STDD CASE FILE RUS1896JM

A David Sands Competition story by Jo Jones

An entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition

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STDD CASE FILE RUS1896JM

STATUS: PENDING

Joan steps out of the office for the last time. Blinking in the afternoon sun, she rests the box carrying all her worldly, well, her working worldly goods anyway, on her hip as she tries to juggle her car keys and handbag without dropping anything.

The end of an era. According to the speech her boss gave anyway. She sincerely doubts her eighteen-year tenure as accounts manager, in charge of a department of one (her), particularly merits being described as an era.

With a sigh, she makes her way to her Micra and opens the rear door. About to drop everything on the seat, she suddenly and uncharacteristically, changes her mind. She glances around. It feels…. weird and not quite real to think this is the very last time she will park here.

Retired. She associates that word with age. Old age. At sixty, relatively fit and, she is frequently assured, looking at least ten years younger, she doesn’t consider herself old. A decent personal pension means she doesn’t have to work, even though it will be another seven years before she will qualify for the state pension. If there is still such a thing then. She believes the government, any government, despite their protestations otherwise, will find a way to keep extending the qualifying age until they can phase it out altogether. She sighs again. When did she become so cynical? She opens the boot, places the box inside, locks the car and heads to the High Street.

There’s not a lot to it. Scotmid, baker, butcher, and the ubiquitous general store selling everything you had no idea you needed until you did. There is one hairdresser-come-beauty salon, and rather bizarrely, two Turkish barbers. She can’t imagine there are enough stylish men in her hometown to warrant even one, never mind two, of these fine establishments. The two cafés both specialise in good old British breakfasts and morning rolls with a dizzying array of fillings, most of which are fried. There is one very nice, newly opened bistro hoping to attract the influx of commuter families from the very expensive new-build houses on the edge of town and, of course, four pubs. None of which have any trouble attracting the locals.

On a Tuesday afternoon, it is relatively quiet. A few mums with younger children. The unemployed and the unemployable. Older people. Like her, she smiles wryly.

She wanders aimlessly up one side of the street. Passes the nicest café. Having been plied with bacon rolls, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and a Costco cake inscribed with ‘Happy Retirment Joan’ a typo only she noticed, she is definitely not hungry. Perhaps she will nip into the very good butcher’s shop and get herself a nice steak for dinner. There is leftover salad in her fridge which is still relatively fresh. She might even crack open a bottle of wine. Toast her future. Whatever it may hold.

She crosses the road, not bothering with the pedestrian crossing, stumbles and is thankfully caught by a very distinguished-looking older gentleman before she can hit the ground.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry.”

“Are you alright, madam?”

Joan brushes off imaginary dust and hastily steps back. “Yes. Yes. I’m absolutely fine, thank you. Sorry. Again.”

“No trouble at all. May I escort you to your destination?”

She blinks as she looks at him. Who on Earth talks like that? He is much taller than her five feet, five inches, slimly built and wearing what, even to her unsophisticated eye, is clearly a very expensive black pin-striped, three-piece suit. Savile Row anyone? Greying hair pokes out from underneath a Trilby and he has a neatly trimmed goatee beard which suits him very well. And ……is that a monocle? He certainly looks out of place in Bowton. Out of time too, truth to tell.

“Oh no, no need. Thank you.” Not sure what else to say or do, she once more dusts down her shirt and straightens her jacket. It occurs to her that if this were a story, she would have finally met her soul mate and they would drift off together into a happy future, travelling the world. First class, of course. But it’s not and they won’t.

“Well, if you’re quite sure I can be of no further assistance for now, I will be on my way. Good day to you, Miss Michaels.” He doffs his hat and turns away.

“Sir Reginald Hargreeves!” she calls out, snapping her fingers, not quite registering that he knows her name.

“I beg your pardon?” He turns back looking utterly bemused.

Joan feels her cheeks flushing. “I…. I’m sorry. It’s just you remind me of him. Sir Reginald Hargreeves. The Umbrella Academy,” she finishes lamely. Presuming that all phrases have some basis in truth, she wills the ground to open up right now. Please, please, please.

“I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with that particular establishment, Miss Michaels. Nor with a member of the peerage named Hargreeves.”

Her colour deepens. “No. No, of course not. It’s a…. TV show.” Oh, dear God! Lightening then.

There is an uncomfortably long pause.

“Ah.” He smiles kindly. Like people do when confronted with someone who is clearly not firing on all cylinders.

