Chapter Twenty-One: Dust and Ashes

Chapter Twenty-One: Dust and Ashes

Tom was alone in the apartment that night. He was lying in one corner of the capacious sofa watching television, knees up, white mouse scampering up and down his trouser legs. Every so often Tom would help himself to a handful of honey-roasted cashews, a recent discovery. He offered one to the mouse who immediately began to gnaw her way through it, rotating it in her delicate paws. He did not understand why people minded so much about his mouse. Anjali complained that she smelled. He picked her up by the tail and sniffed her soft belly – he couldn’t smell anything. Worse, she had got into trouble with Blueskin. He kept bundles of twenty pound notes in a cardboard box in the sideboard and when he was delving into it in order to pay the ex-marine who was to pilot the helicopter, he found that the notes were covered with mouse droppings and were nibbled around the edges. Not that Blueskin cared much for currency that could fly away in a gust of wind or that you could burn. Gold, that you could bite to test its purity and whose weight you could feel in the palm of your hand and which grew warm in your pocket, was better. And how was the mouse to know that she was nibbling her way through a small fortune?

Tom had eventually lost his fear of the remote control and he flicked through the TV channels, holding it well away from him, mesmerised by the moving images but too unused to interpreting this medium to properly appreciate and enjoy what he saw - although the magic box did stop him from feeling lonely. When a character on the television pointed at someone off the screen Tom found it hard not to look around to see who it was. If Anjali saw him she would crack up laughing. She was fond of what she called “sitcoms”. Sometimes Tom would stand in the doorway watching Anjali watching television. It still struck him as odd to see her sitting by herself and laughing out loud at the flat glass screen. Even more curious was the laughter apparently coming from audiences inside the television set. Tom correctly took this as a signal that he, too, should find whatever was happening on the screen very funny. But more often than not he did not understand the joke. He wondered if he ever would.

It was true that Tom found a number of things in the twenty-first century confusing and worrying and would go to great lengths to avoid them – public transport, for instance, and supermarkets, and the sort of coffee shop where people invariably jumped the queue in front of him while he gawped at the number of ways he could order his coffee. On the other hand, never, in his wildest dreams, did Tom imagine he would experience this level of comfort. Anjali, who currently had a room in her granddad’s maisonette that overlooked a railway junction, said that this was luxury. Tom should see where they lived – not that she would ever let him, he thought, for Anjali was proud. Blueskin was becoming so wealthy, he thought, from the sale of the pictures procured for him by Lord Luxon, perhaps he might dare suggest that he buy Anjali an apartment, too. Like this one. She would like that. Perhaps one in this very building…

From time to time Tom would awake convinced that he still lived in the filthy wreck of a house, if you could dignify it with such a name, that he shared with the Carrick Gang on Drury Lane. At night only a little straw came between him and the cold, damp floor, where lice, fleas and hunger were his constant companions. Apart from those rare occasions when the Carrick brothers would tolerate his presence in the Black Lion Tavern, he was cold from October to April. But here all was comfort and warmth and cleanliness and light. He sniffed his sleeve: he smelt of soap! He pinched his waist. There was flesh and not just skin between his fingertips! Who would have thought it? He blessed the day that he had found Blueskin. Tom laughed out loud. But immediately an awful thought made his stomach clench. How long could he stay here? And would he have to go back to his old life one day?
It was usually Anjali and occasionally Blueskin who answered the telephone, so when it rang Tom shot up from the sofa but then stood uneasily next to it, his hand hovering over the receiver, unable to bring himself to actually pick it up. It rang four, five, six times and then stopped. Tom breathed a sigh of relief but then the answerphone kicked in and he heard the reassuring sound of Anjali’s pre-recorded voice inviting the caller to leave a message after the beep.

BE-E-EP!!

“Tom! Tom! Pick up. Please!”

The voice sounded scared and out of breath. Tom snatched up the receiver.

“Anjali!” he said.

“You gotta help me, Tom! There’s someone after me …”

She was running as she spoke and her breath came out in big bursts.

“Where are you?” cried Tom in alarm. “I shall come to you at once.”

