The Sometimes Spurious Travels Through Time and Space of James Ovit

THE SOMETIMES SPURIOUS TRAVELS THROUGH TIME AND SPACE OF JAMES OVIT

a science fiction novel in three parts:

Stopwatch

Ring a ring o' roses

Memoirs of a Monster

GARRY KILWORTH

infinity plus

Published by infinity plus

www.infinityplus.co.uk

Follow @ipebooks on Twitter

©Garry Kilworth 2016

Cover image © piolka

Cover design © Keith Brooke

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Garry Kilworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Contents

Some reviews of Garry Kilworth’s books

Stopwatch:

1

2

3

4

5

6

6

7

8

9

Ring a Ring o' Roses:

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Memoirs of a Monster:

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Contents

A science fiction novel in three parts:

Stopwatch

Ring a ring o’ roses

Memoirs of a Monster

More from infinity plus

Some reviews of Garry Kilworth’s books

His characters are strong and the sense of place he creates is immediate. (Sunday Times on In Solitary)

The Songbirds Of Pain is excellently crafted. Kilworth is a master of his trade. (Punch)

Atmospherically overcharged like an impending thunderstorm. (The Guardian on Witchwater Country)

A convincing display of fine talent. (The Times on A Theatre Of Timesmiths)

A masterpiece of balanced and enigmatic storytelling ...Kilworth has mastered the form. (Times Literary Supplement on In The Country Of Tattooed Men)

An absolute delight, based on the myths and legends of the Polynesian peoples. (Mark Morris on The Roof Of Voyaging)

A subtle, poetic novel about the power of place – in this case the South Arabian Deserts – and the lure of myth. It haunted me long after it ended. (City Limits on Spiral Winds)

This novel is for Colin and Sue Waters – for the many pleasant hours spent with them aboard their yacht the Hilda May.

Part One:

Stopwatch

1

...and I awoke on a cold hillock in Hyde Park.

Naked and bemused, but nevertheless cognizant of my reasons for being in this situation, I stared around me. Unfortunately the trees obscured all but the highest buildings beyond the park and those peaks that were visible were only silhouettes against the dark sky. I climbed to my feet. It was close to dawn and I remembered I had to make my way to the bridge over the Serpentine. We had chosen this venue with the fair certainty that this particular feature in this particular London park would still be in evidence.

I found the lake and began to walk along the shoreline. My heart was pounding in my chest. Would there indeed be someone on the bridge to meet me? If there were not, I would be in desperate circumstances. Indeed, during the time I was not present in this city invasions could have taken place or there could have been a radical change in government. Was there a foreign power in charge now? Or did we have a dictator, one of our own kind grown too powerful to eject? Any political situation I could dream up was certainly possible.

Shivering with the chilly breeze – if my journey time had been accurate enough it should be early spring – I stumbled along and eventually found the bridge. My heart dropped down to my gut and the panic began. There was no one in sight. They were supposed to be standing in the middle of the bridge waiting for me. This was indeed the nightmare I had been dreading. All along I had said to them, ‘Are you sure you can have someone waiting for me? There can be no mistake. I must have someone to meet me.’

‘James Ovit?’

I jumped and whirled. A tall man stood there with a bag in his right hand. He smiled at me. ‘Sorry to startle you.’

‘Are you my contact?’ I croaked. ‘You’re supposed to be in the middle of the bridge.’

‘Indeed. I was heading that way when you appeared. You’re a little early.’

Relief coursed through me, warming me.

‘Thank God you’re here though.’

At that moment I almost collapsed with the stress. Indeed, I started trembling uncontrollably and tears streamed down my cheeks. He reached out and with a strong hand under my right arm held me up for a few moments. He said, ‘I can understand why you’re feeling shocked. You must have had a journey. Here, put some clothes on. Then we can go and find a coffee somewhere. Do you drink coffee?’

‘Tea or beer, normally – but I have had coffee.’

‘Good.’ He let me go.

He stood well away from me, not watching, as I dressed in the strange clothes he gave me. Strange not only because of the style, but because of the texture. I don’t think I had ever felt a material quite so soft and smooth. And it was all one, not several pieces. A sort of tightish fitting overall in a dark blue. I had trouble finding out how to do up the front, which was flapping open. My companion came to my aid.

‘Here.’

He ran a light hand from my stomach to my neck and the two halves sealed themselves. No buttons, nor any zips that I could detect. Just two strips that ran along the edges of the material. Once on, I felt warm and snug, even though the layer of clothing was quite thin. I noted in the growing light that my helper had on a similar garment.

