THE TIME THIEF

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  Her pretty face alight with a delighted smile, the girl entered the low-ceilinged bar where the Tar Man sat. She ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee at the bar, and while the barman had his back to her she removed several ten-pound notes from the big man’s wallet and shoved the evidence between a potted plant and its holder. The Tar Man called over to her from his table.

  “That was neatly done.”

  The girl whipped round. She was angry with herself that she had not noticed him sitting there.

  “What you talking about? I never did nothing!”

  The Tar Man smiled broadly. “Never try to hoodwink a hoodwinker. I say it as one who has an appreciation for such things.”

  The girl looked the stranger up and down, took in his scar and his unusual taste in clothes.

  “Well, I can see you ain’t the law….”

  She walked toward his table, ignoring the Tar Man, so that she could see what was going on outside. She grinned broadly. The burly man was dragging the youth, shouting and kicking, out of the yard into Borough High Street.

  The barman came over to the table with the girl’s coffee, thinking they were together.

  “No—” she started to say.

  “Yes,” interrupted the Tar Man, “let us drink a glass together.”

  “You don’t half speak funny….”

  “I see that it pleases you to read.”

  The girl looked askance. “Yeah, and … ?”

  “Would you do me the kindness of reading this for me?”

  The Tar Man pointed to a small framed poem hung on the wall next to the window. It was a surprising request and the girl found herself reading it before she could think of a reason to refuse.

  “Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

  Heav’n grant no tears but tears of wine!”

  She reads well! thought the Tar Man. Even better …

  “Forgotten your specs, have you?” asked the girl.

  “Specs? I do not understand you.”

  “Spectacles! You know …”

  “Ah. No. It is not for that reason that I cannot read.”

  “You’re dyslexic, then?”

  “Upon my word your speech is hard to follow!”

  “You get your letters confused?”

  “As I never knew my letters, I could hardly confuse them. In my time, natural good sense was more than sufficient and I never felt the lack. I fear that things have changed.”

  The girl looked at the Tar Man. He read suspicion and curiosity in her features.

  “I have a fancy we could be of use to each other, you and I.”

  He had unsettled the girl. Usually she was good at sizing people up, but she did not know what to make of this character.

  “I gotta be going.”

  “Tell me your name first.”

  “My name ain’t none of your business!”

  The Tar Man stood up and bowed his head. “Then until we meet again …”

  “I doubt it.”

  The girl swallowed down her coffee and made for the door. The Tar Man made sure that he was looking away when she sneaked a final glance at him, as he knew she would.

  It was the first day of the spring term for Kate’s younger siblings. Sam, who never usually gave his sister hugs, ran back from the Land Rover to give her one before he left. She had tousled his hair roughly and told him that he had gone soft while she had been away, but he could see that she was pleased. Kate was half- expecting her parents to say that she had to go to school too, as her mum was always so strict about taking days off. Instead, her mother had encouraged her to take it easy and catch up on her sleep if she could. Mrs. Dyer had then gone even further and, to Kate’s astonishment, had telephoned Inspector Wheeler to insist—forcibly—that her daughter was exhausted and needed rest and calm and could not possibly be questioned again today. So Kate found herself at a loose end: She had eaten lunch, taken Molly for a walk, and read the two little ones a story before their afternoon nap. She decided to go downstairs and watch television. Sean and Milly were both light sleepers, so she crept carefully down the creaky stairs so as not to disturb them. The kitchen door was shut and she thought she could hear voices. Her dad had gone out mid-morning so she presumed it was the radio, but as she was about to turn the handle she recognized both her parents’ voices. They were speaking in a desperate tone and, fearful, she stood for a moment to listen. What she heard convinced her to remain outside the door unannounced. She pressed her cheek against the heavy oak door.

  Her mother was speaking. She sounded agitated.

  “Dr. Pirretti can’t be serious about destroying the antigravity machine tonight! Even if it’s true that Tim Williamson intends to get it back, it doesn’t follow that he is going to spill the beans to NASA or to the press.”

  “I think he will,” replied her father. “I think he wants to go down in history as the inventor of time travel. Anyway, he lied to me about where he was going. It was only because his flatmate happened to be there that I found out that he wasn’t going to be around over the next couple of days because, quote, ‘he’s picking up a large bit of equipment.’”

  “Where is the antigravity machine, anyway?” asked Mrs. Dyer.

  “In a lock-up garage behind a post office in a village in Hertfordshire. Middle Harpenden or something.”

  “But how can Anita even think of destroying it now?” said Mrs. Dyer. “It’s monstrous!”

  Dr. Dyer did not answer.

  “Please don’t tell me that you would be prepared to leave Peter stranded in 1763!” shouted his wife.

  Kate bit her lip. This was awful. She could tell her mother was close to tears. It was bad enough eavesdropping and hearing her parents argue—which was something they never did—but she could not believe what she was hearing.

  “Listen,” said Dr. Dyer. “I am trying very hard to keep my head and to do the right thing. I didn’t say that I was happy about leaving Peter in the eighteenth century! And I’m quite sure that Anita isn’t either—but can’t you see that she is justified in fearing the consequences of going back even one more time? And she’s worried that Inspector Wheeler may wheedle the truth out of Kate, that Tim Williamson may go public, and that the antigravity machine will be impounded…. If the tabloid press get their hands on this story, we’ll have more to worry about than headlines about alien abductions.”