“Sssshh! Don’t say nothing for a sec.”

For some moments Tom could only hear indistinct sounds – distant traffic, a door slamming perhaps, footsteps echoing in an empty street but he could not be sure what he was listening to. Keeping the receiver glued to his ear, he ran over to fetch his trainers, knocking the handset off the table in his panic. He pushed his feet into his shoes and stood awkwardly, every muscle tense, straining to hear anything. Finally he heard Anjali’s voice once more. She sounded relieved.

“It’s okay. False alarm - he’s gone. I lost him.”

“Who?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“It was him. Must have followed me.”

“Tell me where you are!” Tom realised he was shouting. “If he hurt you I’ll - ”

“Keep your hair on! I told you, I lost him. I’m a couple of minutes down the road. If you put the kettle on, I’ll be with you by the time it boils.”

“No! Let me come for you,” he started to say, but Anjali had already switched off her phone.

Tom walked to the sink like an automaton, and put water in the kettle. Then he paced frantically about the kitchen for a couple of minutes. He got out her mug and put a teabag in it. The minutes seemed to drag into hours. How did she know she’d lost him? What if he was waiting in some dark alley for Anjali to make the first move and show herself? That is what the Carrick Gang would have done. He could no longer stand the torture of waiting. He dashed towards the stairwell but skidded to a halt outside the lift. If Anjali were in trouble, he did not have time to run down twenty-one floors. The down arrow was illuminated, the lift was already there. All he had to do was press the button for the doors to open. He had seen Blueskin and Anjali do it enough times…Sweat pricked at him. Suddenly he started to run down the first flight of stairs for he could not muster up the courage to incarcerate himself in that terrible metal box. But then, from far below, echoing up the emergency stairs, noises of a scuffle reached him. He stopped in his tracks and listened with all his might. Nothing. Had he imagined it? Adrenalin pumped around his body. He no longer had any choice. He turned on his heels and bounded back up the stairs and jammed his finger on the lift button. The doors swooshed open and he stepped inside. When they closed and sealed him in, his heart leapt into his mouth. He was trapped and alone. He took a deep breath and waited. Nothing happened! What did he have to do? Panic set in. Then he saw the long row of illuminated buttons and he realised he was going to have to press one of them. Kettles, telephones, TV’s, power showers – everything had a button to make it work in the future. But which one should he press? And what would happen if he pressed the wrong one? He ran his fingers through his hair, beside himself with anxiety, imagining all the while that Anjali was in mortal danger. Then he saw the numbers next to them and it occurred to him that they might refer to the floor. One? Surely that must be it. Could ‘one’ stand for the first floor? But then what did the ‘G’ stand for below it? And the ‘B’ below that? Should he get out of the lift and run down? But how, at this point, did he get out? Tom hit the button with the number one next to it and stepped back, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides. He heard the terrifying sounds of machinery engaging and then the floor of the lift lurched. The descent! It was beginning! Tom’s stomach felt that it had been left behind on the twenty-first floor. He stared wildly about him and put the flat of his hands on the walls, bracing himself for the impact when it hit the ground. But after a few seconds he could no longer detect any motion. Cautiously he unpeeled his hands from the walls and watched as, ever so slowly, the doors slide open. He shot out of the lift backwards before they closed again and found himself in a narrow corridor with stairs at one end.

Tom ran downstairs three steps at a time before he heard muffled sounds coming from above. He zipped around and started climbing upwards instead. He turned the corner to go up the next flight of stairs just in time to see a tall, blond youth throw himself at Anjali’s legs and bring her down so that she lay sprawled out over the hard steps. For a second everything seemed to slow down: Anjali was screaming and holding on to the back of her head and the youth was pulling her up by her hair. Now he was pinning her against the wall, his left forearm pressing against her collar bone. Blood dripped from her nose. The youth drew back his right arm. Bracing herself for the inevitable blow Anjali strained to turn her face to the wall as far as it would go. She could smell his breath.

