Through His Eyes Are the Rivers of Time

  “No gooey love stories, either,” I came back. “All that kissing is gross.”

  They laughed so we settled on the new cop/criminal car chase wonder that was making the rounds from the US.

  I ate my weight in popcorn and candy, even after the big pizza and birthday cake. Tom grumbled over my hollow legs. We were home by midnight and his bodyguards followed discretely in their own separate vehicle. Nearly back, we were pulled over by an unmarked police car with a clip on light and two detective inspectors got out and approached the Mercedes limo with the guards in close attendance. Tom sat, his face stoic but I saw the muscle twitching on his eyelid. Cammy laid her hand on his arm not so gently. Her fingers were white.

  The two men were tall, well dressed. Both fair-haired with light blue eyes and they leaned in the rear window and studied us. When they spoke, I heard the Midlands and a trace of Dutch. “Good evening, Mr. Watson. Mrs. Watson,” the Dutch one said. “Nice looking boy. Is he yours?”

  “What do you want, Van Gilder?” Tom snapped.

  “Just to say hullo, Tom. One of your customers just turned up dead in a Surrey maize field. Minus a few parts. Been dead a few months. Name of Jeremy Alistair, called himself the Beast.

  “Nasty piece that. Fancied himself some kind of witch, and had sexual orgies. Pervert. Kids were disappearing in his neighborhood.”

  “Warlock,” I interrupted and the other one looked at me, too.

  “Oh aye? What’s your name, lad?”

  “Aidan.”

  “Warlock?”

  “A witch is always female. A warlock is the male,” I offered.

  “And who might you be, young Socrates?”

  “No one you need to know about, Peelstone,” Tom said, tight lipped.

  “Oh, but we need to know all your acquaintances, Mr. Watson,” he said snidely. “Seeing how you are associated with such sterling characters.

  “Still, the Beasts loss was no sad thing. His neighbors noticed the unusual amount of missing and dead animals. Missing kids in the district had gone up, too. Boy name of Zane Grey is missing. Know anything about that?”

  His eyes were steady on mine and I blurted out, “Zane Grey was a western writer from the US.”

  “Was he now? You read a lot, Aidan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave the boy alone, DI. He’s a bit simple.”

  “He’s a pretty boy. Remarkable eyes. Never seen eyes that purple color before. Except for…” He seemed lost in thought, went on. “He was a sexual predator, we found out. A criminal barrister, too. Let all kinds of wankers out on technicalities. Liked little boys, he did. Fact is many parents are glad he’s dead. Are you, Aidan?”

  I didn’t say anything and he waited a minute while the silence grew and then slapped the car door.

  “Good evening, Om. Mrs. Watson. Aidan. Drive carefully.” They walked back to their car; got in and drove off.

  Tom didn’t say anything the ride back but sent me to bed as soon as we arrived.

  Chapter 18

  My dreams woke me every morning with a churning stomach and uneasiness, that made me pale, quiet; forcing me into a fake cheerfulness that everyone noticed. I tried to deny it, eating and drinking like normal but the minute I left the table, it was to race to the restroom and throw up.

  Trouble was I couldn’t remember what the dreams were about, just that it left me gasping for air and in holy terror.

  Tom and Cammy badgered me to tell but in truth, I couldn’t. I didn’t know why or what the dreams were about.

  Boxing Day came and went. Snow fell on the ground and bathed the city in white making it look like a fairy tale park. Tom took me into the city to enact some business and watch the parade. We Hadn’t seen or heard from those detective inspectors in quite awhile and he’d told me the rumors of the cat burglar had died down, no new thefts. As I was stuck at his flats and hadn’t gone exploring.

  I had lost another stone and he wanted me to see his physician. I’d refused and thrown a tantrum, which amazed both of them.

  “He’s acting like a bloody teenage brat,” Tom complained and Cammy laughed.

  “You mean he’s acting normal,” she teased. “Be grateful he’s not out joyriding, burning down flats or doing drugs.”

  “He should be married, with kids of his own and running Cryllwythe Enterprises Ltd,” he grumbled. We saw the Cornish Red Lion and purple rose of the farm’s logo on products everywhere.

