THE TIME THIEF Read online

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Can this be Tom?”

  The boy nodded vigorously, his body rigid, his eyes wide and dark. The Tar Man took hold of both his shoulders.

  “Tom! How the devil did you end up here? I was told you had run away from the position I had secured for you at Tempest House! I thought you were once more in the pay of Joe Carrick.”

  “Not him! I did not run away—it was an accident. It was the magic machine that brought me here….”

  “You too!”

  “I stole into the crypt at Tempest House to take a look at it… but I do not rightly know how I arrived here….”

  “Who’s this?” panted Anjali, arriving at the top of the stairs.

  “This, Anjali, is a fellow traveller from 1763, an acquaintance from the ‘bad old days.’”

  “Oh,” said Anjali, trying to keep a straight face. “He just ‘turned up,’ did he?”

  “As you can see. A more timely arrival I cannot imagine. He was due to become my apprentice. It is nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Wow. Very timely, as you say,” said Anjali, wondering what on earth Vega was up to now. “It makes getting lost in the Sahara Desert and bumping into your next-door neighbor seem quite probable….”

  The Tar Man was too pleased to see Tom to chastize Anjali for her sarcasm and, in any case, he had not heard of the Sahara Desert. Exiles in a different century, he and Tom saw the world through the same lens and it would be a relief to have someone to share it with.

  “So, aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked Anjali.

  “With the greatest of pleasure. This, Anjali, is Tom, and a more promising lad it would be difficult to find,” said the Tar Man, interpreting correctly the expression on Anjali’s face. “Despite appearances, you would do well to take a few leaves out of this lad’s book….”

  “Hiya,” said Anjali to Tom, plainly underwhelmed, and held out her hand.

  Tom gazed at the most enticing creature he had ever beheld. When Anjali addressed him directly he blushed deeply, color flooding his pasty cheeks, and yet still he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from her. Such spirit! Such beauty! And it was at that very moment, in the blink of an eye, that Cupid’s arrow found its mark. Tom’s faithful heart felt a pang of something that almost resembled pain. He took the girl’s cool hand in his and bowed.

  “I am your humble servant, Miss Anjali.”

  The three of them walked to the Tar Man’s apartment on Floral Street in high spirits. The sadness and isolation which had so oppressed Tom vanished and in its place joy beat against his chest. How his life had changed in such a short space of time! Not only did he have a powerful and fearsome protector, now his world had Anjali in it, shining bright as the sun.

  They walked past a group of three mime artists at the edge of the Piazza, dressed all in gold, their skin painted gold also, pretending to be classical statues. One was a Grecian lady holding an urn, another a slave carrying a basket of bread, and the third a Roman soldier. They had developed the art of keeping perfectly still to such an astonishing degree that it was difficult to believe that they were flesh and blood. Anjali was entranced and wondered out loud what it would take to get them to break their poses. Tom, desperate to please, immediately gamboled about, leaping up high into the air and playing the fool in an effort to get a reaction. Finally, he put his face so close to the Roman soldier their noses touched. None of the living statues even blinked.

  Anjali was impressed. “Awesome!” she pronounced, dropping a coin into each of the mime artists’ collecting bowls.

  The Tar Man, who had been watching Tom’s antics from the sidewalk, moved forward and calmly picked up all three bowls and set off at a smart pace with them.

  “Oi!” shouted the statue of a Roman soldier, brandishing his spear, “where d’you think you’re going with that?”

  The slave and the Grecian lady followed suit and all three golden statues set off in pursuit of the Tar Man. Anjali doubled up with laughter, as did half the street. Tom’s face dropped. His master had stolen his thunder. The Tar Man soon stopped and stood facing the furious mime artists, holding out their bowls.

  “Apologies, my lady and gentlemen, it was by way of a lesson for my young friend.”

  The statues looked daggers at the Tar Man, snatched back their bowls and returned grumpily to their pedestals. The Tar Man turned to Tom.

  “Always strike where it hurts. Life rarely gives you a second chance.”

  They arrived in Floral Street and Anjali tactfully waited to make sure that her employer could manage to key in the security number to get into the building before taking her leave.

