The Time Rip

Copyright © Alexia James 2011

All rights reserved.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Prologue

Greater
London
: June 1908.

Jeremy Sanders looked up from his paperwork as a soft knock fell on the kitchen door. Moving round a battered wood table, he turned up the oil lamp, flicked off the quietly murmuring radio and went to answer it.

“Mr. Sanders, this is Amy O’Neil.”

Jeremy inclined his head slightly as he surveyed the couple at his door. His colleague, Matt Smith, was a short man with a receding hairline. The woman with him was of medium height and rather muscular in build. She was unremarkable for the era, dressed in an ankle length woollen skirt and high neck blouse, but there was a certain confidence in her or perhaps hardness to her face, hidden under a wide-eyed look.

“Matt, always a pleasure, and Miss O’Neil. Please come in. I trust you had a good trip?” He stepped back to allow them to enter, and noted the way the woman looked him over. His face impassive, he caught Matt’s eye. Knowledge passed between them for a fraction of a second.

Matt spoke again, “Thank you, yes.” He dropped back a pace behind Amy who continued into the kitchen and glanced about.

Jeremy held out a chair for the woman, waited until she was level with him, and then, in one movement, jerked both her wrists behind her and handcuffed her, all in a matter of seconds.

“Amy O’Neil, you are in breach of the time continuum covenant of 2100. You will now be returned to 2112 and the custody of the state.”

For one moment all was still, and then, as though a switch suddenly flipped, she erupted in a tirade of rage, managing to kick the table leg and dislodging the paperwork before he could adequately restrain her.

Jeremy pulled a small device the size and shape of a mobile phone from his pocket, slid it open and abruptly vanished with the struggling woman.

Matt picked up the scattered paperwork, righted the tumbled chair and turned to fill the kettle. He sat at the table and flicked idly through his friend’s paperwork. When Jeremy returned, he barely glanced up.

“I don’t know how you stand going through this. These figures would have me asleep in minutes.” He chucked the sheaf back on the table and linked his hands behind his head.

Jeremy shrugged. “It’s better than farming, at any rate.” He took tea and cups from a larder in the corner of the room.

“Get her booked in all right?” Matt tipped back his chair on two legs, his coat falling open around him.

Jeremy smiled faintly. “No problems.
Dawson
was glad to get her back.
Armed robbery, apparently.”

“I didn’t hear it was
armed
.” Matt’s chair banged back to the floor. He cast an accusing look at Jeremy, but it faded after a moment. “Unsurprising, I guess. She would have eaten me for breakfast given half a chance.”

Jeremy glanced up, “I thought you liked your women fierce.”

“Fierce, yes. Nuts, no.”

“She wasn’t as bad as that blond you were dating last year.”

“Who, Stacy? She was an experience.” He sighed regretfully. “Before I forget—” he rummaged in his jacket pocket a moment before bringing out a folded slip of paper, “Here.”

“What’s this?” Jeremy unfolded the news article as he spoke, and a grin spread over his face at the headline. He read out “Jake Shorter: a length faster.” He scanned the article on McLaren’s latest star and let out a bark of laughter. “Looks like you owe me a drink.”

Matt grinned back, “Looks like I do.”

“You haven’t the rest of this, I suppose.”

Matt shook his head, “I forgot you don’t get much news here. Still, you must be due a visit back, soon.”

Jeremy shrugged. “No doubt Daniel will bring me a paper when he’s next around.”

“I’m glad I am not working with him at any rate. Speaking of which: when’s our next poker night?”

“Adam has some work on at the moment, so it will be a while yet.”

“Let me know when you have a date.”

Jeremy lifted a hand to the kettle and stood grasping it, absorbed in journalese. “All right,” he said absently.

Chapter one

Greater
London
.
June 2008.

Late afternoon.
It was another blisteringly hot day and Freya was tired as she took the M4 towards
London
. Yawning widely she shifted gears in her rusted Transit.

The air-conditioning had long since broken and the breeze from the open windows was hot and smelled of diesel. Dust coated the van. The engine was an endless din and the road slid under her in continuous monotony until she felt in danger of falling asleep.

