Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘How do you know about covert clothing?’ Safa asks him.

  ‘Common sense,’ Ben says bluntly, not wishing to explain anything to anyone right now. ‘We’ll wait in that big room.’

  They file out of the room, leaving Roland, Malcolm and Konrad in silence. Into the corridor and back up through the doors towards the room with the fruit.

  ‘That was bloody amazing, Ben,’ Safa says, once more in the lead, but she turns to smile at him.

  ‘Aye, good work.’

  Ben doesn’t reply. His clear head vanishes as those emotions plummet back down into despair and confusion.

  Fifteen

  Safa watches him. He’s hardly said a word since they walked out to wait in the main room. ‘You look good,’ she says with a smile at his jeans and plain black T-shirt.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ben says, smiling tightly at her.

  ‘Yanks wear denim,’ Harry says again, tutting at the jeans on his legs in distaste.

  ‘It’s just for now,’ she says.

  ‘What’s wrong with slacks?’

  ‘Nothing, apart from nobody ever wears them now,’ Safa says.

  ‘Yanks wear denim.’

  ‘Do they?’ Safa asks. ‘Do yanks wear denim?’

  Harry tuts and smiles at her. Taking the jibe in good humour. The clothes are basic and, as requested by Ben, they’re muted plain colours. Normal jeans, normal by any standard in the post-war western world. A black T-shirt for Ben, dark blue for Safa and dark grey for Harry. Three pairs of plain brown boots complete the ensembles. Ben takes the other two in and looks down at himself. They look like plain clothes police officers. Boots, jeans and almost matching T-shirts, but it’ll do for now. He’s surprised Safa hasn’t picked up on their almost uniform appearance, but then she was from a Close Protection uniformed role so figures maybe she didn’t have a background in covert work. Same with Harry really. He must have done stuff behind enemy lines before and he already said he was dressed as a civilian in Norway. Maybe they had people choose the clothes for them. That makes sense.

  ‘Ready?’ Safa asks, then tuts. ‘Harry, pull your T-shirt out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one tucks their T-shirt into their jeans.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks, but pulls the hem out anyway. Ben was right. Harry has worked behind enemy lines but Ben was also right in that there were people to choose the right clothing for them. Experts and locals from those areas they were working in.

  With Safa once more in the lead they head through the bunker to find Malcolm waiting outside the room holding the device.

  ‘You coming with us?’ Safa asks bluntly, seeing him wearing the same style jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘Gonna wait by the portal,’ he says, dropping eye contact from her.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ she says, walking into the room to see Roland and Konrad in jeans and T-shirts. ‘So we’re all going then?’

  Roland stiffens at the rebuke in her voice, looking as uncomfortable as Harry in denim and a casual top. ‘Malcolm will wait by the device. Konrad will stay this side but is ready to come through should the need arise. I, of course, am coming to ensure we minimise our contact with the timeline. When we do go through we will not talk to anyone or engage in—’

  ‘You said that before,’ Safa says, still blunt and direct. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Ben, Harry, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t do anything. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Ben says.

  ‘Roger,’ Harry says.

  ‘Sorted,’ Safa says, nodding at Roland. ‘We going then?’

  The blue light comes to life as Konrad operates the tablet. The room instantly bathed in the gorgeous blue, shimmering, iridescent shade that absorbs Safa, Harry and Ben again. Roland goes first, simply walking up to the light and leaning forward to look through. He pauses, holding position for a few seconds before pulling back.

  ‘Spot on,’ he says to Konrad. ‘We’re in an alleyway behind some buildings . . . the main road is directly ahead with the procession going past. It’s very noisy and very bright,’ he adds. ‘Right, well, indeed. I shall go first.’ He steps through without another word.