  “I’ll let you two catch up,” she said. “I’ll be back later.”

  Tom gazed after Anjali until she disappeared out of sight, unwilling to be removed from her presence so soon.

  A hefty cash deposit and some fake references had secured the Tar Man a spacious penthouse apartment over a men’s boutique. The building dated from his own day, but its innards had been ripped out and it had been converted into three urban lofts which incorporated every modern convenience. It amused him that the house where he used to keep a room in 1763 was but a few minutes’ walk away, yet how the area had changed! Gone were the footpads who freely roamed the streets, gone were the assassins, gone were the anglers whom he’d seen plying their trade on this very street, hooking up wigs and great coats and valuables from the tops of carriages. Now the only robbers in Covent Garden were the landlords. When Anjali told him the monthly rent, he had laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. It occurred to him that if such a vast sum could be charged for rent, he would be wise to add the acquisition of property to his growing list of ambitions.

  The Tar Man took pleasure in showing off his new home to Tom. With Anjali he kept up his guard: She only ever saw that side of him which he permitted her to see. But the Tar Man knew Tom of old and trusted him. Despite his timidity, he thought, the boy had clung on to life by his fingertips. To have survived the Carrick Gang, he knew, was a feat in itself. Joe Carrick was a nasty piece of work even by his standards—vicious and unpredictable. And then, there was a truly dogged perseverance about Tom: It was a trait they both shared, and the Tar Man understood its value. When he had first scrutinized Tom’s small face on the balcony in Covent Garden—at once earnest and edgy, sad and alone—he had been surprised to find that, for a fleeting moment, he was actually moved. And as he watched Tom now, the Tar Man realized that he reminded him of himself at the same tender age. Both of them, without the succor of friends or family, rejected by the world through no fault of their own, and strangers to the milk of human kindness.

  And so the Tar Man and Tom flung themselves onto giant sofas in the cool, spacious living room, buried their faces in soft towels, warmed their hands under the hot tap in the kitchen sink, drank cold beer from a fridge the size of a wardrobe, and made the electric kettle boil five times in row, laughing heartily each time it switched itself off. And then, in awe of the miracle of modern plumbing, they turned on the power shower and flushed the toilet. The Tar Man gave Tom his mobile phone and sent him into the hall. When it rang, Tom pressed the button Blueskin had indicated and held it gingerly to his ear.

  “Say something, you numbskull,” bawled the Tar Man into his receiver inside. “It does not have teeth!”

  “I have seen people with these in the street, Blueskin!” Tom whispered excitedly into the mobile. “The way they pressed them against their heads I thought it a cure for the earache…. It is wondrous indeed! Does everyone have such an object? Does Anjali?”

  “Anjali! Ha! When is she not talking to some fellow on her mobile phone…”

  There was a state-of-the-art television, too, but the Tar Man avoided using it. He had not touched it since Anjali told him that sounds and pictures traveled through invisible airwaves and were picked up by televisions and radios.

  After a while the Tar Man and Tom grew tired of playing with these new toys and told
each other of their adventures since arriving in the future. Tom could scarcely believe his change in fortune: Blueskin was treating him like an old friend! He would not, he was sure of it, have treated him in such a familiar way had they been back in their own time. So Tom was careful to show the utmost respect and not take anything for granted. I am invited into the lion’s den, he thought. Best to tread carefully and not speak out of turn…

  They drank more cold beer. Tom described how he had been sleeping by the river, under a railway bridge where the trains thundered overhead and rats scuttled about among the rubbish.

  “So, tell me, young Tom, how do you find the future?”

  “I like this future. I didn’t care for it when I was on my own….”

  “I like it well,” said the Tar Man. “This century is more bountiful by far than my own. Upon my word, Tom, this chance shall not come my way again and I shall not squander it! I should not return to 1763 now, not for a king’s ransom….”

  The Tar Man described how he planned to make his mark in this new world. In time, just as Lord Luxon had done, he would court the great and the good, as well as the rogues and the scoundrels, and he would soon begin to cultivate a spreading network of men who would be only too pleased to do his bidding—or too scared not to.

