Time and Time Again, page 30
39
STANTON’S CAB CLIP-CLOPPED through the darkened streets from the Pera Palace Hotel and headed down to the dockside area. The last time Stanton had made the journey he’d been in a Mercedes limousine with McCluskey beside him. The memory seemed already strange and distant. He was becoming an early-twentieth-century man.
The cabby spoke a little English and a little German and was inclined to chat, particularly when he heard the address that Stanton was heading for. It seemed that the hospital had only recently been the venue of a terrible double murder. There had been a break-in and a doctor and a night nurse had been killed.
Stanton was a little unnerved. Break-ins happened from time to time of course and they sometimes turned violent. But that one should have occurred in this specific house, Newton’s house, seemed somehow ominous.
He asked the cab driver if he could recall the date.
‘A couple of months ago,’ came the reply. ‘The end of May or the beginning of June … yes, that’s it. The morning of the first of June. I remember it was my wife’s name day.’
Stanton swallowed hard.
The break-in had happened on the morning of his arrival.
He had been there. Just shortly after midnight. The house had been so peaceful and but for the gramophone record so quiet.
Yet now it seemed that had Newton’s coordinates been timed to occur only a little later, Stanton would have stepped from the future into the middle of a violent crime.
His mind went back to the nurse he’d seen, bent over her desk as he’d crept past her half-open door. Had she been a victim? Almost certainly, she had been the only person up. He recalled thinking that she was the first human being he had seen in his new world. Now it seemed that he was also the last person who saw her alive. Except for her killer. Stanton remembered the bearded man he’d surprised at the front door as he dragged the semi-conscious McCluskey out of the house. Not long after that encounter the man must have become the killer’s other victim.
Stanton felt cold. Was it him? Had he brought death with him?
To a doctor and a nurse in Constantinople?
To the Jews of the Russian Steppes? The Socialists of Germany?
The flower girl in Sarajevo? To Churchill? The man so crucial to the salvation of the previous twentieth century but already dead in this one?
Somewhere a bell was chiming. It was 2 a.m.
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
The opening line of Wilfred Owen’s ‘Anthem For Doomed Youth’.
Stanton whispered it under his breath. A reminder of why he had done the things he’d done. Yes, many were dying now, but their numbers were as nothing compared to those who had died before. A whole generation would not now ‘die as cattle’ as Wilfred Owen’s had done. And Stanton would leave his warning in Newton’s cellar lest any future Chronations act in haste to change another century. Stanton wished he had brought the Owen anthology with him to leave in the cellar beside his letter. No document could better demonstrate the appalling human capacity for self-inflicted disaster or show how bad things could really get.
He paid off his cab and walked up the same street that he’d escorted McCluskey along two months earlier. Approaching the same door from which he’d emerged into the early twentieth century.
The house looked completely quiet. Just the same as when he’d left it, apart from the fact that the windows were now barred. He hoped very much they hadn’t added bolts to the door. His skeleton keys wouldn’t help him if they had.
But the door opened and he slipped inside.
He crept along the familiar corridor and past the half-open door. Glancing in he saw that a nurse was sitting at the table as before, but this one was older and grey-haired.
He looked away. He had never been a remotely superstitious man but nonetheless he couldn’t help wondering whether it had been his evil eye that marked that other nurse for death. Fate avenging itself against the efforts of Chronos to cheat it?
He told himself he was being a fool.
Fate? Evil eyes? Ridiculous?
But no more ridiculous than a man breaking into a house in order to visit its cellar in the hope that a hundred and eleven years hence somebody might read the history of a century that never happened.
Stanton crept to the cellar stairs door, unlocked it and made his way down. He moved the wardrobe, unlocked the second door and slipped back inside Newton’s cellar.
It was pitch black but he’d brought his torch and in its bright LED light he could see the footprints he and McCluskey had left, and the mark in the middle of the room where she had lain at his feet. He flashed his torch about; he was looking for the not yet broken chair and the table. His idea was to put his letter on it.
But as he walked further into the cellar, something caught his eye on the edge of his torch beam.
Something dark a little way across the floor.
A line of marks in the dust.
Playing his torch on them Stanton recognized them for what they were. Another set of footprints. Footprints that most definitely had not been there before. Somebody had been in this cellar since Stanton had last been here.
For a moment a sort of panic gripped him as if he’d seen a ghost. It was an unusual sensation for Stanton and he mastered it only with difficulty. His heart had begun to beat furiously; he gulped for breath. He struggled to get a grip of his thoughts. There had to be a logical explanation, and of course there was one.
Those marks must have been made by the intruder. The man who broke into the hospital and had killed the doctor and the nurse. No ghost, just a house breaker.
But why had he come down here?
What was he hoping to find?
Stanton played his torch along this other line of prints. They seemed to lead nowhere. They began at the door and then … stopped. As if the man had entered the cellar, explored it for a few steps and then … disappeared.
Stanton took a step towards the prints, his free hand closing round the handle of the pistol in his pocket. Was the intruder still in the cellar? How could that be? The break-in had happened two months ago.
