Tomorrow's Guardian

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – REDFELD’S OFFER

  Dead? Mr Mason is dead? Are you sure, what happened?” the Professor asked.

  “I just told you, Prof – he’s dead. It’s not fair, I tried but ... but I couldn’t find him!” Tom replied and started pacing around the room.

  “Thomas ...”

  “It was dark ... I could not see him ... the water was black ...”

  “Thomas, please ...”

  “Charlie was drowning ...” Tom's voice was now high–pitched in agitation.

  “Master Oakley!” Neoptolemas shouted, slapping his palm on the desk top. Tom jumped in shock and stared at him.

  “That’s better. I’m sorry, Thomas, I can see you are upset, but please just take a deep breath and explain it all to me slowly.”

  Tom’s shoulders dropped and he sighed before sitting down heavily on a chair across the desk from the Professor. He then took the deep breath as instructed and started speaking as slowly and as calmly as he could.

  “We were in the U–boat and it was flooding. Charlie and I were underwater and I could not see Septimus. The lights went out and it was very dark. I had to bring Charlie back before he drowned. So I did: I left Septimus behind.”

  “You did the right thing,” the Professor said.

  “But I can go back now?” Tom suggested.

  The old man shook his head. “I’ve told you about this. You know you cannot go back to the same time.”

  “But sir!” Tom sobbed and then, realising he did not have the energy to Walk again in any event, he slumped down in the chair and rested his chin on his hands, his shoulders heaving.

  “Besides which, I think it would be a waste of time!” the Professor said smiling, staring towards the door.

  “Eh?” Tom asked.

  “The Prof’s right, boyo!” Septimus said. Tom spun round and saw Septimus standing there dripping with water, looking exhausted, but otherwise quite well.

  “Septimus, you’re alive!” shouted Tom jumping to his feet.

  “Sure as eggs are eggs, boyo.”

  “What happened? Did you put your mask on and Walk back here?”

  “Eventually, yes; after I got tossed to the side of the boat I managed to struggle the mask on. The U–boat hit the seabed and I was knocked unconscious for a moment. When I came round I looked for you and Charlie first and then got away.

  “Well done. Well done indeed, both of you,” the old man said, ringing the bell for Mr Phelps.

  The Professor now had Charlie carried upstairs, whilst Septimus and Tom went off to change their clothes. They met back downstairs in the hallway.

  “Fancy a milkshake, Tom?” Septimus asked.

  Tom nodded and they left and walked down the road to the cafe on the corner and both ordered strawberry milkshakes. A few minutes after they had sat down, they heard a familiar voice.

  “Hello, gentlemen, a very good day to you.”

  It was Redfeld. “Did you enjoy your trip on a U–boat, young sir?” he asked Tom.

  “What do you want, Captain?”

  “Rescued young Charlie, did we?” Redfeld asked as if Tom had not spoken.

  Tom nodded.

  “What about the Lieutenant? Retrieve him as well, did you?”

  “Leave it alone, Redfeld!” warned Septimus. “We couldn't rescue him: he wasn’t a Walker.”

  “You sure of that, are you?”

  “What are you saying?” Tom asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I am simply asking what if he was a Walker? Or what if you are wrong and you could actually take non–Walkers with you as well?”

  “Well, we can’t say what would happen,” Septimus said.

  “Oh, but we can, can’t we ...?” Redfeld said, with a nasty grin.

  “Redfeld, don’t even think about it ...”

  But it was already too late. Redfeld whisked them away from the cafe and in an instant they were back in the U–boat. The U–boat was sinking and was filling with water fast. But, although they were standing knee deep in it, Tom’s legs were not wet, nor could he feel any current as the water sped past them. He glanced at Redfeld. “We are not really here are we!” Tom exclaimed, remembering the images Redfeld had conjured at Isandlwana.

