Restoration (13 page)

 
 
 

 

Miles ran along the platform, Carruthers striding alongside. Tom ambled behind. "Come on!" Miles shouted, "Or the bloody thing will leave without us."

  "And that would be a real bummer," Tom mumbled.

  Ghost passengers darted around them, performing that elaborate commuter dance designed to gain a few inches on your fellow passenger. Miles reached the tail-end of the train. A large sticker on the window announced that it was first class.

  "Why not?" Miles said. "May as well grab every inch of illusory luxury we can."

  "One would never travel another way," Carruthers assured him with a smile.

  They climbed through the open door, Miles strolling along the aisle until he found an empty table. Carruthers wedged his pack on the baggage shelf and sat down with a contented sigh. Tom followed a few seconds later, slumping into the corner.

  "I can see you're going to be great company," mumbled Miles. Tom pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  "Are those real?" Miles asked, changing his mind about Tom's value instantly.

  Tom shook one into his mouth. "No, you're dreaming them."

  "I mean: did they come from the real world?" Miles explained. "You didn't find them here?"

  Tom shook his head, scooting the pack across the table to Miles with a flick of his fingers. Miles pulled out a slightly crooked cigarette with all the reverence of a holy relic, sniffing it and stroking it back into shape.

  "You going to smoke it or fuck it?" Tom asked. He lit his own cigarette and held his flickering Zippo out to Miles.

  "You have no idea how much I've been craving one since I got here," Miles explained. "I am a man of addictions."

  Tom didn't reply to that, was too concerned he'd wind up on the subject of drink. He wasn't in the mood for a heart to heart. Wasn't in the mood for much more than climbing under the table and seeing if he could will himself out of existence. He offered the pack to Carruthers.

  "No thank you," the explorer said. "An evening cigar is the limit of my tobacco needs."

  "You don't know what you're missing," Miles enthused, huffing a cloud of smoke into the face of a phantom ticket inspector.

  "Oh to be so easily pleased," Carruthers commented with a smile.

  Tom stretched out on the double seat, letting his legs jut into the aisle.

  "Listen," said Miles, feeling that they should build a relationship with the man, "if you want to talk about…"

  "I don't."

  "Okay, but, you know, if you did…"

  "I don't."

  "Fine."

  Carruthers raised his eyebrow at Miles but wouldn't be drawn into the attempts at conversation. There was a loaded moment of silence, the sort that can reduce a guilty man to tears and confession. Try as he might, Miles couldn't bear it for long.

  "So what do you do for a living?"

  "Play piano."

  "Oh! Cool… like in a band or something?"

  "A bar."

  "Right, and that keeps you in the essentials does it?"

  "The essentials come free with the job, kind of why it suits me."

  "Right." Miles felt like an irate driver, stuck behind the wheel of a car with a flat battery. There was just no way of getting this conversation turning over. "I was in antiques." Tom gave a disinterested nod.

  Miles decided to give up, Tom would either open up or he wouldn't. Carruthers had removed his battered journal from the hip pocket of his jacket and was contentedly making notes.

  "What are you writing about?" Miles asked.

  Carruthers smiled. He might have known that Miles would shift his attention to him.

  "I am chronicling our trip," he said. "One never knows, on my return to the correct time and place there may be a book in it."

  "Weird book," said Miles. "I'd read it."

  He smoked the rest of his cigarette and watched the ghostly passengers fill the seats around them. A translucent woman fought to cram a holdall in the overhead rack, Miles stood up, meaning to help before remembering how pointless it would be. A pair of business men occupied the table across from them, dropping their briefcases onto the spare seats to dissuade anyone else from sitting down. Miles watched an elderly lady shuffle her way along the aisle. A small terrier in her arms matched her fur hat. She looked around at the empty seats, eyeing her fellow passengers with the sort of open disapproval ladies of a certain age reserve for absolutely everyone else in the world. She marched over to their table and sat directly on his lap.

