by James Bow
“I must keep going,” she muttered. “I will keep going.” She pictured the ruffian who had harassed her for walking into Trinity College. She pictured herself walking over him, crushing him into the mud with every step in a most unchristian manner.
She pressed on faster.
Reaching ahead, her fingers met brick. Brick on three sides. Her route was blocked. But how? Water gurgled over her boots. She felt down until, at waist height, she touched the rim of a smaller tunnel. To go forward, she would have to crawl.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “God, please, get me out of this place! I cannot go further!” Sobs shook her, and she stared upward, though all she could see was darkness.
Then she felt water drops on her cheeks. They were not tears. The drops fell from above, shockingly cold, and a gust of fresh air blew into her face. She felt around her and grasped an iron rung, and another above that, set into the wall. It was a ladder. Feeling carefully for footholds, she climbed up.
A round hole in the ceiling became a narrow tube. She continued climbing. Bricks brushed her on all sides and caught at her dress, but she kept going. This had to be the way out. Had to be.
Reaching up again, her knuckles struck cold iron. She felt upwards. Her escape was blocked by iron — a manhole cover, too heavy to budge. She saw light through a hole, deep blue against black. She beat against the cover and screamed.
Fingers fit through the holes and pulled. The cover lifted up and was dragged aside. Frosted air rushed in, filling Faith’s nostrils — the sweetest breath she’d ever taken. A hand reached down to help her up.
She scrambled for freedom, putting her feet on a brick road, blinking at the gaslight and hearing the clatter of hoofbeats in the distance. She didn’t care how forward it was: she flung her arms around her rescuer and burst into tears.
“My dear, my poor dear,” said an elderly voice. Tom Proctor held her off at arm’s length and gazed into her face. “How did you come to be in such a state?”
Around them, the gaslights went out. The poles glowed with St. Elmo’s fire.
Rough hands grabbed Rosemary and hauled her to her feet. She shook them off and stepped gracefully onto the jetty. She stood tall as Aldous stared in amazement.
There was a commotion as two men leading a third burst through a wide set of doors and strode along the port wall to the jetty. They shoved the third man forward. Edmund trembled and stared at his feet. “I’m sorry, Faith,” he gasped. “I’m sorry —”
Then he looked up and blinked at Rosemary, mouth agape.
“Hello, Edmund,” said Rosemary. She smiled at one of the thugs. “Rob.”
Rob Cameron glared at her. The bandage was off his nose, but a large bruise remained.
“Rosemary?” said Edmund at last.
“Faith’s fine,” said Rosemary. “She’s still in the tunnels, but she’s finding her way out.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Aldous.
“I figured you’d guess that,” said Rosemary.
“Indeed.” Aldous turned and slapped Rob hard across the face. “You idiot! I tell you to bring me Faith Watson and you come back with the wrong woman?”
Rob held his cheek. “I wasn’t on the search party!”
“Well, pass that on to the people responsible,” Aldous snapped. “They’re a disgrace!”
Rob seethed.
Aldous turned back to Rosemary. “Not that this is all bad. I wanted to talk to you eventually. Still, it is a shame to lose the other Miss Watson in the sewers.”
“She’ll find her way out,” said Rosemary.
“She may find more than she bargained for.”
“If you mean the time portals ... been there, done that!”
Aldous stepped back. “You know of the portals?”
“I’m from the portals,” Rosemary replied. “Did you honestly think your actions would go unnoticed? We’ve been watching you for some time, Mr. Birge, and we’re not going to tolerate your time crimes any longer.” She winced mentally at the phrase “time crimes,” but drove on. “This place is surrounded. One word from me and the time cops descend and throw you into a time prison. So, take my advice: let us all go, and promise not to interfere with time again, and we’ll be lenient. Resist, and you’ll face the might of our ...,” she threw her arms wide, “ray guns!”
Aldous folded his arms. “Very well.”
Rosemary blinked at him. “Very well?”
“It’s a fair cop. I surrender.” He grinned at her. “Call in your men.”
“Um,” said Rosemary. “We’d really rather not show ourselves if at all possible. I’d advise you to surrender first.”
