by Mike Ashley
“That’s very decent of you, old fellow. That’s extraordinary!”
“I want her to be happy,” Mikkelsen said.
Yvonne showed up just as night was falling. Mikkelsen had not seen her for years, and he was startled at how uninteresting she seemed, how bland, how unformed, almost adolescent. Of course, she was very pretty, close-cropped blonde hair, merry greenish-blue eyes, pert little nose, but she seemed girlish and alien to him, and he wondered how he could ever have become so involved with her. But of course all that was before Janine. Mikkelsen’s unscheduled return from Palm Beach surprised her, but not very much, and when he took her down to the beach to tell her that he had come to realize that she was really in love with Hambleton and he was not going to make a fuss about it, she blinked and said sweetly, “In love with Tommy? Well, I suppose I could be – though I never actually saw it like that. But I could give it a try, couldn’t I? That is, if you truly are tired of me, Nick.” She didn’t seem offended. She didn’t seem heartbroken. She didn’t seem to care much at all.
He left the club soon afterward and got an express-fax message off to his younger self in Palm Beach: Yvonne has fallen for Tommy Hambleton. However upset you are, for God’s sake get over it fast, and if you happen to meet a young woman named Janine Carter, give her a close look. You won’t regret it, believe me. I’m in a position to know.
He signed it A Friend, but added a little squiggle in the corner that had always been his own special signature-glyph. He didn’t dare go further than that. He hoped young Nick would be smart enough to figure out the score.
Not a bad hour’s work, he decided. He drove back to the jaunt-shop in downtown San Diego and hopped back to his proper point in time.
* * *
There was the taste of cotton in his mouth when he emerged. So it feels that way even when you phase yourself, he thought. He wondered what changes he had brought about by his jaunt. As he remembered it, he had made the hop in order to phase himself back into a marriage with a woman named Janine, who apparently he had loved quite considerably until she had been snatched away from him in a phasing. Evidently the unphasing had not happened, because he knew he was still unmarried, with three or four regular companions – Cindy, Melanie, Elena and someone else – and none of them was named Janine. Paula, yes, that was the other one. Yet he was carrying a note, already starting to fade, that said: You won’t remember any of this, but you were married in 2016 or 17 to the former Janine Carter, Tommy Hambleton’s ex-wife, and however much you may like your present life, you were a lot better off when you were with her. Maybe so, Mikkelsen thought. God knows he was getting weary of the bachelor life, and now that Gus and Donna were making it legal, he was the only singleton left in the whole crowd. That was a little awkward. But he hadn’t ever met anyone he genuinely wanted to spend the rest of his life with, or even as much as a year with. So he had been married, had he, before the phasing? Janine? How strange, how unlike him.
He was home before dark. Showered, shaved, dressed, headed over to the Top of the Marina. Tommy Hambleton and Yvonne were in town, and he had agreed to meet them for drinks. Hadn’t seen them for years, not since Tommy had taken over his brother’s villa on the Riviera. Good old Tommy, Mikkelsen thought. Great to see him again. And Yvonne. He recalled her clearly, little snub-nosed blonde, good game of tennis, trim compact body. He’d been pretty hot for her himself, eleven or twelve years ago, back before Adrienne, before Charlene, before Georgiana, before Nedra, before Cindy, Melanie, Elena, Paula. Good to see them both again. He stepped into the skylift and went shooting blithely up the long swivel-stalk to the gilded little cupola high above the lagoon. Hambleton and Yvonne were already there.
Tommy hadn’t changed much – same old smooth slickly dressed little guy – but Mikkelsen was astonished at how time and money had altered Yvonne. She was poised, chic, sinuous, all that baby-fat burned away, and when she spoke there was the smallest hint of a French accent in her voice. Mikkelsen embraced them both and let himself be swept off to the bar.
“So glad I was able to find you,” Hambleton said. “It’s been years! Years, Nick!”
“Practically forever.”
“Still going great with the women, are you?”
