Future Tense (15 page)

“Er, Mr Tree?” I opened the passenger door of the taxi. “Bring the girls this way, we're going to do the restoration work
in situ
.”

“Yes, Mr Sloane,” said Tree.

The watchman walked me over to the door of the warehouse and had a sudden thought. “Ah! But how do I know the dates aren't faked?” he said.

“Well, while we're locked in here, why don't you phone a friend and have them valued. I think you'll find they're worth a lot more than three hundred quid,” I said.

He nodded. “I could,” he said, half-convincing himself.

“And while you're at it—have this one valued, too.” I slipped him a fourth gold sovereign and patted his shoulder. “Never know when I might need a man of your integrity again,” I said, tapping my nose.

“I'm always here,” he said, unlocking the door.

I stood aside to let my three “assistants” go in ahead.

“What's your name?” I said.

“Dennis,” he said. “But my mates call me Den.”

“As in, den of iniquity?” I said.

“Who? In the nick with he? Who was?”

“I'll be in touch, Den—might have some more jobs I can put your way,” I said, going in.

He started to close the door. “I'm always on hand. One hour you said?”

I stopped in mid-step. I had decided to check him out with one of my questions. “Oh, by the way, do you know anything about football?”

“Rovers supporter—man and boy,” he said.

“I was having an argument with a colleague of mine about Yeovil Town's old ground—he reckoned it gave them an unfair advantage,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Well, there wasn't much of a slope there,” he said.

“That's what I said,” I smiled. He was clear. Yeovil's old ground had a marked slope—anyone who lived in the Westcountry all their life would know that. “See you in sixty minutes.” I waved goodbye.

He locked us in and I put my ear to the door and heard him whistling a happy tune as he walked back across the gravel to his hut.

The others had switched on all the lights and were draped over various pieces of furniture. Emma was reclining on a chaise longue, Emily was sitting on a Chippendale, with her feet up on another, and Tree was perched on a chest of drawers, with his feet still flat on the concrete floor. I looked around the packed windowless warehouse at all the antiques, piled on top of each other, higgledy-piggledy—four-poster beds like weird sailboats, wardrobes and tables galore, ornate mirrors and clocks, gleaming porcelain and silverware, Manhattans of books, acres of oil paintings, enough chairs to seat a dozen orchestras, marble statues, trunks and boxes—it went on and on. I had no idea where to start.

“There must be hundreds of millions of quids' worth here,” I said.

“Why don't we sell it then and move to the South of France?” said Emma languidly.

“I wish,” I said. “Right, let's get cracking.”

“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” said Emma.

“You just lie there, love,” I said. “And keep an eye out. That watchman might come snooping round. Tree, Emily. I want you to have a wander round and see if you can spot anything that looks out of place—something you don't recall seeing at Duckworth Hall. It has to be something fairly large, say, bigger than a suitcase.”

Tree scratched his head. “But I haven't seen half this stuff before—the Duck's always buying new things.”

“I don't remember all those Gainsboroughs,” said Emily.

“Is that what they are?” I said.

“Well, that big one's a Watteau—and those little ones over there are mostly Fragonards and Constables,” she said.

“You know a lot,” I said.

“Emily's studying art,” said her father. “The Duck takes her round to meet the masters when he has time.”

“That Leonardo da Vinci's a scream,” laughed Emily. “He only said he wanted to paint me—in the nude!”

“You sure that wasn't Leonardo DiCaprio you met?” I said. I forgot she wouldn't have seen Titanic and so wouldn't get my lame attempt at a joke.

“Who?”

“We'd better get on. Tree, you take that side, mate, and I'll have a look down here. Emily, can you just wander down the middle—you seem to have a good memory.”

“Can't I go with you? I don't want to be on my own—it's spooky,” said Emily.

“Don't worry, Emily,” said Emma. “Auntie Emma will be here. She'll keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Emily, sticking her tongue out at her.

We each set off on our allotted pathways through the muddled up museum of the Duck's acquisitions. It was a bit shocking to kick something while you were reaching to look in a cupboard or a drawer, or behind something, and then look down to find it was a Titian or a Rubens. And then there was all the ticking and chiming that was going on—from all the clocks—a constant reminder to me that our time was running out.

