The Map of Time

‘But everything was under control!’ protested Charles, pretending to be shocked. ‘The actor is an expert with a knife. Besides, I can assure you that without the added encouragement, Andrew would never have shot him. Not to mention that the scar on my cousin’s shoulder will be a constant reminder that he saved his beloved Marie’s life. Incidentally, I liked the idea of employing someone to play a guardian of time.’

‘Wasn’t that your doing?’ declared Wells, taken aback.

‘No,’ said Charles. ‘I thought you’d arranged it . . .’

‘It wasn’t me,’ replied Wells, perplexed.

‘In that case, I think my cousin scared off a burglar. Or perhaps he was a real time traveller,’ joked Charles.

‘Perhaps.’ Wells laughed uneasily.

‘Well, the main thing is it all turned out well,’ concluded Charles. He congratulated them once again on their successful performances and gave a little bow as he said goodbye. ‘And now I really must go or my cousin will start to suspect something. It has been a pleasure meeting you. And remember, Mr Wells, I shall always be one of your most devoted readers.’

Wells thanked him with a modest smile that lingered on his face as Charles’s footsteps faded down the stairs. Then he heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. Hands on hips, he gazed at the time machine, with the fierce affection of a father contemplating his first-born child, and stroked the control panel. Jane watched him, aware that at that very moment her husband was being assailed by an emotion as intense as it was disturbing: he was embracing a dream, a product of his own imagination that had stepped miraculously out of the pages of his book and become a reality.

‘We might find some use for the seat, don’t you think?’ Wells commented, turning towards her.

His wife shook her head – she might have been asking herself what the devil she was doing with such an insensitive fellow – and walked over to the window. The author went and stood beside her, consternation on his face. He placed his arm round her shoulders, and she laid her head against him. Her husband did not lavish her with so much affection that she would pass up this spontaneous gesture, which had taken her as much by surprise as if he had hurled himself from the window, arms akimbo, to confirm once and for all that he was unable to fly. Thus entwined, they watched Charles climb into the cab, which pulled away. They watched it disappear down the street beneath the orange-tinted dawn.

‘Do you realise what you did tonight, Bertie?’ Jane asked him.

‘I nearly set fire to the attic’

She laughed. ‘No, tonight you did something that will always make me feel proud of you,’ she said, looking up at him with infinite tenderness. ‘You saved a man’s life using your imagination.’

PART TWO

Chapter XVIII

Claire Haggerty would gladly have been born into another era if that meant she did not have to take piano lessons or wear insufferably tight dresses, or choose a husband from among an assortment of willing suitors, or carry round one of those silly little parasols she always ended up leaving in the most unexpected places. She had just celebrated her twenty-first birthday, and yet, if anyone had taken the trouble to ask her what she wanted from life they would have heard her reply: ‘Nothing, simply to die.’

Naturally, this was not what you would expect to hear from the lips of a charming young lady who had scarcely embarked upon life, but I can assure you it is what Claire would have told you because, as I have previously explained, I possess the ability to see everything, including what no one else can see, and I have witnessed the endless self-questioning she puts herself through in her room before going to bed. While everyone imagines she is brushing her hair in front of the mirror like any normal girl, Claire is lost in contemplation of the dark night outside her window, wondering why she would sooner die than see another dawn. She had no suicidal tendencies. Neither was she irresistibly drawn to the other side by the call of a siren. Nor was the mere fact of being alive so unbearably distressing that she felt she must end it all forthwith. No.

What it boiled down to was something far simpler: the world into which she had been born was not exciting enough for her, and it never would be – or, at least, that was the conclusion she reached during her nightly reflections. Hard as she tried, she was unable to discover anything about her life that was pleasurable, interesting or stimulating. Even more tiresome, she was compelled to pretend she was content with what she had. The time she lived in was dreary and uninspiring; it bored her to tears. And the fact that she could find no one around her who seemed to share her disenchantment made her feel out of place and out of sorts. This profound inner unease, which inevitably isolated her socially, often made her irritable and sharp-tongued, and from time to time, regardless of whether the moon was full or not, she would lose control and turn into a mischievous creature who delighted in wreaking havoc at family gatherings.

Claire knew perfectly well that these fits of frustration, besides being self-indulgent and futile, did her no good at all, especially at such a crucial time in her life. Her main concern ought to have been finding a husband to support and provide her with half a dozen offspring to show the world she was of good breeding stock. Her friend Lucy used to warn her she was gaining a reputation among her suitors for being unsociable, and some had abandoned their courtship after realising that her offhand manner made her an impregnable fortress. Nevertheless, Claire could not help reacting as she did. Or could she?

Sometimes she wondered whether she did everything in her power to overcome her gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, or whether, on the contrary, she derived a morbid pleasure from giving in to it. Why could she not accept the world as it was? Lucy stoically endured the torments of the corset as though they were some sort of atonement aimed at purifying her soul. She did not mind being barred from study at Oxford and put up with being visited by her suitors in scrupulous succession, in the knowledge that sooner or later she must marry one of them. But Claire was not like Lucy: she loathed those corsets, apparently designed by the devil himself; she longed to be able to use her brain as any man could; and she was not the slightest bit interested in marrying any of the young men hovering around her.

It was the idea of marriage she found most distressing – despite the great progress that had been made since her mother’s day. Then when a woman married she was immediately stripped of all her possessions, even the money she earned from paid employment. The law, like an ill-fated wind, blew everything straight into her husband’s grasping hands. At least if Claire were to marry now she would keep her possessions, and might even win custody of her children in the event of a divorce. Even so, she continued to consider marriage a form of legal prostitution, as Mary Wollstonecraft had stated in her book A Vindication of the Rights of Women - a work that to Claire was as sacred as the Bible. She admired the author’s determined struggle to restore women’s dignity her insistence that women should stop being considered the handmaidens of men, whom science deemed more intelligent because their skulls – and therefore their brains -were bigger: she had more than enough evidence to suggest that such enhanced proportions were only good for filling a larger hat.

On the other hand, Claire knew that if she refused to place herself under a man’s tutelage, she would have no choice but to make her own living, to try to find employment in one of the few openings available to someone of her position: as a stenographer or nurse. Both occupations appealed to her even less than being buried alive with one of the elegant dandies who took it in turns to worship her.

But what could she do if marriage seemed such an unacceptable alternative? She felt she only could go through with it if she were truly to fall in love with a man – which she considered virtually impossible: her indifference towards men was not confined to her dull crowd of admirers, but extended to every man on the planet, young or old, rich or poor, handsome or ugly. The niceties were unimportant: she was firmly convinced she could never fall in love with any man from her own time, whoever he might be, for the simple reason that his idea of love would pale beside the romantic passion to which she longed to surrender herself.

Claire yearned to be overwhelmed by an uncontrollable, violent fervour that would scorch her very soul; she longed for a furious happiness to compel her to take fateful decisions that would allow her to gauge the strength of her feelings. Yet she longed without hope, for she knew that this type of love had gone out with frilly blouses. What else could she do? Resign herself to living without the one thing she imagined gave meaning to life? No, of course not.

And yet, a few days earlier, something had happened that, to her amazement, had roused her sleeping curiosity, encouraging her to believe that, despite first appearances, life was not devoid of surprises. Lucy had summoned her to her house with her usual urgency and, somewhat reluctantly, Claire had obeyed, fearing her friend had organised yet another of the tedious séances to which she was so partial. Lucy had joined in the latest craze to come out of America with the same zeal she applied to following the latest Paris fashions. Claire was not so much bothered by having to make believe she was conversing with spirits as she was by Eric Sanders, a skinny, arrogant young man, who had set himself up as the official neighbourhood medium. Sanders maintained he had special powers that allowed him to communicate with the dead. Claire knew this was simply a ruse to gather together half a dozen unmarried, impressionable girls, plunge them into an intimidating gloom, terrify them with a preposterously cavernous voice, and take advantage of their proximity to stroke their hands and even their shoulders with impunity. The crafty Sanders had read enough of The Spirits Book by Allan Kardec to be able to interrogate the dead with apparent ease and confidence, although he was evidently far too interested in the living to pay much attention to their responses.

After the last séance when Claire had slapped him after she felt a spirit’s all too real hand caressing her ankles, Sanders had banned her from any further gatherings, insisting that her sceptical nature was too upsetting to the dead and hampered his communication with them. At first, her exclusion from Sanders’s supernatural gatherings had come as a relief, but she ended up feeling disheartened: she was twenty-one and had fallen out not only with this world but with the world beyond.

However, Lucy had not arranged any séances that evening. She had a far more thrilling proposal, she explained to her friend, smiling excitedly and leading her by the hand to her room. There, she told her to sit down on a small armchair and be patient. Then she began rifling through her desk drawer. Open on a lectern on the desk lay a copy of Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle. The page showed an illustration of a kiwi bird, an extraordinary-looking creature that her friend was copying on to a piece of paper – tracing its simple, rounded form required no artistic ability. Claire could not help wondering whether, besides looking at the pictures, her friend had troubled to read the book that had become a favourite among the middle classes.

Once she had found what she was looking for, Lucy shut the drawer and turned to her friend with an ecstatic smile. What could Lucy possibly find more exciting than communicating with dead people? Claire wondered. She discovered the answer on reading the leaflet her friend thrust into her hand: communicating with people who had not yet been born. The flyer advertised a company called Murray’s Time Travel, which offered journeys through time, to the year 2000, to witness the battle between automatons and humans that would decide the fate of humanity. Stunned, Claire re-read the leaflet then studied the crude illustrations that apparently depicted the aforementioned battle. Amid ruined buildings, automatons and humans battled for the future of the world with strange weapons. The figure leading the human army caught her eye – the artist had drawn him in a more heroic pose than the others. According to the caption below, he was the brave Captain Derek Shackleton.

Without giving Claire time to collect herself, Lucy explained she had visited the premises of Murray’s Time Travel that very morning. They had informed her that seats were still available for the second expedition, arranged after the success of the first, and she had not hesitated to sign them up for it. Claire looked a little put out, but Lucy did not apologise for having failed to ask her friend’s permission. She went on to explain how they would go about travelling to the future without their respective parents finding out: she knew that if they did they would doubtless forbid them to go or, worse, insist on going with them. Lucy wanted to enjoy the year 2000 without the bore of being chaperoned. She had it all worked out: money would be no object, as she had persuaded her wealthy grandmother, Margaret, to give her the amount they needed to cover the cost of both tickets – naturally without telling her what it was for. She had even enlisted her friend Florence Burnett’s help. For ‘a small fee’, the greedy Florence was willing to send them a false invitation to spend the following Thursday at her country house at Kirkby. And so, if Claire was in agreement, on that day the two of them would travel to the year 2000 and be back in time for tea without anybody being the wiser.

After Lucy had finished her gabbled speech, she looked at her friend expectantly. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Will you go with me?’

And Claire could not, would not – did not know how to – refuse.

The next four days had sped by in a whirl of excitement about the impending trip and the enjoyment of having to prepare for it in secret. Now Claire and Lucy found themselves outside the picturesque premises of Murray’s Time Travel, wrinkling their noses at the stench exuding from the entrance. On noticing them, one of the employees, who was cleaning off what looked like excrement on the front of the building, hastened to apologise for the unpleasant smell and assured them that if they ventured across the threshold with a handkerchief or scarf for protection, or holding their breath, they would be attended to in a manner befitting two such lovely ladies. Lucy dismissed the man with a desultory wave, annoyed that anyone should draw attention to an inconvenience she preferred to ignore so that nothing would detract from the thrill of the moment. She seized her friend’s arm – Claire was unsure whether this was to bolster her courage or infect her with enthusiasm – and propelled her through the doors to the future.

As they entered the building, Claire glimpsed Lucy’s rapt expression and smiled to herself. She knew the reason for her friend’s nervous impatience: Lucy was already anxious to come back and describe the future to her friends and family who, whether out of fear, indifference or because they had been unable to secure a seat, had stayed behind in the insipid present. Yes, for Lucy this was simply another adventure with which to regale people – Uke a picnic ruined by a cloudburst, or an unexpectedly eventful crossing in a boat.

Claire had agreed to accompany her, but for very different reasons. Lucy planned to visit the year 2000 in the same way she would go to a new shop and be home in time for tea. Claire, on the other hand, had no intention of coming back.

A snooty assistant guided them to a hall in which the thirty other privileged travellers to the year 2000 were chattering excitedly. There, she told them that a glass of punch would be served before Mr Murray welcomed them, explained the itinerary of their trip to the future, and the historic moment they were about to witness. When she had finished, she curtsied abruptly and left them to their own devices in the spacious room, which, from the boxes at the sides and the stage at one end, had been the stalls of a theatre. Without the rows of seats and with only a few uncomfortable couches, the space looked over-large. This impression was strengthened by the high ceilings, suspended from which were dozens of oil lamps. Seen from below, they resembled a colony of sinister spiders living oblivious to the world beneath them.

Apart from a few octogenarians, who had difficulty standing because of their brittle bones, no one appeared to want to sit on the couches, perhaps because they found it easier to contain their excitement in an upright position. The only other pieces of furniture were a few tables, from which a couple of diligent maids had begun doling out punch, a wooden pulpit on the stage and, of course, an imposing statue of Captain Shackleton beside the doorway, welcoming them as they walked in.

While Lucy scanned their fellow passengers, listing the names of those present in a way that revealed her likes and dislikes, Claire gazed in awe at the marble figure of a man not yet born. The twice life-size statue of Derek Shackleton on its pedestal recalled some strange descendant of the Greek gods, fixed in a similarly heroic and gallant pose, except that the casual nudity usually flaunted by the Greeks was concealed by something more substantial than a fig leaf. The captain wore a suit of elaborately riveted armour, apparently designed to protect as much of his body as possible from the enemy. It included a sophisticated helmet that left only his jutting chin visible. Claire was disappointed by the headdress: she would have liked to see what the saviour of the human race looked like.

She was convinced the iron-clad visage could not possibly resemble anyone she knew. It had to be a face that only the future could produce. She imagined a noble expression, the eyes radiating confidence – not for nothing was he commanding an army -revealing, almost like a natural secretion, his proud, indomitable spirit. Now and then the dark desolation surrounding him would cloud those handsome eyes with tears, for a vestige of sensitivity survived in his warrior’s soul. Claire also imagined a glimmer of yearning in his gaze, especially during the moments of intense loneliness that would assail him between battles.

And what was the cause of his sorrow? Naturally, it could be none other than the absence of a beloved face to contemplate, a smile that would give him courage in moments of weakness, a name he could whisper in his sleep like a comforting prayer, an embrace to return to when the war was over. Briefly, Claire pictured that brave, indestructible man, so tough on the battlefield, murmuring her name at night, like a boy: ‘Claire, darling Claire . . .’

She smiled to herself. It was only a silly fantasy, yet she was surprised at the thrill she felt when she imagined being loved by that warrior of the future. How was it possible that a man who had not yet been born could stir her more than any of the young dandies courting her? The answer was simple: she was projecting on to that faceless statue everything she yearned for and could not have. Shackleton was probably completely different from Claire’s imagined portrait. Furthermore, his way of thinking, acting, even of loving would be utterly incomprehensible and alien to her. In the century that lay between them, man’s values and concerns might have become unrecognisable to anyone viewing them from the past. This was one of life’s laws.

If only she could glimpse his face, she thought, she might find out whether she was right: if Shackleton’s soul was made of opaque glass through which she would never be able to see, or whether the years between them were merely anecdotal. Perhaps there was something inside man, an essence rooted in his very being, which remained unchanged over the centuries – perhaps the very air God had breathed into his creatures to give them life. But there was no way of knowing this because of that blasted helmet. She must be content with the parts of him she was able to see, which were impressive enough: his warrior-like posture, his raised sword, his right leg flexed to reveal sculpted muscles, the left foot firmly planted on the ground, with the heel slightly raised, as though he had been immortalised in the act of charging the enemy.

Only when she followed the direction of his charge did Claire realise that his statue faced another to the left of the door. Shackleton’s defiant gesture was aimed at a startling figure almost twice his size. According to the inscription on the base, this was an effigy of Solomon, king of the automatons and the captain’s arch enemy, whom he defeated on 20 May 2000, following an endless war that had razed London to the ground. Claire gazed at it, shocked at the terrifying evolution of the automaton. When she was a little girl, her father had taken her to see the Writer, an animated doll invented by Pierre Jacquet Droz, the famous Swiss watchmaker. She still recalled the smartly dressed boy with the sad, chubby face sitting at a desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell and drawing it across a piece of paper. The doll had traced each letter with the alarming slowness of someone living outside time, even pausing occasionally to stare into space, as though waiting for another wave of inspiration. The memory of the doll’s staring eyes had always caused a shiver to go down the young Claire’s spine when she imagined the monstrous thoughts it might be harbouring. She had been unable to rid herself of this uncomfortable sensation, even after her father had shown her the interlocking rods and cogs in the phantasmagorical child’s back, with the lever that turned, bringing the parody to life. Now she could see how that grotesque if harmless child had transformed into the figure towering above her.