  "For fuck's sake," Miles moaned, shifting around inside the ethereal woman. Her little terrier stared at him and began to bark. "Little shit…" Miles involuntarily lashed out as the dog made to nip him on the nose. "The thing's not even real, how come it can see me?"

  "Or sense you." Carruthers added, scribbling an excited note in the margin of his notebook.

  "I'll put that pencil
in
you in a minute," Miles snapped, irritated. The dog continued to bark, the noise muted, one step removed from their reality, but loud enough to be annoying. The rest of the passengers clearly thought so too as, one by one, they began to complain. The elderly lady scrunched up her face and basked in her unpopularity. After a few moments – perhaps realising her position was untenable – she stood up and marched out of the carriage, the dog straining over her shoulder to continue barking at Miles.

  "So," said Tom, removing another cigarette from the pack, "you're good with animals then?"

  "Normally," Miles replied, "it's just illusory ones that don't like me."

  "Fascinating isn't it?" asked Carruthers. "They're clearly not quite as illusory as we had imagined!"

  "Fascinating." Tom choked off his lopsided curls inside a large flat cap he'd found at the station, yanking the brim down over his eyes. "I reckon I'll think about it quietly to myself." He slouched back, getting as comfortable as it was possible to be – which wasn't very – and sucked on his cigarette.

  "Don't worry," said Carruthers, "from our experience the journey is unlikely to be long."

  "Cool."

  Carruthers looked baffled for a moment and then nodded. "Splendid, two travelling companions who speak an almost alien language to me, what fun we'll have."

  Tom's lips curled into a smile around the tip of his cigarette. "Just chill daddy-o, everything's copacetic. You'll get the skinny on my jive talk after we've been groovin' a little."

  "I can speak upwards of six languages," Carruthers sighed, "including classical Greek and Latin…"

  "Oolcay orfay ouyay anmay," Tom chuckled.

  Carruthers threw his hands in the air. "I give up!"

  "Ytray otnay otay ebay ootay uchmay ofway anway assholeway." Miles said to Tom, not to be outdone in Pig Latin.

  Tom gave another smile. "I'll try."

  "Have you both gone completely mad?" Carruthers asked. "Am I suffering from some unfortunate mental condition that has rendered all speech utterly incomprehensible?"

  "You should be so lucky," said Miles as the train began to slow down. The darkness outside the windows fell away revealing an old-fashioned street outside. It was night and the lights of one of the nearby buildings did their best to beat away the shadows with flashes of green and red.

  "Rosie O'Grady's Goodtime Emporium," Carruthers read, looking at the sign. "Please tell me that's not what it sounds like."

  "I doubt it somehow," Miles replied, lifting Carruthers bag down for him, "they don't tend to be quite as brazen in their advertising."

  "In America," Carruthers replied, "one never knows."

  They clambered off the train, concerned to discover it had come to a halt in the middle of the street. "I do hope nobody's watching…" said Carruthers, gesturing for the other two to be quick.

  "If they are then Rosie's not doing her job," Tom replied.

  "It's just a bar," said Miles, walking towards it.

  "No such thing as 'just' a bar in my opinion," said Tom. "Let's wet our whistles shall we?"

  "Shouldn't we figure out where we are first?" asked Carruthers

  "Church Street," said Tom. "Read the signs, explorer boy."

  He dashed inside, Miles and Carruthers having little choice but to follow.

 

 

Inside the place was done out in a predictably retro style. Miles found himself thinking of New Orleans Riverboats and clean-suited cowboys.

  "Well," said Carruthers, "America hasn't changed much."

  "It's retro," Miles explained, "designed to look older than it is."

  "Then it seems I'm not the only one with misgivings about your brave new future."

  Tom made a beeline for the bar, so enthusiastically in fact that he nearly knocked a man over who was on his way out.

  "Sorry, man," he said, grabbing the guy and steadying him on his feet. "Got a thirst on me that could kill a camel, y'know?"

  "No harm," the man said, a short and round fellow who looked like he might do something in real estate. Tom thought he had the sort of fawn suit and thick moustache that just screamed "realtor".