  ‘Miss?’ Malcolm asks politely, looking at Safa. She ignores him and walks through the light, stepping instantly into a back alley filled with sound and light reflected from the main road a hundred metres down the alley. Rubbish strewn everywhere. Hot, humid air thick with smells that once again contrast so sharply with the purity of the bunker. Drums booming. Beats sounding from samba bands. Music everywhere. The fast-paced, distinctive tunes so synonymous with this carnival. Voices. Flashing lights. People walking past the entrance to the alley dressed in increasingly outlandish outfits. Huge plumes of fake feathers ten feet high. Skirts billowing. Scantily dressed men and women gyrating and dancing as they go past. Ben comes through behind her. She moves forward to make space. Harry comes through, then Malcolm at the rear. None of them speak but simply stare out at the noise and lights and feel the heat and humidity. An instant transition from a sterile environment to one filled with sensations.

  ‘We need to go up,’ Ben shouts to be heard over the immense noise. He needs convincing properly. He needs to know this is fact. This is happening and this is nineteen ninety-nine.

  Safa nods back and starts off down the alley. That she takes the lead again, despite both Roland and Harry being present, is not questioned. The natural authority she exudes is organic but very strong. Harry’s competence is overt and strong too, but different to Safa’s aura.

  She reaches the mouth of the alley and stares out in wonder at the flotilla of vehicles, floats and human forms going slowly by. The music is incredible. Hundreds of drums. Hundreds of instruments. All fast. All frantic. The energy pulsates through them. An army of white-clad men and women dancing past. Giant headdresses, flowing capes and feathers on legs. All of them in time to the beat and singing out. Bystanders thick in number line both sides of the street. Thousands of people just in this one street. Safa’s heart races. Not from fear or panic but simply in reaction to the transit from the bunker to this. The spectacle of it. The noises. The smells. The others get to her and stand each side watching with mouths open. Harry especially. Never before has he seen such a thing. Never before has he even imagined such a thing. The colours. The vibrancy. The clothing and the lack of clothing. The music and the dancing. His lips twitch with a tight smile at first that slowly spreads wide across his face, showing absolute delight.

  The most beautiful woman he has ever seen dances by dressed just in her underwear with a plume of thick black feathers glued to her backside. Huge boobs, wide hips and swaying to the music. She goes past as Harry turns to see the most beautiful woman he has ever seen dressed just in her underwear with a plume of thick white feathers glued to her backside. On it goes. He shakes his head. He grins and laughs. Warfare is dirty. Warfare is nasty. This is what living should be. Just this.

  Ben looks round. Seeing the same as Harry, but Ben’s life was saturated with such things, and although the energy and pulse still get to him, the sights have less impact. Is this nineteen ninety-nine? How can he tell? He glances back down the alley to see the reflection of the blue light, which looks weak and paltry in comparison to the lights up here. He says something to Safa. She looks at him, grinning widely but shaking her head. Can’t hear you, she mouths, pointing to her ear.

  ‘NEWSPAPER,’ Ben shouts into her ear.

  She nods at him and looks round. She would just stand here watching if it were up to her, but she’s already seen how smart Ben is and everything he said earlier made sense. All of that stuff before could have been faked, but this? This isn’t fake. Not a chance. Still, he wants a newspaper to be completely convinced. She tugs at his arm, motions for Harry and Roland to follow her, and sets off, pushing through the crowd down the side of the street. Roland flinches in panic at straying from the portal but also knows there isn’t a thing he can do to stop them. The noise is awful. The
lights are so bright. A fish out of water, but unlike Harry, he hangs back and keeps his head down.

  Safa looks back, checking the others are staying close. Ben right behind her. Sweat shining on his face, his dark blond hair starting to slick down in the humidity and heat. He smiles at her, nodding for her to keep going. This is incredible. Half of her switches on to the job at hand and looks round for threat perception, assessing everyone in view and automatically scanning people for weapons, a habit now ingrained. The other half of her wants to sway to the music and laugh out loud for the mind-blowing thing she is doing.

  The building line on their left drops back. A big red and white striped awning stretches out from a bar front. People everywhere drinking bottles of beer as they dance and watch the carnival going past. She gets Ben’s attention and nods at the bar. He nods back. She motions to Harry and Roland, indicating they are going to stop near the bar. She leads the route to find a space big enough for all of them a few metres from the entrance. The smell of beer mixes with the other scents of cooking food and body odour, but it’s not unpleasant. Not to any degree.

