Future Tense (9 page)

“Then do so,” said Miss Parker, carrying on up the hallway and turning left.

“Where are you going?” I called.

“I won't be far, darling—Bentley will see to you!” She disappeared round the corner.

“Where's she going?” I said.

“Going, sir?” said Bentley. “She didn't say, sir.”

“I know she didn't say! But you must know where she went, Bentley.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn't possibly know that, I was here with you the whole time, sir.”

He wheeled me to the foot of the stairs and helped me out.

“Don't we have an elevator?” I said. “Or one of those stair lift things?”

“I am afraid not, sir—Sir Julian likes to keep the Hall in its original condition. Oh, yes, Sir Julian is very particular. Bentley, he's very fond of saying, my home is an antique, if you look after it, it'll be worth a bomb some day.”

He assisted me to the top of the master staircase and left me leaning against the balustrade, while he went back down, folded up the chair, and carried it up to me. I sat back in and he pushed me to my room.

“Bentley, how well do you know Miss Parker?” I asked, as he helped me onto the bed.

“I believe she works for Sir Julian, sir.”

“Has she been here often?”

“Often, sir?”

“How many times has she been to Duckworth Hall?”

“How many times, sir?”

“For God's sake, Bentley—it's a simple enough question! How many times has Miss Parker been here—a dozen times? More?”

“Less, sir.”

“Less than a dozen?”

“More or less, sir.”

“Bentley—if you don't tell me—”

“I believe I heard the doorbell, sir.” He drifted towards the door.

“Bentley! Come back here! Bentley!” I shouted. But I was wasting my breath, he was silently closing the door behind him.

* * *

There were always strange goings on at Duckworth Hall, of course, but that afternoon, strangely, nothing much happened. I was left—no, I was abandoned in my room—unable to raise myself off my bed. Not only that, no one was responding to my frequent tugs on the service bell sash. And then the room began to darken and I knew it must be after six in the evening, because around St Patrick's Day the days and nights are of equal length, it being near the vernal equinox. I tried to occupy myself by counting the shell mouldings on the ceiling, but, as I lay there, my thoughts kept returning to the lovely Miss Parker. I wondered why she hadn't been to see if I was all right, but I always expected her to come through the door at any moment. I hadn't given up on her. Up until then, all my thoughts and feelings had been a mixture of frustration—at being left helpless—and happiness, because I had met Miss Parker. But then when it grew dark I started to worry that something might have happened to her. I became desperate to see her and lapsed into listlessness and melancholy. None of this—my over-sensitive state of mind and growing dependence on Miss Parker, I mean—struck me as odd at the time. I didn't think I was sick or going mad, or anything like that, I just thought I was in love.

Not even when I discovered a remote control on my bedside table, realized it was for the TV across the room, switched it on, and saw pictures of a serious fire at a private clinic on the local evening news, did I think anything weird was going on. Even though I recognized the name of the hospital—Scrublands—as the very one Miss Parker and I had been staying in.

And then the Duck suddenly burst into the room and switched on the chandelier.

“Well, they've got her! It's all over! That's it!” he ranted, flinging his hands about in the air. “That's all my plans down the khazi!”

“Where's Miss Parker?” I said.

“It's Jemmons,” said the Duck, wagging his finger in my face. “I said we should go and get him out, but, no, you were too busy chasing after Emma Gummer—now he's sold us all down the river. Well, we can't stay here—they'll be blowing this place up next. Come on, on your feet—we're out of here!”

“What about Miss Parker?” I said.

“Miss Parker? Miss Parker?” he said. “That's who I'm on about, you duffer! She's not Miss Parker—she's the Princess Mormagleea of Whatsit. I can never remember these foreign names.”

“Miss Parker is a princess?”

“Yes—and she's taken quite a shine to you.”

“Really? Miss Parker likes me?” I said.

