Blank Extra Chapter

by Matt Eaton

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  Stephen Hawking once said he threw a dinner party for time travellers by sending out invitations long after the actual occasion.

  No-one came. An observation Hawking proffered as evidence in support of his long-held contention that time travel cannot exist. Not exactly what you’d call a conclusive experiment. Then again, he might not have been entirely serious. He was merely trying to illustrate a point — specifically that life as we know it quickly begins to unravel the moment you deign to allow for the possibility.

  One must first be able to account for all the paradoxes — all the dead grandfathers, all the moments in which the past might have been changed in ways that affect the future as you knew it. These events, if they ever occurred would send a chain reaction rippling from here to eternity.

  Time is, after all, a human construct. A means of measuring the passage of one moment into the next. A way to explain the fluidity of the present. It follows that in accordance with the best known laws of physics you cannot travel in time, at least not physically.

  But there is one exception to the Hawking rule, namely that you can time travel mentally and spiritually via a process known as remote viewing. It is similar in concept to virtual reality, except remote viewing occurs with all five human senses fully functioning. It is simply a playback mechanism. You cannot change anything, you can’t interact with anyone. But you can watch it over and over again like your favourite Netflix program.

  Unedited, unadulterated, unabridged.

  It has been a mere 24 hours since Stone Luckman learned of this remarkable possibility when he sat down in the viewing chair for the first time and found himself projected backwards through time and space to 1963, to witness firsthand the assassination of a US president.

  This time around, Luckman must travel in search of a soldier. A man known as the father of US intelligence, Office of Strategic Services chief ‘Wild’ Bill Donovan.

  ***

  The golden light of the underground pyramid vault in which he now stands imbues the moment with an aura of sacred ritual, as if to underscore the significance of the undertaking. He lowers himself slowly backwards, closing his eyes as he senses the chair take his weight. A moment later he is once more overcome with a sensation of weightlessness like he is a space traveller hurtling through the void in utter silence.

  The chair is some weird, top secret research project kept here in the bowels of the Verus Foundation, utilising arcane and advanced principles of science about which Luckman knows nothing. It is powered by the physical energy of the user, drawing upon the human body as a torch draws upon its batteries. By the end of his previous journey, Luckman had been so utterly drained he could barely stand up. Yet a day later here he is again, steeling himself for another go, taking his seat like a teenager in the front carriage of the greatest rollercoaster on Earth.

  The sensation is one of flying. Not overly pleasant, but rather exciting once you become accustomed to the loss of control. The journey itself is over in the blink of an eye, the discomfort forgotten quickly because what matters is the destination. There is nothing virtual about that. It’s alive. It is living, breathing, smelling, wind-in-your-face reality.

  The past as the present.

  He opens his eyes. To be more precise he imagines doing so — because even as part of him remains aware of his physical self still in that room, he can likewise feel himself moving through the air, a large city below his feet. A river snakes its way through the centre of the city, lit as if from within by the reflected glow of the early morning sun.

  He begins to fall. Down and down. No control, no notion of how to stop. As he nears the ground he sees the roof of a passing car. He is still falling. Towards the car. Towards a man sat in the rear of the car.

  And then at once he becomes that man.

  It is the strangest sensation. He is himself and yet at the same time he is Bill Donovan. Like it is sometimes in dreams.

  He taps his driver on the shoulder, telling her to stop the car.

  She looks concerned.

  “I want to walk,” he tells her.

  A smoky gloom casts an improbable beauty upon the chaos before him. All around him, Londoners begin to emerge from their holes in the ground to face the morning chill and take their first look at the night’s destruction.

  You sense they have grown used to it. At the same time, there is angry defiance in the faces of many.

  A woman catches his eye. Defiant, brave. Stoic and hardened, weathering the storm. She knows all too well the Germans seek to rain fear and despair upon them with every bomb.

  She is not about to succumb.

