reason, it seemed inappropriate to Tom to go round breaking people’s bones now that his mission was to save the world. It sounded absurd, as the two things were perfectly compatible, yet the noble spirit of Derek Shackleton was now glowing inside him, filling the gap from which the original Tom Blunt’s soul had been extracted, taking him over serenely, naturally, painlessly.
After the first rehearsal, Tom left Captain Shackleton’s armour behind but decided to take his character home, or perhaps this was an unconscious act beyond his control. The truth was, he liked looking at the world as though he really were its saviour, seeing it through the eyes of a hero whose heart was as courageous as it was generous. That same day he decided to look for honest work, as though the words of the giant named Gilliam Murray had rekindled the tiny flame of humanity that was still flickering in his depths.
But now all his plans for redemption had been destroyed by that stupid girl. He sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the parasol bundled in his jacket. It was doubtless the most expensive thing in his room; selling it would pay his rent for two or three months, he reflected, rubbing the bruise on his side where the bag of tomato juice had been strapped before Martin burst it during their duel. Some good had come out of his meeting with the girl, although it was hard to ignore the tight spot she had put him in. He dreaded to think what would happen if he ever bumped into her in the street. His boss’s worst nightmare would come true, for the girl would immediately discover Murray’s Time Travel was a fraud. And while that might be the worst consequence, it was not the only one. She would also discover he was no hero from the future, just a miserable wretch who owned nothing but the clothes on his back. Then Tom would be forced to witness her devotion turn to disappointment, possibly even outright disgust, as though she were watching a butterfly change back into a caterpillar. This, of course, was nothing compared to the discovery of the fraud, but he knew he would regret it far more.
Deep down, it gave him immense pleasure to remember the woman’s entranced gaze, even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the hero he was impersonating, the brave Captain Shackleton. Yes, he wanted Claire to imagine him in the year 2000, rebuilding the world, not sitting in this gloomy hovel, wondering how much a pawnbroker would give for her parasol.
Anyone who has been to Billingsgate fish market in the early hours knows that smells travel faster than light. Long before the night receives the first flush of dawn, the pungent aroma of shellfish and the overpowering stench of eel filling the fishermen’s carts have already mingled with the cold night air. Zigzagging through the oyster stalls and squid sellers hawking their merchandise at three for a penny, Tom Blunt reached the railings at the river entrance, where a crowd of other miserable wretches were flexing their muscles and trying to look enthusiastic in the hope that some kindly skipper would pick them to unload his boat from overseas.
Tom hugged his jacket to him, trying to ward off the cold, and joined the group of men. He immediately spotted Patrick, a tall youth who was as strapping as he was, with whom he had struck up a sort of friendship. They greeted one another with a nod and, like a couple of pigeons puffing their chests, tried to stand out from the crowd and catch the skippers’ eyes. Ordinarily, thanks to their glowing physiques, they were both hired straight away, and that morning was no exception. They congratulated one another with a sly grin, and walked towards the designated cargo boat with the dozen other chosen stevedores.
Tom liked this simple, honest work, which required no more than strong arms and a degree of agility: not only did it enable him to see the dawn in all its glory above the Thames, but as he felt the calming yet vivifying fatigue of physical effort steal over him, he could allow his thoughts to drift down unexpected pathways -rather like when he was at Harrow-on-the-Hill, a small rise in the suburbs of London that he had discovered during one of his walks. On top of the hill grew a centuries’ old oak surrounded by a dozen graves, as though the dead buried there wanted nothing to do with the others in the tiny adjoining cemetery. He thought of the grassy knoll as his private sanctuary, a sort of outdoor chapel where he could close his ears to the din of the world.
Sometimes when he was up there, he found to his amazement that he was even able to string together a few positive thoughts, which gave him a measure of insight into the usually elusive meaning of his life. As he sat wondering what sort of life John Peachey the man buried nearest to the oak, must have led, he began to reflect on his own, as though it belonged to someone else, and to judge it with the same objectivity as that of the deceased stranger.
Once their day was done, he and Patrick sat on a pile of boxes waiting to be paid. The two men usually passed the time chatting about this or that, but Tom’s thoughts had been elsewhere all week. That was how long it had been since his unfortunate meeting with Claire Haggerty, and still nothing had happened. Apparently, Murray knew nothing about it and possibly never would. Even so, Tom’s life would never be the same again. It had already changed. Tom knew London was too big a place for him to run into the girl again, yet he walked around with his eyes wide open, afraid of bumping into her round every corner. Thanks to her, he would always be uneasy, always on the alert: he had even considered growing a beard. He shook his head as he reflected how the most trivial act can change your life: why the devil had he not taken the precaution of emptying his bladder before the performance?
When Patrick finally plucked up the courage to chide him for his morose silence, Tom stared at him in surprise. It was true he had not tried to hide his anxiety from his friend, and now he did not know what to say to him. He merely reassured him with a mysterious, doleful smile, and his companion shrugged his shoulders.
Once they had been paid, the two men strolled away from the market with the leisurely gait of those who have nothing much else to do for the rest of the day. As they walked, Tom gazed at Patrick, afraid his unwillingness to confide in him might have hurt the lad’s feelings. Patrick was only a couple of years younger than him, but his baby face made him look even younger, and Tom could not help instinctively taking him under his wing, like the little brother he had never had, even though he knew Patrick could take care of himself. Whether out of apathy or shyness, neither man had shown any interest in developing their friendship outside the port.
‘Today’s earnings bring me a little closer, Tom,’ declared Patrick, in a faintly wistful voice.
‘Closer to what?’ asked Tom, intrigued, for Patrick had never mentioned any plans to start a business or get married.
The lad looked at him mysteriously. ‘To achieving my dream,’ he replied solemnly.
Tom was pleased the lad had a dream to drive him on: something lacking in his own life of late. ‘And what dream might that be, Patrick?’ he asked, knowing he was longing to tell him.
Almost reverentially, Patrick pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to him. ‘To travel to the year 2000 and see the brave Captain Shackleton triumph over the evil automatons.’
Tom did not take the leaflet he knew by heart. He just stared at Patrick glumly.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know about the year 2000, Tom?’ said Patrick, astonished.
Tom sighed. ‘There’s nothing for me in the future, Patrick,’ he said. ‘This is my present, and it’s the only thing I want to know about’
‘I see,’ murmured Patrick, too polite to criticise his narrow-minded friend.
‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ Tom asked.