“More or less,” Mikkelsen said. “And you? Still running back in time to wipe your nose three days ago, Tommy?”
Hambleton chuckled. “Oh, I don’t do much of that any more. Yvonne and I went to the Fall of Troy last winter, but the short-hop stuff doesn’t interest me these days. I . . . oh. How amazing?”
“What is it?” Mikkelsen asked, seeing Hambleton’s gaze go past him into the darker corners of the room.
“An old friend,” Hambleton said. “I’m sure it’s she! Someone I once knew – briefly, glancingly . . .” He looked toward Yvonne and said, “I met her a few months after you and I began seeing each other, love. Of course, there was nothing to it, but there could have been – there could have been . . .” A distant wistful look swiftly crossed Hambleton’s features and was gone. His smile returned. He said, “You should meet her, Nick. If it’s really she, I know she’ll be just your type. How amazing! After all these years! Come with me, man!”
He seized Mikkelsen by the wrist and drew him, astounded, across the room.
“Janine?” Hambleton cried. “Janine Carter?”
She was a dark-haired woman, elegant, perhaps a year or two younger than Mikkelsen, with cool perceptive eyes. She looked up, surprised. “Tommy? Is that you?”
“Of course, of course. That’s my wife, Yvonne, over there. And this – this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Nick Mikkelsen. Nick . . . Janine . . .”
She stared up at him. “This sounds absurd,” she said, “but don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Mikkelsen felt a warm flood of mysterious energy surging through him as their eyes met. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”
DEAR TOMORROW
Simon Clark
If time travel ever is perfected in the future, might not people of the future be able to rectify problems of today and, if so, would they respond to a direct appeal? That was the idea that prompted Simon Clark to write the following very subtle story which makes its first appearance in this anthology.
Although Clark has been writing science fiction since 1985 he is probably best known for his horror novels, which include Nailed by the Heart (1995), Vampyrrhic (1998) and its sequels, and Ghost Monster (2009). Amongst his other work is the Dr Who novella The Dalek Factor (2004) and the sequel to John Wyndham’s classic, The Day of the Triffids – The Night of the Triffids (2001).
Ten
His name was – is – or will be John Salvin. The worst time of his life began when he waved goodbye to his wife and daughter. On that July evening, Kerry and ten-year-old Laurel climbed into a light aircraft that would take them on a sight-seeing flight over a Norwegian fjord.
The plane lifted off from the airfield before soaring out over the calm body of water that perfectly reflected the mountains. The last John saw of the plane – the last anyone saw of the plane – was as it climbed into a deep blue sky. The aircraft resembled a tiny, silver star as it gradually grew smaller, and smaller, and then vanished.
Nine
From the TV Times: Impossible, Isn’t It? The reality show that turns unreality on its head. This week the presenters go time-travelling.
Eight
London: Friday afternoon. Mr and Mrs Banerjee called in at a pizza takeaway to ask directions to a hotel. Mrs Kamana Banerjee had secretly planned a thirtieth birthday treat at the theatre for her husband. They were followed into the takeaway by a youth, who’d fled from a rival gang. One of the youth’s pursuers fired six rounds from a pistol. None of the bullets struck their intended target. Murad Banerjee, however, was, by sheer chance, hit in the throat. When the wounded man turned to his wife, his expression, she remembers, was apologetic, as if this incident was his mistake.
/> The instant Murad fell Kamana was beside him, cradling his head in her lap. Meanwhile, the hunted youth made good his escape over the pizza-seller’s counter and out the back.
Kamana Banerjee constantly replayed the lethal thirty seconds over and over in her head. The image of that unwarranted and unneeded expression of apology on her husband’s face haunted her ever since he’d died on the takeaway floor three years ago. Every time she recalled the circumstances of the killing she’d ask herself: Why did we choose that particular place to ask directions? Why didn’t we ask in the supermarket next door? Why didn’t we just walk further along the street? And she’d always offer up this heartfelt prayer to her pantheon of many gods: “Please turn back the clock. Please let me be back there in London with my husband, just before we go into the takeaway. Give me the chance to do things differently this time.”