The thought prompted action. She abandoned the motorway at the next junction and took the first available turning. A few turns later, the road rapidly turned into a narrow dirt track. Hedgerows and trees cordoned off fields that stretched away in the distance. Baking in late afternoon sun, they were a mass of subtle colour; a blanket of tall, lilac tipped grasses looking unnaturally still.

Freya was beyond caring where she ended up. The relief to get off the motorway was immense, and if she could just find a place to stop for a while she would catch a nap and find her way back later.

The track twisted and widened. The Transit bouncing gracefully over tyre marks baked hard into mud. At least some kind of vehicle had made it down here before her. Following the winding track until it ended abruptly at a farm gate, she gratefully cut the engine and coasted to a stop. The handbrake gave a final grunt and all was blessedly silent.

Freya sagged forwards to rest her head against the wheel. The silence was a huge relief after the drone of the motorway, and she did nothing but drink it in for few moments. The sweet taste of the meadows flooded her senses and she yawned, feeling thirsty and light-headed.

She straightened and snagged her bag off the passenger seat. A quick search produced an empty water bottle, the last drops consumed earlier on. It was one more complication in what was beginning to feel like an endless day.

She huffed and regarded the fields in tight-lipped silence. In the distance lay a farmhouse, its grey brick blending subtly with the landscape. Perhaps she could beg some water. It was not something she felt altogether happy with, but she was uncomfortable enough to give it serious thought.

She passed her fingertips absently over the bumpy steering wheel, rubbing at the moisture from her hands on the hot plastic. She pictured going to ask to re-fill her water bottle. In her mind she saw a young family with a pack of rowdy kids, but knowing her luck it would probably be some nutter with bodies stashed in his cellar; seeking to add to his collection perhaps.

She grimaced and banished the thought. It was still relatively early and the day was uncomfortably hot. If she managed to put aside her irritation and doze off now she would feel a lot worse on waking. There was still another hour and a half until sunset. If she went to the house now, even allowing for a nap afterwards in the van, she could be well away on the M4 before dark. It would be cooler driving back around dusk too.

Making her decision, Freya craned forward to check her reflection in the rear view mirror. She looked what she was: hot and scruffy. Straight blond hair in a tangle, lip-gloss nibbled off hours earlier, foundation long since sweated away and face shiny from the heat.

Her suit jacket lay crumpled on the passenger seat and her grey skirt and white shirt were both horribly wrinkled. She sighed, dragged a comb through her hair and grabbed a much-favoured blue sweater to tie around her. The rich colour would bring out her eyes and detract from the state of her clothes.

She had been driving barefoot in defiance of the law, having forgotten to bring her pumps, and eyed her shoes somewhat dubiously. The shiny black stilettos were perfect with her suit, but not really the thing for tramping across fields. She toed them on anyway, jumped out and stumbled into a deep tractor rut baked into the hard ground.

A short distance along there was a gap in the hedgerow large enough to walk through, and she stopped on the other side to scan the meadow. She considered walking around the edge, but that lead away from the house and into a wood, set behind and slightly to one side of the property. Besides, the field did not look like it contained crops, just overlong grass and weeds.

Making her decision, she shrugged and began to cut through. The grasses were chest high and densely packed in places, but they were also soft and smelled fresh as she trailed her fingers through them.

It was harder to cross than it looked, mostly due to her impractical clothing. Her skirt was entirely unsuited to such treatment. Pencil straight and mid length, it impeded movement. Grass seeds clung to the fabric and the whole thing began to twist round. She tried once or twice to straighten it, but eventually gave up. Her spiky heels were useless on rough terrain and the long grasses caught around them making her wish for jeans and trainers. Now and then she stumbled; nearly lost a shoe.

The field was eerily quiet, with only bees and the distant motorway breaking the silence, and the heat was intense with no shade or breeze to disturbed the heavy stillness. Huge weeds loomed above the grasses and she stared in fascination at their giant leaves and dinner-plate flower heads.

The farmhouse was further than it looked, and she became strangely detached from the situation; the whole experience taking on an unreal quality. She zoned out with calm, her entire existence reduced to heat and field in front of her.