Struggling to overcome her fear, she examined it closely. Solomon’s creator, unlike Pierre Jacquet Droz, had apparently been uninterested in reproducing something realistically human, limiting himself to a rough copy of the two-legged model. For Solomon had more in common with a medieval suit of armour than with a man: his body was a series of joined-up metal plates crowned by a solid cylindrical head, like a bell, with two square holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth, like a letterbox.

It almost made Claire’s head spin to think that the two statues facing one another commemorated an event that had not yet happened. These characters were not only not dead, they had not even been born. Although, in the end, she reflected, no one there could be blamed if they mistook them for memorials because, like the dead, neither the captain nor his nemesis was among the living paying tribute to their memory. It made no difference whether they had already left or had not yet arrived: the main thing was they were not there.

Lucy interrupted Claire’s reverie by tugging at her arm and dragging her towards a couple waving from across the room. A short, prissy-looking man in his fifties, crammed into a light blue suit with a flowery waistcoat – its buttons looked as though they might pop under the strain of his girth – was waiting for her with open arms and a grotesquely welcoming smile.

‘My dear girl,’ he declared, in a fatherly tone. ‘What a surprise to see you here. I had no idea your family were going on this little trip. I thought that rascal Nelson suffered from seasickness!’

‘My father isn’t coming, Mr Ferguson,’ Lucy confessed, smiling apologetically. ‘Actually, he doesn’t know my friend and I are here, and I’m hoping he won’t find out’

‘Have no fear, my dear child,’ Ferguson hastened to reassure her, delighted by this display of disobedience for which he would not have hesitated to hang his own daughter up by her thumbs. ‘Your secret is safe with us, isn’t it, Grace?’

His wife nodded with the same syrupy smile, rattling the strings of pearls draped around her neck like a luxurious bandage. Lucy showed her gratitude with a charming little pout, then introduced them to Claire, who tried to hide her revulsion as she felt the man’s greasy lips on her hand.

‘Well, well,’ said Ferguson, after the introductions were over, beaming affectionately at one girl then the other. ‘Isn’t this exciting? We’ll be on our way to the year 2000 in a few minutes, and on top of that, we’re going to see a real battle.’

‘Do you think it might be dangerous?’ asked Lucy, a little uneasily.

‘Oh, no, not in the slightest.’ Ferguson dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. ‘A good friend of mine, Ted Fletcher, who went on the first expedition, assured me there’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. We’ll be viewing the battle from a perfectly safe distance although that also has its drawbacks. Unfortunately we won’t see a lot of the details. Fletcher warned us not to forget our opera glasses. Have you brought yours?’

‘No,’ replied Lucy, dismayed.

‘In that case, stay close to us and you can share ours,’ Ferguson advised her. ‘You don’t want to miss a thing if you can possibly help it. Fletcher told us the battle we’re going to see is worth every penny of the small fortune we paid.’

Claire frowned at the repulsive little man who had blatantly reduced to the vulgar level of a variety show the battle that would decide the fate of the planet. She could not help smiling with relief when Lucy greeted another couple walking by, and beckoned them to join the group.

‘This is my friend Madeleine,’ Lucy declared excitedly, ‘and her husband, Mr Charles Winslow.’

Claire’s smile froze. She had heard a lot about Charles Winslow one of the richest and most handsome young men in London -although they had never been introduced. She had lost no sleep over this, as the admiration he inspired in her friends had been enough to make her dislike him. She had pictured him as an arrogant, self-satisfied young man whose main interest in life was to seduce any young girl who crossed his path with his sweet talk. Claire was not in the habit of going to parties, but she had met quite a few young men cut from the same cloth: conceited, spoiled fellows who, thanks to their father’s fortunes, led reckless youthful lives they went to great lengths to prolong. Although, apparently, Winslow had decided to settle down – the last she had heard he had married one of the wealthy young Keller sisters, much to the distress of many a young lady in London, among whom she did not include herself. Now that she finally had him in front of her, she had to confess he was indeed a handsome fellow, which, at any rate, would make his exasperating company less insufferable.

‘We were just remarking on how exciting this is,’ declared the irrepressible Ferguson, once more taking the lead. ‘We are about to see London reduced to rubble, yet when we get back it will still be intact, as though nothing had happened – which it hasn’t, if we regard time as a linear succession of events. And I have no doubt that after such a terrible sight we will only appreciate this noisy city all the more, don’t you agree?’

‘Well, that’s a very simple way of looking at it,’ observed Charles, nonchalantly, avoiding looking at Ferguson.

There was a moment’s silence. Ferguson glowered at him, unsure whether or not to be insulted. ‘What are you insinuating, Mr Winslow?’ he asked.

Charles carried on staring at the ceiling. Perhaps he was wondering whether the air up there, as in the mountains, might be purer. ‘Travelling to the year 2000 isn’t like going to see the Niagara Falls,’ he replied casually, as though unaware that he had upset Ferguson. ‘We are travelling into the future, to a world run by automatons. You may be able to forget all about it after you come back from your sightseeing trip, imagining it has nothing to do with you, but that is the world our grandchildren will be living in.’

Ferguson was clearly aghast. ‘Are you suggesting we take part in this war?’ he asked, as though Charles had suggested they play at moving bodies around in a graveyard.

For the first time, Charles deigned to glance at the man he was talking to, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. ‘You should look at the bigger picture, Mr Ferguson,’ he said reprovingly. ‘There’s no need for us to take part in this war. It would be enough to prevent it’

‘Prevent it?’

‘Yes, prevent it. Isn’t the future always a result of the past?’

‘I’m still not with you, Mr Winslow,’ replied Ferguson, coldly.

‘The seed of this war is here,’ Charles explained, gesturing at their surroundings with a vague nod. ‘It is in our hands to stop what is going to happen, to change the future. Ultimately, the war that will end up razing London to the ground is our responsibility – although I’m afraid that even if mankind knew this, he would not consider it a good enough reason to stop producing automatons.’

‘But that’s absurd. Fate is fate,’ objected Ferguson. ‘It can’t be changed.’

‘Fate is fate . . .’ repeated Charles, sardonically. ‘Is that what you really believe? Do you honestly prefer to hand over responsibility for your actions to the alleged author of some play we are compelled to take part in from birth?’ Claire tensed as Charles glanced questioningly at the other members of the group. ‘Well, I don’t. What’s more, I firmly believe we are the authors of our own fate – we write it each day with every one of our actions. If we really had a mind to, we could prevent this future war. Although I imagine, Mr Ferguson, that you would lose a great deal of money if you stopped producing mechanical toys.’

Ferguson was taken aback by the last jibe whereby the insolent young man, besides blaming him for something that had not yet happened, revealed he knew perfectly well who Ferguson was. He gazed at Charles open-mouthed, not knowing what to say, astonished rather than upset by the jaunty bonhomie with which the fellow delivered his barbed comments.

Claire admired Winslow’s way of disguising his observations as frivolous, protecting himself from angry ripostes as well as relegating his sharp remarks to the category of impromptu asides, spontaneous reflections, which even he did not appear to take seriously. Ferguson went on opening and closing his mouth while the others looked shocked and Charles smiled elusively All of a sudden, Ferguson appeared to recognise a young man wandering lost in the crowd. This gave him the perfect excuse to leave the group and rush to the fellow’s aid, thus avoiding the need to respond to Winslow, who did not appear to be expecting a reply anyway. Ferguson returned with an impecunious-looking youth, whom he pushed into the centre of the group and introduced as Colin Garrett, a new inspector at Scotland Yard.

While the others greeted the newcomer, Ferguson beamed contentedly, as though he were showing off the latest rare bird in his collection of acquaintances. He waited for the round of greetings to finish, then spoke to the young inspector, as though hoping to make the others forget his discussion with Charles Winslow. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Mr Garrett. I didn’t know an inspector’s salary stretched this far.’

‘My father left me a little money’ stuttered the inspector, needlessly attempting to justify himself.

‘Ah, for a moment there I thought you might be travelling at the expense of Her Majesty’s government to bring order to the future. After all, even if it is in the year 2000, the war will still destroy London, the city you’re meant to be protecting. Or does the time difference absolve you of your responsibilities? Is your job confined to watching over London in the present? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?’ Ferguson said to his audience, proud of his own ingenuity. ‘The inspector’s responsibilities cover space but not time. Tell me, Mr Garrett, does your authority extend to arresting a criminal in the future – assuming his crime is committed within the city?’

The young Garrett stirred uneasily. Had he been given time to reflect calmly, he might have come up with a satisfactory answer, but at that precise moment he had been overwhelmed by an avalanche of sheer beauty, if you will forgive the purple prose -which, on the other hand, is perfectly suited to the occasion: the young girl they had introduced to him as Lucy Nelson had troubled him considerably, so much so that he was scarcely able to concentrate on anything else.

‘Well, Inspector?’ said Ferguson, growing impatient.

Garrett tried unsuccessfully to drag his eyes away from the girl, who seemed as beautiful as she was unattainable to a poor, dull fellow like him. He suffered also from a crippling shyness that prevented him achieving any success when it came to women. He, of course, had not the remotest idea that three weeks later he would find himself lying on top of her, his lips within kissing distance of hers.

‘I have a better question, Mr Ferguson,’ said Charles, rallying to the young man’s aid. ‘What if a criminal from the future travelled in time and committed a crime here in the present? Would the inspector be authorised to arrest a man who, chronologically speaking, had not yet been born?’

Ferguson did not attempt to conceal his irritation at Charles’s intrusion. ‘Your idea doesn’t bear scrutiny, Mr Winslow,’ he retorted. ‘Why, it’s absurd to imagine that a man from the future could visit our own time.’

‘In heaven’s name, why not?’ enquired Charles, amused. ‘If we’re able to journey into the future, what’s to stop men from the future travelling back to the past, especially if you bear in mind that their science will be more advanced than ours?’

‘Simply because if that were the case they would already be here,’ replied Ferguson, as though the explanation were obvious.

Charles laughed. ‘And what makes you think they aren’t? Perhaps they’re here incognito.’

‘Why, that’s preposterous!’ cried the outraged Ferguson, the veins on his neck beginning to bulge. ‘Men from the future would have no need to hide. They could help us in a thousand different ways, bringing us medicines, for example, or improving our inventions.’

‘They may prefer to help us surreptitiously. How can you be sure that Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t under orders from a time traveller to leave in his notebooks plans for building a flying machine or a submersible boat, or that he himself wasn’t a man from the future whose mission was to travel to the fifteenth century in order to help the advancement of science? A fascinating question, wouldn’t you agree?’ asked Charles, mimicking Ferguson. ‘Or perhaps the time travellers’ intentions are quite different. Perhaps they simply want to prevent the war we are going to witness in a few minutes.’

Ferguson shook his head indignantly, as though Charles were trying to argue that Christ had been crucified upside down.

‘Maybe Fm one of them,’ Charles went on, in a sinister voice. He stepped towards Ferguson and, reaching into his pocket, added: ‘Maybe Captain Shackleton himself sent me here to plunge a dagger into the stomach of Nathan Ferguson, owner of the biggest toyshop in London, to stop him producing automatons.’

Ferguson gave a start as Charles prodded his stomach with a forefinger. ‘But I only make pianolas . . .’ he spluttered, the blood draining from his face.

Charles let out a guffaw, for which Madeleine hurriedly chided him, not without a measure of affection.

‘Come now, my darling,’ said Charles, apparently deriving a childlike enjoyment from shocking everyone. ‘Mr Ferguson knows perfectly well Fm only joking. I don’t think we have anything to fear from a pianola. Or do we?’

‘Of course not,’ burbled Ferguson, trying to regain his composure.

Claire stifled a giggle, but this did not go unnoticed by Charles, who winked at her, before taking his wife’s arm and leaving the little gathering – in order, he said, to test the excellent qualities of the punch.

Ferguson heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I hope you’ll forgive this little incident, my dears,’ he said, attempting to recover his smug grin. ‘As Fm sure you’re aware, Charles Winslow is known all over London for his insolence. If it weren’t for his father’s money . . .’

A murmur spread through the crowd, drowning his words. Everyone turned to face the back of the room where Gilliam Murray was making his way on to the stage.

Chapter XIX

He was without doubt one of the biggest men Claire had ever seen. From the way the boards creaked under his feet, he must have weighed more than twenty stone, yet his movements were graceful, almost sensual. He was dressed in a smart pale purple suit that shimmered in the light. His wore his wavy hair combed back, and an impeccably tasteful bow tie struggled to fit around his broad neck. His enormous hands, which seemed capable of pulling trees up by the roots, rested on the lectern as he waited – with a patient smile – for the murmur to subside. Once silence had settled over the gathering, draped over it like the dust sheets placed on furniture in houses closed for the season, he cleared his throat loudly and unleashed his smooth baritone voice on his audience.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is no need for me to tell you that you are about to take part in the most astonishing event of the century, the second journey through time in history. Today you will break the chains that bind you to the present, avoid the continuity of the hours, confound the laws governing time. Yes, ladies and gentleman, today you will travel through time – something that, until yesterday, man could only dream about. It is my great pleasure to welcome you on behalf of Murray’s Time Travel and to thank you for choosing to take part in our second expedition to the year 2000, which we decided to arrange following the overwhelming success of the first. I guarantee you will not leave here disappointed. As I already mentioned, you will be travelling across the centuries, beyond your lifetime. If this were all Murray’s Time Travel had to offer it would still be worthwhile but, thanks to our efforts, you will also have the chance to witness possibly the most important moment in the history of mankind: the battle between the brave Captain Derek Shackleton and the evil automaton Solomon, whose dreams of conquest you will see perish beneath the captain’s sword.’

Some timid applause broke out in the first row, but Claire felt this owed more to the emphasis the speaker had laid on his last words than to their implication for the gathering, to whom the outcome of this distant war was surely a matter of indifference.

‘Now, if I may, I shall explain in a few simple words the method of travel to the year 2000. We will be journeying in the Cronotilus, a steam tram specially built by our engineers. The vehicle will leave our own time in the present and arrive at midday on the twentieth of May in the year 2000. Naturally, the journey will not take the one hundred and four years separating that date from the present for we shall be travelling outside time – that is to say, through the famous fourth dimension. Although I’m afraid to say, ladies and gentlemen, that you will not see it. When you climb aboard the time-tram, you will notice the windows have been blacked out. This is not because we wish to deny you a glimpse of the fourth dimension, which is nothing more than a vast plain of pink rock, swept by fierce winds where time does not exist. We have covered the windows in your best interests, for the fourth dimension is inhabited by monstrous creatures resembling miniature dragons. They are not friendly. By and large, they keep away from us, but there is always a possibility one may stray too close to the tram for comfort, and we would not wish any ladies to fall into a faint at the sight of so hideous a beast. But have no fear: such an event is very unlikely to occur because these creatures feed exclusively on time. Yes, time is an exquisite delicacy for them, which is why before boarding the tram you are requested to remove your timepieces. This minimises the possibility of their scent attracting any creatures to the vehicle. Moreover, as you will soon see, the Cronotilus has a turret on its roof, where two expert marksmen will ward off any creature that tries to approach. Put this out of your minds, then, and enjoy the trip.

‘In spite of the dangers, the fourth dimension also has some advantages. One of these is that, while you are there, none of you will age for you will be outside time. It is quite possible, dear ladies,’ he said, forcing a smile as he addressed a group of matronly women at the front, ‘that when you return your friends may even say you look younger.’

The women giggled nervously.

‘Now allow me to introduce you to Igor Mazursky,’ he went on, beckoning a short, stout fellow on to the stage. ‘He will be your guide to the year 2000. Once the Cronotilus reaches its destination, Mr Mazursky will lead you through the ruins of London to the promontory where you will witness the battle to decide the fate of the world. Let me reiterate that there is no risk involved in the expedition. Even so, you must obey Mr Mazursky’s instructions at all times to avoid any cause for regret before the journey is over.’

With these words, he flashed a warning look at the crowd and let out a long sigh. Then he adopted a more relaxed, almost dreamy pose at the lectern.

‘I imagine most of you think of the future as an idyllic place, where the skies are filled with flying carriages, and tiny winged cabriolets glide like birds in the wind, where floating cities sail the oceans pulled by mechanical dolphins, where shops sell clothes made of special dirt-repellent fabric, luminous umbrellas and hats that play music while we walk along the street. I don’t blame you. I also envisaged the year 2000 as a technological paradise in which man would have built a secure, just world in which he lived harmoniously with his fellow man and with Mother Nature. After all, it is a fairly logical assumption to make, given the unstoppable advances of science, the endless miraculous inventions that emerge every day to simplify our lives. Unfortunately we now know this isn’t true. The year 2000 is no paradise, I’m afraid. Quite the contrary, as you will presently witness with your own eyes. Rest assured, when you return most of you will feel relieved to be living in our time, however tiresome you may find it. For, as you will know from reading our brochure, in the year 2000 the world is ruled by automatons and the human race is, to put it mildly, considered dispensable. The truth is that the human population has been decimated, and those left are struggling against total extinction. This and no other is the discouraging future awaiting us.’