Seven
Every so often, the tiny face of a child will peer out from a mass of starving people in Africa and touch humanity’s conscience. Might our “Dear Tomorrow” messages touch a nerve a thousand years from now? Just as the first, viable time machine shivers into life? So, why not join us, and be part of the greatest experiment in the history of humankind.
Press release for Impossible, Isn’t It?
Six
John Salvin hadn’t yet acquired the knack of living alone, even though five years had passed since his wife, Kerry, and daughter, Laurel, had vanished. This evening, he heard the drone of a light aircraft flying over the house. Instantly, he found himself transported back to the Norwegian airfield. In his imagination, he stood there again near the control tower, watching the single-engine plane dwindle into the distance, eventually turning into a silver speck that resembled a lone star drifting above the fjord.
John sighed. For as long as he heard the plane, which appeared to be doggedly circling above him, he would continue to inhabit that moment when the ill-fated machine carried his wife and daughter off the radar screens and out of his life forever. Quickly he set the tablet computer down on the sofa beside him, grabbed the TV remote then punched up the volume. Television didn’t interest him these days; however, laughter from an excited audience was enough to drown the memory-provoking sound of the aircraft above his house.
John never even glanced at the TV screen. Instead, he returned to the small screen that he balanced on his lap. Working in admin for a publisher of school textbooks kept him busy by day. Evenings were dangerous places, though. All too quickly he could find himself picturing what had become of Kerry and Laurel, so he’d managed to interest the company’s editors in his idea for a history book with an unusual twist.
Now here he was, gratefully busy with Voices from the Past – Letters from Long Ago. For six months he’d been carefully reading, winnowing, and listing items for an anthology of letters, missives and epistles written centuries ago. He preferred letters sent by ordinary people to family and friends, rather than those stilted communiqués emperors despatched to their civil servants. He scrolled down to find a choice example of a more homely missive – this particular one sent from a Byzantine mother to her son during the reign of Empress Theodora, circa AD 1056, in what is present-day Turkey: My son, to meet with your wishes I shall describe our house in Tarsus, which you have yet to see. From the street, we enter through a blue door into a cool hallway that has a floor of marble. To continue along a passageway brings you to the kitchen. This a pleasant place, and smells deliciously of fresh bread that Zoe bakes. The old chap that served us in Nicaea still tends the garden. We watch him munching grapes from the vine. Later he shouts loudly, shakes his arms, and performs such a drama to suggest that birds have stolen our grapes. This old greybeard is strange in his ways now.
John Salvin had been reading this vintage correspondence for several minutes before he realized that someone on television was talking about letters being like little time machines: that they often contain vivid glimpses of the past. John pretty much shared the same thought as he’d worked on his anthology of ancient writings, so the programme tweaked his interest; he looked up as the show’s presenter, a woman with a winning smile and clear, intelligent eyes, spoke to camera.
“Time travel machines don’t exist yet,” she said. “But what if they become a reality in the future? With that thought in mind, this show will conduct the most exciting and the most important experiment in the history of the human race.”
“Hyperbole,” John murmured, before adding a more resonant sounding, “Bollocks.”
The presenter continued, “Our experiment is beautiful in its simplicity. We ask viewers to record a short video that contains their message to the future. Here’s your opportunity to tell your descendants why you are speaking to them. When you’ve done that, I want you to upload the video to the Impossible, Isn’t It? website. We’ll be there at the rendezvous point on the big day, and our cameras will record what happens next. Now, over to Greg at the video wall.”
Bright and bouncy, Greg at the video wall described how TV programmes had acquired an immortality all of their own. With the aid of computer animations, he demonstrated how the viewers’ messages “will, indeed, be little time machines in their own right. Yes, okay, they will travel slowly into the future – just as slowly as you, me, Uncle Tom Cobley and all; nevertheless, your video messages will eventually be viewed sometime hence – perhaps a thousand years from now, when time travel is as straightforward as it is for us to nip down to the supermarket. So consider your letter to your descendants as being like a message in a bottle tossed into the sea of time.”
