by Julia Hughes
‘Brawd, you kept all your social skills.’ He said, unfastening his watch strap, holding it out to Gia as a peace offering.
Julius smiled grimly. ‘She want more payment than that.’ He said.
Rhyllann fumbled in his pocket for loose change. Wren placed a hand on his arm, with a small shake of his head.
An air of expectation rose, Julius’s smile broadened. Wren bent his head towards Gia, hands open in a begging bowl.
From her belt Gia withdrew a small silver scythe shaped blade. Rhyllann watched opened mouthed as she stroked it across Wren’s hair, sweeping downwards to slice at his veins and held the lock against his wrist until it turned dark with blood. Tucking it into a pouch she turned to Rhyllann. Swallowing hard, he bent his head and held out his wrists with fists clenched and veins raised, closing his eyes as the blade swept towards him. This time Gia sniffed at her trophy before tucking Rhyllann’s blood smeared lock of hair into a separate pouch with an inscrutable smile.
Then Gia rose, gave them all the kiss of peace and left. Not before waving a hand towards the cavorting barely seen shapes gambolling around the stones, and muttering at Julius.
‘What did she say?’ Rhyllann asked.
‘She say get rid of them.’ Julius replied.
Wren watched until Gia vanished from sight. Taking with her scraps of him and Rhyllann.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
While Carrie slept, Julius stepped from the hidden stones intending to join the revellers on the other side, hoping for female company. Grabbing Rhyllann, he pointed to a woman with dyed red hair and placing one forearm at right angles across the other made an obscene gesture, tugging at Rhyllann to join him.
‘Another time mate.’ Rhyllann promised. Shrugging to say it was Rhyllann’s loss Julius slipped away.
Wren sat crossed legged beside Carrie, staring vaguely into space, smiling when he caught a hazy glimpse of a man in a red tunic dancing with a red haired woman.
Rhyllann slumped beside him, reclining back on his elbows.
‘So. You and me. Turn back time. Sink the Titanic.’
‘That’s the plan.’ Wren waited for more.
‘Have you thought about this? I mean really thought?’
Wren knew what he was trying to say. ‘Yes. Others will die, because I want to live. That’s what you mean isn’t it?’
He turned to face Rhyllann. ‘Well?’
For a heartbeat or two he saw repugnance in his cousin’s eyes, before Rhyllann lowered his gaze. Wren resisted the urge to jerk Rhyllann’s head back up by his hair. This mess, this unholy unnatural mess might in part be his fault, but these consequences were too great a price to pay for a single unconscious mistake. Whatever choice he made meant death. Solomon himself would hesitate. Wren wanted to howl into Rhyllann’s face, ask him what gave him the right to judge? But he needed Rhyllann on his side so he tried to explain.
‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that too? If we manage – and it’s a big if – but if we manage to get back to 1912, and sink that boat – ship – whatever – because I prevent that girl from giving her warning – I’ll be responsible for the deaths of innocents.’ And it made his blood run cold and his stomach turn liquid.
‘But this world isn’t right. And those people were already dead. And because I fell asleep one morning and by some freakish chance Carrie’s grandmother’s grandmother saw through my eyes, learned of the Titanic’s impending doom – the fate of my world – our world changed.’
Beside them Carrie twitched and frowned in her sleep. Wren leaned over to rearrange the rug over her shoulders, before continuing in a lower voice.
‘This world is wrong. So wrong. Deep down on some primitive level you know it, and Carrie knows it.’ Ignoring Rhyllann’s scowl at being called primitive, he hurried on. ‘And now Caliburn’s been released into it and people are coming. Bad people and maybe we’ll stop them this time but they’ll keep coming. And if Caliburn once falls into the wrong hands this world will burn.’
Rhyllann finally looked at him, his eyes liquid brown in a face turned white.
‘What makes you think Caliburn’s in the right hands now?’ He asked.
Wren touched the sword lightly then rested his hand against Rhyllann’s.
‘The man who faced a court martial rather than follow orders and gun down six terrified civilians masquerading as soldiers.’
Rhyllann flushed deep red snatching his hand away, stroking Caliburn, setting up a purr.
