Time Travel Omnibus, page 1141
“Bollocks. Temporal, fourth dimensional bollocks,” John muttered as he selected a letter from his tablet that was written eighteen hundred years ago—one sent by a soldier stationed on Hadrian’s Wall to his girlfriend in Rome; the disgruntled spear-carrier complained bitterly about his cold feet and asked her to send thicker socks.
John Salvin tried to dismiss the TV show’s frivolous time travel experiment from his mind. He didn’t succeed. Instead, he began to wonder, What if . . .
Five
Five years ago, John used his phone to video Kerry and Laurel when they walked toward the four-seater aircraft. Even though he’d watched the clip hundreds of times before, he replayed those haunting images yet again on his phone as he sat at the kitchen table to eat dinner. The recording lasted just nineteen seconds. Eventually, he’d come to refer to this poignant little film as the “Parting Shot”. Whenever he watched the video, which forever preserved his final view of Kerry and Laurel, he would study their every gesture, every movement, every smile. Therefore, the screen completely held his attention when he touched “play”. With each repeat viewing, he’d suck in a pained lungful of air as if he watched it for the very first time . . . because there walked Kerry and Laurel again: two living human beings; mother and daughter looking so much alike with the same blonde hair and excited smiles. As the pair followed the pilot to the aircraft, he could tell they were eager to see Sognefjord from the air. Behind them, lay a wilderness landscape, mountains soared into a clear blue sky.
At the plane, both turned and waved; Kerry had the new pink camera in her hand, and she called out happily: “We’ll be back by one. See you then.”
A second later, both had climbed into the plane; that’s when the Parting Shot faded to black, and John’s heart, as always, gave a sickening plunge, because he remembered how he’d caught his last glimpse of his wife and daughter on that fateful day, and he knew only too well that he’d be with them no more.
Four
The woman spoke softly: “Dear Tomorrow. My name is Kamana Banerjee. Three years ago, my husband died when he was shot by a stranger. Murad Banerjee was a good man who loved me so much. This will appear selfish of me, because nobody deserves to die, and all of us wish to save the lives of people we love, but I am sending this message to you in the future to let you know that I intend to join the vigil on Mount Snowdon. I am begging that you not only appear to us on the mountain, but you will take me back to that day in London when my husband was killed. I wish with all my heart to arrive just five minutes before he was murdered. Please give me a chance to save Murad.”
John Salvin had watched the video at least a dozen times on the Impossible, Isn’t It? website. Later, he’d paced the lawn and swore at himself for even entertaining the notion of doing something similar. After that, he’d held a photograph of his wife and daughter in his hands and wept.
Okay, he’d make himself look ridiculous. Work colleagues would be embarrassed for him. Strangers might ridicule him in the street. Of course, none of those scenarios might actually happen. His videogramme might not even be chosen for the programme’s website, and highly unlikely to be aired on tomorrow’s episode. Nevertheless, he recorded his message anyway.
“Dear Tomorrow,” he began. “I want to hitch a lift in your time machine, too. My wife, Kerry, and my daughter, Laurel, disappeared five years ago. The plane they were travelling in vanished during a sightseeing trip in Norway.”
Yes, okay, so he’d become the proverbial drowning man clutching at straws on the water. Yet this question had started to obsess him: What if the time travel experiment is a success? John knew that he’d eagerly grab at the rarest of chances to save the two people he loved most in the world.
The show’s producers disabled the comments facility on their website when individuals began to post malicious or downright bizarre responses to the videos:
Murad Banerjee was blasted by assassins from the future cos he’s a fuckin’ terrorist. Him and his bitch were going to nuke London.
And: Salvin’s wife isn’t dead. She shacked up with the pilot man, right?
And this one: They were all transfigured by higher beings: *STENDEC*
Val Garner, presenter of Impossible, Isn’t It?, had read these comments, and others, including one that accused John Salvin of murdering his family, and then lying about the missing aeroplane. Val promptly emailed the director: Thank God, we’re going to broadcast from the top of Snowdon, otherwise we’d have all kinds of idiots turning up to spoil thing. BTW I’m still SERIOUSLY worried about interference from the public—can we close footpaths to the summit?
Be sure to tank-up-your-tum at Pete’s Eats in Llanberis. It’s going to be a LONG day!!!
Three
Brothers can reach the essential point of a conversation with a speed that might appear brutal to others. When Robert Salvin visited his brother he immediately asked this question: “Why are you torturing yourself?”
“I’m not.”
“You are, John. Just because the plane was never found doesn’t mean that Kerry and Laurel, or even the pilot, are still alive.”
“I never said they were.”
As Robert followed John into the lounge he sighed. “But, deep down, you believe that somehow they survived.”
“The programme’s just about to start.”
“You have to accept that Kerry and Laurel are dead.”
“Don’t nag, Robert.”
“You’re a young man for God’s sake. Find another wife. Father another child.”
