by RR Haywood
‘Huh?’ Safa mumbles and cocks her head until she makes the same connection. ‘Big trees,’ she says slowly. ‘Really . . . really big trees.’
That the creatures are enormous is beyond doubt. They are a great distance away, but even so they can tell the creatures are enormous but still lifting those long necks to reach the branches of the trees, which must also be gigantic.
‘No scale,’ Harry cuts in.
The door unlocks behind them but they don’t move or do anything other than stare at the sight of a herd of dinosaurs at the bottom of a valley.
‘Everyone okay?’ a tentative voice asks as the door swings open.
‘Ha!’ Ben exclaims at Safa and Harry, who both flinch at his outburst. ‘I was bloody right . . . what did I say?’
‘What?’ Safa asks. ‘Oh . . . oh that . . .’
‘Dead, are we?’ he asks with a smug grin.
‘Alright,’ she groans.
‘In a German camp, are we?’ he asks Harry.
‘Might be,’ he rumbles.
‘No,’ Ben scoffs. ‘They’re dinosaurs. That means it’s time travel.’
‘No,’ Safa says with a disdainful look. ‘We could be in a park or something. Like Jurassic Park . . .’
‘That’s a movie,’ Ben says.
‘Park?’ Harry asks.
‘Jurassic Park,’ Safa says.
‘Is that in Germany?’ Harry asks.
‘It’s made-up,’ Ben says.
‘Like time travel is,’ Safa points out. She stands straight to rub her eyes. ‘Right,’ she says, looking at Ben then at Harry. ‘Yep, still there,’ she says, looking back out the window before turning to the door. ‘Did you know you had dinosaurs outside?’
‘Er, we did,’ Malcolm, with a new white strip across his face, says nasally, as though he is either very congested or has had his nose repeatedly broken.
‘They’re very calm,’ Konrad whispers.
Malcolm smiles nervously as the three of them turn to stare. ‘Er, so . . . um . . . the boss is ready to explain and, er . . .’
‘Is that the one with the dark hair?’ Ben asks. ‘The English one.’
‘Er, yes,’ Malcolm says. ‘That’s the boss . . . Roland.’
‘Roland?’ Ben asks. ‘Is that his name?’
‘Good question,’ Safa says sarcastically. ‘Well done, Investigator Ben.’
‘Oh, we’re dead, are we?’ he asks her and gets a scowl in return. ‘Got bloody dinosaurs in the afterlife then, yeah?’
‘I think we should meet this Roland,’ Safa says, ignoring his comments.
‘Maybe he’s dead too,’ Ben suggests.
‘Such a twat,’ she mutters. ‘Harry?’
‘Yes, miss?’
‘You don’t have to call me miss, Safa will do. We going to meet this Roland?’
‘Aye.’
Ben looks past Safa to Harry and spots that relaxed, benign go with it expression is back on the big man’s features.
‘Roland will explain everything,’ Malcolm says carefully. ‘But please . . . we really need your help,’ he says, dropping his voice and edging closer into the room. ‘All of you,’ he adds, looking at each in turn. ‘We can’t get on without you and it was hard enough getting you three so we couldn’t go back and get more cos, like, my nose is already broke loads and I told Roland I ain’t going back any more and . . . like, it’s desperate and . . . it ain’t what you think, it really isn’t . . .’
‘I’m not going back either,’ Konrad says, shaking his head emphatically. ‘Please . . .’ he adds with a pleading tone.
‘For what?’ Ben asks.
‘Please,’ Malcolm says. ‘Let Roland explain it . . .’
‘Fuck it,’ Ben says with a sigh and moves towards the door. ‘I’m going with them. I’m so confused.’
‘Everyone is,’ Malcolm says earnestly. ‘But it’ll be alright.’
‘Now you three are here,’ Konrad adds. ‘Roland said that was the hardest part . . . getting you three.’
Safa and Harry follow behind Ben as Malcolm and Konrad go out into the corridor and move down towards the door at the end.
‘Hello,’ Harry says with a wry grin as he looks up and down the empty corridor, ‘where’s everyone else?’
