The Trouble With Time (13 page)

His trip to the grassy knoll to solve the classic riddle of who killed JFK proved a much worse experience – he was very nearly shot by a police officer.

Quinn was accustomed to power, to being in control of events. He had hated being out of his depth, pushed around, the butt of lesser men; these were not experiences he wished to repeat. Not on his own. Quinn was big and reasonably strong, but he was not a trained fighter. Jace would have been good in a situation like the one at the Colosseum –
had
been good in situations like that, when their work had taken them to rough areas. There was that time in Rotherhithe . . . No one pushed Quinn when Jace was around. Quinn felt his absence on the team. He missed him, and once his fury had faded even felt some guilt about leaving him to die – though not enough to go and rescue him. Pity Jace had been so holier-than-thou when offered an opportunity others would kill for. Literally.

There was another reason Quinn regretted leaving him hog-tied in an empty London. He could not be absolutely certain Jace was dead. At the time there had seemed no possibility he could escape. His subconscious mind thought otherwise. In Quinn’s nightmares Jace was alive and vengeful, and Quinn would wake, sweating. And if anyone could get out of such a situation, it would be Jace. He was resourceful, tough. If he had survived, it was just conceivable he might encounter one of IEMA’s expeditions to the future, with disastrous consequences. Quinn could not now understand why he hadn’t shot him – yes, he’d lost his temper and wanted him to suffer, but if he’d shot him in the leg he’d still have died slowly, and with no hope of survival even if he managed to escape his bonds.

He told himself he was worrying about nothing. With an effort, Quinn stopped thinking about Jace, who was almost certainly dead, and returned to considering his options. He no longer wanted to be – what was it Jace had called him? A time tourist. Unthinkable to leave the TiTrav mouldering unused in its hiding place. So what to do with it?

Forget the past for now. The future existed, and could be visited; which did not mean that it was set and could not be altered. There was more to life than money. He had always kept a journal, adding to it whenever something interesting happened, but now he took care to make meticulous notes each day. Then every Thursday when he got home after work he travelled one week into the future, in his own flat, in order to consult the diary for the week ahead. As well as details of each day’s events, he wrote suggestions in red; for example,
Do not let Farouk interview Reece, he’s cocked it up. Get Kayla to do it
. Exceptionally, if data warranted it, he would check one month ahead.

This method of passing information from the future to the past prevented a host of small annoyances, and won him a reputation in the department for godlike prescience and the luck of the devil.

Wednesday, 23
^rd
March 2050, 7.15 pm

How politicians loved the sound of their own voices. Only Quinn’s frustration stopped him falling asleep. Maintaining a bland and attentive expression, he waited for Lord Clanranald to finish. This was the fourth time he had sat through this same speech. One by one the man made exactly the same points as last time and the time before and the time before that; Quinn’s carefully calculated adjustments had made no difference at all to the outcome. Various countries’ IEMA representatives slumped in their green leather seats, eyes on their notes, or gazed blankly at the vast dull oil paintings that adorned the panelling, not appreciating their own luck to only hear it once.

Thank Christ, Clanranald was getting to the familiar peroration, his measured cadences slowing down for emphasis.

“We must not play God with people’s lives. Removing this young woman from her own time would be a gross infringement of her personal liberty. However great the catastrophe we are united in wishing to avert, the end must not be used to justify the means. Particularly when we have no way of being one hundred per cent certain that she is indeed the key factor in the calamity in prospect. And without that certainty, we cannot go forward. Mr Quinn, persuasively though he has spoken, has not produced the solid evidence we would need to take such serious action: action, I feel bound to add, that would not be without its own consequences.”

He sat, removed his spectacles and polished them, grave and complacent, while a murmur of conversation began in the panelled room as the meeting broke up. Quinn’s little group gathered their papers, stood and moved towards the door. Kayla gave him a sympathetic look.

“Bad luck. No one could have done more than you did.”

