Simon Clark - The Fall

‘Assuming he can tell us that,’ Sam said. ‘All he was trying to do was warn me to keep away from the amphitheatre during the time-slip.’

Jud nodded. ‘And how do we know he’ll be here in the Casterton of 1946? For all we know Rolle, or Dirty Harry, whatever his name really is, might be stuck in 1978.’

Sam cocked his head to one side, thinking. ‘But didn’t you say that when you saw him in 1978 he looked exactly as he did in 1999?’

‘True.’

‘Then he might be here in 1946?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Jud said. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Carswell said. ‘Step on the gasoline pedal, Sam, old boy, and we’ll see if we can track down this mysterious fellow.’

Sam glanced in the rear-view mirror and caught Jud’s eye. Jud shot the back of Carswell’s head a look as if to say, ‘You’ll be lucky.’ Then, shaking his head, he flipped open the cardboard wallet.

Sam, glancing back in the rear-view mirror, saw Jud pull out a sheaf of old photographs. He began to study them each in turn, taking particular notice of what was written on their backs. Sam couldn’t see what the photographs were of, but he did see that Jud examined them carefully, very carefully; they were clearly of tremendous importance to him.

‘Watch out for the poor gee-gees,’ Carswell said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Sam grunted and turned his attention to the road in front of him. It was busier now as they headed into town. Carefully, he eased the car round a horse-drawn van on which were written the words Ferringer & Son, Greengrocer .

The town itself was noticeably smaller than it had been in 1978. There were no high-rise buildings. The only man-made structures of any height were the town hall clock tower and factory chimneys, standing like long fingers of brick. From them black smoke rose. In fact, Sam saw that a haze of smoke hung over the whole town; every household, it seemed, must have had a fire blazing in the hearth grate, despite the fact it was a fine summer day.

Jud noticed, too. ‘Looks pretty filthy, doesn’t it? I’d forgotten how smoky towns were before smokeless fuel and gas central heating.’

‘You must be a cold-blooded race,’ Sam said. ‘Fires on a warm day?’

‘You have to remember that most of these people wouldn’t have electric or gas water heaters. The only way they’d have hot water would be to light a fire. Also, I’d bet good money that a lot of these people are cooking meals on coal-fired ranges.’

‘Roll on 1999,’ Carswell grunted, his voice thickened with distaste.

Suddenly there seemed to be men on bikes everywhere.

They wore blue military uniforms.

‘Ah, the boys of the RAF,’ Carswell said lightly. ‘I take it there must be an RAF station hereabouts, Jud?’

‘RAF Casterton. Home of 717 Squadron. They flew Wellington bombers out of here until 1950. Then the aerodrome was closed down and ploughed out. The last I saw of it, it was under several acres of wheat.’

‘My dear old Dad was in the RAF,’ Carswell said distantly, his elbow resting on the door frame, fingers toying with the rubber seal around the window. ‘Although I don’t think he made it so far north.’

‘Where was he stationed?’

‘Christ knows. Whenever he started talking about it, people left the room. The old boy bored us silly. All I know was he was a grease monkey on Spitfires. Probably Kent or some such place. Just think…’ He shot Sam a smile. On Carswell’s face it wasn’t a pleasant expression; the man’s eyes were as nastily beady as ever. ‘Just think, if I knew his base’s telephone number, I could phone the silly old bugger up and say, “Guess who?’” Carswell laughed.

And as far as laughs went, Sam thought, it wasn’t a particularly pleasant one either. Carswell was soon lost again in his own thoughts as he absently fiddled with the rubber seal of the window.

Sam turned his attention back to the road, which was becoming clogged with slow-moving traffic. There were a fair number of horse-drawn carts and even a horse-drawn postal van. Horse crap littered the streets, lying here, there and everywhere in piles of greeny-brown balls. He could even smell it through the air vents of the car.

The town hall clock showed the time to be just a little after four.

On the High Street there were far more shops than he’d remembered before, each specialising in a specific kind of merchandise – an ironmonger’s, a hardware store, a greengrocer’s, a butcher’s, a fishmonger’s, a bookshop, a baker’s, a confectioner’s, a men’s clothes shop (specialising in made-to-measure military uniforms, said a sign), then a women’s hat shop, a laundry, a bank, a post office. They all looked pokily small, with drab wooden signs and even more drably-painted woodwork in dull greens and chocolate browns. Most had their windows covered in whitewash writing that announced ‘Coupons welcome here’ or ‘Nylons on sale – first come, first served’ or ‘Boys in Blue? Front of the queue!’

‘Looks poxy, doesn’t it?’ Carswell murmured. ‘So bloody poxy.’

Jud leaned forward to say in a low voice, ‘They’ve noticed the car.’

Sam glanced to his left, then right. Shoppers were stopping to stare at the car, some open-mouthed. To his right, a pair of boys in short trousers (although not so short: they reached their knees) ran after the car, waving and shouting.

Sam heard a thumping sound. When he looked in the door mirror, he saw that a man in a blue uniform riding a bike had grabbed hold of the back window frame and was hitching a lift. He had a cigarette gripped between his teeth and grinned hugely as he coasted along.

‘Funny old world, isn’t it?’ Carswell murmured. ‘I can’t wait to find out what we shall see next. Can you?’

Sam gave a low groan. ‘Damn. I think we might just be about to run into our first problem.’ Standing in the middle of the road was a policeman. He held up his hand and fixed Sam with an authoritarian stare.

‘Well, old boy,’ Carswell said. ‘You’ve got a choice of running the constable down or stopping.’

Sam stopped the car.

‘You might have made the wrong choice,’ Carswell said. ‘I hope you’re silver-tongued enough to explain why three strangely dressed people, especially Jud in his gold waistcoat, are driving a peculiar-looking car that isn’t taxed for this year and bears an incomprehensible registration plate. Good luck, old boy.’

Sam wound the window down as the policeman walked slowly up, poked his head into the car and gave the three of them a look that was both long and searching.

Nicole Wagner stood in the hot sun. She found she couldn’t take her eyes off the deep shadows of the woods. She was convinced Bostock was in there.

Probably watching me standing here , she thought uneasily. She shot a look back at the amphitheatre. Where was Lee? He was supposed to be drumming up some kind of posse to go out and look for Bostock. She couldn’t bear the idea of Bostock escaping. The little bastard should be brought to justice.

Wait…

She tilted her head to one side and shielded her eyes with her hand against the sun.

She saw something move in the wood. It moved quickly. Fleetingly, she glimpsed a figure.

Now, now , she told herself. Is that Bostock running from tree trunk to tree trunk to hide himself?

She shot a glance back at the amphitheatre. There were half a dozen people or so in the car park. Most had gone to the toilet block or begged cold drinks from the coach driver. The coach’s galley boasted a well-stocked refrigerator. (Good grief, he probably even sold them the drinks; she hadn’t met a tour coach driver yet who hadn’t some wrinkle for earning extra cash on the side. Usually it was spurious detours to destinations not in the regular itinerary: passengers would be invited to make a ‘contribution’ to the driver for the additional fuel used. Naturally, the money, equalling at least a week’s wage, went directly to the driver’s pocket. It did not pass Go, nor did it attract the tax man’s beady eye.)