‘Er, they’re in hospital, Mr Madden,’ Malcolm says, casting a dark, worried look at Konrad. ‘Some are, anyway,’ he adds in a much quieter tone.
They go through the doors into the big room, now empty of other people but with broken chairs and tables stacked in a pile. The smell of chemicals hangs in the air and wet patches on the ground speak of blood being scrubbed away. Ben and Safa look at each other as though seeking reassurance. Harry does not seem fazed or bothered at all but moves along, staring hungrily at the table full of the fruit.
Through the next set of doors into another corridor much the same as the last with a series of metal-riveted doors along the sides and something about it all immediately makes Harry think of staff quarters. Three of the rooms they pass are filled with personal belongings strewn about.
They go through another set of doors into another corridor but this one is shorter with an open door on the left and a locked door on the right with a red light bulb fixed over the top. One more door at the end and that has a solid metal locking bar fitted across it and weird stainless steel panels bolted to the wall either side and above, forming a crude porch.
‘Ah, Malcolm.’ They snap eyes over to see the man with the dark hair standing in the open door.
‘Roland,’ Malcolm says with a relieved nod.
‘Where are we?’ Safa asks bluntly.
‘I will explain,’ Roland says gravely, with sincerity pouring from his every word. ‘Please, do come in and sit down.’ He leads them into the room and moves round to the other side of a large, rough-hewn wooden desk. Three wooden chairs of the same rough style rest in front of the desk, which he motions to with a wave of his hand. ‘Do take a seat. Malcolm, Konrad, would you please get our guests some coffee.’
‘Yep,’ Malcolm says as they both scarper with obvious relief.
Harry goes first, taking the seat on the far right. Ben goes left, leaving the middle one for Safa.
‘Right,’ Roland says, looking over at Harry, then Ben, then finally at Safa. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Clearly,’ Safa snaps. ‘What the fuck . . .’
Roland blanches at her ferocity. His eyes darting to Harry and Ben. He smooths his hair back and slowly sits down. Harry stares at him, taking in the khaki shorts and short-sleeve shirt that look so much like the jungle uniform of an officer. Ben takes in the room, the rough wooden desk and chairs, and the plain fear pouring off the man. That it’s the same man he saw in the lift is without doubt, yet the man in the lift was assured and confident. This man is the polar opposite. Safa just glares. She too can see the fear, but her impetuous nature wants answers and she wants them now.
Roland holds a hand up as Safa goes to speak. ‘I did not predict your reactions, which was stupid of me, completely stupid. How I did not take into account your backgrounds is beyond stupid, so,’ he says, spreading his shaking hands out, ‘I am sorry . . . and I am also sorry for the . . . the bloody mess that ensued after, but we are rushing and doing things so fast that none of us really has any idea what we are doing.’ He stops, blowing air out from puffed-out cheeks.
‘I don’t know how to explain it so you’ll listen to the end and remain calm . . . truly.’ He looks at them imploringly, his hands trembling as he rests them on the desk. ‘We do not have the capacity to deal with you other than drugging you, and I don’t think we can use that drug again. We have no real medical facilities here or medical professionals and the only way to get treatment is to go back, which really is not an option.’
Ben listens intently, registering the words go back. He looks at Harry then at Safa, his mind processing the time periods they are from, then to the view out the window to the dinosaurs. He touches his nose as though feeling for blo
od and realises his headache is still there, the dizziness, although lessening, is still there too. ‘Oxygen,’ he mutters, then looks up at Roland. ‘Oxygen toxicity.’
‘Ach,’ Harry says, nodding as he makes the same connection.
‘What is?’ Safa asks.
‘Very good, Mr Ryder,’ Roland says, watching Ben closely. ‘We are in the Cretaceous period. The oxygen levels here are far higher than anything humans are used to.’
‘That can kill us,’ Ben replies quickly.
‘What?’ Safa asks again.
‘Like diving, miss,’ Harry says. ‘Have you heard of the bends?’
‘Oh, right,’ Safa says in alarm.
‘We need to leave here,’ Ben says, rising to his feet. ‘Seriously . . . that level of oxygen will kill in . . .’