‘What is this stuff? What’s it made of?’

‘That? Oh, Slinke. Most clothes are made of Slinke these days. You can still get wool, cotton and other materials here on Earth, but Slinke is in favour.’

‘Good descriptive name for something so silky.’

‘Oh, no. I mean, that’s not why it’s called that. Just a coincidence I suppose. Slinke is the man who invented it. Wolfgang Slinke. A Bavarian.’

‘A German.’ In my present mood I had no love for that nation. ‘A German invented it.’

‘Well, yes – as I say, a Bavarian though, not a Prussian.’

The distinction was lost on me, but I didn’t feel like pursuing the subject any further. I was given a pair of slip-on shoes, thinner than my old carpet slippers, and these too felt very comfortable. They had looked too small at first sight, but actually fitted well.

‘You knew my size? In shoes?’

‘Not really – they fit any size.’

‘Oh.’

The man then handed me a small haversack.

‘You’ll find money and other necessary items in that bag,’ he told me. ‘Once we’ve had coffee, you won’t see me again.’

‘No, that’s what I was told. What’s today’s date by the way’

‘17th May.’

‘2055?’

He grinned. ‘I should hope so.’ He then looked at me strangely. ‘Yes, I suppose they have a different calendar where you’ve been.’

The last sentence took me aback a bit, but I felt I ought to proceed with caution. Take things very slowly. It was possible to make some very silly mistakes, else. Therefore I didn’t question his unexpected addition to my straight question. Indeed now that I knew that my journey had been successful I felt more buoyant. I was dressed and warm, and had in my possession the means to stay alive in my old city.

My helper led me down a street which, if it had been noticeably different in my own time, did not shock me with its changes. Yes, there was a lot more steel and aluminium, and chrome that shone so brightly in the morning sun it hurt my eyes, but I suppose the centres of cities don’t change that much. There were quite a few new buildings, that towered over their surroundings: architecture that was new to me. But I didn’t feel like a stranger in a strange land. There was much that was familiar.

So, as to the city having been transformed into something unrecognisable, that had not occurred. There were buildings far older than a man’s lifetime here and in any city of consequence: many of them would no doubt still be there in another century, two centuries or even a millennium hence. The one thing that did astonish me was the lack of traffic on the road, which appeared to be a precinct walkway. The cars, or vehicles, whatever they were, seemed to be floating smoothly high above the streets with no apparent engine noise.

We entered a cafe where the coffee smelled delicious.

‘Did you have coffee up there?’ asked my friend.

Up where?

‘Oh, yes.’

He went to the counter and ordered the beverages, paying for them with a rod or baton which the man serving him slipped into a slot and then returned to him. There was a big shiny machine at the back,with tubes going everywhere and steam issuing from a tap. The server pushed a couple of coloured buttons in a row of the same and I deduced that somewhere inside that glittering engine my coffee was being made. Indeed it made all the appropriate noises from hisses to gurgles to clanks: coffee-making has never been a simple operation.

My friend sat down. ‘Looksay, I’ve ordered you a giallo ocra, with rich-cream milk, I think you’ll like that.’

‘To be honest, I could drink muddy puddle water so long as it was warm. That was a rude cold awakening back there in the park.’

The drink was indeed delicious and lived up to the promise of its aroma. So often coffee can smell wonderful and then spoil itself for the drinker by having a bitter harsh taste. This was smooth and silky, and went down easily. There was also some buttered toast on the side, which looked no different to the toast I had eaten as a child. I wolfed this down, following each swallow with a sip of the dark yellow nectar.

While the coffee was being made one or two people had entered the cafe and ordered their breakfasts at the counter. They were dressed similarly to my friend and me and used the same method of currency, the short batons, which were always returned to them. The upper part of their clothing had slots into which they slipped the batons once the server returned them. The patrons then sat at tables where they took out small round objects about the size of a saucer. I watched as a man placed it flat on his table and was amazed to see tiny figures and buildings spring from it like mushrooms. These toy-sized colourful scenes continually altered: a dancing, fairy tableau vivant which shimmered and shape-changed as I gaped in awe.

‘Catching up on the news on their slices,’ said my companion casually, nodding at the other patrons. ‘You’ll soon get used to things. Now, let me tell you that in your haversack you have enough money on your stick to carry out your mission – more than enough – but please be careful. Try to remain inconspicuous, at least for the first year or two. You’ll find a communicator, with instructions, in your pack. It contains all the information you’ll need to survive on this world.’

‘On this world,’ I repeated, feeling I really had to take this further. ‘As opposed to...’

