The Map of Time (30 page)

24

When he arrived, Claire was already sitting at one of the small tables at the back of the tearoom, next to a picture window through which the afternoon light filtered onto her hair. Tom gazed at her with awe from the doorway, savoring the knowledge that it was him who this beautiful young girl was waiting for. Once more, he was struck by her fragile demeanor, which contrasted so delightfully with her lively gestures and fervent gaze, and he felt a pleasant stirring inside, in that barren place where he thought nothing would ever grow again. At least he was not completely dead inside, he could still experience emotion. Clutching the parasol in his sweaty palm, he began making his way towards her through the tables, determined to do everything in his power to have her in his arms by the end of the afternoon.

“Excuse me, sir,” a young woman on her way out of the tearooms waylaid him, “might I ask where you acquired those boots?” Taken aback, Tom followed the woman’s eyes down to his feet.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw he was wearing Captain Shackleton’s exotic footwear. He stared at the girl, at a loss what to say.

“In Paris,” he replied.

The young woman appeared content with his reply. She nodded, as if to say such footwear could only come from the birthplace of fashion. She thanked him for the information with a friendly smile and left the tearoom. Tom shook his head and, clearing his throat like a baritone about to walk out on stage, continued across the room towards Claire, who had not yet noticed him and was gazing dreamily out of the window.

“Good afternoon, Miss Haggerty,” he said.

Claire smiled when she saw him.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, holding out the parasol as if it were a bunch of roses.

“Oh, thank you, Captain,” the girl responded, “but, please, take a seat, take a seat.” Tom sat down on the empty chair, while Claire assessed the sorry state of her parasol with slight dismay. After the speedy examination, Claire relegated the object to the side of the table, as though its role in the story were over. She began studying Tom with that strange yearning in her eyes he had noticed during their first meeting, and which had flattered him even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the character he was playing.

“I must compliment you on your disguise, Captain,” the girl said, after looking him up and down, “it’s truly amazing. You could be an East End barrow boy.” “Er, thanks,” Tom stammered, forcing a smile to disguise his pique at her remark.

What was he so surprised about in fact? Her comment only confirmed what he already knew: if he was able to enjoy the company of this stuck-up young woman for an afternoon, it was precisely because she believed he was an intrepid hero of the future.

And it was precisely thanks to this misunderstanding that he would be able to teach her a lesson, by obtaining from her something which under other circumstances she would never have conceded. He disguised the joy the thought gave him by glancing around the room, taking the opportunity to try to spot one of Gilliam Murray’s possible spies among the chattering customers, but he saw no one who struck him as suspicious.

“I can’t be too careful,” he remarked, turning back to face Claire. “Like I said, I mustn’t draw attention to myself, and that would be impossible if I wore my armor. That’s why I must also ask you not to call me Captain.” “Very well,” said the girl, and then, unable to control her excitement at being privy to a secret no one else knew about, added: “I can’t believe you’re really Captain Derek Shackleton!” Startled, Tom begged her to be quiet.

“Oh, forgive me,” she apologized, her face flushing, “only I’m so excited. I still can’t believe I’m having tea with the savior of—” Luckily, the girl broke off when she saw the waitress coming over. They ordered tea for two and an assortment of cakes and buns. When she had left to fetch their order, they stared at each other in silence for a few moments, grinning foolishly. Tom watched the girl attempt to regain her composure, while he thought of how to steer the conversation onto a more personal footing that would assist his plans. He had chosen the tearoom because there was an inexpensive but clean-looking boardinghouse opposite that had seemed like the perfect venue for their union.

Now all he needed to do was employ his powers of seduction, if he had any, to try to get her there. He knew this would be no easy feat: evidently a young lady like Claire, who probably still had her virtue intact, would not agree to go to bed with a man she had only just met, even if she did think he was Capitan Shackleton.

“How did you get here?” asked Claire, oblivious to his machinations. “Did you stow away on the Cronotilus?” Tom had to stifle a grimace of irritation at her question: the last thing he wanted while attempting to spin a credible yarn that would enable him to have his way with this lovely creature was to have to justify his earlier fabrication. However, he could scarcely tell her he had traveled back in time in order to return her parasol and expect her simply to accept it, as though it were most natural thing in the world for people to run back and forth between centuries on unimportant errands. Luckily, the sudden appearance of the waitress bringing their order gave him time to think up an answer that would satisfy Claire.

