Tanglewreck (9 page)

‘Madam, it is very simple. Since the Industrial Revolution, which you will recall began with the invention of the steam engine, our world has been moving faster and faster. For most of his evolutionary life, a man could go no quicker than his legs or his horse could carry him. Now he may travel in a jet plane across the world in a matter of hours. His factories churn out more goods per hour than an artisan could make in his entire lifetime. We have no more interest in the slow round of the seasons; we grow our food by artificial light, and our hens lay eggs all year because they do not know when it is winter. Children are given Easter eggs, but they do not know it is because Easter is the Spring point of the Equinox, when hens would begin to lay again as the light from the sun increased.

‘It is strange, but the machine age and the computer age
both promised to give mere mortals more time in their lives, but less time is what it seems we have. We are using up Time too fast, just as we are using up all the other resources of the Earth.

‘Human beings do not understand Time, but they have tampered with it. In consequence, Time is not what it used to be. Time is becoming unreliable.’

‘But what is going to happen?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Abel Darkwater. ‘Hark!’

Mrs Rokabye heard a terrible noise, like an air-raid siren.

‘That is the warning! You are quite safe in this house, but under no circumstances should you do more than look out of the window, and do not try and interfere, whatever it is that you may see. Now I recommend you wait here. I shall stand at the front door out of curiosity.’

‘But –’

‘Oh, I shall be quite safe, oh yes.’

Mrs Rokabye sat by the window just in time to see a ginger cat fly past, followed by a satellite dish. That was enough for her; she hated upset, though she liked to cause it. She decided to go and lie down.

As she climbed the stairs, it occurred to her to search Silver’s bedroom. What had the child taken with her? Had she packed her clothes?

Mrs Rokabye went quietly up the stairs, and loudly shut the door to her own room, so that Sniveller would not suspect anything. Then she hurried on to the little rooms
at the top of the house.

The bed was unmade. Silver’s clothes were lying about. She had gone without her shoes!
She must have wanted to get away very badly
, thought Mrs Rokabye, and wondered what it was that had taken place here. There was her duffle coat … Mrs Rokabye fished through the pockets; a conker, a pencil, a few sweets from the train, a little plastic wallet with a picture of her mother and father and Buddleia inside. Nothing else. Nothing … or, what was this? She rummaged inside the lining and pulled out the diamond pin. She gasped. Where had Silver found this? It must be worth a fortune if it was real. Perhaps it was part of the treasure she had heard was buried at Tanglewreck? Never mind the clock! If there was treasure … Her face hardened from surprise to anger. Horrible wicked child to keep the treasure to herself. Well, now these diamonds belonged to Mrs Rokabye!

She hid the pin in her knickers, slipped back down the stairs and lay on the bed. Her heart was beating fast. Abel Darkwater had taken her for a fool, but he would see who was the clever one! Perhaps she would have to persuade Sniveller to help her. Yes, she would have to use her charm. It would need practice, like smiling, but she was up to the task.

Her brain was whirring. She put on her pink earmuffs and lay on the bed with the pillow over her eyes, and both hands on the diamond pin.

Abel Darkwater went downstairs and opened the door.

Men and women were running down the street into shops
and cafes and offices. Drivers pulled over anywhere they could, and lay down on the seats of their cars.

The sky was dark. Rain began to fall. The rain turned to snow.

The snow melted. The sun shone so brilliantly that the windows blazed like fire. Then there was a moment of absolute stillness in the deserted street, before a huge wind pulled through that part of the city like a beast dragging its prey behind it.

Abel Darkwater braced himself in the doorway and consulted his pocket watch. The hands were spinning wildly, and he could see from his Annometer that Time was lurching backwards and forwards in short bursts, like a learner driver crashing the gears.

The Annometer was another of his own inventions. This one told him whether or not Time was slipping. Even before the time troubles had begun, Darkwater had noticed that in certain places Time could slip. People who experienced that strange feeling of going backwards or forwards in Time were sometimes right. Time slipped its gears occasionally and went into reverse, then it could lurch forward. Now this was happening so fiercely that everyone could feel it. But it had always happened here and there.

