Future Tense

by Frank Almond

  “I was going to say that,” I said.

  “Papa!” called Emily, who had gone below. “Mr Jemmons has tea and there are muffins and butter!”

  “That’s another good thing about time machines,” smiled Tree. “Food can never go off in them because it never gets old.”

  “So if I stayed in here I’d remain forever young?” said Emma.

  “Theoretically,” said Tree.

  “Think I’ll take up sailing,” said Emma.

  * * *

  Getting to a safe house proved to be a complex exercise. Tree owned a houseboat—a converted barge—which he kept on the Avon in Bristol, during the late 1950s. This was back in his arty days, when he had aspirations of becoming a serious painter. Then two things happened that destroyed his career. First Peter Blake, Hockney, and Pop Art exploded on the scene, here and in America, and Tree thought it was just a flash in the pan, and carried on doing his landscapes. And then he got called up to do his National Service. He served eighteen months in Aldershot, Hong Kong, and Malaya with the Army Catering Corps. When he was demobbed in 1962, the kind of traditional art he’d wanted to do had been sidelined.

  The upshot of all this was the houseboat he had been living on had remained empty for most of the two years he was away. Tree proposed that they go there to hide out. So, we had to travel back a few hundred years to a time when the industrial estate was just pasture, get out of the machine, carry it up to the top of a nearby hill—which had never been built on—and then go forward in time to late September, 1960.

  This is complicated, I know, but all we had to do then was transport the clock to Clifton, where the houseboat was moored. We managed to persuade a local garage owner to drive us there in his van, for two of Tree’s gold sovereigns.

  So by lunchtime we were all safely aboard the Mason-Wright houseboat, “The King of Prussia,” eagerly trying on his old beatnik clothes. I chose a pair of baggy black trousers, a black roll-neck sweater, and short black leather jacket. It was all miles too big for me, but I could have passed for a cool late fifties, jazz-loving student type. Tree struggled into an old pair of blue jeans, a black roll-neck sweater like mine, and a duffle coat. Our host, interestingly, had a wardrobe full of young women’s clothes on the boat, too, so the girls were not left out. He explained to us, rather unconvincingly, I thought, that they belonged to a girlfriend. She must have been a very tall one.

  So, there we were sitting up on deck in the sun, all wearing shades, enjoying a post-lunch spliff and planning our next move. We must have looked like a jazz combo taking five.

  “Maybe I’ll grow one of those goatee beards,” I said, rubbing my chin.

  “Well, it would get on mine,” said Emma.

  “Maybe a ‘tache like Monsewer De Crapp then!”

  “You couldn’t! You haven’t got anything there!”

  “Children, please!” said Tree.

  “I really dig these clothes,” said Emily.

  I noticed with Emily how effortlessly she adopted the attitudes and language associated with whatever costume she was wearing. And she looked good in her fishnets, pink plastic skirt, tight black top and biker jacket—and had even tied her hair back in a fashionable ponytail.

  Emma, who was similarly dressed, but had opted for a white woollen jacket, instead of the leather, took the joint from Emily.

  “It’s just good to get out of those stupid big dresses,” she said.

  “Tree, I know you don’t like talking about it, mate,” I said, “but we have got to start thinking about finding the Castle.”

  Tree nodded and gazed across the river.

  Emily patted his knee. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

  “I don’t know where it is,” said Tree. “It was always freezing there, I know that. It’s on a small rocky island in the middle of an ice sheet. That’s all I know.”

  “Sounds like the Arctic,” said Emma, passing me the joint.

  “No, I don’t think it was,” said Tree. “Some of the inmates made lenses out of ice and tried to take sightings. On clear days, we could make out people moving about and a coastline.”

  “Did you make a map?” I said.

  “There was a map,” said Tree, “but I was never shown it. I was not in the inner circle, you see. I—I was afraid to escape. I refused.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Daddy,” said his daughter. “You were thinking of me and Mummy.”