Gilliam Murray made a dramatic pause to allow the audience to stew in the doom-laden silence.

‘I imagine you must find it hard to believe the planet could be taken over by automatons. We have all seen examples of these harmless replicas of men and animals at exhibitions and fairs, and no doubt some of your own children can boast the odd mechanical doll among their toys, as can mine. But has it ever occurred to you that these ingenious artefacts might one day take on a life of their own and pose a threat to the human race? No, of course not. And yet I regret to say that they will. Now, I don’t know about you, but I can’t help seeing in this a sort of poetic justice meted out by God to teach man a lesson for having attempted to emulate him by creating life.’

He paused again, taking the opportunity to cast a sorrowful eye over the hall, satisfied with the spine-tingling effect his words were having on the assembly.

‘Thanks to our research we have been able to reconstruct the disastrous events that led the world into this terrible situation. Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to take a few moments of your time to relate to you in the past tense something that has not yet happened.’

With these words, Gilliam Murray fell silent once more. Then he cleared his throat and began the story of how the automatons had conquered the planet. Although sadly true, it could easily have been the plot of one of the voguish so-called science-fiction novels, and that is the way I will tell it, provided you have no objections.

In the years leading up to the mid-twentieth century, the production of automatons had risen steeply, and their number and sophistication had reached unprecedented levels. Automatons were everywhere, and performed the most varied tasks. They operated most of the machinery in the factories, where they also did the cleaning and even some secretarial work. Most homes boasted at least two, which carried out household and other tasks hitherto assigned to servants – such as looking after children or stocking the larder. Thus their presence among men became as natural as it was indispensable. In time, their owners, who were incapable of perceiving them as anything but obedient mechanical slaves, stopped noticing them. They even fomented their subtle takeover, happily acquiring the latest models in the belief that they were simply freeing themselves from still more of the numerous tasks they now considered beneath them.

One of the effects of making the automatons part of their household was to turn man into the arrogant ruler of his tiny domain, which usually consisted of a two-storey house and garden. Ousted from the factories by tireless mechanical workers, man grew flabbier and weaker as his activities were reduced to winding up his automatons in the morning, like someone starting the world, which had learned to function without him.

Things being thus, it was hardly strange that man, blinkered by tedium and complacency, failed to notice that his automatons were surreptitiously taking on a life of their own. To begin with their actions were harmless enough: an automaton butler dropping the Bohemian glassware; an automaton tailor sticking a pin into his customer; an automaton gravedigger garlanding a coffin with stinging nettles. These were petty acts of rebellion by which the automatons tested their freedom, the stirrings of awareness fluttering inside their metal skulls, like butterflies trapped in a jar. And yet, as we already mentioned, such acts of mutiny scarcely bothered man, who attributed them to a manufacturing defect, and either sent the automatons back to the factory or had them recalibrated. And we cannot really blame them for their lack of concern because the automatons were not designed to cause harm and could not go beyond these feeble outbursts.

However, this changed when the government ordered the most eminent engineer in England to design an automaton soldier that would free man from the burden of war just as he had been exempted from doing the dusting or pruning hedges. Expanding the Empire would doubtless be far easier if such tasks as invading and plundering neighbouring countries, torturing and ill-treating prisoners were left to the efficient automatons. The engineer did as he was told, and produced a wrought-iron automaton with articulated limbs, as big as a bear standing on its hind legs. In its chest, behind a little shutter, he placed a loaded miniature cannon. But his real innovation was the little steam-powered engine he attached to its back. This made it autonomous: it no longer depended on anyone to wind it up.

Once the prototype was ready, it was tested in secret. The automaton was placed on a cart, covered with a tarpaulin and taken to the village of Slough, home to the observatory that had belonged to William Herschel, the astronomer musician who, many years earlier, had added Uranus to the list of known planets. At intervals along the three-mile stretch between the village and the neighbouring town of Windsor, scarecrows were placed, with watermelons, cauliflowers and cabbages for heads. Then they made the automaton walk along the road testing his hidden weapon on the motionless vegetable-men. The automaton reached its destination amid a swarm of flies attracted by the watermelon flesh splattered over its armour, but not a single puppet’s head remained in its wake. An army of these invincible creatures would cut through enemy lines like a knife through butter.

The next step was to present it to the king as the decisive weapon with which to conquer the world, if he so wished. However, owing to the monarch’s many obligations, the unveiling was delayed. The automaton was kept in storage for several weeks, which led to disastrous consequences: during its prolonged isolation, the automaton not only came to life without anyone realising it but developed something akin to a soul, with desires, fears and even firm convictions.

By the time it was presented to the king, it had already reflected enough to know what it wanted from life. Or if it had any doubts, they were dispelled upon seeing the little man sprawled on his throne, looking down his nose at it and continually straightening his crown. While the engineer paced back and forth, praising the automaton’s attributes and describing the different stages of its construction, the automaton made the little doors on its chest open like those of a cuckoo clock. The monarch, tired of the engineer’s exposition, perked up, eyes bright with curiosity, waiting for the birdie to pop out. Instead the shadow of death emerged in the form of a perfectly aimed bullet that made a hole right through the king’s forehead, hurling him back on his throne. The accompanying sound of splintering bone interrupted the engineer’s monologue: he was aghast at what his creation had done, until the automaton grabbed him by the throat and snapped his neck like a dry twig. Having assured himself that the man draped over his arm was no more than a corpse, the automaton flung him to the ground, apparently pleased by the creativity his nascent mind had shown, at least in the art of killing.

Once he was sure he was the only living thing left in the throne room, he approached the king, with his arthropodal movements, relieved him of the crown and placed it solemnly on his own iron head. Then he studied his reflection – front and side – in the wall mirrors and, since he was unable to smile, nodded. In this rather bloodthirsty manner his life began, for although he was not made of flesh and bone, there was no doubt in his mind that he was also a living being. And in order to feel even more alive what he needed next was a name; the name of a king. After a few moments’ reflection, he decided on Solomon. The name was doubly pleasing to him: not only had Solomon been a legendary king, but he was the first man ever endowed with mechanical genius.

According to the Bible, as well as some Arabic texts, Solomon’s throne was a magical piece of furniture that lent a theatrical air to his displays of power. Perched at the top of a small flight of steps, flanked by a pair of solid gold lions with swishing tails, and shaded by palm trees and vines where mechanical birds exhaled musky breath, the elaborate revolving chair raised the new king aloft, rocking him gently in mid-air as he pronounced his celebrated judgments.

Now Solomon wondered what he should do next, what goal to pursue. The ease and indifference with which he had snuffed out the lives of those two humans made him think he could do the same to a third, a fourth, a fifth, to a whole choir of singing children, if need be. The increasing number of victims would never compel him to question the morality of taking a human being’s life, however dear it was to him or her. Those two dead bodies were his first steps on a path of destruction, but did he have to take it? Was it his destiny, or could he choose a different path, employ his time in something more edifying than slaughter? Solomon saw his doubt duplicated in the dozens of mirrors lining the throne room. Yet he liked the uncertainty because it gave another interesting facet to the soul that had sprouted within his iron chest.

However, for all his doubts about his destiny, it was clear he must flee, disappear, leave at once. And so Solomon slipped out of the palace unnoticed, and wandered through the forests, for how long he did not know. There he perfected his aim with the help of some squirrels, stopping from time to time in a cave or shack to disentangle the weeds from his leg joints or take a break from his meanderings to study the star-studded sky and see whether the fate of automatons as well as that of men was written there.

In the meantime, news of his exploits spread like wildfire through the city, especially among the mechanical creatures, who gazed in reverential awe at the ‘Wanted’ posters, picturing his face, that papered many walls. Oblivious to all of this, Solomon roamed the hills, plagued with doubt and endlessly tormented about what his mission in life would be.

One morning he emerged from the tumbledown shack where he had spent the night to find himself surrounded by dozens of automatons, who broke into excited applause when they saw him. He realised that others had taken it upon themselves to forge his destiny. The crowd of admirers included every kind of automaton, from rough factory workers and well-dressed nannies to dull office clerks. Those in close contact with man, like butlers, cooks and maids, had been carefully designed to look human, while those destined to work in factories, or in the basements of government buildings surrounded by files, were little more than metal scarecrows, yet they all applauded him with equal fervour for having killed the king. Some even dared touch his armour, treating him like a long-awaited Messiah.

Moved and repelled in equal measure, Solomon decided to call them ‘the little ones’. As they had come so far to worship him, he invited them into his shack – and the First Council of Automatons in the Free World was formed. During the meeting Solomon realised that the little ones’ hearts were seething with hatred towards the human race. Apparently the insults man had inflicted on the automatons’ dignity throughout history were as varied as they were unforgivable: the philosopher Alberto Magno’s automaton had been ruthlessly destroyed by his disciple St Thomas Aquinas, who considered it the work of the Devil; but far more flagrant was the case of the Frenchman René Descartes, who, in order to exorcise his grief over the death of his daughter Francine, had constructed a mechanical doll in her likeness. When the captain of a ship he was travelling on had discovered it, he had thrown it overboard. The poignant image of the mechanical girl rusting among the coral enraged the little ones. Other equally dreadful cases kept alive the desire for revenge that had rankled for years in the hearts of these creatures, who now recognised in Solomon the brother who could finally carry it out.

The fate of man was put to the vote. With no abstentions and one against, the result was resoundingly in favour of extermination. In ancient Egypt the statues of the gods were equipped with mechanical arms operated from behind the scenes that spread terror among the acolytes. The time had come to follow their example and unleash the ancient terror upon humans once more. The time had come for them to repay their debts. Man’s reign had come to an end. He was no longer the most powerful creature on the planet, if indeed he ever had been. The time of the automatons had come, and under the leadership of their new king they would conquer the planet. Solomon shrugged his shoulders. Why not? he thought. Why not lead my people where they want to go? He readily embraced his fate.

In reality, on further consideration, this was not such a foolish venture, and was even achievable with a little organisation. The little ones were already strategically placed in the enemy camp: they had free access to every home, factory and ministry, and could count on the element of surprise.

Just like someone leaving his body to science, Solomon allowed the builder automatons to see how he was made inside so they could produce an army of automaton soldiers in his image. They worked in secret, in sheds and abandoned factories, while the little ones returned to their posts and patiently awaited their king’s command to pounce on the enemy. When it finally came, their synchronised attack was unbelievably brutal and devastating. The human population was decimated in the blink of an eye. That midnight, mankind’s dream ended abruptly and fatally: scissors plunged into throats, hammers crushed skulls, and pillows stifled last gasps in a symphony of splintering bones and death rattles orchestrated by the Grim Reaper’s baton. And while this panoply of sudden death was occurring in homes, factories blazed, plumes of black smoke spewing from their windows, and an army of automaton soldiers, led by Solomon, swarmed through the streets of the capital like a tidal wave of metal, meeting little or no resistance. Within minutes the invasion had become a calm procession.

Early the next day, the total extermination of the human race began. It lasted a few decades, until all that was left of the world was a pile of rubble, where the few remaining humans, their numbers rapidly diminishing, cowered like frightened rats.

At nightfall, Solomon would look out over the balcony of his palace and cast a proud eye over the remains of the planet they had destroyed. He was a good king: he had done everything expected of him and he had done it well. He was irreproachable. The humans had been defeated, and it was only a matter of time before they became extinct. Suddenly he realised that if humans were wiped off the face of the planet, there would be nothing to prove the automatons had conquered them to take control of it. They needed a specimen to continue to embody the enemy. A specimen of man, the creature who dreamed, aspired, yearned for immortality while wondering why he had been put on the Earth. Taking Noah and the ark as his inspiration, Solomon ordered the capture of a pair of healthy young specimens from among the group of sorry survivors skulking in the ruins – a male and a female, whose only function would be to procreate in captivity so that the vanquished race would not die out.

Reduced to the status of mementoes, the chosen pair was kept in a cage of solid gold, generously fed and pampered, and above all encouraged to reproduce. Solomon told himself that keeping alive with his right hand the race that his left hand had destroyed was an intelligent thing to do.

However, he did not know it yet, but he had chosen the wrong male. He was a proud, healthy youth who pretended to obey orders without protest, apparently grateful for having been spared certain death, but shrewd enough to know his luck would run out as soon as the girl had brought his successor into the world. However, this did not seem to worry him unduly, as he had at least nine months to achieve his goal, which was none other than to study his enemies from the comfort of his cage, observe their customs, learn their movements and discover how to destroy them. When he was not doing this, he was busy preparing his body for death. The day his concubine gave birth to a baby boy, he knew his time had come.

With astonishing calm, he allowed himself to be led to the place of execution. Solomon himself was going to shoot him. As he stood in front of the youth and opened the little doors in his chest so that the hidden cannon could take aim, the boy smiled at him and spoke for the first time: ‘Go ahead and kill me, then I’ll kill you.’

Solomon tilted his head, wondering if the youth’s words contained some hidden message he needed to decipher or were simply a meaningless phrase. He decided it did not matter either way. Without further ado, and feeling an almost jaded disgust, he fired at the insolent boy. The bullet hit him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.

‘I’ve killed you, now kill me,’ he challenged.

He waited a few moments to see if the boy stirred, and when he did not, he ordered his flunkeys to get rid of the body and return to their chores. The guards obeyed. They carried it outside the palace, then threw it down a slope as if it were a piece of refuse.

The body came to rest next to a pile of rubble, where it lay face up, covered with blood. A beautiful pale yellow full moon lit the night sky. The youth smiled at it as though it were a death’s head. He had succeeded in escaping from the palace, but the boy he had been when he entered it had been left behind. He had emerged from there a man with a clear destiny: to gather together the few survivors and train them to fight the automatons. To achieve this he would only have to stop the bullet in his stomach killing him, but that would be no problem. His will to live was stronger than the bullet’s desire to kill him, stronger than the piece of metal embedded in his intestines. He had prepared for this moment during his captivity, preparing to endure the searing pain, to understand it, subdue and diminish it until he had worn down the bullet’s patience. It was a long duel, a dramatic struggle that lasted three days and three moonlit nights, until finally the bullet surrendered. It had realised it was not dealing with a body like the others: the youth’s deep hatred of the automatons had made him cling to life.

And yet his hatred was not a result of the automaton uprising, or the horrific murder of his parents and siblings or the wanton destruction of the planet. It did not even relate to Solomon’s sickening indifference when he had shot him. No, his hatred was rooted even further in the past. His was an old, unresolved hatred dating back centuries, to the time of his paternal great-grandfather, the first Shackleton to lose his life because of an automaton.

You may have heard of the Turk Mephisto, and other automaton chess players who were in fashion decades ago. Like them, Dr Phibes was a mechanical doll who understood the secrets of chess as if he had invented the game. Dressed in an orange suit, a green bow tie and a blue top hat, Dr Phibes invited visitors to come into his fairground tent and challenge him to a game of chess for four shillings. The contemptuous manner in which he inflicted defeat on his male opponents and the chivalry with which he allowed the ladies to beat him made him a celebrity, and people clamoured to challenge him. His creator, the inventor Alan Tyrell, boasted that his doll had even beaten the world chess champion, Mikhail Chigorin.

However, his profitable appearances at travelling fairs ended abruptly when one opponent became incensed when the insolent doll trounced him in less than five moves and then, adding insult to injury, amicably offered him his wooden hand to shake. Seized with rage, the fellow rose from his seat and, before the fairground barker could stop him, pulled a revolver from his pocket and shot the doll straight through the chest, showering orange splinters everywhere. The loud report alarmed the crowd, and the assailant managed to flee during the commotion before the barker had a chance to demand damages. Within minutes he found himself alone with Dr Phibes, who was leaning slightly to one side in his seat.

The barker was wondering how he would explain all this to Mr Tyrell, when he saw something that startled him. Dr Phibes was wearing his usual smile, but a trickle of blood was oozing from the bullet hole in his chest. Horrified, the barker hurriedly pulled the curtain across, and walked over to the automaton. After examining the doll with some trepidation, he discovered a small bolt on its left side. Drawing it back, he was able to open Dr Phibes as if he were a sarcophagus. Inside, covered with blood and dead as a doornail, was the man with whom, unbeknown to him, he had been working all these months. His name was Mies Shackleton: a miserable wretch who, having no other means of supporting his family, had accepted the trickery Tyrell had offered him after discovering his talent for chess.

When the inventor arrived at the tent and discovered the calamity he refrained from informing the police about what had happened, fearing he would be arrested for fraud. He silenced the barker with a generous sum and simply reinforced Dr Phibes with an iron plate to protect his new occupant from the wrath of future opponents. But Miles’s substitute was nowhere near as skilled at chess as his predecessor: Dr Phibes’s reputation began to wane and eventually vanished altogether, rather like Miles Shackleton, who disappeared off the face of the earth. More than likely, he was buried in a ditch between fairgrounds.

