by RR Haywood
Despite all of that, and despite the utter desolation of knowing Safa and Harry are dead, his mind is once more his own, and to compensate for the sense of bereavement he reminds himself constantly that he has a time machine and will go and get them back.
That thought drives him, generating a relentless, unstoppable energy. He trains. He eats. He sleeps. The swimming tank is fantastic. Ben only ever swam for leisure and the tank, as small as it is, means he can build up his technique for powering through an ever-increasing current. It also means he gets used to the mask, the flippers and exerting himself while having the mouthpiece of a breathing tube between his teeth.
He also runs. Not far at first, but as the days go on, so he covers more distance. Up and down the side of the bunker, where Safa and Harry drilled him relentlessly. He remembers the lessons. He remembers the warm-ups, the stretches, the warm-downs. He remembers the circuits and the types of food that Safa told him to eat. Proteins, carbs, fats and nutrition.
Ben knows, despite the urge gripping him to go now and dive through the portal to save them, that he has one shot and one shot only. Malcolm and Konrad will never come after him. Roland has made that clear. Roland will not risk losing them in addition to Harry, Safa and Ben if he doesn’t make it back. So that means Ben has to get it right the first time.
The evenings are the worst. In the day, he can focus on the training. He can swim, take a break, swim more, do some other exercise then go back to swimming. He can fire pistols at targets and use the metal detector to hunt for the casings on the grass. He can find focus and things to occupy his mind, but when night comes, so the emptiness of the bunker becomes striking.
Instead, he takes a bottle of beer and sits outside to watch the sunset that Harry and Safa watched so many times. He sits next to two empty chairs then returns to their rooms that have changed so much but that still hold the smell of them. The bittersweet scents that invoke too many emotions.
He sleeps soundly now. The dreams still come but the terror of them is less and the noises outside are more homely now, more normal and organic, like they belong to this place and his life. Like people who live near busy roads who say they get so used to the noise they can’t sleep without it. The meds given by Doctor Watson help. They take the edge off and aid his production of serotonin, which serves to improve rationality and well-being, and to rationalise is to know where you are in time and space.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Roland said, stepping out from the bunker one evening a few days after Ben woke up.
Ben nodded. ‘Is,’ he said.
Roland turned to look at Ben. Smiling politely but very clearly examining the other man. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Tired . . . still sore . . . getting better though,’ he added.
‘I see,’ Roland said.
‘You’re here late,’ Ben said. Roland was rarely in the bunker. Ben had noticed Roland’s lack of presence even when he was in the grip of his mental deterioration, but it was something he never thought to question or could be bothered to ask about.
‘Indeed,’ Roland said while looking at the bottles of beer in the cooler. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Carry on,’ Ben said. He almost said it’s your bunker, but stopped himself at the last second.
‘Malcolm and Konrad needed some money,’ Roland explained as he selected a beer, unscrewed the cap and took the first swig. It didn’t look right somehow. Roland was too stiff and too formal to drink beer from a bottle. Ben’s curiosity prickled. His investigative mind moved into gear. He showed no reaction on his face but inclined his head as though to show interest in the conversation and by not speaking he invited Roland to fill the silence. ‘Costs a fortune,’ Roland said, feeling a need to fill that silence.
‘What does?’ Ben asked.
‘This,’ Roland said. ‘All of this.’
‘Oh,’ Ben said blandly. He paused, swigged his beer and exhaled to show a relaxed state, telegraphing that any questions he asked were purely conversational. ‘You must be wealthy.’
Roland snorted with a dry laugh. ‘God, no. I died in twenty forty-six. Committed suicide. Walked into the sea and drowned myself.’
The sudden information flow surprised Ben. He was expecting a gentle flow of conversation but the shift in pace told him Roland had something he wanted to say.
‘Go on,’ Ben said gently.
Roland cast him a look. Weariness in his eyes. Weight on his shoulders. Ben felt the urge to ask why, where, when and what happened but resisted asking any closed questions that invited single responses.