The Time Tornado hit, and a whole building across the street was torn from its foundations and carried up into the air, like a child throwing a doll’s house. Darkwater watched with interest as the occupants of the building waved wildly out into the air, shouting for help. There was no one who
could help them. The house disappeared into a black cloud.

Abel Darkwater studied the gap opposite him in the street. It was not a gap like a bomb or an explosion would make, but more like the house had been cleanly sliced away from the ground by a knife.

Darkwater checked the Annometer. It was registering 2060. The wavering images of two buildings appeared in outline in the now vacant plot. Since the future was not fixed it was not possible to see what would definitely happen in 2060, but possibilities of happening could be seen. The first possibility was a stainless steel tower. The second possibility was a museum called the Time Museum. Underneath them both he thought he could see the outlines of a children’s playground with swings and slides. He smiled. That was a very faint possibility indeed.

There was another rending crack in the sky, and to Abel Darkwater’s surprise, books began to rain down on the street. He ducked under his lintel to avoid being hit on the head, then he stepped out to pick up the nearest volume. It was old and leather bound. He read the spine:

THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES by Charles Darwin.

Hmmm …

March 17
^th
1859. John Samuel Martin, a bookseller of Charing Cross, London, was walking to dinner with a book under his arm when a great wind of the day snatched it from his fingers and flew it into the air. To his surprise it did not seem to fall back to Earth, which is against the laws of gravity
.

Consulting his Annometer, Darkwater realised that Time was behaving differently today. It was like a child throwing a tantrum. It had taken a book from the past, and hurled it into the future. It had taken a house, and hurled it – who knew where?

As he stood in the street, indifferent to the chaos around him, he said out loud, to himself, ‘This hasn’t happened before.’

‘Is Before a Time or a Place?’ said a voice, silky and soft and edged with some harder material.

Darkwater turned round. He was taken aback, and he was displeased.

‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’

‘I rather hoped it would be for ever,’ said Abel Darkwater.

‘If there is such a thing,’ said Regalia Mason.

And there she was – in her white suit and white shoes, her long blonde hair simply tied back. Only her eyes were as dark as he remembered them.

Abel Darkwater switched off his Annometer.

‘Still using your Home Inventions?’ said Regalia Mason, in a voice full of sympathy. ‘Here, try this. It’s only a prototype, of course.’

Regalia Mason took out a sleek black box, about the size of an Ipod, and pressed the buttons. ‘Who was it you were trying to find?’

‘I’m not trying to find anyone!’ snapped Abel Darkwater.

‘Oh, pardon me,’ said Regalia Mason. ‘I had the distinct impression that you were.’

‘I am following the Time Tornado. That is all.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Regalia Mason. ‘I flew in from New York this morning. I have a meeting with the Committee.’

‘At Greenwich?’

‘At Greenwich. They are very concerned about these distortions in Time. The public don’t like them at all. It seems you may need my help.’

‘I certainly don’t,’ said Darkwater.

‘The Government does. They need to get Time back under control. To do that they need money and they need expertise. That means America.’

‘When I think that you were once a colony,’ said Abel Darkwater.

‘I was never anyone’s colony,’ said Regalia Mason.

Abel Darkwater looked at her with dislike. ‘Are you still running your little business?’

‘Well, I’m not selling clocks and watches, if that’s what you mean.’ She glanced briefly into the windows of the shop. ‘Time to move on, don’t you think? See you later, alligator.’

Tall, elegant, unperturbed at the sight of overturned cars and smashed windows, Regalia Mason walked briskly away.

Abel Darkwater watched her. There was no reason at all for Regalia Mason to be walking past his shop that morning. In any case, she was not the kind of woman who walked anywhere.

All through the night he had been thinking about the hypnosis, and how Silver could not take him further, and how
she claimed to have had no knowledge of the Timekeeper at all. He did not like the child but he was sure that she usually told the truth. There had been a memory – he had found it – but something or someone had blocked that memory, and done it so powerfully that even Abel Darkwater had not been able to recover it from its hiding place.

