TIMEWALK
(part two)
by Richard Banks
I return to the flat that evening to
find that our room has an additional occupant. It is a baby, an unnamed
illegal, who arrived in the arms of a nurse from the central hospital. We are
to look after it, or rather him until his fate is decided. Greta wants to call
him Kurt after her father and when no one suggests an alternative name she
trickles water down his face and declares him baptised. Eli looks displeased.
Since the Second Reformation, the observance of religious sacraments has been
strictly forbidden. Eli's duty is to report Greta's crime to the Public
Compliance Unit but if he does the flat will likely lose its cook. For now, he
says nothing. No doubt he will choose a less crowded moment to whisper a
warning. “Where there are ears, tongues must be careful,” he will say. “No
religion, no politics; leave these things to the Party; all wisdom is with the
Party.”
We eat our dinner and as usual clear
our plates, but the good humour of the previous evening has been replaced by a
mood of foreboding. Twenty four hours have done nothing to ease the tension
between Egor and Eli. Another clash between them is likely to prove more
bruising than the first. To make matters worse the child starts crying and will
not stop. It is hungry, but we have no milk to give it. Eli volunteers to go
out and get some. He has a voucher to which Greta adds one of her own. He
motions me to follow him. “Adam, you and me together, yes? Safer if we both
go.”
No sooner are we out of the building
than Eli's conversation turns to Egor. “Would not the world be a better place
without people like him?” he says. I nod my head but fear what is to come. His
voice is cold, matter of fact. “So how do we make this happen? What are the
options? Shall we lead him down a dark alley and cut his throat? Is that a good
idea, applicant member?”
I say, no. I wonder who else might be
listening, but the nearest loudspeaker is on the next corner, some thirty
metres away. Is Eli serious about killing Egor or is he up to something else?
Could it be a test of my loyalty, my commitment to him and the Party? At worse
it could be entrapment.
“Why no, comrade?” Eli lights a cigarette
and almost lets it fall from his lips. He is nervous, ill at ease. If I am at
risk, so is he. Can I trust him? I think I can.
I tell him what he already knows; that
the homicide of anyone even remotely connected to the party will be investigated
and that forensic evidence will almost certainly identify the person or persons
responsible. “Is Egor connected?”
“There are those who watch over him.”
“Big fish with sharp teeth?”
He makes no answer. We walk on until
we are safely past the loudspeaker. He continues talking. “But supposing Egor
was never born, consider that; no Egor, no crime, no investigation. What say
you to that, applicant member?”
“So this is about Timewalk?”
“It is the means to an end. All that is
needed is a minor reworking of history. Two people who once met, don't, an
insignificant change in their lives that not even they will be aware of.”
“And you want me to make this happen?”
“Why not? You hate Egor as much as I
do. Why should he live?”
“So what do I do?”
Eli waits until we are out of earshot
of a rough sleeper. “Patience comrade, I have a love story to tell you. On 25
July 2060, Josef Herschel, father of Egor, came to London on a road bus. In
those days inter-sector travel required no special permissions and London was a
popular destination for visitors. But for Josef, it was just another stage in a
much longer journey. On reaching the coach terminus his intention was to catch
another coach to the city then known as Plymouth. His plans, however, were
disrupted by the late running of the first coach, which arrived two minutes
after the departure of the Plymouth coach. The next service was not for three
hours and Josef spent most of that time in a café, where he met and was much
attracted to a waitress. Josef never did catch that coach. Within a month he
and the waitress were married; Egor was their only child.”
“So, I am to prevent their meeting by
making sure that Josef catches that coach.”
“Full marks, comrade. When you report
for work tomorrow you will be sent back to that July day with its unfortunate
consequences for ourselves. Here is a map of the coach station. The coach to Plymouth departs from bay K. Delay
it for two minutes until Josef is on board. This is him, comrade. It was taken
only one year after the events I have described.”
He thrusts the photograph and map into
the hip pocket of my jacket. There are questions I should be asking, but almost
certainly there will be no answers. I have been told what I need to know.
Complete the mission and this can only go well for me. With Eli's help who
knows what I might achieve.
We purchase the milk and return to the
flat, where we find the two women arguing furiously with Egor, who wants the
now hysterical child removed down the corridor to the laundry room. Greta warms
some of the milk, to which she adds a nip of vodka. She trickles it into the
child's mouth and cradles him in her arms. To everyone's relief, he falls asleep
and is placed on a pillow inside a cardboard box. It is ten minutes to lights
out and we quickly prepare our bedding for the night ahead. Egor, who, as
usual, has drunk Mia's vodka as well as his own, falls asleep almost as soon as
he lies down. If the child wakes and starts crying again he will be the last of
us to know. For now, his snoring is the only sound keeping us from our sleep.
After tomorrow only myself and Eli will have the memory of him; the memory of
someone who was never born.
I arrive at the laboratory the next
morning to find that no missions are scheduled for that day. By 12.30 this is still the case. I take a
sustenance break at my desk, before starting a routine analysis of data. The
feeling of nervous excitement with which I started the day has given way to
puzzlement and annoyance. By 14.00 I am down to two options; one, that I have
been set up and that my arrest will shortly follow or, two, that Eli's plan is
nothing more than a dark, humourless joke at my expense.