‘Business folded,’ Roland said, nodding morosely at his bottle of beer. ‘Financial ruin. Had an insurance policy that paid out in the event of my death and, fortunately, it covered suicide.’ He stopped to swig from his beer. ‘My death paid for my children’s education.’
Ben nodded. His mind working clear and free. Conclusions drawn. Suspicions formed. Connect the dots. Follow the breadcrumb trail. One of Roland’s children extracted him. Why? Roland is working for one person. Who? Roland is rarely here. Why? Ben rubbed the back of his neck and smiled wryly. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Ah indeed,’ Roland replied. He did not look at Ben but stared ahead.
‘Son? Daughter?’ Ben asked.
‘Son,’ Roland said.
‘Got it,’ Ben said.
‘Do you?’ Roland asked. He shifted position to look at Ben. ‘Do tell me.’
Ben prickled at the tone but suppressed any show of irritation. ‘You died. Your kids got a private education. Your son invented time travel to save his father but fucked the world up then went back to actually save his father, who is now trying to fix what his son fucked up. Which is why you are never here. Because you are spending time with your son.’
‘You are astute, aren’t you?’
Ben did not hide the irritation that time but inclined his head to offer a hard glare. ‘So now you play God with people’s lives to fix the fucking mess your son made. Like I said. Got it.’
Roland stiffened. A blush spread through his cheeks. ‘I . . .’
‘What?’ Ben asked coldly.
‘My apologies.’
‘Where does the money come from?’ Now was the time for specific questions.
‘Pardon?’
‘The money. You said this place costs money to run and you said you are not wealthy. Where does the money come from?’
‘I would rather not . . .’
‘Yeah, I’m not giving you a choice. Where does the money come from?’
‘Ben, what is—’
‘I will throw you off that fucking ledge in a minute you nasty, vile, selfish, egotistical prick. You brought three people into a sterile bunker. You shoved them in rooms like cells and expected them to be heroes because a fucking computer program told you they would be okay and you left them to it while you went to the park with your son—’
‘Now listen here—’
‘I investigated suicides. I had to look into the lives of people to validate the claims and nearly every single one of them were cunts like you. Rich fucking bastards that bankrupted themselves through greed and couldn’t face a life of poverty and not being able to drive a fucking Porsche. People like you have no concept of the misery you cause. You fucking killed yourself for money? You abandoned your family for money? You brought us here and dumped us in the fucking dinosaur times to alleviate your own guilt? Fuck you. Fuck you and what you stand for. This is too big to be left in the hands of a fucking idiot like you. Where does the money come from?’
Roland swallowed. The intensity of the words pouring from Ben wilted him. The ferocity of the glare together with the calm tone of the voice was frightening. ‘Investments,’ he said weakly.
‘Investments? What investments?’
‘We can’t just take money. The impact on the timeline would be . . . I mean. In theory I could use future knowledge to gain a fortune but that could influence the timeline. I invest in stocks and s
hares that I know will do well. Some small amounts here and there that pay out but that do not upset the natural—’
‘Just steal it. Find a drug or gun smuggler and fucking steal it . . . actually, tell me where one is and I’ll go do it right now.’
‘We can’t! You can’t . . . I mean . . . think about it. The smuggler wakes up to find his money gone. Who does he blame? Who does he kill in revenge? That is influence on the timeline.’
‘Gold then. Go back in time and find gold or diamonds.’
‘Again, we cannot. What if that gold or diamond is used later in the timeline?’
‘There you go. Right there,’ Ben said darkly.
‘What?’ Roland asked.
‘You place higher regard for material wealth than you give value to the lives of people.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You killed yourself for money. You dumped me, Safa and Harry here and fucked off to play stockbroker and you care more for a lump of gold or a cluster of diamonds than the entirety of the human species . . .’
‘Okay,’ Roland said as he stood up. ‘I think this conversation is over.’