When at last his family learned from the fairground man what had become of him, they decided to honour him in the only way they could: by relaying his sad tale through the generations, like a torch whose flame, more than a century later, lit the pupils of the executed youth who, after lifting himself off the ground, glanced back at Solomon’s palace with hatred, and murmured to himself, although in fact he was speaking to history: ‘Now it’s my turn to kill you.’

At first with faltering, then resolute steps, he disappeared into the ruins, determined to fulfil his destiny, which was none other than to become Captain Derek Shackleton, the man who would defeat the king of the automatons.

Chapter XX

Gilliam Murray’s words evaporated like a spell, leaving his listeners plunged in a profound silence. Casting her eyes quickly around the hall, Claire saw that the moving tale Murray had told – doubtless in the form of an allegory, perhaps to mitigate the crude reality of such frightful events – had succeeded in awakening the interest of the gathering, as well as creating a certain sympathy for Captain Shackleton and even his enemy, Solomon, whom she suspected Murray had deliberately made more human. In any case, she could tell from Ferguson’s, Lucy’s and even Charles Winslow’s awed expression that they were anxious to arrive in the future, to be part of these momentous events, if only as witnesses, and to see how Murray’s story unravelled. Claire thought that her face undoubtedly bore a similar look, although for quite different reasons: what had impressed her about the story was not so much the automaton conspiracy, the destruction of London or the ruthless slaughter the dolls had perpetrated against her species, but Shackleton’s determination, his personality, his bravery. This man had built an army out of nothing and restored the world’s hope, not to mention surviving his own death. How would a man like him love?

After the welcoming speech, the group, led by Murray, headed off through a maze of galleries lined with clocks to the vast warehouse where the Cronotilus was awaiting them. An appreciative murmur rose from the crowd at the sight of the vehicle standing polished and ready. It differed in every way from an ordinary tram except in shape and size; its numerous additions made it look more like a gypsy caravan. Its everyday appearance was buried beneath a riot of shiny chrome pipes studded with rivets and valves that ran along its sides like the tendons in a neck. The only part left exposed were two exquisitely carved mahogany doors. One was the entrance to the passenger compartment, while the other, slightly narrower, led to the driver’s cabin, which, Claire deduced, must be partitioned off from the rest of the vehicle since it had the only windows that were not blacked out. She felt relieved that at least the driver would be able to see where he was going. The porthole-shaped windows in their carriage were darkened, as Murray had said they would be. No one would be able to see the fourth dimension and the monsters that lived there would not glimpse their terrified faces, framed in the windows like cameo portraits.

Attached to the front of the vehicle was a sort of battering ram, like those on ice-breakers, no doubt with the alarming function of ploughing through any obstacle in its path, clearing the way at all costs. A complicated steam engine had been attached to the rear, bristling with rods, propellers and cogwheels. This puffed and blew from time to time, like some sea creature, and let out a gasp of steam that playfully lifted the ladies’ skirts. However, what made it impossible for the vehicle to be described as a tram was the turret built on its roof, where at that very moment, having clambered up a small ladder bolted to the side, two gruff-looking fellows armed with rifles and a box of ammunition were taking their positions. Claire was amused to see there was also a periscope between the gun turret and the driver’s cabin.

The driver, a gangling youth with an idiotic grin, opened the door of the passenger compartment and stood to attention beside it, next to the guide. Like a colonel inspecting his troops, Gilliam Murray walked slowly past the passengers, casting a severe but compassionate eye over them. Claire watched him pause in front of a lady clutching a poodle.

‘I’m afraid your little dog will have to stay behind, Mrs Jacobs,’ he said, smiling affably.

‘But I won’t let go of Buffy for a moment,’ the woman demurred.

Murray shook his head kindly, yanked the dog away from her with a swift gesture, as if he were pulling out a rotten tooth, and deposited it in the arms of a female assistant. ‘Eliza, will you please see to it that Buffy is cared for until Mrs Jacobs’s return?’

Murray resumed his inspection, ignoring Mrs Jacobs’s feeble protests. Grimacing theatrically, he stopped in front of two men carrying suitcases. ‘You won’t be needing these either, gentlemen,’ he said, relieving them of their luggage.

He then asked everyone to place their timepieces on the tray Eliza was about to pass round, reaffirming that this would diminish the risk of being attacked by the monsters. When everything was to his liking, he planted himself in front of the group, smiling at them with almost tearful pride, like a marshal about to send his troops on a suicide mission. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I do hope you enjoy the year 2000. Remember what I said: obey Mr Mazursky at all times. I shall await your return, champagne at the ready’

After this fatherly farewell, he stepped aside to make way for Mazursky, who politely asked them to climb on board the time-tram.

The passengers formed a straggly Une and filed excitedly into the luxurious vehicle. Lined with patterned cloth, the carriage contained two rows of wooden benches separated by a narrow aisle. Several candelabra screwed to the ceiling and walls cast a gloomy, nickering light, which gave it the air of a chapel. Lucy and Claire sat on a bench approximately in the middle of the carriage, between Mr Ferguson and his wife and two nervous young dandies, whose parents, having sent them to Paris and Florence to expose them to art, were now shipping them off to the future in the hope of broadening their horizons. While the other passengers were taking their places, Ferguson, twisting his head round, bored them with a series of observations about the décor. Lucy listened politely, while Claire struggled to blot them out in order to be able to savour the importance of the moment.

When they had all settled, the guide closed the carriage door and sat facing them on a tiny chair, like an overseer on a galley ship. Almost at once, a violent jolt caused some of the passengers to cry out in alarm. Mazursky hurriedly put their minds at rest, explaining that this was simply the engine starting. And, sure enough, the unpleasant juddering soon gave way to a gentle tremor, almost a purr, propelling the vehicle from the rear. Mazursky then looked through the periscope and smiled with satisfaction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to inform you that our journey to the future is under way. This very moment we are crossing the fourth dimension.’

As if to confirm this, the vehicle was suddenly swaying from side to side, giving rise to further consternation among the passengers. The guide reassured them once more, apologising for the state of the road and adding that, despite their sustained efforts to keep the path clear, the terrain in the fourth dimension was naturally rough and dotted with bumps and crevices. Claire glanced at her face, reflected in the darkened window, wondering what the landscape looked like behind the black paint blocking their view. However, she scarcely had time to wonder about anything else, for at that very moment, to the passengers’ horror, they heard a loud roar outside, followed by a burst of gunfire and a heartrending bellow.

Startled, Lucy clutched Claire’s hand.

This time Mazursky limited himself to smiling serenely at the passengers’ alarmed faces, as if to say that the roars and gunfire would be a recurring feature of their journey, and the best thing they could do was to ignore them.

‘Well,’ he declared, rising from his seat and strolling down the aisle, once everyone had recovered a little, ‘we shall soon be in the year 2000. Please pay attention while I explain what will happen when we arrive in the future. As Mr Murray mentioned, we will climb out of the tram and I will take you to the promontory where we will watch the battle between humans and automatons. Although they can’t see us from below, it is imperative you stay together and keep quiet so as not to give our position away. There is no telling what effect it might have on the fabric of time, although I assume it would not be a positive one.’

Further bellows came from outside, followed by the alarming shots, which Mazursky scarcely appeared to notice. He carried on pacing between the benches, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, a pensive crease on his brow, like a professor weary of repeating the same old lecture time and again.

‘The battle will last approximately twenty minutes,’ he went on, ‘and will resemble a short three-act play: the evil Solomon will appear with his entourage and be ambushed by the brave Captain Shackleton and his men. A brief but thrilling skirmish will follow, and finally a duel between the automaton known as Solomon and Derek Shackleton, which, as you already know, will end in victory for the humans. Please refrain from applauding when the duel is over: this is not a music-hall act, but an actual event, which we are not supposed to witness. Simply form a line and follow me to the vehicle as quietly as possible. Then we will travel back across the fourth dimension and return home safe and sound. Is that clear?’

The passengers nodded. Lucy pressed Claire’s hand again, and beamed at her, full of anticipation. Claire returned the smile, yet hers had nothing in common with her friend’s: Claire’s was a farewell gesture, her only way of telling Lucy she had been her best friend and would never forget her, but that she must follow her destiny. Likewise, the kisses she had planted on her mother’s cheek and her father’s wrinkled brow, it had been an affectionate but far more solemn farewell than was appropriate before leaving for the Burnetts’ country mansion, but her parents had not noticed. Claire stared again at the blacked-out glass, and wondered whether she was prepared for life in the world of the future, the devastated planet Gilliam Murray had described to them. She was gripped by a pang of fear, which she forced herself to suppress. She could not weaken now that she was so close. She must go ahead with her plan.

Just then, the tram came to a grinding halt. Mazursky took a long look through the periscope, until he was satisfied that everything outside was as it should be. Then, with a mysterious smile, he opened the carriage door. Screwing up his eyes, he scanned the surrounding area one last time, before announcing: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly follow me, I will show you the year 2000.’

Chapter XXI

While her fellow travellers clambered down from the tram without further ado, Claire paused on the running-board, her right foot poised above the ground of the future, as solemn as when she had ventured into the sea for the very first time. Aged six, she had stepped with infinite care, almost reverentially, into the waves, as though this would determine how the dark enormity of the water responded to her intrusion. In the same way she now ventured into the year in which she had decided to stay, hoping it would treat her with equal respect.

As her heel touched the ground, she was surprised at how hard it felt, as though she had expected the future to be like a partially baked cake simply because it had not yet happened. However, a few steps sufficed to demonstrate that this was not the case. The future was a solid place, and unquestionably real – although it was utterly devastated. Was that heap of rubble really London?

The tram had stopped in a clearing amid the remains of what had probably been a small square, the only reminder of which was a few charred, twisted trees. The surrounding houses had been destroyed. Only the odd wall remained intact – still papered and incongruously adorned with an occasional picture or lamp-fitting – the remnants of a broken staircase, elegant railings now enclosing nothing more than piles of rubble. Dotted along the pavements were grim mounds of ash, probably the remains of fires built by humans from sticks of furniture to ward off the cold night air.

Claire could find no clue in the surrounding ruins as to what part of London they were in, not least because, although it was midday, it was very dark. A gloomy light filtered down from the sky, veiled by the greyish smoke that billowed from dozens of fires, their flames flickering like votive candles between the gaping ruins, obscuring the outlines of that shattered world – a world seemingly abandoned to its fate, like a ship stricken with malaria condemned to drift until time brings it to rest on a coral reef.

When Mazursky considered sufficient time had passed for the passengers to appreciate the depressing face of the future, he asked them to form a group. With him leading the way and one of the marksmen bringing up the rear, they moved off. The time travellers marched out of the square and into an avenue where the devastation struck them as even greater, for there was scarcely anything left standing to suggest that the piles of rubble had once been buildings. The avenue had no doubt once been lined with luxurious town houses, but the prolonged war had turned London into an enormous refuse tip. Magnificent churches had become indistinguishable from foul-smelling boarding-houses in the jumbled mass of bricks and masonry – where occasionally the horrified Claire thought she could make out a skull.

Mazursky led them through mounds that resembled funeral pyres, busily picked over by scavenging crows. The noise of the procession startled the birds, which flew off in all directions, darkening the sky still further. After they had vanished, one remained circling above their heads, tracing a mournful message with its flight, as though the Creator were regretfully signing over the patent of His beleaguered invention to someone else. Mazursky strode ahead, choosing the easiest pathways, or perhaps those with fewer bones, stopping once in a while to chide someone, invariably Ferguson, who was joking about the pervading stench of rotting flesh (or anything else that happened to catch his attention), wringing the odd titter out of the ladies strolling beside him on their husbands’ arms, as though they were meandering through the botanical gardens at Kew.

As they ventured deeper into the ruins, Claire began to worry about how she would separate from the group without anyone noticing. It would be difficult with Mazursky Ustening out for any suspicious sounds, and the marksman at the rear, pointing his rifle into the gloom, and when the excited Lucy gripped her arm, the possibility of escape felt even more remote.

After they had walked for about ten minutes, during which Claire began to suspect they were going round in circles, they reached the promontory: a mound of debris a little taller than the others. Climbing it did not look difficult, as the rubble appeared to form a makeshift flight of steps to the top. At Mazursky’s command, they began the ascent, giggling and losing their footing, a band of merrymakers on a country outing, whom the guide no longer tried to silence – he had probably concluded it was impossible. Only when they reached the top of the mound did he order them to be quiet and crouch behind the outcrop of rocks that formed a parapet at the summit. When they had done this, he walked along, pushing down any protruding heads and telling the ladies to close their parasols unless they wanted the automatons to notice a sudden flowering of sunshades on the crest of the hill.

Flanked by Lucy and the exasperating Ferguson, Claire gazed from behind her rock at the deserted street below. It was strewn with rubble, like the ones they had walked through to get to the makeshift viewpoint of where the battle was supposed to take place.

‘Allow me to ask you a question, Mr Mazursky,’ she heard Ferguson say.

The guide, with the marksman, was squatting a few yards to his left and swivelled to peer at him. ‘What is it, Mr Ferguson?’ He sighed.

‘Given that we’ve turned up in the future in time to witness the battle that will decide the fate of the planet, just like the first expedition, why haven’t we bumped into them?’ Ferguson looked round at the others, clearly hoping they would back him up.

Having thought over what he had said, a few of the group nodded, and looked askance at their guide, waiting for an explanation. Mazursky studied Ferguson for a moment in silence, perhaps considering whether or not the impudent man deserved a reply. ‘Of course, Mr Ferguson. You’re absolutely right,’ he finally declared. ‘And not only would we bump into the first expedition, but into the third, fourth and all the other future expeditions, don’t you think? That is why I take each expedition to a different place, not simply to avoid jams, but so that Terry and F – he broke off and gestured to the marksman, who gave a timid wave – ‘are not constantly bumping into ourselves. If you really must know, at this very moment the first expedition is crouched behind that mound over there.’

Everyone’s eyes followed Mazursky’s finger as he pointed to one of the neighbouring hillocks from which the battleground of the future was also visible.

‘I see,’ muttered Ferguson. Then his face lit up and he cried out: ‘In that case I could go and say hello to my friend Fletcher!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr Ferguson.’

‘Why not? The battle hasn’t even started yet. I’ll be back in no time.’

Mazursky let out a sigh of despair. ‘I’ve told you I can’t allow you to—‘

‘But it’ll only take a moment, Mr Mazursky’ pleaded Ferguson. ‘Mr Fletcher and I have known each other since—‘

‘Answer me one thing, Mr Ferguson,’ Charles Winslow interrupted him.

Ferguson turned towards him, his hackles up.

‘When your friend described his trip to you, did he by any chance tell you that you had appeared out of nowhere to say hello?’

‘No,’ replied Ferguson.

Charles smiled. ‘In that case, stay where you are. You never went to greet your friend, Mr Fletcher, so you can’t go now. As you yourself said, fate is fate: it can’t be altered.’

Ferguson opened his mouth, but no words came out.

‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ Charles added, turning to face the street, ‘I think we’d all like to witness the battle in silence.’

Claire observed with relief that this shut Ferguson up once and for all. The others ignored him too, concentrating their gaze on the street. Claire turned to Lucy, hoping to exchange knowing glances with her friend, but apparently she was already bored with the whole thing: she had picked up a twig and was scratching a kiwi bird in the sand with it.

On her right, Inspector Garrett was watching Lucy draw, an awed expression on his face, as though he were witnessing a small miracle. ‘Did you know kiwis only exist in New Zealand, Miss Nelson?’ the young man asked, after clearing his throat.

Lucy looked at him, astonished that he, too, should know about this bird, and Claire could not help grinning. Where, if not between two kiwi-lovers, could a stronger love blossom?

Just then a clank of metal, scarcely audible in the distance, startled the group. Everyone, including Ferguson, fixed their eyes expectantly on the end of the street, terrified by the sinister noise that could only herald the arrival of the evil automatons.

They soon emerged, moving slowly through the ruins as though they were the lords of the planet. They looked identical to the statue back in the big hall: huge, angular and threatening, with tiny engines on their backs that let out occasional plumes of steam. Much to everyone’s surprise, they were carrying their king aloft on a throne, as in days of yore. Claire sighed, regretting being so far from the scene.

‘Take these, my dear,’ Ferguson said, handing her his opera glasses. ‘You seem more interested than I am.’

Claire thanked him and hurriedly studied the group through Ferguson’s glasses. She counted eight automatons altogether: the four bearers, plus two more at front and rear, escorting the throne upon which sat the inscrutable Solomon, ferocious king of the automatons, distinguishable from his replicas only by the crown perched on his iron head. The procession moved forward with excruciating slowness, lurching ridiculously from side to side like toddlers taking their first steps. And in fact, Claire reflected, the automatons had indeed learned to walk by conquering the world. Humans were undoubtedly quicker, but clearly far more fragile than these creatures, who had slowly but surely taken over the planet, perhaps because they had the whole of eternity to do so.