Aldous’s grin widened.
“All right, I was bluffing!” Rosemary snapped. “But it’s not like you could be so sure!”
“I do not discount my good fortune, Miss Watson,” said Aldous. “I was as surprised by the portals as you were, but as my men explored, we quickly realized that we were the only ones who knew they existed. It was a perfect opportunity for profit, and so I came up with my brilliant trade scheme.”
“Brilliant trade scheme?” Rosemary echoed. “You find a doorway into the future and you trade for trinkets? You didn’t once think of going into a patent office, looking up the files, coming back, and inventing the paper clip or something and making a mint?”
Aldous looked away. “I did not think it proper to interfere with the future to such a degree.”
“You just didn’t think of it, did you?”
“Quiet!” Aldous snapped.
“And what about you?” Rosemary turned to Rob and the other boys on the jetty. “A man takes you into a world of light and noise and you just play along? Doesn’t this seem just the least bit crazy?”
Rob shrugged. “I have seen many strange things, but Mr. Birge pays well. At least now I know where you got your ...,” he chuckled, “‘clothes’ from the first time I saw you. A man could get used to the twenty-first century.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “You wish.” She turned her gaze on Edmund. “See what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
He shrank. “I’m sorry. I did not know what else to do.”
“Coming clean and asking for help would have been smart.”
Edmund slouched lower.
“I think you have distracted us enough, Miss Watson,” Aldous cut in. “I wanted to bring Faith to ensure Edmund’s loyalty. You interest me only as a potential threat. I wish to know how much you truly know of me, Miss Watson, and more importantly, who else you have told.”
Rosemary folded her arms and stayed silent.
Aldous smirked. “If you do not tell me what I need to know, your husband — if indeed he is your husband — might be a little more forthcoming upon learning you are here.”
Rosemary jerked up. “You have Peter? Where is he?”
“Safely stowed away. Or, just stowed away. His safety depends very much on how forthcoming you both are. Do you think you could loosen his tongue?”
Rosemary shook her head. “I won’t help you.”
“I thought as much,” said Aldous. “You are very much alike.” He nodded to the others. “Tie her up and take her to him.”
The men pulled Rosemary’s arms behind her and slapped metal cuffs around her wrists. She heard the click of the lock and gasped, then grunted as Rob shoved an oily rag into her mouth. She bit down on his fingers. He screamed.
“Let go! Let go!” he yelled, pulling with all his might. He punched her in the stomach, and Rosemary fell to her knees, choking. Rob clutched his bleeding fingers.
The men behind her wrapped a band of cloth over her mouth, tying the oily rag in place. Rosemary let out a muffled yell and struggled to her feet. One boy grabbed her, but she shook him off. He stumbled off the jetty and fell into the water.
Rosemary kicked as other hands grabbed her roughly.
“Restrain her!” Aldous shouted, stepping back from the fray.
Rob rushed in, yelling, then grunted as
Edmund grabbed him from behind. The boy whirled around, flooring Edmund with a punch, then cried out as Rosemary kicked the back of his knee. He tripped over Edmund’s body, falling face first into a wooden post supporting the pier.
Then somebody tackled Rosemary from behind and pinned her to the edge of the jetty. Her head and shoulders hung over the slapping water. She kept struggling.
Aldous crouched down beside her. “Drowning while gagged is a most ignominious way to die, Miss Watson. Resist any further and we will toss you in. And Peter after you.”
Rosemary went still. They hauled her back onto the pier and left her lying there.
“I don’t believe it,” muttered Rob. He rolled onto his back and clutched his bleeding face. “She broke my nose again!”
Aldous hauled Edmund to his feet. “Foolish chivalry will get you nowhere, Edmund.” To the others, he said, “Finish the job, then take her to her husband.”
The other boys stood around her, nursing aches, cuts, and bruises. “You want us to carry her?”
Aldous thought a moment. “No. I can save you some trouble. Fetch the new chair.” The boys brightened. Two of them left, chuckling, and passed through the freight doors into the bustle beyond. A moment later they returned, rolling a chair on casters. The others dragged Rosemary to her feet. She stared in astonishment.