‘You extracted me from my death—’
‘I did but—’
‘But that does not make you God. It does not mean you get to control everything said and done by those you extracted.’ Ben was up, on his feet and stalking hard towards Roland, who backed away in alarm. ‘You do not get to come out here, boast about your life and fucking end the conversation when you see fit. Safa and Harry died. Even if I bring them back . . . which, according to Doctor Watson, is highly unlikely, they will have still died. They died because I suffered a mental breakdown. I suffered that mental breakdown because of your actions and what you did and the way you did it.’
‘Ben please . . .’ Roland stopped with his back to the side of the bunker.
‘You do not pay me. You do not own me. You do not control me. The second you brought us back and explained why is the second you gave us the responsibility to deal with the problem. Can you understand that? You do not run this. This is not yours. This problem is bigger than you . . . the lack of care you have shown is staggering. I suggest, Roland. I really . . . really fucking suggest that from now you focus solely on providing the money and do nothing else that you can fuck up.’ Ben stopped an inch from Roland. Nose to nose. Threat and malice in every word spoken. Roland swallowed.
‘Find someone with a military intelligence background,’ Ben said, his eyes locked on Roland. ‘Find someone who knows what they are doing, because you don’t.’
That conversation ended with Roland rushing off but it left Ben fuelled by an anger inside that would not subside. He missed Harry and Safa. He drank another beer and paced up and down as the sky above him grew dark and the noises of the night grew louder.
He went inside and stared down the corridor. The bunker felt so empty. So lonely, sterile and cold. The blue light from the device was spilling out from the room holding it. He headed down and stared into the room at the shimmering, iridescent square. Roland gets to go home. Roland bends the rules to suit himself. Ben knew, without doubt, that should he go after Roland right then he would see a home of luxury. The lure of wealth is too great for people like that. Roland doesn’t sleep in the bunker. He creams the stock markets and plays God instead while letting the little people do the dirty work for him.
Anger inside. The unfairness of it. He marched in and snatched up the tablet left on the side next to the device. A simple PDA thing. Easy to use. He lifted his head at hearing Malcolm and Konrad talking in their rooms. He scrolled through the screens. Figuring out the workings as he swiped. ‘History’. A simple button that he pressed to reveal a long list. He scrolled down seeing the words Berlin and Roland appear time and again. Berlin must be where Malcolm and Konrad go to get the things they need. Roland must mean Roland’s home. He scrolled down further until he saw it and froze. Rio 1999. Fuck. He swallowed and, without thinking, without thought, he pressed it. The screen changed. Set portal to Rio 1999? Fuck. He pressed the green ‘Accept’ button. The blue light flickered and went off, a second later it flickered and came back on. He stared at it. His heart hammered in his chest. His mouth suddenly dry. Rio was right there. The implications hit home. The crossing over of time travel. If he went through he would meet his former self. He would see Malcolm waiting on the other side for the rest to come back. The lure was there. The lure to go through and see Harry and Safa again. Just for a minute.
He ran quickly to his room and grabbed his black baseball cap. He put his jeans on and the grey tracksuit top he used when he first got here. His hair and beard were long and thick. He put on the baseball cap and tugged it low. He looked so different. He ran back. Still fuelled by the idea.
In the device room he stared at the blue portal but knew he could not go through. Malcolm was on the other side but there was a risk that by setting the portal again he was overriding the previous one. That thought made him swipe the screen and switch the device off but his mind had not finished with the idea. Instead, he found the settings and located the GPS coordinates for Rio 1999. The six-digit latitude and longitude numbers were there. All he had to do was adjust the last digit of each to move the position along. The original portal would be unaffected. He would simply be creating a new portal from this time through to that time but to a new location. He did it. He deleted the last number of the latitude and increased the value by two. He did the same with longitude and pressed the buttons to make the beautiful blue light fill the room. He took a tentative step forward and eased through his head, which bounced off the wall the portal was set against. He adjusted the values and tried again, leaning through. Sound filled his ears. Hot air hit his face. The carnival was close. The smell of Rio that he instantly recalled from six months ago. He looked round while leaning through. There off to the left was the telltale glow of the other portal, out of sight round the corner of the alley. He realised he must be further down the same alley. He crept out and paused to listen. The feel of it was incredible. The humidity, the smells of life, the sounds of people and music. He eased to the corner and peeked round to see Konrad leaning against a wall smoking while staring down at the main road. The blue portal right next to him.
