A Ripple in Time, Page 5

  ‘There she is – stop thief – stop that girl!’

  Carrie pushed her legs into a sprint again but it was forced; clumsy and ragged and graceless and now her lungs burned and the bag banged against her, catching the backs of her calves and grazing her skin. High garden fences soared dizzily either side of the sidewalk, whistles shrilled and she sensed pursuers behind her, actually in the alley.

  If I can reach the park I might make it, she thought, gripping her ribs against the sharp pain in her side, the natural easy stride a fading memory. Uneven paving stones tripped her, gasping for breath Carrie stumbled forward, swiping the ground with her palms, defying gravity to regain her balance. Still recovering from her near fall, Carrie watched dizzily as a figure emerged from the park to saunter across the road, where it stood guard at the alley’s exit, and all hope drained from her.

  A roaring sound filled her ears, sobbing she turned, huddling against a side fence, pressing her cheek into its wood, feeling her insides dissolving, the rasp of her own harsh breaths filling her eardrums. A motorbike skidded to a halt inches from her, heat from the exhaust wafted up her legs shrivelling the fine hairs. A face half shadowed by a hood turned towards her.

  ‘Get on!’

  Carrie gasped, too exhausted to feel surprise, thinking any moment now her legs would give way completely. Swinging her head first one way then the other, she watched a tangle of people enter the alley, then slow. Picking out a blonde head and Father Andrew among them, she glanced in the other direction. The Park Keeper started towards her, thumbs tucked inside his waistcoat pockets, he wasn’t hurrying either. Their quarry was at bay, trapped.

  With a sob Carrie stepped forward and clambered onto the pillion, the golf bag still dragging at her back. Beneath her the bike vibrated in response to violent revving, and then sprung forward. Carrie clung to her rescuer for dear life with her eyes tightly closed against the whoosh of speedily displaced air.

  Perhaps it was just as well Carrie didn’t manage to glance behind; the expression on the blonde’s face would have shrivelled Carrie’s soul. Instead, Carrie buried her face into the curiously sweet smelling fleece of her rescuer's hoodie, torn between cursing or blessing her Gran's "Angel."

  Chapter Nine

  Wren reached London hours before Carrie. Taking a calculated risk he visualised the old British Library. Minutes later he was in a barn sized room, in which the walls were lined with shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Apart from an occasional toothy gap, the shelves were crammed with books, their spines emblazed with mainly gilt titles. Wren took several deep happy breaths of the air, which was permutated with the richness of old leather and matured paper.

  He hovered around the reading tables where a smattering of men sat turning pages in silence. Distantly he heard a noise similar to someone trying to get a tune from a handsaw, a discordant twanging, and knew Caliburn approached. Time was running out, Wren needed someone to take down a book on modern American history.

  He glanced round the reading table nearest him, dismissing the three middle aged clerical types, settling on a thin grey haired man browsing a book on minerals. He would do. The man jolted suddenly, as though a random thought had occurred to him. Pushing his chair back from the communal reading table, he stood, and cocked his head to one side as though listening to someone. Walking like someone in a dream he selected the book above Wren’s right ear and with a puzzled expression flipped to the section on America at the turn of the century. Occasionally the man’s shoulder twitched as though sensing someone peering over it.

  Had Wren sat on the cliff tops of Tintagel and speculated for a thousand years he would never have come up with anything so dramatic as the events described in the history book.

  In 1917 a German General dispatched an envoy of diplomats in secret to Mexico. Their plan was to shore up the Mexican rebellion, for Mexico to take back Texas and perhaps even extend into California. In return the Mexicans would supply Germany with troops armed with weapons captured from the Americans. On paper it seemed like the wildest gamble ever. Up until that point America remained neutral and was intent on staying that way. However had the General’s plan backfired, an enraged America could have easily entered the war.

  Against all odds the plan succeeded–to a point. The Mexican president, a wily statesman distantly related to General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, saw a way to improve Mexico’s fortunes without a shot being fired. Travelling non-stop from Mexico City to Washington he sought an urgent consultation with President Woodrow Wilson. Both men had visions of the Americas cutting ties with their European roots. A deal was hammered out involving Texas being reinstated to Mexican territory; the great oil fields of Dallas were never exploited, and the Germans were sent away empty handed.

