Future Tense

by Frank Almond

  Finally, the music swelled to a crescendo of emotion, as Mercy fell to her knees, her face scrubbed and blank. She raised her eyes to the light pouring in through the cell window and spoke those unforgettable, breathless words:

  “Forgive me, Father…for I want to do it again…”

  The End. Roll the credits. House lights up…

  * * *

  I looked along the line. The Duck was blowing his nose in a handkerchief. Reggie was still spellbound, following all the lines of words as they slid up the screen. De Quipp, rather disconcertingly, was staring directly at me. I looked away and nudged Jemmons.

  “Hey, Rog—wake up—you missed that, mate.”

  “When you’ve been in every bawdy house from Union Street to Calcutta, laddie—that stuff’s tame,” he sniffed.

  The Duck stepped past us, with De Quipp and Reggie in tow.

  “Come on, Rog—we’ve got business,” he said.

  “Where’re we going?” I said.

  “You’re not coming—I can’t take you anywhere,” said the Duck. “This is special business.” He strutted off down the steps.

  “Oh, please let me be in your gang!” I jeered.

  * * *

  Later, hanging out in my bunk, alone again, scratching my initials on the bedpost, bored out of my box, I saw the Duck walk by.

  “Hey—have you got those boards yet?” I said.

  “Will you keep your voice down!” he quacked.

  “Where’re you going?” I said.

  “Never you mind.”

  I scrambled down the ladder and pursued him along the aisle.

  “I need to do some work on my board,” I said, keeping my voice down.

  “What work?” he scoffed.

  “Four holes—quarter inch in diameter,” I said. “Two in each end.”

  “Hey? Don’t be daft. What d’you want to do that for?”

  “That’s my business,” I said.

  “Well, you can’t—’cos they’re not here.”

  “Where are they then?”

  He stopped. We were at the end of the aisle. He pulled me round the corner.

  “What’s all this about holes?” he quacked. “I haven’t got time for holes.”

  “I want four, quarter inch round holes drilled through my board, one in each corner,” I said. “About two inches in from the side and six in from either end.”

  “What for?”

  “Just make sure it gets done,” I said. I set off back up the aisle.

  “Yeah, well, just you remember, mate—I give the orders around here!”

  * * *

  Pleased with myself, I returned to my bunk and had another look at the trolley wheels I’d nicked. I spun each of them in turn to make sure they were all nice and fast and didn’t stick anywhere. When I’d satisfied myself they were perfect, I put them back under my pillow and just lay there staring off into space.

  A moth fluttered past my bunk. I didn’t take too much notice. And then it fluttered back again and hovered in front of my face. It was a small white thing with a handful of orange spots on each wing. I tried to swat it away with the flat of my hand, but it rose sharply and dodged the blow. I sat up and attempted to squat it between my hands, but again it evaded me and zoomed off down the end of my bunk, where it settled on the edge of the curtain, facing me.

  Just then, Archie came back carrying three books. He climbed up into his bunk and gave me the Churchillian victory salute. I raised two fingers in what has come to be the peace sign in my time, and lay back down on my pillow, looking up at the canopy.

  A minute or two later, I felt someone coming up the ladder and Archie’s jovial face appeared—all handlebar moustache and teeth.

  “What—ho, old chap—brought you that book you wanted,” he beamed.

  “What book?”

  He thrust a copy of Famous British Aircraft of the Second World War into my hands.

  “I’ve marked that page on spitfires I was telling you about—damn fine aircraft, the old spit,” he said.

  “Oh, that book,” I said. “Thanks, Archie.”

  He rattled back down the ladder and returned to his bunk, whistling the theme from The Dam Busters.

  I opened it to the page Archie had marked with a strip of paper, but couldn’t see anything special about the old black and white photographs of spitfires or the captions around them. And then I noticed that he’d written something on the bookmark. It read, Don’t look now, but you’re under surveillance—the moth at six o’clock.