‘What happened to you Annie? The Rhyllann I know never has self doubt.’ Wren goaded.
Rhyllann’s face twisted with anger. ‘Five years ago I watched my cousin die before my eyes! That’s what happened.’
Pushing Wren aside he sprung to his feet and stalked off. Wren followed, catching Rhyllann’s arm and swinging him round roughly with unexpected strength.
‘Five years ago you saved my life. For thirty minutes you pumped air into my lungs and you wouldn’t give up.’ He took a shuddering breath relishing the sweetness of the air.
‘And you knew you could bring me back, you knew basic first aid. But that wasn’t all you knew. You knew how to fly planes. Now you tell me that isn’t worth trying for! Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want that Rhyllann, and you can leave this place; only take her with you.’ Breathing heavily he pointed back to Carrie.
‘And I’ll stay here, just another ghost haunting these stones.’
He got his answer when the ground tilted; he watched Rhyllann striding through the mists, throwing off a friendly embrace from an overexcited Julius.
Across the Irish Sea in Belfast, men working at the old Harland and Wolf shipyard dropped their heads in silent tribute. One hundred years ago on this very day the pride of the White Star fleet steamed forth, bound for Southampton in readiness for her maiden voyage to New York.
The older men amongst them remembered the light in their Grandparents’ eyes as they reminisced how records shattered that long ago April in 1912. Then in hushed voices spoke of the Angel of the Titanic whose warnings had been heeded by a young Cornish colleen, averting course from a gigantic iceberg at the last moment.
Chapter Thirty
The day which started out so bright and promising turned gloomy, the skies lowered with cloud that couldn’t be bothered to rain properly. Instead a fretful drizzle filled the air. Deducing the weather was probably set in for the day, Wren scavenged a tarpaulin and set about making a little nest for himself and Carrie against the horizontal Dolman, anchoring the tarp over the stone, stretching it up slightly and securing the ends to a couple of branches driven into the ground. Not much more than a roof, but sufficient, and Wren wanted to keep the horizon unobscured. Ducking back under the makeshift tent, he began fussing around Carrie, re-arranging Rhyllann’s jacket under her head, shaking out the woollen rug to pull over her shoulders. She sighed and moved in her sleep, and somehow she was in his arms. Not wanting to disturb her, Wren leaned back against the Dolman Stone and decided there were worst ways to spend his time. Apart from the odd dance and when he practised Judo, Wren had never really held a girl before. Carrie’s softness captivated him, she seemed so delicate. Her eyelids fluttered and Wren knew she was deep in REM sleep and wondered what she dreamt of. Embarrassed by this intimacy, Wren shifted his gaze, looking out to the stones. Already mysterious, Stonehenge seemed to grow in mystique as the low scuttling clouds caused the stones to fade in and out of Wren’s view, painting different pictures in his mind with each new emergence. For the rest of that day Wren dozed on and off, conscious of Carrie’s weight against his, careful not to let her cramp or roll onto her damaged hands. Occasionally Carrie woke, to blink up at him with those trusting childlike eyes, and trace his lips with her fingers. Guessing she wanted him to talk, Wren told stories of how things would be once they’d pulled off the impossible and set history back on track. He noticed the brief flash of frustration on her face, and thought maybe she wanted to know exactly how he intended to
turn back time. Rhyllann knew of course. He knew too the sacrifice Wren was prepared to make. It was something he couldn’t discuss with Carrie, so ignoring her huffs of impatience, he launched into another tale of Rhyllann’s escapades.
The skies began to glow pinky grey, heralding sunset. The druids paid their homage, guitars were strummed but finally silence reigned in both versions of the henge. Still Wren kept watch, every nerve taunt, waiting. Waiting for day break knowing what was to come, running every single detail of every possible scenario backwards and forwards making certain every step was watertight. He couldn’t afford a single wrong move. This time he was counting on human perversity.
The Blonde made her play a couple of hours after sunrise. Later than he’d expected, he’d been lured into a false sense of security. On the other side of the mists the druids finished their sun rise worship and began preparing breakfast. Again after a clear sunrise, clouds gathered casting gloom; although the rain kept off the atmosphere was heavy and foreboding.