  Ben scours the ground all around them. All he needs is a single page from a newspaper that has the date on the top. Harry and Roland stop by Safa. Harry’s eyes fixed on the most beautiful woman he has ever seen dancing by until he turns to grin and Harry realises, with a start, that it’s a man in drag. Harry blanches, steps back and turns away quickly with an absolute look of shock on his face that makes Safa burst out laughing. Ben moves away from them, heading towards the front of the bar. He gets barged and jostled with every step. Smiling faces everywhere. Someone pats him on the back. He turns to see a drunk man giving him a thumbs up. The inside of the bar is worse than the street. Jammed tight with people clamouring and waving money at the poor bartenders passing bottles of beer out and snatching money without looking at what notes they’re being given.

  He spots a small group standing together just down from the entrance. Men and women drinking beer, swaying and laughing as they watch the procession. A folded newspaper sticks out the back pocket of one of the men. Ben heads towards them, already smiling as he waves to get the man’s attention. The man turns, happy but puzzled as to what Ben wants. Ben grins and points to the paper in his pocket and motions to ask if he can have a look. The man beams and laughs before pulling the paper out and handing it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ben shouts, wondering what the Brazilian is for ‘thank you’. Don’t they speak Spanish? Or is it Portuguese? ‘Gracias’ or ‘obrigado’? ‘Obrigado,’ Ben shouts, remembering the film City of God. The man laughs even more as Ben unfolds the newspaper. O Globo in bold print in the top centre. He scans the information bar underneath, seeing the edition number in Roman numerals and the date next to it. 14 Fevereiro 1999. 14 February 1999.

  A bottle of beer is pushed into his hand. He looks up, startled and shocked at confirmation of the date and that time travel exists, and that he died, and that he saw dinosaurs, and that the world ends in the year 2111. The man who gave him the newspaper laughs again and motions for Ben to drink the beer. Ben freezes. The music booming. The lights flashing. Noise and sensations everywhere. He died. It happened. The man moves in to lift Ben’s hand up as though helping him to drink. Ben drinks. He drinks the beer as the man and his friends applaud in delight. Ben keeps drinking. He guzzles the warm, fizzy beer down because he is dead. He died. He will never see Steph again. He will never see his family or his home again. Homesickness hits. Despair sinks in. He drinks more. Suddenly so thirsty. He empties the bottle and lowers it from his mouth. The man takes it away and pushes another one in.

  ‘Obrigado,’ Ben shouts. The man says something fast, laughing and smiling. Ben laughs back at him. It’s funny. All of this is funny. ‘I’m dead,’ Ben tells him. The man and his friends laugh. ‘I DIED,’ Ben tells them. They laugh again. Ben laughs too and drinks the beer as a single tear falls from his eye to roll down his cheek. A hand on his shoulder. Safa at his side. She leans over him to stare at the front page of the newspaper and spots the date. She doesn’t know that Fevereiro is ‘February’ but the rest is obvious. She smiles at him, seeing the tear but thinking it’s a bead of sweat trickling down.

  A beer is pushed into her hands. She sees it coming and takes it with a smile and a nod, spotting the boxes of beer at the group’s feet. She sips the warm liquid and stares round. Harry and Roland come over. Beers pushed into their hands as the group sees that the nice man who asked for the newspaper is joined by his friends. Roland frets. This is interaction. This could damage the timeline. Harry drinks his beer and stares suspiciously at the most beautiful woman he has ever seen dancing nearby.

  Ben drinks. He drinks the beer in the hot, humid air of Rio de Janeiro on the fourteenth of February nineteen ninety-nine and knows he is dead. He died. He doesn’t exist.

  Sixteen

  Three austere, sterile rooms. Concrete walls. Concrete floors and ceilings. A single metal-framed bed in each room.

  They wake and squint at the glaring light overhead. Mouths dry. Heads pounding. Safa grunts and rolls over to bury her head in the pillow. Harry closes his eyes and starts squinting to let his vision adjust while going through his now habitual check to see if anything is broken. Ben groans, lifts his head and squints round at the awful room before dropping his head back down.