  It had never occurred to me—but, yes, it made sense—there were mechanical beetles and spiders—why not mechanical moths? Its eyes would be microscopic cameras. I was under observation in my own bunk! I was just thinking what a violation of privacy that was, when I heard a THWANG!

  Something fast and small had been fired from the direction of Archie’s bunk and whatever it was had hit the moth and knocked it off the curtain. It all happened so quickly, I didn’t see where the moth went.

  “Got the little blighter!” cried Archie. He waved a small homemade catapult in a victory salute.

  “Where did it go?” I said.

  I looked around in my bunk for the moth. Archie hurried down his ladder and back up mine.

  “There it is!” he said, grinning from handlebar to handlebar. “A direct hit. What?”

  I followed his pointing finger and spotted the moth on its back in a fold of the blanket, its tiny legs still pedalling the air. Archie reached in and grabbed it in his fist and squeezed. There was a crunch. He opened his hand. The debris of the little electronic moth gave up a wispy plume of smoke.

  “They must be very interested in you,” said Archie.

  “I can’t think why,” I said. “I’m just an ordinary time traveller like the rest of you.”

  He switched his eyes from left to right and leaned in. “I know there’s something going down, old man—you can trust Flight Lieutenant Archibald St John-Jones to keep mum,” he whispered.

  “I have no idea what you’re on about,” I said.

  “Walls have ears—what?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Careless talk cost lives and all that,” he said. “Know the value of playing one’s cards close to one’s chest, old man—you don’t need to tell me—I was there in forty guarding the skies over the Home Counties, giving Jerry a good roasting. What?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Good luck with the escape, old chap—that’s all I’m saying—mum’s the word,” he said.

  “Yeah. Right. Give my regards to Douglas Bader, mate,” I said.

  “What’s that, old man—code?”

  “Code?” I said. “You must know old tin legs.”

  “Only flew spits and hurricanes, old man,” he said.

  “No, Douglas Bader had tin legs,” I said.

  “Yes, spot on—old tin legs. Must dash—evidence to dispose of—tootle-pip, old chap!”

  He slid down the ladder and hurried off along the aisle with his kill.

  I remember I did a lot of chin rubbing after that rather bizarre incident and conversation. And when the Duck returned and disappeared into his bunk I went straight down and swished his curtain open to tell him about my concerns. I found him sitting cross-legged on his bunk, rolling a joint.

  “Shut that bloody light out!” he quacked.

  I climbed in next to him and watched him light up and take his first contented draw.

  “How well do you know Archie?” I said.

  He expelled a sweet-smelling cloud of marijuana smoke. “Archie? Why—what’s he done?”

  “It’s more what he hasn’t done,” I said.

  “What are you on about?”

  “He was never a spitfire pilot for a start,” I said.

  “People in here get a bit carried away with their own importance,” said the Duck. “They make a lot of it up.”

  “Yeah. I had noticed,” I said. “But this guy’s getting carried away with his own identity.”


  “Yeah, well, they exaggerate—most of them just stumbled into a time machine, thought it was from outer space, and pressed a few buttons,” said the Duck.

  “I’m not talking about all that,” I said. “I think he’s Corrective Measures.”

  “You what!” spluttered the Duck. He coughed uncontrollably. I patted his back. “What d’you mean he’s Corrective Measures? How would you know?”

  “He’s supposed to be an ex-Battle of Britain spitfire pilot, right? But he didn’t even know who Douglas Bader was.”

  “Why—who is he?”

  “Well—I wouldn’t expect you to know, but every English schoolboy who ever glued a model airplane together would know who Douglas Bader was. He was a flyer who lost both legs and still flew combat missions—he’s a national hero. A legend. It’s just not possible that old handlebars Archie wouldn’t know who he was.”

  “Bit flimsy, innit?”

  “The guy knocks out a surveillance moth with a catapult, comes over here, and starts pumping me about escape plans,” I said. “I don’t trust him.”

