‘Wait – you said she was twenty-four, didn’t you? So I have fourteen years at the most.’
They were silent. Ginger did the arithmetic. From some perspectives fourteen years sounded a lot – far more notice than people ordinarily had – and yet it also meant they were more than halfway through their time together. Seamus wouldn’t live past forty-nine. The new baby would still be at school when he died. His death might not be imminent, but the time limit still lent Ginger’s thoughts clarity. She did love Seamus more than she could love any other man, and she felt newly certain it was the right decision to stay with him. How dreadful it would have been to reveal her affair tonight, like she’d intended. Discovering his premature death on the same day as his marriage disintegrating would have left Ginger more guilty than she could cope with. Her relief at guilt avoided was immense. She had a new motivation to be a model wife; to make these next few years, with their children, as sweet as possible while he was still there. They would earn Fay’s happy memories.
She took Seamus’s hand. She could feel the calluses on his palm, at the base of every finger.
‘Anyone can go at anytime,’ she said. ‘Let’s see this knowledge as a gift.’
‘You would say that.’ He withdrew his hand, and there was a chill in his voice.
‘What do you mean?’ Ginger asked, and she realised she didn’t really want him to answer. His tone told her that the world had shifted. Learning of his premature death made him drop a pretence that protected them both.
‘Knowing when I’ll die is a gift for you,’ he told her. ‘It must be a relief to hear when you’ll be rid of me.’
‘That’s a wicked thing to say,’ Ginger replied, to hide her fear.
‘Do you think I don’t know why you work in London?’
This was left field. ‘I have to work where the jobs are, Seamus.’
‘Yes, people only ever get brain injuries in London.’
‘We live in a commuter town! Who doesn’t work in London?’
‘Me. Which makes it much easier for you to blame sudden absences on bad trains. And I won’t run into the men you’re fucking. The current one; does he know he’s not the first?’
So he had sensed her duplicity, and guessed at her infidelity – but he had no proof. If he did, he would have known the threat was Ruby, rather than a man. She could still persuade him he was mistaken.
‘I’m not sleeping with other men,’ Ginger hissed. ‘I never have. Please let’s go inside. We’re right below Fay’s window.’
‘You’re a coward,’ he said tiredly. ‘You want to leave and you won’t. So tell me why I shouldn’t walk out.’
Ginger turned over what answers she could give. There was the pregnancy, which she was yet to share; it had seemed unreal, and now he might believe paternity was in question. For the moment, she kept that news to herself. She needed another way to persuade him.
‘Fay will visit us tomorrow,’ Ginger said, taking Seamus’s hand again. ‘She will tell us what’s coming. And she’ll tell you, like she told me – she has a happy childhood. Doesn’t that mean we’re happy too? She wouldn’t be happy if I was cheating on you. How can that not reassure you?’
‘Maybe good lying is hereditary,’ he said, then they heard their daughter rap the glass on the window above them, her face appearing small and pale in the evening light. The conversation, for now, was over.
41
AUGUST 2017
Barbara
Barbara took Breno back to the flat before leaving for the museum. She rather regretted his absence on the walk from the station; he would have been company, and she felt very alone. The distance to the museum was considerable. Her preference would have been to catch a taxi, but she thought Margaret might be angry if a third party – the driver – witnessed her arrival.
She didn’t meet another soul in the last few streets. A police siren distantly rose and fell. The museum was locked up when she arrived. Had Margaret chosen this place because of its quiet emptiness, the low likelihood that they would be seen? The venue was a strange one.
The walk had given Barbara a queer pain in her chest. She placed a steadying hand on the wall. Nerves, she thought. That was why she was nauseous and a little sweaty. As she contemplated how to get into the museum, she heard the creak of a door, out of sight. She stumbled to the side of the building. A staff entrance was wide open, but there was no one to be seen.
Bee peered inside. She saw a narrow corridor, with a door on the left – presumably to the public areas of the museum – and a stairwell, leading to the basement. First she tried the door handle, but it didn’t budge. The only other way to go was down. Down, to where no passer-by would hear her cry out.
Don’t be silly, Bee scolded herself. Whatever differences had arisen between her and Margaret, they had once been friends. She wouldn’t place Bee in danger. Bee had to believe that, especially now she was so close to getting what she wanted.
She went downstairs and let herself into the boiler room.
Margaret stood opposite the door. She wore a reefer and leather gloves, despite the warmth of the evening. In one hand she held a pistol.
‘It’s just the two of us?’ Barbara’s eyes flickered between Margaret and the gun.
‘As we arranged. Do we need anyone else?’
‘No.’ The room smelt as fresh as April weather. Surprisingly fresh, for an underground boiler room. It smelt like time machines. ‘Why are we meeting here, Margaret?’
‘It has a personal significance to me. A sentimental value, you might say.’
Supposedly – if you had access to state secrets – obtaining keys and alarm codes to buildings that didn’t belong to you was a relatively simple matter.
‘Now.’ Margaret extended her arm, pointing with her gun to a tower of bricks – around four foot high – that Bee had failed to spot by the wall. A Candybox was perched on the top. ‘We’re going to play a game of chance.’
‘A game…?’
‘If you shoot into the Candybox, there’s a twenty per cent chance the bullet will rebound straight back into you. Alternatively, it will pass through time, to the possible harm of whoever operates the machine in the future.’ She held the gun out to Barbara. ‘Call it my variation on Russian roulette.’
‘But why?’
‘It’s a practical test, of my own devising. Willingness to play predicts smooth adjustment to the Conclave’s norms.’
Barbara still hadn’t taken the gun.
‘You want me to endanger myself – or someone else,’ she said.
‘Yes. Those are the rules of the game. You told me you would do anything, Bee.’
‘I meant I would do simple work – menial work, if necessary.’
Margaret let her arm drop.
‘Fine. You can go home.’
Barbara thought her heart would crack. The chance to time travel again had been within reach, and now Margaret was taking it away.
‘Wait,’ Barbara said. ‘Just… wait.’
‘Are you going to play or not?’
‘Please, I just… All right!’
The touch of the gun on Barbara’s palm was cool. Her hand was trembling. She hooked her finger through the trigger guard. Margaret’s insane, she thought; it was insanity to sport with Barbara’s life, and other people’s. Before today, Barbara hadn’t seen Margaret in half a century. What had happened to her since to make her so cruel?
‘I can’t,’ Barbara said. ‘I won’t time travel again at this price.’
Margaret took back the gun, aimed it at the Candybox, and fired.
‘You were never going to shoot,’ she said matter of factly. ‘But I enjoyed watching you consider it. Duck.’
‘What?’
The Candybox spat out the bullet as Margaret dropped to the floor. The bullet grazed Barbara’s arm, spinning her off balance, then blood wept through the cotton of her sleeve. Margaret, unharmed, kept her foetal position at Barbara’s feet, and she laughed and laughed. The seconds elongated. Barbara felt she was watching the scene from far away.
‘Thank you, Margaret,’ she said.
‘What for?’