“Likes you? She's in love, mate. She only asked me for your hand in marriage. But, like I said, all that's down the pan now. We've got to get out of here fast—tempus fugit, man!”

“But I can't move.”

“Don't give me any excuses—come on—get off that bed!”

And the Duck grabbed my ankles and pulled me round, so that my toes were touching the floor. Then he put his arms around me like a dance partner and lifted me up.

“Come on—on your feet!” he quacked.

“You lead.”

I was in no position to argue and, besides, I didn't want to, even though my side still felt too tender and painful for me to be walking around—let alone going dancing—but my compulsion to find Miss Parker was too strong.

“My wheelchair.” I flung my hands out for it.

“No you don't,” said the Duck, pulling me back. “If you put your arm around my neck, I'll walk you down to the machine.”

“Machine?” I said, courageously setting one foot down in front of the other and wincing with the wave of pain this simple exercise sent down my left side. “Where are we—ah—going?”

“Are you on something? To get her back, of course—I've invested too much time and money in her to let them have her.”

We continued to the door.

“Who?”

“Who?” He grabbed my chin and peered into my eyes. “Well, your pupils aren't dilated. Did she slip you something?”

“Who?”

“Who? Miss Park—Princess Mormagleea!”

He kicked the door open wider so there was enough room for us both to pass through.

“Um? I think she gave me a sedative,” I said.

We shambled on down the corridor like a couple of drunks.

“That was no sedative, mate—that was love potion number nine! Can't get her out of your head, can you?”

“I'm very worried about her,” I said. “Who did you say took her again?”

“Temporal Criminal Pursuit! Only it's a new lot. These mothers are into zero tolerance—if they can't catch you, they blow up your house. Property prices'll be going through the roof round here—literally, mate!”

“Miss Parker's in danger!” I cried.

“Well, of course, she's in bleeding danger—that's what I've been trying to tell you—we've got to go and get her out,” said the Duck. “I hope whatever she put in your tea wears off soon—you're no use to me mooning over her. Mind the steps.”

We came to the top of the stairs. I grabbed for the banister with both hands and the Duck steadied me down, one stair at a time.

“Where have they taken Miss Parker?” I said.

“Same place they send all category A felons—the Castle.”

“Is it far?”

“Is it far? Nobody knows where it is! Don't you remember anything from last time?”

“I like Miss Parker,” I said.

“Oh, shut up. What you need is a pot of hot black java. Sober you up.”

We descended the stairs and he led me across the hall and down the same corridor Miss Parker had taken.

“This is the same way Miss Parker went,” I said.

“Is it?” said the Duck. “We'll have to put up one of those blue heritage plaques—Princess Mormagleea passed this way, March the twenty-second, 2002.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Twenty-second?” I said. “But it can't be!”

“What're you on about?”

“Did you say it was the twenty-second of March?”

“Did I? Well, I meant the nineteenth. I'm a time traveller—I never know what day it is—they're all the same to me, aren't they!”

“Oh,” I said.

We carried on shuffling along.

“Wait!” I said, pulling him up again.

“What is it now? We've gotta split, man.”

“There are no paintings on the walls and all the chairs in the corridors are gone. Also, there was no grandfather clock back there in the main hall, and I'm sure there used to be one. It stood on the eleventh and twelfth squares, if you count back from the front door,” I said.

“Did it?” said the Duck, giving me a funny look. “What are you—the bloody Rain Man? Bentley removed it—everything worth taking has gone into storage in Bristol, in case this place goes up.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Come on—tempus fugit.” He walked me a few more paces and leaned me against the wall, while he unlocked a door.

I looked back along the corridor.

“Hello,” I said.

Two men in black leather suits and black motorcycle helmets, carrying what looked like oxygen tanks, or fire extinguishers on their backs, were standing in the main hall.

“Hey?” said the Duck, opening the door. He looked over his shoulder. “Crikey! Time plod!”

He grabbed me and slung me into the room. It was a library without any books.

