Anachronist

by Andrew Hastie

  Reaching the ground floor, he forced his way through the crowds towards the gilded doors that the colonel had used. He kept his head down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. He had hated languages at school, and couldn’t remember anything more than ‘pardon’ and ‘merci’. His route was diverted by the surging crush of the crowd; many were drunk and only standing because of the press of bodies around them. Others were moving closer to get a better view as the names were read out. By the smell of it, no one had had a bath in months, the room was a seething mass of body odour, garlic and sour wine-breath.

  The door was shut and as he went to open it a man’s arm barred his way.

  ‘Non!’ a voice commanded. ‘On ne passe pas!’

  Josh turned to the man and made out like he needed to piss urgently. The man grunted and pointed at a door a few metres away. He was a huge, thickset brute with a low brow that made him look like a caveman. His hands were the kind that could snap your neck in an instant, certainly not the type with whom you picked a fight in the middle of a lynch mob. Josh nodded to him, and made for the other door.

  The room was a jumble of requisitioned artefacts looted from the mansions of the wealthy. They had been casually dumped wherever there was space. Priceless treasures were piled on top of one another, crammed into every available nook and cranny — like the back room of a charity shop. Standing amongst the clutter, Josh became aware of the buzzing drone of flies and the distinct tang of urine in the air. As he followed the sound, he began to realise that every Ming vase, Grecian urn and silver punch bowl was brimful with a dark, pungent, straw-coloured liquid.

  Josh scrambled over the clutter to the nearest window, pulled back the curtains and opened the latch just before the breath he was holding ran out. Sucking in lungfuls of fresh air, he looked out over the gardens towards the River Seine. The view reminded him of the one he’d seen in 1971. When he looked closer, he could see that it essentially it was the same — except for the lack of cars, modern art and ornamental sculptures.

  Smoke was rising over the rooftops of the houses on the far banks of the river. He watched as mobs of peasants ran rampage along the streets, destroying everything in their path: it was a war zone. Though there were no police, no army, nothing but pure anarchy, pure rage and it was horrifying.

  All the other doors in the room were blocked by stacks of furniture. Josh’s eyes swept the room for anything useful. It was just his luck to have picked a room with no other exits and a hoard of piss-filled treasure he couldn’t take back with him — even if he’d wanted to.

  He thought about hitting the reset button on his tachyon and going back to the present, but that felt like admitting defeat and he wasn’t about to quit. Instead, he began rummaging through the drawers and boxes in search of anything that he could sell: a coin, a ring or even a silver spoon from this age would be worth a fortune back in the present, or could at least be used as a marker for a return visit.

  Then he saw the swan.

  The picture looked as if it had been hidden by someone who wanted to keep it safe. It was placed carefully behind a tapestry and a stack of ornate golden dishes, but there was no mistaking it — there was his mission objective, his prize. Leda and the Swan, the missing masterpiece created by Michelangelo for the Duke of Ferrara. The colonel had been correct about one thing: art did have a value — he knew this one was worth millions.

  The subject was of a naked woman entwined with a swan. The sexual undertones were not lost on Josh, but he wasn’t interested in subliminal sixteenth-century porn. He just wanted to get it and get out of this madhouse.

  He moved the other items aside so he could see it properly. This painting had been missing for more than three hundred years and in his time there were many collectors who would pay a fortune for it. All he had to do was follow its timeline back into the present and then take it to the right dealer, and he would be rich.

  Josh slowly reached out with his hand until his fingertips brushed the paint. He could feel the lines of energy resonating just beneath the surface of the canvas; the sinuous flowering of its history rose at his touch.

  Then suddenly he snatched his hand away.

  The temptation to leave the colonel and claim his prize was a powerful one, but it was too easy. He had no idea what the old fool was doing next door. For all Josh knew this could be part of the test. There was a moment when he had nearly convinced himself that it would be better to just look after himself and take the path within the picture, when another cry of ‘Guillotine!’ went up from outside the door and he dismissed the idea.

  The thought of spending the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for the colonel or one of his Order was not something he relished — especially if they had the power to go back into his past and wipe him out.

  Josh picked up one of the golden chairs, rammed it under the door handle and sat down on it, resting his head in his hands. He needed a plan. He needed to know what was going on in the next room, but couldn’t see how he’d do that without going out of the window and facing the marauding gangs. The smell from the pots was getting worse, and the flies were starting to pay more attention to him than the festering piss buckets.

  Then he had an idea — he was thinking too linearly.

  25

  Lost Treasure of the Bourbons

  The colonel was standing amongst a desperate-looking bunch of guards as they played dice for what was left of Marie Antoinette’s jewellery. The former queen sat weeping quietly on one of the stolen sofas, her dress torn and dirty, with a ridiculous mess of a wig balanced on her head, trying to retain some dignity.

  Josh was slouched in a chair at the back of the room pretending to be a drunk sleeping off the booze. A half-finished bottle of wine sat in his lap, a propaganda leaflet was screwed up in one hand and a stolen hat pulled down over his face. From beneath the tattered brim he’d saw the colonel enter with the queen, watched how the old man had protected her from the worst of the beatings from her guards.

