Tomorrow's Guardian

by Richard Denning

CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR – ABSENT NEOPTOLEMAS

  Before Redfeld could pull the trigger, Septimus, with a superhuman effort, summoned what energy he had left and dragged both Tom and Mary hard left into an alleyway running down the back of the buildings on the Institute’s road. Three steps into the alleyway, Septimus collapsed and Tom tumbled down next to him.

  “That gate,” the Welshman managed to gasp before he slumped back, unconscious. Tom looked down the alleyway and saw a wrought iron gate: recognised it as the gate he had seen at the end of the garden outside the Professor’s study. Looking back towards the road, Tom could see that one of the policemen was armed and was pointing his gun at Redfeld.

  “Armed police, put the gun down!” came the order. Focusing on each other’s weapons, for the moment neither Redfeld’s men nor the police were looking up the alley.

  “Come on Mary,” Tom urged the girl, “help me drag him in there.”

  Together, they pulled Septimus along, pushed open the gate and fell forward onto the lawn. Septimus started coughing violently and soon spots of blood speckled the grass. Mary turned and closed the gate behind them. Just then, they heard a brisk crackle of a half dozen gun shots in the road: Redfeld and the police were exchanging fire. Hearing the sound, Septimus stirred weakly and opened his eyes. He managed to drag himself to his feet and they stumbled on up the garden. In front of them were French windows, which were shut. Mary ran up and hammered on the glass. Tom was surprised when the windows opened almost at once. With relief, he saw that the man who opened them was Mr Phelps and not the Professor.

  Mr Phelps helped Septimus to the Professor’s high–backed chair, then picked up a phone on the desk and called for Doctor Makepeace. After he had replaced the hand set, Tom asked, “Is the Professor here?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Phelps shook his head, “he has not yet returned.”

  “Well then, do you have any idea where he is?”

  “Afraid not, but where are Lieutenant Dyson and Able Seaman Hawker?”

  Tom did not answer. Could he trust Mr Phelps? After all, he worked for the Professor, didn’t he? There was no way of knowing who he could trust any more. He glanced back at the windows, half expecting to see Redfeld and his bully boys, but there was no sign of them. Did the Institute’s barrier work effectively as Septimus had suggested it did? Tom fervently hoped so.

  Just then, Septimus groaned.

  “Please, sir ... he needs help,” Tom pleaded, turning back to Mr Phelps, who sniffed haughtily, but nodded and reaching out, rang a bell on the desk.

  A moment later a young man appeared at the doorway with a “Yes, sir?” It was Matthews, the doorman who had let Tom in on his first visit. Phelps indicated Septimus and soon the wounded Welshman was helped out of the room. Mary, who had various cuts and bruises, followed.

  “We will have the doctor look at you and your companions, Master Oakley,” Mr Phelps said, peering at Tom’s scalp and adding cheerfully, “nasty wound you have there. You’ll probably need stitches.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Tom replied and stumbled upstairs after Mary.

  Busy with treating Septimus, it was over an hour before the doctor administered to him, but in fact Tom did not need stitches, just some painkillers and things the doctor called Steristrips, which his mother would have called ‘butterfly stitches’. His mother... Tom smothered a sob. He was twelve years old; too grown up to be crying for his mother, he told himself. Free to come back downstairs he went to sit alone in the dining room.

  As the terrifying excitement of the last half hour faded along with his headache, Tom’s thoughts slowed down and he began to think constructively again. In a way this was worse because a feeling of despair and futility washed over him. The situation was hopeless. His parents were gone. There were only two men who seemed to think they could get Tom’s family back. One of them, the Professor, had vanished and could be dealing with the Custodian right now – brother, Neoptolemas had called him – and he certainly appeared to have it in for Tom. The other man was Redfeld, who hardly had Tom’s best interests at heart. What price would Redfeld ask to bring back his mum and dad? ‘What price would I be willing to pay?’ Tom wondered.

  Redfeld, of course, had captured Tom’s new allies: Charlie and Edward and taken them heaven knew where. As for Septimus, he had certainly been up to no good, feathering his own pockets at Tom’s expense. Tom felt doubly betrayed because he had begun to really like the little Welshman, but could he be trusted again, despite his efforts at Trafalgar Square? After all, Septimus would have expected no mercy from Redfeld, so he may just have been protecting himself.

