Time Holes: 13

Time Holes: 13

  by Chris Tinniswood

  Published by Histrionic Downs

  Copyright 2013 Chris Tinniswood

  ISBN: 978-0-9561611-1-6

  Also by Chris Tinniswood

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Other Books by Chris Tinniswood

  Nostradormouse: A Sampler

  Preface

  " The notion that he had travelled in time was both alarming and thrilling, but there had been no time machine, no pimped-out DeLorean DMC-12 in which to ride. He’d only walked through that abandoned house."

  Going back in time 13 minutes was a neat trick for Austin Baker. It allowed him to get to school at the same time he left his house. But when Jordan Baxter followed him into Number 13, he disappeared completely.

  Where (and when) Jordan went is a mystery that Austin is compelled to solve. It will take him on the strangest and most dangerous journey of his life...

  One Hole in time.

  Two Points of view.

  A whole world of trouble.

  Dare you enter Number Thirteen?

  Chapter 1

  November in August

  Friday, 13 August 2010

  Austin Baker was curled up in a large armchair, reading Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll. The armchair had belonged to his Nan, as had the book he was reading. The upholstery was tattered and faded, and the cushion was saggy and giving, but Austin loved it. When his parents had bought new sofas, he’d begged for it to be taken up to his bedroom, instead of thrown away. He would spend hours nestled in it, reading book after book.

  Today, his curtains were drawn so he could shut the world away. Outside, it was a sunny August afternoon; the bees made their business with pollen, the butterflies flirted with blossoms, but in Austin’s imagination it was a Victorian November afternoon, and there was a warming fire in the grate. Alice was just about to step through the looking-glass on the mantelpiece and enter a world where time ran backwards, when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Austin?’

  ‘Mmm?’ he replied, still engrossed in the book.

  The door opened, and in came Austin’s mum. She was wearing a light blue blouse, and her long brown hair was tied back in a bun. She was carrying a long-handled duster, and looked very determined.

  ‘Goodness, Austin,’ she exclaimed, ‘what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Reading,’ said Austin, not looking up.

  ‘I can see that,’ said his mother, and went over to the window. She drew back the curtains and bright sunlight streamed through, revealing streaks of dancing dust in the air.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Look at that glorious sunshine, Austin,’ she said, opening both windows and letting the summer in, banishing whatever November notions Austin had conjured up. ‘Honestly, I don’t understand you sometimes,’ she added. ‘Any normal boy would be out there enjoying the summer, while it lasts.’

  ‘I just want to read,’ said Austin.

  ‘That’s all you do, love,’ said his mum. ‘Cooped up in here like a hermit. Fancy shutting out the sun like that. It’s a wonder you don’t wear glasses, reading in the dark all the time.’

  ‘But Mum…’

  ‘No buts, Austin, I want you out of here now and enjoying the sunshine. Go for a bike ride or something.’

  The Bike Ride

  Friday, 13 August 2010

  Austin could see his mum had that look in her eye, and he knew there was no arguing with her when she was like that. So, he quickly put on his trainers and went downstairs to the kitchen. He picked up a glass from the draining board and made himself an orange squash. He drank it down without pausing for breath and burped loudly when he’d finished.

  ‘I heard that, Austin!’ said his dad, as he came through the open door that led into the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth.

  Austin gave his dad a cheesy grin. ‘What’re you doing, dad?’

  ‘Just checking the oil level, that’s all.’ Austin’s dad did the self-same checking routine on their family car every weekend. He was thorough like that, and Austin had inherited his fastidiousness.

  ‘Where you off to, then?’ asked his dad, as Austin moved towards the garage door.

  ‘I’m going for a bike ride.’

  ‘Really,’ asked his dad, feigning surprise, ‘what’d you do… wet the bed?’

  ‘Funny, dad,’ said Austin, pausing at the door, ‘really funny. Gut-achingly funny, in fact.’

  ‘Gut-achingly, eh?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Austin, and went into the garage to check out his bike. It had seen a lot of use when he’d first been given it, but not a lot since then. It was a BMX Roughrider bike, with a hi-tensile steel frame sprayed bright red. It had 20" wheels, with rear stunt pegs that Austin had never had the nerve to try. It still looked brand-new, even though it was several months old now. He checked out the tyre pressure with his thumbs. Hard as a rock. He lifted the back wheel up by the saddle and gave the pedals a twirl. The wheel spun beautifully and he noticed that there was plenty of oil on the chain.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you been..?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Austin shook his head, smiling. ‘Did Mum ask you to..?’