  Luckman wonders for a moment about taking a few steps toward the woman, but he is merely a passenger on this journey. Donovan has other ideas, although he struggles to navigate the hazards and road blocks set up as protection from the fires and collapsed buildings. There are many places that remain remarkably untouched by bomb or firestorm, like the part of Cannon Street that retains a Dickensian air, frozen in the calm of another century. Then, just around the corner on Cheapside (the shock of it stops him in his tracks), a building lies smashed to pieces, smoke still rising from the rubble.

  And at Newgate Street, train carriages gutted by fire on the open tracks, stripped to bare metal by the deathly storm, carriage roofs spattered with molten paint that now resembles lichen, as if years of neglect and weathering had done the damage rather than the momentary arrival of Hell.

  Donovan stares open-mouthed at the cavernous, silent ruin around those tracks. Rays of morning sun cast unworldly shadows as the light of a clear, blue day pours inside-out through empty window cavities – hollow buildings devoid of floors and roofs, daylight now impossibly illuminating fractured internal walls.

  There is more destruction along Upper Thames Street. Building facades are still on fire near the Embankment. Amid the carnage, small parts of some structures remain intact. Donovan feels almost voyeuristic, gazing at the organs of an office block; stairs leading nowhere, someone’s office incredibly untouched. Corner fragments of wall reach five storeys into the open air, all that once supported them now blown apart.

  Fire hoses snake down roads like giant, pre-historic serpents, wielded methodically by the firemen seeking to halt the spread of flames. Men in uniform clamber over unstable masonry, searching for survivors. Or UXBs. Donovan wants to rush in there to help, but knows they don’t need his help, that any such attempt would prove more of a hindrance to them. Everyone has a role to play in the disintegration. Everyone knows his or her place. His is to stay out of trouble.

  He glances at his watch, more out of habit than concern. Somehow hours have passed without him realising and now he risks being late for the appointment that is the primary reason for his journey to London.

  He tries the Underground at Blackfriars and finds, to his relief, the trains are running. The smoke and ash in the air leaves him rather dishevelled. A little water sprinkled across his face in the men’s toilet will have to do. Cardinal Arthur Hinsley, Archbishop of Westminster, head of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, will understand. This is war.

  Donovan arrives quickly at Westminster Station, hoping from here it will only be a short walk to the Cathedral. He emerges at street level to find himself opposite Big Ben and the House of Commons, steadfast amid the turmoil. He turns away from the river and makes his way to Victoria Street, from where the steeples of the Cathedral are visible. He tries to focus his thoughts on the task at hand.

  The approach to President Roosevelt had been highly unorthodox, the request both urgent and insistent. It had come not from Rome but from Hinsley, a renowned and outspoken opponent of the Nazis. A supporter of Winston C
hurchill’s refusal to sue for peace with Hitler.

  Roosevelt sent Donovan to meet with Cardinal Hinsley citing an eagerness to maintain an air of diplomatic courtesy, in light of recent difficulties with the US Ambassador to Great Britain (the other reason for Donovan’s presence in London). Joe Kennedy had embarrassed FDR greatly with his oft-expressed view that Britain will lose the war to Germany. The President, on the other hand, had long felt it important to encourage anti-Fascist sentiment at every turn.

  Roosevelt is also deeply concerned some within the hierarchy of the Catholic Church are sympathetic to Hitler.

  Donovan happily acceded to FDR’s wish because it had afforded him an opportunity to assess the state of England’s war preparedness. As both an architect of the Lend Lease Act providing US warships to the British fleet and Roosevelt’s personal intelligence advisor, it is his duty to take stock of Britain’s spirit of resistance.

  Yet Roosevelt had also been holding something back in his sudden insistence upon this meeting with the Cardinal. He had demonstrated a certain reluctance to spell out precisely why this meeting should trump all other concerns.

  Hinsley’s letter to the President was most odd. He wrote of something he feared might have a bearing on the outcome of the war. Something he said he held in his possession.

