Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1) (9 page)

Opening my eyes, I turned to the sound of Arthur and George storming towards us. As I did so I caught a glimpse of Evan, who looked as if he had been crying. I wasn’t sure how much I had actually recounted to Evan, but I suspected now that he
knew more abou
t what was going on than I did.

‘For God’s sake, Charlie, what the hell was that all about? The last thing we need is a bloody policeman sniffing about!’ shouted Arthur, furious.

I stood up, but found myself unsteady on my feet. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur. I don’t know what happened. I—’

But he cut me off, his face grim. ‘We’ve got bigger problems to deal with now. George left his knife behind at the farmhouse last night.’

‘So what?’ said Evan. ‘So he lost his knife, but he can get a new one.’

‘It had my name engraved on it!’ George exclaimed. ‘It was a present from my pa on my fifteenth birthday. My name and the date!’

‘And you, you idiot,’ spat Arthur, poking me hard in the chest with his finger, ‘you go and turn into some kind of raving lunatic and bring the police into it.’

‘Leave him alone!’ cried Evan. ‘Can’t you see how upset he is?’

I tried to pull myself together, wanting to avoid witnessing Arthur’s insipid glare, even when it was aimed at someone else. ‘We’ll go back to the farmhouse, Arthur, and look for it,’ I suggested.

‘You have no idea, do you?’ Arthur leered at me scathingly. ‘The bloody army and police are swarming all over it! George has been up there already. If they find that knife, George is done for, and so are we.’

‘I think we should go to the police,’ I said hurriedly. ‘We can explain everything to them. It was an accident! We didn’t mean to burn it down.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ George looked like he was going to explode. ‘How are we going to explain the bodies and the fact that one of them has got a hole in his head?’

‘Well, Walter can explain. He shot him.’

‘Yes, he shot him saving you!’ Arthur was shouting now, his face twisted with derision. ‘This is all your fault, Charlie!’ He pushed me hard, forcing me to stagger back, and then before I could regain my balance properly, he swung at me, his fist catching my jaw. I went down, hitting my shoulder hard on the edge of a pew. Pain engulfed my body—jaw, shoulder, back. I curled up and prayed he would leave me alone. George and Evan held him back while Arthur roared something incomprehensible.

‘And what about the other ones, what did you do to them, Arthur?’ I asked.

I don’t know what would have happened if the policeman who had been in the church a few minutes earlier had not reappeared, drawn in by the noise. Arthur shook himself free, and I heard all of them talking in low voices, my friends obviously trying to reassure the policeman that there was nothing to worry about. As their discussions became more animated, I noticed Evan back away and approach me.

‘I told the copper I’m going to walk you home so you won’t be bothering anyone else,’ he explained. ‘Come on, let’s get away.’

We walked together briskly by the side of the pews and then ran as soon as we were out of the church.

‘Go and check on whatever’s left of that bloody farm, will you?’ Evan said eventually, coming to a standstill.

‘I have to get to work!’

‘Of course you do, as do I. But you know better than to trust what Arthur says. I think you should check for yourself.’

‘I’ve always been horrid to you, Evan; why are you being so nice?’ I was confused and yet curious too.

‘You saved my life last night, Charlie, don’t you remember?’ he said, looking at his bandaged finger.

‘I do, but it’s a struggle. Like it was a while ago.’

‘You know, they all laugh at how you can’t remember stuff, but if you could somehow memorise things better, you could run rings around the lot of them!’

‘I remember you were shaking on a burning roof, and there was a man trying to shoot you.’

‘Yes, and you seriously fucked him up—you saved me! So no need to ask why I’m nice, I owe you,’ he said, before walking off.

I watched as Evan made his way back to the church and considered his advice, before heading towards the farm. By the time I got to New Pond, an army truck came speeding past me from the direction of the farmhouse, and I saw four military drivers on motorcycles heading towards it.

Finding a spot amongst the bushes, I sat huddled, looking into the murky waters of the pond. Where was the skull now? Sunk in the mud and silt at the bottom, no doubt. I had dreamt the skull would be at that farmhouse, but why did Arthur really call it Henry? Arthur was right, I had mentioned my brother when I was younger and I used to get confused which life I was in, but this hardly seemed reason enough to decree that the skull I found, was called Henry?

I no longer knew who my friends were, whom I could trust. And I had a horrible feeling that the two worlds of Richard and Charlie were starting to collide, with consequences that could only be disastrous.

Disconsolately, I chucked a stone into the lake and watched the ripples fan out. It was then that I noticed the colour of the water. Steel grey. I looked up to see the huge airship hovering silently above me, uniformed men in the gondola below it scanning the ground beneath them with binoculars. I froze. Then two engines spluttered as they fired up and it moved away, like a great whale gliding through the ocean, its destination unknown but with a dominance that was unquestioned.

It was not safe to stay here. I got up and started to walk back into Kings Heath. To my consternation, there were soldiers in the woods, heads down, using their rifle butts to search through the foliage. What were they looking for? I thought of George’s knife and hoped that it would remain lost amongst the embers.

***

I arrived at Pa’s workshop to see him talking to Catherine. I took off my coat and grabbed an apron, hoping that if I started work quickly, he wouldn’t be able to have a go at me for being so late. At least not while she was still here. He was clearly not in a good humour, but, unfortunately, neither was she. Her little chin was in the air and her mouth set in a determined line.

‘Charlie! Miss Catherine’s here to see you. Perhaps you’d be so good as to have a word with her and then you might be able to do some work today. Or is that too much to hope for?’

‘Sorry I’m late, Pa,’ I muttered sheepishly. ‘I promise I’ll make the time up.’ I put the apron down and walked out of the workshop with her. There was a bench some yards away, and we sat down together. ‘How are you, Catherine?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen you lately.’