He smirked. ‘Your own planet, of course. Look, I’m just a messenger. I’ve been told nothing, really – it’s all need to know – so I’m thinking that you’ve been somewhere a long way away and have come back. My best guess is another planet. My task is simply to meet you and to hand you the survival pack. I really shouldn’t even be having coffee with you, but,’ he smiled and sipped from his cup, ‘I do need a good infusion of the brown stuff to lubricate my engine in the morning and why not ease you into life down here on Earth.’

‘Yes, yes of course. Do you know the name of the, er, planet from which I am supposed to have come?’

He shook his head. ‘No, they didn’t tell me. My instructions came from my department head. There was no face-to-face meeting. It came in the form of an authenticated message. I know as little about you as you know about me. However,’ he leaned back and looked at me quizzically, ‘they can’t stop me surmising and I’ve decided you were sent out to a distant planet, oh, probably light years away – and now you’re back.’ His eyes were shining as he took another sip of his coffee. ‘I’ve been visiting that bridge every morning for the past week waiting for you.’

‘So, why do you think I was sent – to another world.’

‘You work for the government, don’t you? You’ve probably brought something back.’ His hand went up and he laughed. ‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me what it is. I guess we’ll be informed, soon enough. A new world for people to live? A new Earth rich in food and minerals? Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll be one of the first to know. After all, if it hadn’t been for me, you’d be walking the streets naked as a babe.’

This last remark was made a little too loudly and two of the other patrons of the coffee shop stared at us.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you could be right – or you could be wrong. Obviously I’m not permitted to divulge anything to you at this point in time, but I’m sure you’ll be told eventually.’

‘Maybe or maybe not,’ he said, pursing his lips between the clauses of his sentence, ‘but it’s probably the same place the Angels come from.’

My mind buzzed.

‘Angels?’

‘Ah, you probably left before they arrived, am I right? They came here about a year ago. Just appeared among us. They estimate there’s several dozen of them, thereabouts anyway, but they don’t seem to club together like you’d expect. They’re not herd animals. You only see them wandering around alone. No one knows where they came from or why or how. Suddenly they were among us, quietly getting on with whatever they do when they’re not out walking the streets. Angels.’ His face took on a distant dreamy expression. ‘Yep, angels all right.’

‘Angels aren’t real,’ I pointed out. ‘They’re mythical.’

‘Yes, but they look like angels. You know, like the pictures.’

‘Lots of different ones. What are they? Cherubs? Clones of St Michael? Raphael’s angels? Durer’s angels?’

He shrugged. ‘You’d know if you saw one. They’re, well, they’re quite beautiful to look at. I can use that word, because they’re not human of course. Seven feet tall, slim, delicate features. Weird eyes though. Sort of pale grey eyes that seem to look right into you, right inside you. You have the feeling they know what you’re thinking, though that’s not been proved one way or the other. No wings, of course. Or halos. That would be stupid, wouldn’t it? Just a general appearance.’

‘Dark or light?’

‘Hair or skin? Well, some have blond hair and some are jet black. I mean, really blond and really black. As for their skin colour, sort of olive-brown.’

‘Does anyone have any idea where they came from? What makes them angelic anyway? Surely not just good looks?’

He coughed, then said, ‘Looksay, they don’t have sexual organs. They’re...blanks. Yes, that’s what they are, blank.’

That seemed to sum it all up for my companion.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘as to where they came from, there’s been all sorts of theories. Outer space. Under the sea. Another dimension. A parallel world. And of course, one of the Heavens of the many religions. You name it, someone’s put it up as an answer. The Angels themselves won’t say, or can’t say. No one speaks their language and while they’ve learned a few of our languages they’re reluctant to talk about themselves. They seem eager to learn, but not to teach.’

‘But they could be the vanguard of some invasion force?’

‘Yep, that they could, but what do you do about it, eh? Put them in a concentration camp? The world’s moved on from solutions like that. Apparently they’re watched, very closely, by secret service agents – but so far no one has any complaints about them. They don’t do anything wrong. They don’t do anything at all really. They’re just here. Another thing, all of them have this sad expression on their faces, as if they really want to be somewhere else. Maybe they do?’

‘Do they work? Do they have jobs?’

‘Not to my knowledge. You’re wondering how they live, because in fact they do need clothes for warmth, shelter from the weather and they do eat food and drink drinks. Well, it may not surprise you to learn there are all sorts of people providing for them. People who think they actually are angels and others who become fans of anything exotic and don’t even care or want to know where they’re from originally. You just have to be different and mysterious in this world and you’ll gather a fan base prepared to fund any lifestyle you choose to enjoy.’

