Future Tense (10 page)

He stamped on the nozzle of the other time cop's flamethrower and gave him one last kick before dashing over to give me a hand up.

“You were a big bloody help,” he said, a bit uncharitably, I thought.

“I'm injured,” I said.

“Yeah, well, there were only two. And they were no match for me.” He pressed a button on a hanging control box and lowered the car. “Get in, we haven't got much time—it won't be long before the rest suss out where we went.”

I opened the passenger door and climbed in. The Duck ran round to the driver's side and jumped in next to me.

“I like the flash dashboard,” I said.

“Flash? It's not flash—it's all functional.” He twiddled some dials and switched on the ignition. The engine roared and row upon row of pulsing lights and electronic screens came up. “And complicated. Got to know what you're doing to drive one of these. She's slowed down your alpha waves, mate.”

“It's him again,” I said, pointing out the side window.

The guy the Duck had just beaten up was back on his feet and aiming his flamethrower at us. He fired and it burst into flames.

“Backfire!” quacked the Duck. “Very nasty.”

Chapter 6

We surged forward and the room we were in seemed to wobble and become watery, then all the colours ran horizontally, just like different coloured wet paints running into one, and flowing away on either side of us, like a Damien Hirst painting. I watched it stream past the side window and turn into a muddy mess.

“That was really weird—” I started to say, turning back to the Duck. “What's that?” I said, pointing through the windscreen.

The Duck grinned. “That, mate, is the temporal vortex.”

“It looks like we're going down a big red plughole,” I said.

“We are now travelling down the Route 66 of history,” said the Duck. “We're Easy Riders, man. I'm like that one Peter Fonda played—Captain America—and you're the other one.”

“I'm the one with the cowboy hat,” I said.

“No, not him—the other one—the one who got killed first by those rednecks,” said the Duck.

“Can't I be the cowboy one?”

“No, you're like the other one—he wasn't right in the head,” said the Duck.

And then he started singing “Born To Be Wild.” I don't think he knew the proper words, but then neither do I, so I'm not sure.

“Is this the way Miss Parker went?” I said.

“No.” He carried on singing.

“Which way did she go then?”

“Don't know.” He sang on. Beating out what he thought was the backbeat on the steering wheel with his multi-ringed fingers.

“Where're we going?”

“To pick up Travis,” he said. “He can be the cowboy.”

“I don't like Travis,” I said.

“Travis is cool,” said the Duck.

“He stole my girlfriend and shot me,” I said.

“Well, yeah, but don't make a big deal out of it, man—you've got Miss Parker now and you're getting better all the time. Look on the bright side.”

“My side still hurts and Miss Parker's in prison,” I said.

“Man, you are so negative. I think that aphrodisiac's wearing off—you're sounding like your old self.”

We suddenly stopped and the same room, more or less, that we had just left a minute or two before materialized around us. One moment there was only red and black noise and then the walls and ceiling began to colour in. It looked just like some unseen artist was speed painting a perfectly detailed picture of the interior of the garage, starting and continuing in about a hundred places at once and completing the painting in a matter of seconds.

The next minute, we were out of the car and the Duck was performing the same trick with the rotating bookcase, and we were back in the library of Duckworth Hall, only it was March 1803, not March 2002. And there weren't any guys with flamethrowers charging about. The Duck patted his desk and gazed around the room.

“They'll trace all this back and destroy it on the day the builders finish building it,” he said, “but at least I saved my books, preserved what really matters, these few realms of gold, safely stored, with the barbarians hammering at the gate.”

“You never read them,” I said.

“That's not the point—they cost me an arm and a leg—worth a lot of money at third millennium prices,” he said.

“You could buy some more.”

“Buy some more, buy some more—it took me weeks to buy this lot. What would you know about the art of collecting? You—whatsit.”

“Philistine?”

“That's the word. Come on, let's get some grub and break the bad news to Travis,” he sighed.

“What bad news?”

“He's Princess Mormagleea's personal bodyguard. I told him she'd be fine with me up in the third millennium—he'll go ape when he finds out she's been arrested by the TCP.”

“He might challenge you to a duel,” I said.

“Hey, that's a point. You tell him.”

“Me?”

“Well, she's your fiancée,” said the Duck. “It'll sound better coming from you. He respects you now. He says you're the bravest man he's ever had the honour to shoot.”

“Fiancée?” I said.

