Tempus Fugitive (21 page)

This then, was the place where their mystery man had appeared, possibly with a flash and a bang, or – no, the incident had been reported.  This was no doubt the last place he had been, though, before time had stopped.  What had he been doing?  And more importantly, where the hell had he gone?  Was it possible he had disintegrated or vanished before people’s eyes?  Accounting for the shocked expressions.  There were no answers here, why couldn’t clues turn up when you needed them?  On the other hand, Stiles had a bad feeling about this. All his instincts told him to worry excessively, and that even mild panic would not be out of place.  People did not just vanish – at least not in normal circumstances, not without magic – even when they were out of their own time, at least he did not think so, he really needed Hecaté’s input here, she would know.  He concentrated and called on her with his mind – he just hoped it would work.

~ Chapter Fourteen ~

A
gnarled hand reached through the blackness and grabbed at Denny’s hair.  He yelped.  ‘Hey, watch it.’

‘Jus’ tryin’ ter ’elp,’ said a disembodied voice gruffly. ‘Sod yer then, yer ungrateful bastard.  Stay there if yer’d ruther, see if I care.’

‘Um, I’m sorry,’ ventured Denny.  Actually, I’m not even sure where I am, and I’m a bit … please help me.’

‘Doesn’t even know where ’e is,’ muttered the voice.  ‘Where do they get these idiots?  You been drinkin’?’ he added a little louder.

‘I wish.’ muttered Denny.  ‘No, I haven’t been, er drinkin’, I’m just lost.  I think …’

‘Lost?’ said the voice in wonderment.  ‘Lost?’ it repeated.  ‘’E says ’e’s lost, by Beelzebub that’s a new one.  You sure you ain’t been at the gold top?’

‘Gold top?’  thought Denny.  But he did not have any more time to wonder about that as he was pulled out into the light by his horns. ‘
Horns
?  Here, wait a minute.’ Then he saw where he was. 
Double, double shit!  With a horse apple on top.

‘Ogod,’ he said.  ‘No, I mean – I didn’t mean … no, noo-oh shiiit.’      

* * *

‘Thank God that’s over,’ breathed Tamar.  She heard footsteps. 

‘One thing after another,’ she thought, as the guard folded up neatly with a small sigh and she dusted off her hands. ‘That’s what we should have done in the first place,’ she thought ruefully, but Denny had an unfortunate tendency to panic.  And now… well where was he? Surely, he would not have carried on going through the files without her.  Would he?  Perhaps if he had panicked again … no.  So … where…?  Damn!

Two choices now lay before her, did she wait here and hope that he turned up.  Or did she… what?  What
was
the other choice ?

Okay, thinking logically, if he wasn’t
here
then he must be … aaagh! 

Okay, start again.  What was the last thing he had said?  “Close file” obviously, so …?  Wait, he
hadn’t
said that had he?  What he’d actually said was “close
files
”.  What did that mean?  Maybe he was out of mainframe altogether.  That would be okay, as far as it went, if he was back in the world.  But she could not count on that.  There were other places outside of mainframe, as Tamar knew only too well.  Besides, think about it.  The world as we know it is actually, technically a part of mainframe, well, one of the files anyway.  So if Denny was
outside
of mainframe, then he could be anywhere, or nowhere, he could be … oh no, it did not bear thinking about.  Tamar wrenched open the main file door and started to run. 

* * *

‘He does not belong
here
anyway,’ said Satan, frowning from his sagging armchair.  They were gathered around him on a square of carpet, like children at story time.  (Hell took this idea directly from teachers – every evening the sinners were tortured with readings from Enid Blyton or Harry Potter.)  His minions trembled as well they might, such a frown had been known to cause earthquakes and/or floods, and they knew what was coming. (Famous Five do something incredibly boring – in a boat). 

Another cock up!  And frankly, they were sick of taking the blame.

 ‘Doesn’t he?’ asked Snarkle before the others could silence him.  ‘How can you tell?’  (There’s always one).  Several minions – all of them, in fact, hit the ground running, but Old Nick (which no one ever called him to his face – those sinners who had called him that in life were singled out for extra special punishments – Beatrix Potter) merely frowned a little deeper – he was more puzzled than anything.

‘Well, for one thing,’ He said, shaking his head in deep perplexity, ‘he’s still alive’

* * *

After five minutes hard running, Tamar suddenly stopped.  This was not because she had arrived.  She did not really know where she was going, after all, nor what she was looking for.  Neither had she realised this and decided to think sensibly and stop panicking.  Nor had she merely run out of breath.  In fact, she was distracted, by raised voices behind a nearby door.  She skidded to a halt and listened, fascinated. 

