The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(87)

Perhaps, in the end that was all he was fit for. Perhaps he had been born to break people’s fingers, to occupy a place of honor among thieves and wastrels. And he would have reconciled himself to being dragged deeper in to the ugly side of life, relinquishing all responsibility, knowing it was only a matter of time before he committed his first murder, had it not been for someone who believed the role of hero suited him better.

Tom had turned up at Murray’s offices without knowing anything about the job on offer. He could still remember the look of astonishment on the big man’s face as he stood up from his desk when Tom walked in, and how he had begun walking round him, uttering ecstatic cries, pinching his arm muscles and sizing up his jawbone, arms flailing like some demented tailor.

“I don’t believe it. You’re exactly the way I described you,” he declared to the bewildered Tom. “You are Derek Shackleton.” With this he led him down to an enormous cellar where a group of men in strange costumes seemed to be rehearsing a play.

That was the first time he met Martin, Jeff, and the others.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to your captain,” Gilliam announced, “the man for whom you must sacrifice your lives.” And that is how, overnight, Tom Blunt, hired thug, crook, and troublemaker, became the savior of mankind. The job did far more than fill his pockets: it saved his soul from the hellfire where it had been slowly roasting. Because, for some reason, it seemed inappropriate to Tom to go round breaking people’s bones now that his mission was to save the world. It sounded absurd, as the two things were perfectly compatible, and yet he felt as though the noble spirit of Derek Shackleton were now glowing inside him, filling the gap from which the original Tom Blunt’s soul had been extracted, taking him over serenely, naturally, painlessly. After the first rehearsal, Tom left Captain Shackleton’s armor behind but decided to take his character home, or perhaps this was an unconscious act beyond his control. The truth is he liked looking at the world as though he really were its savior, seeing it through the eyes a hero whose heart was as courageous as it was generous, and that same day he decided to look for honest work, as though the words of the giant named Gilliam Murray had rekindled the tiny flame of humanity that was still flickering in the depths of his soul.

But now all his plans for redemption had been destroyed by that stupid girl. He sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the parasol bundled in his jacket. It was doubtless the most expensive thing in his room; selling it would pay his rent for two or three months, he reflected, rubbing the bruise on his side where the bag of tomato juice had been strapped before Martin burst it during their duel. Some good had come out of his meeting with the girl, although it was hard to ignore the tight spot she had put him in. He dreaded to think what would happen if he ever bumped into her in the street. His boss’s worst nightmare would come true, for the girl would immediately discover Murray’s Time Travel was a fraud. And while that might be the worst consequence, it was not the only one. She would also discover he was no hero from the future, just a miserable wretch who owned nothing but the clothes on his back. And then Tom would be forced with his own eyes to witness her devotion turn to disappointment, possibly even outright disgust, as though she were watching a butterfly change back into a caterpillar.

This, of course, was nothing compared to the discovery of the fraud, but he knew he would regret it far more. Deep down, it gave him immense pleasure to remember the woman’s entranced gaze, even though he knew it was not directed at him, but at the hero he was impersonating, the brave Captain Shackleton, the savior of the human race. Yes, he wanted Claire to imagine him in the year 2000, rebuilding the world, not sitting in this gloomy hovel, wondering how much a pawnbroker would give for her parasol.

Anyone who has been to Billingsgate fish market in the early hours knows that smells travel faster than light. For, long before the night receives the first flush of dawn, the pungent aroma of shellfish and the overpowering stench of eel filling the fishermen’s carts have already mingled with the cold night air.

Zigzagging through the oyster stalls and squid sellers hawking their merchandise at three for a penny, Tom Blunt reached the railings at the river entrance, where a crowd of other miserable wretches were flexing their muscles and trying to look enthusiastic, in the hope some kindly skipper would pick them to unload his boat from overseas. Tom hugged his jacket to himself trying to ward off the cold and joined the group of men. He immediately spotted Patrick, a tall youth who was as strapping as he was, with whom by dint of unloading boxes together he had struck up a sort of friendship. They greeted one another with a friendly nod, and like a couple of pigeons puffing up their chests, tried to stand out from the crowd and catch the skippers” eye. Ordinarily, thanks to their glowing physiques, they were both hired straightaway, and that morning was no exception. They congratulated one another with a sly smile and walked towards the designated cargo boat together with the dozen other chosen stevedores.

Tom liked this simple honest work that required no more than strong arms and a degree of agility; not only did it enable him to see the dawn in all its glory above the Thames, but as he began to feel the calming yet vivifying fatigue of physical effort steal over him, he could allow his thoughts to drift down unexpected pathways. Rather like when he was on Harrow-on-the-Hill, a small rise in the suburbs of London he had discovered during one of his walks. On top of the hill grew a centuries-old oak surrounded by a dozen graves, as though the dead buried there wanted nothing to do with the others in the tiny adjoining cemetery. He thought of the grassy knoll as his own private sanctuary, a sort of outdoor chapel where he could close his ears to the din of the world. Sometimes when he was up there, he found to his amazement that he was even able to string a few positive thoughts together, which gave him a measure of insight into the usually so elusive meaning of his life. As he sat wondering what sort of life John Peachey, the man buried nearest to the oak, must have led, Tom began to reflect about his own existence as though it belonged to someone else, and to judge it with the same objectivity as that of the deceased stranger.