  ‘Maybe…’

  Austin smiled again, and took his cycle helmet off the hook on the wall. He looked at it disdainfully. Neither of his parents would let him out without wearing it, which was partially the reason for not going cycling. Still, as helmets go, thought Austin, it’s all right, I suppose. It was red, like the bike, and had air holes in it. Austin, being a fastidious boy, had counted the holes. There were six on the left side, and six on the right, with one extra hole in the centre. ‘It’s a baker’s dozen,’ his dad had explained, as if that made all the difference.

  His dad was fond of that expression. To other people, 13 was an unlucky number, but not his dad. Edward Baker liked the number 13, and the number 13 liked Edward Baker. He had married Austin’s Mum on Friday 13, much to everyone’s concern. That concern, however, had proven unfounded, and fourteen years later they were still together. What’s more they had a 13-year-old boy, who was born, incidentally, on the 13, and they lived at, you guessed it, number 13.

  Austin put the helmet on, and adjusted the straps. He took a hold of the handlebars and led the bike out of the garage and onto the drive. He mounted the saddle and pushed off with his feet, free-styling down the slight slope of the driveway and onto the road.

  ‘Go carefully, love,’ said his mum from the bedroom window. He looked up at her and waved.

  ‘I will, mum.’

  ‘And make sure you look both ways… and signal!’

  Austin was an only child, and a bit of a loner, so he didn’t mind going out on his own, and he certainly didn’t mind being told. He might grumble a bit, because like most boys he was a bit lazy, and once he’d settled down to something, he liked to stick at it. But now he was out in the sunshine, and could feel its heat on his skin, and the light breeze in his face, he was happy.

  He made his way down Blackberry Crescent and out onto Hawthorn Avenue, where the straight road enabled him to build up a little speed. He glanced behind him. No traffic. Sunday afternoon was always quiet. He stood up on the pedals, and pressed down hard with his feet. In no time at all he was free-wheeling towards the junction with Oak Road. />
  Austin was no daredevil, but he couldn’t resist it. He suddenly felt an overwhelming confidence in his balance, and before he could change his mind, he had lifted both hands off the handlebars, the left fist punching the air in front of him, and the right fist clenched tight against his side. He was no longer Austin Baker, mild-mannered schoolboy, he was flying now. He was… about to crash into an oncoming car. Adrenaline rushed through him, and he quickly grabbed the handlebars and veered to the left. The car honked angrily at him, and Austin didn’t dare look at it for fear of seeing the expression on the driver’s face. Worse yet, it could be someone his mum or dad knew, which meant that by the time he arrived back home, he would already be in trouble.

  Austin came to a brake-gripping stop at the junction with Oak Road, and glanced behind him. The car had gone. He breathed a sigh a relief. Then he grinned. That was amazing, he thought. I wish I could fly for real. That would be so cool.

  He looked both ways for traffic, then turned left into Oak Road. He cycled at a more leisurely pace this time, as Oak Road was busier than Hawthorn Avenue. Although Austin had not lived in Blackberry Crescent for long, he already knew that Oak Road was known locally as The Circle Line, because it wrapped itself around a large area of the town, keeping at bay the school that Austin was due to start at in September, a green with a large Oak tree, a playing field, and an old estate that had several deserted houses in it awaiting demolition. His mum had driven him past the school on the way into town to buy his uniform, and it had looked massive and quite threatening to him. This time, though, he had a chance to draw up to it and take a good look. He imagined himself walking in through the gates on the first day of term.

  Helmethead

  Friday, August 13 2010

  ‘All right?’ said a voice.

  Austin was shaken out of his reverie and looked through the school fence to see a boy about his age with an unruly mop of reddish-brown hair looking back at him through the wire mesh. He held a football under his arms, and a few other boys were just coming up to the fence to join him.

  ‘Day’s wanna play footie?’ he asked. ‘We’re a player short, see.’

  Austin was good at reading, and writing, and board games, and making model airplanes, and cycling, and rock-pooling on the beach, and playing on the swings, and drawing cartoon faces. He could even burp his alphabet, but one thing he was not good at was sports. He couldn’t catch to save his life, and his hand-eye coordination was poor unless he was holding a pen.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, as politely as possible, ‘I don’t really like football.’

  The truth was, he had wanted to like football. He had tried to like football. He’d collected the cards, and supported the local team, and even bought the England Kit. But the simple truth was, like most sports, he just didn’t get football. He didn’t care who won three nil at Saturday’s match. He didn’t go to bed humming the Match of the Day theme.