“That pompous fool is the only one with the power to do anything.” Quinn eyed him with loathing as he chatted to the American representative. “And he’s too cautious to
want
to do anything – except talk, which he’s proved he can do at inordinate length.”

Outside the Palace of Westminster Quinn said goodbye to his colleagues and stepped into a pod. He knew Kayla had expected to come home with him, perhaps have dinner out first; but he was not in the mood to appreciate her tact and understanding. His exasperation would not let him relax. He had been so sure that this time he’d prevail, yet the outcome remained the same. Confident in his own analysis, he was certain Florence Dryden had been the catalyst for humanity’s destruction: if she was only taken out of the equation, the contraceptive virus would fail and the future of the world be secure. His repeated failure to convince Lord Clanranald of this incensed him.

Back in his apartment he ordered filet mignon and a salad. He opened a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape while the kitchen prepared his meal, and walked to the window glass in hand, sipping. After this latest meeting, he had to concede that no matter what approach he used, he would never carry Lord Clanranald with him. Sighing, he sat at his computer and wrote up the day’s notes methodically in his diary.

Thursday, 17
^th
March 2050

Quinn stood in his apartment, TiTrav on his wrist, setting the date and place; here, one week’s time. As was his habit, he also set the return journey, back to where and when he was, using the limiter. Doing this meant that if anything untoward happened in the future, just by pressing two buttons he could be safely home.

Blackness, a spinning sensation, then his living room materialized around him. The light was different; rain dashed against the big windows. Quinn sat at his desk.

“Wake. Diary.”

He read his future-written account of the meeting and Clanranald’s obduracy. Though not given to dramatic gestures, he thumped his fist on the desk before leaving for his own time.

Returned to his living room he paced to and fro, itching to prove himself right and Clanranald wrong. A thought came to him: why not? No one would ever know. From the start, he had always been exceedingly careful; he was surely entitled to branch out now. He had laughed five years ago when Jace suggested he might be intending to use the thing for altruistic purposes. Strange if that turned out to be the case.

Averting humanity’s extinction had proved to be more interesting than anything else on offer, probably because it was the only real challenge in his life. He excelled at his job – given with a little help from knowing in advance what would happen – and women had a regrettable tendency to fall into his hands like ripe plums before he’d got round to asking them. Even Kayla, who had objected to his married status – it had taken him less than three months to charm her out of her scruples and into his bed. He had enjoyed the three months’ seduction almost more than her capitulation, remarkable woman though she was.

Florence Dryden. Now, that was a challenge worthy of his intellect. After five years of restraint, he faced overwhelming temptation to make a major intervention. A quick trip to pick her up, then – it came to him – drop her off where he’d left Jace. This would kill several birds with one stone. If London in 2185 was not depopulated, that would prove that he was right about Florence Dryden. He could safely leave her there in the future with no repercussions for himself in his own time. That he would get no credit for saving humanity did not trouble him. His own satisfaction would be enough.

If, on the other hand, London was still deserted five years after he had taken Jace there, he could reassure himself with the sight of Jace’s shackled bones where he had left him. The idea grew on Quinn. He would go now, intercept Florence Dryden on her doorstep as she arrived home after work. Why wait? But first, he would check his journal. He pressed the buttons on the TiTrav to return to the 24th March. Blackness, turmoil, his living room on a rainy evening. Once more he turned to eight days from that day’s date, Thursday 24th March. His impatient retailing of Clanranald’s verdict was no longer there.

The page was blank.

Quinn stared, then clicked backwards through the journal. Every page since the entry he’d written the day before on Wednesday 16th March was equally empty. In five years, this had never happened, and it could only mean one thing; his future self had not been able to fill in the diary. Something major had occurred to prevent him, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what that something was.

If he went this evening to pick up Florence Dryden to take her to future London, he would not return. He wondered what had/would have – tenses became confusing when you had the power to travel in time – happened. He might have met with some mishap, such as a ruined building collapsing on him, or a pack of lions eating him. This was not as fanciful as it sounded. With man, their only predator departed, big cats were thriving in future London. The final act of the last Regent’s Park Zoo keeper, before he succumbed to old age, must have been to turn them loose.

