by Geoff Wolak
Helen accepted his hand, and they headed out, towards the river.
At 3am, a knock came on their bedroom door, a loud knock. ‘Sir!’
Jimmy jumped out of bed and put on his trousers. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Mickey, boss. There’s a problem.’
Helen was now sat-up in bed.
Jimmy opened the door. ‘What problem?’
‘Boss, there’s … another you in the coal bunker, asking to see you alone.’
Jimmy stared back. ‘That makes sense.’
‘It does?’ Mickey puzzled.
‘Give me a minute.’ Jimmy closed the door and got dressed, all the while being keenly observed by Helen. ‘There’s another me downstairs, and … I guess he has a message.’ When ready, Jimmy stopped and stared back at Helen. ‘Stay here, I won’t be long.’
Jimmy was led downstairs by the bodyguard from 2048, Mickey, a second and third man joining them. ‘Did the alarm go off?’
‘No,’ Mickey replied. ‘Another version of me came up the steps and freaked me out.’
‘When I see your face at 3am, I’m freaked out,’ Jimmy quipped as they progressed to the ground level.
They stepped along a tiled corridor and to an ornate and dated wooden door, soon descending to the coal bunker, a large room that housed a boiler on one side - a dated coal-fired boiler, coal stalls on the other side. Turning the corner at the bottom of the steps, the walls black and covered in soot, Jimmy could now see a bright portal, his other self stood in front of it with another Mickey, and a duplicate of Rob the guard. He approached his other self, and waited.
The other Jimmy stepped to one side, revealing a rucksack on the floor. ‘You need to go, and delaying will make it worse.’
‘Go?’
‘1982 on that world.’
‘The … Piscean world?’
‘No, just … some world where you’ll be safe, and where you can … do what you do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve lived the past seventy years through several wars with the Seethans, and … I’m going to fix it.’
Jimmy stared hard at his other self. ‘Wars?’
The other Jimmy appeared sadden, and nodded. ‘Millions killed, and … a world undone. The Seethans, they … lost control of their portal technology, and civilians used them.’
‘Like the Jesus fella,’ Jimmy said with a nod.
The doppelganger squinted momentarily. ‘Yes … like him.’
‘So … my trip to their world…’
‘Would have been partly successful, but … on reflection, there is a better way, and I know what it is now.’
‘And … creating a paradox through the linked worlds?’
‘I’ll replace you, make some subtle changes to the interaction with the Seethans, and little more. There are a few key events that need altering.’
‘Why not kill me?’ Jimmy posed.
‘I considered that, but … sending you to 1982 seemed … fairer. You can live, grow old and die, or you can fix that world.’
Jimmy pointed at the two guards. ‘And the guards?’
‘These two volunteered to go with you, fresh injections.’
Jimmy faced the other Mickey. ‘You never were too bright.’
‘We’ll fix that world, boss, and have a ball in the meantime.’
‘Seventy years of hard work, guys,’ Jimmy warned the two guards. He turned his head, and lifted his gaze in the direction of Helen.
‘I’ll take good care of her, you know that. Besides, I … watched her killed. And Christopher.’
Jimmy slowly nodded to himself. He heaved a sigh, shook hands with his other self, nodded at the two guards, and jumped through the portal, landing in the coal bunker of Astor Mansions, 1982. When the light behind him disappeared, he turned to find the two doppelganger guards. He moved quickly, a punch to the throat of Mickey, and elbow into Rob’s face when Rob reacted. Grabbing Rob’s head, Jimmy broke the guard’s neck with a loud crack. Stepping to Mickey, he knelt, grabbed the man’s head as he struggled to gasp air, and broke his neck.
‘Next time, boys, get your cover story straight.’ He stood. ‘Fucking amateurs. Christopher is known to be alive at a much later date. And you two, you don’t agree on anything, let alone seventy years together in close proximity. There is no way in hell you two could be dragged on a one-way job like this.’