What we were looking for was a time machine, but since time machines could be disguised in a hard holographic shell, they could look like anything, even something animate, like a horse, for example. They could also be set to a default matrix—the Duck's was a white Ford Cortina—Jemmons preferred a late eighteenth century sailboat. To make matters worse, the dimensions of the holographic shell were variable—it could be any size, although it had to be something large enough to climb into, so it couldn't be a vase or a candelabra, or anything silly like that.

I spotted one of the Duck's prize possessions—a Harrison long case clock, which always stood in the main hall at Duckworth. It was just wide enough to squeeze into. In fact, I almost climbed into it once by mistake. I opened the door and felt around inside. What I was feeling for was a rather cold and squishy invisible tear in the fabric of the matrix—the way in. But it wasn't there.

“Stephen—come quickly!” cried Emily, from the other side of the high ridge of antiques.

I hurried down to the end of my path and rounded the corner—Emily was about halfway along her aisle, pointing excitedly up at something. Tree arrived from his aisle and we both jogged down to her.

“See that battered old sea trunk up there,” she said. “Well, I've never seen it before. And I'm sure Jools would never buy anything like that!”

“Yes,” I said. “A sea trunk—it's perfect—Jemmons loves all things nautical.”

“I know,” said Emily, gleefully.

I stood on a card table and tried to get it down, but it was just out of my reach.

“Papa, you try,” said Emily.

I jumped down and helped him up onto the table. Tree, of course, reached it easily and was even able to undo the catches and open the lid. He peered inside.

“Well?” I said.

“Just silverware and bric-a-brac,” said Tree, holding up a handful of spoons, wrapped in greaseproof paper.

“Feel around for the slit in the matrix,” I said.

He felt around. Cutlery chinked. He shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, I'm disappointed now,” pouted Emily. “I was so sure I'd found it.”

“Never mind—keep looking,” I said.

I gave Tree a hand down from the wobbly table and decided to go and see how Emma was doing. I could just see her head sticking up above the end of the chaise longue at the far end of Emily's aisle. I was convinced the time machine was somewhere in the warehouse, but if I was wrong, we would have to start thinking of a backup plan.

“Hi, Em,” I said. “What you reading?”

She looked at the title page. “
The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling
.”

“Ah, good old Henry Fielding.”.

“I suppose you've read it.”

“Uh, yes, well, I know it.”

“Did you ever actually read any books at university?”

“I've read bits of that one!” I said. “Wrote an essay on it—well, on Fielding. And, um, uh, the other one—Richardson!”

“Have you found anything?”

“No. That's why I wanted to see you.”

“Well—you're seeing me.”

“Yes, I'm seeing you. Did I ever tell you you've got a great neckline—no, I mean, the way it curves and sort of joins up with your, um, your shoulder, it's all smooth the way it sweeps down like that.”

“What do you want?”

“Plan B,” I said. “When Dennis the watchman comes back, keep him talking—if we can't find the time machine, we'll have to take some of this stuff to sell—getaway money.”

“You want me to beat him up?”

“Yes—no! Just distract him,” I said. “Of course I don't want you to beat him up. Beat him up.”

“Well, we'll have to tie him up or he'll phone the police,” she said, batting her eyelids at me—I think she was being ironic.

But I thought I'd better just check to make sure I wasn't getting the come on. I perched on the edge of the chaise longue.

“How about a quick snog for old time's sake?” I said.

“Get lost.”

I got up and held my hands together, as though in prayer. “All right, all right—forget I asked—it was a moment of weakness—I'll never ask again!”

“Promise? Because frankly, Stephen, I find it rather embarrassing the way you simper around me.”

“I don't simper!” I exclaimed. “Simper around you. I'm just still wearing the vestigial grin of your former lover. We were going out for nearly three years!”

“Two and a half.”

“Well, anyway, keep an eye out—and keep an eye on the time.”

She held up her hands and shook them to show me her bare wrists. “No watch. The one you bought me broke, remember?”

“Oh. That's a point. Nor have I. I left it at Duckworth Hall when I put this lot on. I wonder how long we've been in here.”

“About fifteen minutes because I've read thirteen pages and it takes me just over a minute per page,” she said.

“Does it? It only takes you a minute to read a whole page? That's fast—do you actually read the words?”

“Yes, but I don't have to move my lips at the same time like you, so that's why I'm faster,” she said.

“Well, women read quicker than men, it's a well known fact,” I said.

“They also read more—that's a well known fact, too. That's why they know more.”

