by Jason Ayres
As Charlie listened to the radio, the first couple of stories didn’t make much of an impact on him. They weren’t things that affected him directly. Had he known what lay ahead, he might have paid closer attention.
The first story on the news was about how the last of Britain’s nuclear power stations had been successfully shut down. Over the past decade, the Government had pursued a relentless policy of sourcing energy from abroad whilst switching to renewable energy sources at home.
Britain was now almost completely dependent on gas imported directly from Russia via a giant pipeline. There was more than enough to go around. There was a lot less energy being used in recent years than there had been in the past. A succession of exceptionally mild winters and warm summers had meant that the amount of heating needed for homes, shops and workplaces had fallen dramatically.
Global warming had been good for Britain. The temperature across the country as a whole was estimated to have risen by two degrees Celsius over the past two decades. It didn’t sound a lot, but in practical terms it was huge.
Vineyards were springing up in Southern England, the weather was warm from March to October, and the mood of the nation had improved as a whole.
Of course, global warming was not good for many places in the world, and most people in Britain would adopt a politically correct front when the subject was brought up. “Oh, isn’t it terrible about global warming?” was a popular conversation opener.
The reality was that most were secretly delighted about the long hours they could spend sitting in their deckchairs in their gardens soaking up the sun. They didn’t even have to fly to Spain on holiday anymore; they could get all the sun they needed here. The fine weather had brought a renaissance to Britain’s seaside towns, which holidaymakers flocked to once again after decades of decline.
The people eased their conscience by giving generously to each new disaster fund, of which there were many. Devastating events such as Hurricane Katrina back in 2005 now happened with increasing regularity. Barely a week went past without news of some new natural disaster somewhere in the world. Typhoons, floods and famines, once the exception, were now the norm.
It was one such story that was the second item on the news bulletin. A tropical cyclone had made landfall in the Bay of Bengal, causing devastation and the estimated loss of thousands of lives. That this story was only considered important enough to be the second item on the news behind the power station story said it all.
Such disasters were so commonplace now that they were barely considered even newsworthy. The average Brit’s “I’m alright, Jack” attitude whilst sticking a tenner in the charity bucket would doubtless be extremely distressing to those in the disaster zones if they did but know.
The news bulletin concluded as always with a light-hearted item. Today it was about the upcoming close pass of asteroid Apophis. This was something that Charlie was interested in, and he turned the radio up to catch the story.
“Well, for those of you who were out last night comet-spotting, I’m sure you’ll know we’ve another heavenly object passing close by this week!” gushed the newscaster rather overenthusiastically.
“It’s not me, is it?” interrupted the somewhat egotistical breakfast DJ, who liked to consider himself something of a local sex symbol despite the fact that none of his listeners did.
“No, it’s not you,” continued the newscaster. “Now, I’m sure you’ll be aware that tomorrow is Friday the 13th – unlucky for some! And we’ve got a great big asteroid heading our way. But there’s no need to worry – it’s going to miss us by at least 18,000 miles, so it’ll be safe to get out of bed! And now, it’s time for the weather. Here’s Kaylee.”
One of Kaylee’s jobs working for the Met Office was to provide weather bulletins for the local BBC station. Charlie smiled as he heard his wife’s voice.
“It’ll be another fine and sunny day across Oxfordshire with temperatures soaring to 25 degrees Celsius, well above the average for the time of year. Right now, here at our Oxford studios, it’s 19 degrees Celsius – that’s 66 Fahrenheit.”
“Thanks, Kaylee,” remarked the DJ, “and I must say that’s a gorgeous summery outfit you have on today. And now, here’s an old classic from Pharrell Williams.”
Charlie had to chuckle at the DJ’s inane attempt at flirting. He knew Kaylee couldn’t stand him, and not only that, she was giving the weather forecast from home, so there was no way he could possibly know what she was wearing. What an idiot.
Finally the car turned into the car park. There weren’t many spaces, but the car soon found one and positioned itself precisely between the painted white lines. It was twelve minutes past nine. If he hurried, he might just make it to the meeting on time.
The sun bore down brightly from the clear, blue sky as he made his way into the gleaming glass building. It was already feeling hot.
Chapter Two
Lauren Watson turned the key in the lock of the front door of The Red Lion and let herself in. It felt pleasantly cool in the old building as she walked across the large flagstones that led to the bar.
Being rather diminutive in stature, she didn’t have to worry about banging her head on the exposed wooden beams. They had caught out many an overenthusiastic Friday night drinker, despite the “Mind Your Head” notices attached to each one.
Lauren enjoyed her life. With her pretty face, cheeky smile and low-cut bob of black hair, she had no problem attracting male attention. Working behind the bar, she got plenty of it. And if that wasn’t enough, she also ran two nights of entertainment in the pub: karaoke on Thursdays and a Saturday night disco.
She was the only female DJ in the town and had a never-ending string of admirers flocking around her at every gig. She rarely went home alone on those nights.
Unlike Kaylee and Charlie, her best friends from school, she hadn’t gone to university. Her boyfriend, Josh, had gone to read Mathematics at Oxford, but after a year or so they split up. Their lives were moving in different directions and she just couldn’t get on with his college crowd.
