The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(76)

When they all had settled, the guide closed the carriage door and sat facing them on a tiny chair, like an overseer on a galley ship. Almost at once, a violent jolt caused some of the passengers to cry out in alarm. Mazursky hurriedly put their minds at rest, explaining that this was simply the engine starting up. And, sure enough, the unpleasant juddering soon gave way to a gentle tremor, almost a purr, propelling the vehicle from the rear. Mazursky then looked through the periscope and smiled with calm satisfaction.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to inform you that our journey to the future is underway. This very moment we are crossing the fourth dimension.” As if to confirm this, the vehicle suddenly began swaying from side to side, giving rise to further consternation among the passengers. The guide reassured them once more, apologizing for the state of the road and adding that despite their sustained efforts to keep the path clear, the terrain in the fourth dimension was naturally rough and dotted with bumps and crevices. Claire glanced at her face reflected in the darkened window, wondering what the landscape looked like behind the black paint blocking their view.

However, she scarcely had time to wonder about anything else, for at that very moment, to the passengers” horror, they heard a loud roar outside, followed by a burst of gunfire and a heartrend-ing bellow. Startled, Lucy clutched Claire’s hand. This time Mazursky limited himself to smiling serenely at the passengers” alarmed faces, as if to say that the roars and gunfire would be a recurring feature of their journey, and the best thing they could do would be to ignore them.

“Well,” he declared, rising from his seat and strolling down the aisle once everyone had recovered a little. “We shall soon be in the year 2000. Please pay attention while I explain what will happen when we arrive in the future. As Mr. Murray already mentioned, we will climb out of the tram, and I will take you to the promontory where we will watch the battle between humans and automatons. Although they can’t see us from below, it is imperative you stay together and keep quiet so as not to give our position away, for there is no telling what effect it might have on the fabric of time, although I assume it would not be a positive one.” Further bellows came from outside, followed by the alarming shots, which Mazursky scarcely appeared to notice. He carried on slowly pacing between the benches, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, a pensive crease on his brow, like a professor weary of repeating the same old lecture time and again.

“The battle will last approximately twenty minutes,” he went on, “and will resemble a short three-act play: the evil Solomon will appear with his entourage and be ambushed by the brave Captain Shackleton and his men. A brief but thrilling skirmish will follow, and finally a duel between the automaton known as Solomon and Derek Shackleton, which as you already know will end in victory for the humans. Please refrain from applauding when the duel is over: this is not a music hall act, but a real event, which we are not even supposed to witness. Simply form a line and follow me back to the vehicle as quietly as possible. Then we will travel back across the fourth dimension and return home safe and sound. Is all that clear?” The passengers nodded as one. Lucy pressed Claire’s hand again and beamed at her, full of anticipation. Claire returned the smile, and yet her smile had nothing in common with her friend’s; Claire’s was a farewell gesture, her only way of telling Lucy she had been her best friend and she would never forget her, but that she must follow her destiny. It was a simple gesture containing a hidden message that would only be revealed with time. Like the kiss she had planted on her mother’s loving cheek or on her father’s wrinkled brow—an affectionate but far more solemn and lingering farewell than was appropriate before leaving for the Burnett’s country mansion, but which her parents had not noticed. Claire stared again at the blacked-out glass and wondered whether she was prepared for life in the world of the future, the devastated planet Gilliam Murray had described to them. She was gripped by a pang of fear, which she forced herself to suppress. She could not weaken now that she was so close, she must go ahead with her plan.

Just then, the tram came to a grinding halt. Mazursky took a long look through his periscope, until he was satisfied everything outside was as it should be. Then, with a mysterious smile, he opened the carriage door. Screwing up his eyes, he scanned the surrounding area one last time before smiling at the passengers and announcing: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly follow me I will show you the year 2000.”





21


While her fellow travelers clambered down from the tram without further ado, Claire paused on the running board, her right foot poised above the ground of the future, as solemn as when as a little girl she had ventured into the sea for the very first time. Aged six, she had stepped with infinite care, almost reverentially, into the waves that looked like the ocean losing its petals, as though this conscientiousness would determine the way in which the dark enormity of the water responded to her intrusion. In the same way she now ventured into the year in which she had decided to stay, hoping it would treat her with equal respect. As her heel touched the ground, she was surprised at how hard it felt, as though she had expected the future to be like a partially baked cake simply because it had not yet happened. However, a few steps sufficed to demonstrate this was not the case. The future was a solid place, and unquestionably real, although when she glanced up, she saw it was utterly devastated. Was that heap of rubble really London? The tram had stopped in a clearing amid the remains of what had probably been a small square, the only reminders of which were a few charred, twisted trees. All the surrounding houses had been destroyed. Only the odd wall remained intact—still papered and incongruously adorned with an occasional picture or lamp fitting—the remnants of a broken staircase, elegant railings now enclosing nothing more than piles of rubble. Dotted along the pavement were grim mounds of ash, probably the remains of fires built by humans out of sticks of furniture to ward off the cold night air. Claire could see no clue in the surrounding ruins as to what part of London they were in, not least because, despite being midday, it was very dark. A gloomy light filtered down from the sky, veiled by grayish clouds of smoke billowing from dozens of fires, their flames flickering like votive candles between the gaping ruins, obscuring the outlines of that shattered world— a world seemingly abandoned to its fate, like a ship stricken with malaria condemned to drift on the ocean until the weight of time finally brings it to rest on a coral reef.