“I told you I was gonna teach you a lesson - ”

Tom flew up the half dozen steps and sprang onto the blond youth’s back, grabbing hold of his right wrist before it smacked into Anjali’s face. For an instant Tom looked into Anjali’s eyes and they were dark pools of terror. Tom’s weight pulled the youth off balance and he was forced to take a step backwards, allowing Anjali to slip out and escape up the stairs. She turned around at the top and watched, too shaken to help him, as the youth, a good foot taller than Tom and at least twice his weight, set about shaking him off. Tom clung on tightly like a monkey and put both hands over his opponent’s eyes so that he could not see. The youth reached up and grabbed hold of Tom’s wrists. Tom was no match for him. The youth levered open his arms, heaved him off his back and pushed him violently away. Tom fell backwards, rolling over and over, his thin body juddering over every step, until his head cracked against the corner of the wall adjacent to the lift shaft. The sickening sound reverberated around the stairwell. For an instant Anjali and the blond-haired youth struck strange poses on the stairs, like statues, staring, with unblinking eyes, at Tom’s motionless body. Then Anjali hurtled down the stairs and knelt down next to him. She laid her cheek on his chest and listened, staining his sweat shirt with her blood; she felt for a pulse on his wrist and on his neck; she took his limp hand in hers and squeezed it. Finally she looked back at the youth in wild-eyed despair.

“You’ve killed him!” she shrieked.

The youth started to come slowly down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Tom’s white face. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to do it!”

Anjali leapt up and pounded his chest with her fists.

“Murderer!”

He shoved her roughly away.

“First time I saw you I knew you was trouble. You’re a jinx, you are.”

The youth disappeared down the stairs to the ground floor. Anjali dropped heavily to the floor and sat on her heels, looking down at Tom, holding his hands in hers. Blood and tears trickled down her white face and her lips trembled. She sat in the silence for she did not how long, her mind numb with shock. She gave a start as cables clanked and machinery suddenly whirred into action next to her. Someone had called the lift and would soon be on their way down. Anjali panicked. It was her fault, in the end, that she was kneeling next to Tom’s lifeless body, wasn’t it? She looked at her blood on his clothes. She couldn’t risk being discovered here and there was nothing more she could do for him. Anjali stood up but as she did a small movement caught her eye. Tom’s white mouse appeared at the neckline of his sweatshirt, whiskers twitching. Anjali hesitated for an instant, bent over and grabbed hold of the tiny creature. Then, very gently, she kissed Tom’s cool forehead.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry for everything.”

Anjali fled from the building, unseen, and blinded by her own tears.

It was a Sunday and most Londoners slept on under a thick blanket of slate-grey cloud that, as forecast, would not shift. Hyde Park was deserted apart from the odd jogger. The Tar Man strode around the Serpentine. His face was drawn, his lips pressed together, there was a bitter expression on his face. On the other side of the lake a lone swimmer dived into the freezing water with a splash. A moorhen squawked, its cry echoing around the quiet park as its oversized, webbed green feet scurried across the surface of the water.

The Tar Man had been invited to dine in Mayfair the previous evening with the entrepreneur who had expressed an interest in the oil paintings of George Stubbs. He had anticipated that he would walk away from the evening with a commission for a major art theft and an invitation to become a member of the most exclusive club in London. Instead, the hypocritical, puffed-up socialite had looked down his superior nose and had harangued him until the Tar Man’s self-restraint broke. At least he had managed to hurt him before he found himself escorted off the club premises by four, liveried thugs and was kicked, literally, out onto the pavement. When he had tried to hail a cab, a nod from the doorman, who clearly put a lot of work the cabbies way, meant that none of the taxis would stop for him and he was forced to walk down the street knowing that all eyes were upon him and with the barrage of abuse still ringing in his ears.

“You’re scum,” the entrepreneur had said. There was something about his face that reminded the Tar Man of an emaciated eagle. Grandeur, cruelty, Olympian disdain. Like Lord Luxon, he was old money. How the Tar Man resented all those centuries of unearned privilege, looking down his hawk-like nose at him.