She returned to the town and tried a variety of jobs – hairdressing, shop work, beautician - but none of them really satisfied her. She was out drinking most nights and inevitably drifted into bar work after getting sacked from most of her other jobs. Getting into DJ’ing was a lucky break.
One night the DJ the pub had hired to run the karaoke was so drunk he couldn’t operate the equipment properly. Lauren, having attended enough karaoke nights to last a lifetime, knew enough about how it all worked to step into the breach and save the day. From then onwards the job was hers.
She was annoyed to see that the bar area had been left in a complete mess. There were empty glasses and crisp packets scattered everywhere and also a large, silver trophy on the bar with some sort of strange, purple residue in the bottom of it. It stank of strong alcohol. No doubt the landlord and his friends had been up late drinking again.
There was no sign that a cleaner had been in and clearly no one from upstairs had been down yet either. Lauren sighed. She had been looking forward to having an e-cig and a coffee before opening up the pub at midday. Now she was going to have to clear up the mess.
She noticed that several fag butts had been chucked into the large, open fireplace in the wall opposite the bar, more evidence of an after-hours party. The fireplace was hardly ever used these days. It had been such a mild winter that most of the lorry load of logs that the landlord had ordered in for the season were still sitting in the car park.
Despite the ever-increasing popularity of e-cigarettes, the older drinkers and hardened smokers in the pub still preferred their real fags – even at £20 per packet. The fact that the ends were in the fireplace was all the evidence needed of an after-hours party – it was strictly illegal when the pub was open.
The back wall of the pub was completely dominated by a huge TV screen, a good eight feet across, positioned above a stage. It was the latest in state-of-the-art entertainment –
a holographic television which brought live sports action directly into the pub.
She grabbed the remote from behind the bar and flicked it on. Unsurprisingly, it was tuned into the sports channel. She flicked it across to one of the commercial channels and started tidying up the mess. Someone was bound to ask to have the sport on once the pub was open, but she wasn’t going to change it back until she had to.
The door behind the bar that led upstairs to the private quarters swung open and the landlord emerged, looking somewhat the worse for wear. He was overweight, untidy, and looked as if he’d gone to bed in the clothes he was wearing.
Richard Kent was 52 years old and had been landlord of the Red Lion for eight years. He was well known in the local area. For many years prior to taking over the pub, he had been in charge of the local police force. Unfortunately, things had gone rather wrong for him after a botched case involving a missing girl which he had called spectacularly wrong. After that he was invited to retire quietly from the force, on a very generous redundancy package.
At first, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his newfound freedom until his wife suggested that, as he spent so much time in the Red Lion, he might as well go and live there. He took her at her word and with the old landlord selling up, seized his chance and bought the lease.
Debbie, his long-suffering wife, was secretly rather pleased. She’d always wanted to run a restaurant and the pub came complete with one attached. She took over the restaurant while Kent managed the pub side of things. This suited him rather well. He still had her close by to look after him and cook him his meals, but running the restaurant kept her out of his way most of the time.
To say Kent was rather traditional in his attitude towards marriage would have been an understatement.
“Morning, Lauren,” he said. “Sorry about the mess. Had a bit of a late one last night with a few of the boys.”
“So I see,” remarked Lauren. “I see the cleaners haven’t been in again.”
“No, I was meaning to talk to you about that. We had a bit of a disagreement,” said Kent.
“What sort of a disagreement?” she asked.
“Well, basically, she wanted extra money for doing upstairs as well, and I said no. So she walked out.”
“So are you going to get someone else?” asked Lauren.
“Well, thing is, I was kind of hoping you might do it,” suggested Kent, tentatively.
“What, in addition to all the other things I do around here?” replied Lauren, feeling somewhat peeved. “I more or less run this place for you single-handed these days as it is.”
Before Kent could reply further, the door opened behind him and Debbie emerged, looking none too pleased.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, clearly on the warpath. “What time did you get to bed last night?”
“Oh, about half past twelve, I think,” replied Kent.
“And the rest!” exclaimed Debbie. “I woke up about 2am, you weren’t in bed and I could hear a right racket coming from downstairs.”
“I guess it could have been a bit later. The darts team had their last match of the winter season last night and we were celebrating winning the league. I have to socialise with the regulars, my love, it’s all part of the job.”
“You practically are one of the regulars,” she said. “I sometimes think you forget which side of the bar you are meant to be on.”
“There’s no point owning a pub if you can’t enjoy a couple of pints now and again,” he replied.
“Pints – more like gallons judging by this lot.” Debbie glanced around the room. Lauren was keeping out of the conversation and tidying the place up, but it was obvious no cleaning had been done.
“Look at the state of this place!” exclaimed Debbie. “Why haven’t the cleaners been in?”
“It’s alright. Lauren doesn’t mind doing it, do you, Lauren?” replied Kent.
“Lauren’s got enough to do,” said Debbie before Lauren had a chance to respond. “I’m going to phone that cleaner and ask her why she hasn’t come in.”