The female presenter returned to sum up the experiment. “Next week’s Impossible, Isn’t It? will feature a selection of your Dear Tomorrow messages. Archived recordings of the show will undoubtedly be watched centuries from now. What’s more, it’s my personal belief that time machines will be invented one day; that’s why I’m inviting time-travelling viewers from the distant future to visit us at our rendezvous point on Mount Snowdon in North Wales, on the tenth of July – that’s just twelve days away. We intend to broadcast a special live edition of the programme from the very top of the mountain. With us will be the vigil team, consisting of members of the public who have uploaded what we deem to be the most compelling and moving videogrammes. So will our unique invitation be a success? Will I be greeting people from those far off tomorrows? Find out for yourselves by joining us live on Mount Snowdon for the greatest experiment of all time.”
“Bollocks. Temporal, fourth dimensional bollocks,” John muttered as he selected a letter from his tablet that was written eighteen hundred years ago – one sent by a soldier stationed on Hadrian’s Wall to his girlfriend in Rome; the disgruntled spear-carrier complained bitterly about his cold feet and asked her to send thicker socks.
John Salvin tried to dismiss the TV show’s frivolous time travel experiment from his mind. He didn’t succeed. Instead, he began to wonder, What if . . .
Five
Five years ago, John used his phone to video Kerry and Laurel when they walked toward the four-seater aircraft. Even though he’d watched the clip hundreds of times before, he replayed those haunting images yet again on his phone as he sat at the kitchen table to eat dinner. The recording lasted just nineteen seconds. Eventually, he’d come to refer to this poignant little film as the “Parting Shot”. Whenever he watched the video, which forever preserved his final view of Kerry and Laurel, he would study their every gesture, every movement, every smile. Therefore, the screen completely held his attention when he touched “play”. With each repeat viewing, he’d suck in a pained lungful of air as if he watched it for the very first time . . . because there walked Kerry and Laurel again: two living human beings; mother and daughter looking so much alike with the same blonde hair and excited smiles. As the pair followed the pilot to the aircraft, he could tell they were eager to see Sognefjord from the air. Behind them, lay a wilderness landscape, mountains soared into a clear blue sky.
At the plane, both turned and waved; Kerry
had the new pink camera in her hand, and she called out happily: “We’ll be back by one. See you then.”
A second later, both had climbed into the plane; that’s when the Parting Shot faded to black, and John’s heart, as always, gave a sickening plunge, because he remembered how he’d caught his last glimpse of his wife and daughter on that fateful day, and he knew only too well that he’d be with them no more.
Four
The woman spoke softly: “Dear Tomorrow. My name is Kamana Banerjee. Three years ago, my husband died when he was shot by a stranger. Murad Banerjee was a good man who loved me so much. This will appear selfish of me, because nobody deserves to die, and all of us wish to save the lives of people we love, but I am sending this message to you in the future to let you know that I intend to join the vigil on Mount Snowdon. I am begging that you not only appear to us on the mountain, but you will take me back to that day in London when my husband was killed. I wish with all my heart to arrive just five minutes before he was murdered. Please give me a chance to save Murad.”
John Salvin had watched the video at least a dozen times on the Impossible, Isn’t It? website. Later, he’d paced the lawn and swore at himself for even entertaining the notion of doing something similar. After that, he’d held a photograph of his wife and daughter in his hands and wept.
Okay, he’d make himself look ridiculous. Work colleagues would be embarrassed for him. Strangers might ridicule him in the street. Of course, none of those scenarios might actually happen. His videogramme might not even be chosen for the programme’s website, and highly unlikely to be aired on tomorrow’s episode. Nevertheless, he recorded his message anyway.
“Dear Tomorrow,” he began. “I want to hitch a lift in your time machine, too. My wife, Kerry, and my daughter, Laurel, disappeared five years ago. The plane they were travelling in vanished during a sightseeing trip in Norway.”