  “I shall become rich! Ay, and powerful, too, I do not doubt! For you see, Tom, I have a secret….”

  Tom listened, round-eyed, to the Tar Man and marveled at the scope of his ambition. But how would Blueskin scale such lofty heights? And what was his secret? He dared not press him. When the Tar Man asked if he would agree to be his apprentice in this new century, Tom did not hesitate. How could he survive here on his own? And how could he resist the strength of the Tar Man’s purpose?

  They drank some more beer and stood on the narrow balcony overlooking Floral Street, to get some air.

  “London does not have the same odor,” commented the Tar Man. “The air is foul. Which London stank worse—our London with its horses and putrid gutters or this one full of cars?”

  Tom sniffed. “I smell nothing, Blueskin.”

  “Standing upwind of you, as I am, I say be glad you can smell nothing!”

  The Tar Man slapped Tom roughly on the back. He was in excellent spirits and started to hum a tune under his breath, and Tom joined in, tapping his foot in time to the familiar rhythm. Soon they were both singing the words of an old highwayman’s ballad with gusto while pedestrians on the pavement below craned their necks upward:

  Our Hearts are at ease,

  We kiss who we please:

  On Death it’s a folly to think;

  May he hang in a Noose,

  That this Health will refuse,

  Which I am now going to drink.

  When Anjali walked in and heard their none-too-melodious voices, she decided not to interrupt and went into the kitchen instead to make herself some toast. Before long the Tar Man heard her clattering about and, closely followed by Tom, came into the room. Anjali was going dancing later and had already changed into a satin skirt. She had just opened her mouth to say hello when the slices of toast popped up noisily out of the chrome toaster. Both the Tar Man and Tom jumped with the shock of it and looked wildly around the room for the cause of the alarming sound. Anjali realized that her new employer was brandishing a knife. It would have been funny except he looked ready to attack. It was an instant and genuine reaction. For the very first time Anjali contemplated the possibility that if these two people had never come across a toaster before, they might also have traveled here from a different century.

  “Hiya,” she said, trying to keep calm. “Anyone want some toast?”

  The Tar Man shook his head, slowly put away his knife, and retreated from the kitchen. Anjali made no comment, as she now understood how much her employer loathed appearing foolish. She buttered her toast and took it into the living room where she turned on the television, flicking through the channels with the remote control. Tom stood watching her shyly from the doorway. He did not notice his white mouse peeping out from the cuff of his sweatshirt but Anjali did. She shrieked and pointed. The Tar Man came in from the balcony but was reluctant to pass between the remote control and the television for fear of what the invisible waves might do to him.

  “I am sorry, Miss Anjali, I did not mean to frighten you,” said Tom timidly.

  “You didn’t,” she said, waving her hand at him as if to shoo him away. “I’m a bit jumpy today. You didn’t think I was scared of a mouse, did you? Just keep it away from me is all, I don’t like ’em….”

  Tom put his mouse back into his pocket. The Tar Man beckoned for Tom to join him again on the balcony, which he did, although he was wary of the television, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he imagined the room full of those magical airwaves Blueskin had told him about…. The Tar Man waited for Tom to come through and pointedly closed the French doors behind them.

  “I must ask you something,” said the Tar Man quietly. “Can you fade?”

  “I do not understand….”

  “Have you returned to our own time, even if only for a few moments, as if in a dream?”

  “No.”

  “You remember how Master Schock and Mistress Dyer escaped from us in the rainstorm?”

  “You can do that!” exclaimed Tom.

  “Ay, and more. It is not for the fainthearted and I have made mistakes—but I am resolved to master it. Already I have a secret skill which would make me the envy of every thief in Christendom….”

  “Where do you go when you fade?”

  “Ha! A good question, indeed! I fade back to our own time. It is not in my power to stay overlong, for invisible forces will always pull me back. But while I am there I can see and hear and speak and move. Indeed, although things do not feel the same when I am in that precarious state, I have even learned to transport whatever I can hold in my hands from one century to another. And if I stay five minutes in the past, five minutes have elapsed when I return. If I take a dozen paces, I reappear in that selfsame spot. Truly it is miraculous! And this has not happened to you?”