  I wandered the grocers aisles absurdly pleased that my dad’s enterprises were so successful.

  Tom called me, told me he was just nipping into the tobacco shop next door and then the vintners if I wanted to come with but I declined, said I would get something to eat at the fish and chips across the street. He warned me to watch for traffic and I rolled my eyes. He said nothing but watched me with a troubled look as I darted out the door. The bell tinkled behind me.

  The chip shop smelled heavenly. There were a few tables inside and all occupied. I ordered a three piece and watched impatiently as they cooked it, dumped it into a paper basket, and handed it to me.

  I stood by a table waiting for a seat, picking at the chips one by one when I heard a familiar voice, the blonde DI with the Dutch accent was seated in the corner. “Aidan, right?” he addressed me. I didn’t want to look up. “Come sit with me. I don’t mind sharing.”

  I hesitated and he smiled. “I can make it an order,” he said. I walked over and sat down. “You’re thinner than last time,” he commented. “Doesn’t Watson feed you?”

  “Yes. I throw up.” I flushed, wished I hadn’t said that.

  “Throw up? Why? He doesn’t mess with you, does he?”

  “NO! Tom hates pedophiles!”

  “Does he?’

  “Yes. One did it to him as a kid.”

  “Really. Why aren’t you in school?”

  I didn’t know what to tell him. Tom had never mentioned school and I hadn’t pushed the issue.

  “You’re required by law to attend until third form, Aidan. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You look twelve.”

  “I feel a hundred some days,” I sighed, pushing the basket away.

  “I want you to come down to my office and look at some photos,” he said abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “To see if you know any of the men who are confederates of Watson. He’s a criminal, you know. A drug dealer.”

  “No, I don’t know. He’s my friend, had been since he was a kid,” I returned hotly and he stared.

  “You mean since you were a kid.”

  “Yeah,” flustered, I pushed my food at him and stood up. He reached for my shoulder and forced me down. I sat with a thump I felt in my butt bones.

  “I’m going to put Watson away for distributing and selling drugs, Mr. Aidan no last name. I don’t care who I take down with him. Understand? I’ll use you to do it if I have to.”

  “No, you won’t,” I snarled and struggled out from under him. I yelled for help. “He’s touching me! Pervert! He grabbed my cock! Help!”

  Shocked, he let go and I ran for the door as two of the patrons rounded on him. Behind me, I heard tom yelling to wait but in my panic, I didn’t listen; kept running. In minutes, I was lost deep in the back streets and alleys of downtown. I headed for a stairwell I saw and recognized the name on the sign as a train stop near where Suzy and I had shopped for used books, took a sharp turn and flew down the steps pushing commuters aside with a reckless abandon that no one even commented on.

  The station was well lit with placards posted about condoms and AIDS, plays at Covent Gardens and upcoming rock bands.

  I leapt over the turnstiles and finally heard someone shouting at em for not paying but I soon outdistanced them when I dove into the crowds. Everyone, tall or short, fat or thin, wore heavy winter coats, hats and mittens. You could see your breath even here in the underground.

  I hopped onto the next car and made my way to the end of the li
ne, hiding behind a heavy man with black as midnight skin and deep brown pupils. He was mumbling to himself from the Koran, praying to Allah for assistance. I answered him, out of breath and he stared at me with his jaw hanging. He had bad teeth.

  “You speak Arabic?”

  I nodded, asked him his name.

  “Rashid Ibrahim Darabi.”

  “Mine is Aidan Argent.”

  “But how is it that you speak my language? Does your father travel, the Foreign Service? Your mother is surely not Arabic, you are too fair. And your eyes are so pure, like amethyst gems.”

  “I speak a lot of languages,” I answered. “I have a knack for them.”

  The doors closed and we lurched off. I followed him to his stop and got out at the next one, came up the stairs to a dark, quiet street corner near the docks. I could smell the strong odor of the Thames and the sea. Saw the moon and knew the tides would be coming in.

  Found myself a doorway between two shops that were shut and huddled on the curb to wait for dawn.

  Chapter 19

  Nightmares held me in its grip. I was in a vast bank standing in line with other patrons. They wore heavy wool coats over fine suits. The sun streamed through the windows and lit golden streaks on the marble floor. The floor was large enough to be a dance stage.