‘Now,’ I said, ‘I’ve been away a long time. No communication because it was too far – ah, several thousand parsecs. So perhaps you’ll be able to fill me in on a few details. Nothing that will compromise your position as a messenger. For instance, what’s the political situation? Who’s in charge of the UK now?’

His head went backwards a little. ‘UK? Oh, the United Kingdom? We haven’t been united for 30 years.’

‘So which country left the union?’

‘Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales, Cornwall and Yorkshire. All independent countries now. The world’s decentralised in the last few decades. Basques have their own country. Catalonians. Valencians. In America most of the states have seceded from the union and are unitary. India, Russia, Pakistan, all broken up. China’s fragmented into several different nations: Canton, Shanghai, I don’t know how many others. The world is now a huge jigsaw of little countries.’

I was amazed. So that’s why earlier he had been at great pains to point out that Slinke was a Bavarian, not a Prussian. The two were now separate nations.

‘Look, when I left there was talk of a world government, some time in the future.’

‘Oh, we’ve got that, all right.’

‘But you just said the globe has decentralised.’

‘Ah, yes. I suppose when I said countries, I should have said federal regions – nations. We’ve got the Government of Earth – GOFER – but to be quite honest it doesn’t have any teeth. It sort of oversees the world in a benign and quiet way, laying down rules and laws which no single nation takes much notice of and just go their own sweet way. Some, like the Prussians, always take notice of GOFER’s rules and regulations, but they’re unusual. Always been a bit stiff and starchy, the Prussians, eh? Even before you left for your unknown planet.’ He winked.

‘So, there’s still an England – and this city, London, is still the capital?’

‘Oh yes, can’t see that changing, can you?’

Now I had another question, since this man before me seemed to think I had been to a far distant planet. ‘And travel to the stars?’

‘Well, you’d know better than me about that. There’s no real information about starships – you know, going out beyond our solar system. I expect that’s all kept secret. Everyone suspects it’s going on – which of course it is – but only those who work in the business know for sure. There’s the two Moon colonies of course, and a brand new station they’ve set up on Mars. We’re told about those. But as to places way out there, amongst the twinkle and tinsel, that’s kept under wraps.’

I asked, ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Looksay, rivalry. Every little country on the planet wants to be the first to discover an Earth-world. I’ll bet when you report in, they won’t tell anyone what you’ve found for a long while.’ He nodded and smiled again. ‘I found you naked and cold in Hyde Park, so I’ll be watching and listening, knowing I played my part in it all.’

‘But,’ I pointed out, ‘I didn’t step out of a spaceship.’

‘Matter transmitter. You were teleported, weren’t you? I’m not silly.’ He tapped the side of his brow with his forefinger. ‘Teleportation. The government thinks we don’t know about these things, but we’re not stupid.’

2

When I came to my senses there was a blurred face just inches away from my own. I could feel hot, odorous breath on my cheeks as the owner of those features peered into my eyes. I think I let out a groan of despair, wondering for just a split moment if I was still alive. However as I moved my head to one side, to avoid the smell of the exhalations of the person scrutinising me, I became aware that I was steeped in my own sweat and that my left leg still had that deep dull ache around the ankle from when I injured it on falling out of the trees.

‘You speaking English?’

The face had withdrawn to a position about five feet above my own. Indeed, the owner had straightened and was looking down on me with a sympathetic expression. It was a pleasant countenance, light brown in colour and with small crinkled lines around the corners of the eyes. Not a face to be feared. Certainly not a demon from Hell, though not an angel from Heaven, either. A Malay. A tribesman or farmer. I smiled at him and he smiled back, his brown eyes shining.

I went up on my elbows and stared at him, noting his spare but muscled frame. He was wearing a longi which covered his legs to mid-shins. On his upper body was a Marks and Spencer soiled white vest. The vest was back to front and inside out: I could see the ‘Rainbow River’ label.

We continued to stare at each other in silence for a few more minutes, during which I could hear a cockerel crowing and chickens clucking somewhere outside the hut we were in. Then I remembered he had asked me a question which had so far gone unanswered.

‘Yes, I am English.’

I spoke simply, slowly and precisely as I had been told to do, if ever I was shot down and forced to deal with the local population.

‘Good.’ He smiled again. ‘You no Japan soldier. Listen, I speaking not good English, but little.’

‘That is good for me, because I speak very little Malay. Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima. I can count to five and say please and thank you, but that’s all. Terima Kasih.’

