteenth time just as the minute hand slid silently onto the number twelve. She fell to her knees dropping the spade to one side. Julie placed the eartips of the stethoscope into her ears and the listening drum to the earth of the Professor’s grave. She held her breath and tremored with fear.
There! She was sure she had heard something. A slight movement, a quantum shift beneath the soil. She doubled her efforts to steady her breathing. The noise was unmistakable, repeating and growing in intensity. There was no doubt in her mind. She listened again, her face distorting with every emotion she had ever felt, but all at the same time; tearing her apart. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Although she tried not to, the image of the P
rofessor suddenly appearing in that cold dark coffin below her feet made vomit rise in her throat.
Six hours maximum. That’s what her research had suggested. A person buried six feet down in a standard coffin could stay alive for up to six hours before suffocating. The calculation had been made to take into account the accelerated use of available oxygen due to extreme panic.
But this was the man that had caused the premature death of her husband, and she had an opportunity to kill him in retribution; an eye for an eye; a death for a death. But more than that, she could enact the perfect murder. If she did nothing, the Professor would surely die by her hand, yet no one would be able to convict her of anything. And yet, the man about to die a horrible painful death beneath her feet was one of the most brilliant minds she had ever known. For god’s sake! He had invented time-travel and proved the many-worlds hypothesis.
Julie had waited six months for this moment, but now it was here, every resolve she had made deserted her. Minutes ticked by. She listened time and time again and heard the same; desperate scratching and muffled cries. She sat back against the gravestone and rocked backwards and forwards like a committed lunatic in an insane asylum, her face awash with tears.
She suddenly became aware that the daylight had gone. In confused panic she stared at her watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘Where had the time gone?’ she thought. She threw herself, prostrate onto the soil and listened with the stethoscope; nothing. Everything was silent. She checked her watch again.
“This isn’t right!” she screamed. “He still has another hour!”
Grabbing the spade she started to dig desperately, having finally made the impossible choice; to save the life of her husband’s murderer. Unless of course, she had left it too late.
…-…
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