The Trouble With Time (18 page)

The hors d’oeuvres and a light main course eaten, it was time for the (from Floss’s viewpoint) less appealing part of the evening. Quinn put his hand lightly once or twice on her waist to guide her towards their private box in the Grand Tier.

The box was to the left of the auditorium, and decorated in red velvet and gold leaf. Floss sat and leant her elbows on the broad plush surface, looking around. They had a superb, if angled, view of the stage and the orchestra. The other boxes were all occupied by four people.
My God, what is this costing him?
Everyone in the audience, even the stalls, was dressed up, much more so than they would have been in her own day.

She glanced at her programme. They had come to see
Le Nozze di Figaro
. By Mozart, composer of one of Floss’s all-time least favourite tunes,
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
. No need to tell Quinn that. Floss was determined to keep an open mind; this would be a really good performance even if she didn’t appreciate the actual music. People who knew about music all thought Mozart was the bee’s knees.

“I’m deplorably ignorant about opera. Tell me five interesting things about this one.”

“Let me think.
Le Nozze di Figaro
is currently number seven of the most-performed operas worldwide.”

“What’s number one?”

“I think that’s Carmen – or just possibly La Traviata.”

“Go on.”

“Two, Beaumarchais’s play on which the opera was based was banned for licentiousness. Three, Mozart was paid four hundred and fifty florins for the piece –”

“How much was that in those days?”

“The equivalent of two or three years’ salary. Four, Brahms described each song in
Figaro
as a miracle. Five . . . hmm . . . okay, hardly interesting at all – I saw my first production of
Figaro
when I was ten.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Indeed I did. I’ve been a fan of Mozart ever since.”

The house lights dimmed and the audience grew quiet. The orchestra played the overture, then the curtains swung apart and the performance began.

The trouble with opera, Floss thought, is that the cast keep stopping to sing all the time. And the acting isn’t up to much; so arch, so over the top. Then there was the story. The tedious misunderstandings, the mistaken identities, the ludicrous complications of plots and subplots, the hiding behind furniture inadequate to the task. It went on and on. And Quinn sat to her right, and because they were at an angle could see her as well as the stage, so she was obliged to maintain an appreciative expression the whole time. She was relieved when the curtain went down for the intermission and Quinn led her to the champagne bar, which resembled a smaller Crystal Palace. They chatted and laughed together, and the bell summoning them to the next act rang too soon.

As they resumed their seats and the house began to hush, Quinn gave Floss a shrewd look. “You’re putting up a good front, but this really isn’t your sort of thing, is it?” Before Floss could get out her insincere protestations, he said, “No need to be polite. You hate it. Let’s go somewhere nice and have a drink.” He stood up.

Floss got to her feet too. “But these tickets must have cost a fortune!”

“It’s only money. And it’s your birthday. Come on.”

“But you’re enjoying it and we’ve only seen the first act.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled at her, ushering her out. “I know what happens.”

They paced along the deserted corridor, glanced at by the odd member of Opera House staff.

“What does happen?”

“D’you want to go back and find out?” He was laughing at her. He summarized the rest of the plot for her benefit on the way out.

They walked into the deepening twilight of Covent Garden. Floss stopped to peer in the windows of a raffish cocktail bar she remembered going to with Chris in her other life, thirty-five years ago.

“Wow, I’m amazed it’s still going strong. I’ve been here – it was fun. Looks like it’s hardly changed.”

“Let’s revisit your past.”

Party music greeted them as they went down the stairs to a low-ceilinged, brick arched space crowded with people. Quinn seemed sublimely unconcerned as heads turned to look at them; their dressy clothes made them stand out in the casual crowd. A small group rose to leave, and they were able to grab seats at a table.

“What will you have to drink?”

“You choose for me.”

Quinn pushed his way to the bar. Floss looked around her; though the layout and all the details were different, the wacky atmosphere had changed very little.

A young man said, “Are these seats taken?”

“Just these two.”