Six jeeps roared up to the perimeter of the stones disgorging men dressed in fatigues. At least thirty rifles fired rounds in quick succession into the sky. The Blonde, also dressed in khaki paraded in front of the bemused druids, hippies and sight see-ers, many pressing their hands over their ears with pained expressions. The barrel chested sergeant beside her barked orders. Orders to pack up and go home, depart this place within ten minutes. The Hairy Legged One pushed his way through his followers and began protesting with much waving of his staff. A muffled retort sounded and the druid crumpled to the ground. The red haired woman threw herself over his body screaming hysterically. Druids and would be druids shuffled and swayed but none protested.
The Blonde nodded at her sergeant. With military precision he took two steps forward, knelt and grabbed a handful of red hair. Yanking the woman’s head backward he made a quick movement with his arm as though stroking her throat. The screams turned to a terrifying gurgle. The sergeant stepped back quickly to avoid being sprayed with a splurge of blood.
‘Does anyone else have anything to say?’ The Blonde asked, hands on hips. In stunned silence the crowd departed jostling not to be the last. From start to finish barely five minutes had elapsed.
Carrie sat up with a start wild eyed. Wren clamped his hand over her mouth, holding her against him tightly.
‘’S’okay, ‘s’okay, she can’t see us. No-one can.’
He relaxed his hold, still keeping an arm around her hating the way she trembled.
‘Keep quiet Carrie, trust me, and keep quiet.’
She nodded, hunching closer to him, a cascade of hair covering her face.
‘Can’t see us. Can’t see us.’ She muttered.
‘Wren. Wren Prenderson. I know you’re there. You can come out now. Bring the girl.’
In the silence that followed a crow cawed loudly, mocking her. Wren felt Carrie’s fingers pincher like on his forearm as she clung harder to him. He rocked her gently, breathing into her hair trying to comfort without words. He needed to concentrate on the Blonde’s actions.
‘Oh for goodness sakes. Sergeant; let’s do this the hard way.’
Carrie looked up at Wren for an explanation.
‘Guess she run out of the black suits.’ He said with a flippancy he didn’t feel.
The Blonde perched on the Altar Stone, legs crossed at the ankles, toes pointing towards the corpses. A Private stood to her right. Very young, so young acne glowed like insect bites on his face. He held a box the size of a shoe box in his outstretched arms and stood very still and very straight. Wren wondered what was in the box then suddenly didn’t want to know.
‘Wren. Or should I call you Angel?’
The sergeant returned pulling someone behind him. Someone who kicked and struggled and really didn’t want to be there. Carrie began retching emptily.
The Blonde reached out, tugging at dark heavy hair forcing the prisoner to kneel then crouch at her feet. She kicked him hard in the back, around the kidneys. Wren winced. Rising daintily with a playful tone to her voice she called out again.
‘Do you want to see what’s in the box Wren. Can you guess?’ She laughed. The semi circle of men behind her barked laughter in unison.
‘Carrie don’t look. Don’t look, shut your eyes.’ Wren whispered urgently but she pushed his hand away from her eyes, both of them compelled to watch.
‘Shall we show our friends, Private Ruskin?’ The Blonde’s voice still teased.
Carrie and Wren clutched each other neither one able to look away. Wren felt Carrie trembling, her jaw moving fitfully and pulled the rug around her without taking his eyes off the scene being played out for them at the Altar Stone.
Private Ruskin opened the box, reached inside and withdrew a severed head. The eyes and mouth were sewn shut like a macabre Halloween prop. But even through their mist obscured view they could recognise Jeff Holden’s features. Carrie swallowed hard twice before turning her head to vomit, a keening sound rising from her opened mouth.
‘I know you’re there, come out come out wherever you are!’ The Blonde called looking around dramatically.
Wren tugged at Carrie and they scrabbled over to the stone where they first met. Where Wren had kissed her.
‘Stay here, ok. Promise me. Trust me.’
Carrie clung to him eyes begging mutely and it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, pulling her hands away from him. He burbled words as a mother would to a baby but she didn’t seem to hear.