‘I am the real Robin i’ the Hood,’ said one voice

‘Scurvy knave,’ objected  another.  ‘Would you give me lie to my very face?  I gentlemen, am Sir Robert of Huntingdon …’

‘Ah, you see?’ interrupted the other voice.  ‘He
admits
it! He is not even called Robin.  I, on the other hand, am.  I am Robin of Locksley
…’

‘A
peasant
,’ said the other voice, scornfully.

‘Well?’ said the first voice.

‘Peasants cannot be heroes,’ said the second voice.  ‘Well known fact.’

‘Why not?’

‘This is surely all academic,’ said a third voice.  ‘I am the true Robin i’ the hood, and I will suffer no pretenders.’

‘Is that a threat?’ said the first voice.  Move him forward a few centuries and he might have been saying “come and have a go, if you think you’re hard enough.”

‘A challenge,’ confirmed the third voice, languidly.

‘Right, you ponce!’

There was the sound of a scuffle.  Tamar grinned; this was a famous historical cock up, and she had always wondered how it would be resolved.  Now maybe she would find out, she gently pushed open the door.

Inside she saw a small conference room.  There were three burly men fighting like cats in a sack on a Persian rug.  There was a lot of scratching and biting and hair pulling. They ought to have been ashamed of themselves really.  Behind a large oak desk, were three accountants, or possibly they were clerks, all dressed in identical grey suits and wearing identical expressions of alarm.  They were remonstrating ineffectually with the “heroes” along the lines of.  ‘Oh I say…’ and ‘Oh really – gentlemen – please.’  And flapping their arms feebly.

Tamar acted on instinct. That is: she leapt into the fray.

She emerged, not a hair out of place, holding on to the ears of two of the protagonists, her foot on the third one’s head.

‘Ow, ow, ow, ow.’ they whimpered.

‘Had enough?’ she snarled.

‘Mmm, mmm.’

Okay.’  She released them and they stood upright, gingerly fingering their ears. 

‘You call yourselves fighters?’ she said contemptuously.  ‘I’ve seen more vicious three year olds.  Much more vicious actually,’ she added thoughtfully.  ‘Those little bastards really go in for the kill.’

The Robins had the grace to look ashamed.  They looked at the floor and twisted their feet around each other. Tamar had to fight back the urge to laugh. 

One of the little grey men came forward and cleared his throat.  ‘Ahem,’ he began.  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite know who…?

‘Tamar,’ she snapped.  ‘Historic amendments.’  There was a tense silence, during which she wondered if she had said the wrong thing.  Then she saw it; the little men were looking at her in awe. She had clearly made them nervous. Good.

‘Who’s responsible for this mess?’ she snapped.

‘Well – ma’am,’ stuttered one.  ‘It looks as if
you
are.’

‘I meant whose
fault
is it?’

The three stooges looked at each other and shrugged.  ‘We don’t know,’ said the chattiest of the three.  ‘We just get handed the problem, and well …’

‘And you’re doing a sterling job, I can see.  But if I might make a suggestion?’

They leaned forward eagerly. Tamar gazed thoughtfully at the three Robins.  ‘A challenge,’ she muttered under her breath.  ‘Not a bad idea.  Winner takes all, ’specially if we can arrange it so that they
all
win.’

‘You lot,’ she barked.  ‘How do you feel about an archery contest?’

The Robins looked at each other.  ‘Do we have a choice?’ asked the one who had issued the challenge and whose head was bleeding.

‘No.’

* * *

Tamar whistled as she strode down the corridor. That had gone rather well.  The three claimants would be inserted back into history at slightly different intervals, all believing that they had won the right to be remembered as ‘Robin i’ the hood’.  For the beings who spun the cosmos, arranging three separate archery contests, all identical, should be a piece of cake.  Of course, there would always be pedantic historians who would dispute the true origins of the legend, but so what?  It would give them something to argue about and keep them out of mischief. And at least the Robins were happy. 

 But best of all, she had managed to swipe one of the clerks access cards.  She strode along singing ‘Merry men, merry men, merry men, men, men, men,’ to the tune of “The Lone Ranger”.   

* * *

‘He
looks
like one of us boss,’ said Snarkle.  (Some people never learn)

The Lord of hell only smiled.  (Later he would listen to the tale of Johnny Town Mouse
and
the Flopsy Bunnies.)  ‘Yes, it’s intriguing really – a classic case of morphic resonance.  He’s obviously not an
ordinary
mortal.  Perhaps he’s on the demon fast-track.’