Something

or

someone.

A black Bentley Continental drove silently past him and pulled up a little way down the street. Regalia Mason got in. She did not look back.

Darkwater felt something pressing against his chest. It was his Warning Signal. He took it out. DANGER, it flashed in red number nines. DANGER.

In New York City the tops of the buildings tear the sky. When the snow falls the tops of the buildings look like mountain peaks. The most important people in the city live and work as high as they can on their man-made mountains. When they want to travel, a helicopter lands on the roof and carries them away, just as enchanters on glass mountains whistled for eagles.

Regalia Mason had an office in a part of New York City called Tribeca. She was so high up that the clouds sometimes snowed outside her window while lower buildings were still in sunshine.

In her vast white office she gave orders to people who had never seen her. People knew her name and they were afraid of her, but only a very few knew what she looked like.

She was beautiful.

And cold.

Regalia Mason was the Chief Executive and President of a company called Quanta. Quanta made its money by only selling things that people had to buy – like air and water and oil. Whatever was in short supply, Quanta sold. Sold it very expensively. Sold it to people who could not afford it. Sold
the Earth and the stars and the sun. Yes, they had even sold stars to rich men worrying that Earth was too full, and they had sold solar energy to people who had run out of all fossil fuels. They had sold everything out of the Earth – its gold, its titanium, its plutonium, its iridium, its rivers, sea, forests and coral.

Quanta controlled National Parks, where the last few animals lived, and Quanta controlled all the oil reserves of the Middle East.

Quanta controlled most of life, and Regalia Mason controlled Quanta.

There were only a few things that Quanta didn’t control; one of them was Time.

Regalia Mason was sitting in her white office, wearing her white fox-fur coat and gazing out of the window at the flat plain of sunlit clouds.

She was above the skyline, the way you are in an aeroplane, and when she looked out, the clouds seemed solid, like after snow has settled on land. White infinity stretched before her.

On her desk she had an egg-timer made out of white gold, and she idly turned it over and over, and tiny fragments of diamonds fell from one sphere to the other.

Regalia Mason was a scientist. Underneath her white fox-fur, she wore a white coat. She analysed, quantified, measured, and experimented. Her latest experiment was to take Time from people who had too much of it – useless people,
lazy people, unemployed people, children, perhaps, yes, children, perhaps, and sell the Time she had taken from them to people who didn’t have enough of it – important people, rich people, successful people, old people, dying people, if they could afford it.

She had a file on her desk marked Top Secret. Inside were the rough outlines of her new idea.

Time Transfusions.

She was going to sell Time Transfusions.

Faintly, overhead, she heard the whirr of the helicopter blades coming to take her to the airport. She was going to London.

Micah and Silver were sitting cross-legged in the Chamber.

‘The question be this,’ said Micah, puffing on his long clay pipe. ‘Be you the Child with the Golden Face?’

‘Who’s she?’ asked Silver, who had told Micah everything she knew about everything.

‘There be a prophecy to do with the clock, the Timekeeper, but there also be a story about the clock that you know not.’

‘Tell it to me … please,’ said Silver. Gabriel came quietly out of the shadows and sat down by Silver, listening to what Micah had to say.

‘There dwelled a man in Yorkshire, by the name of John Harrison, who made clocks. His life’s work lay to solve the matter of longitude at sea, so as sailors could always know their position without having to consult the stars.’

‘What’s longitude?’ asked Silver.

‘Longitude be the angular distance, East and West, from the prime meridian, which is a central line – imaginary, mind – belting the Earth, like a great hoop, from North to South.’

‘Where’s the prime meridian?’

‘Why, Greenwich, child! Greenwich here in London, on the banks of the Thames! Ain’t you never been at sea?’

Silver shook her head sadly and Micah laughed and explained that in the days when he went to sea, Greenwich wasn’t the prime meridian either.