Then, when the cortège was halfway down the street, they heard a loud report. Solomon’s crown flew into the air. Everyone gazed in astonishment as the glittering object spun round several times, then fell to the ground and rolled over the rubble until it came to a halt a few yards away. Recovering from their surprise, Solomon and his guards raised their eyes to the top of a small crag blocking their way. The time travellers followed their gaze – and saw him. Standing in an almost identical pose to the statue in the hall, the brave Captain Shackleton was feline and imposing, his sinewy body swathed in shining armour, his deadly sword hanging indolently from his belt. He held an ornate gun bristling with levers. The leader of the humans had no need of a crown to bestow splendour on an already majestic physique, which, unbeknown to him, elevated the outcrop he was perched on to the status of pedestal.

He and Solomon looked each other up and down, their deep-seated hostility making the air crackle with electricity as if in the lead-up to a storm. Then the king of the automatons began to speak: ‘I’ve always admired your courage, Captain,’ he said, in his tinny voice, which he tried to imbue with a casual, almost playful tone, ‘but this time you’ve overestimated your chances. How could it occur to you to attack me without your army? Are you really so desperate, or have your men abandoned you?’

Captain Shackleton shook his head, as though he was disappointed by his enemy’s words. ‘The one positive thing about this war,’ he said, with quiet assurance, ‘is the way it has united the human race as never before.’

Shackleton’s voice was soft and clear, and reminded Claire of how some stage actors delivered their lines. Solomon tilted his head to one side, wondering what his enemy meant. He did not have to wait long to find out. The captain slowly raised his left hand, like someone calling down a falcon, and various shadows emerged from beneath the rubble, debris and stones scattering as they stood up. In a matter of seconds, the unsuspecting automatons found themselves surrounded by Shackleton’s men.

Claire’s heart raced. The humans had been hiding in the ruins all along, knowing Solomon would take that path. The king of the automatons had walked straight into the trap that would end his reign. The soldiers, whose actions seemed speeded up compared to those of the lumbering automatons, retrieved their rifles from the sand, dusted them off and took aim at their respective targets with the calm solemnity of someone performing a sacrament. The problem was there were only four of them. Claire was shocked that Shackleton’s famous army should be reduced to such a paltry number. Perhaps no one else had volunteered to take part in the suicidal attack, or perhaps by this stage of the war, the frequent daily skirmishes had reduced his troops to the point at which these were the only men left. At least they had the advantage of surprise, she thought, impressed by their tactical positioning: two soldiers had appeared out of nowhere in front of the procession, another to the left of the throne and a fourth had popped up at the rear.

The four opened fire as one.

Of the two automatons leading the cortège, one took a direct hit in the chest. Although he was made of iron, his armour ripped open, and he spurted a cascade of cogs and rods on to the ground before falling over with a loud crash. The other was luckier: the bullet aimed at disabling him only grazed his shoulder, barely causing him to totter. The soldier who had appeared behind the procession was cleverer. His bullet shattered the little steam engine on the back of one of the guards bringing up the rear; it keeled over backwards. A moment later, one of the throne-bearers suffered the same fate, felled by a volley of bullets fired by the soldier who had appeared at the side. Losing one of its supports, the throne keeled over dangerously, and sank to the ground, bringing the mighty Solomon with it.

Things seemed to be going splendidly for the humans, but once the automatons had regrouped, the situation changed. The automaton next to the one that had toppled over backwards snatched the weapon of his attacker and smashed it to smithereens. At the same time, no longer encumbered by the throne, a bearer opened the little doors in his chest and fired a direct hit at one of the two soldiers attacking from the front. His fall distracted his comrade, a fatal error that gave the nearest automaton, whose shoulder had been grazed, time to charge him and deliver a direct blow with his fist. The punch threw the soldier into the air; he landed a few yards away.

Panther-like, Shackleton leaped from his rock, and bounded over to them, downing the automaton with a well-aimed bullet before it could finish off his companion. The two remaining soldiers, one now unarmed, stepped back from the fray, and fell in beside their captain, while the four surviving automatons closed ranks around their king.

Although Claire knew nothing about military strategy, you did not need to be a genius to see that once the humans had used the advantage of a surprise, which had perhaps blinded them with the illusion of an easy victory, the automatons’ superior strength had turned the battle around with humiliating ease. Outnumbered as they were, it seemed logical to Claire that Shackleton, whose duty as a good captain was to protect his men, would order a retreat. However, the future had already been written, and she was not surprised when she heard Solomon’s voice intervene to stop them as they were preparing to flee.

‘Wait, Captain,’ he declared, in his tinny voice. ‘Go, if you want, and plan another ambush. Perhaps you will be more successful next time, but I fear you will only prolong a war that has already gone on far too long. But you could also stay and end it once and for all, here and now’

Shackleton looked at him suspiciously.

‘If you allow me, I’d like to make you a proposition, Captain,’ Solomon went on, while his guard broke ranks, opening like a metal cocoon at the centre of which stood their king. ‘I propose we fight a duel.’

One of the automatons had rescued a wooden box from the toppled throne, which it now presented to Solomon. The automaton ceremoniously pulled out a magnificent iron sword, the tip of whose blade glinted in the faint light from the sky.

‘As you see, Captain, I have had made a broadsword identical to yours so that we could fight with the same weapon humans have used for centuries. I’ve been practising these last few months, waiting for the moment when I would be able to challenge you.’ He sliced through the air with a two-handed thrust. ‘Unlike the ignoble pistol, the sword requires skill, deftness and knowledge of your enemy, which makes me think that if I succeed in piercing your entrails with its razor-sharp blade, you will acknowledge my expertise and consent to die.’

Captain Shackleton mulled over Solomon’s proposal for a few moments, looking wearier and more disgusted than ever by the war of attrition. Now he had his chance to end it by laying all his bets on a single card.

‘I accept your challenge, Solomon. Let’s decide the outcome of this war here and now,’ he replied.

‘So be it,’ Solomon declared gravely, scarcely able to contain his joy.

The automatons and human soldiers stepped back a few paces, forming a circle around the duellists. The third and final act was about to begin.

Shackleton unsheathed his sword with a graceful movement and made several feints in the air, aware perhaps that he might never again perform the gesture. After this brief demonstration, he coolly studied Solomon, who was trying to strike a gallant swordsman’s pose, but was hindered by his rigid limbs.

Circling the automaton slowly and nimbly, like a wild animal stalking its prey, Shackleton tried to work out where to strike first, while Solomon watched his assailant, sword clumsily raised. Naturally he had given his rival the honour of commencing the duel. With a swift, agile movement, Shackleton traced an arc in the air with his sword, which came crashing down on Solomon’s left side. But the two-handed blow only produced a loud metallic clang, like a pealing bell, that hung in the air for a few moments. Following the pathetic outcome of his first strike, he stepped back a few paces, visibly dismayed: the brutal blow had scarcely made Solomon teeter, while it had almost snapped his wrists. As though seeking to confirm his weak position, Shackleton struck again, this time aiming for the automaton’s right side. The result was the same, but this time he could not afford to brood over it – he had to avoid Solomon’s counter-attack.

After dodging the tip of his sword, which sliced through the air almost grazing his helmet, Shackleton once more put distance between them and, momentarily safe from attack, studied his enemy again, shaking his head slowly in a gesture that betrayed his despair.

Solomon’s blows were slow and thus easy to evade, but the captain was aware that if one struck home, his armour would not offer much protection. He had to discover his opponent’s weak point. Continuing to aim two-handed blows at the automaton’s iron-clad armour would only make his arms stiff, and the effort would exhaust him, slowing him and making him careless: it would leave him, in short, at the automaton’s mercy. Shackleton dodged another blow, and ended up behind his enemy’s back. Before Solomon had time to turn around, he thrust his sword as hard as he could into the steam engine that gave the automaton life.

There was a great clatter as cogs and rods flew out of the opening in all directions, but also an unexpected burst of steam, which hit Shackleton full in the face, blinding him. Solomon wheeled round with astonishing agility and landed a blow on his dazed enemy. The sword struck the captain’s side with such force that it shattered his armour and sent him spinning across the ground like a top.

Claire raised her hand to her mouth to stop herself screaming. She heard the stifled cries of the others around her. Once he had stopped spinning, Shackleton tried to get to his feet, clutching his wounded side, blood streaming over his hip and down his leg, but his strength failed him. He remained on his knees, as though prostrating himself before the king of the automatons, who approached him slowly, savouring his victory.

Solomon shook his head, showing his disappointment at the poor fight his opponent had put up – Shackleton dared not even raise his head to look at him. Then he lifted his sword with both hands, preparing to bring it down on the captain’s helmet and split his skull asunder. He could think of no better way to end the cruel war that had established the automatons’ supremacy over the human race. He brought the sword down on his victim with all his might but – to his astonishment – Captain Shackleton leaped out of the way at the very last moment. Robbed of its target, the automaton’s sword embedded itself in the stony ground with a loud clang. In vain, Solomon tried to pull it out while Shackleton rose up beside him, like a majestic cobra, oblivious to the wound in his side. Slowly, as though taking pleasure from the movement, he raised his sword and brought it down, with one swift surgical blow, on the joint between Solomon’s head and his body.

There was an almighty crunch, and the automaton’s head rolled across the ground with a series of clangs as it bounced against the rocks. It came to a halt next to the crown it had worn during its reign.

There was a sudden silence. The headless, motionless automaton stood in a grotesque posture, bowed over the sword, the blade still embedded in the rubble. As a final gesture, the brave Captain Shackleton placed his foot on his lifeless enemy’s flank and tipped him over. The deafening sound, like that of scrap metal being loaded on to a cart, put an end to the long war that had devastated the planet.

Chapter XXII

At the top of the promontory, Mazursky tried in vain to silence the applause unleashed by Captain Shackleton’s victory. Fortunately it was drowned in the cheers down in the street, a few yards below, where the men were fervently acclaiming their brave captain. Oblivious to the surrounding clamour, Claire remained crouched behind her rock. She was bemused by the overwhelming storm of emotion that caused her soul to flutter like a flag in the breeze. She had known how the duel would end, yet she had been unable to avoid jumping each time Shackleton was in danger, each time Solomon’s blade greedily sought out his flesh, or when Shackleton had attempted in vain to chop down the automaton with his sword, as one fells an oak. She knew this was not so much because she feared the human race might lose the duel, but because of what might happen to the captain himself. She longed to carry on watching events below, even to make sure that, as part of his strategy, Shackleton had exaggerated the severity of the wound inflicted on him by the automaton, but Mazursky had ordered them to line up for the return journey to their own time, and she had no choice but to obey.

The time travellers began their descent of the tiny hillock like an unruly herd of goats, discussing among themselves the exciting highlights of the battle.

‘Is that all?’ asked Ferguson, apparently the only dissatisfied passenger. ‘That poor excuse for a battle is what decided the fate of the planet?’

Mazursky did not deign to reply, taken up as he was with making sure the matrons did not trip and roll down the slope, their skirts flying up with unintended coquettishness.

Claire followed them in silence, ignoring the insufferable Ferguson’s comments, and Lucy who had taken her arm again. One thought hammered persistently in her mind: she had to separate from the group. And she had to do it now, not only because it would no longer be possible once they reached the tram but because the group was in such high spirits that they had still not managed to form an orderly column thus facilitating her escape. Furthermore, she must not stray too far from Shackleton and his men: it would be pointless to get away only to become lost in a maze of ruins. If she was going to act, the time to do it was now: the further they went, the less chance she had. But she must break away from Lucy first.

As though in answer to her prayers, Madeleine Winslow came up to them excitedly, to ask whether they had seen the elegant boots the soldiers were wearing. This was something Claire would never have taken into account, although she seemed to be the only person not to have noticed such an important aspect of the future. Lucy said she had, and immediately went on to discuss the amazing originality of the footwear. Claire shook her head in disbelief at her friend’s frivolity, and when Lucy let go of her arm, she took the opportunity to dawdle. She dropped behind the marksman, who had not yet received the order to take up the rear and was strolling along leisurely, no longer bothering to keep an eye on the shadows. Behind him came Charles Winslow and Inspector Garrett, immersed in a lively conversation while they walked. Finally, when she found herself at the back of the group, she hitched up her skirts and made a clumsy dash for it, ducking behind a conveniently placed remnant of wall.

Claire Haggerty stood still, her back against the wall, her heart pounding, listening to the murmur of the group growing fainter and fainter, without anyone apparently having noticed she was missing. When at last they were out of earshot, dry-throated, parasol clasped between her sweaty palms, she poked her head out cautiously and saw that the procession had disappeared round a bend. She had done it! At once she felt a rush of panic as it dawned on her she was alone in that dreadful place, but she quickly told herself this was what she had wanted. Events were unfolding exactly as she had planned when she climbed aboard the Cronotilus. Unless something went horribly wrong, she could stay in the year 2000. Wasn’t that what she had wished for?

She drew a deep breath and stepped out from behind the wall. All being well, they would only discover her absence when they reached the time-tram, but even so she must hurry to join Shackleton and his men before the guide found out. After that there would be nothing Mazursky could do and she would be safe. As he had told them himself during the journey, they were in the year 2000 as simple spectators: they must not let themselves be seen by people from the future, still less make contact with them. Finding the captain, then, was her primary objective.

Claire marched off in the opposite direction to her companions, trying not to think of the consequences her unexpected act might have on the fabric of time. She only hoped she would not destroy the universe in her bid to be happy.

Now that she found herself alone, the surrounding devastation seemed even more disturbing. What if she could not find Shackleton? And what if the captain snubbed her, refusing to admit her into his ranks? She could not believe that a true gentleman would abandon a woman to her fate in that terrible world. Besides, she had some knowledge of first aid, which might prove useful, judging from how easy it was to get wounded there, and she was courageous and hard-working enough to help them rebuild the world. And, of course, she was in love with the captain. Although she preferred not to let that show until she was completely sure. In the meantime it was simply a notion, as outrageous as it was exhilarating. She had to admit, however, that she had not given enough thought to what she would do when she met the captain, because she had not really believed her escape plan would work. She would just have to improvise, she told herself, walking round the promontory, before hiking up her skirts in readiness to climb down the steep path, which, if her sense of direction had not failed her, would lead to the street where the ambush had taken place.

She paused when she heard footsteps coming up the path towards her. They were unmistakably human, but Claire followed her instinct and jumped behind the nearest rock. She waited in silence, her heart beating furiously in her chest. The owner of the footsteps stopped near to where she was hiding. Claire was afraid he had seen her and would order her to come out with her hands up or, worse, that he would point his gun at the rock and wait for her to make the first move. Instead the stranger began singing: ‘Jack the Ripper’s dead/And lying on his bed/He cut his throat/With Sunlight Soap/ Jack the Ripper’s dead.’

Claire raised her eyebrows. She knew that song. Her father had learned it from East End children and used to sing it softly to himself as he shaved before going to church. She suddenly imagined herself immersed in the aroma of the new-fangled soap made from pine oil rather than animal fat. She wished she could travel back to her own time simply to tell her father that the song which had so tickled him had survived over the years. Except that she would never go back, come what may. She tried not to think of this, but to concentrate on the present moment, the moment that would mark the start of her new life.

The stranger carried on singing with even greater gusto. Had he come to that secluded place simply to try out his voice? Whatever the case, it was time she made contact with the inhabitants of the year 2000. She gritted her teeth, plucked up all her courage and stepped out of her hiding-place, ready to introduce herself to the stranger who was so casually destroying one of her favourite songs.

Claire Haggerty and the brave Captain Shackleton stared at one another in silence, each reflecting the other’s surprise, like two mirrors facing one another. The captain had removed his helmet, which was resting on a nearby stone, and Claire did not need to look twice to realise that the reason he had strayed from the others was not to practise his singing, but to perform a far less noble act to which the ditty he was singing was a simple adjunct. She could not prevent her jaw dropping, and her fingers letting go of the parasol, which made a crunching sound, like a shell breaking, as it hit the ground. After all, this was the first time her delicate eyes had glimpsed the part of a man she was apparently not meant to see until the day her marriage was consummated, and even then probably not quite in such a plain and naked fashion.

As soon as he had recovered from his surprise, Captain Shackleton hastened to tuck away the unseemly part of his anatomy beneath his armour. Then he stared at her, again without a word, embarrassment giving way to curiosity. Claire had not had time to speculate about other details, but Captain Derek Shackleton’s face was certainly as she had imagined it would be. Either the Creator had fashioned it according to her precise instructions, or the ape this man was descended from had had a superior pedigree.

But, for whatever reason, Captain Shackleton’s face unquestionably belonged to a different era. He had the same graceful chin as the statue and the same serene expression around his mouth, and his eyes, now that she could see them, were in perfect harmony with the rest of his features. Those beautiful grey-green eyes, like a forest immersed in mist where all who ventured were destined to be lost, set the world alight with a gaze so intense, so profound that Claire knew she was in the presence of the most alive man she had ever seen. Yes, beneath that armour plate, that bronzed skin, those sculpted muscles, was a heart that beat with extraordinary force, pumping through the network of veins a stubborn impulsive life that death itself had been unable to conquer.