  So, thought Tom, that left himself and Mary. As for Mary, what use would she really be? On the other hand, she had again demonstrated her unique talent in Trafalgar Square – not that it did much good.

  At that moment the door swung open and as if on cue, Mary came in and sat down opposite him. “What wilt thou do now, Master Tom?”

  Tom shook his head. He did not know where to start. “I have no idea, Mary. It seems hopeless. How can we go on with our friends gone and with no help from the Professor or Septimus?”

  Mary looked up sharply at that. “There is help from Mr Mason. The physician told me that he had taken a bullet out of your friend’s lung and that he will be well again, if he rests. I think the physician be a wizard for I do not think such an injury can be cured by normal means.

  Too weary to speak, Tom nodded; he had thought that too. Doctor Makepeace had healing powers that went beyond the norm.

  “Anyway,” Mary went on, “he gave you permission to go up and see Mr Mason and I think you should. I think he is the most important person for you to talk to at this moment. But you must find it in your heart to forgive him.”

  Tom said nothing for a moment. A wave of stubbornness came over him. Why should he be forgiving?

  Mary studied him for a while before speaking again. “I think you need to give Septimus another chance,” she said with an edge of steel in her voice that Tom had not heard before. Even so, he was still not convinced.

  “Why? He betrayed me and almost handed me over to Redfeld.”

  Mary put her hand on Tom’s arm for a moment and said softly, “Almost is not the same as did. What he did was fail to abandon us in Alexander’s camp. What he did was defy Redfeld and refuse to hand you over. Finally, he risked his own life and was shot to protect you. That is what he actually did. He might lack good intentions at times, Master Tom, but his actions speak for themselves. He does not wish thee ill, I am certain of it and I think he can help thee.”

  Tom felt his anger beginning to rise again, “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t need help,” he muttered, but Mary just sat there looking at him, her eyes shining with gentle determination. It was obvious that she knew she was right. Tom sighed. Then he nodded. Yes, she probably was right. He felt the fury subside a little: not go completely, of course, but the anger no longer controlled him. Instead it became a resolve to carry on. “You really think he can help me?”

  “I am sure of it,” she smiled.

  He heaved himself to his feet and headed for the stairs, realising as he did so that the gloom was not quite so oppressive. There was hope: not much maybe, but a little and it was Mary who had made him see it. He turned and looked back into the dining room. He caught Mary looking at him and smiled at her before carrying on up the stairs. He had been very wrong: she had been a big help, in the end.

  Septimus was sitting up in bed, his right arm in a sling and a bandage wrapped round his chest. He was staring out of the windows with a distant expression on his face. As Tom went in he turned and looked at him. Tom stood next to the bed. Neither of them said a word for several minutes, but it was Tom who finally broke the silence.

  “I need you to promise me that you were not involved with my parents’ murder.”

  Slowly, Septimus shook his head. “I swear that I was not. I admit that I struck a deal with Redfeld whereby you would lose your powers and remai
n safe in exchange for payment. But, after all, you said yourself that you did not want these powers, so I figured there would be no issue. I thought that was all he wanted.”

  “But you did not hand me over to him.”

  “Not when I began to see what he was after. I may be a mercenary, boyo, but I’m not going to let the likes of him take over, am I? The guy’s a monster.”

  Tom nodded. Maybe Mary was right about that too.

  “Besides which, can you imagine the effect his regime would have on business: be murder to do my job,” Septimus added with a wink.

  Tom laughed at that and Septimus smiled back at him. Then Tom remembered the dream of the Professor in the Office.

  He sat down on the corner of the bed and related his dream. Septimus nodded as he listened. It did not seem to surprise him that the Custodian had called the Professor ‘brother’.

  “You see, Tom, the Custodian is indeed the spitting image of the Professor. I saw that when I went to the Office.”

  “Exactly how did you come to meet him?” Tom asked.

  “Ah well, that was Redfeld,” Septimus replied.

  “I think you had better tell me the whole story,” Tom suggested.

  Septimus nodded and pushed himself up the bed so that he was propped up against the head rest. He was silent for a while, looking out of the window and across the rooftops and chimneys. Following his gaze Tom watched a bird take flight off a chimney pot and wondered if Septimus was wishing he had that same freedom, so he could fly away and avoid an awkward conversation. Eventually, the Welshman took a deep breath.