  “But a boy’s life is at stake!”

  “You don’t need to tell me that!” roared Dr. Dyer. “And who knows how many lives will be at stake if we do go after him!”

  “Ssh … ,” said Mrs. Dyer. “Kate might hear us.”

  With difficulty, Dr. Dyer made himself speak slowly and calmly.

  “Can’t you see what a nightmare time travel could be? The future of history would be up for grabs…. Just imagine what it could be like—the person you’re talking to could suddenly disappear because someone went back in time and changed something that wiped out his entire bloodline. We’re old enough to have learned that life is a game of chutes and ladders at the best of times. I, for one, don’t want to live in a world where you are forced to play it in several dimensions.”

  “And Anita Pirretti thinks it’s okay to sacrifice Peter to her doomsday theory?” asked Mrs. Dyer.

  “Of course she doesn’t think it’s okay! But she does think it might be the most responsible course of action….”

  Mrs. Dyer let out a desperate little cry.

  “And does the same go for you? Are you going to stand by and let her do it?”

  “I … I don’t know yet. My heart and my head are saying different things.”

  “Peter’s father is coming over this evening,” Mrs. Dyer cried. “Tell me, what are we supposed to say to him?”

  “As little as possible….”

  Behind the door Kate clenched her fists. She turned white with anger.

  “And remember,” continued Dr. Dyer, “that we have no guarantee that we can return to 1763 a third time or, if we manage it, that
we could then return to the present.”

  “But we’ve got to try, surely! Peter is an innocent victim in all of this. He didn’t ask to be sent back in time!”

  “True—but how many innocent victims will there be if we let the world know that time travel is possible?”

  Kate had heard enough—was this really her Dad talking? What kind of a monster had he turned into? She took a deep breath, composed her face into a smile, and burst into the kitchen. Her parents were standing at opposite sides of the room, and her mother’s complexion was blotchy. Both immediately clammed up and stood looking awkwardly at their daughter.

  “Is it still okay for me to invite Megan over?” asked Kate brightly.

  “Yes, of course it is, love, if you feel up to it,” answered her mother. “But you … you will be careful what you say to her, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” replied Kate. “I’ll give her a ring, then. She’ll probably be back from school by now. Can she stay for a sleepover?”

  An hour later Mrs. Dyer stood at the window holding little Milly. They watched Kate run out into the yard to greet Megan. The valley was already in dark shadow, and the hilltops with their light dusting of snow glistened red. Banks of ominous gray clouds were building up to the north. “I shouldn’t like to be out tonight,” she said. “Aren’t you glad we’ll all be warm and cozy inside….” Milly did not reply, preoccupied as she was with puckering up her lips against the pane of glass like a fish in an aquarium. Through the window they heard squeals of delight as the two friends ran toward each other arms outstretched, so happy to be reunited. Kate and Megan had talked endlessly on the telephone but this was their first meeting. The girls’ breath came out in great clouds of steam. They hugged and talked and hugged each other again. Then they disappeared into the cowshed for some privacy, as they often did. Mrs. Dyer smiled to see them.

  “Do you know,” she said to Milly, “your big sister and Megan have been friends since they weren’t much older than you? It seems like only yesterday since I saw them walking hand in hand into nursery school on their first day, eyes wide as saucers at this big new world. You’ve got that coming, my love….”

  Milly blew bubbles on the glass. “Your big sister is going to want to go back and rescue Peter. I know she is….”

  “Pe-ta,” repeated Milly.

  “But I shan’t let her—not again. I almost hope that the anti-gravity machine will be destroyed tonight! Why should our family suffer anymore? It wasn’t our fault! Perhaps it is right that one boy’s happiness be sacrificed for the greater good…. And he has a difficult relationship with his father, according to Margrit. Why, he might even prefer it in the eighteenth century….”

  The toddler started to wriggle and Mrs. Dyer put her down. “You’re getting heavy, Milly, my love.”

  As she stood up again, her hand pressing against the small of her back, shame pricked at her. She thought of Peter’s mother and what she must be going through, and then turned her mind to what on earth she was going to say to Peter’s father when he arrived in a couple of hours’ time.

  Kate was telling Megan about her parents’ argument. “It’s like they’d had a personality change! I couldn’t believe it!”

  They were sitting side by side on a bale of hay, their backs against the cold brick wall. Kate’s long, red hair made Megan’s blond ponytail seem even paler. Megan knew her friend well enough not to argue.

  “Stress does funny things to grown-ups.”

  “You will help me, won’t you, Meggie?”

  “Yes, of course I will…. Not that I want you to go back in time again either.”

  “I don’t have a choice! If I don’t try to save him, I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life. It was a blood pact.”

  “You are going to tell Sam, aren’t you? You don’t realize what a terrible state he’s been in. I don’t know how he’d cope if he woke up and found you’d disappeared again.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if I just went? He’ll only get upset anyway and then he might give the game away.”

