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 in the kitchen, touched by the rays of the evening sun, he realised his expectations had been too high. Although he appeared to be, he was not the protagonist of the romance that spanned time. He saw himself, empty hand absurdly outstretched, as though checking to see if it was raining inside the house, and could not help feeling like an intruder in the story.
Chapter XXXII
Very carefully, Tom slipped the delicate flower between the pages of the only book he owned, his battered copy of
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 predicted in her letters, from dawn to dusk, year in, year out, indifferent to the fact that real life, the one she ought to have been 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 to put 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 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.
Twelve days had passed since his meeting with the girl in the tea room, in full view of the whole of London, and Gilliam Murray’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 Murray waiting for him to appear at Greek Street so that he could kill him in his lair with his own bare hands? Attending the first rehearsal was as good as placing his head voluntarily in the lion’s mouth, but despite everything, Tom knew that 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? 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 recognised Jeff Wayne’s voice. He put Wells’s book into 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 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. ‘In any case he got the lead role and that calls for a proper splurge, wouldn’t you say?’
Tom nodded. What else could he do? This was clearly not Mike’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 lacked 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 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 beer 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 he displayed his talent for mimicry. Tom sat 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
