The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(21)

And he had to confess the vague unease he felt was in no way existential. Dying itself did not worry him in the least, because fear of death, whether it was a bridge to a biblical universe or a plank artfully suspended above the void, always derived from the certainty that the world went on without us, like a dog after its ticks have been removed. Broadly speaking, then, pulling the trigger meant pulling out of the game, relinquishing any possibility of being dealt a better hand in the next round. But Andrew doubted this could happen anyway. He had lost all faith. He did not believe fate had any reward in store for him that could make up for the pain he had suffered, above all because he did not believe such a recompense existed. He was afraid of something far more mundane: the pain he would doubtless feel when the bullet shattered his jaw. Naturally, it would not be pleasant, but it was part of his plan, and therefore something he must accept. He felt his finger grow heavy as it rested on the trigger and he gritted his teeth, prepared to put an end to his tragic life.

Just then, a knock came on the door. Startled, Andrew opened his eyes. Who could this be? Had McCarthy seen him arrive and come to ask for money to fix the window? The knocking became more insistent. That accursed money-grubber. If the man had the gall to stick his snout through the hole in the window, Andrew would not hesitate to shoot him. What did it matter now if he broke the absurd commandment about not killing your fellow man, especially if that man happened to be McCarthy? “Andrew, I know you’re in there. Open the door.” With a bitter grimace, Andrew recognized his cousin Charles’s voice. Charles, Charles, always following him everywhere, looking out for him. He would have preferred it to be McCarthy. He could not shoot Charles. How had his cousin found him? And why did he go on trying when Andrew himself had long since given up? “Go away Charles, I’m busy,” he cried.

“Don’t do it, Andrew! I’ve found a way of saving Marie!” “Saving Marie?” Andrew laughed grimly. He had to admit his cousin had imagination, although this was verging on bad taste.

“Perhaps I should remind you Marie is dead,” he shouted. “She was murdered in this miserable room eight years ago. When I could have saved her, I didn’t. How can we save her now, Charles, by traveling in time?” “Exactly,” his cousin replied, slipping something beneath the door.

Andrew glanced at it with a vague curiosity. It looked like a leaflet.

“Read it, Andrew,” his cousin implored, speaking to him through the broken window. “Please read it.” Andrew felt rather ashamed that his cousin should see him like that, the revolver pressed ridiculously against his jaw, which was perhaps not the most suitable place if you wanted to blow your head off. Knowing his cousin would not go away, he lowered the gun with an exasperated sigh, placed it on the bed, and rose to fetch the piece of paper.

“All right, Charles, you win,” he muttered. “Let’s see what this is all about.” He picked the sheet of paper up off the floor and examined it.

It was a faded sky-blue handbill. He read it, unable to believe that what it said could be true. Amazing though it seemed, he was holding the advertisement for a company called Murray’s Time Travel that offered journeys in time. This was what it said: Tired of traveling through space? Now you can travel through time, into the fourth dimension.

Make the most of our special opening offer and journey to the year 2000. Witness an era only your grandchildren will live to see. Spend three whole hours in the year 2000 for a mere one hundred pounds.

See with your own eyes the future war between automatons and humans that will change the fate of the world. Don’t be the last to hear about it.

The text was accompanied by an illustration intended to portray a fierce battle between two powerful armies. It showed a landscape of supposedly ruined buildings, a mound of rubble before which were ranged the two opposing sides. One was clearly human; the other consisted of humanoid creatures apparently made of metal.

The drawing was too crude to be able to make out anything more.

What on earth was this? Andrew felt he had no choice but to unlock the door to the little room. Charles walked in, closing it behind him. He stood breathing into his hands to warm them, but beaming contentedly at having intervened to stop his cousin’s suicide. For the time being, at least. The first thing he did was seize the pistol from the bed.

“How did you know I was here?” asked Andrew, while his cousin stood in front of the mirror waving the gun about furiously.

“You disappoint me, cousin,” replied Charles, emptying the bullets from the chamber into his cupped hand and depositing them in his coat pocket. “Your father’s gun cabinet was open, a pistol was missing, and today is November seventh. Where else would I have gone to look for you? You may as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs.” “I suppose so,” conceded Andrew, thinking his cousin was right. He had not exactly gone out of his way to cover his tracks.

Charles held the pistol by its barrel and handed it to Andrew.

“Here you are. You can shoot yourself as many times as you like now.” Andrew snatched the gun and stuffed it into his pocket, eager to make the embarrassing object disappear as quickly as possible. He would just have to kill himself some other time. Charles looked at him with an expression of mock disapproval, waiting for some sort of explanation, but Andrew did not have the energy to convince him suicide was the only solution he could think of.

Before his cousin had the chance to lecture him, he decided to sidestep the issue by inquiring about the leaflet.