  As far as Josh could make out, they were waiting for her transport, which had been delayed by the chaos outside. The colonel was arguing with one of the other guards over her shoes when he first noticed the drunk in the corner — there had been the slightest hint of recognition, a creasing around the eyes, and then he had gone back to his disagreement.

  It had taken Josh a while to get himself into the locked room. He’d gone through the timelines of the pisspots to find the moment when the guard had left his post to take a leak. It was possibly the most disgusting thing he’d ever had to do.

  There was no one to be seen, and the room into which the colonel would escort the queen was empty. With nothing else to do but wait, Josh spotted a comfortable place to rest, found something that resembled food to eat, then went to sleep for a couple of hours.

  The first time he awoke, the room was full of revolutionaries, all armed to the teeth. He panicked, attracting too much attention and ending with him having to use the ‘rewind’ button on his watch before getting stabbed with various sharp objects.

  The second time he woke slowly, keeping still to appear as though he were asleep.

  For the next two hours, he watched in silence as desperate men and women of the aristocracy were dragged through the antechamber. It was a waiting room for the damned. Their desperate pleas for mercy as they went into the court would haunt him. Robespierre himself came in at one point to check a list of names with one of the men.

  When the colonel finally arrived, Josh realised that he hadn’t thought his plan through. He’d been so wrapped up with how to get into the room that he hadn’t considered what the colonel was doing in there in the first place. What was keeping them here? Was he seriously trying to save the queen?

  While the men were busy with the dice, the colonel went over to the lady and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and turned towards Josh. A weak smile moved across her lips as she dabbed her eyes with the corner of a lace handkerchief. It was like some kind of
signal. She looked calmly at something above Josh’s head and then back at him her eyes widening a little as if to say, ‘Look up.’

  Josh pretended to yawn and sat straighter in his seat. No one paid him any attention as he scratched at his neck and took a swig from the bottle. He turned his head up to look at what the queen had glanced at and saw a lamp flickering in front of the now defaced portrait of her husband Louis XVI. It was delicately balanced on the mantelpiece and teetering above a large bundle of papers and pamphlets that had been dumped in front of the fireplace.

  Josh turned back to look at the colonel who was holding the hilt of his sword as if ready to draw — his thumb was marking time on the pommel and one of his feet was tapping along to an unheard tune. It was clear that he was waiting for Josh to do something.

  Josh stood up and stumbled as if still drunk. He reached out with his hand to steady himself and inadvertently knocked over the lamp, which fell and smashed over the papers setting them alight — seconds later, the fire was raging fiercely. Josh stepped out of the way as he watched everything the flames touch immediately ignite.

  Guards jumped up and took off their jackets to beat back the flames. Others ran to the doors and windows to make their escape, but the additional draughts of air just fed the fire. Josh could see that the colonel was using the diversion to make a hasty exit with the queen, now wrapped in an old cloak, and he quickly followed them through the outer door into the gardens beyond.

  ‘Majesty,’ the colonel whispered hoarsely in between fits of coughing. ‘We need the key. It is the only way to save your children.’

  The queen nodded and produced a small iron key from inside her mouth. Josh watched in total confusion. He had no idea what the hell was going on.

  A minute later the guards realised their most precious prisoner was missing and came running out onto the lawns in search of her. When they saw the colonel had the queen, they praised him like a homecoming hero, shaking his hand and patting him on the back as if he had single-handedly saved the revolution. Josh could see the colonel was struggling to play the part of the captor.

  The queen was forcibly marched to a waiting carriage. As she stepped into the coach, she looked back and Josh thought for a second he saw her smile before they slammed the door.

  When they re-entered the palace, the fire was being doused by a chain of bucket-wielding, smoke-stained soldiers. The court had been adjourned. With the spectacle abandoned, the crowds had dissolved and gone in search of other terrors. From the tired looks on the faces of the firemen, it was clear this was not their first call and probably not their last. Fires were an inevitable consequence of the revolution, Josh guessed. Nobody ever thinks about who has to clear up the mess.

  The colonel took him back up to the king’s apartments.

  ‘So,’ he said, closing the door gently, ‘you seem to be able to think on your feet at least.’

  ‘It was the only way to get into the room,’ Josh said quietly.

  ‘One of the ways. It was an interesting point in time that you chose. No one has ever been brave or stupid enough to choose the moment Marie Antoinette was in the room. Generally they take a more stealthy approach, like when everyone was asleep.’

  ‘So the queen was not part of the test?’

  The colonel shrugged. ‘One never knows. It changes every time we play it. It all depends on where the student decides to drop into the timeline.’

  ‘What did you say to her? What is the key for?’

  The colonel took it out of his pocket and handed it to Josh.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Josh held the small iron key in the palm of his hand and felt the familiar sensation as its path unwound from it. He saw images of a secret room full of plans and letters, then he moved back along its history until he saw a wooden chest full of gold.

  ‘That, literally, is the key to the lost treasure of the Bourbons,’ the colonel said, tapping on the wooden panel that hid the room.