He had grabbed the backpack, and now rifled through it in the dim light from an old bulb. ‘Hope this is not 1892,’ Jimmy said with a sigh as he examined the contents. He found clothes, passports, and plenty of money circa Britain of the 1980s. He even found stock market charts.
‘Hello, old friend,’ he said towards a chart of the FTSE, 1983-1987.
He took a good twenty minutes to search each guard, placing everything they had on them in the furnace, but after examining each item at length. None of the items appeared out of place, but two pens appeared to be electrical devices of some sort. He kept their money - correct notes for the time period, and then finally stood over the bodies. Lifting a blackened shovel, he caved-in their faces. Dragging each man towards the furnace, he placed their hands inside so that fingerprints would be destroyed. Finally, he dug out hot coals and placed them on the bodies’ clothing, the clothes starting to burn. Backpack on, he headed up the steps, wondering what would greet him.
In the main hall, he found it cold, dark and empty, deathly quiet, red ropes through brass poles sectioning off various areas. The mansion was a museum. He stepped towards the main door.
‘Excuse me!’ came a disgruntled voice.
Jimmy turned, to find an elderly caretaker closing in on him, and looking most put out. ‘Reginald.’
‘Do … I know you?’
‘No, but I know you – real well, and if you don’t do what I ask I’ll let everyone know your family secret, the Nazi background, and those they sold out.’
‘Dear god, how … how … who are you?’
‘Just a traveller through time. Oh, there are two dead bodies in the coal bunker.’
‘Dead bodies!’
Jimmy opened the rucksack, and handed the man the equivalent of a few year’s wages. ‘Burn the bodies, get rid of the ashes. Or I will be back. And should the police have my description, those very same police will know about the money your family benefited from during the war.’
With a cruel yet satisfying grin, Jimmy stepped out, a glance up at the grey sky. He walked to the village, hopped on a dated train, and sat staring out of the window as the train rattled slowly south towards London. A spotty young man with spiky hair sat diagonal to Jimmy, a scratchy sound being emitted from a Sony Walkman. Picking up a discarded newspaper, Jimmy checked the date and started to read. ‘Thatcher is Prime Minister. So far, so good.’
In London, Jimmy booked into a modest hotel, dumped his kit and headed out at 7pm. Through the rain he found his old apartment, but a different doorman now worked there. Stood in the street, he peered up at the apartment, a huge emptiness in his chest, the light rain helping to cover the tears on his face. Turning away, he decided to leave London, and headed for the south coast holiday resort of Bournemouth the next day.
After a few days in The Royal Hotel, Bournemouth, Jimmy found an apartment for rent, a penthouse with a sea view next to a park, and settled in. Clothes were bought, household items, a beach deckchair stolen at night. Jimmy placed it on his balcony, and sat for hours each day, taking in the view as he sat thinking.
‘Why didn’t they kill me?’ he asked of himself one day. ‘Maybe … the guards would have killed me on this world. But, how would they get home? Is there a portal here, awaiting a signal? Or were the guards lied to; sacrificial lambs? And where did they get my DNA, and that of the guards? Maybe they captured us, and … brainwashed us somehow.
‘So why the fake IDs and money, and correct fake IDs and money? Maybe … in case I checked them before I left. Yes, they needed a good cover story, a very good cover story.
�
��But maybe there’s more. Maybe … their own people didn’t want me killed. They wanted … a retirement plan. That suggests that they know me, or have had contact in the past. Fine, that makes sense, they would need that knowledge for a good doppelganger. But sending me here was a mistake; I could send a signal and open a portal. Again, the guards may have killed me, or stopped me.’
A week later he opened a bank account, closely followed by four other bank accounts and three building society accounts. In each he deposited cash, soon opening an account with a stockbroker – where he transferred money by cheque, so as not to attract attention. He explained that he was already familiar with stocks and options, and they allowed him an options account after he signed a letter to state that he understood the risks. The next day he placed his first trade, and doubled his money.
