Time and Time Again

38

SHE WAS NOT in the room.

His head ached. He glanced at the bottle on the bedside table. It was empty. They’d drunk it all. No. He’d drunk it all. He looked across at Bernadette’s side of the bed. The glass he’d poured her, the one he’d filled as he had begun to tell his story, was scarcely touched.

He was out of bed in an instant.

He’d told her. He’d told her everything.

And she’d said she believed it.

And she had believed part of it. A very small part.

The part about him having killed the Kaiser.

Of course she hadn’t believed the rest. Was he crazy? How could she have believed the rest? Would he have done? He’d doubted it even with the entire establishment of Cambridge University presenting the case. He never would have believed the story if she had been on his side of the bed and he on hers. Nobody would. Nobody ever could.

He was dressing now. And as he did so his eye ranged round the room. What should he take? What was essential? Nothing that wasn’t already in his bags. For a moment he thought he’d left his wallet on the table but it was Bernadette’s purse. She favoured mannish accessories; it was part of her political identity.

He looked at his bags. They were where they had been the night before. She hadn’t touched them. If only he’d shown her his computer. The photographs, the history archive. Would she have believed him even then?

That he was a time traveller?

No, she would have thought he was a magician, an illusionist, or else had drugged her or hypnotized her.

But she would not have believed that he was from the future and that an entire alternative twentieth century, in which she herself had lived and died, had already happened.

He looked out of the window. It was early dawn and the street below was empty. Above him was a terraced rooftop which ran the length of the street. There was a pretty stout drainpipe offering a possible means of ascent.

He put on a leather jerkin he’d bought on his first day in Berlin, loading its pockets with the papers for the other identities Chronos had supplied him with. One German and one Austrian. If he had to run, which he was absolutely convinced he must, Hugh Stanton would no longer be of any use to him.

Next he took the larger of his two bags and emptied out the sniper’s rifle, which was the heaviest item in it. It had served his purpose, and since Bernadette had seen it there was no point in further concealment. He also pulled out all but a single change of clothes and any books and other clutter he’d collected in the present century. Then he took the smaller of the bags, which contained his computer, his spare pistol, his smart phone with its precious photo album and his money, and emptied it all into the big bag. If he was truly on the run then one bag was definitely better than two.

One last glance around.

Now he was ready.

It was time to go.

Not that he cared whether he survived for himself. He felt at that moment that he’d be perfectly happy to die in a hail of police bullets. Chronos had drained the life from him. First it had taken away the love of his life and now in a way it was depriving him of a second chance to love. For he had loved Bernadette. He still loved her.

But he had a plan and he knew he must see it through. He still wanted to warn the new future about the old future. To leave an account of history as it had been before he changed it. He wanted to return to Constantinople.

He picked up his bag and took a step towards the door.

Before he could reach it the handle turned.

By the time it had revolved sufficiently for the door to be opened, Stanton was pointing his pistol at it.

The door opened and Bernadette entered.

Stanton smelt hot, freshly baked bread. There was a loaf under her arm.

‘Goodness,’ Bernadette said. ‘Why are you pointing a gun?’

‘You were gone,’ he said quietly, from behind the pistol. ‘It isn’t yet five. Why were you gone?’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘How would you expect me too? Lying beside a man from another world. It wasn’t enough that you made me fall in love with you, then you had to turn out to be a time traveller?’

She was smiling as she said it. That beautiful smile he’d first loved on the train from Zagreb. But the smile was fading.

‘You’re still pointing that gun, Hugh. Why are you pointing a gun at me? Why are you dressed with a bag in your hand … you’re leaving?’

He lowered his gun. Relief or at least the tentative hope of relief springing within him.

‘I … I woke up and you weren’t there. I thought …’

A shadow of sadness passed across her face.

‘You thought I hadn’t believed you?’

‘You were gone, I …’

‘And were you going too, Hugh? If I’d spent five more minutes in the queue for hot bread, would I have returned to find you gone?’ She glanced at the table and at the bed they’d shared. ‘And not a note? Not a bloody note to say goodbye? Is that what was going to happen? You were just going to simply disappear? You said you loved me!’

‘I do … I do love you. I love you so much, Bernie. You were gone. I panicked … I’m sorry.’

He put down his bag.

Her face softened a little.

‘I didn’t want to wake you, that was all. I was shifting about and smoking myself silly and you are still healing and need your sleep and so I thought I’d go and buy some fresh hot bread and have it ready for you when you woke up. I don’t think there’s anything in the world nicer than bread straight out of the oven, don’t you agree? We can have it with coffee and then stroll out later for a lovely late breakfast, or, better still, early lunch.’

Stanton smiled. Relief flooding over him. She could still be his.