But if the man wasn’t still there, why did his footprints stop in the middle of the room? Where had he gone? He couldn’t have just evaporated. It occurred to Stanton that billions of people had done exactly that in the century from which he had come. Evaporated into thin air. But those billions had taken their world with them. They had left no footprints.
Where was the man who had left these?
Stanton’s body tensed, as if expecting some furious killer to leap from the darkness as he stared down at the line of marks in the dust.
And then he realized.
Heel – sole – heel – sole.
The footsteps weren’t leading from the door into the middle of the cellar.
They were leading from the middle of the cellar to the door.
The intruder hadn’t made them and then disappeared.
He had appeared and then made them.
40
IT WAS JUST after 7.30 in the morning on what the pre-Liberation calendar had referred to as Christmas Eve.
The year was One Hundred and Three.
Or 2024 in Old World Years.
The dawn was bitter cold. There was a thick mist on the road and the People’s Revolutionary Army road marshals were out in force waving their reflective paddles and their luminous batons.
The PRA was in the process of shifting the whereabouts of its South Eastern Mobile Missile Defence Shield and the frozen morning air of what had once been called Cambridgeshire was thunderous with the roar of diesel engines. The massive missile carriers lumbering across the county took up the majority of the width of the road and the marshals were nervous and aggressive. The tarmac was thick with ice and they didn’t want one of those bad boys skidding off into a ditch.
Stuck between two of the enormous transports, trying to weave a way through, was a Mercedes van which displayed the markings of the Department of Internal Security. Every paddle-wielding squaddie on the road jumped to attention and delivered a flurry of salutes as it passed by. Nobody dissed the Department of Internal Security. Failure to show sufficient respect to any Department of State, let alone the DIS, was considered a failure to show respect to the Party Secretary. And they put you in a camp for life for disrespecting the Party Secretary. If you were lucky.
Inside the van there were four female security officers and one manacled prisoner in the uniform of the Stornoway Gulag. Stornoway was the most notoriously brutal re-education facility in the British Precinct of the USSR. Its uniform was a thick coarse blue overall incongruously trimmed at the wrists and pockets with tartan.
The prisoner was female also, manacled at her hands and feet, her ID number tattooed on the dome of her shaven head. None of the guards spoke. Each of them seemed to be cowering in their respective corners of the van, as if they were trying to get as far away from the prisoner as possible.
Which they were.
Who knew what she could achieve? Even manacled as she was.
She’d throttled guards with her own chains in the past.
She’d killed three of her own babies. Some said she ate one.
She should be killed herself, of course. That was the opinion of the guards.
Shot through her bald tattooed head and dumped in a Hebridean peat bog.
But the Party didn’t kill people. Not at least until it had bent them to its will.
And KT503b678 was still a long way from bending.
Besides, even if they did shoot her through the head, she’d probably just get up again. That’s what people said about KT503b678. That she was immortal. Or perhaps a ghost already. The stories of her numerous escapes were legion. After her last she’d survived in the wild for months. She’d killed a road cop and fed off his body for two weeks. When they found her they had to first deal with a pack of wild dogs she’d tamed. The dogs were all found to have rabies. Maybe she had rabies too. It would explain her madness and her violence.
She had been slated for a full lobotomy after that. All the Stornoway guards had applied for seats to observe the process, but then there had come a surprise stay of mental execution.
The Party wanted her. Or at least some high-up Party guys did. The State Research and Education Facility had requested she be delivered to them for observation. It seemed that the comrade professors had decided to have a look at her.
Why was that, the Stornoway guards had asked themselves as they caged KT503b678 up for transportation. Maybe to find out what could make a person fight so hard. To find out how a conscious brain could continue to resist all the indoctrination and the torture. How it was that a person could survive as an individual against the entire might of the state.
Or maybe they were going to try and clone her. There’d been a lot of rumours about a new army of super-strong cancer-resistant storm-troopers going to occupy the American nuclear rubble. Maybe KT503b678 was the blueprint.
That would make sense.
You wouldn’t want to meet two of KT503b678. Let alone an army.
The Department of Internal Security van finally peeled away from the missile convoy it had got caught up in and headed off towards the State Research and Education Facility which prior to the Glorious Liberation had been known as Cambridge University.
There the four DIS guards gratefully passed their charge into the hands of the Comrade Master of College, who was waiting with his own Security Team.
‘Bind her securely,’ the Master instructed, ‘and take her to the inner cage.’
KT503b678’s limbs were already chained together and now her whole body was wound around with nylon cable lock-ties. She was then carried bodily through the ancient gateway. They carried her past the old porter’s lodge with its machinegun-toting occupant and across the concrete parade ground in the middle of which was a broken waterfall. A crumbling symbol of wasteful bourgeois decadence.
The security detail then made its way into the great stone building that had once been the college chapel. Now, stripped of its turrets, its leaded windows and all its decorative symbolism, it served as the Party meeting room for the Political Purification Committee.