“If you say so, dear,” I simpered. “Anyway, if it takes a woman fifteen minutes to read thirteen pages—how many pages will she read in—?”

“—Fifty-two an hour,” said Emma, batting her eyelids again at me.

Yes, she was definitely taking the mick.

“Well, there's a clock over there anyway,” I said.

“Where?” She craned her neck round. She really did have a beautiful neck. Funny but I went out with her for nearly three years and never really noticed just how long and perfect it was till then. “Oh, there. Is it working?”

“The others are so I don't see why that one—” I stared long and hard at the elegant grandfather clock. It was just standing there against the wall, in the corner. On its own. Wheels and cogs were turning in my head.

“What is it?” said Emma.

“That's a Harrison long case,” I said slowly.

“So it is—what's a Harrison long case?”

“It's worth a fortune,” I said. “There can't be two.”

“We can't take that,” said Emma, “we'd never get it in the taxi—I assume we are escaping by taxi again. Hello?”

“That's it!” I laughed. “That's the one. In the hall—when the Duck was taking me to the library, I said the clock's been moved. It was on the wrong tile.”

“Could you translate that?”

“That's it! That's the time machine!”

Chapter 9

For once I was right. I called Tree and Emily and showed them the portal in the holographic shell of the clock; it was inside the pendulum casing. Although Emma had been in time machines before, she hadn't really known much about it—the first time she was kidnapped in one, the next time she jumped out of one and the last time she had been brought back by the TCP in one, and had understood very little of what was happening. So, when she found herself standing on the deck of Jemmons's sloop, fully conscious of what she was seeing, she was amazed.

“But where are we?” she said, looking round at the crackling red and black “sky” of the time continuum.

“In the vortex,” I said. “It's like a tunnel—when you travel up or down it, you travel through time.”

“The warehouse is still all around us, Miss Emma,” said Tree, “we have simply crossed into another dimension. When we set the machine in motion, we will not move from this spot, although it will appear so. We will remain at these same co-ordinates, in Bristol. This is a time machine, but it is not a time and space machine. That means if we wish to return to Georgian Bath we will have to transport the clock there.”

“I was going to say that,” I said.

“Papa!” called Emily, who had gone below. “Mr Jemmons has tea and there are muffins and butter!”

“That's another good thing about time machines,” smiled Tree. “Food can never go off in them because it never gets old.”

“So if I stayed in here I'd remain forever young?” said Emma.

“Theoretically,” said Tree.

“Think I'll take up sailing,” said Emma.

* * *

Getting to a safe house proved to be a complex exercise. Tree owned a houseboat—a converted barge—which he kept on the Avon in Bristol, during the late 1950s. This was back in his arty days, when he had aspirations of becoming a serious painter. Then two things happened that destroyed his career. First Peter Blake, Hockney, and Pop Art exploded on the scene, here and in America, and Tree thought it was just a flash in the pan, and carried on doing his landscapes. And then he got called up to do his National Service. He served eighteen months in Aldershot, Hong Kong, and Malaya with the Army Catering Corps. When he was demobbed in 1962, the kind of traditional art he'd wanted to do had been sidelined.

The upshot of all this was the houseboat he had been living on had remained empty for most of the two years he was away. Tree proposed that they go there to hide out. So, we had to travel back a few hundred years to a time when the industrial estate was just pasture, get out of the machine, carry it up to the top of a nearby hill—which had never been built on—and then go forward in time to late September, 1960.

This is complicated, I know, but all we had to do then was transport the clock to Clifton, where the houseboat was moored. We managed to persuade a local garage owner to drive us there in his van, for two of Tree's gold sovereigns.

So by lunchtime we were all safely aboard the Mason-Wright houseboat, “The King of Prussia,” eagerly trying on his old beatnik clothes. I chose a pair of baggy black trousers, a black roll-neck sweater, and short black leather jacket. It was all miles too big for me, but I could have passed for a cool late fifties, jazz-loving student type. Tree struggled into an old pair of blue jeans, a black roll-neck sweater like mine, and a duffle coat. Our host, interestingly, had a wardrobe full of young women's clothes on the boat, too, so the girls were not left out. He explained to us, rather unconvincingly, I thought, that they belonged to a girlfriend. She must have been a very tall one.

So, there we were sitting up on deck in the sun, all wearing shades, enjoying a post-lunch spliff and planning our next move. We must have looked like a jazz combo taking five.

