The Map of Time Collection, page 28
“I’m Claire Haggerty, Captain,” she introduced herself, trying to stop her voice from quaking, “and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world.”
Captain Shackleton went on staring at her, ashen-faced, through eyes that had seen the destruction of London, raging fires, and piles of dead bodies, eyes that had seen the most atrocious side of life but had no idea how to cope with this delicate, exquisite creature in front of him.
“There you are, Miss Haggerty!” she heard someone cry out behind her.
Taken aback, Claire wheeled round and saw the guide coming down the steep path towards her. Mazursky was shaking his head disapprovingly but was clearly relieved to have found her.
“I thought I told you all to stay together!” he cried shrilly, as he walked up to her and seized her roughly by the arm. “You could have stayed behind forever!”
Claire turned towards Shackleton to implore his aid, but to her astonishment the captain had gone, vanished as though he had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. Indeed, his departure had been so abrupt that as Mazursky dragged her towards where the others were waiting for them, Claire wondered in all seriousness whether she had really seen him or if he had been a product of her inflamed imagination. They rejoined the group, and before heading back to the Cronotilus, the guide made them get in a line with the marksman at the rear and, visibly irritated, ordered them not to wander off again.
“It’s a good thing I noticed you were missing,” Lucy told her, taking Claire’s arm. “Were you dreadfully afraid?”
Claire sighed and let herself be guided by Lucy like a convalescent patient, unable to think of anything except Captain Shackleton’s gentle eyes. But had he looked at her with love? His speechlessness and bewilderment were definite symptoms of infatuation and suggested that he had. In any era his gaze was the typical sign of being smitten. But even if it were true, what good was it to her if Captain Shackleton had fallen in love with her since she was never going to see him again, she thought, as she passively let herself be helped onto the time tram, as if she had no will of her own. Dejected, she leaned back in her seat, and when she felt the violent judder of the steam engine starting up, she had to stop herself from dissolving into a puddle of tears. As the vehicle shunted through the fourth dimension, Claire wondered how she would endure having to go back and live in her own boring time, forever, especially now she was sure that the only man with whom she could be happy would be born long after she was dead.
“We’re on our way home, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Mazursky, unable to conceal his contentment at nearing the end of that eventful journey.
Claire looked at him with annoyance. Yes, they were on their way home, home to the dreary nineteenth century, and they had not jeopardized the fabric of time. Of course Mazursky was pleased; he had prevented a silly young girl from destroying the universe and avoided the telling-off he would have received from Gilliam Murray had he failed. What did it matter if the price had been her happiness? Claire was so infuriated she could have slapped the guide there and then, even though in the end she realized that Mazursky had only been doing his duty. The universe was more important than the fate of any one person, even if she was that person. She gritted her teeth, trying to curb her irritation at the guide’s beaming face. Fortunately, part of her rage evaporated when she looked down and saw that her hands were empty. Mazursky had not done such a perfect job after all, though she wondered how far a mere parasol could affect the fabric of time.
XXIII
WHEN THE GIRL AND THE GUIDE VANISHED along the steep path, Captain Derek Shackleton left his hiding place and paused for a few moments looking at where the woman had been standing, as though expecting to discover a trace of her perfume or her voice lingering in the empty space, some sign of her presence that would prove she had not been a figment of his imagination. He was still reeling from the meeting. He could scarcely believe it had really happened. He remembered the girl’s name: “I’m Claire Haggerty, Captain, and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world,” she had said, with a charming curtsy. But her name was not the only thing he remembered. He was surprised at how clearly the image of her face was etched in his mind. He could conjure clear as day her pale visage, her slightly wild-looking features, her smooth, shapely mouth, her jet-black hair, her graceful bearing, her voice. And he remembered the look in her eyes. Above all, he remembered the way she had gazed at him, enraptured, almost in awe, with mesmerized joy. No woman had ever looked at him like that before.
Then he noticed the parasol, and he flushed with shame once more as he remembered the reason for the girl dropping it. He went over and carefully picked it up off the ground, as though it were an iron bird fallen from some metallic nest. It was a dainty, elegant parasol that betrayed the moneyed status of its owner. What was he supposed to do with it? One thing was clear; he could not leave it there.
Parasol in hand, he set off to where the others were waiting for him, taking the opportunity to collect himself as he walked. To avoid arousing their suspicions, he must hide his agitation at the encounter with the girl. Just then, Solomon leapt from behind a rock, brandishing his sword. Although he had been daydreaming, the brave Captain Shackleton reacted in a flash, striking the automaton with the parasol as it leapt on him, baying for his blood in his booming metallic voice. The blow glanced off Solomon, but it took him by surprise, and he teetered for a few seconds before toppling backwards down a small incline. Clutching the by now rather dented parasol, Shackleton watched his enemy rattling down the hill. The clattering sound came to an abrupt halt as the automaton hit a pile of rocks. For a few moments, Solomon lay stretched out on his back covered in a thick layer of dust thrown up by his fall. Then he tried laboriously to pick himself up, cursing and hurling insults, which the metallic timbre of his voice made sound even more vulgar. Loud guffaws rang out from the group of soldiers and automatons who were looking on.
