The Time Rip (29 page)

Of course she would try it out. Why bother taking it if not to use? Aware of the huge pickle she could find herself in if she wasn’t careful, she resolved to use it once only, and not go too far in either direction.

It would be better to go back rather than forward, that way she could ensure she didn’t bump into herself, a mind-boggling situation that she didn’t want to think about. In fact, her plan of going to see a film at one of the old cinemas was good. Grinning to herself, she left the little device on the coffee table and went to bed. Time travel could wait until the morning.

1996 was a strange place to visit. Even though Janet had lived through it and knew what to expect, she was still taken aback by how quaint everything appeared to be. There was no question that the little device worked.

She stood on Bayswater Road, looking about. Hands in her coat pockets, she felt her eyes fill unexpectedly at the sight of the old-fashioned cars and shops. The world had moved on far more than she’d realised in twelve years.

Getting her emotions under control, she sought out the old cinema on Chepstow she had gone to as a kid, and looked at the film times. There was a viewing of Independence Day, which might be fun, at 13:30. That gave her a couple of hours to kill.

While wondering what to do next, her feet took her unerringly to Portobello Road and the market. It was doing a thriving trade this Saturday morning. People bustled about among stalls. Plants and flowers jostled for space with clothes and rugs, china and vegetables.

Feeling isolated and anxious for no reason she could fathom, she stopped to gaze at a stall under a huge striped awning. It was selling mirrors. All sizes, large and small. Floor standing to handbag compact. Plain wood framed to ornately gilded. Round, square, hexagonal with blue stones embedded around the frame. Mirrors with bevelled edges; mirrors with pictures painted on the glass so you had to concentrate to see either the image or what they reflected.

They reflected sky, the awning, the crowds, and themselves, over and over. Some were bright rectangles, full of white cloud; others were wedged into corners, making tunnels stretching into green darkness.

She had a crazy moment when she wondered if she were seeing time travel. A world of doorways. Some leading into light and sky, others into dark fearful places, and then a familiar peel of laughter ripped her away from her increasingly confused thoughts and had her whirling around.

Sitting on an upturned crate some distance away, Freya was laughing. She looked about six years old, and was with a group of other kids gathered around an older teen. Money pouch slung around his waist, he was obviously working at the stall and entertaining the group with a story of some kind.

There was some noisy debate and then one of the kids hopped up and tugged at the older boy’s sleeve to gain his attention.

Janet’s heart contracted once and then she inhaled, wrapped her arms around herself and walked resolutely in the opposite direction.

Wandering the market, looking at the stalls, her heart began to slow and she allowed herself to be distracted by the wares for sale once more.

A jewellery stall caught her eye and she realised with another pang that the name was the same as the one on the specialist shop she worked for. She nearly walked away and flinched in her effort to stay still.

John Pearce’s was an exclusive outlet in 2008, selling speciality jewellery made by the original proprietor’s son. She had never met either father or son, but knew the father had passed on some years before she had joined as a sales assistant.

Now she studied the middle-aged man. He had a friendly manner, and was chatting to his fellow stallholder, a comfortable old lady selling china. He was perched behind a table covered in glass boxes inlaid with black velvet and sparkling gems.

For a moment, she wondered if her imagination was getting away from her, but then she took a closer look and saw a small piece of card standing on the tabletop, with the name John Pearce’s written in the same elegant flowing script that she saw every day over the shop in London.

She felt suddenly less alone and some of the original fascination and enjoyment of the trip returned to her. Here was something genuinely fun to do. A small piece of jewellery bought from this little stall, she could wear to work and always keep as a memory of this impossible jaunt through time.

She looked up, smiling warmly. “Mr Pearce?”

“Indeed. May I interest you in something?”

“Hmm, let me see.” She took her purse from her pocket.

At home, she had emptied her small change jar to pick through, looking specifically for all coins dated ’96 and before. There was surprisingly little of it and she had wondered if she would fall at the first fence, but then, at the back of a kitchen drawer stuffed with old utility bills, she had struck gold. A five-pound note dated 1990.

Now she unfolded the note. “Do you have anything for five pounds or under?”

“Why yes, Miss. All these silver rings here on this side are one pound.”

She studied the pieces and settled on a small band with a peculiarly beautiful little amber stone inset. It was a little oversized for her finger but she could easily get it adjusted. As she completed her transaction, she couldn’t help but smile and say, “It was lovely to meet you Mr Pearce.”

A while later, she entered the old theatre cinema with the small ring on her finger and mixed emotions in her heart.

The vestibule was chilly, painted a dark red with a wood parquet floor and a high ceiling. The film was showing in one of the smaller rooms, so she didn’t see the huge grand room in her memory.

Nostalgia was missing from the decay. Paintwork, chipped and peeling, and carpet worn thin. She had expected some bittersweet sensation to engulf her, but the reality was simply grimy and stuffy.