  “Ok then, I’ll tell you. It was shortly after you and I first met back at New Year that Redfeld contacted me. At the time he just said he was interested in meeting you. I didn’t know who or what he was then. It was just business at that time. A small payment for an introduction and so I arranged to be in that café, with you. Later, he started talking about wanting me to help with kidnapping you and then taking you to see the Custodian. I had heard of the Custodian from the Professor once – a kind of pan–dimensional policeman who keeps the realities on track and not deviating from time lines. I thought Redfeld was his man, to be honest. They seemed bothered about your powers and wanted to take them away from you. I saw no harm in that at the time because you had said you did not want them. I was not keen on the kidnapping part, but they assured me that you would come to no harm.”

  “Make a habit of trusting Nazis, do you?” Tom asked, harshly. Septimus winced.

  “No, it wasn’t like that, honestly, Tommy. I didn’t know that Redfeld was from the Twisted Reality or what type of man he was. But, when I found out, I refused to help him further.”

  “I see,” said Tom. “So then he was forced to come up with some other plan to coerce my cooperation: something involving a deal with the Custodian and the death of my parents. He then promised to let me have them back if I did what he asked. Does that mean that the Professor is wrong about us not being able to Walk back to the same point in time twice? Or maybe Redfeld knows a way to do it that he will tell me if I do what he wants?”

  For a moment Septimus did not answer, tapping his fingers on the bedside table. Then he asked Tom a question. “If that was the case, would you agree to help him?”

  Tom blinked. “I’d be lying if I said I was not tempted, but no, I’m not planning to help him. I don’t trust him and we still don’t really know what he wanted me to do, anyway. What is he really after?

  Septimus clicked his fingers and murmured beneath his breath, “And Alexander wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer….”

  “What?” Tom frowned.

  “Ambition, Tommy!” Septimus leaned forward, “It’s a powerful motive. For many it is a driving force that gets us where we want to be: doctor, teacher, astronaut, soldier – whatever our dream is. But for a few, it is a curse. Napoleon, once the conqueror of a continent, ended his life in miserable exile haunted by past glories and the shadowy dreams of what might have been. Julius Caesar once burst into tears because he felt he hadn’t achieved as much as Alexander. Ah ... and as for Alexander himself: in military terms at least, he achieved more than anyone before or since. He conquered Egypt; Asia Minor; the Persian Empire and even reached India, but his soldiers voted to end the campaigns and go home. At that point he wept and died within a year.”

  “I don’t quite see,” Tom said feeling confused.

  “My point is this: some men are driven on by destructive ambition. Look at Redfeld’s master. His ‘father’ or Führer – their ‘Hitler’ if you like – conquered Europe and defeated both the US and Russia. As the Captain told us, their Führer has gone even further and swept through Africa, Asia and into South America. All is at his feet. But that’s not enough for him. He looks hungrily at us across the gaps between realities. He wants our world too. Not just our world, but our history. Remember when Redfeld said our history was the error to be eradicated?”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “With your help, Redfeld can change our history and mould it to his desire. Our past can be erased and made to conform to his world: Britain could lose the battle of Britain, Russia could fall. The Americans could lose at Midway. Any of a hundred events that occurred in our past could be altered and he could change it so the Germans won the war in our reality. Except, Redfeld would go further and he or his master would rule our world as well as his own. With an eternal Reich across two realities on offer, I don’t see them needing to weep like Alexander, do you?”

  “He’s mad!” Tom whispered.

  “Oh yes, undoubtedly he’s mad; a megalomaniac.”

  They sat in silence for a moment as they took in the full implications.

  ‘Imagine the possibilities’, Redfeld had said. The man’s ambitions knew no bounds, or so it seemed. Eventually Tom broke the silence.

  “Right then: next question. Why would the Professor call the Custodian, ‘brother’?”

  “That I don’t know. One thing is certain; the two of them look almost identical. Perhaps the Professor is a little greyer, but that’s about it. I think you will have to ask the Prof if you want to find out more.”

  “If he ever comes back, you mean. So then, where is the Office and how do I get there?”

  “Quantum physics is not my specialty, boyo, but as far as I can gather, at the moment of the Event, the Office was created as a kind of neutral ground in the void between the two realities. At that moment, the Custodian and his minions came to exist and it seems they are very keen that the two realities remain somehow in balance.”