“Maybe I'll grow one of those goatee beards,” I said, rubbing my chin.

“Well, it would get on mine,” said Emma.

“Maybe a ‘tache like Monsewer De Crapp then!”

“You couldn't! You haven't got anything there!”

“Children, please!” said Tree.

“I really dig these clothes,” said Emily.

I noticed with Emily how effortlessly she adopted the attitudes and language associated with whatever costume she was wearing. And she looked good in her fishnets, pink plastic skirt, tight black top and biker jacket—and had even tied her hair back in a fashionable ponytail.

Emma, who was similarly dressed, but had opted for a white woollen jacket, instead of the leather, took the joint from Emily.

“It's just good to get out of those stupid big dresses,” she said.

“Tree, I know you don't like talking about it, mate,” I said, “but we have got to start thinking about finding the Castle.”

Tree nodded and gazed across the river.

Emily patted his knee. “It's okay, Daddy.”

“I don't know where it is,” said Tree. “It was always freezing there, I know that. It's on a small rocky island in the middle of an ice sheet. That's all I know.”

“Sounds like the Arctic,” said Emma, passing me the joint.

“No, I don't think it was,” said Tree. “Some of the inmates made lenses out of ice and tried to take sightings. On clear days, we could make out people moving about and a coastline.”

“Did you make a map?” I said.

“There was a map,” said Tree, “but I was never shown it. I was not in the inner circle, you see. I—I was afraid to escape. I refused.”

“That's nothing to be ashamed of, Daddy,” said his daughter. “You were thinking of me and Mummy.”

“Yes, I just wanted to serve my time and live to see my family again.” He patted Emily's hand.

I handed him over the joint. He took a deep toke, held it in his lungs, and exhaled.

“I made some sketches while I was there. There wasn't much to see, I just needed to keep drawing, you understand.”

“Have you still got them?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Can I have a look?”

“They're just rough drawings I did with some homemade charcoal.”

“Are they here?”

“They're in Somerset.”

“Could you get them?”

“Yes, but I don't think they would tell you much,” said Tree.

“I'd still like to see them.”

“I keep a Morris Minor in a lock-up round the corner. I'll drive down there this afternoon and get them.”

“I'll go with you, Daddy,” said Emily.

“We'll stay the night down there and drive back first thing,” added Tree. “Emily needs sleep.”

“Well, I'm staying here and getting some sleep right now,” yawned Emma.

“I'll keep you company.”

She gave me a sick look.

“I meant on the boat—not in your bunk.”

* * *

It was hard. I mean knowing Emma was asleep in a cabin not more than a few feet away from me. Once or twice I went and opened the door quietly and looked in on her, as she slept. I wondered what she was dreaming about. Probably De Quipp. Well, whatever it was, it was a long one—she slept right round the clock.

* * *

Late that evening, when she still hadn't woken up, I decided to go for a stroll along the quayside to collect my thoughts, and put the day to bed. Nowadays, that stretch of the River Avon—the old Bristol Docks—is practically a Heritage site, with re-conditioned cobblestones, gift shops and eateries, but back then it was a pretty rough area. A red light district. And I was soon propositioned by a young lady of the night.

“Looking for business, love?” she said, stepping out of the shadows.

“No, actually, I'm just having a dark night of the soul and I was wondering if Sartre might have been right and I really did choose this life for myself, or whether, as the great medieval thinkers say, everything is predestined. What do you think?” I said.

“I think you need a good—”

Suddenly, we were both distracted by a piercing scream.

It seemed to come from the houseboat.

“Good answer!” I said, as I set off sprinting along the quayside, then broke into a trot and then, by the time I reached the barge, I was walking and gasping for breath.

“Emma! Emma!” I panted.

She came rushing up from the cabin, straight into my arms.

“Steve—Steve! Oh, thank God! There's someone down there! He—he was touching me!” she cried.

I looked around the deck for something to negotiate with and picked up a marlinspike.

“Maybe it's Tree,” I said, hopefully.

“It was definitely not Tree,” she said. “He was all sweaty and horrible—his hands were filthy! And he was stinking of beer and fags!”

“It's just some old tramp,” I said. “Wait up there.”

“No, he was young,” she said, going up the gangplank to the quayside.

“All right, a young tramp then.”