The film wasn’t of the quality she was used to, bearing more resemblance to a home slide show projected onto a white screen. Even her small TV at home was better quality. A smear of dirt on the screen continually distracted, and the film didn’t hold her attention, partly because she’d already seen it, but mostly because she couldn’t get her mind off seeing Freya as a little girl.

She ended up gazing around, wondering what she was doing here. The room was half-empty. A handful of kids sat further up, scoffing popcorn and giggling to themselves. Occasionally, a piece of popcorn would fly across the auditorium, lit like a shooting star in the projection.

She was considering going home when Greg showed up. Feeling relieved, she watched him flip down his chair and settle beside her. Isolation from everything familiar had been getting her down more than she cared to admit, and she welcomed his presence.

“How’s the film?” he asked.

“Not as good as I remembered.” She snuck her hand into the crook of his arm and shifted in her seat so she was leaning into him.

Greg gave her a smile. “They never are. Want to go for a coffee afterwards?”

“I’d rather go to the pub. I think I need to drown my sorrows.” After a pause, she added, “I saw Freya. She must have been six years old. A little girl sitting on an upturned crate and laughing; not knowing what hell lurked around the corner for her.” She sighed. “How can you bear it? I thought it would be fun, an adventure, but it’s more creepy than anything else.”

“I did warn you ‘96 was a bad idea. If you want to play, there are better places to visit, and it helps to go with a friend. Want to stick around for the rest of the film?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Let’s go for that drink.” He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

In the deserted entryway, he pulled a time device from his pocket and flicked them both to his office in 2008.

Janet handed her pilfered device to him without a word. He studied it with a small smile and then chucked it in the top drawer of his desk.

“You weren’t surprised to see me,” said Greg.

“No. I was expecting you, or someone else from your office.”

“I have a lot to learn, obviously.”

A faint smile touched Janet’s face, indicative of the mischief in her mind. “Well, I do think you ought to be a little more careful if you want to keep a lid on the whole thing, which I’m assuming you do.” This last said with a brief sidelong glance up at Greg under her lashes.

“Aren’t you at all concerned that you’re in heaps of trouble for this little stunt?”

“No. Not a bit.”

“Not a— you do realise that you’ve travelled illegally on a stolen device?”

“Well, I don’t know about
stolen
. Borrowed, I feel, is nearer the mark. I didn’t know it was illegal though, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be foolish enough to make a fuss about it, anyway.”

She paused to enjoy the effect her words were having and then added, “After all, you wouldn’t want Daniel to find out about Joan of Arc.”

Greg was stunned speechless for a moment and then exploded, “What do you know about Daniel, or Joan of Arc?”

Janet had guessed at Daniel’s name from Greg’s moniker of Danny boy in his emails and was gratified she had it right. “That Flyboy kissed her in a game of truth or jump, which you were also involved in.”

Greg recovered himself after a glance down at the mischief in Janet’s face and said, “I already figured out you saw me come back from seeing Matt in 1908 yesterday. That’s how you knew where to find the device, and when you rushed back for your glove, you were really going back for the device. You’re the only person I know who could work out everything from seeing me appear once. Anyone else would have denied it to themselves, but how you know about Daniel… Well, the mind boggles.”

“Oh, I probably would have denied all, and thought I needed more sleep, but I’d just got through reading your e-mails.” She gave him a saucy smile. “I don’t like to be kept waiting. I get easily bored.”

Greg gave her a look. “Something to remember.” He paused, eyeing her for a moment, and made a shrewd guess. “You couldn’t grass us up to Daniel anyway, you have no idea who he is or how to contact him.”

Janet smirked. “If it makes you feel better then by all means believe that, but personally I don’t think it would be too taxing to find out who the man is, especially as he seems to be some kind of authority figure here.”

Greg smacked the heel of his hand onto his forehead in mock defeat. “Well, I guess you’re playing with us next time whether you like it or not.”

“An excellent idea. By the way, if I’m to be complicit, I want to know who this feared high up rum-tiddly-poo is anyway.”

Greg managed a bland look. “It’s clearly your turn next on truth or jump, and I’ll be happy to introduce you to Daniel after you’ve played. How did you get into my emails, anyway? It’s all password protected.”

“I was a software analyst, remember?”

“A software
analyst?
No. I didn’t remember, because you didn’t tell me. Thank God the mainframe’s got better security than my laptop.”

“Oh, I’ll lay you odds I can crack that easily enough.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Truly? Buy me a drink then and we’ll talk.”

They wandered down the corridor to the lift, Greg with his hands in his pockets, and Janet wriggling her hand into the crook of his arm and giving a contented sigh.

Martin Johnson sat at Marylebone concourse, gently nursing his rage over what had happened to him. It had been a long day and he had left work early. He idly flicked through a newspaper while keeping an eye on the departures board.

He watched a girl in a short skirt and long boots walk past, coffee in hand and mobile phone clutched to her ear, she was striding along, obviously giving some subordinate hell, demanding figures and firing questions out.