Future Tense (13 page)

“I doubt that,” said a familiar female voice.

“Emma?” I exclaimed, spinning round.

Her pale face appeared from the darkness and was joined on either side by two more friendly ones from my past—Sydney Mason-Wright and his delightful teenaged daughter, Emily. They looked like one of those chiaroscuro portraits by Rembrandt. There was just enough light coming from around the door to make out their pale faces.

“Tree! Emily!” I cried, rushing to embrace all three of them at once.

I kissed Emily on the cheek, then Emma on the cheek and then shook Tree's hand. We called Sydney “Tree” because of his height—he must have been nearly seven feet tall. I looked them up and down, hardly able to believe that they had put us all together. All three were still in Georgian period costume—the girls in big taffeta evening dresses and Tree in a tasteful frock coat and fancy floral waistcoat. They must have been on their way to the Assembly Rooms when they were nabbed.

“Stephen, dear Stephen,” said Emily, still holding onto my hand. “How good it is to see you.”

“If only it were under better circumstances,” said Tree.

“Well, at least we're together,” I said, looking at Emma as I said it. She rolled her eyes away.

Emily lowered her voice. “What news of Jools?”

“Um? Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd like to ask you all one question each before we go any further,” I said.

“Is this some kind of test, Stephen?” asked Tree.

“Do you mind?” I said.

“Not at all,” shrugged Tree. “We can't be too careful, and it works both ways—”

“Does it? Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. I didn't think of that. Okay, you first then, Tree,” I said. “What were you doing when we first met?”

“Knitting,” replied Tree, without hesitation.

“Oh, for God's sake,” said Emma. “This is so Stephen Sloane.”

“Now you, Emma,” I said.

Emma folded her arms and assumed a bored posture by shifting all her weight onto one hip.

“What was the first present I ever bought you?” I said, hoping to stir some romance in her at the same time as checking that she really was Emma Gummer.

She itched the corner of her mouth. “A cheap watch,” she replied.

“No—before that—the very first thing,” I said. I rocked my head rakishly. “That day in Brighton—you know, that day.”

She thought for a moment, remembered and gave me a sick smile. “A peppermint flavoured ice cream,” she said.

I got eye contact with her and raised my eyebrows and smirked. “Remember what we did with it?”

“You said one question. It's Emily's turn.” She looked to Emily.

I turned my attention to Emily. Emily looked worried. Her smooth brow puckered.

“Emily, what are you going to call your baby?”

Her face broke into a broad smile. “Stephen!” she cried.

“Oh, puh-leeze!” said Emma.

“Okay,” I smiled. “You're all who you say you are.”

“Now you,” said Emma.

“Me?” I laughed. “Like Tree said, I must be who I say I am or I wouldn't know what to ask?”

“Are you refusing?” said Emma.

“No, no—of course not. Go on then—ask me. Ask me anything.”

“What's the capital of Hungary?”

“Um? I know this. Oh, I know it. Um? Sophia? No—Danube! No, that's the river. Um? Don't tell me, I do know this. It's on the tip of my tongue—I definitely know this.”

“He's Sloane,” said Emma.

“Slovenia!”

A guard hammered on the door. “Keep the noise down in there!”

“Let's go over there where we can talk,” said Tree.

Emily led me by the hand into the darker depths of the cellar, I could just make out some battered looking chairs and a ragged old sofa as my eyes adapted to the murk. There were two trays on the floor with the remains of a meal on each. Emma sat on a chair, Emily and I sat down on the sofa together, still holding hands. Tree leant against the wall and scraped at the mortar with something.

“Our only escape plan,” he explained in a whisper, showing me a fork.

“How thick's the wall?” I said.

“Not as thick as you,” said Emma.

“I don't know,” replied Tree. “But if we can remove one brick, it should make it easier to pull the rest out.”

“Go for it,” I said. “The way I see it, we've only got one chance—we have to find out where the Duck's furniture is stored. It's in Bristol somewhere.”

“Don't we have enough furniture?” said Emma.

“I think there's something hidden in the Duck's furniture that may be of great use to us. And if I'm right— ”

“—But why has Jools put his furniture into storage?” interrupted Emily.