“The Cronotilus?” he asked, pretending he knew nothing of the time tram’s existence, for if he had used it to travel back to this century, he would have no choice but to stay there until the next expedition to the year 2000. That was almost a month away, which meant this meeting need not be their last.

“It’s the steam tram we traveled to your century in, across that dreadful place called the fourth dimension,” Claire explained to him. Then she paused for a few moments before adding: “But if you didn’t come here on the Cronotilus, then how did you get here? Is there some other means of time travel?” “Of course, there’s another means, Miss Haggerty,” Tom assured her, assuming that if the girl was taken in by Gilliam’s hoax, that is to say, if she believed time travel was possible, then the chances were that he could make up any method he liked and she would believe it. “Our scientists have invented a machine that travels through time instantly, without the need for tiresome journeys through the fourth dimension.” “And can this machine travel to any era?” the girl demanded, mesmerized.

“Any time, any time at all,” replied Tom casually, as though he were fed up of traveling across the centuries and the creation and destruction of civilizations bored him to tears.

He reached for a bun and munched on it cheerfully, as if to show her that despite all he had seen, he could still enjoy the simplest pleasures of life, such as English baking.

Claire asked: “Do you have it with you? Can you show it to me?” “Show you what?” “The time machine you used to travel here.” Tom almost choked on his bun.

“No, no,” he declared hastily, “that’s out of the question, entirely out of the question.” She responded in a manner that took Tom by surprise, pouting rather childishly and folding her arms stiffly.

“I can’t show it to you because … it’s not something you can see,” he improvised, trying to mollify her anger before it set in.

“You mean it’s invisible?” the girl looked at him suspiciously.

“I mean, it’s not a carriage with wings that flies through time,” he explained.

“What is it then?” Tom stifled a sigh of despair. What was it, indeed, and why could he not show it to her? “It’s an object that doesn’t move physically through the time continuum. It’s fixed in the future and from there it, well … it makes holes we can travel through to other eras. Like a drill, only instead of making holes in rocks … it digs tunnels through the fabric of time. That’s why I can’t show it to you, although I’d like nothing better.” The girl was silent.

“A machine that makes holes in the fabric of time,” she finally murmured, intrigued by the idea. “And you went through one of those tunnels and came out today?” “Yes, that’s right,” replied Tom, halfheartedly.

“And how will you get back to the future?” “Through the same hole.” “Are you telling me that at this very moment somewhere in London there’s a tunnel leading to the year 2000?” Tom took a sip of tea before replying. He was beginning to tire of this conversation.

“Opening it in the city would have been too obvious, as I’m sure you understand,” he said cautiously. “The tunnel always opens outside London, at Harrow-on-the-Hill, a tiny knoll with an old oak surrounded by headstones. But the machine can’t keep it open for very long. It will close in a few hours” time, and I have to go back through it before that happens.” With these words, he looked at her solemnly, hoping she would stop plying him with questions if she knew they had so little time together.

“You may think me reckless for asking, Captain,” he heard her say after a few moments” reflection, “but would you take me back with you to the year 2000?” “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss Haggerty,” Tom sighed.

“Why not? I promise I—” “Because I can’t go ferrying people back and forth through time.” “But what’s the point of inventing a time machine if you don’t use it for—” “Because it was invented for a specific purpose!” Tom cut across her, exasperated by her stubbornness. Was she really that interested in time travel? He instantly regretted his abruptness, but the harm was done.

She looked at him, shocked by his irate tone.

“And what purpose might that be, if you don’t mind me asking?” she retorted, echoing his angry voice.

Tom sighed. He sat back in his seat and watched the girl struggling to suppress her mounting irritation. There was no point in carrying on with this. The way the conversation was headed, he would never be able to coax her over to the boardinghouse. In fact, he would be lucky if she did not walk out on him there and then, tired of his filibustering. What had he expected? He was no Gilliam Murray. He was a miserable wretch with no imagination. He was out of his depth in the role of time traveler. He might as well give up, forget the whole thing, take his leave of the girl graciously while he still could and go back to his life as a nobody: unless of course Murray’s thugs had other ideas.