“Where are all the books?” I said, looking up at the walls of empty shelves.

The Duck ignored me and hastily locked the door behind us.

“Give me a hand with the desk!” he cried, running past me to the bay window to put all his weight behind it.

“Quick—help me push it up against the door!”

I gazed out the window overlooking the rear of the house. I was looking at a helicopter standing in the darkening meadow on the far side of the terraced gardens. Suddenly, it blew up. It was like a cartoon explosion—it just jumped up in the air a few feet, flipped over and crashed back down on its rotors.

The Duck spun round. And we both watched in silence for a few seconds, as the wreckage belched out thick wreaths of orange flames and billowing black smoke.

“There was no bloody need for that,” said the Duck.

“Was it insured?” I said.

“Of course it was insured—but not against attack from another dimension!”

We heard someone try the door handle and both looked round. There was some shuffling about and then hissing sounds, like gas escaping.

“There's someone trying to get in,” I said.

“Plasma guns!” quacked the Duck.

He forgot about the desk and ran over to one of those sliding ladders librarians use for getting books down off high shelves. He clattered up the wooden rungs and fiddled with something in the back of the very top one. A whole section of the shelving, measuring about nine feet across, rotated round on a pivot, like a giant turnstile, revealing a hidden chamber.

“Well, don't just stand there, you idiot! Get in!”

At that moment, there was a loud whoosh and a huge tongue of flame licked under the door, scorching the parquet floor.

I walked through the gap in the wall.

“It's a garage,” I said.

The Duck activated the secret switch again and rode on the ladder as the revolving shelf completed a one hundred and eighty degree turn.

There were power tools on hooks all around the walls, an inspection pit and hydraulic car lift, tool lockers, workbenches, oxy-acetylene gear—it was a fully equipped garage. An immaculately polished white Ford Cortina was perched on the platform, over the pit. I noticed a rubber button set into the floor and stepped on it.

“Are you doing it up?” I said.

“Doing it up? That's the machine. Don't you remember anything? Stone me—it's moving! You've pressed the door—” His voice tailed off.

I turned round to see why. The Duck was nowhere to be seen.

“Duck?” I called, looking round for him.

I was just wondering where he could have got to, when the whole section of the wall swung open again and a big whoosh of flame shot into the garage from the library.

“Give it up, Doctor Zee!” squawked a mocking voice, which sounded like it was being strained through an electric megaphone.

I looked up and saw the Duck swinging off the top of the ladder, narrowly avoiding the spout of flame by leaping over it. Stumbling to the car, I slid down into the inspection pit feet first—believe me, you don't feel the pain in these situations. I popped my head up and saw the Duck scampering towards me on all fours. He punched the rubber button. The whole wall was automatically set in motion again, but not before one of the time cops from the hall had charged in and given the place a sweeping burst with his flamethrower. He paused for a second or two to admire the scorch marks he had made and the burning plastic handles of the tools all around the walls. And then he turned his attention to the Duck, who was still lying on the floor, utterly helpless.

“Do not move, Doctor Zirconion! Or I will fry you alive!” his voice crackled, and now I could see he had a grilled box thing strapped across his mouth, through which he was speaking.

The Duck turned over on his back and put his hands behind his head in a submissive gesture, but I saw his heel move over the door button and cover it. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't think what to do.

“You got me,” said the Duck.

I saw him spur the button with his heel and the door swung round and knocked the time cop off his feet. The Duck was up in a flash, putting the boot into his fallen enemy's groin. But there was another one at the top of the ladder.

“On the ladder!” I shouted.

The second time cop had raised his flamethrower, one-handed, and was preparing to fire. I could hear the gas being pumped into the nozzle. But the Duck kicked the button twice in quick succession and the cop was swung away, juggling with his flamethrower, which had been jerked from his grip and went off. We heard him screaming, on the other side, as the door slammed shut again.

“Well done, Duck!” I cheered, clapping my hands.