Tm Claire Haggerty Captain,’ she introduced herself, trying to stop her voice 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 the 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 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 for ever!’

Claire turned towards Shackleton to implore his aid, but to her astonishment the captain had 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 they headed back to the Cronotilus, the guide made them get into a line with the marksmen at the rear and, 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 they looked at her with love? His speechless-ness and bewilderment were definite symptoms of infatuation and suggested that he had. In any era they were the typical signs of someone 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 let herself be helped on to 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 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 dull time, 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 to the dreary nineteenth century, and they had not jeopardised 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 she knew 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 tried 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 – how far could a mere parasol affect the fabric of time?

Chapter XXIII

When the girl and the guide vanished along the steep path, Captain Derek Shackleton left his hiding-place and paused to look 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 happened. He remembered her words: ‘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 this was not all he remembered. He was surprised by how clearly the image of her face was etched in his mind. He could conjure, clear as day, her pale visage, her slightly wild 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 mesmerised joy. No woman had ever looked at him like that before.

Then he noticed the parasol and flushed with shame as he remembered why she had dropped it. He went over and carefully picked it up, 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 his encounter with the girl.

Just then, Solomon leaped 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 bore down 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 rattle 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 with 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 might have broken something!’ groaned Solomon, amid further guffaws.

‘It serves you right for playing pranks,’ Shackleton chided him, walking down the incline and offering him 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,’ a soldier 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 armour,’ said Solomon. After he had freed himself, he gulped air like a fish. His red hair was stuck to his head, his broad face covered with 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 to 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 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, scrutinising it with interest. A lot more that we get for doing this, at any rate.’

‘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!’

‘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 absent-minded 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 incomprehension, determined to keep him talking so that he would forget whatever 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 boarding-house as an amateur magician. Perhaps that was 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 to see was 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 arranged it brilliantly’ his companion 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 recognise us if they bump into us somewhere in London. It’s another of Murray’s safely 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 among the clouds. As though plunging into their fluffy interior, 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.

‘Magnifique1.’ he exclaimed. ‘Bravo!’

The group was 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 that 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 with bolts and knobs, which, with the aid of the blank charges under the automatons’ armour, 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 armour, hung it on its hanger and pulled 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 to change.

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, while in Murray’s fictional world they would all have laid down their lives for him, in the real world they might 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 début performance, then to mark the success of the one given in honour of Her Majesty the Queen, for which they had received double wages. Last, they had caroused 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, the revelry had made Tom realise he should avoid keeping company with these fellows or they would land 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 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 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 that he had more chance 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 was doing up the buttons when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gilliam Murray coming over.

‘I wanted to thank you personally, Tom,’ he said, beaming and stretching out his hand. Tom shook it, forcing a smile. ‘None of this would be possible without you. Nobody could play Captain Shackleton better.’

Tom tried to look pleased. Was Murray making a veiled reference to Perkins? From what he had heard, Perkins had been hired to play Shackleton before him. When he had discovered what Murray was up to, he had realised his silence was worth more than the salary Murray intended paying him, and had gone to his office to tell him as much. His attempt at blackmail had not ruffled Murray, who simply told him that 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 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 Tom had to keep secret his meeting with Claire Haggerty. 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 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 Murray, ‘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 shaking as he pulled on his trousers.

Murray gave what sounded like a growl of pleasure. ‘Well, just keep it up, lad, keep it up,’ he urged.

Tom nodded. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he said, pulling on his cap, ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘You’re leaving?’ said Murray, disappointed. ‘Won’t you stay for the jollities?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Murray, I really have to go,’ replied Tom. He snatched his bundled-up jacket, taking care not to let Murray see the parasol, and headed for the door that led from the dressing room into the alley at the back of the building. He had to get out of there before Murray noticed the beads of sweat on his brow.

‘Tom, wait!’ cried Murray.

He swivelled round, his heart knocking in his chest. Murray stared at him solemnly. ‘Is she pretty?’ he finally asked.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Tom stammered.

‘The reason you’re in such a hurry. Is there a pretty lady waiting to enjoy the company of the saviour of the human race?’

‘I – I—‘ Tom stuttered, suddenly aware of the sweat trickling down his cheeks.

Gilliam Murray laughed heartily. ‘I understand, Tom,’ he said, patting him on the back. ‘You don’t like people sniffing around in your private life, do you? Don’t worry, you’re not obliged to reply. Run along now. And don’t forget to make sure no one sees you leave.’

Tom nodded mechanically, and moved towards the door, halfheartedly waving to the others. He stepped out into the alley and hurried as fast as he could towards the main street, where he hid at the corner and paused, trying to collect his thoughts. He watched the entrance to the alleyway for a few minutes, in case Murray had sent someone after him, but when no one appeared, he felt reassured. That meant Murray did not suspect anything – at least, not yet. Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Now he must put his trust in the stars to guide him as far away as possible from the girl called Claire Haggerty. It was then he noticed that, in his panic, he had forgotten to change his shoes: he was still wearing the brave Captain Shackleton’s boots.

Chapter XXIV

The boarding-house on Buckeridge Street was a ramshackle building with a peeling façade, wedged between two taverns that were so noisy it was hard for anyone to sleep on the other side of the partition walls. However, compared to some of the other fleapits Tom had lodged in, the filthy hovel was the nearest thing to a palace he had known. At that time of day, after twelve, the street was filled with the pungent aroma of grilled sausages from the taverns, a constant source of torment for most of the lodgers, whose pockets contained nothing but fluff. Tom crossed the street to the boarding-house, trying his best to ignore the smell and regretting that he had passed up the spread Murray had laid on in their honour – it would have filled his belly for days. In the street he saw the stall belonging to Mrs Ritter, a mournful widow who made a few pence reading people’s palms.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ritter,’ he said, with a friendly smile. ‘How’s business?’

‘Your smile’s the best thing that’s happened to me today, Tom,’ the woman replied, cheering up noticeably when she saw him. ‘No one seems bothered about the future. Have you managed to convince the whole neighbourhood not to be curious about what fate has in store for them?’

Tom liked Mrs Ritter, and from the moment she had set up her miserable little stand there, he had taken it upon himself to be her champion. From scraps of neighbourhood gossip, Tom had pieced together her tragic story, which might have been the template the Creator had used to reproduce unhappy lives: Mrs Ritter had apparently been spared no misfortune. Tom had decided she had undergone more than her fair share of suffering and resolved to help her as best he could. Unfortunately this stretched little further than stealing apples in Covent Garden or stopping to give her the time of day whenever he went in or out of the boarding-house, and trying to cheer her if she was having a bad day. He had never let her read his palm, and always gave the same explanation: knowing what fate had in store for him would destroy his curiosity, which was the only thing that got him out of bed every morning.

‘I would never try to sabotage your business, Mrs Ritter,’ he replied, amused. Tm sure things will pick up this afternoon.’

‘I hope you’re right, Tom ... I hope you’re right.’

He bade her farewell, and climbed the rickety staircase that led to his room on the top floor. He opened the door, and examined the room he had been living in for almost two years as though he were seeing it for the first time. When the landlady had first shown him the room, he had eyed critically the dilapidated bed, the worm-eaten chest of drawers, the fly-blown mirror and the tiny window overlooking the waterlogged back alley filled with refuse. Now Tom stared at the wretched space he could scarcely pay for, which represented everything he had been able to make of life. He was struck by the overwhelming certainly that nothing would ever change, that his present existence was so irreversible it would continue into the future, without anything happening to mark the passage of time. Only at moments of remarkable lucidity like this would he realise that life was slipping away from him, like water trickling through his fingers.

But how else could he play the hand he had been dealt? His father had been a miserable wretch who believed he had landed the best job of his life when he was hired to collect the excrement in the cesspools at the back of people’s houses. Each night he had ventured forth to unburden the city of its waste, as though Her Majesty in person would one day thank him for his labours. He was utterly convinced that this loathsome task was the cornerstone upon which the British Empire was founded: how could a country stay on top if it was drowning in its own filth? he would say. His greatest aspiration – to his friends’ amusement – was to buy a bigger cart that would allow him to shovel more shit than anyone else. If there was one childhood memory etched in Tom’s mind it was the unbearable stench his father exuded when he climbed into bed. Tom had tried to fend it off by nestling against his mother and breathing in her sweet smell, which was barely perceptible beneath the sweat from her toil at the cotton mill. But the smell of excrement was preferable by far to the stink of the cheap alcohol his father brought home with him when the blossoming of the city’s sewage system put an end to his absurd dreams. And now Tom could no longer fend it off with his mother’s fragrance, because an outbreak of cholera had torn her from him.

After her death, there was more room in the communal bed, but Tom slept with one eye open, for he never knew when his father might wake him up with his belt, unleashing his anger at the world on his son’s tiny back.

When Tom turned six, his father forced him to go out begging to pay for liquor. Arousing people’s sympathy was a thankless but undemanding task, and he did not know how much he would miss it until his father demanded he help him in the new job he had obtained, thanks to his cart and his ability with a shovel. In this way Tom learned that death could cease to be abstract and take on form and substance, leaving a chill in his fingers that no fire would ever warm. But more than anything, he understood that those whose lives were worth nothing became valuable in death, for their bodies contained a wealth of precious organs. He helped his father rob graves and crypts for a retired boxer named Crouch, who sold the corpses to surgeons, until during one of his frequent drunken binges his father fell into the Thames and drowned.

Overnight, Tom found himself alone in the world, but at least now his life was his own. He was no longer forced to disturb the sleep of the dead. Now he would be the one to decide which path he took.

Stealing corpses had turned him into a strong, alert lad who had no difficulty in finding more honest employment. He had found work as a street sweeper, a pest exterminator, a doorman. He even swept chimneys, until the lad he worked with was caught stealing from a customer’s house, and the pair were thrown out by the servants after a thrashing. But he put all that behind him the day he met Megan, a beautiful girl with whom he lived for a few years in a stuffy cellar in Hague Street, Bethnal Green. Megan was not only a pleasant respite from his daily struggle, she taught him to read, using old newspapers they fished out of the rubbish. Thanks to her, Tom discovered the hidden meaning behind the symbols that were letters, and learned that life beyond his own little world could be just as awful. Unfortunately in some neighbourhoods happiness is always doomed, and Megan ran off with a chair-maker who did not know the meaning of hunger.

When she returned two months later, her face covered with bruises and blind in one eye, Tom accepted her back as though she had never left. Although her betrayal had dealt the final blow to a love already strained by circumstance, he cared for her day and night, feeding her opium syrup to keep the pain at bay, and reading aloud from old newspapers as though he were reciting poetry. He would have gone on caring for her for the rest of his life, bound to her by pity, which might have changed back into affection, if the infection in her eye had not caused his bed to widen once more.

They buried her one rainy morning in a small church near the lunatic asylum. He alone wept over her grave. He felt he was burying much more than Megan’s body. With her went his faith in life, his naïve belief that he would be able to live honourably, and his innocence. That day, in the shoddy coffin of the only woman whom he had dared to love, they were also burying Tom Blunt because, suddenly, he did not know who he was. He did not recognise himself in the young man who, that very night, crouched in the dark waiting for the chair-maker to come home; in the frenzied creature who hurled himself at the man, throwing him against a wall; in the wild animal who set upon him, beating him into the ground with angry fists.

The death cries of this man he had never known were also the cries that heralded the birth of a new Tom: a Tom who seemed capable of anything, a Tom who could perform deeds such as this without a flicker of conscience, perhaps because someone had extracted it and sold it to the surgeons. He had tried to make an honest living, and life had crushed him as if he were a loathsome insect. It was time he looked for other ways to survive, Tom told himself, gazing at the bloody pulp to which he had reduced the chair-maker.

By the time he was twenty, life had instilled a savage harshness in his eyes. Combined with his physical strength, this gave him a disconcerting, even intimidating air, as he loped along the streets. He had no difficulty in being hired by a money-lender in Bethnal Green, who paid him to bully a list of debtors by day, and who he had no qualms about stealing from at night. It was as though the morality that had guided his actions in the past had become no more than a useless obstacle preventing him reaping the benefits of life. There was no longer room for anything but self-interest. Life became a simple routine that consisted of perpetrating violence on anyone he was told to in exchange for enough money to rent a filthy, dank room and the services of a whore when he needed to relax. He was governed by a single emotion, hatred, which he nurtured daily with his fists, as though it were a rare bloom, vague but intense, aggravated by a trifle and often responsible for him arriving at the boarding-house, face black and blue, barred from yet another tavern.

During this period, Tom was aware of the icy indifference with which he snapped people’s fingers and whispered threats in his victims’ ears, but he justified his actions by telling himself he had no choice: it was pointless to fight against the current dragging him to where he probably belonged. Like a snake shedding its skin, he could only look away as he relinquished God’s mercy on his downward spiral to hell. Perhaps, in the end, that was all he was fit for. Perhaps he had been born to break people’s fingers, to occupy a place of honour among thieves and wastrels. And he would have reconciled himself to being dragged deeper into the ugly side of life, knowing it was only a matter of time before he committed his next murder, had it not been for someone who believed the role of hero suited him better.

Tom had turned up at Gilliam Murray’s offices without knowing anything about the job on offer. He could still remember the astonishment on the big man’s face when he walked in, how he had stood up and paced round him, uttering ecstatic cries, pinching his arm muscles and sizing up his jawbone, arms flailing like some demented tailor.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re exactly as I described you,’ he declared, to the bewildered Tom. ‘You are Derek Shackleton.’

With this he led him down to an enormous cellar where a group of men in strange costumes seemed to be rehearsing a play. That was the first time he had met Martin, Jeff and the others.

‘Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to your captain,’ Murray announced, ‘the man for whom you must sacrifice your lives.’

And that was how Tom Blunt, hired thug, crook and troublemaker, became the saviour of mankind. The job did far more than fill his pockets: it saved his soul from the hellfire where it had been roasting. Because, for some reason, it seemed inappropriate to Tom to go round breaking people’s bones now that his mission was to save the world. It sounded absurd, as the two things were perfectly compatible, yet the noble spirit of Derek Shackleton was now glowing inside him, filling the gap from which the original Tom Blunt’s soul had been extracted, taking him over serenely, naturally, painlessly.

After the first rehearsal, Tom left Captain Shackleton’s armour behind but decided to take his character home, or perhaps this was an unconscious act beyond his control. The truth was, he liked looking at the world as though he really were its saviour, seeing it through the eyes of a hero whose heart was as courageous as it was generous. That same day he decided to look for honest work, as though the words of the giant named Gilliam Murray had rekindled the tiny flame of humanity that was still flickering in his depths.

But now all his plans for redemption had been destroyed by that stupid girl. He sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the parasol bundled in his jacket. It was doubtless the most expensive thing in his room; selling it would pay his rent for two or three months, he reflected, rubbing the bruise on his side where the bag of tomato juice had been strapped before Martin burst it during their duel. Some good had come out of his meeting with the girl, although it was hard to ignore the tight spot she had put him in. He dreaded to think what would happen if he ever bumped into her in the street. His boss’s worst nightmare would come true, for the girl would immediately discover Murray’s Time Travel was a fraud. And while that might be the worst consequence, it was not the only one. She would also discover he was no hero from the future, just a miserable wretch who owned nothing but the clothes on his back. Then Tom would be forced to witness her devotion turn to disappointment, possibly even outright disgust, as though she were watching a butterfly change back into a caterpillar. This, of course, was nothing compared to the discovery of the fraud, but he knew he would regret it far more.

Deep down, it gave him immense pleasure to remember the woman’s entranced gaze, even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the hero he was impersonating, the brave Captain Shackleton. Yes, he wanted Claire to imagine him in the year 2000, rebuilding the world, not sitting in this gloomy hovel, wondering how much a pawnbroker would give for her parasol.

Anyone who has been to Billingsgate fish market in the early hours knows that smells travel faster than light. Long before the night receives the first flush of dawn, the pungent aroma of shellfish and the overpowering stench of eel filling the fishermen’s carts have already mingled with the cold night air. Zigzagging through the oyster stalls and squid sellers hawking their merchandise at three for a penny, Tom Blunt reached the railings at the river entrance, where a crowd of other miserable wretches were flexing their muscles and trying to look enthusiastic in the hope that some kindly skipper would pick them to unload his boat from overseas.

Tom hugged his jacket to him, trying to ward off the cold, and joined the group of men. He immediately spotted Patrick, a tall youth who was as strapping as he was, with whom he had struck up a sort of friendship. They greeted one another with a nod and, like a couple of pigeons puffing their chests, tried to stand out from the crowd and catch the skippers’ eyes. Ordinarily, thanks to their glowing physiques, they were both hired straight away, and that morning was no exception. They congratulated one another with a sly grin, and walked towards the designated cargo boat with the dozen other chosen stevedores.

