Future Tense

by Frank Almond

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s no danger of that.”

  “If I get a good night’s sleep,” I said, “maybe we could discharge me in the morning. I’ll need a wheelchair.”

  “We have one,” she said, studying my face with that strange look again.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Nothing. I’ll give you a sedative to help you sleep,” she said.

  She walked stiffly over to her handbag, took something out, and returned.

  “Do you know how to do this?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, pulling a sick grin. “They taught us sedation between bondage and flagellation class.”

  I was taking a liking to Miss Parker. But there was still something about her that troubled me, well, not really troubled me, but sort of made me suspicious of her, well, not really suspicious, as such, but slightly cautious, well, not exactly cautious, but a bit wary, well, not even wary really—I just had a funny feeling about her. Do you know what I mean? No, of course, you don’t. Neither do I.

  She produced a hypodermic syringe and squirted some out of the needle to get rid of the air, and then she pulled back the sheet to expose my side.

  “Can you turn your hip for me, please, Mr Duckworth?” she said.

  I twisted my lower body round as far as I dared and felt her inject into my right buttock, and then wipe it with a cold antiseptic swab.

  “Okay,” she said, covering me up again.

  “Don’t tuck me—” I started to say.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully. I was still getting my big squid nightmares. I woke up in a cold sweat, having narrowly escaped from one’s multiple clutches. It was really weird because the one that was trying to get me could talk and we weren’t even underwater when it attacked me. Well, it didn’t really attack me, it was sort of trying to guard me, I think. The thing was wrapped around my bed, with its tentacles going right under the mattress and interlocking, kind of like an embrace. It was just sitting there on the end of the bed, staring at me with its huge black eyes. I forget what it was saying, but it definitely called me by my name. And then when I struggled and cried out it slid off the bed, but I was still trapped because Nurse Parker had tucked me in too tightly again. I wonder what Freud would have made of that. Well, here, for what it’s worth, is my interpretation—that squid in the attic had scared the shit out of me and damaged me for life.

  “Shh-shh,” soothed Miss Parker, making a lovely ‘O’ shape with her lips. She was right up close and her breath smelt of fresh strawberries. That beautiful face was quite a tonic after what I’d been looking at all night, I can tell you.

  I swallowed hard. “Nightmare,” I said. “Keep having the same one.”

  “Oh, poor thing,” she frowned. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “A wheelchair,” I said. “Get me out of here.”

  “You’ve got a one track mind, Mr Duckworth,” she said.

  “Push me down it in a wheelchair then,” I said.

  “All right, I’ll get you your wheelchair, but you must promise to eat something and let me take a look at those stitches.”

  “Coffee and toast—I’ll take it in my wheelchair,” I said.

  “Oh, Mr Duckworth,” she sighed, “haven’t you enjoyed your stay here the teensiest bit?”

  “I’ll enjoy the bit when I’m leaving,” I said.

  She stuck her tongue out at me and went off to get the wheelchair out of a cupboard behind her chair.

  “It was here all the time!” I cried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I was afraid I’d wake up to find you halfway up the M6,” she said.

  “That’s a point. Do you have any idea where Duckworth Hall is?”

  “Don’t you?” she said, unfolding the wheelchair.

  “No.”

  “I thought you lived there.”

  “Yes, I do live there, but this is the first time I’ve ever left the old family pile,” I said. “And I was unconscious when they brought me here, so I don’t know my way home.”

  “Oh, how sad,” she frowned. “What is it that your family do exactly?”

  “We’re travellers.”

  “But you just said you’ve never left Duckworth Hall,” said Miss Parker. “I’m confused, Mr Duckworth.”

  “Not that sort of traveller, Miss Parker,” I laughed. “Antique entrepreneurial peregrinational ones.”

  “Oh, that kind. I’ll take my fifty thousand in advance, if you don’t mind, Mr Duckworth.”

  She pushed the wheelchair to the side of my bed and put the brake on.