“Yes, didn't I tell you? I said you'd marry her.”

He headed out the door, I followed him, and we bumped straight into Bentley, who had just been about to knock.

“Bentley!” quacked the Duck. “Why are you always creeping around?”

“I'm sorry, Sir Julian, do excuse me, but I was just coming to see if you had returned, sir.” He looked at me. “Good evening, Mr Duckworth.”

“Hello, Bentley,” I said. I tapped the Duck on the shoulder. “Hey, could we discuss what you just said?”

“No time right now, Stephen—Bentley will see to you.” He hurried off down the corridor.

“Hang on!” I said.

“Don't worry, sir, I'll see you to your room,” said the butler, taking my arm.

“Oh, no you don't,” I said. “I'm not going back up there. Where's Miss Gummer?”

“Miss Gummer, sir?”

“Don't start all that,” I said. “Listen, you just toddle off and do some butling, I'll find Miss Gummer myself. I'll be all right.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Bentley, letting go of my arm. “But you are bleeding rather, sir.”

“Bleeding? Where?” I looked down at my chest—the bandage was blotted with blood. “Oh my God!” I immediately felt faint and fell back against the doorframe.

Bentley supported me at the elbow. “I think you should let me take a look at that, sir,” he said.

* * *

I don't mind admitting, I was shocked when my gunshot wound started bleeding again. It must have happened when I was dodging flamethrowers. Bentley was great—he helped me back up to my room, had a look at it for me, and changed the dressing.

“I am not an expert in these matters, sir,” he said. “But I think sir has been rather overdoing things. Such a serious wounding requires bed-rest, lots of bed-rest, sir.”

“Are you sure you've plugged the holes, Bentley?” I checked my new bandage, to see if any more blood was blotting through. “I think I need a plumber.”

“I believe we may safely say I have fixed the pipe, sir,” he replied.

“Thanks, Bentley. How about something to eat and drink?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I'll just have a sandwich or something.”

“Haven't been invented yet, I'm afraid, sir. I can bring you some bread and cold meat, but I can't put it between the bread.”

“Thanks. I'll do that. And tell Miss Gummer I'd like to see her,” I said.

“I am afraid that will not be possible, sir.”

“Why not?”

He glided out.

“Why the hell not?” I called.

There was no answer.

* * *

There was no answer and he never returned. Nobody came. I waited. And waited. And wait—I felt like I was in that play by Samuel Beckett, with the laughs edited out. I think the love potion, or aphrodisiac, or Spanish fly, or whatever it was Nurse Parker injected me with in that private clinic, was wearing off, because I was thinking straighter. In fact, I was getting pretty damned annoyed and impatient with everybody, but since none of them were around, I took to thumping my pillow. The last thing I wanted to do was sleep. That blood loss had scared the hell out of me, but not enough to make me stay in bed. I got up slowly and painfully. There was something very odd going on. I was starting to remember things. Little anomalies. Like that thing with the dates—was it the nineteenth or the twenty-second? And if Nurse Parker was really a princess and De Quipp was her bodyguard—what country were they from—not France, that's for sure, because the Duck couldn't even remember the name of the place she was the princess of. And why were those Temporal Criminal Pursuit goons after her? She had to be a time fugitive. And then there was Travis himself, if he was supposed to be guarding Princess whatever-her-name-was's body, how come he was chasing round after Emma's? And hanging out with the Duck? Always dodgy company. And if the two of them were time travellers, why was the so-called Monsieur De Quipp masquerading as a Frenchman and playing out dangerous duels? And last, but definitely so not least, what was Julian Duckworth's part in it all? Past experience told me it would have to be a leading one—the starring role. It was time to look for some answers.

I decided to try the direct approach—I would go downstairs and confront everyone outright, since they all seemed to be in the same conspiracy. But I didn't even make the door, before I started getting stabbing pains in my chest. They doubled me up. I clutched at my bandage. To my horror, I felt something warm and sticky—my hand was plastered in blood! I staggered in reverse and fell back on the bed.

I was frantically pulling the service bell cord and shouting for help—I thought I was going to die—but still nobody came. And then I realized that by panicking I was making my heart pump faster and losing more blood, so I tried to remain calm and just lay there on my back, staring up at the ceiling. And it worked. I managed to slow up my breathing and get my heart-rate right down.