  “Yes, I just wanted to serve my time and live to see my family again.” He patted Emily’s hand.

  I handed him over the joint. He took a deep toke, held it in his lungs, and exhaled.

  “I made some sketches while I was there. There wasn’t much to see, I just needed to keep drawing, you understand.”

  “Have you still got them?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Can I have a look?”

  “They’re just rough drawings I did with some homemade charcoal.”

  “Are they here?”

  “They’re in Somerset.”

  “Could you get them?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think they would tell you much,” said Tree.

  “I’d still like to see them.”

  “I keep a Morris Minor in a lock-up round the corner. I’ll drive down there this afternoon and get them.”

  “I’ll go with you, Daddy,” said Emily.

  “We’ll stay the night down there and drive back first thing,” added Tree. “Emily needs sleep.”

  “Well, I’m staying here and getting some sleep right now,” yawned Emma.

  “I’ll keep you company.”

  She gave me a sick look.

  “I meant on the boat—not in your bunk.”

  * * *

  It was hard. I mean knowing Emma was asleep in a cabin not more than a few feet away from me. Once or twice I went and opened the door quietly and looked in on her, as she slept. I wondered what she was dreaming about. Probably De Quipp. Well, whatever it was, it was a long one—she slept right round the clock.

  * * *

  Late that evening, when she still hadn’t woken up, I decided to go for a stroll along the quayside to collect my thoughts, and put the day to bed. Nowadays, that stretch of the River Avon—the old Bristol Docks—is practically a Heritage site, with re-conditioned cobblestones, gift shops and eateries, but back then it was a pretty rough area. A red light district. And I was soon propositioned by a young lady of the night.

  “Looking for business, love?” she said, stepping out of the shadows.

  “No, actually, I’m just having a dark night of the soul and I was wondering if Sartre might have been right and I really did choose this life for myself, or whether, as the great medieval thinkers say, everything is predestined. What do you think?” I said.

  “I think you need a good—”

  Suddenly, we were both distracted by a piercing scream.

  It seemed to come from the houseboat.

  “Good answer!” I said, as I set off sprinting along the quayside, then broke into a trot and then, by the time I reached the barge, I was walking and gasping for breath.

  “Emma! Emma!” I panted.

  She came rushing up from the cabin, straight into my arms.

  “Steve—Steve! Oh, thank God! There’s someone down there! He—he was touching me!” she cried.

  I looked around the deck for something to negotiate with and picked up a marlinspike.

  “Maybe it’s Tree,” I said, hopefully.

  “It was definitely not Tree,” she said. “He was all sweaty and horrible—his hands were filthy! And he was stinking of beer and fags!”

  “It’s just some old tramp,” I said. “Wait up there.”

  “No, he was young,” she said, going up the gangplank to the quayside.

  “All right, a young tramp then.”

  I took a few steps down into the cabin. “Come out of there!” I shouted. No one answered. “I’ll call the police! I’m going to count to three. One-two-”

&nbs
p; “All right, all right—keep your hair on,” said someone with a Liverpudlian accent. “I was only lookin’ for somewhere to kip, man—and now there’s all this.”

  An unkempt young man, wearing tight-fitting black trousers, a white open-neck shirt and a black leather jacket similar to mine emerged from the galley area, holding up a bottle of milk and a packet of biscuits.

  My mouth fell open. God—I recognised him! A tingle wriggled around in the back of my neck.

  “Okay,” I said. “Right, well, help yourself to the, um, milk—I’ll find you somewhere to, uh, kip—you scared my girlfriend.”

  “Sorry about that like,” he said. “Cheers.”

  I stumbled back up the stairs and waved Emma down from the quay.

  “What? What?”

  “Do you know who that is?” I whispered.

  “I don’t care if it’s Prince Charles—get him out of there—now!”

  “I think it’s John Lennon,” I nodded, grinning all over my face. “That’s only John Lennon!” I bit my bottom lip. “It is, Em—I swear it is. It’s John Lennon.”