She was still his.

And yet he’d so nearly lost her. If he’d been just a little quicker dressing, if she’d been a little slower buying bread, he would never have seen her again.

‘Shall we have a slice now?’ she said, with a coy smile, ‘or shall we hop back into bed for a bit first? It’ll be just as nice in half an hour.’

He felt a rush of exhilaration, like he’d been drugged. She still loved him. She still wanted to make love to him.

‘I vote hop back into bed,’ Stanton said.

She began to unbutton her coat.

‘Silly boy,’ she said, taking off her coat, ‘thinking I’d left you when I only popped out to buy you hot bread.’

Perhaps it was the repeat of the word ‘buy’.

Was it that which made him remember?

Her purse was still on the table. Only a minute or two earlier he’d almost mistaken it for his own.

She was unbuttoning her blouse now, revealing her slip. He could see by the way the silk hung that she had no stays beneath it. Her breasts were free and unencumbered. He wanted to step forward and feel them. He wanted to kiss her. He loved her. He wanted her.

But her purse was still on the table.

‘What did you use to buy the bread, Bernie?’

‘Hmm?’ The blouse was off now and she was unbuckling the thin patent-leather belt at her waist. Her skirt was fashionably short, ending just between the calf and the ankle, exposing the high buttoned boots of which he knew she was proud.

‘Your purse is on the table. You must have gone out without it. I was just wondering what you used to buy the bread?’

She stopped her undressing for a moment.

‘I had some coins in my pocket. Are we going to make love, Hugh, or are we to discuss the shopping?’

And so he knew she was lying. It broke his heart.

‘Remember, Bernie,’ he said, ‘on the train? That first time we met? When you said you’d sign for your half of the meal?’

Did she remember? He did, every word. He remembered everything about that first meeting; it was precious to him.

‘What are you getting at, Hugh?’ she replied.

‘You said that I could cover the tip if I liked because you never carry coins in your pockets. “It stretches the fabric and ruins the line.”’ Her mouth was a little open now, revealing those sweet, slightly uneven teeth he loved so much. ‘The police gave you that loaf, didn’t they? So you’d have an excuse for having left if I was awake when you got back?’

If there had been any doubt left at all in his mind, the tiny hesitation on her face dismissed it. She was a strong woman. But she was clearly now the bait in an entrapment, a tense position to be in to say the least. She’d been caught in a lie and she was weighing her options. He saw all that in the tiniest flick of her beautiful green eyes.

And she knew he knew. The bluff was over. She didn’t even try to protest.

‘You’re sick, Hugh,’ she said, and now those enchanting emerald eyes were filled with tears. ‘Deluded. You need to be … you should be in a … Hugh, you have to understand. You’re insane.’

And Stanton discovered that there were yet greater depths of loneliness to sink to. He was sinking now.

‘I’m not insane, Bernie, but I can see that you could never truly know that. What I’ve asked you to accept is too much to believe. I get that.’

I get that. Another phrase from another age. She used to find them so charming. Enlightening. Now all he saw in that lovely freckled face was fear. She was terrified of him.

‘Hugh. You killed the Emperor of Germany. And you blamed innocent people and now they’re being arrested in their thousands. You’re a maniac. An evil maniac. A homicidal maniac. I loved you. I really loved you but you are sick and have to be put away.’

‘Let me show you, Bernie,’ he begged her. ‘Let me show you the—’

‘I don’t want to look inside your magic photographic box! I don’t care what tricks you have! I saw your little needles bring you back to life. I know that there’s some sorcery about you. But you’re also a murderer and I believe you tried to kill the Archduke too and …’

She dropped the bread and buried her face in her hands and wept.

He stepped forward. He tried to hold her but she recoiled as if his hands were made of red hot metal.

‘Don’t you touch me! Don’t touch me, Hugh! I told you before. There’s no love where there’s lies and you’re a liar. I don’t know. Maybe you’re not even mad at all, maybe this is some terrible British plot against Germany. Nothing would surprise me. All I know is that I hate you.’

He gave it up. There’d be time to deal with this new agony later, to place it alongside all the others.

What was he doing anyway? Pleading with her. Trying to hold her. The game was already up. She’d reported him to the police. The whole Berlin military complex would be electrified that the assassin was at last in their grasp. It was time to move on.

Pointing his gun at her once more he tried to compute his plan and his chances.

They hadn’t come yet. They hadn’t rushed straight back with Bernadette and smashed their way into the room, dragged him from the bed and pinned him to the floor with their boots. Instead they’d sent Bernadette back with bread and smiles and unbuttoned blouses to keep him where he was. Clearly they knew him to be a resourceful killer, heavily armed and desperate. Stanton deduced that they wanted him alive.