“It's a long story, Emily. Temporal Criminal Pursuit paid us a visit. The Duck knew they were coming and cleared the house. They've got a new policy now—if you're out when they call, they blow up your house.”

“But that's so mean,” said Emily.

“Yes, but with a good lawyer, I think they could sue the Duck for destroying their bomb with his house.”

“Are you saying they've blown up Duckworth Hall?” said Tree.

“Not the old Duckworth Hall—but maybe the one in the third millennium,” I said.

“Oh, Papa!” cried Emily.

“But I don't see how that can have any relevance to our present situation—this is 1803,” said Tree.

“No,” I said. “We've been moved forward. There's a time portal up in the hall, didn't you see it?”

“We were blindfolded,” said Emma.

“Well, this is definitely the late nineteenth century or early third millennium,” I said, “because I saw a newspaper outside and it mentioned Frankie Dettori.”

“Who's Frankie Dettori?” said Tree, who was from the 1960s, originally.

“A jockey,” said Emma.

“Not just any jockey,” I said. “He once rode seven winners in seven consecutive races at the same meeting, on the same afternoon.”

“Really?” said Tree. “Did you back him?”

“Well, no, but I was watching it live on TV—it was amazing—hey, that's a point! I could put some money on those horses—”

“—Will you get to the point,” said Emma.

“The point is,” I said, lowering my voice, “I believe Jemmons's time machine is hidden in that furniture, and without it we'll never get away from these people.”

“Where's Julian?” asked Tree.

“Isn't he coming to save us?” said Emily.

“I don't know—I wouldn't bank on it, Emily, I think his Superman suit's at the dry cleaners—he's gone with De Quipp.”

“With Travis?” said Emma, suddenly coming to life. “You must have that wrong.”

I decided to give them the heroic version, neither would have thanked me for the real version. “They've gone to rescue Jemmons. Apparently, he's being held in a Corrective Measures prison,” I said.

“Who's Jemmons?” said Emma.

“A fellow traveller and a friend,” said Tree. “Where have they taken him?”

“You don't want to know,” I said.

“The Castle?” said Tree.

“I think so.”

“Oh my God!” Tree stopped digging and bit his knuckle. Emily left my side and rushed to comfort him.

“Papa, oh, dear Papa—come and sit down,” she said, leading her father back to the sofa.

“Here, give me the fork,” I said. Emily took it out of his hand and passed it to me. I got up and went to continue scraping away at the mortar.

Emma came and leaned against the wall next to me, to talk to me quietly.

“What's up with him?” she said.

“He spent seven years in the Castle—it traumatized him,” I said.

“And are you telling me Travis has gone to this place?” she said.

“I don't know—I think so.” I was struggling to dig in the same place as Tree, because he was so much taller than me. It was awkward to reach and work comfortably.

“He told me he had to return to his father's estate in Fontainebleau,” she said.

“That was a porkie then, wasn't it?” I smiled. I started in another groove lower down.

“Sloane, I don't expect you to understand what Travis and I have, but I'd have more respect for you if you didn't try to rubbish it.”

“I know what you think you have,” I said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You've been slipped a love potion to make you think the sun shines out of his—”

“Stephen,” said Emily, “would you please pass me that bottle of water on the chair. Papa's mouth is dry.”

Emma picked up the bottle before I could reach it and took it over to them.

I carried on scraping.

Presently, Emma returned—this time she kept her back to the Mason-Wrights and leaned in so close to me, that she was practically biting my ear off. I thought she was going to.

“You just can't accept it, can you?” she hissed. “Get used to it, Stephen—it's over. Travis and I are going to be married.”

“Dream on,” I said.

She jabbed me in the rib with her fingers. “You sad, pathetic loser!”

I turned to face her. Our lips were so close that we were sharing the same breath. “You've been drugged,” I said. “And pretty soon it's going to wear off. Travis De Quipp is not French, he has not gone to seek his aristocratic old mother's permission to marry you—or whatever line he fed you—and he is not in love with you—but, what's more—you are not in love with him! So get used to that!”

