The tears rolling down her cheeks, Claire sat at her desk, took a deep breath, and dipped her pen into the inkwell.
This, too, is my last letter, my love, and although I would like to begin by telling you how much I love you, I must be honest with myself and confess to you shamefacedly that a few days ago I did a reckless thing.
Yes, Derek, apparently I am not as strong as I thought, and I went to the oak tree to wait for you to appear.
Living without you is too painful. I needed to see you, even if it altered the fabric of time. I waited all morning, but you did not come, and I could not escape my mother’s watchful eye any longer. It is difficult enough not to arouse Peter the coachman’s suspicions. He already looks at me strangely each time I ask him to bring me here, but has so far kept my secret from my mother. How do you suppose he would have reacted if he had seen you step out of the oak tree as if by magic? I expect they would have discovered everything and it would have caused some sort of disaster in time. I realize now it was foolish and irresponsible of me. Yes, for even if Peter had seen nothing, our impromptu meeting would still have changed the fabric of time. You would not see me for the first time on May 20 in the year 2000, and everything would instantly turn upside down, and nothing would happen as it is meant to.
But luckily, although I would have liked nothing more, you did not appear, and so there is nothing to regret. I imagine you arrived in the afternoon, for the next day your beautiful, final letter was there. I hope you can forgive my foolishness, Derek, which I am confessing to you because I do not wish to hide any of my faults from you. And in the hope of moving you to forgive me still further, I am sending you a gift from the bottom of my heart, so that you will know what a flower is.
After writing this, she stood up, took her copy of The Time Machine from the bookshelf, opened it, and removed the narcissus she had pressed between its pages. When she had finished the letter, she touched the delicate petals to her lips and carefully slid the flower into the envelope.
Peter asked no questions this time either. Without waiting for her to tell him, he set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill. When they arrived, Claire walked up to the oak tree and discreetly hid the letter under the stone. Then she glanced around at the landscape, aware of saying good-bye to the place that had been the setting for her happiness those past few days, to those peaceful meadows, vibrantly green in the morning sun, to the distant cornfields, a streak of gold marking the horizon. She gazed at John Peachey’s headstone and wondered what sort of life this stranger had lived, whether he had known true love or died without ever experiencing it. She gulped a mouthful of air and almost thought she could perceive her beloved Derek’s odor, as though his numerous appearances had left a trace behind in that sacred place. It was all in her imagination, she said to herself, the result of her desperate longing to see him. And yet she must accept reality. She must prepare to spend the rest of her life without him, to be content to listen out for the echo of his love resonating from the other side of time, for possibly she would never see him again. That afternoon, or tomorrow, or the next day, an invisible hand would seize her last letter, and after that there would be no others, only solitude unfurling at her feet like a carpet stretching to infinity.
She returned to the carriage and climbed in without giving Peter any orders. With a resigned look, the coachman set off for London as soon as she was comfortably seated. Once the coach had vanished into the distance, Tom lowered himself from the branch he had clambered onto and dropped to the ground. From there he had been able to see her for the last time; he could even have touched her just by stretching out his hand, but he had not allowed himself to. And now, having indulged his whim, he must never go near her again. He took the letter from under the stone, leant against the tree, and began reading, a pained expression on his face.
As you rightly imagined, Derek, they will soon prohibit the use of the machine. There will be no more journeys through time for you until you defeat the evil Solomon.
After that, you will decide to risk your life by secretly using the machine to travel to my time. But let us not get ahead of ourselves; let me at last tell you about our first meeting and what you must do afterwards. As I told you, it will take place on May 20 in the year 2000. That morning, you and your men will mount a surprise attack on Solomon. At first glance, and despite the astute positioning of your men, you will not come out of the skirmish with the upper hand, but have no fear, for at the end of it Solomon will suggest resolving the conflict with a sword fight. Accept his offer without hesitation, for you will win the duel. You will be a hero, and this combat that puts an end to the automatons” supremacy over the human race will be hailed as the dawn of a new era, so much so that it will be regarded as a perfect tourist destination for time travelers from my time, who will eagerly flock there to witness it.