  Safa rolls and twists to sit on the edge of her bed and waits for the dizziness to pass. Her mouth is so dry. Her throat too. She’s sweating and feels dirty, grimy. Her hair is greasy too. She looks to her clothes on the floor where she left them last night. Was it last night? Does time even exist here? She blinks at her own stupid question and deliberates the possibility that she is still drunk. She tuts at the memory of Roland panicking and trying to make them leave Rio but being blatantly ignored as they drank beer with their new mates and got roaringly drunk.

  She smiles and chuckles in that way people do the morning after the night before. Harry was dancing with the carnival girls. She snorts at that image. The huge bearded man stamping his feet while holding a bottle of beer over his head and linking arms with scantily clad women to twirl and dance. Roland was going apeshit by then, but their new friends shoved more beer into his hands.

  She stands with a groan and realises she actually feels much better than the last time she woke up in this room. The pain in her limbs is easing and the groggy feeling is just a plain old hangover and not the sickening drugged sensation. She goes out into the middle room then dances back in realisation she is just in her bra and pants. She considers for a second, shrugs and moves swiftly for the bathroom. A simple, thin, sliding bolt on the inside. She uses the toilet, brushes her teeth and twists the shower head on. Cold water thunders out. She waits for it to get warm. It doesn’t. She waits longer. It stays cold. Oh well. She steps in and immediately shivers with a yelp at the cold water spraying her naked body. With the immediate shock over, she relaxes. The air in this place is warm and muggy and the shower feels lovely as it blasts the hangover away. A new bottle of shower gel on the side. She lathers up and washes quickly, using the same product to wash her hair while making a mental list of all the things they will need. Whether they are staying is not a question that needs answering. The thing has been proven. Time travel exists. They are in a bunker a hundred million years ago. The world ends. They’ve got to stop that happening. The idea of it, the sheer overwhelming concept overshadows any trace of homesickness she feels. She loves her family. She misses them, but her mind is mission orientated. It always has been. Things are black and white to Safa. She has to do this and be here so therefore she cannot do anything about missing her family or home. Besides, she gets to work with Mad Harry Madden and Ben Ryder and that is enough to make her smile. She already adores Harry. The man is incredible and not what she was expecting at all. He’s a squaddie through and through. He drank so much last night he was singing songs, dancing and was louder than all of them, but he has a deep respect in him too. Dignity and pride, and he clearly
loves Brazilian women. She laughs again at the memory and wonders if Roland will still be sulking. Mind you, even he was tipsy and in the end he kept saying how glad he was they were all there. I am so glad. So glad. Really so glad. Indeed, I am really rather glad. He even admitted he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, but he muttered that and she pretended she didn’t hear. Sometimes an ace is best left in the sleeve.

  Ben, though. She frowns in puzzlement as the cold water rinses the bubbles from her hair. She can’t read Ben. One minute he seemed fine and the next he was morose, completely withdrawn. One minute he was laughing at Harry dancing with that carnival girl while Roland was having kittens and the next he was staring into space and drinking bottle after bottle of beer. He was drunk too. Completely drunk. She had to help him back to the portal with Harry, where Malcolm and Konrad were in fits of panic at how long they’d been away.

  ‘Ah fuck off,’ Ben slurred at them. ‘Got a time machine . . .’

  It was funny the way he said it but he didn’t say it with humour. Shock. She nods to herself. It’s just shock. She and Harry have an advantage in that their roles kept them away from home for long periods of time. Ben has never had that. He just needs to adjust.

  She ends the shower and wraps a towel round her body before stepping out into the main room to snort a laugh at the sight of Ben and Harry sitting slumped in the blue chairs looking like shit.

  ‘Shower’s free,’ she says bright and loud, moving into her room to get changed. She pushes her door to but leaves it slightly open. ‘We need a team leader,’ she calls out. ‘Harry? You were a sergeant. You up for it?’

  ‘No,’ he croaks.

  ‘Is that the hangover talking?’ she asks from her room, wincing at having to wear yesterday’s street clothes again.

  ‘No,’ he croaks again. ‘You do it.’

  ‘You sure? Can you handle a woman telling you what to do?’