  ‘Well I never.’ Wren’s reader murmured.

  At his shoulder Wren nodded agreement, scanning the book’s footnote.

  “To this day a public holiday is celebrated in Texas on October 12 in honour of its liberator, President Franco Jackson’s birthday.”

  A chill ran through Wren. He would have liked to have read more on the amazing Jackson, but Carrie’s screams filled his head. He fished for Gran and found nothing. He needed to do something, no matter if it used the last of his strength. Carrie was in danger, terrible danger. Shutting out all his surroundings he cast again and again searching for Caliburn’s distinctive signal. When it came, Wren shuddered. He knew that unmistakable tone. Caliburn preparing to repulse and lash out with vengeance. He could only pray Carrie had managed to keep the sword with her. He could only pray he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Ten

  Carrie kept her eyes screwed shut, burying her head against a soft thick cotton clad back, a musty odour of unwashed skin mingled with the sweet herbal smell to fill her nostrils. She’d left her stomach miles behind; the bike swooped and dipped, picking up speed and slowing before accelerating again like the world’s scariest fairground ride.

  The ride became steadier, Carrie could feel her stomach again. She sat up a little, opening her eyes and raising her head. Instantly the wind accosted her, battering her face and she ducked again. Her legs were freezing and her back felt like a block of ice. She couldn’t even feel the golf bag, although she knew it must be there because the strap dug painfully into her chest. Thankfully with one last roar the bike dipped into a turn, bumped slowly across uneven ground and halted. The rider patted her thigh.

  ‘Off. Quick.’

  Carrie obediently dragged her leg free of the bike, stumbling as she dismounted. The rider jumped clear and the bike crashed onto its side. They were either on waste ground or a building site, Carrie peered through the early evening gloom trying to make up her mind when the air hissed an instant before exploding into flames. Heat engulfed her, pillows of black smoke puffed into the sky and the stench of burning rubber gagged her throat.

  Even as Carrie stared at the intense fire she felt herself tugged backwards.

  ‘Come on. We got no time to gawk.’

  Carrie followed blindly at first, then she began to take in her surroundings. They were heading towards an estate of flats four stories high, almost a street long giving the appearance they were lower than they actually were. A concrete balcony ran the length of each floor forming an open sewer meant for carrying human traffic. At each end of the squat buildings the architect had placed high rise blocks of flats which towered above their neighbours, shutting out the evening sun. On their own either design was soul destroying, built to remind lower classes of their place. Together the buildings made a mediaeval fortress. Carrie shivered as they crossed a main road using a raised overpass, dreading the descent into this ghetto.

  ‘Wait.’ She called. Ahead of her the slight figure turned, resting casually against the railing on the overpass’s landing, just before it spiralled downwards to the ground. A solitary street light cast a brittle yellow glow. Carrie caught up.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  She waved an arm behind her
, meaning why did you rescue me? What made you do it? Why did you torch the bike?

  Her rescuer raised child like hands to tug a bright pink hood down, revealing a thin pockmarked face under platinum elfin cut hair with black roots.

  ‘Why not?’

  The girl’s eyes reflected pinpoints of burnished light, appraising Carrie from top to toe; a proprietary look, as though Carrie had unexpectedly become her property. Lurching forward she grabbed at Carrie’s arm, and hustled her onto the slope and downwards.

  ‘Mokey’s gonna love you!’ She said.

  Sensing Carrie’s reluctance she dropped her grip to Carrie’s waist, snuggling up, marching her forward best friend style.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, I’m not gonna eat yer! I’m Sacha – what’s your name?’

  A native cunning crept into Carrie. ‘Sarah. Sarah …Smith’

  Sacha giggled. ‘Sarah Sarah Smith. Strange name.’