  “Anyway, what do you care if I’m telling you a pack of lies?” I said. “As long as you—”

  “—Get my money,” she smiled. “As long as you pay me—up front—you can tell me you live on the bottom of the sea for all I care.”

  “Hmm. I’ve been thinking about that, Miss Parker.”

  “How reassuring.”

  “What do you intend to do with all your money?” I said.

  “Is that any of your business, Mr Duckworth?”

  “It’s just that I thought if you were planning to buy a car we could kill two birds with one stone,” I said.

  “Oh, I see,” she said, sitting on the corner of my bed, and fondling my hair, “so now I’m not only going to be your chauffeur, but also an owner-driver.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Well, if we had a crash, you could claim on my insurance, Mr Duckworth,” she said.

  “Hmm. I didn’t think of that. Actually, you’d be my chauffeuse, Miss Parker,” I said, stalling. “Ah, but what if I insured it for you?”

  “Done,” said Miss Parker, kissing my forehead. “Now, I’m going to go and prepare you a big breakfast. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll feed it to you.”

  “Hmm. That sounds sexy, Miss Parker,” I said. “In a strictly business sense of the word.”

  “Is business sexy?” she said.

  “Oh, Miss Parker—business is sex,” I said.

  If you think a sin, can it be just as good as doing it? Well, if it is, I was unfaithful to Emma while Miss Parker was feeding me my breakfast. She did that mummy thing of opening her mouth every time she wanted me to open my mouth and making yummy noises to encourage me to eat. And sometimes when bits dribbled out she—but we’d better not go into that here. Anyway, I suppose it must have been Oedipal. Oh, God—why do we have to have You and Freud?

  Well, I did manage to persuade Miss Parker to buy a car, but I couldn’t get her to buy an English car, because we couldn’t find one, so we—I mean, she—bought a BMW. And then we bought a map and she located Duckworth Hall, which turned out to be not that far from Highgrove, but then I didn’t know where that was either, until we looked it up on the map. They’re both in Gloucestershire, which is where anybody who is anybody would like to live, if they could afford the property prices and a book of speeding season tickets for driving up and down to Town. Town is what the toffs call London, only it is usually pronounced “Tine” in Gloucestershire-speak.

  Miss Parker’s driving was exhilarating, because she was such a brilliant driver and she drove so fast. But I never once felt alarmed, sitting next to her, with Radio One blaring and Miss Parker singing along to all the complicated lyrics of the Hip Hop songs, and pointing things out to me as we whizzed along the bendy, high-hedged roads. She was telling me about the Romans, because a lot of them lived in Gloucestershire a very long time ago. Did you know that they invented germ warfare? Miss Parker did. They used to catapult infected bodies into the forts and cities they were besieging. They were bastards, Miss Parker said, although it was wrong to judge them by contemporary attitudes, she supposed.

  And then we stopped at a country pub and she wheeled me in and got me a pint of real ale and a Ploughman’s for lunch. She even played darts with some locals and beat them easily, with a nine-dart finish. I was beginning to think there wasn’t anything Miss Parker couldn’t do.

&nbs
p; And then, when we were only a few miles from Duckworth Hall, she pulled into a lay-by and we started snogging. It all happened so naturally. I couldn’t help myself. I think I was falling in love with her. And by the time we pulled into the long and winding driveway up to the Hall, I was besotted with her. It was hard to imagine how anyone could be more sotted in such a short space of time.

  Bentley answered the door and seemed more surprised to see Miss Parker than me. I didn’t even know he knew her.

  “Miss Parker?” he said. He glanced down at me, in my wheelchair. “Sir Stephen?” And then back at Miss Parker. “But I thought Sir Julian said you were to remain in hospital for the rest of the week.”

  “There’s been a change of plan,” said Miss Parker. “Take Mr Duckworth up to his room. He needs rest. I must speak to Sir Julian. Where is he?”

