Future Tense (14 page)

“Oh, Stephen,” she said.

“Emily! Will you get off—”

“Oh, you beast,” whispered Emily, with a throaty laugh.

“Sloane, put that girl down!” laughed Emma.

“Stephen,” said Tree, sternly, “I hardly think this is the time or place—we must get these young ladies out of here.”

Emma let out a big belch. “Oops! Pardon me!”

“It's not me—tell her!” I said.

“That wasn't very gal-lant, was-it, Sloane?” hiccupped Emma. “You snitch!”

There were more giggles from Emily.

“For God's sake lead us down your way, Tree,” I said.

We started moving again—this time in the opposite direction.

“Oh, do the hokey-cokey!” sang Emma.

“Be quiet!” I whispered.

“Why don't you be quiet, Sloane!” jeered Emma. “You're doing my head in.”

“Can we all calm down, please,” said Tree.

Emily reached her hand back to me and wanted to hold mine. I took it and let her lead me.

We must have zigzagged all around that bloody wine cellar, like four blind mice, but could we find a door?

No! Eventually, I called timeout to go over the game plan.

“This isn't getting us anywhere,” I said.

“What shall we do?” said Emily.

“Oh, let's just get drunk,” said Emma.

“Trouble is we've changed direction so many times I'm disorientated,” I said.

“So what's new?” said Emma. I heard her take her umpteenth swig.

“You're drunk,” I said.

“So what—you're stupid, but I'll sober up,” said Emma.

“Don't be so nasty, Emma,” said Emily.

“Why—do you fancy him?”

“Emma!” cried Emily. “Stephen's going to be my stepson when Jools and I are wed!”

“So what?” said Emma. “Never heard of Oedipus?”

“Ignore her, Emily,” I said. “You're seventeen, I'm twenty-six, I refuse to even think of you as my mother—let alone my lover.”

“Please, let's not go into all this now, everyone,” said Emily's father.

“But I am attracted to you,” whispered Emily, in my ear.

“And I love Emma,” I whispered back.

“But she's horrible to you,” whispered Emily.

“I know—it's an adult thing,” I said.

“I am an adult,” cried Emily.

“What are you two lovebirds whispering about now?” said Emma.

“If only we could find the damn door,” I said.

“What does it feel like?” asked Emily.

“Well, it's a sort of warm, passionate feeling—you know what it feels like—you love the Duck, don't you?” I whispered.

“I meant the door,” said Emily.

“Oh—Door?”

“I can feel something sticking in my back,” said Emily.

I pulled her away from the wall and felt around, found a small doorknob and turned it.

“It's here!” I said.

“Let me see!” cried Emily.

“Oh, jolly good show!” said Emma. “Now I'll be able to see what vintage I'm boozing.”

I opened the door. The darkness was not absolute. There was faint light coming from somewhere above us. My eyes slowly adapted and dim shadowy shapes began to solidify from the gloom. I could just make out, to my left, a flight of stairs, leading up from the passageway, and something attached to the wall, directly opposite me, on my right.

“What's out there?” said Tree.

“Looks like a hotel basement,” I said. “Don't push, Emily.”

“I want to look,” squeaked Emily, squirming her head under my arm.

“And what makes you think that?” said Emma.

“Well, there's a fire extinguisher on the wall for one thing and a sign saying, TO HOTEL LAUNDRY ROOM,” I said.

“Ha-ha,” sneered Emma.

“Stay here—I'll take a look round,” I said.

“I'll come with you,” said Emily.

“No,” I said. “There'll be a night porter somewhere and the place'll be alarmed.”

“Oh, let her go,” said Emma. “They won't be expecting anyone to be breaking out.”

Emily grabbed my hand and we slipped outside.

“Let's try down here,” I said, indicating the passage to our right.

We ventured into the semi-darkness and came to a metal mesh cage, with a cold storage room and boxes of fruit and vegetables stacked inside, presumably to keep out vermin.

“I think this is the rear of the hotel,” I said, indicating the faint light ahead of us. “All these old Georgian houses have a garden—there must be a way up to it. Ah, yes, look—steps.”

I was pointing through a glass door into a small courtyard with stone steps leading off it.

“Tell the others,” I said. “I'll see if I can open the door.”

Emily squeezed my hand and doubled back.