She just glared at me—speechless for once.

I went back to my scraping. “I'm just sorry I had to be the one to tell you,” I said.

“Lies,” she said. “All lies.”

I wiped my brow and ignored her, busying myself with the task in hand.

We worked the mortar in shifts, all night long. And eventually our hard work and patience was rewarded and Tree managed to dislodge the first brick. But, to our big disappointment, we discovered there was a small gap and then a second wall. But Tree was right, of course, the other bricks came away much more easily once we'd got the first one out, and soon we had a gaping hole big enough to start scratching and loosening a stone in the second wall. It took us ages to scrape round the joints. But when we eventually did, Tree and I found that if he held me up, I could simply kick it through. There was a loud rumble when it fell onto the neighbouring cellar floor, but the guards, who were quite far away and probably asleep, never came in. We were working in total darkness and so had no idea what was actually in the other cellar. We were just hoping it would lead us to a way out. I went first.

“What's in there?” whispered Emma.

My feet had hardly touched the floor. “Well, there's lots more black stuff and then there's some darker stuff—”

“Can you see a door?” said Tree.

“Not yet,” I replied, bumping into some sort of tall, wide structure. I heard a telltale chink. “Sounds like a wine cellar in here,” I whispered. I ran my hand over a few bottles and felt blindly along the shelf, for the end of the aisle. “Come through!” I called.

I heard one of the others clambering in. There was a thump and a rustle of skirts behind me. I looked round and strained to see who it was. I couldn't see a thing, but I could hear another one being helped through. I waited and listened.

“That's it,” said Emma. “Now put your feet down—I've got you.”

“This way,” I said. “Hold onto my coat tails.” I heard a few chinks and then someone bumped into me and patted my bum. “Watch it, Em,” I smiled.

Her hands moved up to my shoulders and then smoothed down my spine to find my tails. It felt quite erotic.

“Sorry, Stephen,” giggled Emily.

“Oh. It's you,” I said. “Is everybody in line?”

“I'm in,” said Tree, from the back.

“Emma?” I said.

“Let's all do the hokey-cokey,” sang Emma. “Oh, hokey-cokey-cokey!”

The girls giggled.

“Shh! Right,” I said. “If the layout's the same, the door should be to the right, just at the end of this shelving, then straight ahead, then left. No talking.”

“Yes, sir,” said Emma.

Emily giggled again.

I set off slowly. Took three paces and walked straight into a brick wall. The others piled into me and there was pandemonium in the ranks.

“Oh—sorry!” said Emily, falling into me and feeling me all over.

“The idiot—what's he stopped for?” cried Emma.

“Oops! I do apologise, Miss Emma.”

“It's a dead end,” I whispered, rubbing my knee. “Go back the other way. Turn round, Emily. Go back the other way, Tree. Emily—stop that—turn around!”

“I'm trying,” protested Emily. “Don't be so nasty to me, Stephen.”

“I'm sorry, Emily. Here, let me help you.”

“Oh, Stephen…”

“Er, sorry…”

I heard the chinking of many bottles and felt the shelving swaying. I tried to hold it steady.

“Who's rocking this wine rack?” I called.

A cork popped.

“Oi! Put that back—is that you, Emily?”

“No, I didn't do anything—it just popped out,” she said, suppressing a giggle.

“That's because someone's shaking it—we'll have the whole bloody lot exploding in a minute!”

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Emma. “It's Bollie! Taste that, Emily.”

“Taste?” I said. I reached for Emily's head and felt round her hair to her face. She was drinking from a bottle!

I tried to grab it from her lips, but it wasn't her hands holding the bottle, and it was quickly wrenched away from me. “Emma? Give me that champagne!”

“Sod off!” said Emma. “Get your own.”

I heard the rustle of her skirts as she turned away from me, out of arm's length. There wasn't enough room to get past Emily, whose enormous dress was pressed up against the sides of the aisle so tightly that she was practically wedged in. I heard some glugs and then two or three big swallows. Emily thought I was coming on to her, as I tried to reach Emma, and responded by fondling my face.