“Stop laughing, you swine, I could have broken something!” groaned Solomon, amid further guffaws.
“It serves you right for playing pranks,” Shackleton chided him, walking down the incline and offering Solomon a helping hand. “Won’t you ever tire of your silly ambushes?”
“You were taking too long, my friend,” the automaton complained, allowing Shackleton and two others to pull him to his feet. “What the hell were you doing up there anyway?”
“I was urinating,” the captain replied. “By the way, congratulations, that was a great duel. I think we did it better than ever before.”
“True,” one of the soldiers agreed. “You were both superb. I don’t think you performed so well even for Her Majesty.”
“Good. The fact is, it’s much easier to perform when you know the Queen of England isn’t watching you. In any case, it’s exhausting running around in this armor,” said Solomon, unscrewing his head.
After managing to free himself, he gulped air like a fish. His red hair was stuck to his head, his broad face covered in beads of sweat.
“Stop complaining, Martin,” said the automaton with the gash in his chest, who was also removing his head. “At least you’ve got one of the main roles. I don’t even have time to finish off a soldier before I kick the bucket. And on top of that I have to blow myself up.”
“You know it’s harmless, Mike. But if you insist, we can ask Murray if we can switch some of the roles round next time,” suggested the young man who played the part of Captain Shackleton, in an attempt to keep tempers from fraying.
“Yes, Tom. I can play Jeff’s role, and he can play mine,” agreed the man playing the first automaton to fall, pointing to the soldier whose task it was to slay him.
“Not on your life, Mike. I’ve been waiting all week to be able to shoot you. Anyway, after that Bradley kills me,” said Jeff, pointing in turn to the lad concealed inside one of the throne-bearing automatons, who had an S-shaped scar on his left cheek reaching almost up to his eye.
“What’s that?” he asked, referring to what was in Tom’s hand.
“This? A parasol,” Tom replied, holding it up to show the group. “One of the passengers must have left it behind.”
Jeff whistled in amazement.
“It must have cost a fortune,” he said, scrutinizing it with interest. “A lot more than what we get for doing this, for sure.”
“Believe me, Jeff, we’re better off working for Murray than down a mine, or breaking our backs on the Manchester Ship Canal,” said Martin.
“Oh, now I feel a lot better!” the other man retorted.
“Are we going to stay here all day prattling?” asked Tom, slyly concealing the parasol once more, in the hope the others would forget it. “Let me remind you that the present awaits us outside.”
“You’re right, Tom.” Jeff laughed. “Let’s get back to our own time!”
“Only without having to cross the fourth dimension!” echoed Martin, roaring with laughter.
The fifteen men made their way through the ruins, walking almost as if in a procession out of respect for those wearing the automatons’ heavy garb. As they advanced, Jeff noticed a little uneasily how absentminded Captain Shackleton looked. (From now on, as I no longer have to keep any secrets, I will refer to him by his real name, Tom Blunt.)
“I still don’t understand how people are taken in by this fake rubble,” Jeff remarked, trying to draw his friend out of his brooding silence.
“Remember, they’re seeing it from the other side,” Tom responded distractedly.
Jeff feigned a look of noncomprehension, determined to keep him talking so that he would forget whatever it was that was bothering him.
“It’s like when we go to see a conjuror,” Tom felt obliged to add, although he had never seen one himself. The closest he had come to the world of magic had been when he lodged in the same boardinghouse as an amateur magician. Perhaps that is what gave him the authority to go on: “Conjuring tricks dazzle us, they even make us think magic might exist, but if we only saw how they did it, we’d ask ourselves how we could have been so easily fooled. None of the passengers see through Mr. Murray’s trickery,” he said, pointing with the parasol at the machine they were walking past, which was responsible for producing enough smoke to hide the roof and beams of the vast shed that housed the set. “In fact, they’re not even suspicious. They only see the end result. They see what they want to see. You’d also believe this pile of ruins was London in the year 2000 if what you wanted was to see London in the year 2000.”
Exactly as Claire Haggerty had believed, he thought with bitter regret, remembering how the girl had offered to help him rebuild the world.
“Yes, you must admit, the boss has organized it brilliantly,” his companion finally acknowledged, following the flight of a crow with his eyes. “If people found out this was only a set, he’d end up in jail: if they didn’t string him up first.”
“That’s why it’s so important no one sees our faces, right, Tom?” said Bradley.
Tom nodded, trying to suppress a shudder.
“Yes, Bradley,” Jeff reiterated, given his companion’s terse response. “We’re obliged to wear these uncomfortable helmets so the passengers won’t recognize us if they bump into us somewhere in London. It’s another one of Murray’s safety measures. Have you forgotten what he said to us on our first day?”
“Not likely!” Bradley declared, then, mimicking his boss’s melodious, educated voice, he added: “Your helmet is your safe-conduct, gentlemen. Anyone who takes it off during the show will live to regret it, believe me.”
“Yes, and I’m not going to be the one to run the risk. Remember what happened to poor Perkins.”
