Simon Clark - The Fall

Sam sipped water from a glass. Above him a two-engined prop-driven plane lumbered overhead with a low vrooming sound.

Carswell glanced up. ‘A Wellington, if I’m not mistaken. A medium bomber, probably heading east to bomb Germany. And here I am, sitting drinking champagne. Funny old universe, isn’t it?’

Sam grunted. Right now it would feel good just to climb into bed, pull the covers over his head and wait until all this was over.

‘You know,’ Carswell said, ‘perhaps what we should be doing is breaking open that stone altar in the middle of the amphitheatre.’

‘Why?’

‘Because as far as I can see, Sam, old boy, that altar lies exactly dead centre in this circle of land that is being transported back through time.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘You never know, we might crack open that stone to find the circuitry of some futuristic device.’

‘You mean some kind of time machine?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I don’t think it’s going to be as simple as that, do you?’

‘Well, it’s time we tried to seize the initiative rather than just being blown back through time as though we’re nothing more than a handful of leaves drifting on the breeze. Listen, I’ve got the tools to break that stone open.’

‘But you won’t do it.’

‘What’s there to stop me?’

‘Listen. I sat in the amphitheatre looking down at that stone slab on 23 rdJune 1999. It had six bowl-shaped hollows carved on the top, with a slot in the centre.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well, in 1999 it was intact. It hadn’t been destroyed then. So you couldn’t have destroyed it 60 years earlier.’

‘So what you’re getting at is that we’re not physically capable of doing anything that changes history.’

‘Yes.’

‘Therefore we couldn’t, say, grab an aeroplane from the RAF station up the road there, somehow fly to Germany, assassinate Hitler and end the war in 1943, or whatever year this is.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Carswell.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Interesting?’

‘Very interesting.’ Carswell sipped his champagne. ‘After all, think about it, the man who controls time controls the world. Imagine if you could travel back in time at will and kill your enemies as children. Or even kill their parents before your enemy is even born.’

‘Or what if you travelled back in time and killed your own father before you were born? Do you just vanish into thin air the second you pull the trigger? No, I don’t think that’s possible.’

Carswell wanted to push the conversation. Sam, however, felt as if his whole spirit had been shot to pieces. After a couple of moments of Carswell suggesting they smash open the stone altar with hammers to prove that you could go back into time and change events – such as destroying an object that Sam had clearly seen in 1999 – Sam was ready to leave the boat to find somewhere quiet to sit and recharge his mental and emotional batteries. He thanked Carswell for the water and had already reached the gangplank when he heard Carswell call him. ‘Wait, the news is about to start.’

Sam very nearly didn’t stay and listen to it. But as the chimes of Big Ben died on the radio he found himself pausing just to hear the headlines.

‘This is the BBC calling the world from London. My name is Henry Squires and this is the news at nine o’clock on Sunday 28 thMay 1944.’ Typical of the BBC newsreaders of the time, the archetypal Home Counties voice was devoid of any regional accent. It reeked of dinner jackets and smart London clubs. Sam, however, found himself listening hard. For a moment he didn’t realise what had caught his attention. Something important… very important. The twin-jointed digits that served as his thumbs began to tingle outrageously. But why? What was so important about that date? The voice came loud and clear from the speaker: ‘Polish troops have captured the fortress of Monte Cassino. The German Gustav line in Italy has been fatally breached and Allied commanders expect rapid advances into enemy held territory…’

The tingling rose to a crescendo until the scars felt as if they were being pricked by dozens of needles.

Sunday 28 thMay 1944.

Suddenly the significance of that date slammed home. Sam caught his breath; he found himself clenching his fists so hard his whole body trembled.

‘Anything the matter, Sam?’

Sam looked at Carswell. ‘That date… did he say 28 thMay?’

‘Yes. May 1944. So, now we know the date… What’s so special about it?’

‘Before the last time-slip, I was just about to be arrested for murder.’

‘Well, that was 1946, old boy. This is 1944, so I’d say you’re well out of it, wouldn’t you?’

‘No,’ Sam said quickly. ‘Don’t you see? That guy shoved a newspaper at me. It said the murder took place on the night of Sunday May 28 th.’

‘Well, that’s tonight.’ Carswell nonchalantly sipped his champagne. ‘But you don’t seriously intend to do anything about it, do you?’

‘A family was murdered. For some reason the police put me in the frame. I saw my photograph in that newspaper.’

‘Then stay put. You can even lock yourself in a cabin downstairs until it’s all over. Then you can’t be blamed, can you?’

‘Look, Carswell,’ Sam said, as if explaining that one plus one equals two to an idiot. ‘At this moment that family in Casterton are still alive. But in a few hours someone’s going to kill them, now—’

‘Ah, ah… Sam.’ Carswell wagged his finger. ‘Despite what you’ve just told me about the impossibility of changing past events, you’re now suggesting that you hare off, heroically save this family you don’t even know, and do exactly that: change history.’

Sam had altered his watch in line with the time given by the newsreader. He glanced at it. ‘I can’t sit back and let it happen. If I do that I might as well have slit their throats myself.’

He ran to the gangplank.

‘Wait a moment, Sam Baker.’ Carswell stood up and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Are you sure you won’t murder the family?’

‘Do I look like a murderer?’

Carswell shrugged. ‘What murderer does go around in a T-shirt bearing the slogan I’m A Killer ?’

Sam didn’t hesitate.

He ran from the boat up the slope in the direction of the amphitheatre.

Behind him Carswell called, ‘Think about it, Sam Baker. The police suspected you of the killing. They must have had a good reason for reaching that conclusion. Isn’t that worth thinking about?’

Even a hare-brained scheme is better than nothing. Those were Sam’s thoughts as he ran into the amphitheatre. And while he didn’t know exactly what he could do, he decided to drive into the Casterton of 1944.

As he approached the stone altar slab in the centre of the amphitheatre he slowed down. Dusk was gradually becoming night.

Think of it , he told himself. At first these leaps through time had seemed completely random. In 1946 he was being arrested for a murder committed in 1944. Now he was here a few hours before that murder happened. Surely that couldn’t be just a bizarre coincidence?

Someone, or at least some intelligence, must have deposited him here to give him the opportunity of acting.

But was that to save the family?

Or, as Carswell had suggested, to kill them?

Was there any chance he might become a homicidal maniac between here and Casterton?

No. He didn’t think so.

But someone killed the family.

Is there a chance I can warn them? he asked himself as he gazed at the stone slab. And have I been deliberately put here on the evening of 28 thMay 1944 to do exactly that?