The Psychology of Time Travel

‘Good news would be very welcome.’

Green Grace crouched before her. ‘You live a long time. Like Bee did. For another fifty years.’

‘All right.’

‘We have two children. A girl and a boy, named Emily and Icarus.’

‘Am I happy?’

‘I think so. You make other people happy. You make me happy.’

‘There’s something else you should know,’ Silver Grace interrupted.

‘Please don’t,’ Green Grace said.

‘About Bee,’ Silver Grace said to Ruby. ‘About why she died. And what you do next.’

‘Get out,’ Green Grace roared, fearful of what her older self was going to reveal.

Silver Grace held up her hands in defeat. She slung her bag back over her arm, and left.

‘What are you going to tell me?’ Ruby whispered. ‘Is it really terrible?’

Grace didn’t need to give her the whole story. Not the worst part; not what Ruby was going to do. She could leave Ruby out all together.

‘Bee’s death,’ Grace said. ‘It was Margaret’s fault.’





49


NOVEMBER 2017



Ruby


Though she spent two months trying, once Ruby knew how Bee died she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Margaret’s actions were a final insult to Bee after many years of contempt. Since Bee’s death, nothing had changed for Margaret, she was still at the Conclave, treating people as cruelly as she’d treated Bee. The Toy Museum was where it happened and Ruby believed if she saw the scene she might understand how to make Margaret pay.

Ruby was relieved, when she visited, to be the only patron. It was better to be there in silence. Vacationers with cameras, or busloads of schoolchildren, might have overwhelmed her. She stared at the Roman dolls and wheeled horses without really seeing them. There was only one museum assistant in the hall. The minute he strayed from his post, Ruby would make for the basement stairs. Until then she pretended to browse. Just when she was beginning to worry no opportunity would arise, a phone rang in the distance. The assistant smiled apologetically and rose from his seat, leaving the way clear.

Quickly Ruby made for the door. She took the little dark flight of stairs, glancing over her shoulder as she went, and the boiler room door was ajar when she arrived.

She flicked the light switch. The boiler room must contain some clue of how Margaret’s mind worked. Grace had told Ruby that Margaret would die of bullets from the Candybox game. That must be significant. With every player that Margaret invited here, was she rehearsing the scene of her eventual death? Did coercing other people into violent acts lessen her sense of impotence?

I should pretend I’m Margaret, Ruby thought. I can get into her head.

She stood with her feet apart, and pretended to raise a gun. She shut one eye. The shelf of stock was in front of her. There, in the middle, was a Candybox. The Candybox.

At closer range Ruby could see the Candybox had aged badly. She lifted it off the shelf. The plastic had bubbled and cracked, and was rough to the touch. Tears dropped onto the toy and Ruby swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. This was the instrument of Bee’s death.

Her own invention.

Ruby put the Candybox back on the shelf. An idea was beginning to form.

*

‘This is going to be such a wonderful Christmas,’ Grace said.

They were in Liberty’s, looking at brown diamonds in the jewellery section. Most years Ruby was not an early Christmas shopper – they were barely into November – but Grace’s enthusiasm was infectious. She would be the only Grace to spend Christmas with Ruby. The other Graces could spend Christmases with other Rubys, and this Grace was glad none of her silver selves would be around.

‘I’ve made a decision,’ Ruby said.

‘Ooooh! And I don’t have the first idea what it is. I love it when that happens!’

‘I’m going to apply for a job at the Conclave. I’d be a good candidate for their Psychological Services department.’

Grace gaped.

‘Honey, no,’ she said.

‘Won’t my application be successful?’ Ruby asked.

‘I haven’t the first idea. I don’t understand why you’d want to work for the Conclave. After everything you know about them!’

Ruby didn’t want to work for the Conclave; she wanted to retrace Bee’s steps. She would ask Margaret for a job and, presumably, be put through the same ordeal as Bee. Except this time, Margaret would get her comeuppance. Ruby resisted telling Grace this. Grace’s reaction suggested she would dissuade Ruby, or try to.

‘You know how bad the Conclave is, and you still work there,’ Ruby pointed out.

‘That’s different. I was embroiled before I knew how bad it was going to get, and then it was too late to extricate myself.’

‘Wouldn’t life be easier if we could both move through time?’

‘Oh, sweetheart. I understand why you’d think so but I don’t want that for you. Being at Margaret’s beck and call, my God. Spare yourself. Now, look at that beauty of a necklace – it would look perfect on you.’

‘How could you not know this conversation was coming?’ Ruby asked.

‘Maybe none of the silver Graces thought it was very significant.’

‘Or you’re lying.’

‘That’s quite an accusation.’

‘You might want me to think there’s no point applying.’

‘This is ridiculous. First I’m the villain for giving you information from the future. Then I’m the villain for lying about it. I can’t win. You’re impossible.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Several heads turned. Ruby lowered her voice. ‘I’m not impossible. We are. Us. You have all the power. I can’t check you’re telling the truth, I don’t get to pick which parts you tell me, and I’m never going to be the one telling you about your future. We can’t be on a level footing. I’m fucking done.’

‘No such luck,’ Grace scoffed. ‘I’m stuck with you.’

Ruby wailed. Grace had proved Ruby’s point, using foreknowledge as the opportunity for a barb.

‘I can’t see you right now,’ Ruby said. ‘I just – need to be by myself.’

*

But she didn’t want to be by herself. She wanted to be with someone who knew nothing about her future; who knew hardly anything about her at all. So she went to the brain injury unit, for the first time since the summer, and sat on the front wall for an hour, and caught Ginger on her way out. Ginger’s mac was uncharacteristically shapeless. The folds of her dress hung oddly. She placed a self-conscious hand on her middle.

‘I can see why you’ve not been in touch,’ Ruby said, taking stock of the bump.

‘Weren’t you busy too?’ Ginger’s tone was sardonic, which surprised Ruby. They didn’t normally criticise each other for unexplained absences.

‘It’s all been happening with me.’ Ruby slid her hands into her pockets. ‘Love, death. Not birth, though.’

‘Love? So what was the attraction of this person you’re in love with? Fewer vices than me? Prettier?’

Of all the ways Ruby thought Ginger would react to her arrival, she hadn’t anticipated jealousy.

‘She’s not prettier than you,’ Ruby said. ‘And she probably drinks as much – though she’s more interested in mother’s ruin than the grape.’

‘So that’s your type. Decorative alcoholics.’

‘Don’t forget intelligent. I outdid myself this time. She’s a genius.’

‘It was brains you were interested in? I really played things the wrong way.’

Ruby hesitated. She thought of the barman, in Birmingham, that she’d seen Grace flirting with, and said: ‘You’re both bi.’

‘I’m not bi.’ Ginger’s tone wasn’t defensive; it was resigned.

‘OK. Whatever.’

Ginger waited for some colleagues to walk past, then said, ‘How can it be love with her, if you’re here with me now? I missed you. I kept thinking of contacting you but… things seem a lot more complicated than they did.’

‘Only as complicated as we make them. Come home with me.’

‘Ruby… I don’t know…’

‘I’m not asking more than an hour or two. You can say a client overran.’

‘You know how to make a girl feel special,’ Ginger said in that sardonic tone again.

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