Simon Clark - The Fall

‘Sam.’

She reached out to shake his hand. He noticed she wore blue cotton gloves to match the uniform. ‘Delighted to meet you, Sam. I’m Ruth.’ She grinned. ‘It’s short for Ruthless. That’s what my brothers always called me when I beat them at tennis.’ She looked back at the dashboard, the instruments all backlit now with a soft green light. ‘But, wow, what a car. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

‘Latest model,’ he said, driving harder.

‘Military?’

‘Of course.’

‘Mum’s the word. Careless talk and all that. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘You drive fast.’

‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Matter of life and death, huh?’

He nodded.

She sighed. ‘It always is these days. Look at those searchlights. Once they’ve got a Jerry plane in their sights…’ She pointed a finger at the sky as if it was a pistol. ‘Pow, pow. Of course, it’s either them or us.’

He drove along the deserted High Street, noticing that the windows of the shops and houses were covered with a crisscross pattern of sticky tape intended to at least minimise injuries caused by flying glass if a bomb landed close enough to shatter them.

All the street lights were out – deliberately extinguished because of the blackout. In fact, not a glimmer of light shone through the heavily-curtained windows of the houses. For all the world it could have been a ghost town, with no moving vehicles, no lights, no people.

Sam, driving on sidelights alone, hoped a horse or truck wouldn’t lumber out in front of him. At this speed there’d be a God Almighty mess.

‘Deserted again. Bloody air-raid; I hate it when it looks like this,’ she said. ‘Spooky, isn’t it? Oh, take a left here.’

He braked hard, swung the car, and the tyres slid on the ever-present horse droppings that formed a slippery mat on every street.

‘What do all these switches do?’ she asked, looking down at the dashboard as he accelerated along the side street.

‘Lights, heating, CD’

‘Seedy?’

‘No. CD.’ All he wanted to do was be at the house where the murder was going to take place; so without really thinking he hit the play button. Music boomed from the car’s four speakers, the massive bass sound vibrating the steering wheel in his hands.

Startled, Ruth looked round for where the sound was coming from. ‘Wow, that’s loud. Who’s the singer?’

‘Michael Stipe. He’s from an American band called REM.’

‘REM. That’s a new one on me. Is this kind of music popular in America?’

‘It will be.’ Sam gripped the steering wheel. His muscles were tense. He scanned the blackened street. ‘How far to the Rookery now?’

‘It’s just past that church on your right. There! There’s the entrance… just where that truck’s parked.’

Sam turned the Range Rover into another narrow street that opened onto a square lined with big detached houses. These, too, were all in darkness. The only movement was from the trees in the grassed area of the square. They swayed in the breeze.

Sam switched off the engine and killed the lights. There were no sirens now. Searchlights silently probed the night sky. Hanging directly above them, a barrage balloon revealed a silvery underbelly when touched by the million-watt beam of a searchlight.

‘My train leaves in three-quarters of an hour,’ Ruth said, almost warily, as if unsure about Sam now, and why he’d torn through the town’s streets to get here. ‘I’ll start walking.’ She climbed out of the car. Yet, despite what she’d just said, she stood there, holding a small suitcase in one hand as if reluctant to leave.

Sam walked slowly away from the car, all the time looking up at the darkened faces of the houses. It was one of these. This was where a man, a woman and their child would have their throats cut tonight.

Unless, that is, he could stop it happening.

But that would mean he would have changed history. The repercussions would be enormous.

Perhaps he should just walk away now. Let whatever would happen, happen.

Otherwise his actions would alter the future. Even if he could return to 1999, he might find the world completely different because of what he did tonight.

But is a little child going to trigger a nuclear war in 1955?

Would that child from a 1940s Britain have the power to change the world if her life was saved tonight?

Possibly. Often a single individual changed the whole course of history.

He shook his head as he scanned the silent houses. No. Forget the philosophical arguments. He had the opportunity to prevent three murders. That was the bottom line; that was all that mattered.

He couldn’t walk away from here now.

Already he could imagine those foetus-like creatures nodding wisely as their stunted little fingers pressed the keys on their time machine or whatever goddamned mechanism was controlling all this. Ah, yes , they’d say. The human being was a coward after all, and far too ignorant and weak to control events around him .

‘Bastard,’ he said glaring up at the sky. Again that rage he’d experienced earlier roared through him. It was a rage on the edge of insanity. Why are we being subjected to this? Whoever was responsible should have their miserable necks wrung, wrung hard until their eyes popped and they died black-lipped and pissing themselves… That dark engulfing wave of fury… boundless, insane fury swept down on him. ‘The bastards!’

Ruth took a hesitant step towards him. ‘Sam? Are you all right? Sam, don’t …’

But that was when he lunged at her, grabbed her by her jacket and dragged her into the bushes.

She tried to cry out; her eyes were bright with terror in the darkness.

‘Sam, please, I—’

He pushed his palm across her lipstick-red mouth, stifling the coming scream. Her eyes bulged in shock as he pushed her farther back into the branches where no-one would see them from the road.

He looked into those bulging eyes to see a premonition of her own agonising death written there.

‘Shh…’ he whispered. ‘They’ll hear you.’

From the way she blinked Sam saw she wished whoever they were would hear her, then come running to free her.

He didn’t release his grip, holding her in a bear hug with one arm while his other hand still sealed her mouth; he could feel the frightened exhalations from her nostrils blowing against his hand. Her eyes were locked on his, clearly expecting at any moment to feel his hands around her throat.

‘Shh,’ he whispered again, still not taking his hand away. ‘There’s going to be a murder committed tonight.’

Her frightened eyes went impossibly round, like milk-white discs.

‘No,’ he whispered quickly. ‘It’s not you. Don’t be afraid of me. Listen. A family are in danger in one of those houses across there. Do you understand?’

She nodded as best she could with his hand across her mouth.

‘I’ve just seen a man come out of the front door and leave a sack or a bag in the garden. I think he’s robbing the place, so that must be the house. But… but I’m afraid… I’m afraid I might be too late. Now, do you follow me?’

She nodded again. Her eyes looked less terrified now and were fixed intelligently on his.

‘Now, I’m sorry I frightened you,’ he said gently. ‘But I don’t want that hoodlum to know I’m here. Okay?’

A nod again. The breath against his hand was calmer now. He let her go, noticing the lipstick had smeared against one cheek. ‘It’s that house across there. With the green door that’s slightly open.’

She nodded, then asked, ‘Are you a detective?’