  “He is away, Miss Parker,” said Bentley, taking over the handles of my wheelchair from her.

  “Damn. When will he be back?” she said, going through to the hall ahead of us, leaving the old butler to push me in.

  “Well, I could let him know you are here, Miss Parker. Perhaps, he will return,” said Bentley.

  “Then do so,” said Miss Parker, carrying on up the hallway and turning left.

  “Where are you going?” I called.

  “I won’t be far, darling—Bentley will see to you!” She disappeared round the corner.

  “Where’s she going?” I said.

  “Going, sir?” said Bentley. “She didn’t say, sir.”

  “I know she didn’t say! But you must know where she went, Bentley.”

  “Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly know that, I was here with you the whole time, sir.”

  He wheeled me to the foot of the stairs and helped me out.

  “Don’t we have an elevator?” I said. “Or one of those stair lift things?”

  “I am afraid not, sir—Sir Julian likes to keep the Hall in its original condition. Oh, yes, Sir Julian is very particular. Bentley, he’s very fond of saying, my home is an antique, if you look after it, it’ll be worth a bomb some day.”

  He assisted me to the top of the master staircase and left me leaning against the balustrade, while he went back down, folded up the chair, and carried it up to me. I sat back in and he pushed me to my room.

  “Bentley, how well do you know Miss Parker?” I asked, as he helped me onto the bed.

  “I believe she works for Sir Julian, sir.”

  “Has she been here often?”

  “Often, sir?”

  “How many times has she been to Duckworth Hall?”

  “How many times, sir?”

  “For God’s sake, Bentley—it’s a simple enough question! How many times has Miss Parker been here—a dozen times? More?”

  “Less, sir.”

  “Less than a dozen?”

  “More or less, sir.”

  “Bentley—if you don’t tell me—”

  “I believe I heard the doorbell, sir.” He drifted towards the door.

  “Bentley! Come back here! Bentley!” I shouted. But I was wasting my breath, he was silently closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  There were always strange goings on at Duckworth Hall, of course, but that afternoon, strangely, nothing much happened. I was left—no, I was abandoned in my room—unable to raise myself off my bed. Not only that, no one was responding to my frequent tugs on the service bell sash. And then the room began to darken and I knew it must be after six in the evening, because around St Patrick’s Day the days and nights are of equal length, it being near the vernal equinox. I tried to occupy myself by counting the shell mouldings on the ceiling, but, as I lay there, my thoughts kept returning to the lovely Miss Parker. I wondered why she hadn’t been to see if I was all right, but I always expected her to come through the door at any moment. I hadn’t given up on her. Up until then, all my thoughts and feelings had been a mixture of frustration—at being left helpless—and happiness, because I had met Miss Parker. But then when it grew dark I started to worry that something might have happened to her. I became desperate to see her and lapsed into listlessness and melancholy. None of this—my over-sensitive state of mind and growing dependence on Miss Parker, I mean—struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t think I was sick or going mad, or anything like that, I just thought I was in love.

  Not even when I discovered a remote control on my bedside table, realized it was for the TV across the room, switched it on, and saw pictures of a serious fire at a private clinic on the local evening news, did I think anything weird was going on. Even though I recognized the name of the hospital—Scrublands—as the very one Miss Parker and I had been staying in.

  And then the Duck suddenly burst into the room and switched on the chandelier.

  “Well, they’ve got her! It’s all over! That’s it!” he ranted, flinging his hands about in the air. “That’s all my plans down the khazi!”

  “Where’s Miss Parker?” I said.

  “It’s Jemmons,” said the Duck, wagging his finger in my face. “I said we should go and get him out, but, no, you were too busy chasing after Emma Gummer—now he’s sold us all down the river. Well, we can’t stay here—they’ll be blowing this place up next. Come on, on your feet—we’re out of here!”

  “What about Miss Parker?” I said.

