Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“I'll be dealing with you,” he murmured, “twenty-one years from now.”

A cheer went up. Queen Victoria's carriage, drawn by four horses, had emerged from the gate of Buckingham Palace, off to his left.

Two outriders-the Queen's Guards-trotted ahead of the royal conveyance, which was steered by a postilion. Two more followed behind. They drew closer to the base of the slope.

Tick tick tick.

“Come on,” Burton whispered. “Where are you?”

A man wearing a top hat, blue frock coat, and white breeches stepped over the low fence onto the path. He paced along beside the slow-moving carriage, drew a flintlock from his coat, pointed it at the queen, and pulled the trigger.

The report echoed across the park.

Victoria, in a cream-coloured dress and bonnet, stood up in her carriage.

Prince Albert leaned forward and reached for her.

People started to scream and shout.

The man drew a second pistol.

Burton held his breath and became entirely motionless.

The assassin raised his arm and took aim.

The queen reached up to her white lace collar.

Burton made a tiny movement, shifting the crosshairs of his sight slightly to the left of the monarch's head, their centre-point hovering over the young gunman's face.

The man from the future, Edward Oxford, suddenly jumped from the crowd.

“No, Edward!” he bellowed.

The two men struggled.

Burton took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

In 1864, John Speke's babbage exploded.

The shockwave crossed time and hit Burton like a punch between the eyes. In a moment of total disorientation, he thought he saw a blue flash far off to his left, and a faint voice yelling: “Stop, Edward!”

The assassin fired.

Burton fired.

Queen Victoria's head sprayed blood. She fell backward out of the carriage.

Albert scrambled after her.

Edward Oxford, still alive, threw his ancestor to the ground, accidentally impaling the young man's head on the wrought-iron spikes atop the low fence.

“No!” Burton whispered.

A frantic police whistle sounded.

The crowd surged around the carriage. The outriders plunged into the mob, attempting to hold it back.

Oxford forced his way free and started to run up the slope.

“No!” Burton whispered again.

He snapped out of his shock and backed into the trees, pulling the jewel case and portmanteau with him, and found a place of concealment. He listened as Oxford reached the vegetation and pushed through it to where he'd left his suit, helmet, and boots.

Burton lunged forward, hooked an arm around the time traveller's throat, squeezed hard, and crushed his windpipe. He put his mouth against the man's ear and hissed: “You don't deserve this, but I have to do it again. I'm sorry.”

With his right hand, he twisted Oxford's head until the neck snapped, then released his hold and allowed the corpse to crumple to the ground.

He stepped back into hiding.

Almost immediately, he heard a voice calling: “Step out into the open, sir! I saw what happened. There's nothing to worry about. Come on, let's be having you!”

It sounded familiar.

Burton remained silent.

“Sir! I saw you trying to protect the queen. I just need you to accompany me to the station to make a statement!”

There was a pause, then someone began to push their way into the thicket. A policeman emerged from the leaves and looked down at Oxford.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What in the devil's name has happened here?”

Burton took up his rifle, raised it butt-forward over his shoulder, and stepped out of the undergrowth.

The policeman turned and looked him full in the face.

Burton hesitated. The young, square-jawed, and wide-eyed features were those of William Trounce.

“Who the heck-?” the constable began.

Burton cracked the rifle butt into the youth's forehead. Trounce's cockscomb helmet went spinning away. He moaned and collapsed. The king's agent leaned over him and checked that he was breathing. He was.

Screams and whistles filled the air.

Burton straightened and returned to the portmanteau and jewel case. He took them over to where Oxford had hung his time suit, and, taking down the clean, unmarked material, pushed it into the bag with the older, scorched version of itself. With difficulty, he managed to squeeze the helmet and boots in, too.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, then, picking everything up, made his way through the trees toward the high wall at the back of the thicket. Horses' hooves and voices sounded from the street beyond. He followed the barrier around the border of the park until he came to a tree stump hard up against the brickwork. Stepping onto it, he reached up and placed the rifle and jewel case on top of the wall. He looped his arm through the handles of the bulging portmanteau and hauled himself up and over, dropping to the ground on the other side. His ribs creaked, and for a moment he thought he might pass out. He leaned back against the bricks.

“Sangappa,” came a voice.

The explorer looked up and saw a street sweeper standing on the pavement nearby.

“What?”

“Sangappa,” the man repeated. “It's the best leather softener money can buy. They send it over from India. Hard to find and a mite expensive but worth every penny. There's nothing to top it. Sangappa. It'd do that overstuffed portmanteau of yours the world of good, take my word for it.”

Burton used his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead.

The street sweeper leaned on his broom and asked, “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “But I'm having a bad day.”

“It looks like it. Don't you worry, you'll forget it by tomorrow!”

The man suddenly looked confused. He scratched his head.

“It's odd-I can't even remember this morning. I must be going loopy!” He lifted his broom and stepped from the pavement into the street. With a look of bemusement on his face, he began to sweep horse manure from it and into the gutter.

Burton swallowed and licked his lips. He needed a drink. He was feeling strange and disorientated. He wasn't sure where he was, what he was doing, why he was doing it.

He retrieved the rifle and jewels and started to move away.

“Hey!” the man called after him. “Don't forget! Sangappa! You can buy it at Jambory's Hardware Store on the corner of Halfmoon Street.” He pointed. “Thataway! Tell old Jambory that Carter the Street Sweeper sent you!”

Burton nodded and limped on. He tried to piece together what had just occurred, but his mind was a jumble.

He crossed the road, passed Jambory's Hardware Store, kept going, and entered Berkeley Street, where he saw an elderly man peering out of a ground-floor window. He stopped and examined the white-bearded and scarred face, the sharp cheekbones and deep, dark, tormented eyes.

The man gazed back.

The man moved when he moved.

What? No! It can't be! That's me! My reflection! But how? How can I be old? I'm-I'm nineteen! Just nineteen!

He looked down at his hands. They were brown and wrinkled and weathered. They were not the hands of a young man.

What has happened? How is this possible?

He stumbled away and passed through Berkeley Square into Davies Street, then onto Oxford Street, which was filled with horse-drawn traffic. Only horse-drawn. Nothing else. That surprised him. He had no idea why.

What am I expecting to see? Why does it all feel wrong?

Burton reached Portman Square, staggered into the patch of greenery at its centre, dropped his luggage, and collapsed onto a bench beneath a tree. He'd been walking toward Montagu Place, but it had just occurred to him that there was no reason to go there.