The man sat down while his companion went to the bar. Floss studied him covertly while he checked his phone; his face was curiously familiar. For a moment she couldn’t place him, then she recognized who he was; Scott Winchester, the IEMA operative who had shot McGuire and killed him, and left the department soon after. He still looked exactly like his photo from five years before. Floss’s heart rate doubled. She glanced towards the bar; luckily it was packed, and Quinn was not yet being served. She turned back and opened her mouth to speak. At that moment he looked up and caught her staring at him.

He smiled. “Do I look like someone you know? I’d remember if we’d met.”

“I work for IEMA doing filing and stuff. I think I’ve seen your photograph in the records. Scott Winchester?”

His face clouded almost imperceptibly, then he smiled, a little guardedly. “That’s me. I worked there once, very briefly. It didn’t suit me, so I left.” There was an awkward pause, then before Floss had worked out what to say he added, “You probably read about it. It was all over the web at the time. They said I killed a suspect by accident.”

“Yes . . .” Floss hesitated before asking his opinion on who stole the TiTrav. IEMA was clearly a painful subject for him; it would be considerate if she dropped it. But this was a heaven-sent opportunity to find out more, and she had to be quick before Quinn came back with the drinks.

Before she could speak he said in a rush, looking down at the table, “Everyone was very understanding. Except the thing is, I didn’t kill him. That’s why I left.” He looked away towards the bar, then made a visible effort to lighten up. His eyes crinkled in a smile and he sat back. “It’s been five years. I should be able to let it go, not bore total strangers in bars with protestations of innocence. But it’s still eating me.”

Floss abandoned subtlety. “Do you think Jace Carnady stole the TiTrav?”

“That’s what everyone thought at the time . . .” His gaze went over her shoulder. Quinn had returned holding two elaborate cocktails. Scott did not look as if his evening was improving.

Quinn said, “Scott! How nice to see you. How are you doing these days?”

“Very well, thank you. Really enjoying the work.”

“You’re still with . . . ?”

“Yes. You’ll excuse me, I must go and see what’s happened to my friend.” He turned to Floss. “Nice to meet you.” He walked away.

Floss decided to think about this later. She took the drink. “What is it?”

“That one’s Boom Ting, this is Grounds for Divorce. I chose them purely on their names. We can swap if you like.”

“What’s in it?”

“Guess.”

The evening over, alone in her flat, Floss’s mind buzzed over what Scott had told her. She had not seen him again – he had not returned to their table. Could he really believe that Quinn had made the mistake that resulted in a man’s death, or was he deluding himself? She imagined if you did kill somebody in error, you would really want to believe you hadn’t, and if you could convince yourself, it might give you peace of mind. Except Scott hadn’t seemed particularly peaceful on the subject. It was still rankling. Maybe to feel okay about it, you needed to convince everybody else as well.

Tuesday, 12
^th
April 2050

It was time to put her plan to visit Saffron and Ryker into action. Floss rang Quinn shortly after nine am and told him she had a migraine. He was all concern, which made her feel a little shame-faced. Not enough to change her intentions, though.

“Is there anything I can get you? Shall I call a doctor?”

“No, it’s nothing, I get them from time to time.” This was not true – Floss seldom even had a headache. “Just a bit of a bore. I’ll be fine if I rest in a dark room till it goes away.”

She had memorized the routes to Saffron’s home and Ryker’s workshop the night before. Floss had to assume she was under some sort of surveillance – probably nothing too extreme – after all, what threat did she pose? What could she do? And she’d taken pains to appear reconciled to her transplanted life; reasonably reconciled, not suspiciously so. But this was a society where citizens were microchipped. She would leave her dataphone in her flat, just in case IEMA was using it to track her. There was bound to be documentation of pod journeys, so she intended to wear her low-heeled new boots and walk. The weather was good for March, bright and blowy. It would be nice to see more of London.

The walk to Haggerston took twenty minutes, with streets morphing from immaculate Victorian terraces with manicured gardens, to 1970s unloved low-rise red brick, to glittering new skyscrapers and depressing old ones. Were architects ever less inspired than in the 1950s, 60s and 70s, Floss wondered. Population, litter and graffiti levels rose and fell as she walked from well-heeled to poor areas. The disparity between the two seemed more extreme than in her day.