Bradley whistled with fear at the thought, and Tom shuddered again. The group came to a halt in front of a fragmented skyline of burning rooftops. Jeff stepped forward, found the handle hidden in the mural, and opened a door in among the clouds. As though plunging into the fluffy interior of one of them, the procession left the set, and walked down a passageway to a cramped dressing room. Upon entering, they were surprised by the sound of furious clapping. Gilliam Murray was sprawled on a chair applauding with theatrical enthusiasm.
“Magnifique!” he exclaimed. “Bravo!”
The group looked at him, speechless. Gilliam stood up and walked towards them with open arms.
“Congratulations on a wonderful job, gentlemen. Our customers were so thrilled by your performance some of them even want to come back.”
After acknowledging his clap on the back, Tom moved discreetly away from the others. In the munitions store he left the piece of painted wood covered in bolts and knobs, which with the aid of the blank charges under the automatons’ armor Murray was able to pass off as a lethal weapon of the future, and started to get changed. He needed to leave there as soon as possible, he told himself, thinking of Claire Haggerty and the problem caused by his blasted bladder. He took off Captain Shackleton’s armor, hung it on its hanger, and took his own clothes out of a box marked “Tom.” He rolled the parasol up in his jacket and glanced round to make sure no one had seen him. Murray was giving orders to a couple of waitresses who had entered wheeling trolleys laden with steak and kidney pie, grilled sausages, and tankards of beer, while the rest of his fellow workers had also begun changing.
He gazed warmly at the men with whom chance had obliged him to work: Jeff, lean but strong, cheerful and talkative; young Bradley, still an adolescent, whose youthful face gave the S-shaped scar on his cheek an even more disturbing air; burly Mike with his look of perpetual bewilderment; and Martin, the joker, a strapping redhead of uncertain age, whose leathery skin reflected the ravages of a life spent working out in all weathers. It felt strange to Tom that whereas in Murray’s fictional world they would all have laid down their lives for him, in the real world he was not so sure they would not slit his throat for a promise of food or money. After all, what did he know about them except that, like him, they were penniless? They had gone out drinking together several times; first to celebrate their more than satisfactory debut performance, then to mark the success of the one given in honor of Her Majesty the Queen, for which they had received double wages, and lastly, having developed a liking for these binges, they had gone out carousing to celebrate their third triumphant performance in advance. That riotous spree had ended like the others in Mrs. Dawson’s bawdy house.
But if anything, these revelries had only made Tom realize he should avoid keeping company with these fellows, or they would end up landing him in trouble. With the exception of Martin Tucker—who, despite his fondness for pranks, seemed the most decent—he saw them as a bunch of untrustworthy delinquents. Like him, they lived from hand to mouth, doing odd jobs—although from hearing them speak, it was clear they were not above breaking the law if there was money to be earned. Only a few days before, Jeff Wayne and Bradley Holloway had asked him to play a part in one of their shady dealings—a house in Kensington Gore that looked easy to break into. He had refused to go along, not so much because for the past few weeks he had promised himself to make every effort to earn an honest living, but because when it came to breaking the law, he preferred to act alone: he knew from experience he had more chances of survival if he watched his own back. If you depended only on yourself, no one could betray you. He had slipped into his shirt and begun doing up the buttons when out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilliam coming over. He was so nervous he nearly pulled off one of the buttons.
“I wanted to thank you personally, Tom,” said Gilliam, beaming contentedly and stretching out his hand. Tom shook it, forcing a smile. “You realize none of this would be possible without you. Nobody could play Captain Shackleton better than you.”
Tom tried to look pleased. Was Murray making a veiled reference to Perkins? From what he had heard, Perkins had been the man hired to play Shackleton before him, who when he discovered what Murray was up to, realized his silence was worth more than the salary Murray intended paying him, and he went to his office to tell him as much. His attempt at blackmail had not ruffled Gilliam Murray, who simply told him if he did not agree with the pay he was free to go, adding in a tone of wounded pride that his Captain Shackleton would never have stooped so low. Perkins smiled ominously and left his office, announcing his intention to go directly to Scotland Yard. He was never seen again. Following his crude effort at extortion, Perkins had simply vanished into thin air, but Tom and the others suspected Murray’s thugs had taken care of him before he got anywhere near Scotland Yard. They could not prove it, but they had no desire to put Murray to the test. This was why at all costs Tom had to keep his meeting with Claire Haggerty a secret. If anyone found out that a passenger had seen his face, it was the end for him. He knew Murray would not be content to simply dismiss him. He would take drastic measures, as he had done with poor Perkins. The fact that he was not to blame was irrelevant: his mere existence would be a constant threat to Murray’s scheme, a threat he would have to deal with urgently. If Murray ever found out, Tom would end up like Perkins, however big and strong he might be.
“You know, Tom,” said Gilliam, “when I look at you I see a true hero.”
“I just try to play the part of Captain Shackleton as best I can, Mr. Murray,” Tom replied, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he pulled on his trousers.
Gilliam gave what sounded like a growl of pleasure.