“The future is most ingenious.” Aldous took hold of the ergonomic office chair and displayed it with a flourish. “Never have I seen something as simple as a chair designed so expertly for comfort and flexibility. The wheels are a marvel, and even come with adjustable brakes. Perfect for moving yourself around ... or, in this case, for moving freight.” He nodded to the others.
Rosemary squawked in protest, but the men lifted her into the chair, pulling her cuffed wrists behind the back and hooking them beneath a knob. They hitched up her skirts, pulled her ankles behind the chair’s central leg, and cuffed them together. Ropes wound around both sets of cuffs and tightened until Rosemary squealed in pain. More ropes wound over her chest and legs and were knotted tight. Then everyone stepped back to view their handiwork.
Rosemary could hardly squirm. The ropes and cuffs chafed her. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. The gag reduced her protests to grunts. She could only glare as Aldous smiled. The others chuckled with him, except Rob and Edmund. Then one of the boys stepped forward, adjusted one of the knobs, released the wheel brake, and wheeled her off the jetty toward the double freight doors. The others followed.
They pushed her into a warehouse that was more alive than the underground port. Crates were stacked on top of each other and people moved about, checking inventory against clipboards. Aldous directed his men to push Rosemary along the back wall, from shadow to shadow, out of sight of most eyes, toward a dark corridor lined with doors in the far corner of the floor.
They unlocked one of the doors and opened a dark room. One man turned up the gaslight. There was a grunt within, which rose to a squawk.
Rosemary looked up, and grunted in horror as she saw Peter, savagely gagged and bound to a straight-backed chair, looking back at her with wide eyes. He jerked against the ropes, shouting through the gag. It sounded like, “I’ll talk!”
Rosemary tried to tell him to calm down, that it was all right, that she was all right. The gag mangled her words; the chafing ropes made them a flat-out lie.
They wheeled Rosemary in front of Peter, facing him, and set the brakes. Everyone stepped back.
“A tableau,” said Aldous, chuckling. “All we need is Faith Watson to complete the picture.”
Edmund held his head. “Mr. Birge, please —”
“Don’t humiliate yourself further,” said Aldous with a sigh. He motioned everyone to the door. “Leave them. We shall interrogate them in a few hours.”
Rob stepped into Rosemary’s vision, blood staining his mouth and chin. “Break my nose again, will you? I’ll show you ....” He balled up his fist. Rosemary flinched.
“Rob,” said Aldous sharply. “Come. Someone will see to your nose.”
Rob glared, then relented. He shuffled out with the others, leaving Aldous behind.
Aldous cast one more glance at his prisoners, then he stepped over to Peter and undid the knot of his gag. “It is useless to cry for help, Mr. McAllister, but perhaps you could talk some sense into your wife. It may save you both some amount of suffering. We will see you in a few hours.”
Then he left, closing the door behind him. Rosemary heard the lock click.
That, surely, was overkill.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A FIERY DEATH
Peter worked his jaw, spitting out his gag like a man eating spaghetti in reverse. It fell onto his lap and he gasped with relief. “Oh God! You won’t believe how bad that tasted!”
Rosemary glared at him and grunted indignantly.
Peter grimaced. “Oh right. Sorry.” He sighed bitterly. “I’m sorry I got you into this. This never would have happened if I hadn’t been so stupid.”
Rosemary shook her head and grunted to say it wasn’t his fault, but he didn’t listen.
“I just ... you were so happy, we finally had a way back home, and I wanted to help you so much, I must have gotten careless ...”
They had to get out, that much was certain. But how? Peter had been tied up for hours, and he wasn’t even close to free. She was no different. The only thing that separated her and Peter was that her chair had wheels ... and knobs.
“... and I thought I’d just confront him. I should have realized he’d have his friends around ...”
She flexed her fingers. She could feel the knobs at the base of her seat. These adjusted things like chair height and angle, and released the brakes. If she could just reach them ...