  She wasn’t looking at Carrie as she spoke. They’d reached ground level and were nearing the estate, passing dingy green pockets of grass. A tyre hung from a tree, someone’s attempt to bring some joy to this place, the ground beneath the swing was scuffed and rutted with small footprints. However, no children queued, squabbling in line, ready to take their turn, or push in. The few people they did pass scurried by without greeting, head down. Carrie's unease grew; an estate this size should be busier. Seven o’clock-ish on a spring evening, especially in a London exempt from curfew; there should be more activity. Catching sight of a row of elephant sized metal refuse bins, Carrie realised Sacha kept to the short cuts and back routes as they approached the rear of a low rise block.

  Instead of ground floor flats, thick concrete pillars rose to the first floor, forming hall sized square arches. Perhaps the architect envisaged residents would be glad to park their cars undercover. Now no-one in their right minds would willingly walk into any of these graffiti smeared hell holes. Sensing Carrie bulk, Sacha kept up a stream of babble as they passed the first couple of arches, littered with piles of discarded clothing, newspapers and sacks of rubbish. Carrie gulped, trying to limit her breathing against the stench, wondering at the laziness of people who couldn’t be bothered to take their trash a little further to the oversized bins.

  She barely listened to Sacha’s long rambling account of how she’d “piked” the “mope” and spotting a crowd “up for it” had gone to “take a gawk”.

  ‘Lucky for you I came along.’ Sacha boasted.

  Carrie squirmed. She was grateful, had been grateful, but the prickling between her shoulder blades slowed her feet. Sacha pulled her on pretending not to notice Carrie’s dragging unwillingness, continuing to babble nonsense, her voice getting faster and faster.

  Every other word was “innit” or “geddit?” Consonants emphasised, vowels almost swallowed, the accent so ugly Carrie tuned it out.

  Abruptly Sacha wheeled into one of the arches, pushing Carrie in front of her. Carrie backed away, trying to turn, the cavern housing the sword seemed less dismal than this place.

  ‘Mokey bruv! Get a load of this!’ Sacha crowed.

  Carrie saw this arch was comparatively clean of litter, apart from three mismatched sofas and a stained mattress. It reeked of molten plastic. A hot metallic smell, heavy with stale body odour and mustiness, hit the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to tremble.

  A blob on one of the sofas stirred, broke wind and pushed upright into a waddle. Carrie stared fascinated. It appeared to be made entirely from thickly rolled flesh; someone had painted on an orange t-shirt over the top part and blue-grey trousers on the bottom. Her heart resumed beating normal time. This was bad. A bad situation, but she could handle skinny little girl-child Sacha and the Michelin Man.

  Then the bundle on the other sofa moved and Carrie’s flesh crept again.

  This one sauntered, swaggering up to her, his ankle length coat swaying as he dipped and bobbed as though inviting her to dance. The coat flapped open to reveal a bare chest, blue denim work jeans hung from his hips, tucked loosely into black unlaced boots which slurped as he padded towards her.

  Carrie spun, pushing blindly, without thought, wanting to run, taste fresher air, get away from this place. But now Sacha had reinforcements and a dozen or more hands slapped back at her, mimicking her panicked attempts at escape, braying over her yelps.

  Sacha gave a hard shove, then stepped back to merge into the gurning mob. They must have been watching and following the girls on silent trainer clad feet. Carrie stood isolated, hearing herself panting as she struggled to compose herself, dropping her head so she wouldn’t have to face her tormentor. Instead she found herself staring at his chest. Jagged breathing filled her ears.

  ‘Nice, nice, very very nice.’ He caressed himself as he spoke, running fingers laden with gold rings over his chest. Offended, Carrie jerked her head up, stiffening as his slinty narrow eyes ran over her body, lingering like slime.

  ‘Very nice titties.’ His lips were circled with scabs spreading out to meet with pitted marks on his cheeks. She couldn’t look at his eyes. She wouldn’t. He dipped his head leering, they were almost touching foreheads. Unable to shut out the sourness of unwashed bodies, Carrie refused to make eye contact. She’d been taught never to look into the eyes of a crazed animal. Her own eyes darted, hunting for an escape route, nauseous with the knowledge that her jelly like legs might not obey her mind’s frantic commands to run.