‘You have all been medicated to prevent any toxicity,’ Roland says, holding his hands out to offer reassurance. ‘The effects will recede. Indeed, Malcolm, Konrad and I have been here for three weeks and we have no effects now.’
‘Medication?’ Ben asks, still standing. ‘There isn’t any medication for—’
‘There is,’ Roland says, cutting him off. ‘Let me explain. Please, let me explain. Everything will become clear.’
Ben sits down, partly because he knows he needs to listen but mostly because he stood up too fast and his head is swimming again.
‘Malcolm and Konrad are terrified of you,’ Roland continues, unsure of where to start or what to say. ‘It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, bringing people like you back without precautions . . .’
‘People like us?’ Ben asks. ‘A soldier, a police officer and an insurance investigator?’
‘Sounds like a joke,’ Safa snorts to a suddenly interested, almost hopeful look from Roland. ‘Where the fuck are we? Who the fuck are these two?’ She thumbs towards Ben and Harry. ‘And why the fuck have you got dinosaurs in your garden?’
‘Time travel,’ Ben says with a sideways glance at Safa.
‘Piss off,’ she mutters, returning his sideways glance as Roland watches on with that hopeful look still adorning his face.
‘Thanks.’ Ben smiles. ‘Now,’ he says, looking back to Roland. ‘What the actual fuck? I mean . . . what the actual fucking fuck?’
‘I’m with him,’ Safa says, pointing at Ben. ‘What the actual fuck?’
‘Indeed,’ Roland says with the faintest hint of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Humour in the face of adversity . . . yes . . . indeed.’
‘Do I need to ask again?’ Safa asks, cocking her head with a hard glare.
‘Gosh no,’ Roland says, removing the smile from his face. ‘But I need your assurances that you will not react and that you will listen to my full explanation. Do I have that from each of you?’
‘Sir,’ Harry says smartly when Roland looks at him.
‘Thank you, Mr Madden. Miss Patel?’
‘Just spit it out.’
‘Mr Ryder?’
‘Fair enough.’
Roland takes a deep breath and steeples his fingers. The nerves once more showing as he clears his throat. ‘You each died at the point we extracted you. Mr Madden, you died in Norway, Mr Ryder on the tracks in Holborn and Miss Patel died when they blew the charges on Downing Street . . .’
‘Charges?’ Safa asks abruptly.
‘I will answer what I can later. Please, allow me to continue. I need you to first understand what I mean when I refer to a timeline. My timeline, for instance, is from the second of my conception to my death and then beyond my death.’
‘Beyond?’ Ben asks. Feeling that fug starting to come down again.
‘The timeline of humanity is made up of every single living thing and every single thing done by every single living thing.’
‘Eh?’ Safa says, shaking her head.
‘Your timelines ended when you were each killed. However, the effects of your lives on humanity’s timelines continued after your deaths. Harry became famous as Mad Harry Madden. Ben became known as the man who saved Gita and Meera Choudhry then later went on to save hundreds of lives on the London Underground. Safa, you were also present that day on the London Underground and led hundreds of people to safety, plus, if not for your actions, the Prime Minister would undoubtedly have been killed. You became incredibly famous after your death and inspired many women to join the police and armed services. You understand the concept of timelines? Good, it’s important you know that and always remember it because you can never go back.’
Ben flinches from the bluntly spoken words. Safa blinks at Roland while Harry just stares on as impassive as ever.
‘You died in that world and you can never have those lives back. We cannot and will not ever return you and, once you know why you are here and fully understand the concept of timelines, you will agree you can never go back. Your presence would impact on hundreds, thousands, millions . . . countless tiny events in the history of humanity that could ultimately have devastating effects.’
Ben swallows, not comprehending and not absorbing the meaning of his words because understanding what Roland just said is not acceptable.
‘The three of you could take over this place,’ Roland says into the silence of the room. ‘You’re capable of doing that, but you have been very carefully chosen . . .’
‘What for?’ Safa asks in a voice choked and hoarse.