I will go on one of those trips, and, concealed behind a pile of rubble, I will watch you fight Solomon, but when the duel is over instead of going back with the others, I will hide among the ruins, intending to stay behind in your world, because, as you know, my own holds no attraction for me. Yes, thanks to the dissatisfaction that has dogged me all my life, and which I never suspected would lead to anything, you and I will meet. I must warn you though that our meeting will not be as romantic as it ought to have been; on the contrary, it will be rather embarrassing, particularly for you, Derek, and recalling it still brings a smile to my lips. But I suppose I should say no more about your indecorous behavior, as I can only assume it would influence your actions. All you need to know is that during that brief encounter, I will drop my parasol, and although you will travel across time in order to meet me and make love to me, returning it will be the excuse you give so that I agree to meet you at the tearoom. Naturally, in order for all this to happen as it is supposed to, in order to complete the circle in which we are trapped, you must appear in my time before we begin writing to each other—there would be no point in your doing so afterwards, for as you know, it is you who will encourage me to write to you. You must appear on exactly November 6, 1896, and look for me at Covent Garden Market at twelve o’clock, in order to ask me to meet you that same afternoon. The rest you know. If you do as I say, you will preserve the circle, and everything that has happened already will happen once more.
That is all, my love. In a few months” time, our love story will begin for you. But for me it ends here, when I put the last full stop on this page. However, I will not say a final farewell and so deny all hope of our seeing one another again, because as I told you before, I live in the hope of you coming back to find me. All you have to do is follow the scent of the flower in the envelope.
With all my love, C.
Wells let out a sigh of dismay as he folded the letter Tom had brought him and placed it on the table. Then he took the envelope and tipped it over his open palm, but there was nothing inside. What had he expected? The flower was not for him. And, sitting there in the kitchen, touched by the rays of the evening sun, he realized his expectations had been too high. Although he appeared to be, he was not the protagonist of that romance spanning time. Wells saw himself, empty hand absurdly outstretched, as though checking to see if it was raining inside the house, and he could not help feeling as if he were the intruder in this story.
32
Very carefully, Tom slipped the delicate flower between the pages of the only book he owned, his battered copy of The Time Machine.
He had decided to let Wells keep Claire’s letters, as a sort of thank-you gift for services rendered, but mainly because in the end he considered they belonged to the writer. In the same way, he had held on to the narcissus he found in the final envelope, because he believed it was meant for him. And, after all, its perfume conveyed more meaning to him than her letters.
He lay back on his bed, and wondered what Claire Haggerty would do now that the letter writing was over and she was officially in love with a man from the future. He imagined her thinking of him each day, as she had predi
cted in her letters, from dawn to dusk, year in, year out, indifferent to the fact that real life, the one she ought to be living, was slipping away from her. This cruel fate, to which he had contributed, or rather which he had orchestrated, made him deeply unhappy, but he could think of no way of putting things right without making them worse. His only consolation was that in her letters Claire had assured him she would die happy. And perhaps, in the end, nothing else mattered. She probably would be happier in this impossible love affair than if she married one of her insipid suitors. If so, why did it matter if her happiness was based on a lie, provided that she never found out, died without knowing she had been deceived, ended her days believing she had been loved by Captain Derek Shackleton? He stopped thinking about the girl’s fate and focused on his own. He had sworn to himself he would stay alive until he had saved Claire’s life, and he had succeeded by staying hidden and sleeping outside in the fields. But now he was ready for death; he was even looking forward to it. There was nothing left for him to do in life except struggle to survive, which felt like a terribly exhausting and in the end pointless exercise, and far harder to achieve with the memory of Claire piercing his heart like a painful splinter. And yet twelve days had gone by since his meeting with the girl in the tearoom, in full view of the whole of London, and Gilliam’s hired assassin had still not managed to find him.