  Gilt coated ushers led customers forward to the cages or desks. Security guards stood near the doors chatting with both people and patrons.

  Giant portraits of the founders on the walls glared down at us. They had unhappily relinquished control of our pounds and shillings only in death.

  Men in morning suits and tails wandered in from the Stock Exchange and Lords from Lloyds of London made their appearance. It was a microcosm of English life; I saw tweed countrywomen and high society models. It was first day of business after a three-day holiday and the bank was busy.

  Waiting my turn, I was aware when the four men in a group entered. Not because of anything, they did or said or wore but simply felt something wrong. I turned to look and saw that they were four ordinary blokes carrying suitcases and set them down behind the umbrella stand, left them and walked out.

  The people in front of me shifted their feet and stepped on me. He turned round to apologize and I saw it was the police officer, Van Gilder and with him were Tom and Cammy.

  I shouted. No one moved. Went back to the four cases and opened one. Inside was a mess of circuitry and a timer. Ticking.

  Everything blew apart, people screaming, pieces of metal, wood, bodies flying everywhere.

  I woke up, a sprawl on the steps, my entire body frozen, stiff and aching. I didn’t go back to Tom’s. I stayed on the streets, sleeping in cubbies, abandoned buildings, and subways. Each night was the same nightmare trying to find the name of the bank and where it was.

  I reasoned that if I left the city, even England, I might be able to prevent the bombing from happening. If I wasn’t there, it wouldn’t occur or so I told myself. I wasn’t someone else in this dream, I was clearly me.

  I wasn’t eating; my liquids consisted of drinking out of public water fountains and from spigots in the Park. I had worn the same clothes for a week and smelled awful. When I did fall asleep, it was in snatches of thirty minutes on park benches, public restrooms, and bus kiosks.

  I had just sunk into a stupor when someone’s arm snuggled up under my neck and lifted me. I woke; groggy and disoriented as I was rolled into the back seat of a car and belted in.

  “Seen him this past week, DI. Been wandering about. Sneaks off before I could catch him. You know him?” The voices were over my head and I thought it was a dream, waited patiently to see where it led.

  “I know him. He ran off a week ago, and he’s been missing since. His family’s frantic. Poor kid, he looks knackered. Bit of a rough.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Son of Tom Watson. Adopted.”

  “Tom Watson! What’d he run off for? Abuse?”

  “No. Watson swears he don’t know why. Kid’s never been in trouble. I couldn’t find any paper on him.”

  “You taking him home?”

  “No. Watson’s meeting me at the Bailey Building.”

  I felt a mild frisson of unease run up my spine and I must have made a noise because one of them touched me on the face. “You awake, Aidan? I thought he said something.”

  I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless void that pulled me under as if someone had grabbed my ankles and heaved.

  Sharp voices dragged me back. It seemed as if I’d only been asleep for minutes yet the sky had lightened past dawn; there was a distinct chill in the air. A tall man was leaning over me and shook me awake. A scratchy wool blanket had been tossed around me and snuggled up to my chin. Seat belted, lap belted, I was secure in the back of a police cruiser.

  The blonde Detective Inspector was trying to wake me; his blue eyes looked as weary as my own. “You awake, Aidan? Tom and his missus are meeting us here to speak to the Magistrate about you. Why did you run away?”

  I looked beyond him and saw the building I’d seen in my dreams and paled. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t make me go in there. Don’t go in. There’s a bomb. Four of them.”

  “Bomb! What bomb?” he asked sharply. “How do you know?”

  “Is Tom in there now?” I yelled and saw from his face the answer. I unbuckled, pushed him out of the way, ran inside past the gilt coated ushers, the armed security guards, and saw Tom and Cammy standing with a woman from Protective Services. Swiveled and looked for the cases. Not there yet.

  Tom saw me and started forward. I growled, yelled at him to run and saw the first of them coming through the doors.

  I ran forward snatching the first case and smashed it into his companion’s knees taking two more down.

  The Detective Inspector had reached the floor searching for me midst the chaos. I was screaming BOMB! at the top of my lungs and people were running willy-nilly for the doors and cover.