“You’re the scum of the earth and always will be. How could you possibly think I was serious? All the cash and the Rolex watches, all the fancy apartments and designer labels, all the trappings of what you think is success doesn’t fool anyone. Do you really think we would tolerate your kind in this club? Do you really imagine that you could threaten me with your sordid little blackmail threats? Half of the greatest political minds, scientists, lawyers have passed through our doors at one time or another, with the finest pedigrees. But who are you? What are you? I’ll tell you what you are: you are a nothing, a deluded grotesque, and we would not have you taint the air we breathe-”

The Tar Man’s head-butt split open the skin of his noble forehead, though his blood was not blue but red like anyone else’s.

The Tar Man walked on around the Serpentine. After this little incident he had visited Lord Luxon and, making light of it, told him what had occurred. He noted that Lord Luxon did not attempt to refute the insults but merely suggested that he tried another club. He had gone on to say that although gaining power and influence was important, his priority should remain the acquisition of the anti-gravity machine. After all, with such a device would it not be possible to change the course of history? The words had resonated in his mind but it was only now that the idea grew, like yeast, as the Tar Man reflected on who he was and what he had become.

The entrepreneur’s words had stung so much, he thought, because they were not so far from the truth. All the money in the world would not change who he was: a thief, a talented villain, a manipulator of men, a black-hearted rogue, a murderer. Other men might command respect, admiration, love - what did he inspire? Fear? Horror? Hatred? And why should he care if he did? What would he have become if he had been meek, and respectable and weak-willed like the rest of humanity? Ground down with daily toil until his body gave out? Starving in a flea-pit? Dead in a ditch? And if he had done bad things, the world had done worse to him. All the same, he pondered when it had all started to go wrong. Was it the day he had been imprisoned for a crime he did not commit? Or was it earlier? The first time he had stolen a loaf of bread shortly after his father had died? Suddenly he saw the face of Gideon Seymour, with his direct blue eyes and his priggish view of the world. The mere thought of Gideon being his brother brought with it a powerful spurt of anger in his chest which he could not explain. Yet the thought still tugged at him. Why had his brother chosen one path while he… He refused to continue with the thought but the thought continued despite him. What if, he reasoned, the anti-gravity machine could change the course of history, change the course of his history. If he could press a button and change that pivotal moment in his life, would he press it?

Dring-dring. Dring-dring. Dring-dring. With a start the Tar Man realised that his mobile phone was ringing. It would be Anjali. It was only ever Anjali. But what was she doing calling him at this time in the morning? He idly wondered if she could still contact him if he had faded back to 1763.

“Vega?”

“You gotta stay away from the apartment for a while. There’s police cars and ambulances crawling all over the place. There’s been an accident.”

“Your voice is shaking.”

The Tar Man listened in silence to what Anjali had to say, looking all the while at the water and the trees and the clouds reflected in it.

“Vega? Are you still there?”

The Tar Man stood motionless, holding the mobile phone to his ear.

“Vega?”

“I do not wish to see your face again, Anjali.”

“His mouse!” shouted the Tar Man. “Should his mouse be some kind of consolation?”

The Tar Man flung the mobile phone into the centre of the Serpentine and started to run. He ran half way around the lake, over a small bridge and along Rotten Row, the dirt bridle-path where, even now, Londoners exercise their horses. A girl trotted past him on a glossy black mare. All at once the Tar Man was sick of the future. He wanted to return to his own century. He wanted to feel horse flesh between his knees and feel the wind in his face. He grabbed hold of the reigns and pulled the girl off the saddle so that she fell backwards onto the soft ground. She lay, helpless, in the dirt as he mounted her horse. He shrugged off the gold Cartier watch from his wrist and threw it at her. It landed on her belly. She picked it up and looked from the watch to the Tar Man and back again.

“For your horse,” he said and galloped out of the park into Knightsbridge.

The Tar Man rode without thinking for many miles through the quiet back streets of Belgravia, Chelsea and Westminster. He galloped on and on but no matter how fast he rode the once heady scent of the twenty-first century had lost its appeal, contaminated with a whiff of the despair that had dogged him all his life and had turned him into what he was. The Tar Man allowed the steaming mare to come to a halt at the north side of Westminster Bridge. London had not changed but all he could taste was dust and ashes.