  “Miss Parker? Miss Parker?” he said. “That’s who I’m on about, you duffer! She’s not Miss Parker—she’s the Princess Mormagleea of Whatsit. I can never remember these foreign names.”

  “Miss Parker is a princess?”

  “Yes—and she’s taken quite a shine to you.”

  “Really? Miss Parker likes me?” I said.

  “Likes you? She’s in love, mate. She only asked me for your hand in marriage. But, like I said, all that’s down the pan now. We’ve got to get out of here fast—tempus fugit, man!”

  “But I can’t move.”

  “Don’t give me any excuses—come on—get off that bed!”

  And the Duck grabbed my ankles and pulled me round, so that my toes were touching the floor. Then he put his arms around me like a dance partner and lifted me up.

  “Come on—on your feet!” he quacked.

  “You lead.”

  I was in no position to argue and, besides, I didn’t want to, even though my side still felt too tender and painful for me to be walking around—let alone going dancing—but my compulsion to find Miss Parker was too strong.

  “My wheelchair.” I flung my hands out for it.

  “No you don’t,” said the Duck, pulling me back. “If you put your arm around my neck, I’ll walk you down to the machine.”

  “Machine?” I said, courageously setting one foot down in front of the other and wincing with the wave of pain this simple exercise sent down my left side. “Where are we—ah—going?”

  “Are you on something? To get her back, of course—I’ve invested too much time and money in her to let them have her.”

  We continued to the door.

  “Who?”

  “Who?” He grabbed my chin and peered into my eyes. “Well, your pupils aren’t dilated. Did she slip you something?”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Miss Park—Princess Mormagleea!”

  He kicked the door open wider so there was enough room for us both to pass through.

  “Um? I think she gave me a sedative,” I said.

  We shambled on down the corridor like a couple of drunks.

  “That was no sedative, mate—that was love potion number nine! Can’t get her out of your head, can you?”

  “I’m very worried about her,” I said. “Who did you say took her again?”

  “Temporal Criminal Pursuit! Only it’s a new lot. These mothers are into zero tolerance—if they can’t catch you, they blow up your house. Property prices’ll be going through the roof round here—literally, mate!”

  “Miss Parker’s in danger!” I cried.

  “Well, of course, she’s in bleeding
danger—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you—we’ve got to go and get her out,” said the Duck. “I hope whatever she put in your tea wears off soon—you’re no use to me mooning over her. Mind the steps.”

  We came to the top of the stairs. I grabbed for the banister with both hands and the Duck steadied me down, one stair at a time.

  “Where have they taken Miss Parker?” I said.

  “Same place they send all category A felons—the Castle.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Is it far? Nobody knows where it is! Don’t you remember anything from last time?”

  “I like Miss Parker,” I said.

  “Oh, shut up. What you need is a pot of hot black java. Sober you up.”

  We descended the stairs and he led me across the hall and down the same corridor Miss Parker had taken.

  “This is the same way Miss Parker went,” I said.

  “Is it?” said the Duck. “We’ll have to put up one of those blue heritage plaques—Princess Mormagleea passed this way, March the twenty-second, 2002.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Twenty-second?” I said. “But it can’t be!”

  “What’re you on about?”

  “Did you say it was the twenty-second of March?”

  “Did I? Well, I meant the nineteenth. I’m a time traveller—I never know what day it is—they’re all the same to me, aren’t they!”

  “Oh,” I said.

  We carried on shuffling along.

  “Wait!” I said, pulling him up again.

  “What is it now? We’ve gotta split, man.”

  “There are no paintings on the walls and all the chairs in the corridors are gone. Also, there was no grandfather clock back there in the main hall, and I’m sure there used to be one. It stood on the eleventh and twelfth squares, if you count back from the front door,” I said.

  “Did it?” said the Duck, giving me a funny look. “What are you—the bloody Rain Man? Bentley removed it—everything worth taking has gone into storage in Bristol, in case this place goes up.”