I knelt down at the door and inspected the catch and tried to see if it was wired. It seemed easy enough to open, but I was worried about setting off a burglar alarm.

I heard the sound of light footsteps and the rustling of dresses and then the others surrounded me.

“What are we waiting for?” whispered Emma.

“It's probably alarmed,” I said.

Tree stepped forward and reached up to point at a wire leading out from the top of the doorframe. “There,” he said. “D'you see that?”

“Anyone know how these things work?” I said.

“They cut them in movies,” hiccupped Emma. “But you've got to pick the right one—like blokes, eh, Emily?”

“Just snap it, Tree,” I said.

“No,” he said. “That would only break the connection. There are two wires, they touch when the door is closed, but when the door is opened the circuit is broken and that's what makes the bell ring.”

“Really?” I said. “So, any suggestions?”

Suddenly, we heard a door open, somewhere behind and above us—and then light footsteps descending rapidly. We all looked round—a block of light spilled into the corridor from the service stairs.

“The night porter!” I said. “He must have heard us.”

“He might just be doing his rounds—they check for fires,” said Tree. “Hide!”

We all fled to a recess, opposite a short passage, leading off at right angles from the back door, which just seemed to lead to the foot of some fire stairs.

“Did you close the cellar door?” I whispered, as we all stood with our backs pressed to the wall.

Tree nodded.

We heard the porter trying doors and then his footfalls receding to the other end of the basement. We all shook our heads and looked along at one another in relief, thinking we had got away with it, but Tree, very deliberately, put his bony finger to his lips. The footsteps came back and grew louder and louder. I held my breath. A man wearing a top hat and tails, who wouldn't have looked out of place in the Victorian period, came and stood just a few feet away from us and stared for a moment or two at the back door. In his fancy doorman's uniform, he might have been a ghost. He turned and looked across at the fire escape, completed the half turn, and headed back up the passageway. We listened to his footfalls receding, all the way back up the stairs. Emma whispered something and Tree whispered something back to her.

“Shh,” I said.

We continued to hang on every sound the porter made, until we heard the door close. And then I stepped out of the shallow recess and looked up the hallway. All was silent and still.

“He's gone,” I said.

Everybody stepped out. Tree and Emma went straight to the door. Tree had something in his hand and was trying to slide it into the slit along the top of the door. I noticed Emma was still holding her half-drunk bottle of champagne by the neck.

“What're you doing?” I asked.

“Emma had the idea of using the foil off the champagne bottle to make a connector—so that we can open the door without breaking the circuit,” said Tree.

“Will that work?” I said.

“Yes—if the wires are close enough to the end.” He felt around.

“Don't look so surprised,” said Emma, taking another swig of champagne. She passed it to Emily, who took a mouthful and got bubbles up her nose.

I was beginning to feel redundant. I reached to take the bottle from Emily, for a celebratory drink. Emma snatched it out of my hand.

“Get your own,” she said, and made a mocking cross-eyed face at me.

I went over to Tree. “It's getting light,” I said.

“Try that,” said Tree, holding a long loop of rolled up foil in the top of the door.

I turned the catch and eased the door open a little.

“Go on,” said Tree, still holding the foil in place.

I inched it open farther and farther, until I thought the girls would fit through.

“A bit more,” said Tree.

I opened it another half an inch.

“Stop!” said Tree.

“Okay, Emily—you try,” I said, wedging the door firmly between my feet and hands, so that it could not move.

Emily blew me a kiss, wound in her skirts around her hips and legs and shuffled through the gap.

“Em,” I said.

Emma gathered in her skirts and squeezed through.

“Now you,” said Tree. He held the door still for me.

I slipped through the opening easily, not having such voluminous clothing on as the women, and found myself crowded into the little courtyard with them. Emma was supporting the heavy champagne bottle while Emily drank from it.

“You'll get her drunk,” I said.

“She's all right,” said Emma. “Aren't you, honey?”

“I can take my booze,” said Emily.

“She sounds it,” I said.

The girls headed up the steps.

Tree was carefully closing the door behind him.

“So far, so good,” I said.

“The mutants are over here!” cried a voice, from somewhere up in the garden.

