TIMEWALK (Part 1 of 5)

 

TIMEWALK ~ Part 1

By Richard Banks     

                                                                                                                  

Time travel is not for the faint-hearted. There's no end of scrapes you can get into and the repercussions can be enormous. Just think of the consequences, heaven forbid if you were responsible for the death of a single Viking or Anglo-Saxon. Okay, you might get lucky and nothing much happens but supposing your actions prevent the birth of just one child. One child who might have gone on to have children and grandchildren. I've not done the maths but by the time we get to the here and now we’re talking big numbers. And these are people who should be living now, except that they aren't because you ended the life of their dark-age ancestor.

         Then there's the future. That's another kettle of fish. Does it exist? I mean, can we go forward into a future that hasn't happened yet. There's a lot to find out and more than a few risks along the way, but to President Hurst and his cronies, even the smallest risk isn't worth taking. That's why there's an embargo on forward trips and a root and branch review of the Time Back project.

        The rumour currently doing the rounds is that Time Back is to close, with the loss of two hundred jobs, including my own. If this happens it will be spun as a necessary deployment of resources to the present day. The real reason will more likely be the unreported disappearance of two research workers into the seventeenth century. One month later there has been no impact on history or the present time. It's 2105, and it’s the same old world. Nothing's happened, nothing is going to happen. We're safe. Why doesn't Hurst understand that, that we need to go back in time just like we need to go forward? If we have neither then we have only the present and that's one big mess we can do without.

         Yes, I know I'm angry. I'm not the only one. When you're living five to a room in one of the world's most crowded cities how can you not be angry? Where do you go when you need peace and quiet? There used to be such places in London: parks, open spaces where you could throw out your arms and touch only the air around you, a circle of nothingness unfilled by another human being. What remains of these places are in the outer zone, where those with the necessary papers are permitted to go on the airbus. There are, we are told, large forests in the Welshland. Virtual tours of these can be viewed on what is left of the Web in public information rooms, but no-one believes they still exist.

         It's time I was getting back. Greta will be cooking dinner in steaming saucepans that make the walls and window glisten with condensation. It is the time of day I like best. A time to drink vodka and chill – maybe life isn't that bad.

         I return on pedestrian highway 22, in the fast lane, with the serious runners returning home from the financial sector. Many of them would like to race but since the Oxford Street disaster, this is forbidden and punishable by a loss of privileges. The traffic police, in their hover drones, pass slowly over us, issuing the usual warnings. Above them, the transits of senior officials make more rapid progress. This evening they are out in unusual numbers, fuelling rumours that important talks are taking place in the Executive Council. What these are about we may never be told. Those who care, who think there is some point in knowing, turn on their TV screens at 19.30 for the news but nothing worth the hearing is ever broadcast at this time. The important stuff is transmitted on ‘Street Talk’ through an ever-increasing network of on-street loudspeakers.

         I am in good form today, keeping up with those around me for over five miles. As we approach Patriots Way I ease back into the middle lane and immediately decelerate to avoid clipping the heels of the young woman in front of me. She is dressed in the rough weave overalls of a grade three factory worker. The green highlight in her hair sends out the message that she is different. A little difference is tolerated, but not encouraged. In an age when conformity is considered necessary for the maintenance of public order a small spark of rebellion remains in us all.  I carry mine in my head, no doubt she does too, but our thoughts are best kept to ourselves, the loudspeakers also listen.

         The walkers stop at a traffic light and I move over into the inside lane. I rejoin the pavement on the opposite corner and walk the remaining fifty metres to the high rise where I live. The air is cold and already the heat I have generated by my exertions is beginning to dissipate. I look forward to the warmth and aromas of Greta's cooking. If only she was alone, but as I push open the door I know the others will be there too.

         Egor sits in front of the window, reading the sports page of the People's Gazette. By doing so he deprives our single room of much of its light. He is a large, bad-tempered lout, addicted to alcohol and unlicensed stimulants. Despite his unpredictable mood swings he somehow manages to hold down a job in highway maintenance. He speaks little, mainly to claim what he refers to as his rights: the largest share of the food ration, an extra blanket, a larger sleeping space. These things, he says, he must have on account of his greater bulk. Why should a woman or an undersized runt – he refers to myself – have as much as him? As he can easily take what he wants we reluctantly concede to his demands. If he takes too much we will have to find some way of disposing of him. Many people fall to their deaths through open windows, but whether the rest of us have the collective strength to make this happen is uncertain. For the moment we scrape by as best we can.