  Donovan, of course, had seen the letter. It read like the ravings of a man losing his grip on reality. One sentence in particular stuck out:

  “The item concerned, should it fall into Nazi hands, could secure Hitler’s rule for decades to come.”

  At a time when the sovereignty of nations is being decided by the logistics of heavy weaponry and manpower, it seems impossible to imagine that anything in the possession of a man of God could warrant such concern. Far more likely that after prolonged contemplation of a German invasion, Hinsley had simply lost his nerve.

  ***

  Outside the Cathedral, a small crowd is gathered. More familiar barriers are hurriedly being erected, although from Donovan’s vantage point no bomb damage is evident. The towering, ornate stonework appears untouched.

  As his eyes are drawn to where a number of men stand talking, he spots shattered fragments of stained glass on the ground. Below a damaged window, men in black cassocks talk and point. He can’t make out anything they are saying.

  From behind a barrier a member of the Home Guard, a portly man in mid to late 50s, offers reassurance to passers-by. “Nothing to worry about here,” he suggests, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “You’ll need to stand back, please.”

  Donovan asks, “Did this happen last night?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. No one hurt. Bit of minor damage, that’s all.”

  “I see. I wonder, do you know if the Cardinal is about?”

  The man smiles. “The Cardinal you say? I’m fairly sure this was the Jerries’ handiwork. Course, I hear the Cardinal does like to throw the odd stone.”

  Donovan, bristles, not understanding the joke. “I have a meeting with Cardinal Hinsley.”

  The Home Guardsman’s face remains jovial. “He ain’t here, guvna. This is Westminster Abbey. Church of England. What you want is Westminster Cathedral.” He points down Victoria Street. “It’s a half-mile down that way. Hey, any chance you Yanks might come and give us a hand with Adolf?”

  Now it’s Donovan’s turn to smile. “You never know.”

  ***

  He isn’t sure how or why he had the Abbey and the Cathedral confused. He chides himself for making the error, not because it made him look foolish for a moment, but because it’s the sort of mistake that could get a man killed behind enemy lines.

  He is forced to ask directions twice more before eventually finding his way to the front steps of the Cathedral. Only when he finally claps eyes on the building does the irony hit home... he has seen this place before. It features prominently in Alfred Hitchcock’s newest movie, Foreign Correspondent.

  The film, of course, is black and white. In real life, the brickwork gleams bright orange and the massive bell-tower looms large like an Egyptian obelisk. Yet the Cathedral is a modern building, no more than 50 years old. A reminder, perhaps, the Roman Catholic Church has not always been welcome in England.

  Donovan finds it hard to shake the impression he has stumbled onto a giant Hollywood sound stage. From the piazza in front of the church it is a short distance to Archbishop’s House, the Cardinal’s residence. From the outside, the home of Britain’s highest-ranking Catholic seems rather unimpressive. As a youngish cleric in a dark green robe answers the door, the view beyond the threshold reveals otherwise.

  “Mr Donovan,” the priest concludes.

  “Colonel Donovan.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Yes, but I do try my best not to be rude to people I don’t know. Who are you?”

  “Father Clarence Paulson.”

  “Well, Father, I don’t know if you’ve looked about lately, but there’s a war on.”

  Paulson appears affronted that someone dares speak to him in this manner but steps back to allow the American into the foyer. “I’d have thought tardiness does not speak well of a military man,” he returns.

  Donovan laughs aloud at the priest’s audacity. He almost suggests it’s a question for Adolf Hitler if the Germans ever get around to invading.

  Where were you, Adolf? We expected you months ago.

  “I’m sorry,” Donovan asks, “but who are you... precisely?”

  “I am the voice of His Eminence in absentia.”

  “Well your Absent Eminence, let me just say that due to the state of London’s roads and the disrupted underground service I had to walk much further than anticipated.”