Tom liked this simple, honest work, which required no more than strong arms and a degree of agility: not only did it enable him to see the dawn in all its glory above the Thames, but as he felt the calming yet vivifying fatigue of physical effort steal over him, he could allow his thoughts to drift down unexpected pathways -rather like when he was at Harrow-on-the-Hill, a small rise in the suburbs of London that he had discovered during one of his walks. On top of the hill grew a centuries’ old oak surrounded by a dozen graves, as though the dead buried there wanted nothing to do with the others in the tiny adjoining cemetery. He thought of the grassy knoll as his private sanctuary, a sort of outdoor chapel where he could close his ears to the din of the world.

Sometimes when he was up there, he found to his amazement that he was even able to string together a few positive thoughts, which gave him a measure of insight into the usually elusive meaning of his life. As he sat wondering what sort of life John Peachey the man buried nearest to the oak, must have led, he began to reflect on his own, as though it belonged to someone else, and to judge it with the same objectivity as that of the deceased stranger.

Once their day was done, he and Patrick sat on a pile of boxes waiting to be paid. The two men usually passed the time chatting about this or that, but Tom’s thoughts had been elsewhere all week. That was how long it had been since his unfortunate meeting with Claire Haggerty, and still nothing had happened. Apparently, Murray knew nothing about it and possibly never would. Even so, Tom’s life would never be the same again. It had already changed. Tom knew London was too big a place for him to run into the girl again, yet he walked around with his eyes wide open, afraid of bumping into her round every corner. Thanks to her, he would always be uneasy, always on the alert: he had even considered growing a beard. He shook his head as he reflected how the most trivial act can change your life: why the devil had he not taken the precaution of emptying his bladder before the performance?

When Patrick finally plucked up the courage to chide him for his morose silence, Tom stared at him in surprise. It was true he had not tried to hide his anxiety from his friend, and now he did not know what to say to him. He merely reassured him with a mysterious, doleful smile, and his companion shrugged his shoulders.

Once they had been paid, the two men strolled away from the market with the leisurely gait of those who have nothing much else to do for the rest of the day. As they walked, Tom gazed at Patrick, afraid his unwillingness to confide in him might have hurt the lad’s feelings. Patrick was only a couple of years younger than him, but his baby face made him look even younger, and Tom could not help instinctively taking him under his wing, like the little brother he had never had, even though he knew Patrick could take care of himself. Whether out of apathy or shyness, neither man had shown any interest in developing their friendship outside the port.

‘Today’s earnings bring me a little closer, Tom,’ declared Patrick, in a faintly wistful voice.

‘Closer to what?’ asked Tom, intrigued, for Patrick had never mentioned any plans to start a business or get married.

The lad looked at him mysteriously. ‘To achieving my dream,’ he replied solemnly.

Tom was pleased the lad had a dream to drive him on: something lacking in his own life of late. ‘And what dream might that be, Patrick?’ he asked, knowing he was longing to tell him.

Almost reverentially, Patrick pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to him. ‘To travel to the year 2000 and see the brave Captain Shackleton triumph over the evil automatons.’

Tom did not take the leaflet he knew by heart. He just stared at Patrick glumly.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know about the year 2000, Tom?’ said Patrick, astonished.

Tom sighed. ‘There’s nothing for me in the future, Patrick,’ he said. ‘This is my present, and it’s the only thing I want to know about’

‘I see,’ murmured Patrick, too polite to criticise his narrow-minded friend.

‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ Tom asked.

‘Of course not!’ He groaned. ‘I told you, I’m saving up. Breakfast is a luxury I can’t afford.’

‘In that case allow me to treat you,’ Tom offered, putting a fatherly arm round his shoulders. ‘I know a place near here where they serve the best sausages in town.’

Chapter XXV

After Tom and Patrick had enjoyed a hearty breakfast that would take the edge off their appetites for a week, Tom’s pockets were once again empty. He tried not to reproach himself for his extravagant gesture, but next time he must be more careful: although these altruistic deeds made him feel good, they would only be detrimental to him in the long run. He said goodbye to Patrick and, having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, made his way towards Covent Garden, intending to carry on with his charitable works by stealing a few apples for Mrs Ritter.

It was late morning by the time he arrived, and the freshest, crispest produce had been snapped up by the early birds, who came from all over London at the crack of dawn to stock up their larders. But by the same token, daylight had removed the eerie atmosphere cast by the candles perched on mounds of melted wax that the traders stuck on their carts. By now, the market had taken on the air of a country fair; the visitors no longer looked like furtive ghosts, but like people strolling about with all the time in the world to make their purchases while, like Tom, they let themselves be captivated by the heady scent of roses, eglantines and fuchsias wafting from the flower baskets on the western side of the square.

Floating along with the crowds filing dreamily between carts laden with potatoes, carrots and cabbages, a patchwork of colour that went all the way down Bow Street to Maiden Lane, Tom tried to locate some of the Cockney girls milling around the stalls with their baskets of apples. Craning his neck, he thought he spotted one on the other side of a mass of people. He tried to get to her before she disappeared into the crowd, swerving to pass the human wall blocking his way. But this type of abrupt movement, which might have saved Captain Shackleton’s life during a skirmish, was unwise in a packed market like Covent Garden.

He realised this when he walked headlong into a young woman crossing his path. Reeling from the collision, she had to steady herself in order not to end up on the ground. Tom stopped and swung round, with the intention of apologising – and found himself face to face with the only person in London he had never wanted to see again. The world suddenly felt like a magician’s hat, which could hold everything.

‘Captain Shackleton, what are you doing in my time?’ asked Claire Haggerty, bewildered.

Only inches away from her, Tom received the full impact of the devotion his mere presence triggered in her. He could even admire the blue of her eyes, a deep, intense blue he knew he would never find anywhere else in the world, however many oceans or skies he saw – a fierce, pure blue, which had probably been on the Creator’s palette when He coloured heaven, and of which her eyes were now the sole custodians. Only when he had broken free of her enchanted gaze did Tom realise that this chance encounter might cost him his life. He glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously, but was too dazed to take in what he saw. He fixed his eyes once more on the girl, who was still staring at him, overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion, waiting for him to explain his presence. But what could he tell her without giving away the truth, which was tantamount to signing his own death warrant?

‘I travelled back in time to bring you your parasol,’ he blurted out – and bit his lip. It sounded absurd, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He watched Claire’s eyes widen, and prepared for the worst.

‘Oh, thank you, you’re so kind,’ she replied, scarcely able to disguise her joy. ‘But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble. As you can see, I have another.’ She showed him a parasol almost identical to the one he had hidden in his chest of drawers. ‘However, as you’ve journeyed through time to bring it to me, I’ll gladly take it back, and I promise I’ll get rid of this one.’

Now it was Tom’s turn to conceal his astonishment: she had swallowed his lie completely! Yet wasn’t it logical? Murray’s pantomime was too convincing for a girl as young as her to question it. Claire believed she had travelled to the year 2000, and her certainty gave him legitimacy as a time traveller. It was that simple. When he had recovered from his surprise, he realised she was staring at his empty hands, wondering perhaps why they were not clasping the parasol that had compelled him to journey across an entire century with the sole aim of returning it to her.

‘I don’t have it with me,’ he apologised foolishly.

She waited expectantly for him to come up with a solution to this, and in the sudden silence that enclosed them amid the hustle and bustle, Tom glimpsed the girl’s slim, graceful body beneath her robe, and felt painfully aware of how long it had been since he was with a woman. After burying Megan, he had received only the fake tenderness of whores, and had recently forgone even that, considering himself tough enough to do without bartered caresses. Or so he had thought. Now he had in front of him a beautiful, elegant woman, a woman a fellow such as he could never hope to possess, and yet she was staring at him like no other woman ever had. Would her gaze be the tunnel that led him to storm the impregnable fortress? Men had risked their lives for much less since the beginning of time. And so, responding to the atavistic desire of his species, Tom did what reason least advised: ‘But I can give it to you this afternoon,’ he ventured, ‘if you’d be kind enough to take tea with me at the Aerated Bread Company near Charing Cross Underground station.’

Claire’s face lit up. ‘Of course, Captain,’ she replied, excited. ‘I’ll be there.’

Tom gave her a smile purged of all lust, and tried hard to mask his shock – at her for accepting his invitation and at himself for having proposed a meeting with the very woman he should flee if he valued his life. Clearly it did not mean that much to him if he was prepared to risk it for a roll in the hay with this vision of loveliness. Just then, someone called Claire’s name and they turned as one. A fair-haired girl was making her way towards them through the crowd.

‘It’s my friend Lucy,’ said Claire, with amused irritation. ‘She won’t let me out of her sight for a second.’

‘Please, don’t tell her I’ve come here from the future,’ Tom warned quickly, regaining some of his composure, ‘I’m travelling incognito. If anyone found out, I’d get into a lot of trouble.’

Claire looked at him a little uneasily.

‘I’ll be waiting for you in the tea rooms at four o’clock,’ Tom said brusquely, taking his leave. ‘But, please, promise me you’ll come alone.’

As he had thought she would, Claire promised without demur. Owing to his circumstances, Tom had never been to the ABC tea rooms, but he was aware that they had been all the rage since the day they opened. They were the only place two young people could meet without the bothersome presence of a chaperone. He had heard they were airy, pleasant and warm, and offered tea and buns at an affordable price. Thus, they were the perfect alternative to walks in the cold or meetings in family reception rooms, spied upon by the young lady’s mother, to which young suitors had hitherto been condemned. True, they would be seen, but Tom could think of no better place to meet her – or not one to which she would have agreed to go unaccompanied.

By the time Lucy reached Claire, Tom had vanished into the throng, but Lucy asked her dazed friend who the stranger was she had seen her talking to. Claire simply shook her head mysteriously. As she expected, Lucy soon forgot the matter, and dragged her to a flower stall where they could stock up with heliotropes, bringing the aroma of distant jungles into their bedrooms.

While Claire Haggerty was letting herself be led by the arm and thinking that travelling through time was the most gentlemanly thing anyone had ever done for her, Tom Blunt left Covent Garden Market by the opposite exit, elbowing his way through the crowd and trying not to think of poor Perkins.

He slumped onto his bed in the hovel as if he had been shot at point-blank range. Lying there, he cursed his foolhardy behaviour out loud, as he had been doing in the garbled manner of a drunkard all the way home. Had he taken leave of his senses? What did he think he was doing, asking the girl to meet him again? Well, the answer was easy enough. What he wanted was obvious, and it did not involve marvelling at Claire’s beauty for a couple of hours, tortured by the idea that he would never have her. Not on his life: he was going to take advantage of the girl being in love with his other self, the brave Captain Shackleton, to achieve an even greater goal. And he was amazed that for this fleeting pleasure he was prepared to suffer the consequences that such an irresponsible course of action would bring, including his probable demise. Did he really value his life so little? It was sad but true: possessing that beautiful woman was more meaningful to him than anything that might be waiting for him round the corner in his miserable future.

Thinking about it objectively, he had to admit that the logical thing to do was not to turn up at the meeting, and thereby avoid trouble. But this was no guarantee against him bumping into the girl somewhere else, having to explain what he was still doing in the nineteenth century and even invent some excuse for not having come to the tea room. Failure to appear at the appointed hour was not the answer. The only solution he could think of was to go there and find a way to avoid having to explain himself if they bumped into each other again. Some reason why she must not go near him, or even speak to him, he thought excitedly. All things considered, this meeting might even prove beneficial to him in the long run. Yes, this might be a way of solving the problem once and for all.

It was clear that this must be their first and only encounter. He had no choice: he must indulge his desire for the girl on condition that he succeeded in ruling out any possibility of them ever meeting again, nipping in the bud any relationship that might grow up between them. He could not see how they would conceal it from the multitude of spies Murray had posted all over the city, which would put not only him in danger but her, too. This meeting, then, felt like the last meal of the condemned man, and he resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

When it was time to go, he took the parasol, straightened his cap and left the boarding-house. Down in the street, he gave way to an impulse and stopped in front of Mrs Ritter’s stall.

‘Good afternoon, Tom,’ said the old lady.

‘Mrs Ritter,’ he replied, stretching out his hand, ‘I think the time has come for us both to see my future.’

The old woman glanced up at him in surprise, but at once she gripped Tom’s hand and, with a wizened finger, slowly traced the lines on his palm, like someone reading a book.

‘My God, Tom!’ she gasped, gazing up at him with mournful dismay. ‘I see . . . death!’

Grimacing, Tom accepted the terrible prediction with resigned fortitude, and withdrew his hand from the old woman’s clasp. His worst fears had been confirmed. Getting under Claire Haggerty’s skirts would mean death: that was the reward for lust. He said goodbye to the alarmed Mrs Ritter, who doubtless had assumed fate would be kinder to him, then walked down the street towards the tea room where Claire Haggerty would be waiting for him. Yes, there was no doubt about it: he was going to die, but could he call what he had now a life? He quickened his pace.

He had never felt so alive.

Chapter XXVI

When he arrived, Claire was sitting at one of the small tables at the back of the tea room, next to a picture window through which the afternoon light filtered on to her hair. Tom gazed at her with awe from the doorway, savouring the knowledge that it was him who this beautiful young girl was waiting for. Once more, he was struck by her fragile demeanour, which contrasted so delightfully with her lively gestures and fervent gaze, and he felt a pleasant stirring in the barren place where he had thought nothing would ever grow again. At least he was not completely dead inside.

Clutching the parasol in his sweaty palm, he made 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 waylaid him, ‘might I ask where you acquired those boots?’

Taken aback, Tom followed the woman’s eyes to his feet. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw he was still sporting Captain Shackleton’s exotic footwear. He stared at the girl, at a loss for 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 tea room. Tom shook his head and 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.

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

‘Oh, thank you, Captain,’ she responded, ‘but, please, take a seat’

Tom sat on the empty chair, while Claire assessed the sorry state of her parasol with slight dismay, then relegated it to the side of the table, as though its role in the story were over. Then she studied Tom with the strange yearning in her eyes he had noticed during their first meeting, and which had nattered 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,’ she said. ‘It’s truly amazing. You could be an East End barrow-boy.’

‘Er, thanks.’ Tom forced a smile to cover his pique.

What was he so surprised about? Her comment only confirmed what he already knew: if he was able to enjoy her company for an afternoon it was precisely because she believed he was an intrepid hero of the future. And it was thanks to this misunderstanding that he would be able to teach her a lesson, by obtaining from her something that, 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. He saw no one who struck him as suspicious.

‘I can’t be too careful,’ he remarked, turning back to face her. ‘As I said, I mustn’t draw attention to myself, and that would be impossible if I wore my armour. It’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, added: ‘I can’t believe you’re really Captain Derek Shackleton!’

Startled, Tom begged her to be quiet.

‘Oh, forgive me,’ she apologised, flushing, ‘only I’m so excited. I still can’t believe I’m having tea with the saviour of—‘

Luckily she 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 for a few moments, grinning foolishly Tom watched her attempt to regain her composure, while he wondered how to steer the conversation on to a more personal footing that would assist him in his plan. He had chosen the tea room because there was an inexpensive but clean-looking boarding-house opposite that had seemed the perfect venue for their union. Now all he needed to do was employ his powers of seduction, if he had any, 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 his annoyance at her question: the last thing he wanted was to justify his earlier fabrication while he was attempting to spin a credible yarn that would enable him to have his way with her. However, he could scarcely tell her he had travelled back in time to return her parasol and expect her to accept it, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for people to run back and forth between centuries on unimportant errands. The sudden appearance of the waitress with 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: if he had used it to travel back to this century he would have had 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 in which we travelled to your century across that dreadful place called the fourth dimension,’ Claire explained. Then she paused. ‘But if you didn’t come on the Cronotilus then how did you get here? Is there some other means of time travel?’

‘Of course there is,’ Tom assured her, assuming that if the girl was taken in by Murray’s hoax – 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?’ she demanded, mesmerised.

‘Any time at all,’ replied Tom, carelessly, as though he had had enough of travelling across the centuries.

He reached for a bun and munched 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 me?’

‘Show you what?’

‘The time machine you used to travel here.’

Tom almost choked on his bun. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘That’s 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?’ She 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.’

For a few moments she was silent, clearly intrigued. Then she murmured, ‘A machine that makes holes in the fabric of time. And you went through one of those tunnels and came out today?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Tom.

‘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. 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 gazed 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 sat back in his seat and watched her struggling to suppress her mounting fury. There was no point in carrying on with this. The way the conversation was going, he would never be able to coax her to the boarding-house. In fact, he would be lucky if she didn’t 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 traveller. 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, Tom forgot what he had been about to say. He gazed at her slender hand resting on his among the crockery, like a sculpture whose meaning he was unable to fathom. When he raised his eyes, he found her gazing at him with infinite sweetness.

‘Forgive my awkward questions, which no doubt you are not allowed to answer.’ She leaned 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. ‘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 laughed 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 said. ‘You’re far too intelligent.’

Claire’s face glowed with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Captain. But it really wasn’t difficult to guess that your scientists invented the machine 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 to change events? Tom wondered. ‘You’re quite right, Miss Haggerty. I was sent to kill Ferguson and save the world from destruction.’

The girl thought about this, then said: ‘Only you didn’t succeed, because we witnessed the war of the future with our own eyes.’