John said nothing. On television, the opening credits rolled for Impossible, Isn’t It? As applause from the studio audience faded Val Garner smiled into the camera. “Good evening. Tonight we’ll present our selection of messages that will be preserved for viewers in the distant future. So, if you’re watching this programme a hundred years from now, or a thousand years from now, I’d like to give you a very warm welcome. And if you have that time machine please, please visit us in person on Saturday, the tenth of July—we will be eagerly awaiting your appearance.”
Robert harrumphed. “We’re always seeing objects as they were in the past. We never see the moon as it is now—”
“I’d like to hear the television.”
“It takes one and a quarter seconds for moonlight to reach the earth. Most stars are thousands of light-years away, so we’re seeing them as they were thousands of years ago.”
“Robert, you asked to watch this programme with me. Now you’re talking over it.”
“I don’t want you to entertain unrealistic hopes for the experiment. It’s just a novelty cooked up for television. So . . . any chance of a beer?”
“Be my guest.”
Robert paused in the doorway. “You’re my brother. I’d hate for you to be disappointed when this experiment on Mount Snowdon is a flop, as it inevitably will be.”
“Shush. They’re starting to show the videogrammes.”
Robert grunted his distaste as he headed for the kitchen. Meanwhile, John kept his focus on the TV. First of all, some comical videos were broadcast; these were the ice-breakers to settle the viewer in for more thoughtful recordings. Soon Robert was back with a glass of beer.
John pointed at the screen. “I’ve seen this one before. That woman’s husband was murdered. He only went into a fast-food shop to ask for directions.”
On screen, a dark-haired woman looked deep into the lens. “Dear Tomorrow. My name is Kamana Banerjee. Three years ago, my husband died when he was shot by a stranger. Murad Banerjee was a good man who loved me so much.”
Robert’s grim expression stated clearly enough that he didn’t approve of the programme. Nevertheless, he remained silent, although the next face that flashed up onscreen startled him so much that beer slopped from the glass on to his lap.
A familiar voice came from the TV. “Dear Tomorrow. I want to hitch a lift in your time machine, too. My wife, Kerry, and my daughter, Laurel, disappeared five years ago . . .”
“My God,” Robert gasped in amazement. “They picked you. They actually picked you!”
Two
John heard the voice of old on the phone—a voice that managed to interweave sighs of disappointment as his brother, Robert, criticized what he identified as yet another of John’s fatally flawed plans. “So you’re going to prance up to the top of Mount Snowdon? You’re actually going to stand in front of TV cameras so everyone in the country can see you make a damn fool of yourself?”
“Robert—”
“You do realize that crap will be broadcast live? This ridiculous time travel experiment’s going to be an embarrassing fiasco.”
“Robert, what’s the harm in trying?”
“The harm? You’ll be harmed, John. Do you know why? Everyone in the country will be laughing, as you stand there on the bloody mountain, hoping that A) a time machine is going to land from the future; B) that you’ll hitch a ride back five years ago; and C) that somehow you’re going to stop Kerry and Laurel from boarding a plane which is going to vanish into the sea. God above, John, get real. Quit this fantasy; you’re becoming pathetic.”
“Ever since we were boys you hated me having something you didn’t.”
“Rubbish.”
“You always took my toys off me. I’m not letting you take this away.”
After hanging up on his brother, John watched the video clip that he’d drily named the Parting Shot, which captured those final images of Kerry and ten-year-old Laurel as they walked toward the waiting aircraft. When the ritual was over John took a walk through the village of Llanberis that nestled between a lake and the foot of Mount Snowdon. A cloudless July evening rendered the summit clearly visible.
Immediately after his videogramme had been screened on Impossible, Isn’t It? he’d been telephoned by a production assistant, who’d invited him to take part in the live broadcast. Apparently, John’s video was one of thousands uploaded; however, he and just another eleven people had been selected to take part in the televised vigil, which would take place tomorrow evening. The man had explained to John how the minutes would be dramatically counted down to zero hour at nine p.m. That was the moment when everyone hoped the time machine would appear. “Of course, this is a tongue-in-cheek experiment,” the man had confessed. “If time machines are invented in the future, why haven’t we seen them already? After all, the Titanic’s passengers could have been warned, couldn’t they? Someone could have shot Hitler.” When John suddenly went quiet, as he wondered if the entire programme was a practical joke on the viewing public, the man interpreted the silence as another concern. “Don’t worry about the cost. Everyone taking part in the show will be booked into a hotel in Llanberis. We’re covering travel expenses, too. Now, any questions?”
John Salvin rested both hands on top of the stone wall as he watched the stream flow by. With it being such a warm evening, people were sipping drinks on the hotel lawn. He, however, preferred the solitude of the lane that ran beside the stream. Besides, here he enjoyed a little time travel moment all of his own, because scratched there on the wall were the names of visitors to Llanberis from the past. The oldest was a Billy Smith, RN, who’d carved 1913 after his name. Billy must be long in his grave; yet his personal message to the future had survived, stating clearly that he’d stood here next to the stream in the year before the start of World War I.
“You look as if you’re asking yourself if you’re doing the right thing.”
At the sound of the voice he turned to see a woman with long, black hair.
“Mrs Banerjee?”
“We recognize each other from our videogrammes, don’t we, Mr Salvin?”