  She shook her head. “It can’t be. What would John Lennon be doing in Bristol? The Beatles lived in Liverpool, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, and they played in Hamburg,” I said. “But they must have played all over Britain before they were famous. This is 1960—they haven’t made it yet. That guy down there changed the world, Em! That’s the twenty-year-old genius in embryo. And he’s on our boat.”

  “Tree’s boat,” she corrected.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  We went back below. Emma smiled at our guest and scuttled through to her cabin to put some more clothes on. I sat down at the small dining table opposite him, to watch John Lennon drinking milk.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he said.

  “Go ahead, man,” I grinned. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  He gave me a funny look and offered me an untipped Woodbine. I carefully took it out of the packet and studied it, thinking I’d keep it and maybe get him to sign it later.

  He lit up. “Are you going to smoke that or eat it?” he said, offering me the lit match.

  “I’ll save it,” I grinned, putting it behind my ear.

  “Please yourself,” he shrugged.

  “Yeah, I’ll please, please me,” I smirked. “What’s your name?”

  He thought for a moment. “Er, Johnny, Johnny Silver—what’s yours?”

  “No, what is it really?” I said. “Go on—you can tell me.”

  “What is this—twenty questions?” he said.

  “My name’s Steve Sloane—now, tell me your real name—you’re from Liverpool, aren’t you, Johnny?”

  Just then, Emma returned.

  “Well, is it him?” she said.

  “Who?” said our incredible guest. “Who d’you think I am—the King of Siam or something? Do I look like Yul Brynner with this mop?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “It’s him,” I said.

  Just in that split second I caught a red flash in the back of his eyes—faster than a lizard’s blink. A chill ran up my spine. I had seen that telltale sign before. That was no Beatle—that wasn’t even human! I tried to conceal it and kept smiling.

  “Look, we think you look like a singer in a, er, fab band we saw at the Cavern Club in Liverpool. Are you John Lennon?” I said calmly.

  He grinned. “I didn’t want to give me real name—Johnny Silver’s me stage name like, but, yeah, since you’re fans—it’s true—I am he,” he said.

  “Really?” said Emma, sitting down next to him. “Have you written any good songs lately?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have, love—so you really dig our music?”

  “Yeah, we do,” said Emma. “Is Paul—?”

  I kicked her foot under the table. She shot me an annoyed look. I attempted to signal to her that he wasn’t the real John Lennon, by making a slight shake of my head and pointing at him with the hand I was resting my chin on. But our visitor was now looking directly at me.

  “What?” she said.

  “What’s up, man?” he said, through lips now as cruel as Caligula’s.

  Suddenly he stuck an arm out and grabbed Emma by the throat, and then gripped her forehead with his other hand, without even looking at her.

  “Don’t move, Sloane!” he yelped, losing the Scouse accent. “You know I could crush her skull with one squeeze!”

  “Please!” I said. “Don’t hurt her! I’ll do anything you say.”

  “She is with child,” he said. “Your child—mutant!”

  I heard light footsteps coming down the stairs. I looked round. It was the prostitute I had met on the quayside a few minutes earlier. Now I could see who she reminded me of—Jody Foster! They had clearly delved into my mind on a previous encounter and fished out a few likes and dislikes. They knew the type of people I was likely to trust, the personal favourites I wouldn’t question.

  “Where are the others?” she barked.

  “They were not here,” said the male Corrective Measures agent. “We will wait.”

  She slapped me across the back of the head. “Where are they, Sloane? Tell us!” She hit me again.

  I don’t want to brag here, but I should point out these agents were not humanoid—they were androids from the fourth millennium—and when they hit you, it bloody well hurt. I slumped forward and laid my head on the table, to try and stay out of range.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You are a liar!” screeched the female, pinning my head with her hand and applying pressure. “If you do not tell us I will squash your head into paste.”

  “For God’s sake tell them, Stephen!” cried Emma.

  “Don’t worry love—they won’t kill us, they need us for research.”