‘Carrie, please, be strong. Be brave. I need to talk to her face to face.’
He stood, running his fingers through his hair, spat on his hand to rub it over his face then tugged down his jeans.
The Blonde grew impatient. ‘Oh not good enough for you eh? Not … blood thirsty enough for you? Let’s see – what else can we tempt you with?’ She nodded at the sergeant who kicked at the prisoner by his feet.
‘Well well. If it isn’t Rhyllann Jones. A cousin of yours I believe?’
The sergeant pulled Rhyllann up by the hair, arranging his head on the Altar Stone, baring his neck.
Wren kissed Carrie once more and with a finger to his lips, disappeared through the mist.
‘Tell him to leave him alone.’ Wren walked up to the Altar Stone as if entering a garden party. He stepped past the druids’ carcasses without looking though the cloying stench of blood forced him to breath through his mouth. Thirty rifles swung in his direction. Wren felt the strongest urge to explain that their bullets would be wasted on him. Biting his tongue he reminded himself to keep focused. The next twenty minutes would determine the survival of his world. He kept his eyes on the Blonde allowing his body language to mirror her air of nonchalance, pretending not to notice the way her hand tightened around the gun at her belt. He might be immune, but Rhyllann was all too human. Wren paused an arm’s length from where she perched, aware for the first time of an air of charisma pulsating from her.
The Blonde smiled. Beneath her lips her teeth were perfectly even, perfectly white. Her eyes were a warm shade of violet, and her skin texture soft pale peaches and cream, not a single facial line marred her features. Rhyllann struggled to twist his head, his eyes wild as he shouted muffled warnings through a gag.
The sergeant aimed a toe at Rhyllann’s rump.
‘I said don’t. Kick him again and I’m gone. And you won’t see me again.’ Wren warned.
‘Sergeant. Back off.’
He could feel her breath against his cheek now they were face to face, her eyes inches above his.
‘You called?’ Wren prompted. A flicker crossed the Blonde’s face. Confusion? Anger? Wren smiled.
‘Prenderson, I’m not here to play games. I want the sword.’
‘Just the sword?’ Wren asked.
She scowled, the hand resting on the pistol at her belt tightened again.
‘It isn’t just a sword. You know that. I know what it’s capable of.’ She indicated Rhyllann now slumped on the ground, head down.
&n
bsp; ‘God knows he does. And he doesn’t have it anymore. So you have it. Give it to me.’ Her chest heaved and fell, the perfect white teeth bared in a smile.
‘And what will you give me for it?’ Wren asked.
‘Your life.’ She jerked her head at Rhyllann. ‘His life. The girl’s life.’
Wren scratched his head as he explained. ‘You see, that’s the problem. I don’t have a life anymore.’ He waved an arm around, indicating the stones.
‘In here I can exist. I’ve got a half life. People worship me you know. Out there.’ He waved again. ‘I’m nothing.’ He giggled. ‘Only mad old women can see me. And vicars.’
The Blonde stared at him then throwing back her head started laughing, still fixing him with those strange violet eyes. Wren smiled back.
‘So what do you want?’
Wren shrugged. He looked down at his feet and began kicking up dust against the Altar Stone, casting glances towards the box containing Jeff’s severed head.
‘The girl.’ He whispered and blushed, a teenager in love.
She spread her hands: ‘Have her – take her – take her on this altar stone if you want. I’ll hold her down.’
Wren shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s ….’ He bit his lip, looking up at the sergeant who stood to attention trying hard to look as though he wasn’t listening.
‘It’s complicated.’ He finished.
‘Tell me. Tell Auntie Gabs.’ And she tucked her arm through his and walked him away from flapping ears.
‘I need her dead.’
Another woman would have recoiled. This one shrugged.
‘Then kill her.’
‘I told you … It’s complicated. If I … release her spirit and she founds out, and she will find out … well …’ They were almost at the stone where he’d left Carrie. Because he had one foot in both worlds he could see her trembling under the rug, huddled against the stone, staring at him with horror etched on her face. Ignoring Carrie Wren turned, tucking his arm through the Blonde’s this time.