  I heard gunshots; two of the four had made it to their feet and were hurrying out. The other two had pulled out weapons and were shooting at anything that moved.

  I threw the case at the tallest one and he aimed at me, a look of horror on his face as the suitcase hit him in the chest. It didn’t go off, thank God but knocked him out.

  I was able to grab the last case and run for the door when something smacked me in the back and sent me into a slide. I saw the case go past me into the street, bounce on the curb and down the sewer.

  Seconds later, the grate exploded upwards and chunks of macadam just missed me.

  I felt curiously light, detached. Heard klaxons from far away, the rumbling of the ground beneath me and people rushed by, dropping to their knees near me.

  Someone rolled me over, voices called my name. I opened heavy eyes, tried to speak and found my mouth filled with coppery tasting fluid. Tom, Cammy and the Dutch DI knelt near me. Cammy had my head in her lap; her face was tearing and darkened by soot.

  “You promised, Aidan,” she sobbed. “You promised. Don’t leave us.”

  “Ambulance is coming, Tom,” said the DI. “Roll him over; let me put pressure on it. Aidan, how did you know?”

  He rolled me on my side and pulled cloth from Tom’s jacket, wadded it and pushed against my shoulder blades. It hurt and I cried out, gurgled as my throat filled.

  “Did anyone die?” I choked and felt a chill creeping up my limbs.

  “No one, Aidan. You diverted the bombs so only one went off. The guards shot the bombers. You knocked one out. I shot the one who shot you.”

  “He shot me?” my voice was fading.

  “Yes, Aidan. They were Irish extremists bombing the Bailey to protest the new peace talks, confederates of Islamic terrorists. Aidan, can you hear me?”

  His voice was fading away. Tom spoke, “Aidan, please don’t die. I don’t want this, Aidan. Aidan---.”

  No light this time, no Ned to hold my hand, no sense of peace or warmth just a cold, dark slide into the abyss of
time’s river. I was drowning and surrendered without a single stroke of protest.

  Part 4

  Chapter 20

  Russian. Curses. A foot kicked me in the ankle. I rolled over and fell off a cot in a barracks so cold and drafty I could see snow drifting through the cracks between the boards. An iron stove glowed red-hot and a few men covered in greatcoats and blankets were huddled around it; their rifles stacked near the door. A kettle sat on the hob and was whistling morosely.

  “Sevgi, wake up,” the man was a sergeant or its equivalent in the Russian army. He kicked me again onto the floor and I got up slowly. I was dressed in drab green with a woolen overcoat and wore the rank of Captain yet I was no older than sixteen by the faint image in the window beyond the coal stove.

  “Get up, Sevgi, you runt Aristocrat bastard,” he said roughly. “It’s your turn to fetch the coal. Go check on the prisoners.”

  I didn’t say anything but my body went about the motions without direction. I opened the bare door, staggered out into a blizzard to a coal chute on the side of the guard post/barracks, found a wheelbarrow, and shovel.

  It took me twenty minutes to fill the belly of the wheelbarrow in temperatures well below zero and then stagger back inside.

  Shoving the others aside roughly, I filled the stove, banked it, slammed the door, and warmed myself by the fire and with a cup of hoary tea minus sugar or milk. When I was finally unfrozen, I went back out to trudge along a faint path until I found a building that was clearly part of a palace complex, entered and headed for a particular suite of rooms.

  None was heated and in the one, I saw four young women covered in layers of clothing and coats seated with a young boy of about seven. They all bore a striking resemblance to each other and were instantly recognizable. I was looking at Grand Duchess Anastasia, her sisters and brother, the children of Nicholas and Alexandra, Tsar and Tsarina of Belorussia.

  I sighed and wondered if I was there to save all of them or just the one. The next room down housed their parents. Of Rasputin, I saw no sign; he was already murdered and buried.

  As I entered the room, the Tsarina saw me and smiled a faint, tremulous smile as if she wasn’t sure it would be received. When I removed my fur hat, it reached her eyes.

  “Sevgi,” she breathed and her face, already beautiful, became purely angelic. She rose and took my hands. “Sevgi, how are my children?”