  “We do not need you in full working order,” said the female android. “Your ears, nose—these fingers—they are expendable.”

  “All right, all right,” I said. “I’ll tell you. But first tell him to let Emma’s head go—and let me sit up.”

  She nodded to the John Lennon look-alike and he released Emma’s skull. She let me up.

  I rubbed the back of my head. I knew I was in a no-win situation. I had no plan, so I decided to play for time, until I could think of one, or an opportunity presented itself, so I suppose you could call that a sort of plan. It depends what you mean by plan really, doesn’t it?

  “There are two others,” I began. “One is very, very tall. The other is young, a young female. She is not so tall really, she’s sort of average height, well, maybe a little below average height. She has hair the colour of gold or some might say it’s more the colour of ripe corn in sunshine. And it kind of moves like a cornfield—you know that way corn moves when the summer breeze passes over it? It’s like an ocean, rolling waves and ripples from end to end of the field. Of course, the individual strands are not as thick as a stalk of corn…”

  Emma looked at me incredulously and then at each of the engrossed androids in turn. And shook her head.

  I continued in this vein for nearly an hour. You have to remember our captors were androids—half-machines—they were not going to refuse any information I was prepared to reel off. They would be storing it all in their memory chips, collating and processing it, adding little bits here and little bits there to their files, reviewing and revising—cross-referencing—the whole time I was talking. They had never met me before and probably thought it was the way I always talked. Besides, they wouldn’t think it was a waste of time to let me carry on spinning out my tale, like Scheherazade. They would just think they were extracting an excellent statement from me—very detailed and full. Just the way Corrective Measures liked them.

  “Coffee?” said Emma.

  “Yes, please, Em,” I smiled, breaking off briefly from my discourse. I checked with the droids. They both nodded. “Make that three, love.”

  “…so
why, you might ask, did we compare him to a tree—we might just as well have compared him to a lamppost or a flagpole. Metaphors are all a matter of personal taste, don’t you think? That was a rhetorical question—you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. I know you’re not here to answer questions—that’s what you want me to do—right? Er, that was a rhetorical question, too—when I said ‘right.’ Um, I think. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes—Shakespeare’s use of metaphor and simile in the sonnet sequence…”

  * * *

  Two hours later I was still going strong.

  “…you see, what the neo-classicists were attempting to do was eradicate all ambiguity and—and wishy-washy woolly thinking and imagery from their writing—”

  “But not Pope,” interrupted John.

  “Well, true, um, he was into extended metaphor,” I said.

  “The whole Rape of the Lock,” nodded Jody, helping herself to another one of John’s cigarettes.

  “The whole of ‘The Rape of the Lock,’” I agreed, not too sure about that one. “You see, Romanticism, as exemplified by Keats, Byron et al, at this particular period in the Age of Enlightenment would have been almost incomprehensible to Dryden. He could only see the classical model.”

  “The baroque was dead,” said Jody.

  “As a doornail,” I nodded, patting her hand, where it lay on the table, next to mine.

  “The rococo rules!” exclaimed John, punching the air with his fist.

  I smiled and waved my arms about like a conductor. “Light, airy—ephemeral—with the delicacy and grace of a butterfly’s flight, the perfection and symmetry of a shell.”

  “Hmm,” sighed Jody gazing off into space. “Like Watteau’s swinger.”

  “Well, the word swinger has other connotations these days, but, yes, grace personified,” I smiled. We linked arms and swayed together to the imaginary music we were hearing.

  “What’s a swinger?” said John.

  “Er, love,” I said to Emma, “do you think you could make some more coffee?”

  Jody put her hand over her cup. “Not for me, thanks, Stephen.”

  I looked to John.

  “Oh, go on then,” he grinned.

  “Make that two, love,” I said.

  Emma came and snatched our cups off the table, chinked them together, and said to John, “A swinger is disgrace personified, love.” And then she stamped out to the galley and slammed them down on the draining board.