  Paulson nods, although he appears unwilling to forgive. “Come with me,” he replies, leading Donovan up one of the two grand stairways rising in tandem from the foyer. Donovan takes a moment to look around. Greek columns line the marble staircase, a baronial chandelier hangs from the first landing. Typical Catholic grandiosity. Sometimes he can’t help feeling such overt displays of wealth by the church might be a trifle misplaced.

  From a hall atop the second flight, Father Paulson takes him down a short hallway to another large room – evidently the Cardinal’s library. Book shelves line the ground floor. On top of them, a walkway runs the perimeter of a second level with more bookshelves. An arched ceiling looms high above as if to suggest a heaven just beyond the reach of mere mortals, while tall windows near the ceiling flood the space in natural light. The result is a room in which the visitor feels reduced to insignificance.

  Cardinal Arthur Hinsley rises from a chair at one end of the library, holding out his hand to welcome his American visitor. “Colonel Donovan – thank you so much for coming.” His smile is warm, his handshake firm. “That will be all for now, Father,” he tells Paulson.

  “Very good, Your Eminence,” says Paulson, who turns and walks away without as much as glance in Donovan’s direction.

  Hinsley waits a moment before confiding, “He’s a bit upset.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “He knows my intentions and he doesn’t approve.”

  Donovan nods, relieved to find the old man less severe than his assistant. “Quite some spread you have here.” The library reminds him of Buckingham Palace and he wonders if its designer had that in mind.

  Hinsley says, “I keep expecting to wake up one morning to find it all reduced to a pile of rubble.”

  “I’ve just seen the damage to... Westminster Abbey.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Superficial. A few windows broken. No casualties.”

  “Spoken like a true soldier. Did you know Coventry Cathedral was destroyed the night before last?”

  “I hear the Germans spared nothing in Coventry.”

  “The Germans aren’t sparing anyone or anything,” the Cardinal concurs.

  “Well, at least you’ve been spared their presence.”

  “For the moment,” Hinsley
replies. He points his guest to a chair at one of the library’s reading tables. “So tell me, Colonel, what is an ardent Republican doing in the employ of a Democrat President?”

  “Answering the call of his country, Your Eminence.”

  “Well said sir, well said. Pity your Ambassador doesn’t see fit to do the same.”

  “Then you might be pleased to hear we accepted Joseph Kennedy’s resignation this morning.”

  “Indeed? I must say, that’s wonderful news. Churchill can’t stand the man, y’know.”

  “I believe the feeling was mutual,” says Donovan, gambling that such candour might engender the Cardinal’s trust, while of itself revealing nothing.

  “And what words of wisdom do you bring for us to boost the British war effort, Colonel Donovan?”

  Donovan pauses, suddenly aware Hinsley is sizing him up. “Cardinal, you might recall I have come to you as the personal envoy of the President, in answer to your written request. I have travelled some distance at some considerable inconvenience. Is that not enough to assure you of my credentials?”

  Hinsley shifts gingerly in his chair. “I’m an old man. My work with the church has taken me across the world, from Rome to Johannesburg. In that time I have met many men unworthy of their credentials.”

  He’s wily, this old man. “Very well then, the war... by which I presume you’re talking about the risk of German invasion?”

  “The risk?” Hinsley huffs. “Surely it’s a matter of when rather than if.”

  “I met him,” says Donovan. “Hitler, I mean. In Berlin, shortly after the ’36 Olympics. A truly powerful orator. I mean, I didn’t understand a word, but he’s Caesar and Napoleon rolled into one. He inspires the German people with a vision of greatness and they will do anything to achieve it. It’s the oil that keeps his army moving. And it’s why no-one in Europe has dared stand in his way.”

  Hinsley’s eyes widen as if he can see the horror approaching. “Then it’s as I have feared, we will see the bastards on our shores.”

  “They could have... they should have invaded months ago,” says Donovan. “But did you know Britain’s escape from Dunkirk was largely thanks to Hitler?”