Ben’s heart thudded. That was Konrad six months ago. The concept was too much but the lure and temptation were also too much. He went the other way and wound through the long alley, which fed on to the same main road further down. He stepped out to lights and music and people dancing. He stepped out to crowds cheering, whistles, klaxons and the thrumming beats. He spotted a gap in the procession and sprinted across the road to the other side then started down through the crowds. He was jostled, pushed and bumped into but it was wonderful. He smiled and nodded at people. They smiled and laughed back. The atmosphere was electric, pulsating, and it gave energy to his already excited state.
He spotted the awning of the bar through the gaps in the procession but the crowds were too thick on both sides to allow a clear view. He moved up and down, trying to catch a glimpse, but it was no good. He went further down, waited for a gap, ran across to the other side and started moving up towards the awning. He tugged his cap down lower and kept his head lowered, looking up under the rim towards the thick crowds outside the bar.
A gut punch. A surge of adrenaline. Harry being pulled into the road by a scantily clad dancer. Harry. Ben stopped right where he was to stare. Harry. The big bearded man laughing and turning on the spot with a bottle of beer held over his head. He scoured the crowd and saw Roland standing stiff and worried, tightly clasping a bottle of beer. Then right there. Right in front of him suddenly in clear view was him talking to Safa. The sight made his heart lurch. His stomach flipped. His legs wobbled but the feeling was nice. It was more than nice.
He looked so different. Short hair. No beard. Fat too. Well, not fat, but not fit like he is now. The old Ben looked puffy and just different, but as great as the desire was to stare in fascination at himse
lf, he found his attention pulled to Safa. She looked the same. The exact same. The same raven-black hair. The same stature. The same poise and stance. He felt both sick and ecstatic at the same time. Just the sight of them, of her. Harry and Safa. The music. The sounds. The heat. The laughing people. Seeing his old self and knowing what Ben had to go through. There was an urge in him then, to intervene and say something, to tell them to do things differently, but again the dangers of meddling screamed in his mind.
He went closer. Drawn to them. He wanted to hear their voices. He needed to hear Safa. Hat low, peak down, head lowered, he slouched and changed his gait to shuffle as though tipsy. He fed into the crowd and weaved to get stupidly close.
‘Oh my God, Ben! Look at him.’ Safa’s voice drifted over. Her raucous laugh that he remembered so clearly. He closed his eyes and just listened. Just for a second. Just to know she was there. Right there. ‘Need a piss, hold that . . .’
Shit. He snapped his eyes open. Safa had gone to the toilet in the bar. He was in the way. He turned round and dropped his head as Safa moved round him, her shoulder brushing against his. ‘Sorry,’ she said, lifting a hand. He lifted a hand and turned to watch the procession while suddenly feeling like a voyeur. Fuck. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He moved away quickly and crossed the road to sprint down back to his alley then down and through his portal that was deactivated the second he got into the bunker. He breathed hard. His chest rising and falling. For a second he felt sick to the stomach at what he had just done. Then the humour of it hit him and he burst out laughing. He saw Harry. He saw Safa. Safa touched his shoulder!
If he wasn’t forged mentally prior to that, he was from that point on.
Thirty-Seven
He fixes his gaze on the blue square. ‘I just run through, yeah?’
‘I would dive through,’ the doctor says behind him. ‘Not that I would actually dive through as only a maniac would actually go through that thing into—’