  “Never, Blueskin.”

  “Why should that be so? Perhaps some have a propensity for it and some do not…. But, no matter, you shall see it with your own eyes. Watch, and be amazed!”

  The Tar Man stood tall and closed his eyes. His brows furrowed in deep concentration. Nothing happened. The Tar Man opened his eyes, paced up and down for a moment, and tried again. Tom stood awkwardly in the corner of the balcony, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

  “God’s teeth! Why can I not do it?” growled the Tar Man. Then, turning to Tom, he barked: “Leave me!”

  Tom scurried back into the sitting room and cowered behind the curtains. Anjali observed him silently as she crunched through a crust of toast.

  The Tar Man rested his hands on the cold balcony rail and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes and trying to reach that state of calmness which seemed to aid the process. He pressed the palms of his hands hard against his eyeballs. It was a trick he had recently discovered. It made him see luminous shapes floating through infinite blackness, which mimicked what he saw as he faded. He focused his energies once more but was soon shaking his head again in frustration. He could not do it.

  Let my brains be knocked out if I let one mishap stop me! It did not kill me! The Tar Man knew very well the cause of his difficulty. The previous night, in Southwark, he had faded in the grounds of the cathedral. When he materialized, he found that his right side was trapped inside the trunk of a plane tree. Instantly, a process started whereby the atoms of his body in his altered state repelled the object in which it found itself, causing the Tar Man to slide slowly from the tree like molasses dropping from a spoon. The intense pain had taken his breath away and he all but lost consciousness. A terrified cat, back arched and electric green eyes flashing, stood hissing at him throughout. Exhausted and in shock, the Tar Man had made no effort to resist the forces that always pulle
d him back but just stood, limply, awaiting the inevitable. Like falling off a horse, however, the Tar Man knew that he must immediately fade again lest his courage fail him the next time. He had given himself ten minutes to recover, made sure that he was well out of the way of the tree and faded back once more to pay a visit to 1763 and the petrified church cat. This time, things went without a hitch.

  Now, standing on the drafty balcony in the twenty-first century, the Tar Man stood tall and centered himself. I shall fade, he told himself, it is the key to all that I desire!

  Tom continued to peep at his master through a gap in the curtains. He stood motionless, head bowed and shoulders a little stooped, in a posture of intense concentration. After what seemed a long time, Tom’s patience was rewarded. He watched, dumbfounded, as Blueskin gradually became transparent and finally vanished. Tom rushed out onto the tiny balcony and paced up and down, scratching his head, his heart thumping in his chest with the shock of it. Anjali, too, now positioned herself behind the curtains to steal a look outside, curious about what was going on. Unprepared, for she had heard nothing, she suddenly felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. She let out a piercing scream. Tom flew in from the balcony and stared in disbelief at his smiling master.

  “Calm yourself, Anjali; you have no cause to creep about like a spy. I have no secrets from you….”

  Anjali stood, wide-eyed and rigid, as the Tar Man offered a pewter tankard half-full of ale to Tom.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  Dumbfounded, Tom drank. He grimaced, and swallowed, and then his face slowly lit up. “It’s warm!” he said. “And it’s from our time!”

  “Who are you two?” Anjali cried. “Are you dead? Are you ghosts?”

  TWELVE

  GHOST FROM THE FUTURE

  In which the Tar Man confides in Tom, discovers the joys of haunting, and clears up an unresolved matter with Lord Luxon

  After instructing the hairdresser to cut Tom’s hair short and spiky, Anjali had taken him shopping. There was something about shops, especially clothes shops, that made Tom want to bolt like a wild horse. He had refused to try anything on, even for Anjali, and she had struggled to get him to stand still long enough for her to hold up items of clothing against him. Tom was so unused to looking at himself in a mirror that seeing his startled reflection return his gaze made him start with fright. But finally the torture was over, and they returned to the flat with armfuls of shopping bags. Anjali pushed him into his room, pulled out an outfit for him to try on and closed the door behind him.