  The Duck considered the glowing tip of his spliff for a few seconds and then began nodding at me very exaggeratedly.

  “No—no, you’re wrong, man—Archie’s as straight as a die,” he said. “Besides, we haven’t got an escape plan, because we’re not planning to escape, so why worry?”

  “Are you headbanging again?” I said. “Good stuff is it?”

  The Duck gave me a lopsided grin and whispered, “Agree with me, you pratt—the bloody bed bugs are probably microphones!”

  “Oh, yeah, well, I guess you’re right, mate,” I said. “I’m probably just being stupid, dumb, and silly. And he did lend me his boots so he must be a good guy.” But I whispered, “And they’re army boots—not air force boots.”

  The Duck took a tobacco tin out of one of the breast pockets in his biggles, stubbed his spliff out in it, and pressed the lid shut.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s stretch our legs.”

  We bailed out of the bunk and headed up the aisle. As soon as we were out of earshot of the bed bugs, I voiced another of my concerns.

  “And another thing,” I said, “there’s something odd about De Quipp.”

  “Now De Quipp’s kosher,” said the Duck, sticking his finger in my face.

  “He’s a cold fish,” I said.

  “Hey? Who told you that?”

  “What d’you mean—who told me that? Nobody—I worked it out for myself. He told me what he’s going to do,” I said.

  “Did he? What’s that then?”

  “Don’t start,” I said. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “You mean the diversion with Reggie?”

  “What did you think I meant?”

  “De Quipp knows what he’s doing.”

  “I hope he gets caught and they hang him or something,” I said.

  “You’re still holding a grudge,” said the Duck.

  “Holding a grudge? The grudge I’ve got is too bloody big to hold—I can’t even lift it!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in all this either,” I said. “When we get out of here, I’ll be settling a few scores.”

  “Don’t rush to judgement, mate—I’ve been looking out for you, if you did but know it.”

  “This is about you and a new machine,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it now—it’ll keep. Did you get those holes drilled in my board?”

  “Four quarter inch diameter holes—two each end,” said the Duck. “Sorted.”

  “Good. By the way, any news of Tree?”

  “Tree? What’s he got to do with the price of fish?”

  “He went looking for this place. But he never returned,” I said.

  “Hey?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, where’s Emily?”

  “Well, she’s fine, I think.”

  “You think? Where the hell did you leave her?”

  “It’s a long story. She’s still in Bristol,” I said. “We didn’t exactly leave her there—we were kidnapped on a barge—they sort of time-ported us here.”

  I told him what happened and why we were in Bristol in the first place, and how the whole barge suddenly took off.

  “Crikey! I heard about that new gadget TCP developed—they find out your dimensional co-ordinates and then sling a sort of temporal mesh over you. It’s a bit like a fishing net, only you have to imagine the water is time and you’re the bleeding fish,” he said. “It’s scary if they’ve got that working.”

  “If?” I said. “They did it!”

  “All the more reason for us to lay our hands on the new technology,” he said. “Like a machine that can dodge about through time and space.”

  “All of a sudden it’s ‘us,’” I said. “I don’t want anything to do with time machines after this little lot—you can drop me and Emma off in 1920s New York with a copy of that sports’ results book you promised me for a wedding present. I’m retiring.”

  “Fair enough. Meanwhile, I would appreciate a bit of help—we’re not out of the wood yet, mate.”

  We found ourselves in the washroom. A couple of guys were swamping down the floors with mops. The Duck walked straight over to a shower and turned it on full, to drown out our voices.

  “I think I know where Tree went—it’s Emily I’m worried about,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.

  “So am I, but where the hell’s Tree?”

  “Tree is an addict,” said the Duck, doing one of his lopsided grins.

  “You mean booze? What? Drugs?”

  He straightened his glasses. “No. Ever heard of PLEASURE-Domes?”