  “No. This is an image; a construction, a ‘virtual’ U–boat if you like. You gentlemen are about to enter the act,” the Captain explained and pointed at the far door leading to the engine room.

  The next moment Tom saw himself and Septimus come wading through the door just as they had done not many minutes before. It was weird: like watching himself on film. The other Septimus and Tom did not seem to know they were there. The water level was rising quickly and Tom saw himself and Septimus struggling to keep their heads above the surface. They finally made it to the door into the control room. Then, the instant they were trying to move through the door, just like before there was a scream and the Paladin’s Lieutenant came hurtling out of the room and shot past the other Tom and Septimus. Tom saw himself reaching out to grab the officer and as before, miss the target. This time, though, the other Septimus reached out and managed to grasp the unconscious officer by his wrist and pull him back. Then Charlie, carried on a wave of seawater, came spinning through the door. As before, the collision knocked them all down and they went under the water.

  The water level now came above the real Tom’s head and he started to panic that he would not be able to breathe. Then he realised that Redfeld, Septimus and himself were still standing on the U–boat floor and were still not wet; could breathe quite easily, in fact. The whole thing was an illusion created by Redfeld: none of them was actually there. So where were they then: in some dream? Were they all asleep at the cafe in London or maybe in some sort of trance?

  Tom watched his alternative self rescue Charlie and then vanish with him, but this time, Septimus held the Lieutenant and Walked him away from the scene. When they had gone, leaving Tom, Septimus and Redfeld alone on the virtual U–boat, the scene began to fade.

  “So,” said Redfeld, “you now observe that had you acted differently you might have saved that man.”

  “You are assuming he was a Walker. If he was not, your idea is poppycock,” Septimus objected. His eyes narrowed, “And you do not show us what happened to the young Lieutenant next, do you. He would most likely have died.”

  “I’ll allow that is a possibility.” Redfeld directed a curt nod of his head at Septimus then, turning to Tom, he said, “But that’s not the point. Just consider what I am saying. Your Professor confines himself – and you – to saving a few individuals. If you dare to take action you could do far more. Just think of the disasters you could avert. The thousands who could live that died before.”

  Yet again, as at Isandlwana, Tom found Redfeld’s words strangely seductive. Why? Was it power he wanted or was it simply the thought of what he could make happen: just to imagine the possibilities made him dizzy. Tom could see himself changing the world – for good, of course. He would just change the past to make things better. Where several thousand had died in an earthquake a few weeks before, he could save them all. Predict the disaster and warn the authorities and have the city evacuated. Or ... what about wars? Maybe he could stop them. Then again, why stop there? Was it not reasonable that one with such powers should rule others? It was obvious that they should. They had the abilities to alter events and stave off disaster. Maybe he would be Prime Minister one day! It was heady stuff and Tom could not help the thrill that coursed through him.

  He thought back to the battlefield in Africa, memories coming back to him of that horrible alternative Isandlwana Redfeld had created, and he shook the thoughts of glory and the image of himself as a hero from his mind. His history teacher had quoted something at them the other day: ‘All power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely...’ Tom could see how that might be true. Even a glimpse of power and there he was imagining himself as Prime Minister! What next: a god? Changing history might make the world better for some, but could make it f
ar worse for others. He could not rescue everybody! He made his choice. He would not meddle just to be the hero. If the consequences of taking action were to alter lives and wreck futures across the millennia then the changes he could make came at too high a price.

  Examining his conscience, Tom was relieved he felt this way. If he was honest he had been tempted and for a while he had teetered on the brink of choosing an action that would have changed him. But he had turned away from that. Redfeld had made him see the possibilities, but in the end it was Tom who could see the dangers.

  “No, Redfeld, I want none of this. I want my normal life again and to leave others in the past, present and future alone to live theirs.”

  “Don’t be a fool, boy: you must use your power. What kind of coward are you? Power is everything. If you have it you must use it. I insist!”