Now, two things happened. First I stopped bleeding, but also, and more improbably, the pain suddenly went away. I don't mean it eased off or dropped to a bearable level, I mean, it just stopped. Abruptly. It was odd. Odd enough to arouse my suspicion. You have to remember my brain was in full conspiracy alert mode. And have you ever noticed how easy it is to make any given set of facts or statistics fit your personal theory about something, no matter how outrageous or bizarre it all sounds? This is called market research. For example, people think of tulips because they feel guilty about not washing their cars on Sunday mornings, because tulips have waxy petals and people associate this and their scent with car wax. Therefore, stick a tulip on your tin of car wax and your sales will double. But, having said all that, I was dealing with a weird and convoluted thing—the Duck's mind—so logic didn't apply, even irrational advertising logic.

What if, I thought, the Duck was behind everything? If he were in league with Miss Parker and De Quipp, would he really have allowed De Quipp to fire a real bullet at me, his son? Yes, he would! But if he wanted me dead, all he had to do was invite me up onto the roof of Duckworth Hall and push me off. Besides, I didn't really buy that—the Duck was my father, after all is said and done, he would never let me be killed. Or why would he have bothered to make me immortal? Blood is thicker than water and all that. Therefore, I reasoned, he must have tried to control the duel, but failed when the pistols got mixed up. But what if that had been a double bluff, simply to fool me into thinking I had been shot? But why? It didn't make sense. But if my training in advertising had taught me anything it was that things did not have to make sense. If the public always acted sensibly big business would be small business. It was time for a little good old-fashioned, new and improved, authentic, just-like-mom-used-to-bake-it irrationality.

Tentatively at first, and then with feverish abandon, I unwound my blood-soaked dressings. Soon I had coils of soiled bandages all over my bed like a vampire's party streamers and I was down to the last fat gory wad, sticking to my chest. I peeled it off. And gasped.

Whatever I had, it wasn't a wound. Whatever I was looking at, it wasn't normal medical practice. It was more like malpractice. I was looking at a small plastic sachet, with a blood-matted nozzle attached to the end, connected to a plastic tube, taped to my side and running up under my armpit to my shoulder and disappearing under the adjoining bandage around my arm. I had definitely been duped. But, if I wasn't shot, what the hell was wrong with me? I started unwinding the bandage on my arm, wondering what I would find next. As the tail of the bandage slid from my arm, I gulped.

Something small, complicated, and electronic was not only taped to my arm, but actually embedded in the flesh! It looked like a mechanical leech. My instinct was to pull it off me, but I was too terrified to touch it. I could see blood inside the “back” of the thing and wiring connected to diodes, like little antennae. A hypodermic probe protruded from it, going into my artery, like a drip, but there was also a long golden filament running through it. I knew this was no ordinary drip, because drips feed plasma or drugs or saline or nice things into the body to do something good and this thing was clearly pumping blood out, as well as fulfilling some other devious function I could not yet fathom. Which is not good. Notice I never said fiendish. Alliteration was never my strong point.

I sat up and reached for my bedside candle to take a closer look. Sharp spasms of pain shot through the left side of my torso. Blood began dribbling from the nozzle in the end of the sachet. I placed the candlestick holder back on the bedside table and I lay back down. The pain stopped and the blood flow reduced to a drip. I sat up again—the pain came back and the blood spluttered out once more. I lay back down. Both stopped. I sat back up—they started again. I lay back down. They stopped. I was beginning to get it. I wrenched the thing off my arm and hurled it across the room. Alarming amounts of blood spurted from my puncture wound. I quickly wrapped the bandage back around it and pulled the knot tight with my right hand and teeth.

There was no other explanation for it, my father was repressing a subconscious desire to kill me by transferring his loathing for me into imaginary bullets and projecting them from a duelling pistol, which he had placed in the hands of the stigmata of a love rival from a joke, who was holed up in a bell tower in Westphalia, because he saw himself as a failure. I know there are a few flaws in this theory, but I'm still working on the metaphors with my analyst.

That was it for me. That moment was the end. The Duck and I were finished, as far as I was concerned. I was going to find Emma, get the book of twentieth century sporting achievements and records the Duck had promised me as a wedding present, find the Duck, make him take me to the 1920s, tell him to get lost and never have anything to do with him or time machines ever again. I couldn't begin to think what was going on or what all the lies and treachery meant. I didn't want to know—I just wanted out.