Simon Clark - The Fall

For the first time since they’d somehow come unstuck from the normal flow of time, Nicole felt hope tingling inside of her. Maybe it was a fragile hope. But she realised that there was a chance – just an outside chance – she could somehow get all those people in the amphitheatre back home to their own date and time.

She leaned across and seized William’s hand. ‘You’re telling me you can travel in time? How does it work, exactly?’

The Reverend Thomas Hather took Sam and Zita home for a meal of ham and eggs. Bread and butter sat piled high on a plate in the centre of the table. Tea steamed in bone-china cups.

It was late in the evening and the summer sun cast a reddish glow through the tall windows. Outside on the rectory lawn a peacock fanned its feathers in a display of iridescent blues and greens.

Sam looked across at Zita. She held a cup in both hands.

As she drank she stared into space, clearly still wrapped up in what had happened that afternoon.

Despite everything, he still found himself comparing 1865 to 1999, noticing the changes in even mundane domestic objects. Of course, there were no electric lights. There was an alabaster lamp on the mantelpiece with a glass tube that was scorched and sooty at the top. There were candle holders. Furniture was chunky, ornate and carved – over-carved, in fact – so there were no straight lines, only curves, bulges, corkscrew chair legs, table legs that ran from elephantine thickness down to slender points. But this wasn’t a perverse taste for bizarre furniture on the part of Thomas: rather, it was the typical style of the time. This was opulent ‘in your face’ furniture, as strong and as enduring – and as noticeable – as the Empire that inspired it.

The meal had been served by a matronly woman of around 70 who ‘kept house’ for Thomas. She’d goggled her eyes in astonishment at Zita’s leggings and clicked her tongue, but had said nothing.

Thomas poured more tea into Zita’s cup through a silver strainer. ‘What kind of chance does the Middleton boy have?’

Zita shook her head. ‘I’ve really no idea. If he can survive the next 24 hours or so that should give the antibiotic time to work.’

‘Antibiotic? I’ve not heard of such a medicine.’

‘It kills bacteria in the body.’

‘A poison?’

‘More or less, I guess. But it won’t harm Harry.’

Unless he’s allergic to penicillin , was the unwelcome thought that ran through Sam’s brain.

Zita sipped her tea, her hands shaking slightly. Watching her administer the drug earlier had been like watching someone making a record-breaking dive from a high cliff. She’d examined the medical textbook, gazed at the ampoules of penicillin. Then she’d simply gone for it. Quickly filled a syringe, then injected it directly into a vein in the little boy’s leg.

A leg as grey as putty, Sam had remembered. And cold to the touch, Zita had said later. As cold as a can from the refrigerator.

Sam had half hoped that during the couple of hours they were there they’d see the boy miraculously rally; see his eyes open and that grey face break into a smile.

Of course, nothing ever happened as neatly as that. Harry Middleton’s condition had not altered. He remained all but unconscious, the slightly parted eyes gazing dully up at the tear in the wallpaper above the window.

After a while all they could do was promise that they’d call again later. Zita would have to administer another injection the next day.

If they were still here, that was , Sam told himself. If this weird run back through time continued like it had been doing, at any moment they could open their eyes and find themselves back in the amphitheatre.

Sam bit into a slice of bread. He found it coarse, slightly gritty, as if grains of sand had found their way into the flour from the millstones, but it tasted good. The butter was good, too; in colour a very pale yellow, it was the creamiest he’d ever tasted.

Thomas was still talking about the penicillin. By now he was wanting to know why the drug wasn’t widely available, mentioning about a dozen children who’d died in the last 18 months or so.

‘It’s a new drug,’ Sam told him. ‘Still experimental. It’ll be a few years before doctors will be using it. But it—’

‘No, no.’ Thomas gave a smile that was nervous, awkward, yet clearly determined. He wasn’t a man who became angry or assertive often, but Sam saw he wasn’t going to be kissed off with any platitudes this time. ‘No… look.’ With a trembling hand he made a slow-motion karate chop onto the table. ‘Look. You’re in my house, eating my food, I deserve the courtesy of an honest reply.’

‘Thomas, penicillin is a new—’

‘Please, Mr Baker, credit me with a fraction of intelligence. Clearly you are not what you say you are. First, I find a group of you in most peculiar dress in the amphitheatre. And you simply appeared there with no advance warning. Surely there would have been mention of you in the local newspapers. And you, sir, were hatless.’

‘I left my hat in the—’

‘No, no, no. You don’t normally wear a hat. Look at my face… no, lower down.’ He pointed to his nose and cheeks. ‘The lower part of my face is tanned by the sun. Above my eyebrows there’s no tanning at all. Every man in this town, with the exception of yourself, has exactly the same tanning pattern. Browned face, pale forehead. Because we all wear hats whenever we are outside. You clearly never wear a hat. Your forehead is tanned.’ Thomas’s keen eyes studied Sam. ‘It is the mark of a modern civilised man to wear a hat out of doors. Even in North America. You say you are part of an archaeological team, yet I saw no-one digging at the amphitheatre. You have in your possession extraordinary vehicles that require no horses to pull them but are impelled by what you maintain is some form of explosive process that drives pistons. And this afternoon I have seen you administer a medicine that I’ve never heard of, which you say is experimental, but then in Heaven’s name why are archaeologists – so-called archaeologists – in possession of it?’

Sam leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Now that is a deduction Sherlock Holmes would shoot his own granny for.’

‘And,’ Thomas continued, not willing to be deflected, ‘you employ phrases and words I have never encountered before. My parish might be in the provinces, but I dare say no other civilised man, at least of this nation, has heard them before.’ The Reverend Thomas Hather was trembling but still in control. And without a shadow of a doubt he wanted answers – this time straight ones, not those that were so bent they couldn’t stand on their own two feet.

‘So,’ Thomas continued firmly. ‘Will you tell me why you are here? And just where you are from?’

‘The truth?’ Sam looked at Zita and said, ‘I think it might be easier to tell Thomas everything.’

‘Sam? Is that wise? And is it even necessary?’

‘I think so.’

‘But we could be pffft … out of here at any second.’

‘And what if we aren’t? We’ve been here a day and a night already. Remember what Rolle said? He told us that the mechanism that’s dragging us back is going on the fritz.’

‘We can’t be sure about that.’

‘I know, but what if it is? What if it dumps us here for good? We’re going to need people like Thomas here to help us. We’ll need a roof over our heads, for one thing. Jobs, so we can buy food.’

‘But you’re going to have a tough time convincing anyone what you say is true. Have you thought that it’s all going to sound a bit on the crazy side?’

Sam noticed that Thomas had watched the exchange with profound puzzlement.