The Comrade Master and three other comrade professors, all dressed in their Party overalls, followed the security team and their struggling prisoner into the hall. Inside, the ancient vaulted space had also been stripped of all previous decoration and was hung instead with red flags and images of the Party leaders.
Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht, the revered fallen heroes of the First Revolution.
Otto Strasser, the original Great Navigator and leader of the Second Revolution.
And his fourth-generation descendant Kurt Strasser, the current Great Navigator.
A large cage stood in the centre of the bare concrete floor.
KT503b678 was deposited into this and the cage securely locked. Then, working through the bars with wire clippers, the guards snipped off her cable ties thus allowing her some freedom of movement. Her limbs, however, remained chained.
The guards were dismissed, leaving KT503b678 alone with the Comrade Master and his colleagues.
‘Comrade KT503b678,’ the Master barked harshly, ‘as a girl you were a Model Communist Pioneer and later the highest-ranking graduate of the People’s Military Academy. You joined the elite Special Forces and served heroically in the battle for New York. Yet you threw all this away to become criminal vermin. Why?’
The prisoner did not reply, merely massaging the raw bloody sores where the manacles had torn at her wrists.
‘I know the answer,’ the Master went on. ‘I never ask a question to which I don’t know the answer. You betrayed the revolution for love. For Petty. Bourgeois. Trivial. Private. Love. Not for the love of the Great Navigator, which is your duty. But the love of one ordinary man. You knew full well that private love is proscribed and yet instead of purging yourself through work and self-denial you embraced this decadent emotion. What is more, you loved an enemy. An American soldier. A capitalist pig. That is why you were sent to a gulag and why when his brat emerged from your womb you were forced to drown it.’
The prisoner spoke for the first time.
‘They drowned my child,’ she said slowly. ‘Not me.’
‘They put it in the sink and held your hands upon it. The flesh that touched it as its half-minute of life came to an end was yours. It was still tied to your body by its cord. You drowned it. Just as you drowned your other babies. The babies of the rapes.’
‘Yes. I drowned those.’
‘Because they were from the seed of your violators?’
‘No. Because I had learnt by then that children of the gulags are better off dead. We are all better off dead and the younger the death the less painful the life that precedes it.’
‘Why then don’t you kill yourself, KT503b678?’
The prisoner sighed. An exhalation of utter sadness that seemed to drift over the high, thick, defensive walls of her ferocious anger. She turned her face upwards. Towards the shadows of the great vaulted ceiling that once had resonated to the music of divine choirs.
‘Death is the only friend I have and I long for its embrace,’ she said, ‘but I will not kill myself.’ Her anger was returning. ‘I will make the Party kill me.’
‘The Party doesn’t kill, KT503b678. It is kind and compassionate. The Great Navigator cares for all his children, even those who have lost their way. The Party doesn’t kill. It educates.’
‘By rape and torture. By killing babies.’
‘Yes. By killing babies,’ and now it was the Comrade Master’s turn to sigh. ‘How can that be?’ His voice was suddenly suffused with sadness. ‘Infanticide as a tool of government? How did we arrive at such a desperate state of affairs?’
He drew up a chair quite close to the cage and sat down on it. His three companions gathered round him as if forming a guard. There was fear on all their faces. Desperate fear. But also a desperate sort of hope.
‘KT503b678, I should like to discuss history with you,’ the Comrade Master said.
‘And I only wish to kill you,’ KT503b678 replied.
‘No, no, you mustn’t kill me,’ the Master went on. ‘We are the same, you and I.’
‘We’re not the same, Comrade Master. I hate the Party from my very soul and you are its creature.’
‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because a man serves something he is its creature. I take a practical view. Since the only way to survive and to live in some modicum of comfort in this world that the Party made is to serve the Party, then of course I serve it. But I am not its creature. I despise it every bit as much as you do. Like you, I hate it from my soul.’
‘Did it murder your babies?’
‘Yes, it did, as a matter of fact. Although my babies were never flesh and blood,’ he replied. ‘My babies were art and culture. Learning. Literature. Paintings and poetry. The many parts of beauty, which is a tender and delicate infant, and the Party killed it before I was even born.’
KT503b678 wasn’t listening any more. She had been subjected to so many and so varied forms of interrogation in the past that she had long since ceased to wonder why the functionaries of the Party asked or said the things they did. Double-think was second nature to them. Besides, she’d spied something at her feet, a screw lost during the construction of her cage. Perhaps she could use it to pick the locks. Perhaps then she could stick it into this Comrade Master of College’s eye and press it through to the brain with her thumb. Then perhaps finally they’d have to kill her and she’d be released. To sleep at last like the man she loved and their baby.
‘But I have seen that infant’s many ghosts,’ the Comrade Master continued. ‘We keep them hidden here. Forbidden manuscripts and pictures, ancient texts and forgotten learning. Secreted deep in shadowy vaults. Squirrelled away in long-forgotten wall cavities. Buried in cobwebbed tombs – I have seen something of what has been lost.’
She had the screw now. Between her toes; she had only to continue to clench them until the point when they freed her arms and then she would have a tool and a weapon. In the past she’d killed and killed again with less resource than that.