         At least we have the mitigating influence of Mia, a nervous young woman who gives him her vodka measure in exchange for his protection from those who would part her from the little she has. Were she physically attractive his price would be higher, but her skin is covered in purple splotches. She has no memory of her parents but thinks it likely they were killed in the chemical wars of the 80s. She is one of nearly four million survivors now living in London.

         I fill my glass with vodka and sit down beside Eli who is reading the official newsletter. I say what splendid news it is that the Government has again reduced unemployment and homelessness. The newsletter makes the claim that homelessness will be eliminated within five years. This is rubbish but I pretend to believe it. In all probability, Eli is a government spy who denounces all those with dissident opinions. His presence, however, is an opportunity as well as a danger. If my positive opinions are mentioned in his regular, and no doubt detailed reports, this can only be to my advantage. My recent posting to the Timewalk Unit may well be a consequence of what he has written. To ensure that I am heard by others who also listen I voice my support for the Government to anyone within range of a loudspeaker. Today, while in Concord Square, I loudly rebuked a woman for complaining about the clothing ration.

         “The reductions are necessary,” I say. “Why should you have two coats when others have none?”

         I relate this story to Eli, who nods his head approvingly. He asks if I took her name and number. I say, “No. Was not a reprimand sufficient?” He again nods his head, but his face is thoughtful, as though he is weighing my every word. I change tack. “Thank goodness, we have Greta; she is worth a hundred of those complaining bitches.”

         And indeed she is. As our designated 'house mother' her main task is to manage the food allowance for five people and prepare meals that adequately feed us. While others go hungry we feast. How she does it is a mystery that sometimes seems like a miracle.

         “So what hotchpotch have you got for us today?” I call out, with the exaggerated good humour of a man playing to the gallery. “Surely it cannot taste as good as it smells.” She laughs. She often laughs. Of all the people I know, she is the happiest, the most fulfilled. Immersed in the magic of her cooking, the grim imperfections of the world are an unimportant irrelevance.

         Greta says we are too quiet and that if we want to eat we must sing her a song. The troubles of the day are fading, we are warm and a little foolish from the vodka. We sing the old song about Waterloo. Someone says it is about a battle but it has a lively tune and by the time Greta fills our plates we are as happy and content with life as we will ever be. When we have finished we look at Greta like ever-hopeful children. “There is nothing else,” she says. She appears surprised that we have asked, but we can smell jam cooking. Inside the oven there are raspberry tarts. There is one for each of us and although Egor snatches the largest those left are enough to fill our stomachs.

         Mia and I take the dishes down to the utility room and load them into one of the washers that roar into life at 21.00 hours. On our return we find Egor and Greta arguing about the TV. This evening only two of the permitted channels are still broadcasting. We have the choice of a new soap or a drama purporting to be the life story of the martyr Spelthorpe. When Eli tries to mediate by suggesting a house vote be taken Egor loses his temper and resolves the issue by knocking Eli to the floor. This is another opportunity for me to ingratiate myself with Eli.

         I help him to his feet and when he goes to the washroom to staunch the blood flowing from his nose I follow on with a clean cloth. If Eli is a spy he has the power to make Egor disappear –  this is an opportunity not to be missed. I find him spitting blood and venom into a washbasin.

         “Are you okay comrade friend?” For the first time, I use the form of address for a party member. He looks surprised but makes no response. “It is a disgrace,” I say, “the oaf should be punished. We must make a complaint.”

         Eli dismisses the idea with a contemptuous snort. His supercilious expression returns. “Be careful who you complain about applicant member. They may have friends, big fish that will snap up a minnow like you. Not everything is what it seems.”

         We return to the flat and everyone lays out their bedding on the floor, in preparation for lights out. The atmosphere is tense and no one is sorry when our room is plunged into darkness. The night that follows is punctuated by Egor's snores and the sirens of emergency vehicles. These are distractions I have long become accustomed to. My conversation with Eli however is new and unexpected. I lay awake trying to make sense of it. His warning raises more questions than answers. Why should anyone lodging a complaint about Egor be at risk? The man is an unskilled labourer, a drunken idiot; why should anyone care about him? Yet apparently someone does. Clearly, Eli knows more than he is telling, but the fact that he is telling me anything shows that my months of toadying up to him are paying off. Friend, I called him. Let's hope so, a friend like him can only be to my advantage. 

         In the morning I awake to find that Eli has already departed for his work. When I set-off for mine I discover the free lunch ticket he has left in my jacket pocket.

 

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks