The Message
A Mystery Story
One: Present day.
"Nearly there", thought Jayne Farthing as the trees and houses flitted past her window. She glanced down at her watch, as she had frequently throughout the past twenty four hours, counting down to zero hour; that exquisite moment when she'd be able to shut the front door and flop lifeless into bed. Less than an hour now. That curious form of jet lag that gradually smothers the body while leaving the eyes wide open and stinging was settling over her body. A brief moment of alarm struck her - as it frequently did - what if she nodded off and ended up in Norwich or York, or Lincoln, or wherever it was this train was going. That would be ironic wouldn't it? Tiredness would add hours to her day, forcing her to make the trek back across country... all her carefully calculated hours of countdown would have to be reset to allow for the radically altered circumstances. Suddenly she pulled herself round. Tom would wake her up, of course. She had become rather used to the idea of solitary travel in her work and had forgotten in her moment of alarm that she wasn't alone this time. Tom would know where this train was going, it was the kind of thing he knew. Perhaps it was instictive to all men this knowing where trains are going thing, she thought. She'd never met a man who didn't seem to know where the train was going. Or met a man who didn't zero in immediately on what platform they needed in a station. Or what gate a plane was departing from. They could all do it. No sooner had she begun to utter the phrase "what gate do we want" then the reply would come back in an instant, with precision and clarity "Five!".'Perhaps men have a little Terminator style display in their eyes?' she mused 'a little informatic that tells them useful but ultimately rather non-consequential information'. What a shame it couldn't be tuned to something more life enchancing, like... She couldn't immediately think what actually. Too tired. Too ready for a nice belly flop onto a bed, followed by ten minutes or so of inexplicable mental activity, as if the act of landing horizantally activated a little switch in her head that set off a train of new thoughts. Then... bliss, totally out of it until the evening. Tom might potter about for a bit, arranging bits and pieces in the flat, in his masculine way of trying not to admit that he too was tired. But he too would slink into the bedroom soon enough, hopefully without waking her up.
They yawned their way across the platforms at Piccadilly Station, fumbled around for their tickets as they sighted the platform ticket inspectors who seemed to be now permanent additions to the furniture of the station. Then it was down to the final leg, the last tram of the journey. The journey that began with a taxi in Los Angeles, then proceeded to an airport train, then a plane, then another airport train, then another plane, then a proper train, and now here, the tram across Manchester to home. Home was in Salford, not far from the enormous shiny nearly new Media City that contained the BBC and that Jayne nearly always had to explain that she didn't actually work for. She often thought that it would be a lot easier if she could work for the BBC, just to save the energy and breath of having to explain what "360" Magazine was and what she did there. "360" Magazine was a general interest magazine that had gradually grown in prominence in the past few years. It had begun as a 'Lad mag' called "This And This" - the cover layout would be split vertically between some male preocuppation or the other on the left side - cars, football, or really big explosions - under one 'This', and under the other 'This' on the right would be some nubile young model wearing very little clothing. Jayne had joined as an intern in the 'Lad' days a few years ago. Some of her more right-on friends had wondered how she'd managed to countenance working for such a repulsive publication, but she'd explained that it wasn't so bad really. For one thing, although the editor had expressly instructed that the name be pronounced along the lines of "This and THIIIIS" in a suggestive tone, she always thought of the name as being "This ANDDDDD this..." in a weary tone. A small act of subversion no doubt, but it gave her satisfaction. She also gained a small measure of amusement by trying to leave her male colleagues guessing whether she might be a lesbian or not by reading the newly printed monthly copy at her desk and pausing to look at the girlie pages with a studious look on her face.
She'd had some really crappy jobs in her time too and had hated them much more than any job on a magazine with a somewhat unenlightened viewpoint and subjects that did not overlap with her own interests much. At least the magazine was young and fit and healthy. She'd been a receptionist in a GP surgery - hooo boy now there was a job that brought home the grim reality of life to an innocent young twenty something. The inevitable creaking, moaning twilight to most lives would sit in front of her all afternoon in that waiting room. Although her natural compassion led her to believe that most of them were genuinely ill, a small cynical voice in her head would wonder if they didn't really come to sit in the comfy armchairs and read a few magazines (she could never remember seeing "This and This" in the piles though). Or perhaps to compare illnesses with the other pensioners, either to gain satisfaction that some had it worse than them, or satisfaction that they were in fact even more ill than most people and thus more worthy of their GP's time. But it was the mothers who were the worst. The mothers with their obnoxious bratty offspring insisting that their precious darling was critically ill and had to be seen by the doctor this instant. "Do you have an appointment?" Jayne would say with forced politeness, knowing that the answer would be "of course we don't we're far too busy for that" or some such. Of course they didn't. Nobody could get appointments. "Well we usually see Doctor Shaw", they would then say, as if this would make Doctor Shaw suddenly appear by magic like a cartoon witch. "Listen lady" Jayne had wanted to say, in her best Al Capone voice, "there's a gentleman there with only one leg. And a lady there who needs dialysis or she'll die. They have appointments and they're next. So take little Jack, or Harry, or Tarquin, or whatever he's called and do one". She left because she'd become too worried that she'd eventually blurt that out for real. Too blunt, that was her problem, too sarcastic and impulsive. Too ready to say what was on her mind. At least with Tom she'd found someone who didn't seem bothered by her caustic side. Granted it took a lot to excite him in general, but a least, she often reminded herself, he never got the wrong end of the stick every time she asked if the washing up was being done or whether it was being left in the sink as part of some experiment on growing a new species of sink-dwelling life form.
When her friends weren't questioning the ethics of her employer, they were asking about the owner of the magazine, Charles Stanley Wilson-Davis. C.S. Wilson-Davis had distinguished himself against a world of high flying, media savvy, slightly eccentric businessmen like Donald Trump, Richard Branson and Alan Sugar by being extremely normal and ordinary. He had never as far as was known ever tried to fly a balloon across the Atlantic ocean, or turn part of the Scottish coast into a golf course, or even so much as appeared on television. In fact Jayne couldn't really think if she knew that he had done anything of note. Coincidentally he had owned the club where she once worked during university but her she couldn't recall if he'd ever been in. Naturally some of her friends had wondered if he was single and available, but she had pointed out that he never actually appeared in the offices of the magazine, and she had never seen him in person. His email contact was in her inbox, when he sent out various congratulatory messages to his staff, but she had never emailed him back. What exactly could be said; "hello I'm a intern on your magazine and some of my friends were wondering if you'd like me to set you up with them". Perhaps she could have tried it, maybe he was one of those businessmen who took note of cheeky messages and promoted those who sent them for their hubris and for showing a pro-active attitude, or something like that. Perhaps if it was lonely at the top, with all those big secrets that couldn't ever be shared with anybody lest they undermine the authority of the boss. Perhaps she could try sending him a message when she got in on Monday morning? No. Monday morning would simply be a question of thinking of something to write about. Her holiday perhaps? Well, it would at least be a good backup plan if nothing else occurred. Work these days involved writing a column for the magazine, and in the meantime trying to find a story to fill larger features. If the magazine didn't anything she had written for them she could always see if one of the national papers wanted it.
"This And This" magazine had become "360" magazine five years ago, when the 'lad' mag boom subsided, probably because the internet had long made such publications obsolete. She had it on good authority that the photographers who did the 'glamour' shoots considered them to be practically identical to shoots for the underwear sections of Marks and Spencers. In fact, one snapper had once told her, after a few drinks, that often one would directly follow on from the other in an afternoon at the studio. They "didn't even bother to change their lighting", he had said. She had been oh-so-tempted to share this little nugget over her various social media presences, but another of her moments of sudden thoughtful paranoia had gripped her and she'd decided against it, lest her job suddenly come under scrutiny. "Magazine columnist fired for exposing shocking professional secrets" she had imagined the headlines. She had first come to writing during the old days, where ironically her presence as one of the few women in the office had counted for her somewhat. Most of the rest of the staff, being young men, had little interest in discussing fashion, grooming or interior design, and even when they did they still coyly deferred to her opinion on such matters, as if she gave their opinions an extra credibility. The only thing she had resisted was joining the All-Female "advice" team who answered various questions from the readership. Strictly speaking this team was supposed to answer all kinds of questions but in reality they were Sexual Agony Aunts. While Jayne had given off the impression that she was a little bit too prudish to join in with the weekly meetings of the three "advisors", it was more to do with her general lack of experience with the subject. It would have been like advising on a Used Car problems page, she had thought; although in her time she had passed her test, bought a car, and even driven it in adverse weather, there wasn't much she could say on the subject besides the basics.
Her weekly column had begun back then too. She had called it "The View From the Afternoon"- partly as a nod to the Arctic Monkeys, partly because that was the time of day it was usually written (she was not a morning person), and partly because the management had wanted her to call it "Farth-ing Around" - with the 'Fart' part of her surname highlighted in a different colour, and only the hip reference to a popular band had persuaded the Editor to take her idea instead. She had consented to having a picture of her pulling a flirty face next to the headline because it was so hilariously unlike her usual sober personality. She held out hope that at least some of her readers could detect her hidden satirical intent after reading her words and than looking back at the picture. Now she wrote for an altogether more grown-up magazine, but the content hadn't changed much - what was happening in town this week, gig reviews, random observations on life, and television reviews. Quite alot of television reviews actually. One problem with being an evening person was a complete inability to switch off at the end of the day without watching a few hours of emotionally draining tv drama. She'd been particularly taken by the number of dramas suddenly being set in the 1920s. Maybe it was because had she been a female newspaper columnist back then she could have been as famous as Dorothy Parker, and her friends would be more concerned about hanging around with her than asking after the man who paid her salary.
The tram drew to a halt and they lugged their bags out of the doorway and onto the platform. It was spotting with a very, very light rain.
"That fine rain" said Tom in his pitch-perfect impression of Peter Kay. Jayne smirked lightly at this. Bless him, she thought, even after an overnight flight from America he can still raise a smile.
"Want to get a taxi?" he said in a non-committal sort of way. They had been together long enough for him to know that neither of them thought it was worth driving round when their flat was only a few minutes walk away. The wind blew the gradually increasing rain into their faces as they headed to their apartment building. The buildings tended to funnel the wind into a much stronger gale, whipping around the corners, disturbing the leaves on the ground and blowing the drizzle into Jayne's glasses. She pulled them off and swished the rain off on her clothes. Tom was walking slightly ahead and reached the front door first. Went inside and opened the post box - she was glad he did this, as she always had a slightly paranoid feeling that some completely unexpected bill or a summons to serve on jury duty would be lurking inside. This time it seemed to be no different;
"Usual advertising" said Tom flicking through the pile of post
"Green Party have been round again", "ah" he reacted to one flyer that had made it into the post delivery rather than being pushed under the main door "Would you like a takeway?" he asked in a genuine tone that one again made her smirk.
"Well, perhaps today it might be a good plan" she replied. "Everything that's edible in this flat is frozen".
"Mmmm, yes it's a possibility".
"Ah" he again said, picking out an envelope and handing it to her "for you".
'Miss Farthing' read the envelope, in neat biro, above the address. She regarded it with a moment's curiosity. Most of her work-related post was directed to the office but occasionally some came to her home address. Usually it was some kind of invitation to a album launch, or some wannabe film director trying to drum up support for a new film project. They got their bags into the lift and she quickly opened the envelope. For all that she was suspicious of the post box bringing some unwanted complication into her life, and that feeling was being amplified by the extreme need to slump into untroubled sleep for a good afternoon, she had to know what was in there. It was a single A4 piece of paper folded neatly into three. The lift binged to a stop at the 10th floor and they stepped out and made their way down the corridor to number 103. Jayne walked with her bag studying the paper and it's curious handwritten message.
"Look at this." she showed it to him as he opened the door.
4176576677666N
7157575757757W
Look into it.
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Two: Eighty years earlier.
It was very early in the morning and the crowd who had gathered outside Paris at the air field shuffled and fidgeted to keep warm. Many of them were used to being up before dawn for their jobs, and some of them were undoubtedly were reminded of standing on the platform waiting for their early morning train. This, however, was a Sunday, a day when most would only be out of bed and getting dressed in their church clothes once the sun was high in the sky. This Sunday, however, was different. There was a murmur throughout the crowd, the promise that they could be witness to the beginnings of a historic event that, if it succeeded, could bring glory to the whole of France. To think, the two heroic aviators who were soon to appear in their plane could be in America within a day and half and be the toast of the entire world. Both were already well known; both decorated heroes of the Great War, national heroes. Photographers set up their equipment to capture the potentially historic moments. The more complicated movie cameras were also being set up to bring the pictures to millions around the country who could not be there in person to witness the event.
Soon enough the moment the crowd had waited for arrived. Here it was; the boxy white plane that was soon to take off on it's journey. Until now most of the interest had been about the pilots, their previous war records, their personal lives, their interests and opinions. Now thought the crowd was excited by the appearance of the machine. A squat, bulky, brilliant white plane, elegant but sturdy looking. They looked at it as though it was an exotic zoo animal, except instead of feeling superior they felt an odd feeling of inferiority. It was as if the future had arrived and was being wheeled in front of them, a future where machinery would be far more powerful and capable than man. The two pilots appeared soon after, looking small next to their plane, and wrapped in heavy flying suits to keep them alive at altitudes where their plane would be in it's element.
The two men walked around the plane with purpose but also with nervous steps, as if they knew a few minor preflight checks would be of little consequence when set against the might of the Atlantic Ocean and the full power of the storms, wind and rain. What would matter was whether or not fate was on their side, not whether they were good but whether they were lucky. Already, only seven years after the event the world was beginning to forgot the first two men to fly over a great ocean. Two Englishmen in an old war plane had flown from Canada to a crash landing in Ireland. They had been flying with the prevailing winds, and had several times come close to death, but fortune had been with them. Even when they bellyflopped into a peat bog they emerged unscathed and were soon being received in London with knighthoods, awards, dinners and speeches. But that seemed a lifetime ago now. It was as if the whole challenge had been reset to new rules; instead of a lucky chance the great prize that had been offered was for a flight from city to city, airfield to airfield. No lucky crash landings, this had to be a fully controlled flight, hopefully, in the eyes of the crowd, with a heroic overflight of Manhattan by the two Frenchmen.
At last the time came. It had been well under an hour since the first of the crowd began to assemble till the time for takeoff but the heavy weight of the occasion had seemed to stretch the hour out - many in the crowd would have sworn it was getting on for at least nine o'clock rather than barely six. From the outside the take off looked fairly ordinary. The plane made slow run around the field as the pilots evidently were checking their instruments and supplies, and then it turned into the wind, accelerated, rolled and bounced into the distance where it slowly rose into the air, accompanied by an approving cheer from the crowd. Inside the plane things were a lot more fraught. The two pilots knew from experience what they were getting themselves into much more than the happily ignorant crowd watching from across the field. Their plane was very heavy. Too heavy. They had tried to lose some of their weight by jettisoning non-essential supplies. When that didn't seem enough they had started on what by any measure were an essential supply; food. Sure, both were veterans of combat missions during the war, but this was a mission beyond even their experiences. Missions in the war had lasted hours, over the ground, not over a whole day over water. The enemy during the war had been other pilots, and with enough experience they became predictable. The greatest danger came in the earliest missions of a pilot's wartime career, when they did not know from where to expect shots to be fired, and did not know the angles that planes could turn at, where the enemy was likely to appear from. The weather was another entirely unpredictable animal entirely, there was none of that human predictability, the weather could be benign or fearsome, with no warning at all when it would change. The weather over the ocean was a great unknown; neither of the flyers had any experience of at all.
They would fly north to coast of France, and then intercept the south coast of Ireland for a few miles, taking a final reading of their heading before setting out into the void. Concentration would be of vital; the pilot would have to maintain constant monitoring of the instruments lest he let the plane lose too much speed or tip over at an angle that was too extreme to recover from. The navigator would have to maintain the critical calculations of speed and time, to work out the distance travelled, and factor in the force of the headwinds they were bound to encounter pushing against them, slowing them down. Across the featureless desert of the ocean the calculations to determine the direction they were heading would be a matter of life and death; they only had enough fuel to last the shortest possible distance across the ocean, they could not afford to get lost. All of this would be hard enough in theory, in practice, with the deafening roar of their engine, and the freezing cold wind blasting into them, it would be nearly impossible.
Far below, on the desolate coast of the southern end of Ireland, a few hardy souls caught sight of the adventurers above them. The sky was clear enough to show the bright white speck of the plane above them. Even if they did not know the names of the two crew members aboard, they would have known their mission. The great prize for the Atlantic crossing was world news, and the current obsession of the newspapers. Had the flyers been Germans maybe the reporters would have been a bit more muted in their interest, but the two Frenchmen had been heroes of the Allied cause during the war, and had become the darlings of the press. Even out here in the remote farms at the southernmost tip of the edge of Europe people knew what they were trying to do. What they did not know, or perhaps fully appreciate, was that unless the mission was a success they could be the last people on Earth to see the plane and it's occupants. The only way to know if their flight was success would be when they reappeared over the coast oppossing them across thousands of miles of ocean. If any problem arose there would be no way for the crew to contact anyone else, their fate would be forever a mystery.
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Three: Present day
Jayne sat on the side of the bed with the piece of paper.
"A tip off?" she asked Tom, looking for something reassuring to emanate from his usually calm voice.
"Maybe" came the no-committal reply from the bathroom.
"Well I am a journalist" she prompted again. She had been taken slightly aback by the message. It wasn't scary just very strange and she was trying to rationalise it's sudden presence in the post box.
"You are"
"I've never seen this sort of thing before"
"No?"
She sighed a little. Tom was a laid back character but at times like this he was a little too laid back. She wanted him to display a little more interest in the mysterious letter she was holding in her hands. He walked in, wearing the jogging bottoms and a t-shirt he'd changed into after they had got, laid down on the bed and pulled the cover over himself.
"I don't know about you" he wheezed in a low groan "but I've been awake for god knows how many hours now and it has been an almighty effort just to take my clothes off and not just fall asleep in those jeans" He looked almost comatose already. She felt submissive at the sudden bluntness and lack of affection in his voice. Poor thing, he had after all lugged her stuff around two airports and on and off several trains and done so completely uncomplainingly. He'd also plugged back in the TV, the wi-fi, switched the boiler back on, and run the taps in the kitchen and bathroom to clear out any gunge. Perhaps he was a little too tired for any mysteries right now. She puzzled over the numbers for a few minutes hoping for a moment of inspiration.
She ran through the obvious choices; a telephone number? A code substituting numbers for letters? Not immediately obvious. Lottery numbers? Oh... dear she wished she hadn't thought of that one.
Superstition had kept her from ever playing the lottery. The logical part of her mind - the part that kept her away from miracle diets and taking the Search for UFOs programmes on television that Tom would occasionally watch seriously - told her that they would never ever win the lottery. But the irrational part, the part that dated back to her childhood pretending to be a witch and zapping her dog trying to turn it into a dinosaur, told her that as soon as she bought a lottery ticket the number she used would immediately be earmarked for a future jackpot, thus forcing her to keep playing the lottery forever more. She'd heard lots of talk about how winning the lottery ruins lives, alienated friends and sets families against each other, and she'd written about such a ruined lottery winner once, but didn't believe a word of it. "Bring on the moolah" would've been her reaction. It would be nice to be freelance, no more office. She'd have her own office, maybe with one of those hip art-gallery/cafe places next door. Maybe she'd have it on the top floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan. Call the cafe "The View From the Afternoon". Be the toast of New York City, win a Pulitzer prize perhaps, go to all the premieres and hob nob with the big shots listening in on the gossip in her innocent way. Maybe then have a side career writing bitchy Roman-a-Clef tales about the great and the beautiful under a mystery sleazy alter ego. Enjoy reading the reviews as the media and general twitterati pondered her identity. She'd be like Banksy, or Belle Du Jour, only without as much graffiti or sex. She'd drag Tom along of course, get him smartened up with a dashing waistcoat, and just maybe see if she could find him some kind of of hat.
Tom was breathing rhythmically and heavily next to her. The precursor to the louder snoring that would shortly follow. Damn it, she was getting a bit aroused now, thinking about being Mr and Mrs. Artsy-Fartsy in New York with a very big luxurious bed and now he was out of it, maybe she could try and wake him... No. Back to the present, she was exhausted and still wearing the grimy clothes she'd put on in a hotel room in Los Angeles so many hours ago. She stood up, pulled them all off, placed the paper carefully on the dresser, thought for a moment about rummaging for her pyjamas, then went to clamber under the sheets. A thought struck her and she walked into the living room. Ah, the curtains were still wide open, she immediately doubled back, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and went back into the living room, hoping that none of her neighbours in the block opposite had been looking at her inadvertently flashing them. No, daft, another bit of paranoia, it was the middle of the afternoon, clouds would reflect off the windows, nobody could see in. The sudden appearance of the strange bit of paper had suddenly made her even more jumpy. Maybe somebody was watching? The same person who had left the message? Perhaps keeping her under surveillance before they unleashed the next set of instructions in their mysterious plan.
She found her phone, turned to the camera, walked back in the bedroom and took a photo of the message. "If that's gone when we wake up..." she thought, quickly turning her phone off and placing it under her pillow. "One step ahead guys" she also thought. She undid the towel, tossed it aside and climbed into bed. "This" she thought as she drifted off "is a hell of lot better than sleeping on a plane seat".
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Four: Two weeks earlier.
Jayne never used to like flying. She'd used to think that it was because she'd only been on a plane for the first time when she was eighteen. That had been with several friends on a trip to New York. She hadn't slept the night before, not so much from the fear but from pondering the ease at which she could have simply got up, got in the car, and driven away somewhere. It was a holiday, and she was torn up thinking that she was putting herself through this torture for nothing but a silly holiday with friends. She didn't resent her parents much but she'd wished they hadn't been so devoted to caravan holidays in Cornwall and had taken her on a plane at some point during her childhood. She could have got the monkey off her back while she was still too young and dumb to know any better. By the time she was eighteen her sense of superstition was already well formed and she was dreading her first air journey. She was sure something terrible was waiting for her on that flight to New York. And New York? Why did her godforsaken friends want to go all the way to New York? Couldn't they have wanted to go somewhere nice and close in Europe like Milan, or Oslo or somewhere.
As it turned out she had smothered her dread under a coat of pretend tiredness and smiled her way through that first flight. But the fun week they had spent in New York had not quite quelled her sense of unease at boarding planes. The night before she'd come back from New York once again found her dreading the journey back. The monkey had climbed from her back but she was still worried. She was disappointed in herself, she thought she was holding onto a superstition imposed on her by her upbringing, but it turned out she was just scared and irrational. It eventually took several years to get over her unease, and to stop feeling relieved at the end of each flight that nothing bad had happened. Tom had been a major part in this; he wasn't scared of much and especially not flying. He had once been on a gap year adventure to somewhere in deepest Africa and told stories of getting on planes with his mates that had standing passengers, where the doors weren't shut until the plane was lining up to take off, where the Captain offered up sincere sounding prayers before the flight. He'd been on a flight in a storm, he'd once told her, where the seatbelts had been necessary to keep everybody in their seats and not flying into the overhead lockers - lockers that had all flown open and disgorged their contents. Jayne had listened to all of this and had resolved to stop being such a wet blanket. On their first holiday together she had sat next to him on the flight and thought hard about bouncing around in turbulent air above the African savannah, imagining that the little wobbles from the plane were in fact huge drops and bumps. She'd looked every so often at the exit doors and thought a sense of security that they had been closed at the correct time. And, every time the cabin crew came past she felt reassured that they were clearly not relying on divine guidance to do their job properly.
This new sense of optimism; the realisation that things could be a lot worse, had helped her out enormously. Even now, in the departure lounge at Manchester airport looking out across the gates, Jayne thought that the plane, the sight of which had once sent a flutter of gooey unease through her stomach, was probably in much better shape than most planes in the world. "At least this is Manchester", she thought, "not Addis Abbaba or Kinshasa or Khartoum or somewhere" ("African geography" she also thought "is not my strong point"). She still felt a little bit tense that she still had to go through this little routine of reminding herself that she was relatively safe, rather than simply being able to relax and get on with things without these little routines. She even felt a twinge of guilt at assuming that all flights in Africa must be dangerous. But before she could begin to tie herself up in knots over this swirl of thoughts Tom spoke;
"Your quiet"
"Really?" she was snapped out her reverie and realised why he was asking this. She'd been lost in thought. She might even have been asleep for a moment.
"Yes, are you ok?"
"Well we have already been up for half a day". It was almost true, but sounded a bit soft, she immediately thought. All they'd done was get up, ring for a taxi and been stood in queues for twenty or so minutes. It was hardly high exertion.
He considered his reply;
"That's the modern way. Got to get up early to come here and sit around waiting".
"The waiting is quite reassuring really" she said "think I'd be more worried if we could just get on and go"
"Well, I think I'd prefer that they checked all their switches now rather than in threehours" he mused.
Three hours later they were high above the Atlantic ocean, the water below sparkling in an seemingly endless carpet of blue flecked with white specks shimmering together as if on an endless repeating loop. The sun glinted off the wingtip outside of Jayne's window and gave the rest of the matte grey finish of the rest of the wing an eerie glow. The wing flexed up and down gently; there had been clouds over the sea below earlier and the ride had been a bit bumpy but now the sky below was clear and the ride was smooth - probably the smoothest Jayne could remember. She had tried to occupy her time by watching films and then reading but now listlessness was setting in. Tom was sat beside her reading one of his beloved fantasy books - the kind with swords, battles, kings, queens and whatnot. She could never really get into them, and she had tried, and generally waited for them to be turned into television series. She sighed and looked back out of the window again. She liked to stare out of the window on planes even though there wasn't much to see except the ocean. She reasoned that since she was paying a reasonable amount of money for the "privilege" of sitting in an uncomfortable seat, bored out of her mind, for hours on end, she might as well take in the one thing that was different. She could watch movies at home, she didn't always see the middle of an ocean from 30,000 feet above. The small pieces of ice in the window pane glinted against the sun, a reminder of how cold it was outside. She plucked the cushion from under her feet, propped it against the window frame, laid her head on it and closed her eyes.
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Five: Eighty years earlier.
They had made good progress, the navigator calculated. They were still on course and, crucially, were still within their fuel 'window' that would allow them to reach the land in America. Admittedly, he thought, they wouldn't exactly be home free if they had to descend and look for a suitable field to land in - that would still be very difficult to achieve and even if they landed if one or both of them was injured in a remote place they could starve to death long before anyone found them. This was his military training speaking, he never took anything for granted until the mission was successfully complete. Even though things were going well now things could still go wrong right up until the final moment. At least, he thought, the radio still appeared to be working, even though out here over the ocean there was nobody to call. Plus the weather was clearing up, the clouds from the night before had dissipated away and they could see for miles ahead. The ocean below looked calm and he could see the wave tips breaking below.
They both had to keep their thoughts on the increasingly spectacular view to themselves. Aside from notes passed between them along the floor of the cockpit there was no way to talk to each other. Not only was the noise from their engine so great that there was no way to hear but they were solidly strapped in they could not move far enough to reach each other. The freezing cold onrush of air was mostly directed over their heads but still any unprotected skin was in danger of being frostbitten. The navigator adjusted his goggles to scratch an itch on his nose. He had to be careful, though he did have a spare set, and only one functioning eye to protect, he still did not want to lose one in the powerful slipstream of their plane. He was surprised by how warm the air felt to how it had before.
One of the dials was twitching. Directly infront of him on the panel a pressure gauge was flicking backwards and forwards between two points on the dial. He looked left and right across the wings to see if he could see anything that was causing it. He was confused - it was not something he had ever seen before. There was no obvious problem - the sky was clear , the wind had died down, the other dials were all fine. He looked around again. The air was definitely warmer now, almost as though he were sat in the plane on a summer day at one of the air shows. The noise of the engine was dying down too. He could hear it as a low drone rather than an overpowering rumble. In front of him his companion was still sat as he had been for hours at the controls. Only now his right hand was floating up at the side of his head. He seemed to be inspecting his gloved hand, and looking at it as though it was a precious vase, turning it slowly round in the sunlight. There was no noise now, just complete silence. The sea seemed blurred in his vision, and seemed to be pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
He could see the propeller rotating round slowly. He was intrigued; why was he not worried by this? Something extraordinary was happening, either to him or to the plane. They had been on a journey into the unknown to begin with, and had expected to encounter strange phenomena but this was beyond anything he had anticipated. Was he asleep? Had he been gassed by the fumes from the exhaust? Had his water can somehow been spiked with drugs? It was a concern they had during the war in case of sabotage by an undercover agent infiltrating their airfields. Had someone somehow poisoned them? He was still unnaturally calm as his vision narrowed and his eyelid began to drop. He shouted out to his companion;
"Charles!"
His voice sounded slow and dropped down deep. He tried again but found his mouth frozen in mid breath. The warm feeling of being sedated flooded through him and his remaining good eye closed. Inexplicably he thought he could see the underside of what looked like another plane above them. It was huge, silver and astonishing. He was definitely drugged, he thought. Sluggishly his final thought, that seemed to stretch out forever and repeat endlessly in his head was "Damn it".
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Six: Eighty years later.
She solved the problem by chance. They were coordinates. They had to be, the number of numbers fit the pattern that coordinates had perfectly. It was almost too easy really. Jayne wondered if it was really that simple. The letter had been neatly folded in a plain white envelope, a plain sheet of A4 with no other identifying marks at all. The message was written neatly in what looked like blue biro. Looked at closely there was no sign of fingerprints or any smudge marks that might indicate who had written it. There was just the stream of numbers, and the terse message at the end. Clearly it was intended as some kind of clue, or tip for her to follow. What else could it be? She had on one or two previous occasions been given such tips. But they had been much more specific than this one had been and were more pertinent to her job; once a quite well known band had tipped her off that they would be playing a secret show in the city centre one evening, and she had been the only journalist she could recognize at the gig. On another occasion the famous chef of The Sunset Terrace, Michel Vigier, had dropped his card in her office mail, asking if she wanted an exclusive interview. Naturally she had, and being somebody who could barely boil an egg without leaving half of her kitchen in flaming ruins, had then crammed all afternoon to learn as much about food as was possible. She had led the interview by confessing her frank ignorance of cookery and had immediately charmed the grizzled old chef by asking him how he stopped himself spilling rice everywhere or scalding his fingers with boiling water. As a result she'd been given a free dinner at the restaurant and earned some serious respect from some of her foodie friends. She had half-wondered if this was Monsieur Vigier trying to contact her now about something more serious. Or perhaps Charles Stanley Wilson-Davis, her mysterious boss, sending her off on a secret assignment?
She had worked out that the string of numbers were coordinates when looking on her computer for the new address one of her old university friends had moved to. She was married to some big-shot surgeon and had clearly warmed to the idea of moving out to suburban Cheshire to
show it off. Jayne had plugged her address into the WorldVisit maps program to see exactly where she was expected to go, but also to reassure herself that her old friend's house, while palatial and luxurious, was also terribly vulgar and gauche and not the kind of place where Jayne was likely to be hit with sudden pangs of jealousy. while looking with interest at the house she had noticed the string of map coordinates at the bottom of the screen, noticed how many numbers there were, noticed that there were two strings of numbers, and had practically tripped over her own feet with excitement trying to find the letter. Carefully she'd typed the sequences of numbers into the computer, hit 'search' and waited for a few moments to see where they were directing her to. The map had zoomed out, the globe on the screen had spun, and zoomed into down on the coast of the eastern United states. To be precise they had zoomed into the heart of a forest in the bottom corner of the state of Maine. Her heart had skipped with excitement and curiosity at this unexpected result. The middle of a remote forest? She had thought to herself. Why has somebody left me a message with a set of coordinates directing her to look at a forest in America? That had been several hours ago, in the middle of the afternoon. Tom had been out at the time, when he had come back in she'd announced her discovery to him and immediately asked him if the location meant anything to him. He'd asked her why she hadn't texted the place to him as soon as she had worked it out, since he could perhaps have gone to the library and maybe found some book about the forests of Eastern America or some such thing. She'd replied that she'd wanted to have a think about whether she really was on the right track. She'd put the numbers into all kinds of different web pages; unit conversions to see if they were measurements; she'd transposed the letters with numbers and fed the letters into anagram solvers and translators; she'd even added the numbers all up to see what the result was. The only thing that seemed to match perfectly was the coordinates. However they seemed to be drawing a mysterious blank, an insignificant looking patch of forest.
Tom had looked at the computer screen where she still had the location pinpointed.
"Have you tried reversing them?" he'd asked.
"Reversing?" she'd questioned.
"Yeah, maybe the person who did this got mixed up. Put north instead of South. Or west instead of east."
"Maybe"
"I do it all the time" he'd added. "Transposition error" he then added with a flicker of a smile. "You never read that flying manual I found in that second hand shop did you?"
"You know, I didn't make the time for it" she'd replied sarcastically.
"I know. It sounds really nerdy but I thought it had loads of interesting stuff in it."
Jayne had grunted a non-committal reply. Her way of humouring him when he got on one of his intellectual high horses.
"Like how we swap things round without noticing. How extraordinary mistakes just pass right in front of us without noticing."
Jayne had considered this. "So the person who found their way to posting this message in my postbox was meticulous enough to find me, to write their message neatly and fold it away without leaving any obvious trace of who they are, but had got the numbers and letters mixed up?"
"It's possible"
"Possible yes, but I think if I hadn't left any other clues on the message then I would be very careful to get it right."
She'd tried swapping the North and West on the coordinates for South and East, and had ended up in the Pacific Ocean west of Chile, and a desert in deepest China. Tom had reacted to this by saying that the two possibilities were just as promising as somewhere in America. Jayne hadn't been so sure. The terse sentence at the end of the message was in English, not Chinese or Spanish. Admittedly it was a tenuous connection, but still, if this mystery person was trying to send a tip-off to her about something then she guessed it was more likely to be in the relatively easy to reach part of America than the middle of China, or far out to sea at the other end of the world.
Now several hours later they were sat on the sofa, watching TV and filling themselves with a Chinese takeaway. Neither of them had been bothered to go to the supermarket since their return from California. There was a small corner shop nearby, that somehow had not been overtaken by one of the big chains, and that had serviced their needs for the time being. Mainly this had consisted of coffee in order to maintain wakefulness in the morning. Even with the excitement of the message appearing in the post box Jayne had struggled to get out of bed this morning. It was a Friday - she had booked the day off before they had left in anticipation that she would be reluctant, very reluctant, to drag herself into the office on a Friday, while jet lagged and with nothing much to write about. Now, potentially, she had something to write about but was confused as to what to do. Was she in danger from whomever had dropped the message off? If she wrote about the message publicly would the person who dropped in off take some kind of offence? And if she wrote about the message what were her readers supposed to make of it? No, it would have to wait until she could work out what to do about it. They couldn't jump back on a plane and go back to America, not without some kind of cover story at least, and she didn't usually get those assignments. She was the girl about town, and although she hated the term, she had to admit she was also the "gossip" columnist, albeit the hipster gossip columnist. Unless a certain French chef she was friends with would invite her to review his New York restaurant. And even if he did it was a long way to Maine from Manhattan, and a hell of a drive to cram into the miniscule number of days the magazine would doubtless allow her to have off for a trip to America. And even the senior feature writers only got the bare bones expenses paid for them - the money was saved for when they landed a big name guest contributor who would only agree to write and article for them if everything, even the taxi fare to the hotel, was paid in full. A thought struck her.
"Do you think I should ask my boss?" she asked Tom
"About that message?"
"Yes, do you think if I just cut to the chase and tell Mr. Wilson-Davis about it? The message? Say I've got a mysterious set of coordinates in my postbox, that I think could be in America, and could I please go and have a look?"
"Well you're within your rights I suppose. Nothing ventured and all that"
The bottle of lager Jayne had swilled down with her chow mein was beginning to work it's magic and she only prayed that she didn't end up downing several more and then drunkenly firing off an email to the owner of her magazine asking if she could go on a hair brained jaunt to America.
"I mean" she added "it is weird, by any standard. You don't get many random tip offs." She thought again
"Maybe he did it!" she exclaimed "Maybe he's trying to tell me something. He must be able to get hold of my address anyway. He is the boss. Plus he's a bit of a recluse, a bit strange and eccentric. Perhaps it's his new tactic; randomly send some hints to his writers and see what happens".
Tom considered this "I thought eccentric rich kids just did the whole Howard Hughes thing. You know, try to invent something, build a big house and then live in one room, build a balloon and try and fly across the Atlantic single handedly".
"Well I had already thought of that. But Branson's already done that hasn't he? And the one thing about the rich is they hate to copy each other, if you're going to be eccentric then it must be your own eccentricity".
"You get quite loquacious when you're smashed, darling" he grinned.
"Oh go away I've had one. One"
"Precisely!"
"Maybe I should make it two" she got up.
"Get me another one while your up"
She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There wasn't much in there except for the case of lager they had bought from the shop around the corner. They had mutually agreed that the weekend would be a deliberate wash out, that they wouldn't do much except get drunk and watch TV. She hadn't expected to have started at quite such a serious pace but there hadn't been much time for drink in Los Angeles. They had spent the past week diligently getting up for breakfast at their hotel, and setting off in a determined frame of mind trying to make the most of their day and trying to see as many sights as possible. Hangovers would have been detrimental to their ability to act as tourists as efficiently as possible, and they would have missed breakfast. Not only that, but by the time they had returned to their hotel after a solid day's sightseeing they didn't have much energy for drinking. And the need to fill their faces with the best greasy food LA could offer trumped the need to get drunk. They had even managed to get in a decent amount of holiday romance, even if she had to admit to herself that more than once she'd consented to hotel room sex because American prime-time TV was so dull and crammed full of adverts. She wondered whether it was a good idea to tell Tom this fact as she walked back in the the living room.
The hour had passed and he was now watching a true crime documentary on one of the many faceless channels that lurked around the two hundred and something numbers on their channel listings. When they had first met she had been quite cheered to meet somebody else who would sit though programmes about infamous murder mysteries. Most of her group of friends had dismissed them as entertainment; something "for ghoulish curtain-twitching types" as one had put it. Jayne had to admit they had a point, but the journalist in her couldn't resist tales of long-unsolved cases being solved by dogged investigators tenaciously chasing down obscure leads. She loved the often random and arbitrary nature that the breaks in the cases would often office. She was fascinated by the idea that the world could be so stuffed full of unsolved mysteries and untold secrets. There was a young lady on the screen now, identified by a caption as a journalist from a local newspaper, standing in an empty courtroom recounting details of the case. Jayne liked the look of her, she only looked young, but she was smart and well spoken with a hint of confident sass in her demeanour, someone in other words who Jayne aspired to be like.
Tom spoke up; "What if it turns out to be something serious?"
Jayne looked at him quizzically "what, something like this? A murder?"
"Well they do it sometimes don't they? Leave clues to people? Like the Zodiac and his letters."
"True, but he said who he was, well he said he did it. This one hasn't. It's just numbers. She paused for a moment.
"They go for attention" she added. "It's too vague."
"I wouldn't rule it out is all I'm saying." he said with an air of authority. His tone grated on her slightly.
"I haven't. But if it is some kind of evidence it's got my fingerprints on it. Not much use now."
"Well, that's not quite true is it? They'd still have the prints of the other guy." He'd paused the tv now and was getting into the swing of a conversation that Jayne didn't really want to pursue. She didn't like where it was heading. Didn't like the prospect of something sinister and possibly terrible being at the end of all this.
"Deep in a forest. Looks ideal for somewhere there might be some evidence in a murder or disappearance. Middle of nowhere, off the beaten track."
"Can we not go there? Please, one step at a time."
He frowned and looked back at the tv.
"Ok, let's see if we can do a little research. Maybe see if there's anything famous about this place". He opened his second beer and reached for more takeaway. "You want some pork?"
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Seven: Two weeks earlier.
It was quiet. Very quiet. Jaynes' eyes opened and eyed the ice on the window. Or rather, the lack of ice on the window. The ice crystals had melted on the small plastic inner window pane. Wow, she thought, asking herself rhetorically, "we're here already?". She blinked heavily and sat up pulling her head away from the window. She could see outside. They were definitely not there. The ocean still sat there below her window, only the twinkling motion of the waves was absent. Jayne darted around to look at Tom. He was still reading his book. He was still, and quiet. Everything was quiet. The roar of the engines was gone. She waved her hand in front of Tom's face. Nothing. An icy chill of panic ran through her, the kind of which she had never previously experienced. What was going on? Had something gone wrong with the plane, were they gliding silently through the air heading for an emergency landing. What on earth had she slept through? She undid her seat belt and stood up, peering across the backs of countless stilled heads. None of them were moving. A strange calm took over her as she climbed over Tom and into the aisle. She walked quickly up and down the cabin. All her fellow passengers sat silently and still, but nearly all with their eyes open. They weren't dead, just... stopped somehow. Had the oxygen failed? No, it couldn't have, she would have passed out too.
She ran up the aisle, past a stewardess sat silently in her seat. This unnerved her even more than the sight of the passengers. She began to stagger and felt her legs growing wobbly. She pulled back the curtain in the first class area and found the aisle blocked by a flight attendant frozen midway through serving something to a passenger. She turned around and hurried up to the exit door behind her, peering out of the porthole desperately searching for any evidence of what was going on. There was nothing to see, just the clear sky, the ocean below and the sun above. As she stood there, uncomprehending, gripped by a cold terror far beyond anything she had known she felt something press into the back of her arm, and an instant cold feeling spreading around her wrist. She darted around at the shock and could see a figure standing infront of her. Her legs sagged and she flopped forward onto the floor. Blearily she could feel the irritating coarseness of the plane's carpet on her face. She had a strange thought; she had flopped forward onto her face but hadn't crushed her glasses into her nose. She realised that she had never put her glasses back on and that they were still in the back of the seat in front of her. She was suddenly very calm and contented, and closed her eyes.
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Eight: seven months later.
They didn't go straight away. It would eventually be well over half a year before they found their way to the forest in Maine. Jayne had considered contacting Charles Stanley Wilson-Davis and asking him for the money to off to America. But only for about as long as that first drunken evening after they had come back from LA. The next week she had gone back to work and had put the mysterious message on hold. They had tried to do some research but each idea they had explored had drawn a blank - if there were books about the forests of Maine they were not something that were to be found in the Salford library - or had been too vague as to be useful. Jayne had looked at an American website cataloging missing people, and had found several cases in the right state. Perhaps any of them would turn out to be the mystery that she could potentially solve with her elusive message. The thought was tantalizing - when, if, they got to the location that whomever it was had carefully written down for her what would they find? A body? Remains? A long lost secret of some kind? Who could say. It could be anything. She went through the motions of doing her job, listening to new bands, meeting artists and writers, pretending to be excited by what they had to say, but now she could only be excited by what lay across the ocean amongst the blurred pixels of the picture of the forest on her computer screen. When they went, they told friends and family it was for a week trip to Boston, Massachusetts, with, they said, maybe a few day trips into the countryside. It had been hard to keep the secret from everybody except each other. Jayne had hinted to others at the existence of the message in the envelope. She had told a workmate that one of her neighbours letters had ended up in her post box and she'd inadvertently opened it before noticing what it was. This story had allowed her a bit of cathartic release at being able to express some of what she had felt finding the envelope.
Tom had kept remarkably sanguine about the message; "there's two possibilities" he had said one evening "either we go there and find something, or we don't. I can live with either of the two options. I only start to get worried when something a bit more threatening than a list of coordinates appears in my post box". `Neverless he seemed keen to go on an adventure, even if it meant incorporating a holiday in along with it. "It's not exactly going to take a huge effort to get there is it?" he had reassured her "There's plenty of roads on the map around that spot. Even if we're wasting our time, chasing a prank, an imaginative prank it must be said, by one of our neighbours, it's not like we're crossing Antarctica to find a Norwegian flag already planted there and a message saying 'better luck next time chaps'".
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Nine: Seven months earlier.
The voice was distant at first, a whisper coming to her from far away. It was very soft and dreamlike and she struggled to hear it even though there was no other noise.
"Hello?" the voice asked inquiringly.
"Hello?" it repeated
Jayne could not open her eyes. She wanted to yet somehow couldn't will herself to do it. It was the familiar feeling of being half awake in the morning, thinking of climbing out of bed yet being strangely immobilized as if the brain had awoken but the body had not yet done the same.
"Hello?"
She remembered everything; the still plane full of silent passengers. The absolute quiet without the white roar of the engines. Yet somehow she was calm and unworried, content to lie still and sleep. But she could not sleep, the voice kept speaking and her mind kept listening.
"You..." it began slowly and deliberately. "Are..." it continued soothingly, like a stage hypnotist, "probably wondering" it paused and then corrected itself "are probably confused and disorientated."
"Yes". Jayne said, almost involuntarily, as if she was replying to Tom when he was telling her about some exiting news story while she was half asleep.
"Mmmm. I do feel... I'm not sure. Tired. I suppose."
The voice took on a more practiced tone, as if it was a doctor reading the list of side effects for a prescribed drug; " Yes, that is to be expected. It is quite usual for you to feel tired. You are..." the voice paused seemingly thinking of the right way to phrase what it was saying "...sedated, I suppose is the best way for you to understand, even though you are not sedated in any chemically induced way, the effect is the same. Your thoughts are not affected but your emotional responses are being suppressed. It is the easiest way."
She lay still for several more minutes, trying to understand what had been said. It was difficult, she still had a urge to sleep and could not rouse herself enough to speak more than a few words.
"What?" she began and paused. She summed up the energy to continue her thoughts "What, is all this? What has happened here?"
The voice did not reply to her question, instead it said "maybe the level is too strong, I will reduce it to allow you to function more easily." It took on a sterner tone "However, a as this is something of an unusual and irregular situation you must promise me that you will follow instructions"
There was a momentary pause and then she suddenly felt a rush of energy and wakefulness. She opened her eyes and sat up.
"Oh my!" she heard herself exclaim, calmly and in an interested tone. She was still sat where she had fell earlier, in the exit aisle of the plane, next to the galley.
A rumpled looking, slightly greying middle aged man, dressed in a tweed jacket, and extremely un-threatening looking, was standing looking down at her. Across the aisle, in the opposite doorway, two men sat on the floor, eyes closed as if asleep, dressed in heavy jackets, wrapped up in scarves and with goggles and leather helmets perched on their. Like the passengers they did not move. The man raised his hand slightly in greeting.
A rumpled looking, slightly greying middle aged man, dressed in a tweed jacket, and extremely un-threatening looking, was standing looking down at her. Across the aisle, in the opposite doorway, two men sat on the floor, eyes closed as if asleep, dressed in heavy jackets, wrapped up in scarves and with goggles and leather helmets perched on their. Like the passengers they did not move. The man raised his hand slightly in greeting.
"There has been a slight error. One of our routine processes has experienced a small problem. You have been caught up in this problem" he quickly added "this is not anything you need to concern yourself with, you are, as I said before, perfectly safe and will be returned to you normal life as soon as is possible. These two gentlemen will be returned as well" he looked a little crestfallen "sadly that will mean returning them to fly on to their fate."
"Their fate?" asked Jayne, "what fate?" she added before he could continue "who are they, who are you?"
"They are aviators. They are trying to fly from the city of Paris to the city of New York. They are both brave men, but sadly they are destined not to make it." He waved his hand with a slight flourish over his chest "I, am a... historian" he said with an air of pride "I suppose is the best way to explain. I am interested in the past and I study it".
Jayne's thoughts landed on the question her addled mind had been searching for
"Are you an alien?" she said firmly
He considered the question, frowning thoughtfully. "Well..." he mused "there are two possible answers to that question. Either way the answer has some rather astonishing implications for you." He stopped.
"Yes?" she prompted.
"Well, either I'm an alien which means you are talking to an alien life form, something that, as far as you are aware, no human has ever done before." A hind of a smile tugged slightly round his face and became more animated than she had had seen him before "or I am not an alien which would make me a human. And, well I almost hesitate to explain further, if I am a human then what on earth am I doing here and how come I seem to have access to such astonishing technology" He was smiling now and there was a cheeky twinkle in his eye.
"I don't know what to say" she replied. "I wish I could feel something. This is all so strange whatever you've done here to calm me down." She thought, and added "can't you loosen it up somehow, I feel like I'm chained up here".
He looked at her seriously "No, I'm sorry allowing you to feel your natural level of stimulation in these situations would be unwise. The physical and mental strains could be very dangerous"
"I haven't got a heart condition you know" she smirked. "I'm quite a calm person really"
"I know, but all this has been considered. In case this happens I had to have a plan in effect, I don't want anyone to come to harm."
"So, what has happened? Is this right?" She looked at him critically "Do you know what you're doing?"
He had been standing quite stiffly but now he seemed to rouse and looked her square in the eye and said firmly
"Yes, I do. I am dealing with very a complicated system and it is very difficult not to have a few unforeseen problems to deal with."
"Deal with?"
He sighed slightly
"As I said there is no danger to you. You have been..." he thought "ensnared by mistake. I was focused on these two men and their plane and have caught this plane too. I must admit, I do not know quite how you have remained aware of your surroundings, but as I said, I have arrangements to make sure that you have not become overstressed."
"Do you always talk like this?"
"No, but I am dealing with an unfamiliar language. Look, I will get to the point" He stopped, pulled a device from his pocket and tossed it into the air as if he was flipping a coin. The small golden ball stopped in mid-air and transformed into a small hovering projection of the Earth. "I am from your future. I am human." he pointed at the hovering globe "This is the Earth in my time" He reached into the projection, it disappeared and he placed the small golden device back in his pocket. "Projection device." he explained "standard equipment, they are ubiquitous in our time, they provide entertainment, instructions, assistance..." he interrupted himself and pulled the device back out and flipped it back into the air. It hovered and brought up a menu of options which he scrolled through until he found one and pressed it" A person appeared instantly next to him, a thirty-something looking woman smartly dressed, he looked back to Jayne "see? Mobile assistant. If I need to know anything I ask her. So much better than some boring computer screen.
He turned to the figure. "Tell our friend who I am and what I am doing here." He turned to Jayne again and smiled "saves me having to do it"
The woman smiled and looked at Jayne "Certainly" she said "This is Professor Lancelot Meijer of the University of Cambridge. He is a historian. He uses time travel to directly study the past. He is currently investigating the flight of Monsieur Charles Nungesser and Monsieur Francois Coli who tried to fly across the Atlantic Ocean from France to America in the year 1927. They disappeared and were never found. The professor is using this technology to find out what happened to them".
The man, now named, reached inside the projection and switched it off. The woman vanished.
"Hmmm, I probably should have thanked her before I switched her off. There, that is what is happening"
"I'm amazed." Jayne said "well, I would like to be amazed. Since I can't feel anything I don't know what to think. Either this is the most ludicrous drug induced hallucination I have ever experienced" she smiled "not that I have experienced such things before mind you, that is a totally unsubstantiated rumour that I am in no position to comment on" She caught her breath "or this is the greatest ever prank played on anyone and I hope I'm going to be well compensated if anybody is filming this."
"Or this is in fact what is happening"
"Yes"
"And it is"
"Maybe"
"Can you think of a better explanation?"
"I just did"
"You are not lying comatose in a hospital. That is the only explanation I can think of that would fit. It fits, but it's not true"
"You get to the point don't you" she arched her eyebrow at him
"I am a scientist. Getting to the point is the point."
"I thought you were a historian?"
"Same thing." he said with a hint of hauteur "I know that in your time there are historians who would differ with me but I work to a scientific method, I have no time for rumours. And thanks to my machinery I can look for myself anyway"
There was a long pause.
"Look" she said finally. "I...erm" she couldn't think clearly. She still had half a mind that this was some dream, but it was terribly vivid and, she had to admit to herself it had made sense so far. Nothing that unusual had happened, well, except for all the still passengers still sat behind her, and the lack of noise and movement from the plane. But dreams were more strange than that, they jumped about, she thought. In a dream, nothing connected, she could be one place one moment and then somewhere else the next with no connection. Often some random face from her secondary school would pop up for no reason whatsoever. That hadn't happened yet. And everything felt real, or at least as real as anything else she had felt while awake and alert. This jumpseat she was perched on, the material of her sleeve, the paint on the bulkhead behind her; it all felt real.
"Ok" she said at last "say I believe you, and this is real"
"It is" he interrupted
She held up a cautioning finger to him "that is easy for you to say Lancelot." She smiled "Lancelot? Is that a popular name in your time?"
"Yes it is" he said simply.
"I must say" she continued, looking ahead of her at nothing in particular "I never used to believe in all this stuff, when people would claim it happened to them. Met one once, it all sounded so silly really.
"This stuff?"
"Well you know" she looked at him appraisingly "well, maybe you don't. Men in black, close encounters with little grey men with big eyes, x files, missing time. Do you know" she waved her hands in a gesture of mild exasperation "how odd it is that all that turns out to be right? All those dumb stories, I never believed a word. My other half does - he's back there in your stopping ray thingy by the way - but I never had the time for it, I'm a journalist I can see through bullshit at a hundred paces, I can read people, I know when they are desperate for attention and they always did whenever you'd see them on the telly. Look, I have a bit of a profile, so I'd hear from them too" she did an impression "why don't you write about how the government suppressed this or that and how the new world order is controlling that. No! Why don't you? I'm busy!" she grinned and shook her head "And they're right the daft... losers." She looked at him again with a mischievous look "you should really visit David Icke. He'd love to meet you, futureboy. And if you really are who you say you are then you can enjoy the pleasure of his company and have plenty of ideas to take back to the year 3000 with you." a hint of sarcasm was leaking into her voice "Belief in repile-oids in the 20th and 21st century, could be a very interesting paper"s
"Well, if it makes you feel any better about things then I can tell you that none of that was me. In fact I think you are the person in the past I have had the most interaction with." He gestured towards the two stilled airmen still sat, almost forgotten, across by the opposite exit door. "Usually they are safely unaware. I confess that I am not sure why you have remained so functional"
"Can I ask" Jayne inquired "are you married?"
"Yes"
"Did you woo her by talking like that?"
"No. You make assumptions about gender I notice"
"Oh, so she's a he?"
"No, she's a she."
"Ah. Well don't worry you haven't come that far back in time, we're quite enlightened here you know. All lifestyles and so forth. I notice that you still have marriage in your time then?"
The man who was possibly called Lancelot grimaced slightly "Yes you've got me. Look..." he looked her in the eye "I'm not supposed to tell you anything. It's a rule of sorts. We have prepared for this eventuality."
"What, someone from the past wants to know the future?" she raised her eyebrows "Do I get an exclusive?"
He looked uncomfortable, and drummed his fingers together.
"Look, come here and have a see" he beckoned her to the exit behind the two airmen. She got up warily, finally walking closer towards him, and looked out of the window. She could see a stout old fashioned biplane outside the window, suspended about 100 metres away in mid air at the same level as them, similarly still and silent, it's propeller stopped mid-turn.
"L'Oiseau Blanc - the White Bird" he announced. "A fascinating thing I think you'll agree"
She considered the sight "You haven't answered my question" she said.
"Have I not?"
"I know when somebody wants to change the subject Doctor" she spoke with authority "They invite me to come and have a look at something. Happens all the time when I visit with my notebook, my big coat and a quizzical look on my face." she continued to peer out of the window "they think I'll forget what I was talking about. And doubtless this time I will literally forget all of this." She turned round from the window and faced him, she moved her face close in to his "If what you insinuate is true then presumably you have some kind of device for wiping my memory and returning me to normal with no knowledge of this. Better than putting me down I'll give you that, but given that in mind, will it hurt to have a nice chat about the future? I promise I won't tell anyone, and I'm guessing I won't be able to anyway."
He frowned at her and planted his hands in his pocket "very good, you deduce well." He turned around and paced back across the aisle. "As I said, this is an unusual situation"
"Are you being watched? she ventured "there must be. I others. I understand that you don't want to cause problems. I'm guessing this..." she waved her hand "is all a bit complex"
He laughed "it is a...bit yes. Look..." he turned "as soon as I saw that you were still conscious I made my way straight here, I didn't want you to come to any harm so I tranquilised you. But I was intrigued to talk to somebody from the past, so I woke you up. You are right there are others but at the moment I cannot communicate with them. Whomever is back in the past is on their own - in your time I believe you call it 'radio silence?'
"Yeah, sort of. It's not a common thing to say"
"So that is why I must be practiced and professional. I am wholly in control of all this. It's all here" he tapped his head "neurological control!" he said with sudden feeling "it's the only way. I decide to return and "zap", I return. All this is indeed reset, you are returned, I am returned with my research to my time and all continues as normal." He held both his index fingers up in front of his face in a gesture of excitement "THAT, is what is so extraordinary about all this. It WORKS! We did it, we made it work and there have been no unexpected consequences. And I hope that there will continue to be none." He smiled and looked about him "do you know how great this will be for our time? We get history to be hands on, we get to see it and feel it! We have learned so much that had been forgotten in time."
Jayne couldn't help but be charmed by his sudden excitement. She smiled slightly, but maintained her demeanour. It may have been artificially induced somehow, this man - Doctor Lancelot - had used his unseen technology to remove the stronger emotional reactions that would undoubtedly have been flooding over her for the past half an hour, the strangest half an hour she had ever known, but listening to him explain his 'mission' she could understand. With that kind of power she would want to be in control too, it made sense, even if it was frustrating to be stood like a spectator unable to feel the connection she knew she would have otherwise felt. The shock and surprise was wearing off now though and she was warming to her subject. If this was a prank it was a heck of good one, she thought, she'd given a good account of herself if a beaming Jeremy Beadle type host suddenly came walking in and told her she'd won a holiday for being such a good sport. Never mind that she was meant to already be on holiday.
"But how does it affect things in your time and your society? Do people know about this? It must be worth a fortune. I can't believe that everyone is happy to let a bunch of - with all due respect - history professors - play with time machines"
"No I doubt they would be if they knew the whole truth." he said cryptically
"Go on? I'm intrigued"
"Look, the general concept is common knowledge. The public in my time know it is possible, theoretically. We say to them that we can send small probes back into the past. We suggest to them that it is much more dangerous and difficult than we have developed it to be. The energy requirements are not a problem. By your time's standards they would be unthinkable, just unthinkable" he shook his head in wonder "but they do not know that people can go back ".
"Wouldn't they like to? Wouldn't they like to meet their ancestors" Jayne laughed "wouldn't they like to meet me? I'm probably related to most of them aren't I? Just like William the Conquerer is to me?
"We feel we have managed the situation well. Maybe in the future when our shielding technology is better when we can be sure that we are not interfering. But you see our simulation technology is such that we have been able to build the past for people. There's no need to jump in a time machine, just switch on the simulation. This is part of what I do" he was clearly warming to his subject, Jayne thought, his caution and clipped tone dropping away "I have visited many times, gathered the information and taken it back with me so we can build the past in our time. This..." he waved towards the window, and the two airmen, still sat patiently on the floor, as if they were cargo waiting for transfer, "I admit that this is a more personal interest. I do like these ancient flying machines. This one is fascinating even though I hadn't intended to see it. I was really aiming for the one that mysteriously vanished you see, solve the ancient mystery."
"Are you worried that you have created a monster?"
"Created a monster? I must remember that one. I do love your ancient idioms. See this is like talking to Shakespeare must be for you. I am struggling sometimes with your words. It is why I may sound a little strange. Sorry" he stopped "I am running on a bit".
"That's ok, she leant on the wall and folded her arms. "what about the biggie then? The beginning of the universe? That must have been number one on your list when you fired up your time machine?"
He grinned "yes it was but you must remember we are still but humans, we need a survivable environment. This is a safe time, your atmosphere is breathable, there are no unexpected surprises. You will appreciate that the mathematics of this have been... complicated. Better to stick to the safer options for now. But we do plan that for the future be in no doubt about that."
There was another pause, they both stood and looked at each other. Jayne broke the silence.
"So what now? It is time to get on with what you were doing?"
"Yes, that would probably be wise. I was scanning that plane, preparing to monitor it's course. Find out where it went, solve the mystery."
"What about them?" Jayne pointed towards the two airmen. "We are sending them off to their fate?"
He considered them. "They are brave men." He said simply. "They chose to do this."
Jayne looked at him, warily
"The past does not change I suppose?"
"No. First rule. No changes. We have the means to prevent interference as you can see from your fellow passengers. But we don't change."
"And you put things back the way they were" she said with resignation. She leant back to the bulkhead and stared up to the ceiling. He walked over to her.
"I am afraid so"
"Could I have a moment of real feeling. Take off whatever it is you've done, your 'emotion field' Let me experience this properly for a moment?"
"It would be irregular, not something we should chance."
"What difference would it make?" Jayne asked "I won't remember this, correct?"
"Correct" He looked her squarely in the eye. She shuddered with a realisation and looked down at the floor.
"But... you will" she whispered.
"Yes"
The moment passed, she tried to think of something to say that might change his mind but al l thought was suddenly escaping her, as if a plug had been pulled and all thoughts were draining away.
"Well, it was nice to meet you Professor." a thought suddenly struck her "you know I haven't introduced myself I'm..."
"No!" he cut across. "No name. It is not something I should hear." he spoke quickly and nervously, as if trying not to admit any unwanted thoughts "Professional detachment you know. Best not know too much".
"Oh, I see" she smiled wanly.
"This is not easy, young lady." he suddenly sounded very alien to her, but what he said next immediately made her feel huge empathy and she felt as if she finally understood him.
"You see I could, if I wanted, found out what happens to you. You are long dead in my time. I could look you up. Meet your descendants. I do not want that, it is better to not know."
Jayne considered this, she was moved by his predicament, and a little humbled. Clearly he was used to dealing with some pretty massive moral dilemmas and had very sensibly adopted some basic rules to stick to. Still, she could resist a little appeal;
"But if you do know then I will be remembered long in the future. I must admit, and I hope this doesn't sound shallow, that would be pretty cool" she smiled warmly "even if I don't know it".
He folded his arms and considered her offer. "Cool... that's another good one. A language professor friend told me about that one. "Cool... groovy... square?" he ventured. "Am I correct?"
"Almost"
He sat down on the little jumpseat in the aisle and pulled the golden device out his pocket again. He held it in his hand and held it up to his left eye. "Maybe..." he mused "we can randomise?" He threw the little ball in the air and caught in his other hand. "Leave it up to chance."
Jayne had an idea and dug in her trouser pocket. "Wait here." she told him and set off down the centre aisle to her seat.
"what?" he called back
"Just a minute let me look in my bag" she shouted back. She walked back past the silent passengers, spotted Tom, book still in front of his face
"'Scuse me, love" she imitated his accent as she leant over him and reached her bag. She rustled around inside, pulled out what she was looking for and walked back to the doorway.
"Heads or tails?" she asked the Professor holding out a fifty pence peace.
The queen's head sat looking face up from the navy carpet of the doorway next to the Professor's foot.
"Fair enough" he said and looked up at her imploring her to continue.
"Well", she began with a hint of satisfaction "my name is Jane Louise Farthing, I was born on the 22nd of May 1980, in Peterborough, Great Britain, Europe, the World" She looked at him. "Think that thing will be able to find me?"
He tossed the golden device into air and it flickered to life. A large square menu came up by his face and he began tapping the air searching for something.
"So... futureboy. When do I make it until? When do I die?"
He looked round the large rectangle suspended in the air.
"Wait a moment". He kept fiddling with the screen for several minutes. She leant in the door, waiting.
"Right. Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Yes. Nothing to lose. As long as you promise I won't remember".
"You won't. I promise".
"Show me."
He pressed the screen. Instantly the rectangle disappeared, to be replaced by three people standing in front of her. A young woman, a young man, and another young woman, all in their mid-twenties. The first young woman was about five foot five and had long dark hair. The man was six foot tall and also had long shoulder length lighter brown hair, he looked vaguely like he could be in a band. The second woman was slender and nearly as tall as the man, she had shorter hair and was clearly of mixed Caucasian and Asian race.
"Your daughter, grandson and granddaughter all aged twenty five" said the Professor simply.
"She is called Josie, he is Marcus, and she is Eleanor". he gestured to each "you will live to see all of them" he added.
Jayne looked on fascinated, each figure was still and did not move but they looked as real as if they were stood in front of her. Suddenly she felt a huge rush of emotion and adrenaline.
"And I have switched off the emotional inhibitor" he said but she wasn't listening.
"Oh... my... gosh!" she laughed a stared at them. She walked around the figures and gazed for several minutes. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the person who was apparently her daughter as a grown woman. It was undeniable, she was the same height and looked like a combination of her and Tom's features. "This is... " she tailed off. she waved her hand through the projection "if only... they were real" Then she laughed again "look at me, wishing for more. This is remarkable". The man looked a bit like Tom she thought, he would approve of his rock'n'roll look. The second woman was stunningly pretty, whomever the man had married must be a looker. More minutes passed and gradually Jayne became more and more drowsy. She slumped down on the floor next to the two airmen, and closed her eyes. They were still damp. She heard a voice in the distance.
"It has been a pleasure to meet you Miss Farthing. You know I think I would have done that for you even if you had called tails. Goodbye now, I must get back to work".
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Ten: An unknown time
Professor Meijer carried Jayne back to her seat and placed her carefully back as she had been. He made sure to lean her head against the window and fasten up her seat belt. He walked the length of the plane once more, making sure nothing had been left behind. Obviously the de-contamination process in the machine made sure nothing entered the past that should not be here but he liked to check anyway just to put his mind at rest. Any of the objects he carried back with him were deliberately designed to be completely non-functioning without their connection to their host, and were all programmed to biodegrade into dust rapidly after the end of the mission's assigned time.
He glanced at Jayne's still form as he walked back past her. He had liked her in their brief little encounter. Even with the emotional inhibitor acting on her she had been remarkably calm person and pleasingly willing to believe his story. Admittedly he had not engaged many people from the past in conversation. Usually the machine made sure they were safely kept in the envelope of slowed down time, but occasionally one or two had been left out. Once or twice this had caused a few problems - he recalled the time when one poor sailor aboard Henry the Eighths's Mary Rose had been left wandering the suddenly silent and stilled ship. He hadn't found the man for several minutes and had to engage the tranquilizer quickly before the man, who was a not inconsiderable size, swung a large broadsword into his head. That had been a harrowing mission all round, studying the great wooden ship filled with the countless doomed sailors, all of whom were to be shortly heading for a watery grave. He had dreaded the moment when his survey would be done and he would have to leave and send them on their way.
Non-interference was doubtless a worthy goal, he thought, but it was hard to stay so passive, especially around so much disaster and tragedy. They had solved so many mysteries, and studied throughout so much of human history, it seemed such a shame that they could not affect the lives of those they were studying. It had been debated, naturally. The University and their fellow time-historians around the world had spent decades mulling over the issue. Central and above all was this question; could they change the past? Or did it all fit together in a loop? Were they going back and altering something, or simply doing what had already been done long ago. Personally he favoured the latter theory. He had been on the side that had argued, sometimes with great fervour and feeling, that the fact that they were doing what they were doing at all proved it correct. All time was one, and they were hopping around the multiverse to their hearts content. How he'd longed to go and have a chat with Isaac Newton or Einstein about the subject. Wouldn't they like to know how it all worked? He could dream of course.
Then there was this girl - this random person he had talked to and shared the most extraordinary human achievement with - and he had had to take it away as he had with all the others. The projection of her descendants had been a moment of impulsiveness. He had been so impressed with her perceptiveness at knowing that he would be able to tell her how and when she would eventually die that he had been unable to resist reassuring her - albeit for only a few minutes - that it would not be for many more years yet. It was a neat trick, and it had given him a great amount of pleasure just to see her expression of wonder. How sad that he then had to send her, unknowing, back to her life. It was for the best of course; how, after all, was she supposed to live knowing all that she did? Such a profound shock would effectively destroy the person she had once been. He could not live with the thought that he had done that.
There was a mission to perform, and he would continue on. But the thought nagged at him; perhaps he could leave her with... what? Something. Somehow. A little hint to what had been. This poor woman would live the rest of her days not knowing that she had met, spoken to, a man from the far, far future. Just an echo, the tiniest hint of their meeting, the meeting of two worlds. A present. It was not generally permitted of course. Not at all. Again it was something that had been hotly debated by scientists, writers, philosophers and all the rest. Go back and change the past for the better. Improve the human race, even just by nudging the primitives of the past in the right direction. Some argued that perhaps this had already happened; that the great leaps forward were the result of some great leaps backwards in time.
It made Professor Meijer weary; he was happy to stay in the non-interference camp. To make the present better. However he always nursed his pet project; a calling card. Nothing too elaborate. Just an item from the past marked with some evidence of his passing. It would be of no significance whatsoever. He didn't believe in fate, but the glitch that had led to a meeting with the girl had made his mind up. He looked at her again, and thought of the data he had looked up on her. "Let's give you a little memento, Miss Farthing" he thought. "From my time to yours". He looked out of the window one last time. The white bird was becoming an ever smaller speck below him. It dissolved away to nothing. He picked the golden ball from his pocket and suspended it infront of himself. He closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them and the interior of the ancient flying machine was replaced by the familiar blackness of the antechamber. He would have to wait for several hours to be given the all clear. Then he would be free to get back to work.
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Eleven: Present day.
The road led through an overgrown hollow, filled with clogging weeds and fallen tree trunks, and led up a steep hill, skirting along a ridge with a steep drop to their left side. At times the mud looked as if it might be too thick and they considered stopping and continuing on foot. However it was still several miles further up the road to the nearest point at which they would have to continue on foot anyway, deep into the forest for a further couple of miles till they reached the spot. The sun shone above the leaves of the tress but it could not reach down to the ground and dry out the mud. They elected to carry on and soon the road surface became better as they turned away from the ridge and into the forest. They passed signs of logging - piles of tree trunks stacked by the road, and at one point a large cutting machine sat idle in a layby cut into the trees. This gave them cause for optimism that the road would stay passable. The trees closed in around them and grew close to the road side as they pressed on. A few minutes later they spied another layby and pulled in.
"This is probably the closest place we can stop" Jayne said examining the map on her phone.
"It's a few miles away off to the right" she waved into the trees.
Tom turned off the engine and climbed out.
"You have your keys?" he asked
Jayne fished the other set of hire-car keys out her pocket and waved them at him.
"Just checking"
They were both city kids born and bred, being out deep in the forest was not within their comfort zone. As a result they had made sure they were ready for anything and had stuffed their backpacks full of every conceivable item they might need.
"Jesus this is bloody heavy" Jayne groaned as she hauled her bag onto her back. They trudged up the road for half a mile looking for a convenient path into the trees but there was no evidence of any disturbance in the wall of foliage.
"Looks like this is closest we can get" said Tom matter-of-factly. "Now we dive in". He strode off purposefully into the undergrowth. Jayne looked around at the road, sighed, and followed him in. It was surprisingly easy going. once they had struggled through some of the undergrowth near the road side the ground became barer and easier to cross. The mud was still thick in places, and their were clouds of midges hovering around in places. They came to small valley in the trees, stumbled and slid down the slope, taking care to note whether they could come back up it again. They crossed the stream at the bottom and clambered up the other side. Jayne looked again at the map on her phone. The numbers in the coordinates box were matching the numbers left to them by their mysterious source.
"It should be just up here" she motioned to the top of the slope. Her excitement was mounting now, what was it they were about to find? Would they find anything? Or, more worryingly, was there something to find that they were about to miss?
They couldn't miss it. At the top of the slope was a slight clearing. Several younger looking trees sprouted in the middle of the clearing with the brooding darker shapes of the ancient forest standing behind them. The ground here was slightly drier as the sun could reach it and dry away the mud. Tangled ferns covered the ground, and there were more clouds of insects, picked out by the rays of sunlight. A rustling in the undergrowth made them both jump with apprehension - but it was only a chipmunk; it scurried up to a branch and eyed them curiously. Behind the clump of trees and bushes was a large metal object, at least two metres long and a metre tall, sat partly sunken into the ground. It was too covered by the undergrowth for them the make out precisely what it was. They both looked at each other, wide eyed with excitement.
"That?" mouthed Jayne and looked back to the object. She wasn't quite sure why she was whispering, there was nobody else around to hear them. But the air was completely still and the quiet was absolute - it seemed inappropriate to speak in anything other than a hushed whisper.
Tom nodded back to her. "I guess so" he shrugged his shoulders. "Wanna take a look?"
"Do you think we should? Is it dangerous? Maybe it's an old bomb or something" Jayne suddenly felt a shudder of excitement and fear as a thought struck her. Hadn't the US Air Force once lost an atomic bomb once? Back in the sixties or fifties?
"What if it's a... y'know..." she hesitated. It did sound a bit ridiculous to say it, and she guessed that Tom might shoot her thought down instantly with one of his withering eye-rolls "... nuke?"
"Hmmmm" he considered. "Well I would say that stranger things have happened but the fact that we're standing here at all is, I would argue, pretty damn weird. But at the same time I'd reckon if the US government had lost a nuclear bomb I doubt it would be sitting here fifty odd years later. And I suppose if they wanted to secretly tip someone off about it I doubt it would be us. As much as I would be flattered by the idea that they think that highly of us" he laughed. Jayne nodded in agreement and felt her momentary panicked though sink away. Good old Tom, he's always good for a bit of calming rationalisation. She'd been ready to reach for a Geiger counter.
"Still, it could be a bomb?"
"well then, tread carefully"
Tom stepped carefully round the trees, pushing aside the ferns and scanning the ground. Jayne held back and waited. She smelt the air and was reassured by the lack of any strange odours. If this had been some dumping ground for a body, she reasoned, there would probably be some bad smell. There wasn't, whatever it was, she hoped, it was not a crime scene. Still, she waited intently.
Tom had reached the object and was looking at it intently. A moment later he shouted back to her
"It's an engine"
"Yes?" she replied, trying to prompt him to say more. He took the hint.
"Big one. An aeroplane. It's old."
"Old?" she prompted again.
"Come round and have a look"
"Sure it's safe?"
"Can't see anything dangerous. This has been here a very long time".
She picked her way through the ferns and reached where Tom was standing. The object was unquestionably what he had said it was; an old engine. It stained almost black from all the years it had sat here and was corroding away across it's whole structure. It was still the right way up; the two banks of exhaust pipes sat on either side, and there was the remains of a broken propeller on the front end. The blades were all snapped away - whatever had happened to the plane the engine had once powered, it had obviously not been a smooth or controlled.
"Well well well". Tom said looking at the large slab of iron. "Solve one mystery, find another one"
"Any idea what kind of plane?" Jayne asked him hopefully.
"Nope." he said simply, then added for elaboration "planes and engines are a bit interchangeable really. Even if I did know, which I admit I don't, it might not narrow it down much."
"And we still don't know why somebody wanted us to find it. Why send us, and not just claim it for yourself. God knows what they were doing out here anyway."
"Well those logging trucks show that somebody's out here fairly regularly" Tom said, and then added "perhaps you've got a fan?"
"Yeah, American logging crews read Mancunian hipster magazines" she replied with a dash of sarcasm.
"Don't see why not. I read all kinds of stuff on the internet."
"I know you do. I prefer not to think about what you're up to when I'm out"
He grinned; "Toosh - and indeed - ay" he said in an exaggerated Essex twang. He was still looking at the broken propeller. "Question is, where's the rest of it?" He started scouting around the undergrowth.
"Surely the question is 'where's the pilot?" she added, following him.
"Judging by the age of that" he waved at the engine "he's long gone. Lot of animals out here"
Jayne shuddered and hugged herself slightly. True enough, she thought.
"Poor guy"
"Might've been, y'know, gone instantly. That propeller's pretty broken up." he was looking intently at the ground around the surrounding trees. "Worse ways to go I suppose. One moment here, next, gone."
"I wonder what happened to him?"
"Dunno. Fuel, maybe. I know it's old but there's not much sign of any fire." he said "anyway, who says it was a 'him', never know lot's of women flyers back then".
"Ah well, I can't see a girl wanting to fly over a featureless forest, that's a very blokey thing to be doing"
"Well I wouldn't want to send you back in time to meet Amelia Earhart and tell her that"
"Was she the one who went missing?" Jayne asked
"Yep, but not here before you ask. In the Pacific Ocean."
Jayne thought for a moment
"You know how we reversed those coordinates and got somewhere out in the Pacific ocean? If we get a boat next year with a diver and it turns out that she's there I really am going to start wondering if there isn't something going on that we don't know about."
"I think it was more the Hawaii, Fiji sort of area"
There was a fallen log on the ground and they stopped to sit on it. Jayne unpacked her camera from it's bag and snapped some pictures.
"For our eyes only." she sighed "for now"
They sat quietly for a few more minutes before Tom declared that he was going look in the trees where they had originally walked into the clearing.
"Don't go out of sight" Jayne called after him
"Hey, I've seen the movies!" he called back "I'm not going anywhere. Jayne stood up to take some closer pictures of the remains of the engine. As she was doing this she heard Tom call to her
"Jayney dearest come and have a look at this!"
She walked quickly across to where he was standing, amongst the older trees. As she got nearer to the trees she noticed that they weren't quite as old as she originally thought. Tom waved to the object he was looking at on the ground.
"Definitely a piece of it" he said.
It was a large sheet of torn fabric, covered in dirt, and cracked on the surface as if some kind of surface treatment had been applied to it. The fabric was coloured blue, white and red, as if it was painted in the colours of the French tricolour flag, although the colours had faded away somewhat, and the white was yellowing. As they swept away the covering of dirt they could make out stencilled letters written on the fabric
P. LEVASSEUR
TYPE 8
Underneath the lettering was a large silhouette on a ship's anchor, printed on the white section of the fabric.
"Wow, let's get some pictures of this" said Tom, breathlessly.
"Do you recognise it?" asked Jayne hopefully
"I don't know. I can tell you what it could be. That looks like a French flag doesn't it?" he asked her.
"Combined with that 'Levasseur' name I'd say it is yes" she replied.
"Well, there is a well known story of a missing French plane from many years ago. I don't know if this is it though."
"Tell me" she asked.
"Well you know Charles Lindbergh right?" he asked her "first man to fly solo across the Atlantic?"
"Yes."
"Well, he wasn't the only one trying in those days. It's just that he was the one who made it, loads of people tried but didn't. One of those was these French guys right? I can't remember their names, but they had a white plane you see." he waved excitedly at the fabric laying on the ground like a picnic cloth, "big white plane, and they were trying to get to New York from Paris, so they were going the other way, and they vanished! Nobody knows what happened to them! So.... maybe this is them!"
"Oh... my"
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Twelve
One moment he was not there, the next he was. There was no flash of light or sound. He simply appeared, standing on the stairwell. He held the envelope in his gloved hand and considered it. He took the paper out with the coordinates of Nungessor and Coli's final resting place and read it again.
4176576677666N
7157575757757W
Look into it.
Either it was the most important, and perhaps risky piece of paper ever to exist in the history of the universe. Or, it would be a nice little adventure for her to go on. An intriguing mystery for the young woman he had accidentally ensnared in his mission. He would find out in due course. He walked up to the postboxes and opened the flap to Number 103. He paused. Was this the right thing to do? He posted the envelope. Perhaps Jayne Farthing deserved to be let in on the loop after all.