Emma and Emily were already halfway up the steps, their top halves silhouetted against the dark blue sky. And before either Tree or I could act, the girls had rushed up the remaining steps and were wrestling with someone. They bundled him down to us and we dragged him into the courtyard and laid into him. Now the poor guy had all four of us onto him. Emma had him by the hair and Tree started stuffing something into his mouth—I think it was his lace neck scarf. We soon had him down and I sat on him with Emma. He went quiet and limp.

“What're we going to do with him?” I said.

“Emily, see if there are any others,” said Tree, crouching down to unbuckle our prisoner's belt. “We'll have to tie him up and leave him here.”

I watched Emily go and pop her head above the steps, scope the garden and then come back down.

“There's no one there,” she reported.

“Sit him up,” said Tree.

Emma and I got off him, but kept a hold on him, while Tree fastened his hands behind his back with the belt.

“He'll just run off and tell the others as soon as we go,” I said. “We need something to tie his ankles up with.”

Emma suddenly bashed him over the head with her champagne bottle. He slumped forward into my arms.

“He won't now,” she smiled.

“There was no need for that,” I said.

“Kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, messing my hair up,” said Emma. “I'd say he got off lightly.”

Chapter 8

Twenty minutes later we were walking arm-in-arm down Julian Road, on the lookout for taxis. Tree had several gold sovereigns on him, he told us, concealed in a belt wallet, and Emma, amazingly, still had her plastic and was looking for a cashpoint. I just wanted to know what the date was. It was so early in the morning the streets were deserted, though a few cars and vans went by and lights were coming on in windows as we walked. And then we turned a corner at the bottom of the hill and saw a coach parked outside a hotel, with a queue of people boarding. As soon as they saw us, of course, they began clapping and laughing. The girls curtsied and Tree and I bowed.

“We can't stop,” I said, “we're late.”

“Just one picture,” shouted an older guy with a camera, in an American accent.

“Oh, come on,” said his wife. “Look at their dresses, Frank—they're beautiful. What are you shooting—a movie?”

“It's a play,” I said.

“But it's going to be made into a movie,” said Emma. “And I'm going to be the star.”

By now we were surrounded by thirty or so American tourists, happily clicking away with their cameras or getting the whole thing down on video.

“Really? What's it called, dear?”

“Could you just move over there, young feller—sir, would you stand next to this beautiful young lady.”

We were being posed against the backdrop of the elegant Bath street, while pairs of them shuffled to and fro to take turns standing alongside us. The coach driver switched his engine off and took out a newspaper. I broke away from the frame and shouted up the steps of the coach to him.

“What date is it, mate?”

“Twenty-third.”

“Yeah, but what month and year?”

He raised one eyebrow. “How much have you had?” he said.

I pulled myself up into the coach and nicked the paper off him.

“Just checking a horse I backed!” I said.

It was Saturday, the twenty-third of March, 2002.

“Cheers.” I threw the paper back at him and darted off the coach.

The tourists were still happily snapping and recording away on the pavement, I barged my way through the throng to the others and grabbed Emma and Emily's hands.

“Come on,” I said. “We're in luck—if we hurry.”

“Oh, don't go!” cried our fans.

“Yeah—sing us a song from the show!”

“Hey, Darcy—one more!”

“Sorry,” I said. “We're late for rehearsals!”

Tree was still caught in the melee, but obviously enjoying himself, grinning from ear to ear.

“Which part do you play, handsome?” I heard one of his lady admirers ask.

“I am the father,” beamed Tree.

“Are you famous?”

“Well, I have walked the boards in some illustrious company in my time, madam,” admitted Tree, still holding his nose in the air for more pictures.

“Like with who?” said his admirer's husband.

“Surely you mean, with
whom
, dear boy,” said Tree. “Oh, Sir Larry, Raff—the usual suspects, you know.”

“Come on, Sir John!” I called. “We have to be in make-up in five!”

“Oh my God—he's a Sir!” cried another lady fan.

I left the girls and waded through the crowd to seize the “star” by the sleeve.

“If that guy's a knight—I'm Hilary Clinton!” said a male voice.

“We really do have to go now,” I said.

I pulled Tree clear and we ran after the girls, who were already lifting their skirts and rushing away.

“Hey—you never told us the name of the play!” cried one of the women.

“Tempus Fugit!” I shouted back. “And so must we!”