  “Ok, I know that bit – I have been the Custodian – but I can’t get there except in a dream and then I am not myself; that’s when I become the Custodian,” Tom said impatiently. “How do I get there now: how do I get there as myself?”

  “Sorry, Tom, but I can’t help you get there either. You see, Redfeld took me the first time and at the end of that meeting the Custodian gave me a recall stone that was keyed to the Office in case I needed to return. It was like that ball and chain malarkey the Professor gave us to rescue Mary and the others: only this one was made of marble, like a paperweight; the stuff you get in posh offices. I guess, just as the iron and water helps to bring us back here, the marble would help you Walk to the Office. Unfortunately, I gave that stone back to the Custodian the second time and I don’t have it now. I’m sorry, Tommy,” Septimus apologised.

  Tom covered his head with his hands and gave a loud bellow of frustration. “Damn it all! What’s going on? What has the Professor to do with the Custodian? I need to find Neoptolemas NOW! If he is in league with the Custodian then he might also be working with Redfeld. Has that occurred to you?”

  Septimus went a whiter shade of pale. “I really wish you hadn’t suggested that. It’s pretty damn terrifying, boyo!”

  “Do you think it’s possible?” Tom asked.

  “I hope not. Think about it for a moment: Redfeld, the Custodian and the Professor; one man from each realit
y: our World, the Twisted Reality and the Office between the realities. Each man with a great deal of knowledge and power: that really is uncomfortable to think about.”

  “And each of them able to change history; yes, that is horrible, Septimus!”

  They were silent for a while then Septimus shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it – I can’t believe it; not of the Professor in any event, can you?”

  Tom was upset and confused and when he was in that mood all sorts of strange thoughts started going through his mind. He stood up and began to pace back and forth across the room. “I don’t want to believe it, but I just can’t be sure. We need to talk to the Prof. So, how do I find where Neoptolemas has gone to?”

  Septimus shrugged, Tom stopped pacing and without speaking, they both looked out of the window and watched the birds for a moment. Then suddenly, Septimus snapped his fingers.

  “Edward Dyson! He’s the answer. He will be able to trace where the Professor is and lead us to him.”

  “Yeah, great, but Edward is missing with Charlie and we have no idea how to find him either!”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that....” Dejected, the Welshman’s voice trailed away.

  There was a knock at the door and Mary came in looking distracted. Tom glanced at her, blinked and looked again. After he had left her in the dining room she had obviously been persuaded to change her clothes. Gone was the full–skirted dress that fell to her ankles. She now wore a cotton blouse and a pair of jeans. Her long hair had been tied back and on her feet were a pair of trainers. She looked just like any other ordinary girl from the twenty–first century.

  “Wow Mary!” Septimus commented, “Quite a transformation – but why the change?”

  Mary blushed and looked down at her clothes. “It feels strange, I confess, but it was necessary. My own clothes do not seem to fit so well in this world: or leastways are not so practical.”

  “Practical?” Tom asked. “What do you mean by that?”

  She grinned, “Well for one thing, I can run faster in this boys’ garb.”

  “Ah,” Tom smiled.

  Mary’s grin faded and she again wore a distracted expression, as if she had something other than clothes on her mind.

  “What is it, Mary?” Tom asked.

  “Master ...”

  “Thomas, Mary!” he cut across her. “It’s Thomas, Tommy or Tom. Not ‘Master’,” he shouted in frustration.

  “Sorry, yes, Thomas, I keep forgetting ...”

  “Ok, what were you going to tell me?”

  “It’s the magic door. I remembered something about it.”

  Mystified, Tom glanced at Septimus who looked back at him, equally puzzled.

  “What magic door, lass?” the Welshman prompted.

  “Captain Redfeld – his magic door. The one he magicked up with his sorcery at that ‘Trafigalca’ place.”

  “Trafalgar! You mean Trafalgar. Redfeld’s portal to that projection room: to the Twisted Reality. What about it?” Tom asked.

  Mary looked thoughtful again before answering. “Well, you see, I think I can help. With the... err, portal, I mean. I could still see it – feel it maybe says it better. I mean, after it was gone. The portal was closed and invisible, but I could still feel it. It was dim and faint, but it was there. And I think, I think ...”

  Tom nodded, “Yes, what? You think what?”

  Mary hesitated. The loud clonk of a clock pendulum on the landing was the only sound to be heard. Finally, Mary spoke.

  “Well ... well, that is, I think I could open it again.”