  Austin could see that the boy with the reddish-brown hair was more than slightly puzzled at his reply. One of his mates reached the fence and grabbed the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘C’mon, Jordan, yer in goal…’

  Jordan turned to his mate and replied, ‘ere, get this… helmethead ‘ere don’t like footie!’

  Austin reddened at this, and said, ‘I’m called Austin.’

  ‘What?’ said Jordan.

  ‘I said, I’m called Austin.’

  ‘What… like Austin Powers?’

  Here we go, thought Austin. Bring it on then. Where’s Dr. Evil? You look like mini-me.

  ‘Where’s Dr. Evil then?’

  Jordan’s mates laughed, and Austin knew that it was high time he left. He sat back on the saddle and brought the right pedal up to start position.

  ‘Off you go, then,’ said Jordan, ‘say ‘ello to mini-me!’

  So predictable, thought Austin, and rode off. Behind him, he could hear laughter and the smacking of high-fives. He didn’t dare turn round, in case they caught the tears in his eyes. He stood up and pedalled furiously until he was well out of ear-shot of Jordan and his mates. Only then did he slow down to a medium pace. He looked around him. He was way past the playing field and had circled round to the old housing estate. Most of the houses, although dilapidated, were still lived in, but mainly by old people. They seemed to Austin to be as dilapidated as the houses.

  Suddenly, Austin felt a twinge in his stomach. He quickly applied the brakes and came to a halt outside the first in a row of abandoned houses. It looked shabby; all the windows were broken, and the brick work was very dirty. Someone had stolen tiles from the roof, and the weatherboard’s paint was cracked and peeling. As he looked at it, the twinge grew stronger. It was almost as if the house was trying to pull him towards it. The sensation both frightened and excited him. He laid the bike on the side of the pavement and walked up to the door. It was boarded up, but he could just see two brass numbers on it.

  A one and a three.

  It’s Haunted, You Know

  Friday, August 13 2010

  13, thought Austin. No wonder it pulled me here.

  The ‘one’ looked wonky. Austin squeezed an arm through the gap in the boards to straighten it, and the brass number came off in his hands. Whoops, thought Austin, and tried to put it back.

  ‘What’re you doing, lad?’ said a voice from behind him.

  Austin jerked round in surprise, dropping the ‘one’ in the process. It fell down between the boards and lodged itself there. He had been so absorbed by the house, he hadn’t heard anybody coming. There was an old lady standing next to his bicycle, and her pet dog was sniffing at his bicycle frame. Don’t you dare pee on my bike, he thought.

  ‘You shouldn’t go near there, you know,’ said the old lady.

  ‘I wasn’t going to go in,’ he said, walking back towards his bike.

  ‘I should hope not,’ said the old lady. ‘It’s haunted, you know.’

  Austin picked up his bike, and the dog backed away from it, uttering a soft, low growl. The old lady tugged hard on the lead, and the dog immediately sat down and stopped growling.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said gently, ‘good boy.’

  ‘Have you seen anything?’ asked Austin.

  The old lady shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I heard something once.’

  Austin swung his left leg over the crossbar and sat on the saddle, swiftly bringing up the right pedal to ten past two.

  ‘Heard something?’ he said. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a voice calling, dear.’

  ‘What did it say?’ asked Austin, quite intrigued by now.

  ‘It called out a name, like it was looking for someone.’

  ‘Really?’

  The old lady nodded. ‘It was a boy’s name. Unusual, like a type of car or something.’

  Austin shivered involuntarily. My dad’s first car was an old Austin Allegro, he thought. That’s why he gave me my name.

  ‘It wasn’t Austin, was it?’ he said.

  ‘D’you know, I think it was!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘What a good guess, young man!’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, pushing down on the pedal with his right foot, ‘it’s my name.’

  He cycled away, leaving the old lady at a loss for words. Their conversation had taken his mind off the incident with Jordan, but he still had that odd sensation in his stomach, and his thoughts were a jumble of questions. Why did I feel drawn to that place? Why was it number 13? Who was calling Austin? Was it a ghost, or something else?

  When he arrived home, his mum had just baked a fresh cake, and had a glass of apple juice waiting for him in the kitchen. They sat out in the garden on a picnic rug and ate a slice of the cake each. Hid dad joined them from the garage, and then they played with a frisbee. But all the time, an unsettling thought niggled him.

  Was it him the voice was calling, and if so, why?

  Alphabetical Order

  Monday, September 6 2010