* * *

We hurried on along the street, still keeping an eye out for a cab. I spotted a telephone box but no one had any change to put in it, so that was out. We eventually found ourselves in the famous Circus, one of Bath's most spectacular buildings, set imposingly in the middle of a roundabout.

“Let's wait here,” I said. “There's bound to be one along in a minute.”

“You can wait if you like,” said Emma, “I'm going to find myself an expensive hotel and take a nice long bath.”

“Oo, that sounds lovely,” said Emily.

“Hold on—you're not going anywhere,” I said.

“I beg your pardon,” said Emma, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes at me—I recognised that look, and backed off.

“What I mean is—we should stick together—these guys who are after us are not playing Scrabble, Em. You're on their list—remember?”

“Don't worry, I haven't forgotten,” she nodded, “I'll be reporting them and you to the police.”

“Me?”

“You got me into all this, Sloane,” she said.

“Well, believe what you want, but the police won't do anything—they'll just think you're crazy,” I said.

“We'll see,” she said.

“Well,” I said. “You'll never see De Quipp again, if you don't come with us.”

She thought about that for a few seconds. “Oh, yes, Travis,” she said, hazily. She rubbed her brow.

“Are you all right, Miss Emma?” said Tree.

“Emma!” cried Emily, as Emma swooned.

Both of us caught her just as her knees gave way from under her.

“It's the drug they gave her,” I said. “All this excitement and fresh air—she must be coming down.”

I held her in my arms, supported now by both Emily and Tree. Her lashes fluttered and her eyelids flickered opened. She looked at me as though through a mist.

“Steve?” she said. “What happened? Where am I?”

“Don't worry, love, I've got you,” I said. “You lost your way inside, Em, but now you've come back to me.” I kissed her hair softly. “Oh, Em, you're back again…”

“Where—where's Travis?” she muttered. “I want Travis.”

“Oh, not him again!” I said. I handed her over to Tree. “Here, you take her—I'll see if I can get us a cab.”

My mind was swirling with anguished thoughts—what if she hadn't been drugged? What if she really did love him? How could I ever get her back? I tried to banish them from my mind and concentrate on the task in hand—getting to Bristol and finding that warehouse. A black cab swung into the roundabout, I stepped out into the road and flagged it down. It skidded to a halt only a few feet away from me. The driver stuck his head out the window.

“Have you got a death wish?” he shouted.

“Actually, I'm planning to live forever,” I smiled.

“Where to?”

“Four for Bristol,” I said, opening the rear door. The others were already making their way over.

“The airport?” he said.

Tree and Emily helped the still-woozy Emma onto the back seat. I climbed in next to the driver.

“No—we're looking for a furniture storage warehouse,” I said. “What I need is a Yellow Pages or a business directory—you wouldn't happen to have one, would you?”

“This is a taxi not a phone box,” he said. “So, you don't know where you're going—where are you from—the Costume Museum?”

I laughed. “Oh, that's very good,” I said. “Just drop us off at any industrial estate in Bristol and we'll take it from there.”

He set his meter running and pulled away.

“So, what are you people doing?” he asked, taking the road out of Bath towards Bristol, which was only ten miles or so away.

“We're making a film—it's low-budget,” I said, “so that's why we're chasing round after props.”

“What's up with her?” He nodded at his rear view mirror. He meant Emma.

“No breakfast,” I said. “Stomach cramps—you know these actresses—always trying to lose weight.”

“She looks in pretty good shape to me,” he said.

“Yeah, well—no pain, no gain,” I said. “Anyway, enough of us—what about you—do you do anything special at all? I mean, apart from driving this.”

He shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I don't know—ballroom dancing—stand-up—impressions of famous people—drag art-iste…”

He had taken his eyes off the road and was staring at me. I looked dead ahead.

A minute later we were all standing at the roadside—miles from anywhere—and I was trying to thumb a lift.

“You must have said something to him,” said Tree.

“No—we were just talking about his hobbies and the next thing he's telling me to get out of his cab,” I said.

“He said you were weird,” said Emily. “Well, I think he had weird eyes. I didn't want to ride in his smelly cab anyway.”

“I feel sick,” said Emma.

A coach appeared in the distance. And I noticed its right indicator was flashing.