“Seeing as we’re both part of what’s supposed to be the greatest experiment of all time then you best call me John.”
“I’m Kamana.”
Smiling, they shook hands. After that, they stood in the evening sunshine, chatting about what the production team had planned.
“Have they told you much about the vigil?” Kamana asked.
“Not much, other than we head up the mountain tomorrow, and that twelve of us were chosen because of our messages.”
She flicked back her long hair. “Then we wait for zero hour.”
“While being shown live on primetime television. Nervous?”
“You mean, am I afraid of being made a fool of?” She shook her head. “If there is a billion-to-one chance I can somehow save my husband retrospectively, as it were, then I will do whatever it takes.”
“It’s strange. My head says nobody will miraculously appear from the future. But my heart’s whispering: Maybe, just maybe.”
“Look, more members of our team.” Kamana nodded in the direction of the High Street where a woman pushed a fragile-looking teenager in a wheelchair. “The girl is Wendy Matlock. Her grandmother asked for drugs to be sent back from the future to cure a terminal illness.”
“I have a terrible feeling about tomorrow night when we hit zero hour.”
“You mean if the experiment should fail?”
“I’m terrified it will be a success. Imagine if people arrive from a thousand years in the future? Nothing in this world will ever be the same again.” John lightly ran his fingers over names etched into the wall by individuals who were probably dead by now. John’s fingertips tingled—he could almost sense the hopes and fears enshrined in the hearts of those who’d stood here before him, and chosen to mark their presence here.
“John . . . John Salvin!”
John turned to see a middle-aged man running down the lane. His face streamed with sweat and he was clearly anxious.
The man stopped ten paces short of them. “John Salvin?” he panted.
“Yes.”
“Thank God I’ve found you! I’ve arrived a day early.”
“What?” An emotional electricity snapped along John’s spine.
“I’m here a day early.” The man sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m from the future.”
Kamana’s dark eyes were wide with shock.
The stranger beckoned. “John, hurry. I’ve brought your daughter with me.”
“My daughter?” John felt as if the ground had opened beneath him.
“Yes, Laurel’s with me. Your daughter, Laurel! The one who disappeared! For God’s sake, hurry! I can only keep her here for a few more minutes.” He ran back up the hill, shouting for John to follow.
John raced after him, his heart pounding wildly. He’d run about a hundred paces or so when the man opened the back doors of a van, parked beside the lane.
“Hurry!” shouted the stranger. “She’s in here! I can’t hold it back for much longer!”
Laurel’s in there . . . I’m going to see Laurel. She’ll be fifteen now. Will she still recognize me? These thoughts sped through John’s head as he peered into the van’s gloomy interior. God, I don’t want to frighten her . . . she’s come so far . . .
There, in the back of the vehicle, on a grubby mattress sat a teenage girl, hair tightly scraped back into a pony tail, while her eyes resembled large balls of glass in her gaunt face. She stared back at John without speaking.
“Laurel?” This seemed like a dream to John. “Laurel, are you all right?”
“Get in the van,” the stranger ordered. “Get in. Hurry!”
Just then, a figure hurtled into this bizarre scene, and gripped John’s arm.
Kamana roared at the stranger. “Go away! If you don’t, I’ll call the police!”
The man sprinted to the driver’s seat. Seconds later, the van screeched away.
John shook his head in confusion. “That didn’t look like Laurel . . .’ He shrugged, utterly baffled.
“John.” Kamana took his hand. “Forget about those two. They’ll have been trying to get money out of you.”
“He used my daughter’s name. He knew her.”
“No, he didn’t, John. He watched your video on television, just as millions of others have done. He’s a bad man; he was trying to exploit you.”
John allowed himself to be led back to the main street. Only then did he realize that Kamana still held his hand.
“Sorry.” He began to feel his old self again. “For a minute back there, I was in a state of shock.”
“Don’t worry.” She smiled. “We’re getting a lot of attention. Look at all those people.”
John had assumed that Llanberis was always this busy on a Friday evening. However, he realized that the people in the cars, which trundled bumper-to-bumper along the street, from the direction of the mountain railway station all the way to Pete’s Eats, were watching not only John and Kamana with fascination, but the girl in the wheelchair and other individuals whose videogrammes had being broadcast on Impossible, Isn’t It? Many began to wave from the cars.
“My God,” breathed John. “We’re famous, aren’t we?” He waved back. “We’re actually famous.”
Kamana waved, too. “And depending on what happens twenty-four hours from now, we might become the most famous people on the planet.”
One
The next morning John Salvin found Kamana sitting alone in the hotel dining room. The place buzzed with film crew, production staff, invited journalists and those members of the public who had been chosen to take part in the show, and who hoped that futurity would hear their prayer . . . or, rather, their messages from the here and now.
John smiled. “Good morning, Kamana. Mind if I join you for breakfast?”
“Good morning, John. I was hoping you would.”
A waiter appeared for their order. Kamana chose fruit, cereals and tea; John ordered a full cooked breakfast and coffee. Prospects for the day ahead excited him, and that excitement had ignited a ferocious appetite.