So what would they do? Take it calmly. Assemble a snatch team. Bide their time and grab him when he left the building.

We can stroll out later for a lovely late breakfast … or, better still, early lunch.

That was the plan. Take it at a leisurely pace. Clear the street. Get the arrest team in place. Make sure all the surrounding roads were blocked in case the first snatch failed.

Which meant that if he was careful, he might still have time to slip away.

To get to Constantinople and leave his warning.

Before finally jumping in the Bosphorus.

He went to the window and took a discreet glance out. Sure enough the street was no longer empty. He could see three male figures dotted along it. All in civvies: a bowler hat, a slouchy homburg and a boater. One with a newspaper, another a ciggie, the other just leaning. To an experienced observer like himself, they couldn’t have been more obviously on stakeout if they’d set up a Gatling gun and pointed it at his front door.

‘They know you’re here, Hugh,’ Bernadette said, sniffing back her tears. ‘Please give up. I don’t want to have to watch them shoot you.’

Stanton took a final glance. They were all watching the front door. None of them were looking up at his window. It was a large building, part of a long terrace of houses. There were a lot of windows. They probably didn’t even know exactly which one was his.

He calculated that he had a decent chance of getting to the roof without being spotted. Then he sensed movement behind him.

Spinning round he was just in time to catch the raised arm bringing the cast-iron fire poker down towards his head.

Never underestimate the anger of a woman who’s fallen out of love. Particularly an Irish redhead.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped, using Bernadette’s own weight to turn her and putting her into a neck lock. ‘You really are a wonderful woman, Bernie. God, I wish you could have believed me.’

‘You’re a murderer!’ she shouted. ‘A murdering lunatic—’

He clamped his hand over her mouth. They were five floors up but the window was half open and the last thing he needed was the police below being alerted by screams that their cover was blown.

‘Ahh!’ Now it was his turn to make a noise as he felt her teeth sink into his flesh. That same pinched little upper jaw with the ever so slightly over-sized front teeth wasn’t quite so cute when the teeth were drawing blood.

He reached his other hand over the top of her head and, laying his palm on her forehead, stuck his fingers in her nostrils and pulled backwards. Her hair was in his face. He could smell the same scent on those crimson blonde strands that he’d smelt earlier when they made love.

Her jaw released him as her head went back but she kicked backwards at his shin with the heel of her high-buttoned boots and was able to twist her way out of his grip. He’d only been applying it at half strength. He was a big man and she was a slim woman, ninety kilos against less than fifty. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her and now he was paying for his weakness with a bleeding hand and throbbing shin. She was facing him once more and he could see by the way she was drawing breath that she was just a half second away from screaming.

He did the only thing he could think to do. He punched her. An expert swing left to the temple that knocked her cold. It was the first time in his entire life he’d ever hit a woman. Let alone a woman he was in love with. He felt completely sick.

There were some scraps of paper on the table and a stub of pencil. Bernie had used them to make little shopping lists during their week-long idyll. There was one there now.

Coffee. Rolls. Cheese. Fruit. Wine. Chocolate!!

Stanton swallowed hard. He’d been so happy.

He turned the note over and wrote: I’m not the man you think I am. I’m the man I said I was. And as long as I live I will never forgive myself for striking you. I love you. Goodbye.

It was pointless, he knew, and stupid. The last time he’d said sorry had been just before he shot the flower girl and that had nearly done for him. Unnecessary details make a man more traceable. But they had his handwriting from the forms he’d signed at the hospital anyway.

Next he stuffed Bernadette’s loaf of warm bread into his bag. He’d been on the run before in hostile country and knew that it was best to grab food where you found it. Then he returned to the window.

The three stooges were still at their posts. A fourth had joined them. A senior figure for sure. Stanton watched as the new man, another bowler hat, went from the boater to the first bowler. He glanced up the road towards the U-Bahn station at the top. A uniformed policeman was standing with two workmen. He was pointing at one side of the street and then the other. He seemed to draw an imaginary line on the cobbles with his jackboot. They were discussing a road block. A small troop of soldiers appeared. By the way they moved, Stanton knew they’d been told to keep quiet. It was the first time he’d ever seen German soldiers out of step. Looking back down the street he could see a similar operation under way at the other end.

Now was his last chance. They were all occupied with preparing their trap. If he could just get clear of the apartment he had most of the morning to get a start on them. The police plan was for Bernadette to take him out for late breakfast. When would that be? Eleven? Perhaps ten but surely they wouldn’t begin to get nervous before eleven. Twelve probably. They’d quite deliberately given themselves plenty of time to prepare their trap. It occurred to Stanton that they might also want to make sure of taking him without the possibility of the press or public seeing him or hearing anything he might have to say. After all, the police and the army were currently revelling in the carte blanche they had been given to crush the Unions and the Leftists. The revelation that the assassin had in fact been a lone English fantasist or spy would change the game utterly and put the cops in a pretty exposed position. Stanton was an inconvenience they’d want to handle pretty carefully. They were clearly planning to make their arrest away from prying eyes.