  “No, Redfeld!” Tom snapped angrily. “Enough of this. You don’t get to command me. Who do you think you are ? Napoleon, Alexander the Great ...or maybe Hitler?”

  Redfeld recoiled at this and his eyes grew wide and furious.

  Tom turned and walked back to where Septimus was standing a few yards away.

  “Take me home, Septimus, please,” he asked quietly. His companion nodded and placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

  Tom looked back at Redfeld, who was now marching towards them. “Walk away from me, boy, and you’ll regret it, I promise. Do you hear me, boy?” Clearly, Redfeld was boiling mad at this mere youth who had the temerity to say no to him. “Don’t you leave … don’t you dare go….this is your last chance ... ” but, a moment later, Redfeld and the U–boat vanished.

  Tom and Septimus moved erratically through the void they occupied whilst Walking. Tom was confused by the fact that they were trying to navigate away from an illusion to the real world. He had no idea how Redfeld had created it, where or when it was and so no idea how to find home. His companion did not seem quite as confused as he was and directed them, slightly unsteadily, but always onwards. When they appeared, however, it was not at Tom’s house, as he had asked, but in London right back in the cafe. Tom’s milkshake was still on the table in front of him. He looked at Septimus. The Welshman was panting and his eyes were out of focus. Tom himself felt agitated and angry still, and also completely disorientated. After a moment, Septimus turned to him.

  “Phew ? that was hard. I have come across such a thing before but not for many years. I wasn’t sure I could get us back. Now, I need to go and make sure you will be safe. I ... I don’t trust Redfeld, so I think we should get away from here quickly. But before I take you home, I want to see what’s at your house and make sure it’s safe. Why don’t you stroll down to Hyde Park and wait at Speaker’s Corner. I will find you there!” he said. A moment later and with the usual pop of in–rushing air, he was gone.

  Tom thought about going in to see the Professor after what had just occurred with Redfeld, but was not sure he was ready to admit how he had felt during the trip: how tempted he had been at Redfeld’s suggestions. So, he obeyed Septimus and walked down to the park.

  The Institute was on a road branching off one of the side roads of Bayswater Road, which ended opposite Hyde Park. Tom walked that way and sat down on a bench at Speaker’s Corner, only then realising just how exhausted he was. More than exhausted, he felt drained – like a battery in a torch that had been left on too long and whose light was fading. The day was warm and he felt his eyes become heavy.

  There is a place that is no place and a time that is no time. It exists between realties and in the gaps between moments. In the brief instant of choice that split two realities from each other it was created. There are inhabitants of a sort. Created to balance the disharmony between the realities, they exist for one purpose: order and equilibrium. From the energy of the nothingness about them they weave a world and mould it as they see fit. Driven by a desire to achieve order and conformity, they take from the realities concepts of authority and stability and make their own reality in that image. An office exists in a tower block amidst the void. In the office is a table with raised edges around a surface covered in sand. The sand moves in ripples and lines. The inhabitants regard it with satisfaction when all is in balance: if the realities cancel each other out and any variations in the course of time in one reality are countered in another. They are the Directorate. In this office they look like typical bank managers or lawyers – except that they seem to have taken conformity too far and all wear identical grey suits. This Tom knows, for the dreamer who is Tom, is Tom no more but an old man – the same old man with silver–grey hair. The man in the suit: the Custodian.

  Now another man appears before them. He does not wear grey but black and silver. He salutes the Directorate who remain motionless. Their leader silently indicates a chair and the visitor sits. The Custodian knows the man as Captain Redfeld.

  “I have a proposal of interest to both you and me,” the Captain begins.

  “Indeed?” the old man replies.

  “It concerns a boy. A boy you wanted to eliminate.”

  “I had thought we had already dealt with that. Did you and I not make an arrangement with the other gentleman? Was he not to deliver the boy to me here?”

  “I have to report our associate has proven most unreliable. We must make alternative plans. I will get the job done, but you must grant me and my guards presence in Der Andere Weld to achieve it. We must be able to interact.”