I took a few steps down into the cabin. “Come out of there!” I shouted. No one answered. “I'll call the police! I'm going to count to three. One-two-”

“All right, all right—keep your hair on,” said someone with a Liverpudlian accent. “I was only lookin' for somewhere to kip, man—and now there's all this.”

An unkempt young man, wearing tight-fitting black trousers, a white open-neck shirt and a black leather jacket similar to mine emerged from the galley area, holding up a bottle of milk and a packet of biscuits.

My mouth fell open. God—I recognised him! A tingle wriggled around in the back of my neck.

“Okay,” I said. “Right, well, help yourself to the, um, milk—I'll find you somewhere to, uh, kip—you scared my girlfriend.”

“Sorry about that like,” he said. “Cheers.”

I stumbled back up the stairs and waved Emma down from the quay.

“What?
What
?”

“Do you know who that is?” I whispered.

“I don't care if it's Prince Charles—get him out of there—now!”

“I think it's John Lennon,” I nodded, grinning all over my face. “That's only John Lennon!” I bit my bottom lip. “It is, Em—I swear it is. It's John Lennon.”

She shook her head. “It can't be. What would John Lennon be doing in Bristol? The Beatles lived in Liverpool, didn't they?”

“Yes, and they played in Hamburg,” I said. “But they must have played all over Britain before they were famous. This is 1960—they haven't made it yet. That guy down there changed the world, Em! That's the twenty-year-old genius in embryo. And he's on our boat.”

“Tree's boat,” she corrected.

“Don't say anything,” I said. “Let me do the talking.”

“Don't you always?”

We went back below. Emma smiled at our guest and scuttled through to her cabin to put some more clothes on. I sat down at the small dining table opposite him, to watch John Lennon drinking milk.

“Mind if I smoke?” he said.

“Go ahead, man,” I grinned. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

He gave me a funny look and offered me an untipped Woodbine. I carefully took it out of the packet and studied it, thinking I'd keep it and maybe get him to sign it later.

He lit up. “Are you going to smoke that or eat it?” he said, offering me the lit match.

“I'll save it,” I grinned, putting it behind my ear.

“Please yourself,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, I'll
please
,
please me
,” I smirked. “What's your name?”

He thought for a moment. “Er, Johnny, Johnny Silver—what's yours?”

“No, what is it really?” I said. “Go on—you can tell me.”

“What is this—twenty questions?” he said.

“My name's Steve Sloane—now, tell me your real name—you're from Liverpool, aren't you,
Johnny
?”

Just then, Emma returned.

“Well, is it
him
?” she said.

“Who?” said our incredible guest. “Who d'you think I am—the King of Siam or something? Do I look like Yul Brynner with this mop?”

I laughed and shook my head. “It's him,” I said.

Just in that split second I caught a red flash in the back of his eyes—faster than a lizard's blink. A chill ran up my spine. I had seen that telltale sign before. That was no Beatle—that wasn't even human! I tried to conceal it and kept smiling.

“Look, we think you look like a singer in a, er, fab band we saw at the Cavern Club in Liverpool. Are you John Lennon?” I said calmly.

He grinned. “I didn't want to give me real name—Johnny Silver's me stage name like, but, yeah, since you're fans—it's true—I am he,” he said.

“Really?” said Emma, sitting down next to him. “Have you written any good songs lately?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I have, love—so you really dig our music?”

“Yeah, we do,” said Emma. “Is Paul—?”

I kicked her foot under the table. She shot me an annoyed look. I attempted to signal to her that he wasn't the real John Lennon, by making a slight shake of my head and pointing at him with the hand I was resting my chin on. But our visitor was now looking directly at me.

“What?” she said.

“What's up, man?” he said, through lips now as cruel as Caligula's.

Suddenly he stuck an arm out and grabbed Emma by the throat, and then gripped her forehead with his other hand, without even looking at her.

“Don't move, Sloane!” he yelped, losing the Scouse accent. “You know I could crush her skull with one squeeze!”

“Please!” I said. “Don't hurt her! I'll do anything you say.”

“She is with child,” he said. “Your child—mutant!”

I heard light footsteps coming down the stairs. I looked round. It was the prostitute I had met on the quayside a few minutes earlier. Now I could see who she reminded me of—Jody Foster! They had clearly delved into my mind on a previous encounter and fished out a few likes and dislikes. They knew the type of people I was likely to trust, the personal favourites I wouldn't question.