‘Right again,’ 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 to be awed by her astuteness. Yes,’ he confessed, and with a sudden flash of inspiration, he added: ‘I made several exploratory journeys 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 and arrived 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, 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 effect his words were having on her, went on: ‘Yes, indeed. The machine was built halfway through the war, but when the mission failed, the inventors forgot their Utopian idea of preventing the war before it broke out and concentrated their efforts instead on trying to win it. They invented weapons that could cut through the automatons’ reinforced armour.’ Claire Haggerty nodded, probably recalling the soldiers’ impressive guns. ‘The machine was left to rot, though it was placed under guard to prevent anyone travelling illegally into the past and tampering with anything. Still, I was able to use it secretly, but I only managed to open the tunnel for ten hours, and I have three left before it closes. That’s all the time I have. After that I have to go back to my own world. If I stay here, hero or no, they’ll find me and execute me for travelling illegally in time. That means, in three hours from now, I’ll be gone for ever.’

With these words, he pressed her hand tenderly, while inwardly applauding his own performance. To his amazement, not only had he solved the problem of chance meetings in the future but had managed to tell her they had a short time together before they must say goodbye for ever. Only three hours. No more.

‘You risked your life to bring me my parasol,’ she said slowly, as though she had suddenly understood the real dangers Tom had braved.

‘Well, the parasol was only an excuse,’ he replied, gazing passionately into her eyes. The moment had come. It was now or never. ‘I risked my life to see you again because I love you, Claire,’ he lied, in the softest voice he could muster.

He had said it. Now she must say the same thing to him. Now she must confess she loved him, too – that she loved the brave Captain Shackleton.

‘How can you love me? You don’t even know me,’ she teased, smiling sweetly.

That was not the response Tom had been hoping for. He disguised his dismay with another gulp of tea. Did she not realise they had no time for anything except giving themselves to one another? He only had three hours! Had he not been clear enough? He replaced the cup in its saucer and glanced out of the window at the boarding-house opposite, its beds waiting with their clean sheets, ever further out of reach. The girl was right: he did not know her, and she did not know him. And as long as they remained strangers there was no possibility of them ever becoming lovers. He was fighting a losing battle . . .

But what if they did know each other? Did he not come from the future? What was there to stop him claiming that, from his point of view, they already knew each other? Between this meeting and their encounter in the year 2000, he could make up any number of events it would be impossible for her to refute, he told himself. He had discovered the perfect strategy for leading her to the boarding-house, meek as a lamb.

‘This time you’re wrong, Claire. I know you far better than you think,’ he confessed, clasping her hand in both of his. ‘I know who you are, your dreams, your desires, the way you see the world. I know everything about you and you know everything about me. And I love you, Claire. I fell in love with you in a time that doesn’t exist yet.’

She was astonished. ‘But if we’re never to meet again,’ she mused, ‘how will we get to know each other? How will you fall in love with me?’

Tom realised he had fallen into his own trap. He stifled a curse and, playing for time, gazed at the street outside. What could he say now? He watched the carriages go by, indifferent to his distress, making their way among the vendors’ barrows. Then his eye fell on the red pillar box on the corner, solid and steadfast, sporting the insignia VR on the front.

‘I fell in love with you through your letters,’ he blurted out.

‘What letters? What are you talking about?’ exclaimed Claire, startled.

‘The love letters we’ve been sending one another all these years.’

She stared at him, aghast. And Tom understood that what he said next had to be credible, for it would determine whether she surrendered to him or slapped his face. He closed his eyes and smiled faintly, pretending he was evoking some memory, while he tried desperately to think.

‘It happened during my first exploratory journey to your time,’ he said. ‘I came out on the hill I told you about. From there I walked to London, where I was able to verify that the machine was reliable when it came to opening the hole at the specified date: I had travelled from the year 2000 to the eighth of November 1896.’

‘The eighth of November?’

‘Yes – that is to say, the day after tomorrow,’ Tom confirmed. ‘That was my first trip into your century. But I scarcely had time to do anything else, because I had to get back to the hill before the hole closed. I hurried as fast as I could, and I was about to enter the tunnel when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.’

‘What?’ she asked, burning with curiosity.

‘Under a stone next to the grave marked John Peachey I found a letter. I picked it up and discovered to my amazement that it was addressed to me. I stuffed it into the pocket of my disguise, and opened it in the year 2000. It was a letter from a woman I’d never met, living in the nineteenth century.’ Tom paused for dramatic effect. ‘Her name was Claire Haggerty and she said she loved me.’

Claire gasped. Tom watched, a tender smile on his face, as she attempted to digest what she had heard, struggling to understand that she was responsible for their situation, or would be responsible for it in the future. For if he loved her now it was because she had loved him in the past. She stared into her cup, as though she were able to see him in the tea leaves in the year 2000, reading with bewilderment the letter in which a strange woman from another century, a woman who was already dead, declared her undying love for him. A letter she had written.

Tom persisted, like a lumberjack who sees the tree he has been hacking begin to teeter and swings his axe harder: ‘In your letter, you told me we would meet in the future – or, more precisely, I would meet you because you had already met me,’ he said. ‘You implored me to write back, insisting you needed to hear from me. Although it seemed very strange to me, I replied to your letter, and on my next visit to the nineteenth century, two days later, I left it beside the same tombstone. On my third visit I found your reply, and that was how our correspondence through time began.’

‘Good God,’ the girl gasped.

‘I had no idea who you were,’ Tom continued, not wanting to give her any respite, ‘but I fell in love with you all the same, with the woman who wrote those letters. I imagined your face when I closed my eyes. I whispered your name in my sleep, amid the ruins of my devastated world.’

Claire fidgeted in her seat. ‘How many letters did we write to each other?’ she managed to ask.

‘Seven, in all,’ Tom replied randomly, because it sounded a good number: not too many and not too few. ‘We hadn’t time to write more before they prohibited the use of the machine, but it was enough, my love.’

Upon hearing the captain utter those words, Claire heaved a sigh.

‘In your last letter, you named the day we would finally meet. The twentieth of May in the year 2000, the day I defeated Solomon and ended the war. That day I did as you instructed in your letter, and after the duel I looked for a secluded spot among the ruins. Then I saw you and, as you had described, you dropped the parasol, which I was to return to you using the time machine. Once I reached your era I was to go to Covent Garden market, where we would meet, and then I was supposed to invite you to tea and tell you everything,’ Tom added wistfully: ‘And now I understand why. It was so these events would take place in the future. Do you see, Claire? You will write those letters to me in the future because I am telling you now that you will.’

‘Good God,’ she repeated, almost out of breath.

‘But there’s something else you need to know,’ announced Tom, determined to fell the tree with one final blow. ‘In one of your letters you spoke of how we would love one another this afternoon.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, Claire, this afternoon we will love one another in the boarding-house over the road, and in your own words it will be the most magical experience of your life.’

Claire’s cheeks flushed bright pink.

‘I can understand why you’re surprised, but imagine how I felt. I was astonished when I read the letter in which you described our lovemaking, because for you it was something we’d already done, but as far as I was concerned it hadn’t happened.’ Tom smiled sweetly. ‘I’ve come from the future to fulfil my destiny, Claire, which is to love you.’

‘But, I—‘ she tried to protest.

‘You still don’t understand, do you? We’ve got to make love, Claire,’ said Tom, ‘because in reality we already have.’

It was the final axe blow. And, like the oak, Claire teetered on her chair and crashed to the floor.

Chapter XXVII

If she had wanted draw everyone’s attention, thought Tom, she couldn’t have found a better way to do so. Claire’s sudden fainting fit, and the din of the shattering china, dragged with the tablecloth on to the floor, had brought to an abrupt standstill the conversations in the tea room, plunging it into stunned silence. From the back of the room, where he had been relegated during the ensuing commotion, Tom watched the bevy of ladies rallying round the girl. Like a rescue team with years of practice, they stretched her out on a couch, placed a pile of cushions under her feet, loosened her corset (that diabolical item of clothing entirely to blame for her fainting fit – it had prevented her breathing in the amount of air necessary for such a charged conversation) and went to fetch smelling salts to bring her round.

Tom watched her come to with a loud gasp. The female staff and customers had formed a sort of matriarchal screen around her to prevent the gentlemen in the room from glimpsing more of her flesh than was seemly. A few minutes later he saw Claire stumble through the human wall, pale as a ghost, and peer confusedly around her. He waved at her awkwardly with the parasol. After a few moments’ hesitation, she staggered towards him through the onlookers. At least she seemed to recognise him as the person with whom she had been taking tea before she had passed out.

‘Are you all right, Miss Haggerty?’ he asked, when she reached him. ‘Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good . . .’

She nodded and settled her hand on Tom’s arm, like a tame falcon landing on its owner’s glove, as though going outside to get some air and escape from all those prying eyes was the best idea he had ever had. Tom led her out, spluttering an apology for having upset her. Once outside, they paused on the pavement, unable to stop themselves glancing up at the boarding-house looming across the road. With a mixture of unease and resignation, Claire, whose cheeks had recovered some of their colour, peered at the place where that afternoon she was fated to give herself to the brave Captain Shackleton, the saviour of the human race, a man not yet born, who was standing next to her, trying to avoid her eyes.

‘And what if I refuse, Captain?’ She spoke as though addressing the air. ‘What if I don’t go up there with you?’

It would be fair to say that the question took Tom by surprise for, in view of the disastrous conclusion to their meeting, he had given up all hope of accomplishing his wicked aim. However, despite her impressive fainting fit, the girl had forgotten nothing of what he had told her, and was clearly still convinced by his story. Tom had improvised on the blank page of the future a chance encounter, a romance that would explain what was going to happen, and even encourage the girl to yield to it without fear or regret, and to her, this was the only possible outcome. A momentary pang of remorse made him consider the possibility of helping her out of her predicament, which she seemed ready to face as though it were an act of contrition. He could tell her the future was not written in stone, that she could choose. But he had invested too much energy in the venture to abandon his prey now she was almost within reach. He remembered one of Gilliam Murray’s pet phrases, and repeated it in a suitably doom-laden voice: ‘I’ve no idea what effect it would have on the fabric of time.’

Claire looked at him rather uneasily as he shrugged his shoulders, absolving himself of responsibility. After all, she could not blame him for anything: he was there because she had asked him to come in her letters. He had travelled through time to perform an act she had told him they had already performed – and with a wealth of detail. He had journeyed across time to set their romance in motion, to trigger off what had already happened but had not yet taken place. She seemed to have reached the same conclusion: what choice did she have – to walk away and carry on with her life, marry one of her admirers? This was her opportunity to experience something she had always dreamed of: a great love that spanned the centuries. Not seizing it would be like having deceived herself all her life.

‘The most magical experience of my life.’ She smiled. ‘Did I really write that?’

‘Yes,’ replied Tom, emphatically. ‘Those were your exact words.’

Claire hesitated. She could not go to bed with a stranger just like that. Except that this was a unique case: she had to give herself to him or the universe would suffer the consequences. She must sacrifice herself to protect the world. But was it really a sacrifice? Did she not love him? Was the flurry of emotions that overwhelmed her whenever she looked at him not love? It had to be. The feeling that made her light up inside and go weak at the knees had to be love, because if that was not, then what was it? Captain Shackleton had told her they would make love that afternoon and then she would write him beautiful letters. Why resist if that was what she really wanted? Ought she to refuse because she was retracing the steps of another Claire, who was, after all, herself? Ought she to refuse because it felt more like an obligation than a genuine desire, a spontaneous gesture? Try as she might, she could find no good reason for not doing what she longed to do with all her heart. Neither Lucy nor any of her other friends would approve of her going to bed with a stranger.

In the end, that was what decided the matter for her. Yes, she would go to bed with him, and she would spend the rest of her life pining for him, writing him long, beautiful letters soaked with her perfume and her tears. She knew she was both passionate and stubborn enough to keep alive the flame of her love, even though she would never again see the person who had set it ablaze. It was her fate, apparently. An exceptional fate, not without a hint of tragedy – far more pleasant to bear than the dreary marriage she might enter into with one of her dull suitors. She set her lips in a determined line.

‘I hope you aren’t exaggerating to avoid a blow to your pride, Captain,’ she joked.

‘I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out,’ Tom parried.

Her determination to deal with the situation in such a good-natured way was a huge relief to him: he no longer felt so bad about having his way with her. He was preparing to enjoy her body by means of a despicable ploy before vanishing from her life for ever. But although he considered the conceited young woman was only getting what she deserved, his own underhand behaviour made him feel surprisingly uneasy. He deduced from his sense of disquiet that he still had some scruples, after all. However, he felt decidedly less guilty now that the girl also seemed set on deriving unequivocal enjoyment from offering her body to Captain Shackleton, the courageous hero who had whispered her name amid the ruins of the future.

Compared to some of the places Tom was used to sleeping in, the boarding-house was clean, even cosy. The girl might think it unfit for someone of her social class, but there was nothing to make her flee in horror. While he was asking about a room, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she casually surveyed the pictures that decorated the modest hallway. He admired the way she tried to appear blasé, as though spending her afternoons in bed with men from the future in London boarding-houses was second nature to her.

They climbed the stairs leading to the first floor and went along the narrow corridor. As he watched her walking in front of him, with a mixture of boldness and submission, Tom became aware for the first time of what was about to happen. There was no turning back: he was going to make love to this girl. He was going to hold her naked, eager, even passionate body in his arms. He suddenly burned with lust that sent a shudder from his head to his toes. He tried to contain his excitement as they paused before the door.

All at once Claire tensed. ‘I know it will be wonderful,’ she said, half closing her eyes as if to bolster her courage.

‘It will,’ Tom echoed, trying to conceal his eagerness to undress her. ‘You told me so yourself.

She gave a sigh of resignation. Without further ado, Tom pushed open the door and gestured politely for her to go in, then closed it behind them.

When they had vanished inside, the narrow corridor was once more deserted. The last rays of the evening sun filtered through the grimy window at the far end. It was a fading light with coppery tones, a soft, pale, almost melancholy glow that shone on the floating dust particles turning them into tiny glittering insects. Although, given the leisurely, hypnotic way they swirled at random, a spray of pollen might be a more suitable metaphor, do you not agree?

From behind a few of the closed doors came the unmistakable sounds of amorous engagement: grunts, stifled cries, and even the occasional hearty slap of a hand on a tender buttock – noises that added to the rhythmical creaking of bed frames, suggested that the lovemaking going on there was not of a conjugal nature. Mingled with a few of the guests’ carnal exploits, other sounds of a less lustful nature, like snippets of conversation or a child crying, gave the finishing touches to the chaotic symphony of the world.

The corridor in the boarding-house was some thirty yards long and decorated with prints of misty landscapes; several oil lamps were attached to the walls. As was his custom, the landlord, Mr Pickard (I feel it would be churlish not to introduce him by name even though he will not be appearing again in this tale), was at that very moment preparing to light the lamps, in order not to leave it in darkness, which might have led to all sorts of mishaps when his guests later left the establishment.

Those were his footsteps echoing on the stairs. Each night he found them more difficult to climb, for the years had taken their toll, and recently he could not help giving a triumphant sigh when he reached the top. Mr Pickard took the box of matches out of his trouser pocket and began lighting the half-dozen lamps. He did so very slowly, slipping the match under each shade, like a skilled swordsman performing a final thrust, and holding it there until the oil-soaked wick caught light. Time had transformed this gesture into an almost mechanical ceremony. None of the guests would have been able to tell what he was thinking as he performed his daily lamp-lighting ritual, but I am not one of the guests and, as with all the other characters in this novel, his innermost thoughts are not off limits to me.

Mr Pickard was thinking about his little granddaughter Wendy, who had died of scarlet fever more than ten years earlier: he could not help comparing the lighting of the lamps with the manner in which the Creator behaved towards all His creatures, allowing them to burn, then snuffing them out when He felt like it, without any explanation or consideration for those He left plunged into darkness. When Mr Pickard had lit the last lamp, he walked back down the corridor and descended the stairs, exiting this tale as discreetly as he had entered it.

After he had gone, the corridor was once more deserted, although brightly lit. You are probably hoping I will not describe it to you again, but I am afraid I will, as I have no intention of crossing the threshold into the room Tom and Claire are in and rudely intruding on their privacy. Take pleasure in the flickering shadows on the flowery wallpaper, and play at seeing bunnies, bears and puppies in their shifting shapes as evening turns to night, as – oblivious of man’s concerns – minutes turn inexorably into hours, like a snowball rolling down a hill.

I will not ask how many little animal shapes you managed to see before the door to the room finally opened and Tom stepped out. A smile of satisfaction playing on his lips, he tucked his shirt into his trousers and pulled on his cap. Gently extricating himself from Claire’s embrace, he had told her he must go before the hole in time closed. She had kissed him with the solemnity of one who knows she is kissing the man she loves for the very last time, and with her kiss still imprinted on his lips, Tom Blunt descended the stairs, wondering how it was possible to feel like the happiest man in the world and at the same time the most despicable creature in the universe.