‘Sama-sama.’ He came back with the traditional repost. Then, ‘I find you in forest. You have hurt leg.’ He pointed to the limb in question. ‘Broken? Yes, I think so.’

There was a noise from a dark corner of the hut and then I realised someone else was in the room. Peering into the gloom I could see a young woman doing something with some pots. She too looked up and smiled at me, then continued with her work.

‘My wife,’ said my host. ‘She get ready to make dinner.’

‘In here?’ I looked around me. It was a typical kampong dwelling, probably on stilts, with wooden floor and walls, and palm-leaf roof.

‘No, no, sir. She make it outside. In here would catch fire.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

I stared at my left foot which was still pointing at a very peculiar angle. When I moved it, it hurt like hell. I pulled up my trouser leg and saw that the swelling around my ankle had gone down a little, but it was still puffy. However, now that I had the leisure to study the injury, I could see the twist was right on the joint. Perhaps not broken after all?

‘I think it’s dislocated,’ I said.

‘Is what?’

‘Not broken, the joint has come out.’

‘Not broken? Good. But I fetch our doctor now, yes?’

Doctor? I wondered what that meant, but this was no time to ask questions or protest. I lay back as he tripped away as light as a lizard. So feathery on their feet, those natives. Delicate movements. I could hear him skipping down the wooden steps and so knew for sure that the hut was on stilts. His wife left shortly after him with another quick smile at me before going through the doorway. She appeared very young, not much more than a girl of fifteen or sixteen.

Not long afterwards my host was back. A large woman was with him. The hut swayed as if acknowledging the presence of an important person as she walked across the thin wooden floor. This was obviously no real doctor as I had suspected, but someone in the village who probably practised natural medicine. Without any formalities or questions she immediately knelt down and gently lifted my ankle up to inspect it. I gritted my teeth expecting pain, but she lay the foot down very soon afterwards with just as much care. Then she spoke to me in Malay. I looked at the young man for assistance.

‘Lady doctor say you foot out of proper place,’ said my host. ‘You wish her to put back again?’

I thought about this. ‘I don’t know. Has she done this before?’

He laughed. ‘Many times. We climb trees and fall down. We dive in river and hit rock. Many, many times.’

‘All right. What do I do?’

The woman nodded as if she understood my acquiescence by my expression and straight away took an object out of a bag she was carrying. It was a half-deflated ball. She pushed it between my teeth. I think it was an old tennis ball she had got hold of from somewhere. It had probably been used for throw-and-fetch with slobbery-mouthed dogs. It tasted slimy and well-used. I wondered how many mouths it had been in, besides mine, and how many germs were embedded in its worn surface.

It was while I was thus surmising that a sudden ball of pain travelled up the length of my body from my ankle and exploded in my head. I let out a gargled groan and found myself biting down hard on the rubber. A minute later the foul thing was taken from my mouth by the small man. He held it fastidiously between two fingers confirming my fears about its former usage.

‘All done. Finished. Foot now better.’

Hardly better, but when I stared down at it, the sweat dripping from my head and face, I could see it was back in the ‘proper’ position for a left foot. The big woman was beaming at me. Then she reached forward, felt my brow with a large calloused hand, slapped my face gently, tweaked my nose, then said something to my host.

‘She go now,’ he said. ‘Work done.’

I gasped. ‘Please – please thank her very much – I’m afraid I have no money to pay for her services.’

He looked aggrieved. ‘Money? Money not necessary. She come back tonight to sleep with you.’

I blinked rapidly at this, looking at this huge bulky female who was probably in her fifties, but my friend grinned too quickly.

‘See, I make joke. All Englishman like make joke. I know this, I work in Singapore for Tuan Simpson. All time, they make joke. Now I leave you for sleep. You have little sleep. Then we eat. Good?’

‘Yes, thank you. Terima Kasih. Your joke was very funny.’

‘I think so. Yes, I think so. But shocking. You no tell wife.’

‘Of course not. She would definitely be shocked.’

‘Yes, she is very strict person. Dragon lady.’

It was hard to imagine that the pretty young woman I had seen was in any shape or form a dragon, but I nodded, lay back and tried to banish from my head the hellish ache in my throbbing ankle.

~

The aroma of something similar to stew wafted up between the floor boards from below. I lay there staring at the woven-leafed ceiling. A large black cockroach was making its way amongst the crispy fronds, no doubt smelling the same cooking as I was myself. The place was alive with wildlife of course. Nothing of any real harm, up here in the hut, but arachnids and insects aplenty. When I had been a small boy, they had been frightening to me, but no longer. I had lain in the jungle for two