Or just possibly his dreams were accurate, and Jace had escaped his bonds five years ago. Somehow he had managed to survive and was still there, eager for vengeance, waiting for Quinn to return.

That settled the matter. The trip was off.

Perhaps he had given up the attempt to persuade Clanranald too easily. He had thought he had tried everything . . . but had he thought hard enough, were there options he had missed? An inspiration came to him. What about Clanranald’s wife? She lived in his country seat in Scotland, and seldom came to London. Quinn made up his mind to visit her, find out if she was charmable, and if so, enlist her help persuading her husband to Quinn’s point of view. He brought up City Airport, and booked a flight to Edinburgh the next morning, then emailed Kayla to say he would be away from the office all Thursday.

That done, he visited the future for the third time that night and consulted his diary, a little apprehensively. All was well; the pages were no longer blank. It seemed Lady Clanranald, though surprised to see him, had been receptive. She had given him lunch and promised to do her best. He had got the impression she was a little lonely and welcomed having someone civilized to talk to, had taken a liking to him. Apparently she wrote historical fiction. He read on. His idea was going to work; at the Palace of Westminster meeting, Clanranald had decided that in these exceptional circumstances, with humanity facing the grave risk of total extinction, and considering the weight of evidence that her role in the disaster was key, if inadvertent, the removal of Florence Dryden from her own time would be warranted. Quinn was given the mandate he asked for.

Smiling with satisfaction, back in the present, Quinn went to Amazon and downloaded Lady Clanranald’s latest book. He would read it on the plane. In his experience, any author who was not a best seller was invariably delighted when someone had read her work and praised it. She had earned – would earn – this extra effort on his part.

Quinn suddenly thought of something – he had nearly forgotten to confirm that Florence Dryden actually
was
the cause of humanity’s demise. A fortnight ahead should be enough . . . once more he pressed the two buttons. For a second nothing happened; then a message he had never seen before appeared on the TiTrav’s screen.

Hey! We have a problem. Something needs fixing before you go anytime. Seek out your local friendly TiTrav dealer.

What’s that? You’re visiting the Cretaceous Period, and a big mean T Rex is sizing you up for lunch?

DON’T PANIC!

Hit Reset, then press those two little buttons anyway. It’ll probably be fine. If it’s not fine, it’ll be quick :o)

When – or if, but don’t let’s be negative – you get home, don’t forget to fix your TiTrav so you can experience lots more fun times!

Quinn stared at this revoltingly chirpy communication with disbelief. In the five years he’d been time travelling, he’d never had a problem, and had come to take the TiTrav’s reliability for granted. He glanced at his watch – 9.30 – and went to see Ryker.

Ryker had finished work for the day really, but he was reprogramming a drinks unit for his neighbour in the next arch, an unpaid job, so he’d rather get it done tonight. Something cold nudged his thigh. Curtis’s big amber eyes were fixed on his owner’s, trusting and expectant. In his mouth was the red ball, his hiding toy.

“Are you bored?” Ryker fondled his ears. “Okay.” He took the ball. “Hide your eyes.” Curtis went under the desk, lay down and shut his eyes. “No cheating, mind.”

Holding the ball, Ryker wandered around the room a few times to throw the dog off the scent. Then he balanced it on a high rung of the ladder leading to the scaffold platform. He went back to the desk.

“Find it, Curtis!”

Curtis leaped up and began to search the workshop, tail wagging. Ryker watched as the dog sniffed round places he’d found it before, then places he hadn’t. He paused and considered Ryker, as if trying to read his mind, and did another circuit. Then he put his forepaws on the ladder to the bed and spotted the ball out of reach. He started to climb the ladder carefully. He hadn’t got far before his efforts dislodged the ball and it dropped to the floor. Ball in mouth, he came to be praised.