  ‘Very very very nice titties.’ He drawled again placing a hand on her breast, gently at first, squeezing harder. Carrie slapped it away. He slapped her back. Not hard. Not as hard as Father Andrew.

  ‘Oooh. Bitch! Likes it rough.’ The fat man said. ‘Give it to her Mokey.’

  Carrie sensed the mob segueing, forming a circle, jostling for position. Mokey ducked, catching the hem of her button down dress, and tugged it open, buttons popping and pinging. She watched fascinated as one rolled between a pair of tatty trainers to curl down into a corner.

  He wheezed. ‘A petticoat. What next? Chastity belt?’ He shouted into her ear for comical effect, rewarded by a snuffling snigger from fatty. Carrie winced.

  ‘Mmmm. I likes it. Mokey likes very much.’ He thrust a hand at her crotch. Carrie bent double, pushing with all her strength. She was pushing against an iron post. He grabbed at her, sending her off balance and flying to flop half on the mattress. With his boot he shifted her upper body onto the dank mattress, taking a leisurely sniff of his fingers.

  ‘Fresh, not fishy.’ He leered. ‘Mokey likes.’

  Carrie whimpered, curling into a foetal ball, her mind gibbering.

  “Help me someone, help me God, help me help me help me.” Knowing no help was coming, knowing her life would be over if that repulsive excuse for a man touched her again.

  Expectation hung heavy in the air, quiet now except for shuffling feet and panting breath, punctuated with the odd squeal of delight.

  Even that died away until there was only silence. Carrie didn’t want to move, but this felt dangerous. The air of menace increased; the hot heady pressure was rapidly falling, causing her flesh to creep again. Turning her head slightly she caught Mokey glaring down at her. Or rather at the bag, still at her back.

  ‘What do we have here? Eh?’ He sounded petulant.

  Carrie forgot her terror as a different voice spoke up. A calm steady voice only she could hear.

  “Carrie, what ever happens next, they’ve brought it on themselves.”

  Her blood tingled with the chill she associated with the Angel’s presence.

  He’d found her. Or rather found the sword. She was safe. Her body went limp with relief. Until the full import of the Angel’s words registered.

  ‘No, no, no, don’t you mustn’t.’

  She was gibbering again, shifting her weight and trying to shield the bag.

  Mokey’s boot descended on her hand, resting lightly before toeing it away. Carrie wriggled into a squat.

  ‘You mustn�
��t touch it, you mustn’t. It’s forbidden!’

  Mokey stared at her in astonishment as though a kitten had roared. He glanced towards Sacha examining her nails on one of the sofas.

  ‘She barmy or what?’

  Sacha gave a dismissive look, shrugged and returned to her manicure.

  This wouldn’t do. He wasn’t taking her seriously. She had to make him understand.

  ‘You mustn’t touch it! It’s forbidden!’ Carrie shouted kneeling up to embrace the bag, tightening her arms around the imitation leather.

  Nervous laughs and giggles greeted this. A youth with a cobweb tattoo covering his neck sneered openly. Mokey flushed, sensing he was losing control.

  ‘You mad bitch! Gerrof!’

  Snatching the bag from her, ripping the strap roughly from her shoulder, he upended it. Gran’s second best tablecloth tumbled out, a corner unfurled to reveal the sword’s hilt. The faintest suspicion of a blue light flickered.

  ‘Hold her back – I said hold her!’ He snarled when no-one moved.

  Mokey’s eyes stayed on the cloth, transfixed. Arms grabbed Carrie from behind, tightening around her neck, resisting her attempts to struggle free.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she whispered.

  The air became very still again, then faintly as though from very far away a humming started up. Faintly at first, increasing until the very air vibrated and the arch throbbed with noise.

  ‘Wassit? What the hell is it?’ Mokey whispered, talking to himself.

  ‘Please don’t, please don’t, please, don’t. Don’t touch it.’ Carrie wanted to look away, but felt compelled to watch.

  A blue light illuminated the shadows, turning Mokey’s face two toned. He clutched a corner of the cloth and then with a determined movement grasped the sword’s hilt, freeing it from its shroud with a triumphant shout.