So he had time.

But not if Bernadette recovered consciousness, which she most likely would do quite quickly. He looked at her prostrate body. Stretched out on the floor. Her blouse still unbuttoned, her silk slip on display, one breast half exposed, a dome of flesh falling backwards towards her chin. It rose and fell evenly: that was good, her breathing wasn’t disturbed. He didn’t think she’d suffered much harm from the blow.

She moaned a little, she was stirring.

Reaching into his bag of equipment he drew out his medical kit, the one that Bernadette had brought to the hospital and thus saved his life. He took out a needle – not one of his antibiotics, a sedative. He knelt down beside her and, using his left hand as a tourniquet, found a vein and injected the sedative.

‘Sorry,’ he said again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. But he truly was, both for her and for himself.

He buttoned up her blouse and put a pillow under her head.

Then he shouldered the one bag he’d allowed himself, went to the window and climbed out. This was the moment of maximum danger. One of the police or soldiers five storeys below had only to look up and the chase would be on. But they were all pretty occupied and also trying to be discreet, his room was on the top floor, and the climb should take him less than a minute; he reckoned his chances were good. He got out on to the window ledge and reached up for the guttering. He was still stiff and weakened from convalescence but his wound had pretty much healed and he’d been diligent in doing his stretches and physio since leaving hospital. He hoisted himself up over the gutter without too much pain and scrambled on to the tiled roof from where he was able to traverse the whole length of the street and descend beyond the barricade.

He’d escaped the trap. But he’d had to assault and drug Bernadette to do it. The thought filled him with despair.

Having returned to street level he walked briskly out of Mitte towards the Lehrter Bahnhof. He stopped at the first decent hotel he could find and took a room, readily accepting the stern warning that since the hour was early and the maids had not yet begun their work he must pay for the previous night. Stanton was, in fact, counting on the earliness of the hour as the principal factor in enabling him to assemble a disguise. He was aware that Bernadette would be able to describe his clothes and so he hoped to find replacements among the returned overnight laundry. He expected that by now it would have been left outside the rooms but that the occupants would not yet have opened their doors to collect it.

He was in luck, and as he made his way along the corridor towards his room he was able discreetly to collect a whole gentleman’s wardrobe. Once he was in his room he laid the clothes out on the bed and set about changing his personal appearance as best he could. He took his shaving kit and his multi-tool knife (which contained scissors) from his bag and, pouring water into the wash bowl, began shaving his head. It’s not an easy thing to do oneself, and Stanton was anxious not to draw attention with a skull covered in cuts and scabs so he forced himself not to rush. Fortunately the mirror, which stood on the dresser behind the wash bowl, had two hinged side flaps, and so by twisting a bit he was able to get sight of most of his head. He shaved all his hair save for a patch on top, which he fashioned into a very short crew cut, German military style. In Stanton’s view probably the ugliest male hairstyle ever devised.

Once he’d finished with his head, he shaved his face. During his time in hospital his beard had grown. He hadn’t shaved it off because Bernadette had liked it. ‘Every Suffragette secretly wants a caveman to drag her about,’ she’d said dryly, ‘or so the hilarious cartoons in the papers tell us.’ Now he shaved himself fully leaving only a small moustache, which he trimmed down into a neat military style. The German identity that Chronos had supplied him with was made out in the name of Ludwig Drechsler, a German Junker brought up in East Africa. When creating the character McCluskey and her team of forgers had decided that, just as with the Australian back story they had given him, a colonial past would mitigate any strangeness in his accent and his language.

When he’d finished shaving, Stanton took the water bowl, which was full of hair and whiskers, to the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor and carefully disposed of it in the lavatory. He didn’t want them looking for a shaven-headed man. Then he packed up his bag and left the bedroom. It was barely thirty minutes after he’d entered it. He locked the door behind him and put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. Then, avoiding reception, he left the hotel via a back entrance and walked directly to the station, which was just five minutes away on foot. He bought a ticket to Prague, which was the first southbound train available. Stanton only managed to catch it by running along the platform and jumping on as the train pulled away.

As he sat down in his seat, he glanced at his watch. It was less than seventy-five minutes since Bernadette had returned to their apartment with the bread.

By the time the police decided to break into the apartment and found her unconscious body on the floor, he was already halfway to the German border.

Two days later he was back in Constantinople.