‘Oh, really?’ she retorted, indignantly. ‘Perhaps you are suffering from some lapse in memory?’

She sat ramrod straight, refusing to look at me. Her long blonde hair was dressed in an elaborate style under her hat. I wondered what it would be like to unpin it and watch it flow down her back. It was soft and golden, and I longed to touch it.

‘Well, it’s been a couple of weeks, I’m sure,’ I answered, unclear as to what she was getting at. She had written to me inviting me to come round yesterday, and wasn’t there.

‘Goodness, a couple of weeks!’ Her voice was rising in pitch and volume, and a colour had come into her cheeks. She was so beautiful. She turned and looked at me, her eyes glittering.

‘I had thought us friends, Charlie,’ she began. ‘But really, your behaviour last night was unpardonable.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, genuinely at a loss.

‘You know very well what I’m talking about. I saw you staring up at me into my bedroom window! You were there for at least half an hour! Like some...’ she struggled for the right words, ‘...like some disgusting Peeping Tom.’

I had done no such thing. ‘But Catherine!’ I cried, ‘how could you think I would do anything like that?’

She looked at me, a mixture of hope and disbelief etched across her features. But before I could say anything more, an agonising pain pierced my back and I groaned, clutching at her. She pulled away from me.

‘Good heavens, Charlie! Whatever is the matter?’

The world rocked before me, and I slumped back onto the bench and closed my eyes, hoping to regain my equilibrium.

‘You’re sweating! Are you unwell?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I whispered. ‘It’s my back.’

‘Where?’

I showed her where the pain was coming from, in the lower part of my spine. Gently, she lifted my shirt and looked at the area.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you get this?’

‘Get what?’ I murmured.

‘You have a puncture mark by your spine. The area around it’s all red and inflamed—you need to see my father!’

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea how a puncture mark could have appeared on my back. Had something happened last night, something I’d been unaware of? Or perhaps I’d been bitten by something—a spider, maybe? All I knew was that I had to lie down soon if I wasn’t to faint.

Her wide blue eyes gazed into mine, full of concern. Then, helping me stand, she slipped her arm around my waist and put my arm over her shoulder so that I could lean on her, and together we went back into the workshop. The next thing I knew, I was being bundled onto the grocer’s cart with Catherine sitting next to me, holding my hand. The horse was going at a smart trot and we were home within minutes.

My mother must have got me into bed. The sheets were clean and there was a metal bucket beside the bed, in case I was sick. I thought about the last time someone in our household was seriously ill. My little brother Alfred had been running a fever for days, with an acute pain in his side. Catherine’s father had come and announced it was appendicitis and he had no option but to operate. I was told to wait in the bedroom while the doctor attended to Alfred on the kitchen table. I remember hearing his whimpers and cries, and then silence, followed by a howl of such anguish it haunted me for months afterwards. It was my mother. Alfred had died. I felt so useless; nothing I did assuaged my parents’ grief. Darkness descended over the household. Once the funeral was out of the way, Alfred was not mentioned again, and for a while my parents became lifeless themselves, like they too had died on that kitchen table.

I wondered what would happen if I died as well. The loss of one son had nearly killed them, so what would the loss of two do? These thoughts meandered around my brain, muddled up with images of airships and fires. I felt as though I were fighting to remain conscious and that for some reason something awful would happen if I allowed myself to drift off.

Catherine’s father had never been back to our house after that terrible day. But now here he was again, with his leather bag and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hands were cold.

‘Just roll onto your side please,’ he commanded, his voice distant and echoing, triggering some vague memory of another voice. The words ‘Stop!’ and ‘Reset!’ flashed into my head. What did that mean?

But I would not roll over just because I had been told to do so, and certainly not for a voice that I instinctively resented.

Babbling Brook, 1168

Rough hands are pushing me, moving my limbs around and then pulling me onto my side. Pain sears through me like a burning flame, and I think I scream, although it sounds like someone else’s voice. I cannot open my eyes, but I can hear voices trickling in and out of my consciousness like the babbling of a brook. Amongst those echoing voices, I hear men talk of treachery, bloodshed, my tutor Robert, vengeance and death. I inhale the scent of soil, roses, wine, and the blood of those that lie already dead around me. The smell of Yvette, still discernible; but her presence gone.

And then I hear
her
. The first sound you hear and the last sound you ever want to hear. For the first time in hours, maybe centuries, I open my lungs and suck in every drop of Earth’s air. Then I feel warm, soft hands and smell the familiar scent of my mother—cloves and lavender. She is talking to me, and I need to hear what she’s saying but I’m struggling to pull myself out of this swamp.

‘Richard, Richard, my darling boy. Come on, sit up now, I’m here now, I’m here. It’s all right.’

Gently, I’m lifted up into a sitting position and I’m cradled in her arms. Pain smarts like a red-hot needle in my back and a tear trickles down my cheek. I want to cry like a newborn, but I don’t have the strength for that. I feel her breath against my ear as she speaks.

‘You must drink this.’

She puts a cup to my lips and obediently I open my mouth and allow her to pour the liquid down my throat. I am expecting water or wine but this is bitter and foul. Involuntarily I gag, yet I keep it down.

‘You’re my beloved son, so I will never lie to you. This potion will either kill you or make you stronger. I know you are too weak to speak, but I pray you can hear. Soon your whole body will set alight, but know you are not on fire. Then it will freeze, but remember you are under Anjou’s summer’s sun. And then your own body will push you away. You must stay. You must hold on.’

I move my hand and manage to squeeze her arm, I think, and she pauses for a moment. I use this time to take a breath. Already I can feel a warmth coursing through me.

‘You will shake too. Far too much for me to hold you through this, and it will feel like minutes are hours and the agony will not stop. Despite this, know that I will stay here throughout and that it will stop.’