He could not count on Solomon either, who apparently preferred to haunt his dreams. But someone had to kill him, or he would end up dying of hunger. Perhaps he ought to make things easier for his killer? Added to this was another consideration: rehearsals would soon begin for the third expedition to the year 2000, which was in less than a fortnight. Was Gilliam waiting for him to show up at Greek Street, to kill him in his lair with his own bare hands? Turning up to the first rehearsal was as good as placing his head voluntarily in the lion’s mouth, but despite everything, Tom knew that was what he would do, if only to solve once and for all the riddle of his existence.
Just then someone hammered on his door. Tom sprang to his feet but made no move to open it. He stood waiting, every muscle in his body tensed, ready for anything. “Had his time come?” he thought. A few moments later, the barrage of thuds resumed.
“Tom? Are you there, you miserable scoundrel?” Someone outside roared. “Open up or I’ll have to knock down the door.” He instantly recognized Jeff Wayne’s voice. He put Wells’s book in his pocket and somewhat reluctantly opened the door. Jeff burst into the room and gave him a bear hug. Bradley and Mike greeted him from the landing.
“Where have you been hiding the last few days, Tom? The boys and I have been looking everywhere for you … Woman trouble, was it? Well, that doesn’t matter now, we’ve found you, and just in time. We’re going to celebrate in style tonight, thanks to our good old friend Mike,” he said, pointing to the giant, who was waiting in the doorway looking as gormless as ever.
As far as Tom could gather from Jeff’s muddled explanation, some days earlier Murray had paid Mike to do a special job for him. He had played the role of the infamous Jack the Ripper, the monster who had murdered five prostitutes in Whitechapel in the autumn of 1888.
“Some are born to play heroes, while others …” Jeff jeered, shrugging his shoulders. “In any case, he got the lead role and that calls for a proper splurge, wouldn’t you say?” Tom nodded. What could he do? This was clearly not Mike Spurrell’s idea but had been cooked up by Jeff, who was always ready to spend other people’s money. Tom had no desire to go with them, but he knew he did not have the strength to resist.
His companions all but dragged him downstairs to one of the adjoining taverns, where the trays of sausages and roast meat spread out on the table in the private room finally overcame his feeble resistance. Tom might not care for their company, but his stomach would never forgive him if he walked away from all that food.
Laughing loudly, the four men sat down at the table and gorged themselves, while making fun of Mike’s assignment.
“It was a difficult job, Tom,” the big man groaned. “I had to wear a metal plate over my chest to stop the bullet. It’s not easy pretending to be dead trussed up like that!” His companions burst out laughing again. They ate and drank until most of the food was gone and the wine had begun to take effect. Then Bradley stood up, turned his chair around, and, placing his hands on the back as though leaning on a pulpit, gazed at his companions with exaggerated solemnity. There always came a time during their drunken sprees when Bradley would display his talent for mimicry. Tom leaned back in his chair, resigned to watching the performance, thinking that at least he had satisfied his hunger.
“Ladies and gentlemen, all I wish to say is that you are about to participate in the most astonishing event of the century: today you are going to travel through time!” the lad declared in pompous tones. “Don’t look so astonished. Murray’s Time Travel is not satisfied simply to take you to the future. No, thanks to our efforts you will also have the opportunity to witness possibly the most important moment in the History of Mankind, an unmissable event: the battle between the brave Derek Shackleton and the evil automaton Solomon, whose dreams of conquest you will see perish beneath the captain’s sword.” His companions all clapped and roared with laughter. Encouraged by their response to his performance, Bradley leant his head back and put on a grotesquely wistful face.