“Miss Haggerty,” he began, resolved to end the meeting politely on some pretext, but just then she placed her hand on his.

Taken aback by her gesture, Tom forgot what he had been going to say. He gazed at her slender hand resting gently on his among the cups and saucers, like a sculpture the meaning of which he was unable to fathom. When he raised his eyes, he found her gazing back at him with infinite sweetness.

“Forgive my awkward questions, which no doubt you are not allowed to answer,” the girl apologized, leaning delightfully towards him across the table. “It was a very rude way of thanking you for bringing back my parasol. In any case, you needn’t tell me what the machine is for, as I already know.” “You do?” said Tom, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” she assured him with an enchantingly conceited grin.

“And are you going to tell me?” Claire looked first to one side then to the other, before replying in hushed tones: “It’s for assassinating Mr. Ferguson.” Tom raised his eyebrows. Mr. Ferguson? Who the devil was Mr. Ferguson, and why did he have to be assassinated? “Don’t try to pretend, Captain,” Claire chuckled. “There really is no need. Not with me.” Tom began laughing heartily with her, letting out a few loud guffaws to release the tension accumulated during her interrogation. He had no idea who Mr. Ferguson was, but he sensed that his best bet was to pretend he knew everything about the man down to his shoe size and the type of shaving lotion he used, and pray she would not ask anything about him.

“I can’t hide anything from you, Miss Haggerty,” he cajoled, “you’re far too intelligent.” Claire’s face glowed with pleasure.

“Thank you, Captain. But it really wasn’t that difficult to guess that your scientists invented the machine in order to travel back to this point in time in order to assassinate the inventor of the automatons before he could create them, thus preventing the destruction of London and the death of so many people.” Was it really possible to travel back in time in order to change events? Tom wondered.

“You’re quite right, Claire. I was sent to kill Ferguson and save the world from destruction.” The girl thought for a few moments before adding: “Only you didn’t succeed, because we witnessed the war of the future with our own eyes.” “Right again, Claire,” Tom acknowledged.

“Your mission was a failure,” she whispered with a hint of dismay. Then she fixed her eyes on him and murmured: “But why? Because the tunnels don’t stay open long enough?” Tom spread his arms, pretending he was bowled over by the girl’s astuteness.

“That’s right,” he confessed, and with a sudden flash of inspiration, he added: “I made several exploratory journeys in order to try to find Ferguson, but I failed. There wasn’t enough time. That’s why you might bump into me again in the future, only if you do, you mustn’t come up to me because I won’t know you yet.” She blinked, trying to grasp his meaning.

“I understand,” she said finally. “You made those journeys prior to this one, even though you showed up here days afterwards.” “Exactly,” he exclaimed, and encouraged by how much sense this gibberish was apparently making to her, he added: “although from your point of view this would seem to be my first visit, actually it isn’t. I’ve made at least half a dozen other forays into your time before this one. What’s more, this journey, which for you is my first, is also my last, because use of the machine has been prohibited.” “Prohibited?” asked Claire, her fascination growing.

Tom cleared his throat with a gulp of tea, and, emboldened by the mesmerizing effect his words were having on the girl, went on: “Yes, Claire. The machine was built halfway through the war, but when the mission failed, the inventors forgot about their utopian idea of preventing the war before it broke out and concentrated their efforts instead on trying to win it, and invented weapons that could cut through the automatons” reinforced armor,” the girl nodded, probably recalling the soldiers” impressive guns. “The machine was left to rot, though it was placed under guard to prevent anyone traveling illegally into the past and tampering with anything they felt like. Still, I was able to use it secretly, but I only managed to open the tunnel for ten hours, and I have three hours left before it closes. That’s all the time I have, Claire. After that I have to go back to my own world. If I stay here, hero or no hero, they’ll find me and execute me for traveling illegally in time. That means, in three hours from now … I’ll be gone forever.” With these words, he pressed Claire’s hand very tenderly, while inwardly applauding his own performance. To his amazement, not only had he solved the problem of possible chance meetings in the future, but had managed to tell her they only had three hours left together before saying good-bye forever. Only three. No more.