  “That’s not fair, Kate—we didn’t know if you were alive or dead! It’s torture not knowing…. If you explain it to him, he won’t like it but at least he’ll understand.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell him.”

  Megan’s big Christmas present was a state-of-the-art mobile phone which had barely left her hand since she had pulled it excitedly out of its box. Now she used it to track down Mr. Schock’s office number. She was convincing enough to persuade the receptionist to reveal her “uncle’s” mobile number. She put her own mobile to her ear and waited.

  “He’s not answering—it’s gone into voicemail,” she said. “Now what do we do?”

  “Leave a message, of course! Here, give it to me!” exclaimed Kate.

  She gulped and took a deep breath, suddenly unsure what to say.

  “Hello, Mr. Schock. You don’t know me but I know your son very well. My name is Kate Dyer. Will you please ring this number urgently. I need to talk to you before you come to the farm. Before you speak to my parents. Please. This is a matter of life or death for your son.”

  “Well, if that doesn’t get a response, nothing will!” said Megan.

  There was a knock on the barn door. It was Sam.

  “Come on in, Sam,” called Megan. And then, with a pointed look at Kate, “We need you to help us with something. Kate’s got something to tell you. Kate, you’d better keep hold of the phone in case Peter’s dad calls.”

  The poor boy looked alarmed as Kate patted the haystack next to her. He sat down next to his big sister and Megan discreetly retreated to the house.

  “You can start packing,” Kate called after her. “Look under my pillow….”

  Sam looked even more alarmed.

  Megan waited in Kate’s room. She picked up the pillow and saw, neatly arranged underneath, all those items which Kate had deemed essential for a stay in the eighteenth century. Megan picked them up one by one and stashed them in Kate’s canvas backpack. It was strangely like packing for a vacation. There was a wide-toothed comb and shampoo; toothbrush and toothpaste; perfumed soap; plasters and antiseptic wipes, plus a small brown bottle labeled PENICILLIN: TAKE ONE CAPSULE THREE TIMES A DAY. COMPLETE THE COURSE which she’d filched from the medicine cabinet; a large bar of chocolate (Kate’s belated Christmas present from the twins); three cans of Coca-Cola; a small flashlight with spare batteries; two old watches (presumably to sell); lace doilies (ditto); spare sneakers; enough underwear for a week; and her Swiss Army knife.

  After twenty minutes, Kate and Sam reappeared. Both their noses were red and Kate sniffed between sentences.

  “It’s on. Peter’s dad called. He’s meeting me in the lane at eight o’clock. And I’ve told Sam. You’re going to help us—aren’t you?”

  Sam was going on ten and in looks took after his mother. He was skinny with thick dark hair which went curly when it was damp. He nodded but looked close to tears.

  Megan gave him a hug. “She’ll come back. You know your big sister—no one gets the better of Kate Dyer….”

  “You better,” said Sam gruffly.

  At ten to eight, Kate stood at the kitchen door. Her mum was preparing the grown-ups’ supper in time for Mr. Schock’s imminent arrival. Issy and Alice were on the floor in front of the Aga cooker stroking Molly, who was almost asleep, lulled by the heat and all the attention. Kate walked over and crouched down next to the little group. She rested her head on Molly’s fat belly for a moment.

  “I’m cold. I’m going to have a hot bath,” she announced. “Then I think I’ll read in bed; I’m really tired.”

  “Okay, love, I’ll come up and kiss you good night later,” said her mum, giving her an anxious look. “Your dad’s gone out…. I wish he hadn’t. Mr. Schock will be here any minute…. If you’re too tired to say hello to Peter’s dad tonight, can I tell him that you’ll speak to him in the morning? I know it’ll be hard, but …”

  “Yes
. I don’t mind….”

  Kate walked over and put her arms round her mother’s waist.

  “I love you, Mum.”

  Her mother put down the tea towel she was holding and took hold of Kate’s face. She kissed her forehead.

  “And I love you.”

  Kate retreated from the kitchen before her courage failed her.

  “Good night, Issy. Good night, Alice….”

  True to his word, Sam stayed in the bathroom and turned the water on and off and splashed and even hummed his sister’s favorite song. Kate turned up the music in her room and then she and Megan crept down to her dad’s study downstairs. Dr. Dyer reluctantly allowed Kate’s mother to store Bramley cooking apples wrapped in newspaper on his corner bookshelves—and it was the familiar smell of books and waxy fruit and leather that caused a lump in Kate’s throat. It was in this room, sitting on her father’s knee, that she had learned to read, and he had told her so many wonderful stories…. Suddenly, the urge to leave it all for the grown-ups to sort out nearly overwhelmed her—but she forced herself to run to the window and push it open. A blast of icy air slapped her face and brought her to her senses. Suddenly the wind caught hold of the window and she only just managed to grab hold of the frame before it smashed against the shutters. Snowflakes blew into the room and immediately melted on the worn Oriental rug. Kate climbed out, her feet leaving short-lived evidence of her escape on the snow-covered lawn. Megan leaned out to pass her the backpack.

  “Here, catch!” said Megan, throwing a small object to her friend.

  “Not your mobile! I can’t! You’ve waited all year for this!”