“Do you know what Solomon’s great mistake was? I shall tell you, ladies and gentlemen: his mistake was that he picked the wrong lad in order to perpetuate the species. Yes, the automaton made a bad choice, a very bad choice. And his mistake changed the course of History,” he said with a smirk. “Can you imagine a more terrible fate than having to fornicate all day long? Of course, you can’t. Well, that was the poor lad’s fate,” he spread his arms and nodded in a mock gesture of regret. “But not only did he carry it off, he also managed to grow stronger, to study the enemy, who watched him copulating every night with great interest, before going to the city to approve the newly fabricated automaton whores. But the day the woman gave birth, the lad knew he would never see his son grow up—his son who had been brought into the world to fornicate with his own mother, thus initiating a vicious circle that would perpetuate itself through the seed of his seed. However, the lad survived his execution, brought us together, and gave us hope …” He paused for effect for a moment, then added: “Only he still hasn’t taught us how to fuck properly!” The laughter grew louder. When it had subsided, Jeff raised his tankard.
“To Tom, the best captain we could ever have!” They all raised their tankards to toast him. Surprised by his companions” gesture, Tom could scarcely conceal his emotion.
“Well, Tom, I suppose you know what happens now, don’t you?” Jeff said, clapping his shoulder once the cheers had died down. “We heard a rumor about some new merchandise at our favorite whorehouse. And they’ve got almond-shaped eyes, do you hear me, almond-shaped eyes!” “Have you ever slept with an Asian woman, Tom?” asked Bradley.
Tom shook his head.
“Well, no man should die without trying one, my friend!” Jeff guffawed, as he rose from the table. “Those Chinese girls can give pleasure in a hundred ways our women know nothing about.” They made an almighty din as they left the tavern. Bradley led the procession, vaunting the Chinese prostitutes” numerous virtues, much to the delight of Mike, who smacked his lips in anticipation. According to Bradley, Asian women were not only obliging and affectionate but had supple bodies they could contort into all sorts of positions without injuring themselves. Despite the list of attractions, Tom had to suppress a groan. If he wanted any woman to make love to him just then, it was Claire, even if she did not have almond-shaped eyes or an unnaturally flexible body. He remembered the intensity of her response when he had taken her, and wondered what his companions, those coarse ruffians, would think if he told them there was another way of feeling that was more sublime and exquisite than the primitive pleasure they knew.
They hailed a cab and clambered aboard,
still laughing. Mike squeezed his large frame in next to Tom, almost pinning him against the door, while the other two men sat facing them. Jeff, who was behaving in an overexcited, rowdy manner, gave the order for the cab to set off. Reluctant to join in the general gaiety, Tom gazed out of the window at the succession of streets, alarmingly deserted at that time of night. Then he realized the driver had taken a wrong turn: they were going towards the docks, not the brothel.
“Hey, Jeff, we’re going the wrong way!” he cried out, trying to make himself heard above the racket.
Jeff Wayne turned and looked at him sternly, letting his laughter die menacingly in his throat. Bradley and Mike also stopped laughing. A strange, intense silence enveloped them, as though someone had dredged it up from the ocean floor and poured it into their carriage.
“No, Tom, we’re not going the wrong way,” Jeff finally said, contemplating him with an ominous smile.
“But we are, Jeff!” insisted Tom. “This isn’t the way to—” Then he understood. How had he not seen it before: their exaggerated high spirits, the toast that felt more like a farewell, their tense demeanor in the carriage … Yes, what more proof did he need? In the funereal silence that had descended inside the carriage, the three men looked at him with an air of false calm, waiting for him to digest the situation. And, to his surprise, Tom discovered that now the time had finally arrived for him to die, he no longer wanted to. Not like this. Not at the hands of these casual assassins, who were simply demonstrating Gilliam Murray’s unlimited power, the fact that he could turn anyone into a murderer with a handful of banknotes. He was glad at least that Martin Tucker, whom he had always considered the most decent among them, was not there, that he had been incapable of turning his back on his friend and perpetrating this cheerful collective crime.