When Floss reached Saffron’s block, it turned out she no longer lived there. A man answered the intercom and told her she’d moved out. He didn’t ask who Floss was, but volunteered Saffron’s current address, the White Horse in Hackney. It took half an hour to walk to Mare Street and find the pub. It was closed, but a door to one side had four bell pushes, and the top one had a new handwritten label in red ink: S. MCGUIRE. Floss rang the bell. Nothing happened. She wondered whether to ring again, or try one of the other bells. Saffron might be out. Then she heard the thud of feet on stairs. The door opened and a slight girl stood there hugging a towelling robe round herself. Her feet were bare, her pink/red hair was tousled, her eyes sleepy, and she regarded Floss with mistrust.

“Hi, are you Saffron?” The girl nodded. “I’m Floss. I’m hoping you can help me.”

“What with?”

Floss didn’t want to come right out with her story until she’d got more of a feel for whether she could trust Saffron. “It’s to do with your father.”

“My father’s dead. Who are you? What do you want? How did you know my address?”

“It’s a bit complicated to explain. Can I just talk to you for a minute?”

Saffron paused, eyeing her. Apparently Floss passed her silent appraisal, because she said, “Okay. You’ll have to talk while I get ready. I start work at half ten.” She stood back to let Floss in. They climbed three flights of stairs to the top of the house, then ascended a ladder which led through a hatch in the ceiling into a minuscule room under the eaves. To the left of a small round window in the only non-sloping wall was a narrow bed, and a long mirror with cheap jewellery hanging from each corner. To the right a rail of clothes, a filing cabinet, a table and a chair. These things only just fitted into the space, but at least Saffron had a window that was real and opened.

“I took this bar job because the room came with it.” Saffron perched on the end of the bed facing the mirror and began to backcomb her hair. Floss sat on the chair, to be out of her way. There was a small silence.

“Well?” Saffron said.

Floss realized it was not going to be possible to make small talk until she’d made a decision about Saffron’s reliability. She’d have to take a chance. “This must sound crazy, but I’m from 2015 –”

“You don’t look as if you’re from the past.”

“IEMA bought me new clothes. About three weeks ago they abducted me from my own time. They had a theory I was a catalyst for something bad that was going to happen in the future.”

Saffron had darted a quick look at Floss through the mirror at the mention of IEMA. “What sort of bad thing?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. And now they won’t take me back to my own time, even though it turns out I wasn’t the cause of the problem.”

Saffron snorted. She had finished with her hair and started on her makeup, dusting pale powder over her face. “That’s typical of those bastards. They screw up your life and wander off. So what do you want me to do about it?”

“I’m trying to find someone who has a TiTrav, who might be willing to take me home. There aren’t many of them around.”

“I haven’t got one.”

“I know . . .” Floss hesitated, not sure how to put the next bit. “I don’t want to upset you . . . but I read up about your father being shot five years ago. They said he had a TiTrav. Have you any idea what happened to it?”

Saffron’s face was expressionless as she started to paint black lines around her eyes. She didn’t say anything.

Floss said, “I’m sorry. I know how awful it must have been for you, losing your father . . . you probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“They say you’ll get over it. But you don’t. I think about him every day.”

“I know. My father . . . he was run over . . . when I was ten . . .”

There was a short silence.

“I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not much.” Saffron put her brush down and swivelled to face her. “Dad met me after school the day before they killed him. He looked sort of smaller, sad. He wouldn’t tell me what was up, he held my hand and said we’d be all right, whatever it was didn’t matter. He told me I was the best thing in his life.” She was crying now. Floss moved beside her on the bed and patted her shoulder awkwardly. “He did have a TiTrav, he was going to sell it and buy me my own place and pay for university. Ryker told me. But someone took it off him. I think it was someone from IEMA, then they killed him to cover up.” Saffron moved away and blotted her eyes with a tissue, then applied lipstick.

Floss thought of Scott, who’d taken the blame for killing Saffron’s father. But if you had a TiTrav, you’d be rich, and he hadn’t looked particularly flush, nor had he seemed like a murderer. She said dubiously, “Scott Winchester?”