“Ah, that might be a little awkward,” said Kent, and he began to explain the situation. Lauren missed the rest of the conversation because she was interrupted by a loud banging on the front door. It was two minutes to twelve. Someone was eager.
“Come on, open up,” shouted a voice from outside.
Lauren took the keys from a hook on the wall next to the till, crossed the stone floor and opened the large, wooden door. She already knew who it was going to be. He turned up as regular as clockwork at the same time every day. She opened up the door and standing in the doorway was the pub’s resident alcoholic, unemployable waster, Andy Green.
She noted he was wearing the same green jumper he’d had on all week, beneath the ancient denim jacket which looked as if it was only held together by dirt. He already smelt of booze. No doubt he’d “breakfasted” at “Ye Olde Chapel” up the road which opened at 9am.
“Morning, Andy,” she said. “How are you today?”
“Alright, gorgeous,” he replied. “You’re looking as hot as ever.”
Andy never stopped flirting with Lauren, and she played up to it a little, even though she wouldn’t dream of sleeping with him in a million years. It was good for business to flirt with the customers, Kent had told her. So Andy remained ever hopeful. He’d heard other blokes in the pub say that Lauren was an easy lay, and he figured it was bound to be his turn sooner or later.
Andy was either the pub’s best or worst customer, depending on how you looked at it. He was the best because he spent more money than anyone else. He was the worst because when he was drunk he was a complete pain in the arse.
Kent could only see £ signs, though, where Andy was concerned. He had plenty of money. He’d inherited his sister’s house when she’d died a couple of years ago, promptly sold it for £500,000 and moved into a rented bedsit. He’d been pissing away the proceeds ever since. He hadn’t worked in years, and probably never would again.
Lauren returned to the bar where she caught the tail-end of the conversation between Kent and his wife.
“Just you get on that phone,” ordered Debbie, “and tell her you’ll pay her the extra money and to get herself down here tomorrow morning. And don’t be so tight in future.”
With that she stormed back off upstairs. Lauren began pouring Andy his customary lager and looked up at the television screen. The midday news had come on and the screen was showing some spectacular pictures of the new comet.
Kent and Andy were oblivious to it. Kent was sitting at the bar reading The Sun, whilst all Andy was interested in was getting his hands on his pint. She left them to it and went outside for a smoke.
Chapter Three
Kent and Andy may not have been interested in the comet, but there were plenty of people who were.
Josh Gardner was just finishing giving his afternoon lecture. He’d been at Oxford University now for nine years. A mathematical prodigy in his youth, he’d had no difficulty securing a place at one of Oxford’s leading colleges. After that he’d stayed on, done a PhD, and started lecturing.
The money from his father’s building firm had seen him comfortably through college, and he was now earning a good living from the university.
All of this gave him the opportunity to pursue the thing he really wanted to do. Ever since his and Charlie’s adventures with The Time Bubble all those years ago, he’d been fascinated by the whole concept of time travel.
Since he’d been at the university, he’d made the acquaintance of Professor Anthony Hamilton. Anthony was an old school friend of Peter Grant’s, Josh’s time-travelling former English teacher.
He’d confided in Anthony all about The Time Bubble, and the professor was only too happy to get Josh involved in his tachyon experiments. Between them they’d built a device capable of detecting and measuring tachyon particles. They’d taken it to the railway tunnel where they’d discovered The Time Bubble, and the readings had gone off the s
cale as if they’d put a Geiger counter in a nuclear reactor.
They had noted down detailed measurements of the speed of the particles in the Bubble and discovered that they were moving at a pace many times faster than expected. By comparing these figures against normal particles in lab conditions, Josh had been able to correlate them against the length of time that they knew Peter was in the Bubble.
Since then, Josh had had two things in mind. Firstly, what if there were more Time Bubbles out there? Could they track them down? He spent a lot of time searching the internet for clues to possible locations. He looked into planes and ships that had mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again.
Closer to home, he looked for missing person cases that had never been solved, tracing their last known movements to see if he could find any trace of tachyon activity. All had turned up blank so far – but he remained hopeful.
Secondly, he and the professor were working on another idea. They were conducting experiments in the lab with tachyon particles, attempting to speed them up and slow them down. Josh had the ultimate ambition of being able to create a device that could alter the speed of the particles so that it would be possible to take control of The Time Bubble, allowing people to move forward and possibly even backwards through time at their will.
Admittedly, this was all very much in the theoretical rather than the practical stage, but Josh had plenty of time on his side. He was only 27: he was young, ambitious and dedicated. He had no doubt that one day he would unlock the secrets of time travel.
Today, though, there were more pressing matters in hand. He’d been having a relationship with a researcher who worked in the Astrophysics Department and she’d sent him several messages during the lecture saying she needed to see him urgently. He headed straight out of the lecture theatre and across the quadrangle.
Alice had a classic look of academia about her. Her shoulder-length, blonde hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore thin, wire-framed glasses and a smart business suit. The first time they’d gone to bed and she’d let her hair down, Josh hadn’t been able to resist uttering a classic cliché he’d seen in an old 20th century movie. “But Alice, you’re beautiful!” he exclaimed. They both fell about laughing.