After a day-trip up to London, Jimmy opened accounts with four brokers who dealt in options, and settled in to some serious trading. Each day, weather permitting, he would sit and read the papers on the balcony, re-learning history – just in case. Here, on this world, Reagan had been shot dead by a disgruntled movie fan, and so would never become president, and George Bush Sr. had no son called George Jr. Pundits believed that Jeb Bush was being groomed for high office. India’s Maoist Rebels were going strong and attracting US military attention. That story caused some serious research by Jimmy, since US soldiers were in India, something never having been seen before – a significant aberration.
A month later, Jimmy stared across a Bournemouth bar at a face, and then smiled. Paul Baines, Big Paul, was with a group of SBS instructors, chatting up the girl Jimmy knew that Paul would make pregnant. It was a cosmic coincidence worthy of a Jimmy.
A few weeks later, Big Paul quit the SAS - a year early, and accepted a large wad of cash from a time traveller. On a trip to London they checked in on the young Paul Holton, only to find that he had made a girl pregnant at sixteen, his first real girlfriend, and was now working at the factory of girl’s father - to make money to pay the child support. Jimmy left him where he was, and to a quiet life.
Jimmy strolled along the promenade of Bournemouth on many occasions, memories surfacing of childhood holidays, and here he felt relaxed. Not happy, not even content, yet a little more relaxed than during his trips to London. The waves gently lapped the shore in their thousands as Jimmy stood staring at them, hour after hour, day after day.
Dr Singh looked up, now sat eating at a restaurant in Cape Town, the establishment offering its patrons a view of Table Mountain. A big man eased down opposite, two other men holding back. ‘Can I … help you?’ Singh asked.
‘How’s the research going?’
‘Research?’
‘Into parallel universes.’
‘How on Earth…?’
Jimmy laughed. ‘That’s good.’
‘What is?’
‘How on earth. Since I’m not from around here.’
‘Are you … British or Canadian, I can’t quite tell.’
‘I’m a three hundred year old time traveller,’ Jimmy flatly stated, picking up the menu to glance at it. ‘And yes, British originally, but not from this planet.’
‘This … planet?’
‘Your theories about parallel dimensions are correct. And me, I’m from an alternate dimension, a carbon copy.’
‘By God…’ Singh gasped.
‘And what you also theorised about … is that jumping across from one dimension to another would allow a jump … through time.’
‘By God. But why … why are you here?’
‘I need your help with something, and you, young man, are the only person on this planet who can help. You see, we’re going to build a transmitter and contact my old world, because … I’m kinda stuck here on your world. And before you ask, no I don’t have a way to open a portal … since I was tricked into coming here by an alien race.’
‘Alien?’
‘Well, not actually alien, they’re humans bred with fish DNA to be resistant to a nasty plague that humans created … and then used to wipe out everyone on a certain planet. And on this planet, World War Three kicks off in a few years. Unless…’
‘Unless … you warn them.’
Jimmy eased forwards. ‘Would they listen, or lock me up, or try and use knowledge of the future for the gain of … who, the CIA?’
Singh slowly nodded to himself. ‘Whoever has knowledge of the future … could do more harm than good.’
‘You said that before, and I first met you on a post-apocalyptic world, in Canada. The Americans built a time machine after World War Three had killed most of the people, but they failed to make it work. You, on the other hand, figured you’d jump across to another dimension, then back again at a different date.’
‘I … I only had that idea a week ago!’ Singh let out in a strained whisper, running his hands through his black hair.
‘Oh, and when I rescued you, you married Meena and had six daughters.’
‘Six … daughters!’ Singh repeated, looking more surprised than the revelation of time travel. ‘Six?’
‘Meena only produces twins.’ Jimmy shrugged a shoulder. ‘Sorry. Anyway, we have a device to build, and I have a lab set-up ready for you, as well as a large budget.’
‘Did you say … you were three hundred years old?’
‘Drugs of the future, they extend life greatly.’
‘Wow.’
‘Finish your lunch before it gets cold.’
A year later, Jimmy stood with Singh and four bodyguards - including Paul Baines, in a field in Manson.
