The lad blushed at the description. Was that what he looked like? Did he really have the eyes of a cornered animal? It was quite possible, for he had been cornered since birth – by his father, by life, by misfortune, and lately by Murray’s thugs. He stared at Wells, not knowing what to say.
‘It’s a ghastly description by a talentless writer, but I have to confess you fit the part perfectly,’ said Wells, hurling the manuscript back on to the table with a gesture of utter contempt.
A few moments passed in which no one spoke.
‘Even so, Bertie,’ Jane finally stepped in, ‘this young man needs your help.’
‘Oh, yes. So he does,’ responded a reluctant Wells, who assumed that with his masterful exposure of Murray he had resolved the reason for the visit.
‘What’s your real name?’ Jane asked him.
‘Tom Blunt, ma’am,’ replied Tom, bowing politely.
‘Tom Blunt,’ Wells echoed mockingly. ‘It doesn’t sound quite so heroic, of course.’
Jane shot him a reproachful look. She hated it when her husband resorted to sarcasm to compensate for the terrible sense of physical inferiority that usually assailed him when he was in the presence of someone bigger than himself.
‘Tell me, then, Tom,’ Wells went on, after clearing his throat, ‘what can I do for you?’
Tom sighed. No longer a brave hero from the future, just a miserable wretch, he stared at his feet, ceaselessly wringing his hat, as though he were trying to squeeze it dry, and attempted to tell the couple everything that had happened since his pressing need to empty his bladder on the set of the year 2000. Trying not to gabble, he told them about the girl named Claire Haggerty, who had appeared out of nowhere just after he had taken off his helmet and armour, how she had seen his face, and the problems that that would cause him. He was obliged to tell them about the unpleasant ways Murray had of assuring his cast of actors did not give away the hoax, and about what had happened to poor Perkins. His speculations caused the author’s wife to gasp in horror, while Wells simply shook his head, as if he had expected as much of Gilliam Murray.
Tom then told them how he had bumped into Claire Haggerty at the market, and had made her agree to meet him, driven, he confessed shamefully, by his male instinct. He described how he was then forced to make up the story about the letters so that she would agree to go with him to the boarding-house. He knew he had done wrong, he told them, not daring to raise his eyes from the floor, and he regretted it, but they should not waste time judging his behaviour because his actions had given rise to unforeseen consequences.
The girl had fallen in love with him and, believing every word he had said to her to be true, had duly written the first letter, which she had left at Harrow-on-the-Hill. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to Wells, who took it from him, stunned by everything he had heard. He unfolded the letter and read it aloud so that his intrigued wife could also know what it contained. He tried to speak in a modulated voice, like a priest reciting the lesson, but it caught when he read out certain passages. The emotions expressed were so beautiful he could not help feeling a pang of resentment towards the young man in front of him, who had undeservingly become the object of a love so absolute it forced Wells to question his own emotions, to reconsider his whole way of experiencing love. The look of compassion that had overtaken Jane’s face confirmed that his wife was feeling something similar.
‘I tried writing to her,’ said Tom, ‘but I can barely read. I’m afraid if there’s no letter waiting for her on the hill tomorrow, Miss Haggerty might do something foolish.’
Wells had to admit it was most likely, given the feverish tone of her missive.
‘The reason I came here was to ask you to write to her on my behalf,’ the young man confessed.
‘Three letters, that’s all, Mr Wells. It’s nothing for you,’ pleaded the youth, and then, after a moment’s thought, he added: ‘I can’t pay you, but if you ever have a problem that can’t be dealt with in a civilised way, just call on me.’
Wells could scarcely believe his ears. He was about to say he had no intention of getting involved in this mess, when he felt Jane’s hand pressing his firmly. He turned to his wife, who smiled at him with the same dreamy expression she wore when she finished one of her beloved romantic novels. Then he looked back at Tom, who was gazing at him expectantly. He realised he had no choice: he must once more save a life using his imagination.
He stared for a long time at the pages he was holding, covered with Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant script. Deep down, he found it tempting to carry on this fantastic story, to pretend to be a brave hero from the future caught up in a bloody war against the evil automatons, and even to tell another woman he loved her passionately – with the approval of his wife. It was as though the world had suddenly decided to nurture man’s deepest feelings instead of keeping them in check, resulting in a harmonious cohabitation on a planet cleansed of jealousy and prejudice, where licentious behaviour had been sublimated into tender, respectful friendship. The challenge excited him, it was true, and as he had no choice but to accept it, he cheered himself with the notion that he might find corresponding with the unknown young woman at once amusing and exciting.
‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Come back tomorrow morning and you’ll have your letter.’
Chapter XXX
The first thing Wells did when he was left alone in the sitting room, Jane having accompanied the young man to the door, was to place Gilliam Murray’s manuscript once more out of his field of vision. Although he had not let it show, he was deeply disturbed by the appalling manner in which Murray kept his masquerade going. Naturally he had to surround himself with people who could keep their mouths shut, and although he could have achieved this with incentives, threats seemed to work much better. The discovery that Murray resorted so casually to such gruesome methods sent a shiver down his spine. Not for nothing was the man his adversary – or, at least, that was what his behaviour seemed to indicate.
He picked up the leaflet Murray sent him religiously every week and looked at it with distaste. Sickening though it was, Wells had to accept that it was his fault. Yes, Murray’s Time Travel existed thanks to him, thanks to the decision he had made.
He had had only two meetings with Gilliam Murray, but for some men that was enough to establish an enmity. And Murray was one of those, as Wells had soon discovered. Their first meeting had taken place in that very room one April afternoon, he recalled, glancing with horror at the wing chair into which Murray had squeezed his bulky frame.