The ropes and cuffs gave her almost no room to move. But she tried. She stretched for the knobs. She grunted and winced. Tears streamed as she fought her way downward, flexing her fingers, reaching ... touching ...
Peter stared at her in horror. “Rosemary? Rosemary! You’re in pain! That’s it, I’ll give them whatever they want! Hey! Come back!”
Rosemary had two fingers on a knob. She let go and grunted at Peter for quiet, shaking her head.
“Hey! Get in here!”
Rosemary screamed through her gag. He stared at her. She strained to reach the knobs again.
“What are you doing?”
She growled at him.
“Okay, I’ll wait.”
She resumed her struggle. Her fingers touched one of the knobs again. Now she had all five fingers on it. Taking a firm hold, she pushed it, and the chair sank with a hiss. She gasped in relief. The ropes slackened, leaving grooves in her clothes that filled out slowly. Her toes touched the floor.
Peter grinned. “Good going, Rosemary!”
Rosemary felt herself grinning through her gag. She tested her slackened bonds. She had more movement, but not nearly enough. The cuffs around her wrists and ankles left her no hope of freedom without a key. And what was it about those cuffs? They made it hurt just to move her arms. Looking over her shoulder didn’t help.
But Peter was tied up in a similar way. Perhaps they’d used the same cuffs on him. If she could have a look, she might find some weakness, some way to get out. She pressed her toes to the floor, pushed, and remembered the caster brakes.
Her fingers felt the row of knobs again. The loosened bonds gave her more room to stretch. The first lowered her seat, so the second ...
The chair rolled forward, running into Peter’s knees with a bump.
“Ow,” said Peter.
“H’orry,” grunted Rosemary. She eased her chair around Peter, stopping with her boot when she was behind him. She reset the brakes and twisted herself to look at Peter’s arms. She gasped through her gag.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
Peter’s wrists were ready to bleed, and no wonder: instead of two rings linked by a chain, his handcuffs were bands of iron that wound around both wrists like facing thre
es, hinged together and locked at one end. He’d scar if he stayed tied up any longer. Her own wrists ached in sympathy, or just ached.
Then she peered closer. The middle arms of the facing threes, which slipped between the wrists, didn’t meet. Something could be shoved in that gap and the cuffs pried apart. But what could she use?
She eased around Peter and presented her back to him. She splayed her fingers to show her bound wrists. She grunted.
“What?”
She shook herself and grunted again.
He eyes widened. “Oh God, Rosemary, your hands —”
She gave him an exasperated muffled howl and tapped at the gap with her fingers. “Hi he ha?”
“Huh?”
Rosemary glared. “Hi d’he ha! Hi d’he ha!”
“Oh, ideas.” Peter looked around their prison, then nodded at a corner. “There. Hanging on a hook off the metal shelf. A crowbar.”
Rosemary swivelled around, spotted the shelf, swivelled back, and gave Peter a nod. She kicked herself across the floor in four tries, sized up her last length, aimed, and shoved herself into the shelf. There was a clatter. Tools dangled from their hooks.
She looked up in time to see the crowbar come off its nail. She grunted as it struck her shoulder and landed on her lap.
“Rosemary!” Peter cried.
She nodded that she was all right. She kicked and coasted back to Peter and sidled around him. Then she paused. The crowbar was on her lap and her hands were behind her. How was she going to pass the tool to Peter? She rocked her chair into his hands.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” His fingers grabbed, but they couldn’t grasp the crowbar. “This isn’t working!”
Rosemary sighed. Maybe if she raised her chair an inch. Which was the knob for that? She fingered the row, pressed, then shrieked as the chair keeled over backwards. She and the crowbar clattered to the floor.
Peter strained to look behind him. “Rosemary! Speak to me!”
Rosemary groaned. The full weight of her chair and body pinched her arms to the floor and the crowbar rested on her chest. She looked down at it, then got an idea.
She tilted her body, slid the crowbar to the floor, then rolled the other way. On her side, she could move more easily — though more painfully — than she could when she was upright. She leaned back, grabbed the crowbar, and swung it into Peter’s hands. He yelped, but caught it and held on.