My thoughts are interrupted by a
message on my terminal telling me to report to a Senior Technician. If there
are unknown people with him I will almost certainly be arrested, but when I
push open the door to his office he is alone. He looks displeased. Fortunately,
the object of his displeasure does not seem to be me. I am, he says, to conduct
an observational study of central London in the year 2060. He tries to give me
the impression that this is a planned mission that has been properly
researched, but his instructions as to what I am expected to observe are vague
and unsupported by any paperwork beyond a standard proforma.
I am hurried through the props room and
kitted out in a beige suit, reminiscent of one my grandfather used to wear. By
the time I reach the Transmissions Room my point of entry has been defined as
an unpeopled plot of land within the Buckingham Palace Redevelopment Zone. The
launch is delayed several minutes by an unidentified life form that is probably
a dog. When it wanders off the entry grid the mission commences.
I arrive and experience the usual
sensations of physical and mental disorientation. If these have not cleared
within twenty seconds I am to press the recall button on my wrist band, but by
ten my head is clear and although my legs are shaking they are well able to
support the weight of my body. I make off down a disused road in which weeds
have taken root. At the end of it should be a main road for motorised traffic
but the way to it is barred by a wooden hoarding on top of which is a double
curl of barbed wire. Had the mission been properly researched this obstruction
would have been identified and instructions issued as to the way past it.
Fortunately, the way soon becomes clear. A section of hoarding has become
detached from a gate post and I am able to widen the gap and squeeze through. I
join other pedestrians on a thermic pavement which, to my surprise, contains
more space than people. With every step, I am seeing and hearing things that I
have only seen in films; hydrogen cars, taxi pods, a snake tram. Above the
street, a man in an orange jet pack is descending into a designated landing
area.
I arrive at a side road to find that
the only way across is to step into the carriageway between moving traffic.
This is dangerous, bordering on madness. Some of the cars are still driver
operated. None of them are yet made from soft bounce materials. In front of me is
a woman in the dark blue uniform of the London Militia. As she crosses so do I.
There are more roads to cross. At each one I cross close on the heels of
someone who, with varying degrees of difficulty, makes it safely to the other
side. To my left, across the main road that still bears the name of the old
palace, is the metal exterior of the newly constructed rail terminus. Its
colour slowly changes from blue to green. The coach station is further along to
my right. Just three more roads to cross and I am there. I make it with ten
minutes to spare and locate bay K. Passengers for the Plymouth coach have
formed an orderly queue, which as the minute's tick by gets steadily longer.
At 15.45 the coach arrives and the
driver opens up a compartment on the side of the bus into which he loads the
luggage of those travelling. At 15.55 the coach is almost full. He checks a
list of names and declares that he is waiting for three more passengers.
Several minutes elapse and an elderly couple arrive with a suitcase which is
put with the other luggage. They ascend the steps into the coach. As the driver
locks the luggage compartment I make my intervention. I affect a foreign
accent.
In reply to my asking if this is the
Plymouth coach the driver replies that it is.
“Mr Herschel?” he asks.
“Herschel,” I say. “Yes, yes Herschel,
that is my name. You take me to Plymouth, yes?”
He assures me that he will. “Do I have
any luggage?” he asks.
I stare at him blankly.
“Luggage,” he repeats in a louder
voice. He looks at his watch and then at a uniformed official who is standing
in the gateway of the next bay. “Yes, mate, luggage: suitcase, hold-all, backpack, expandobag.” He runs out of words to describe luggage and decides I don't
have any. “Okay, let’s see your ticket. It's time we were off.”
I make a show of reaching into my
inside jacket pocket and when I find nothing in it I transfer the search to my
outer pockets, where I find a William V payment disc. This I offer to the
driver, who reiterates his demand for a ticket.
“Do you have one or not?” he asks with
mounting irritation.
I nod my head vigorously and continue
the search by reaching into my trouser pockets. I find a handkerchief, which I
draw slowly out of my pocket, like a magician about to transform it into a dove.
The driver sounds his horn to attract
the attention of the man with the clipboard, who asks the driver if he is okay.
The driver says he's not okay, that I'm holding up the coach because I don't
have a ticket.
“Nor does he have any luggage,” he
adds. The thought crosses both their minds that I am not Mr Herschel and I am
invited to get off the coach or they will call Security. This I pretend not to
understand and cling tightly to a handrail exclaiming, “Plymouth, Plymouth,
take me to Plymouth.”
The man with the clipboard speaks on
his mobile to someone called Charlie, requesting his help in, “removing a
nutter.” As he does so, a short, swarthy man arrives, running and much out of
breath. It's Herschel. The Security man also arrives and I allow him to drag me
off the bus. I look back at Herschel, who is showing his ticket to the driver.
He takes his seat, the doors shut and the coach begins its journey.
The Security man is all for taking me
to the detention room, but when I give him the payment disc and promise not to
return he lets me go with a warning. I have one hour before the trip back, time
enough to fill in the questionnaire I have been given and take audio and visual
recordings. That done, I return along the route by which I came. There is more
traffic now, but that’s good because
most of it is stationary. I find the gap in the fence and return to the point
of entry. As before there's no one to be seen, but since my arrival, a sheaf of
flowers has been placed on a tumbled over column. Five years after a violent
upheaval there is an uneasy calm.
I signal that I am ready to depart and
within seconds arrive back in the laboratory. My supervisor greets me with the
usual health checks and an expression that suggests that the mission, as far as
he is concerned, has been a waste of time. I file my report and download the
data from my pad. There is an observational analysis to complete, then I am
free to go.
Copyright Richard Banks