Denny panicked; it couldn’t  be … could it?  And do I really look like them?  He glanced at the devils and imps around him in horror.  Then he mentally shrugged.  Oh well, he had never been what you would call handsome.’

‘Mind you,’ mused his Anti-Holiness.  ‘I don’t seem to have a record of him, perhaps he’s a…’ he spat the word.  ‘
Hero
.’  (Heroes deserved Jackie Collins)

The imps shuddered impressively.

‘Well, if he’s not dead,’ said Snarkle, really pushing his luck now.  ‘Don’t we have to send him back?’

Satan pinched the bridge of his nose wearily.  ‘Judas,’ he addressed a weaselly man on his left, ‘what’s the directive on that one?’

‘Nothing in the rules says you have to be dead to be here boss.’

‘Hey!’ objected Denny.  ‘I’m not supposed to be here, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not a bad guy.’  Uneasily he wondered if this were, true.  After all, nobody’s perfect, and only last year he had turned his landlord into a statue.  He wondered if leaving the loo seat up was a cardinal sin; Tamar certainly seemed to think so.  However, it appeared that this was not the point.  The crucial phrase here, as it turned out was “didn’t sign up for this.”

‘Didn’t you?’  Satan furrowed his brow.  ‘Judas – check that, will you?’

After an apparently endless search through a huge tome, while Satan fidgeted and complained about the ruddy software, and why did the “other lot” get regular upgrades?  Judas informed the company.  ‘He’s right, no contract.’

‘Damn.’  Lucifer thumped his hands on the sides of his armchair.  ‘So what the Hell’s he doing here, spying?’  He looked so thunderous that Denny cowered.  ‘Speak mortal.’ 

N - no, I’m just lost – honest.’

The devils laughed.  ‘Lost – lost, that’s what he said before.’ 

‘Load of rubbish, you can’t get lost here. – Well, you can if you’re a lost soul of course but
…’

‘Let’s put him in the lava pits, soon get the truth out of him.’

‘We can’t.’ said Lucifer.  ‘He’s out of our jurisdiction.’

Denny breathed out.  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I was in mainframe …’

Satan actually went white –  a difficult feat when your natural hue is a sort of reddish plum colour.  He gulped.  ‘Oh Gawd,’ he spluttered.  The imps stared.  ‘What?’ he said.  ‘It’s just a
saying
. 

‘Anyway,’ he rallied, ‘get him out of here.  I’m getting one of my migraines.  This was a good attempt at nonchalance, but Denny was not fooled.  ‘I want …’ he began.  Then he felt a hundred horny little hands grip him and drag him away.

* * *

Mainframe – central files. Now what?  Tamar sighed; she had no idea what she was looking for.  Well, Denny of course, but … this was unlike the other files in that it was not a file really, it was a – there was no getting around it – it was a cloud.  Her own personal cloud apparently, although she had seen someone come in just before she had.  There was no sign of him.  ‘Oh God,’ she groaned.

‘Yes, can I help you?’ came the reply.

Tamar nearly fell off her cloud, until she remembered that it was only data, and so was she.  ‘Oh shit,’ she breathed.

‘Sorry,’ came the reply.  ‘Command not recognised.’  And now she noted the slightly sing-song quality to the voice.  ‘The most common password in the universe,’ she thought, wryly. Although, here there was clearly more to it.

‘I need some help,’ she asked tentatively.  She was finally beginning to feel out of her depth.

‘Ask me anything.’

‘Um, I need to find someone.’

‘Who?’  Wow this was really sophisticated software; it was like having a normal conversation – almost.

‘Denis Sanger, he’s …’

‘Fifty nine - hundred files found – specify by date and place of birth.’

Tamar counted on her fingers muttering under her breath,’ so if he’s 25 no 26 now, that’s 1978, and he was born in London somewhere’

‘Thinking – twenty seven files found, specify exact date and place of birth.’

‘Thinking,’ responded Tamar mischievously. But “God” apparently had no sense of humour, and infinite patience.

 Tamar shugged. ‘Okay, 12
^th
Dec 1978 …’

 She got no further. ‘Denis Alexander Sanger, born 12/12/78 11:58 P.M at King’s Cross Hospital, Ward 22 – Mother Alice Meriam Sanger, Father Julian David Sanger,  not found. That is to say, his current location is not known – that is odd.’