  "Buy you a drink?" asked Tom. "Just to show there's no misgivings."

  "No need, honestly," the man replied, "I have a bitch of a day tomorrow, stayed too late as it is."

  "What do you do?" Tom asked.

  "I'm in property," the man said. Tom grinned, he still had his eye. "Ted Loomis… of Loomis Rentals?" he had the expectant air of a man who thinks he's a much bigger fish than he really is. "Say, let me give you a card."

  "That would be cool," Tom said, beckoning Miles and Carruthers over.

  "God damn it," Loomis whined, rifling through his pockets, "some son of a bitch has had my wallet."

  "No!" said Tom, his face a perfect mask of disgust. He started looking around. "Did you see anyone suspicious?" he introduced Miles and Carruthers. "Hey guys, some bastard's just helped themselves to this guy's wallet. My friends," he said to Loomis, "Roger Carruthers, the explorer? And Miles Caulfield, one of the biggest antiques dealers in Europe. We're here on a bit of business. This is Ted Loomis," he said to Miles and Carruthers, "of Loomis Rentals no less."

  "My condolences on your property, good sir," said Carruthers, "if we can assist in catching the rogue then consider us at your service."

  "Kind of you fellers but whoever took it's likely long gone."

  "Yeah," said Miles, "not going to hang around here is he?"

  "Look," Tom insisted, "let me get you that drink. Just a quick measure of something to take the edge off. I'd feel bad letting you just wander off."

  Loomis was certainly a man who liked a drink. Besides, you didn't meet two well-connected Brits every day, there might even be a bit of business in it. The chatty guy didn't look like much, tatty suit and flat cap, and that hair hadn't seen a pair of scissors for a summer or two. Still, these bohemian sorts were often loaded. Probably an artist or something, one of those weird bastards who threw paint at a wall and called it a masterpiece. "Hell with it," he said, "I'll have a whisky and soda if you insist, just a small one though."

  "Great!" said Tom. "You guys grab a table and I'll get us watered."

  "Erm… I'll have a beer," said Miles, "you know, in case you were wondering." He wandered off towards an empty table, Loomis following behind.

  "I don't suppose they might have a sherry?" asked Carruthers

  "No, I don't suppose they might. Have a man's drink for Christ's sake."

  "Ah… well, might as well go native I suppose."

  "When in Rome…"

  "Mind the lions, yes… I shall try one of those Harvey Wallbangers if I may. That sounds masculine enough."

  Tom rolled his eyes. "Harvey Wallbanger it is. Now go and find out whereabouts we need to head to."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Why do you think I was making friends with the guy? He's local… find out whereabouts it is that Chester turns up."

  "You're sharper than I had given you credit," Carruthers smiled. "Rest assured I shall not underestimate you again."

  "Cool… I think."

  "I take it you have enough money to cover the bill?"

  Tom pulled Ted Loomis' wallet from his trouser pocket and smiled appreciatively at the thick wad of notes inside. "More than enough," he said. "Take a seat, I'll bring 'em over."

 

 

It took Tom a little while to arrive with the drinks. He had been slightly, though not
hugely,
delayed by the triple bourbon he had necked at the bar – just to give him a little step up the ladder as it were – that and the fact that he wanted to transfer Loomis' money and cards into his own wallet. No need to take too many risks, after all. He dropped the now empty wallet into the open purse of a loud-mouthed creature whose appetite for the cocktail menu seemed matched only by her lust for the barmen who tirelessly poured them for her.

  By the time he arrived at the table Loomis had regained his confidence and was regaling Miles and Carruthers with thrilling adventures in the world of real estate. They both looked about thrilled enough to kill him.

  "Oh hey!" Loomis said. "Here he is, the man with the provisions."

  "Damn right," said Tom, placing the drinks on the table, "here's to hairs on your chest."

  Carruthers raised an eyebrow at that but was used to the conversation enough by now not to take it too literally. "Our new friend here has been telling us about a construction project he's involved in that may be of interest," he told Tom.