‘In twenty sixty-one a young scientist working alone made a breakthrough that enabled time travel to become possible. I do not know how it works. Nobody here knows how it works. It has something to do with a mathematical equation and that is the entirety of my knowledge surrounding how it works. Suffice to say, it does work. There is a device that enables time travel.’
‘Who made it?’ Safa asks.
‘Does it matter?’ Roland asks carefully. ‘This happened forty-one years after your death, Miss Patel. The inventor had no concept of security and because he or she never thought of the dangers, he or she never thought anyone else would either. The device became known,’ he continues bluntly. ‘The original has been secured but we know that another has been replicated and is now in use.’
‘How do you know?’ Ben asks.
‘Because the timeline of humanity has changed, Mr Ryder. The inventor went forward fifty years and made observations on society. Non-intrusive and non-affecting. Merely observations done as part of a series of tests determined to prove accuracy of the device. Later, when the inventor went back to that same point, it had changed.
‘The first trip fifty years in the future showed a society and species advancing as it should. The second trip, to the same point and location, revealed a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Cities in ruins—’
‘Maybe he got the date wrong.’
‘No, Mr Ryder. The date was not wrong. It was the same point in time at the same location previously used.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The person invented time travel! I’m sure they could accurately record a date and location.’
‘Mistakes happen,’ Ben says. ‘People get things wrong all the time . . . write down a date wrong . . . attack a room full of German guards . . .’
‘I said sorry,’ Harry mutters.
‘My face still hurts,’ Ben says pointedly.
‘Be quiet,’ Harry rumbles. ‘The officer is speaking and I want to eat.’
‘I’m not an officer,’ Roland says into the stunned silence. ‘Are you taking this in, Mr Madden?’
‘Aye. Have you checked the Boche, sir? Sort of thing they’d do.’
‘Er,’ Roland says, clearly thrown off his train of thought.
‘Check the Germans,’ Harry says knowingly. ‘Was that the mess back there, was it?’
‘Mess?’ Roland asks meekly.
‘Are you hungry too?’ Safa asks Harry.
‘Aye.’
‘Can we get some food and come back?’ Safa asks.
‘Come back?’ Roland asks, then seems to snap back to life. ‘Yes, yes of co
urse. You must be famished. Er . . . you are all staying remarkably calm.’
‘No point in panicking, sir,’ Harry says.
‘Quite,’ Roland says. That hopeful look once more creeping back on his face. ‘I say, shall we continue our conversation for a little bit more and then break for food? Would that be okay?’
‘Sir,’ Harry says with an air of disappointment.
‘So fifty years from twenty sixty-one. So that’s what . . . er . . . twenty-one . . . one one?’ Safa says.
‘That’s correct,’ Roland says.
‘Twenty-one eleven?’ Ben asks, working it out.
‘Yes,’ Roland nods.
‘I just said that,’ Safa says.
‘You said twenty-one one one.’
‘Which is the same as twenty-one eleven,’ Safa says.
‘Mine was cooler.’
‘Two thousand one hundred and eleven,’ she says. ‘No’ – she thinks for a second – ‘twenty-one hundred and eleven . . .’
‘Mine was still cooler.’
‘Two triple one!’ she states. ‘That’s cooler than twenty-one eleven.’
‘Nah, twenty-one eleven.’
‘What do you call it?’ Safa asks, looking at a stunned Roland.
‘Er, twenty-one eleven,’ he says meekly. ‘But two triple one is just as good.’
‘Patronising,’ Safa says with a huff.
‘No, gosh no . . . not patronising but, er . . . I like them both,’ Roland says.
‘Harry?’ Ben asks, leaning forward to look past Safa. ‘Twenty-one eleven or two triple one?’
‘Was that fruit back there, sir?’ Harry asks.
‘Yes . . . but could we please carry on?’ Roland asks, shaking his head for a second before continuing. ‘We—’
‘So when does it happen?’ Safa asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘When does the world end?’
‘He just said,’ Ben says to her. ‘Twenty-one eleven.’
‘No, he said they found the world was over in twenty-one eleven, not that the world ended in twenty-one eleven.’