  The Custodian snorts. “It seems you have failed on your part. We know that the boy has survived somehow. He is protected, for the moment, by the Hourglass Institute in his reality, but that will not last long. I think we had best dispense with your services. The Directorate can deal with him. We do not need to involve you.”

  “I’m not so sure. He is different, this lad, and more powerful than you think. We felt it, even in my reality,” Redfeld points out.

  “Indeed, that is why he must be dealt with. He disturbs the balance between his reality and yours, Captain, and threatens both. This is Directorate business: our only business.”

  “And that’s what my proposal is about. Let’s talk business. About his parents …”

  The old man leans back in his chair to regard the officer.

  “Very well; go on, I’m listening …”

  Tom woke with a start, not sure where he was. On a soap box opposite, an elderly man with medals on his jacket front was telling anyone who would listen why they should give money for the British Legion and the Poppy Appeal. Tom relaxed when he could see that he was still in Hyde Park. He had been dreaming again.

  That dream in the Office – what was that about? What was it Redfeld said about him? That he was different – powerful – he had been talking about his Walking and his talents. But there was more. Redfeld had spoken of being aware of Tom in his reality. His reality? What did he mean by that? Should he mention this to the Professor or Septimus? But, wait a moment, what did he really know? It was a dream and nothing more. Just day–dreaming on a hot day in the park, like any of the scores of office workers Tom could see, enjoying an hour of summer weather after work. He yawned and then stretched.

  The speaker’s voice droned on: “You should all be glad that because of those who fought for your freedom you never have to see a battlefield or experience a war,” he said, rattling his collection can at passersby, who mainly ignored him. Tom watched him for a moment whilst images from both the battles of Isandlwana he had experienced floated past his eyes, along with the horrors on the U–boat. Then, reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a pound coin and walked over to put it in the tin.

  “Thank you, young sir,” the elderly man said, beaming.

  Septimus arrived as Tom turned to go back to his bench. “Right then, everything is ok at your house, boyo,” the Welshman said quickly. “If you’re ready, let’s go!”

  Before Tom could ask any questions they were away, Walking the short distance home to his house. He was hungry, looking forward to tea and not paying attention, s
o what happened next took him completely by surprise.

  Tom was expecting to find himself standing on the floor of his bedroom. Instead and with a jolt, they appeared some ten feet above the ground, in a gaping hole where that floor should have been. With a shout of alarm, they tumbled down towards the ground below and landed with a thud.

  “Oh blast! I hate it when that happens!” Septimus said. Moaning and getting onto his feet he stood, brushing leaves and dirt off his clothes with his hands.

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked. He had landed in a bush and was disentangling himself from the branches, “and where on earth is my bedroom?” He finally got to his feet.

  They were standing in the ruin of a house. Bushes and creepers had started to grow over and through it. Septimus turned to Tom.

  “Don’t worry, boyo, this ain’t your house. We are just off course. Just let me get my bearings …” he said. Abruptly he stopped talking and stared down at something in the rubble at the corner of the house. He then bent over and picked it up.

  “No worries, Septimus … it’s been a busy day for us all and you did hit your head on the U–boat. I expect ...” Tom stopped, having just seen the expression on Septimus’ face; he looked grim. “What is it? What’s up?”

  Septimus looked back at Tom and walking over placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, kid, but I was wrong. I hate to say this but ... this is your house, after all. I don’t know what’s happened: but it’s gone!”

  Tom stared at him.

  “I’m sorry, boyo.” Septimus said again.

  “For what? You just brought us back to the wrong house, that’s all.”

  The other man shook his head, “No, Tommy, I didn’t ... the house is just not here. It’s burnt down: it’s gone! Recognise this?”

  He held up an object. It was scorched and the glass front shattered but, without a doubt, it was the brass wind up alarm clock that belonged on Tom’s desk!