she had given herself to him. He told himself again that it had all been worth it, and that he had no intention of putting up any resistance when they came to make him pay for those moments of happiness. Part of him could not help considering the bullet that was so long in coming as just punishment for his despicable behaviour.
On the third day, his wanderings took him to Harrow-on-the-Hill, the place he usually went to in search of peace. He could think of no better place to wait for his killers, as he tried to understand the random sequence of events that made up his life, to try to give it some meaning. There, he satin the shade of the old oak and breathed in deeply as he cast a dispassionate eye over the city. Seen from the hill, the capital of empire always looked disappointing to him, like a sinister barge with pointed spires and smoking factory chimneys for masts. He exhaled slowly, trying to forget how famished he was. He hoped they would come for him today, or he would have to steal some food before nightfall to stop his stomach rumbling.
Where were Murray’s thugs? he wondered, for the hundredth time. If they came now he would see them from his vantage-point, greet them with his most dazzling smile, unbutton his shirt and point to his heart to make it easier for them. ‘Go ahead and kill me,’ he would say. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t really kill you later. I’m no hero. I’m just Tom, the despicable wretch Tom Blunt. You can bury me here, next to my friend John Peachey, another wretch like me.’
It was at this point that, looking towards the headstone, he noticed the letter tucked under a stone beside it. For a moment he thought he was imagining things. Intrigued, he picked it up and, with an odd sensation of remembering a dream, he saw it was addressed to Captain Derek Shackleton. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do – but, of course, there was only one thing he could do. As he opened the envelope he could not help feeling he was trespassing, reading someone else’s correspondence.
He unfolded the sheet of paper inside and discovered Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant handwriting. He began to read slowly, straining to recall the meaning of each letter, declaiming aloud, as though he wanted to explain to the squirrels the travails of men.
From Claire Haggerty to Captain Shackleton
Dear Derek,
I was obliged to start writing this letter at least a dozen times before realising there was only one possible way to begin, and that is to avoid all preliminary explanations and obey the dictates of my heart: I love you, Derek. I love you as I have never loved anyone. I love you now and I will love you for ever. And my love for you is the only thing that keeps me alive.
I can see the surprise on your face as you read these words written to you by an unknown woman, because I assure you I know that face well. But believe me, my sweet: I love you. Or, rather, we love each other. For, although it might seem even stranger to you, as you do not know who I am, you love me too – or you will do in a few hours, or possibly a few moments, from now. However reluctant you are, however incredible all this seems, you will love me. You simply have no choice. You will love me because you already do.
If I allow myself to address you so affectionately it is because of what we have already shared, and because you must know that I can still feel the warmth of your touch on my skin, the taste of you on my lips. I can feel you inside me. Despite my initial doubts, despite my young girl’s foolish fears, I am overwhelmed by the love you foresaw, or maybe it is an even greater love than that, a love so great nothing will contain it.
Shake your head as much as you like as you try to understand these ravings, but the explanation is quite simple. It boils down to this: what has not yet happened to you has already happened to me. It is one of the strange anomalies that occur in time travel, when journeying back and forth across the centuries. But you know all about that, don’t you? For, if I am not mistaken, you found this letter next to the big oak tree when you stepped out of a time tunnel, so you will not find it so difficult to believe everything I am telling you.
Yes, I know the place where you come out and your reason for travelling to my time, and my knowing this can mean only one thing: that what I am saying is true, it is not a hoax. Trust me, then, without reservation. And trust me above all when I tell you we love each other. Start loving me now by replying to this letter and reciprocating my feelings, please.
Write me a letter and leave it beside John Peachey’s headstone on your next visit: that will be our way of communicating from now on, my love, for we still have six more letters to write to each other. Are your eyes wide with surprise? I do not blame you, and yet I am only repeating what you told me yesterday. Please write to me, my love, for your letters are all I have left of you.
Yes, that is the bad news: I will never see you again, Derek, which is why I cherish your letters. I shall go directly to the point: the love we are going to profess to one another is the result of a single encounter, for we shall meet only once. Well, twice actually, but the first time (or the last time if we follow the chronology our love has turned on its head) will last only a few minutes. Our second meeting, in my time, will last longer and be more meaningful, for it will feed the love that will rage in our hearts for ever, a love our letters will keep alive for me and will initiate for you. And yet, if we respect time, I will never see you again. You, on the other hand, do not yet know me, even though we made love together less than a few hours ago.
Now I understand your nervousness yesterday when we met at the tea room: I had already stirred you with my words.
We will meet on 20 May in the year 2000, but I will tell you all about that first meeting in my last letter. Everything will begin with that meeting, although, now I think about it, I realise that cannot be true because you will already know me through my letters. Where does our love story begin, then? Here, with this letter? No, this is not the beginning either. We are trapped in a circle, Derek, and no one knows where a circle begins. We can only follow the circle until it closes, as I am doing now, trying to stop my hand trembling. This is my role, the only thing I have to do, because I already know what you will do: I know you will reply to my letter, I know you will fall in love with me, I know you will look for me when the time comes. Only the details will come as a surprise to me.
I suppose I should end this letter by telling you what I look like, my way of thinking and seeing the world, as during our meeting in the tea room when I asked you how you could possibly love me without knowing me, and you assured me you knew me better than I could ever imagine. And you knew me, of course, through my letters, so let us begin. I was born on 15 March 1875 in West London. I am slim, of medium height, I have blue eyes and black shoulder-length hair, which, contrary to the norm, I wear loose.
Forgive my brevity, but describing myself physically feels like an undignified exercise in vanity. Besides, I would rather tell you more about my inner soul. I have two older sisters, Rebecca and Evelyn. They are both married and live in Chelsea, and it is by comparing myself to them that I can best give you an idea of what I am like. I have always felt different. Unlike them, I have found it impossible to adapt to the time I live in. I do not know how to explain this to you, Derek, but my time bores me. I feel as though I am watching a comedy at the theatre and everybody else is laughing. Only I am impervious to the supposed hilarity of the characters’ remarks. And this dissatisfaction has turned me into a problem child, someone it is best not to invite to parties, and who must be kept an eye on during family get-togethers, for I have ruined more than one by breaking the norms that dictate the behaviour of the society I live in, to the astonishment of the guests.
Something else that makes me feel very different from the other young women I know is my lack