  “Yeah. Tree talked about them just before he—”

  “He spent seven years in one last time,” said the Duck. “He likes to tell people, including Emily, that he spent them in this place, but he’s never even seen the inside of a prison.”

  “I thought his drawings were a bit inaccurate—they don’t look anything like this place—he had men and women in the same dungeon—dorm, I mean—he made it look like something out of Dungeons and Dragons.”

  “Just drawings. He made it all up,” said the Duck.

  “He got the islands right though—and a few other details,” I said.

  “Yeah. He’s heard me talking about it, that’s why. Anyway, never mind him—he’ll be doing the Kublai Khan-can in some PLEASURE-Dome somewhere in the middle of the late third millennium—we’ll worry about him later. Now, do you know the exact date you were in Bristol?”

  “Um?” I thought hard. “September! But I don’t remember what day it was. No—wait a minute—it was late! Or, was it early?”

  “Close enough,” said the Duck. “Emily knows what to do—she’ll rent somewhere under an alias we use and put an ad in the local paper for a flat mate. We’ll pick her up later.”

  “I hope you’re right—the place was crawling with Corrective Measures agents,” I said. “So what are we going to do about Archie?”

  “Leave Archie to me—I’ll send him with De Quipp and Reggie to the winch room.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  * * *

  We made our way down the steps to the basement and had a cup of tea. Some of the lads had pushed back the tables on the other side and were having a kick about.

  “Look at ’em,” said the Duck. “They’ll spend the rest of their perishing lives in this place.”

  “They seem happy enough,” I said, fancying joining in the game. “But I must admit, I never expected to find so many in here—there must be well over a thousand.”

  “Nearer two thousand,” said the Duck.

  “I wonder where they all came from,” I said, just thinking aloud.

  “Hey—that’s a point. I shall return some day,” said the Duck. “I shall return and set them free.”

  “Spartacus the Duck,” I said.

  He set his chin firm and st
ared at them, nodding to himself. He was off on one. “It is an offence to the Duckworth spirit to see so many brave lads banged up in here like this. The waste—the waste. Never have the many owed so much to the few. I never thought I’d see this—not on this sceptred isle—not in my—”

  “—Teatime?”

  “This is a concentration camp, mate—that’s what it is!” cried the Duck. “These brave boys deserve their comforts—a home fit for heroes!”

  “They’re thieves,” I said.

  “Thieves. Where’s the harm in going for a joyride up time’s motorway? Answer me that.”

  “Think of the damage they’ve done.”

  “What damage? All right—make the punishment fit the crime then—give ’em community service—don’t lock ’em up for life like common criminals. Can we not call that justice! What shall it profit a man if he gives himself and he’s still out of pocket?” he reasoned, in Duck logic. “All they need is resettlement somewhere nice and quiet and a chance to pay back some of the overheads.”

  “Oh, I get it,” I said. “I get it now—pay you, you mean? They’d be in your debt!”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right—I bet half of ‘em wouldn’t cough up. The thieving rats. Come on, we’d better find Jemmons and De Quipp and run through the final details for tonight,” he said, rising from the table and waddling off briskly towards the stairs.

  “What time are we going?” I said, catching up.

  “Straight after supper—it’s roast beef and spotted dick tonight—I’m not missing that.”

  Chapter 15

  And so, cometh the hour, cometh the men. Six of us sat down at that last supper. I looked around at them all as they tucked into their roasts. There was Archie, a traitor and possible Corrective Measures agent; Reginald Goldenhair, nark; De Quipp, my arch-enemy and a man—well, alien—I did not trust; Roger Jemmons, whose clone had tried to kill me with a cutlass—how much did this Jemmons really know about that—more than he was letting on? And then there was the Duck, my nineteen year old father, who took part in a conspiracy to have me shot and left me to bleed to death in our family home, which he knew was about to be blown up by a Corrective Measures snatch squad—