Jimmy faced the guards. ‘If this works I’ll be gone, but I can’t take you with me. I will, however, try and send help back here before World War Three kicks off. You have the money, plenty of money, so look after Singh, and stay away from those countries and cities that might be hit in a nuclear war. You know where the farm is down the road, so keep the stockpiled goods topped-up.’
Jimmy switched on a large and clumsy-looking device, and placed it on the ground. Turning, he shook hands with each of the guards, patting shoulders and exchanging saddened looks.
An hour later, whilst munching on a sandwich, a crackle preceded a portal opening. Jimmy waved at the guards, at Singh, then ran and jumped through the portal.
‘Close the portal!’ he barked.
‘Mister Silo, sir,’ the senior technician puzzled. ‘Where … where did you come from?’
‘What planet is this?’
‘It’s … 1938-world, sir. You … are here, I … just saw you on the news.’
‘Good, so the signal worked,’ Jimmy softly stated. ‘What year is this? And … what’s the latest you know about the Pisceans?’
‘The … who?’
‘OK, what’s the latest news from Britain?’
‘Prime Minister Heseltine has just stepped down.’
‘Perfect. OK, listen up, and listen well. None of you must ever mention me being here, it will cause a paradox and kill everyone. There’s another me out there, an impostor, and I need to stop him when he takes my place in a few months. You are all now sworn to secrecy, or I will be kicking some arse. Wipe the computer records, wipe the video footage, and then … then, clever people, we’re going to figure out how to get me to Britain without being seen.’
‘Without … being seen, sir?’
‘Yes, so I’m thinking about … animal transfer shipments. I could travel in a horse box by plane. And some of you, you’ll need to be James Bond for a while, since no one outside that door can ever know.’
A Kenyan stepped forwards. ‘I was raised in Ebede, sir, and Shanghai, before being posted here. I am your man.’
‘Good.’
‘And I have an idea. I can get hold of a new drug that actors use.’
‘Actors..?’
‘It will make your skin very dark for a week or two, sir.’
‘How … dark?’ Jimmy nudged, adopting a curious expression.
‘Like me, dark,’ came back with a to
othy grin.
‘And … to reverse the effects?’
‘Three weeks without the drug. Hopefully.’
‘Hopefully?’ Jimmy repeated. ‘What does hopefully mean?’
Return to the Moon
Meanwhile, in the future, Baldy had returned home to his world, where it was now 2049, and had sat down with the leaders of America, Russia, China and Africa.
‘Bloody hell,’ was heard a great deal after Baldy had described the problem to them. ‘A base on the Moon!’
‘Africa will take the lead,’ the African President suggested.
‘China … has a larger space station,’ the Chinese Premier pointed out. ‘We … should launch the mission.’
‘Russia has the rockets to reach the Moon,’ the Russians insisted.
‘We have the low-orbital craft and the new theoretical Ion engines,’ the Americans insisted.
‘Guys,’ Baldy cut in with, hiding his grin. ‘I know the plan, I’ve been briefed – not you – so I’ll allocate contracts and projects, and we’ll all go to the Moon. And, as soon as practical, well start selling return tickets!’
‘It will raise much money,’ the Chinese agreed.
The US President then made a public speech, the others stood behind. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen … of this Earth, we have received a message from a certain time-travelling troublemaker, and he has requested us – and just us – help him with a problem in another place, and at another time. So we’re going to the Moon, and we’ll build a base there. Contracts will be awarded very soon, projects allocated. If there are any smart young people out there who wish to join the volunteers - who will soon be working on the project - you know where to go to sign up.’
Within a day, the leaders of other worlds were making delicate enquiries, some less delicate than others. ‘You’re not going to the fucking Moon without us, so there.’
Baldy made a statement, a kind of subtle read-between-the-lines statement, that only he knew the detail. Fine, they started sending scientists to Baldy’s world of 2049, offering to use the larger portals to send through pre-fabricated sections of rockets, and components of orbital craft. Help was on its way, whether Baldy liked it or not.