  Josh smiled. Finally, he thought, this was the kind of history he could relate to.

  ‘The room is the Armoire de Fer, the secret antechamber of the king. A locksmith by the name of François Gamain discovered the room in 11.792. The diamond necklace and other financial correspondence would eventually discredit the royal family and end the right of kings forever in France.’

  ‘And the treasure? The diamond necklace?’

  ‘That had always been a mystery, until now. We’ve never been able to trace it: in every scenario we tried, we could never convince Marie to let us have the key.’

  Josh held the image of the gold-filled box in his mind, trying to memorise the symbols that had swum around it. They were obviously some kind of location marker, and it wouldn’t take him long to work out how to find it once he had learned what the symbols meant.

  ‘Shall we go?’ asked the colonel, taking the key back. ‘I think that’s quite enough excitement for one session.’

  ‘And the missing Michelangelo?’

  ‘A simple test, to see whether you follow orders or think for yourself . . . the Antiquarians will be interested to know of its whereabouts. It will be catalogued and stored for future rediscovery in some old monastery.’

  ‘So. Did I pass?’ Josh asked as the colonel studied something in his notebook. He looked distracted and Josh wasn’t sure he’d even heard the question.

  ‘What? Yes, of course,’ he murmured, looking at his watch.

  Then he was gone.

  Josh took one more look at the hidden panel and visualised the symbols — he would be coming back very soon.

  26

  Lenin's Plan

  ‘Where did you get this from, bro?’ asked Lenin, waving the banknotes in front of his face like a Victorian lady.

  They were sitting in Lenin’s kitchen, one of the only parts of Lenin’s flat that wasn’t full of cartons of PlayStations and flat-screen TVs. The rest of his crew had unboxed one of each and set it up in what was left of the front room. They were playing Grand Theft Auto V.

  ‘I won it — on the dogs. Had a good tip from Eddie.’

  ‘No shit! Bastard never gives me anything.’

  ‘You have to catch him in a good mood,’ said Josh, relaxing a little. He knew Lenin wouldn’t believe any story about him actually working for it, and he didn’t want Lenin to know about the colonel, or what he was really up to.

  The old man had paid Josh £2,000 this time. He’d given half to Lenin and kept the rest back for himself as a deposit on a flat.

  The colonel had told Josh that he had done well and hinted that there was more work to come. Josh knew he mustn’t screw this chance up. Nothing in the Job Centre was going to come within a million miles of this opportunity. He smiled as he thought of how the job description would look on the board: ‘Time-traveller’s apprentice required — must be able to . . .’

  ‘So why you all happy now?’ enquired Lenin, catching Josh’s smirk. ‘We ain’t square. You ain’t out the woods yet, dude.’

  There was a shout from the crew on the PlayStation. They were shooting up another gang in the game — joking about how they were going to do it for real. Josh noticed there were Uzis lying on the table in front of them.

  ‘So, if I get you the rest of the cash tomorrow we’re even?’

  Lenin shook his head. ‘We ain’t never going to be even, are we, Crash? But this job I got for you might come close.’

  Lenin had always been there, like an older brother. He’d protected Josh long before he’d pulled him out of the car that day. He basically owned him and he never let Josh forget it.

  ‘What’s the job?’

  Lenin’s eyes gleamed as he leaned in to whisper, ‘Come and see my war room.’

  The so-called war room was basically a bedroom. A half-naked girl was asleep in the bed, her upper body was covered in tattoos.The walls were covered in maps of South Kensington and pictures of Imperial College. Lenin had drawn all over them with a black marker.

  ‘This is E
lena. She’s Ukrainian or Lithuanian or some shit, but she can cook. You know what I mean?’

  Josh did. Lenin was talking about making meth, which he’d thought was way out of Lenin’s league.

  ‘Yeah, Crystal,’ said Josh.

  ‘Exactly! Iceeee,’ sang Lenin grinning.

  He walked over to the map and pointed at an area on the university campus.

  ‘See this? It’s the chemistry department. Do you know what they got? Ephedrine. Which she tells me is all we need to make our own crystal.’

  ‘So we’re going to walk in there and just take it?’

  ‘Damn straight. I need at least thirty litres to get started.’ He picked up the discarded crack pipe. ‘This shit is worth at least 20K.’

  ‘What about the Feds?’

  Lenin shrugged. ‘Who gives a shit. It’s about time we looked after our own.’

  Lenin used to be smarter than this, Josh thought. The drugs were definitely making him a little crazy. The Turkish ‘Fedaykin’ or ‘Feds,’ had been running the Class A’s for as long as he could remember and they were going to be pretty pissed off about Lenin moving in on their action. He was going to start a turf war with guys who would sell their own mother for a couple of grams of cocaine.

  ‘So how big is thirty kilos?’ asked Josh, thinking about the Renault Clio he had stolen.

  ‘Like an oil drum,’ Elena answered in a husky, East European accent as she pushed herself up into a sitting position and lit a cigarette.

  Josh was not accustomed to seeing naked women. He tried very hard to stare at her face.