“I think that coach is stopping,” I said.

“It's the Americans,” said Tree.

“Look, Emma—they're stopping for us!” cried Emily.

Emma turned away and threw up in the hedge.

* * *

It was true, our American friends were on their way to Glastonbury for the day, but had persuaded their driver to stop and pick us up. Fortunately, there were plenty of empty seats, so he didn't complain, but he wasn't too keen on making any detours to industrial estates, though he was heading for Bristol to pick up the motorway west, so he wasn't going out of his way. And, anyway, during the ride I got a gold sovereign off Tree and went forward to have a word with him. I just gave him the same story I gave the taxi driver, but I said it was a play. And then I gave him the antique gold piece and he agreed to drop us off at an industrial park he knew, just on the outskirts of Bristol, where he said there were several furniture storage depots. He knew because he used to drive for a removal firm. He cheered me up when he added that the one he had worked for was a high quality one and all the toffs used it.

* * *

However, two hours later we were on our way by taxi to another industrial estate, having bribed our way round the first one, and drawn a blank. I should have guessed—the Duck would never use a classy, expensive removal firm—he would go for the cheapest! I asked one of the storage warehouse managers which one was the cheapest. He gave me the name of the one with the most competitive rates—he would not use the word “cheap.” It was a firm called Scorpion Shipping and Storage. I just knew it had to be the one.

But when we got there, I started to have my doubts, the roads weren't made up and the whole place looked rundown and abandoned, but we found a shabbily dressed old guy drinking tea and listening to the radio in a hut. I told the others to wait in the cab while I spoke to him.

“Hi. Good morning.”

“Who're you?” He turned down his radio.

“I work for Duckworth Hall Estates, I'm the, er, restorations manager. I need to check a few items in the, um—the inventory.”

“Got a chit?”

“No. I—”

“Can't go in then,” he said. He turned the volume knob back up on his radio.

I leaned over and turned it down again. “But it is all here?” I said.

“Hey!” he said. “Who do you think you are?”

“Renovation and repair,” I said. “Duckworth Estates. I need to check our property.”

“You can't go in that storage unit without proper authorization,” he said. “Gotta have a chit. Now, clear off, before I call security.”

“What security?” I laughed.

“We've got dogs—big brutes they are—they'll have you,” he said.

“Now, look here,” I said. “I only want to go into the warehouse, check one or two items and I'll be on my way. I'll make it worth your while.”

He licked his lips. “No, I can't,” he said.

I produced three gold sovereigns. “Know what these are?” I said.

“Let me see,” he said, he took them greedily and tried to bite one. Then he inspected the dates. “These are nice,” he said. “Not nicked are they?”

“Of course not. They're sweeteners—we give them away to our special clients and service people—anyone who does us a favour.” I tapped my nose.

He liked that and grunted. “How much they worth?”

“About a hundred each,” I said. “Probably a lot more to a collector.”

“You just wanna look?” he said, pocketing the gold coins.

“We'll be about an hour—that's all,” I said.

“We?” he said, raising his backside off the chair to see through the window.

“Me and my three assistants—they're just restorers—two young ladies and good old Mr Tree, my chief, er, restorer,” I said.

“Why you dressed funny?” he said, as though he'd only just noticed the fact.

“When the visitors come to the Hall they like to see a bit of history,” I said.

He nodded. “Oh, yeah, that's right, I've seen that on the telly,” he said. But then he screwed up his face and began shaking his head. “For all I know though, you could be thieves.”

I laughed. “No way!” I said. “Look. All you've got to do is lock us in there—how can we rob anything if we're locked in? Then when we've finished you can search us all before you let us out.”

He pouted his lips and nodded, felt in his pocket and produced a set of keys. “It's only repros and fakes, anyway, innit?” he said.

“Yeah—it's just tat really,” I said.

He stood up. “So why you restoring it then?” he said, as he led me out of the hut.

“Well, that's just a technical term,” I said. “What we're really doing is making it look older.”

“I'm with you—I've seen that on the telly, too—they call it distressing,” he nodded.

“Well, yes, it can be,” I said.

“Here, these coins better not be repros,” he said, suddenly having the thought and pulling up sharply.

“They're genuine antiques, mate—just look at the dates on 'em,” I said.

He checked. “You're right.”