In the absence of any kind of intervention, divine or otherwise, Joan smiles weakly back. Like you do when you’re the one whose cylinders aren’t firing at all. “Well, thanks again. Have a nice day.” She spins around and strides smartly back across the street. Have a nice day? For goodness’ sake! Now what does she do? The butcher is on the other side of the street, but there is no way on God’s Earth she is crossing back. Or looking to see if Sir Reginald is watching her. Or if he’s calling the emergency services. Why hadn’t she just gone home as she usually did? She doesn’t need steak. A tin of tuna will do just fine with the salad.

She risks a sideways glance through the curtain of her thick, dark (thank you L’Oreal) hair and breathes a sigh of relief. He’s gone. With a quick traffic check, she recrosses the road, thankfully without incident this time. Okay. Buy a steak then home. Except…… the butcher shop isn’t there. She frowns, glancing around to get her bearings. This is definitely where the butcher is. Was. Should be. She hasn’t seen anything on the local Facebook page announcing the closure of the long-established shop. But there is no meat in this window. No steak pies, no bacon, no sausages. What there is, is posters. Travel posters. Cruises, beach resorts, jungle adventures and luxury train journeys. When had a travel agency opened? Still, she finds herself lingering. Mindful of the fact that part of her surprisingly generous array of leaving gifts includes rather a lot of euros, her own fault, she’d erroneously implied that her retirement plans included travel, she studies the posters more closely. It wouldn’t do any harm to pick up a brochure or two. She wouldn’t be committing to anything. Before she can change her mind, she opens the door. An old-fashioned bell announces her arrival. Somehow, she is not surprised to see Sir Reginald behind the only desk.

“Hello again Miss Michaels. Please, take a seat.”

“Hello. Um….. no thank you. I thought I might just grab a few brochures.” She glances around but can’t see any lying around or displayed on shelves.

“Oh, we don’t do brochures, I’m afraid. Not enough paper in the world,” he laughs.

“Right. Well, I’ll just be on my way. I’m not really looking to go on holiday.”

“Why ever not? Euros are no good here, are they? Although, to be fair, they’re not much use anywhere prior to 2002, and one does rather assume you’ll be going back a little further than that.” He moves to the front of the desk and pulls out the chair for her to sit.

She frowns. He knows her name. He knows she has euros. And what exactly does he mean by going back? Despite all that, or maybe because of all that, she finds herself taking the proffered seat.

“Splendid. May I get you a refreshment? Tea, coffee, champagne perhaps? Retirement is a cause for celebration after all.” He retakes his seat with a broad smile.

“How do you know….. all you know? About me.”

“This is not the first time we have met Miss Michaels. But….. we are getting ahead of ourselves. Or maybe behind?” He shakes his head. “Even I can’t keep up! Anyway, where are you thinking of this time?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m quite sure I would remember meeting you, Mr…..?” She waits for him to fill in the blank. He doesn’t. “And I don’t travel. Anymore.” Time to go. She stands.

“We only have a brief window of opportunity, Miss Michaels. It’s now or not for another very long time.”

“Opportunity for what exactly?”

“The time of your life!” He pops open a bottle of Bollinger that she is certain was not there when she sat down and carefully fills two elegant flutes.

This is ridiculous. Insane even. Yet she finds herself sitting down and sipping the absolutely delicious champagne. Not that she is a connoisseur of such things. She takes another sip. Why not? There’s nothing and no-one waiting for her at home. She has resisted the cliché of being the spinster with the cat. So far. Why shouldn’t she have a glass or two of quality champagne and consider the possibility of going on holiday? Maybe she could even actually go? Alone. Or as part of a group of like-minded singles. She grimaces. Sounds horrific. Still, the champagne really is very, very, good.

“Alright, where do you suggest a sixty-year-old single woman with a shed load of euros should go?” She leans back and takes another long sip.

“Hmmm. Perhaps, for a change, we should first consider the when rather than the where.” He sips far more delicately than she does.

“When? Well, I am retired so anytime is good for me.” She peers at the flute. This champagne really is quite excellent.

He smiles indulgently. “You say a variation of that every time, Joan. You don’t mind if I call you Joan, do you?”

“I’d rather you called me Anastasia, but that’s not my name. So….” she giggles, draining her glass and holding it out for a refill.

He obliges her not so subtle request. “It just so happens we do have a rather interesting case pending at the moment. May I suggest Moscow, 1896? A relatively hopeful time for the dynasty.”

She pauses; glass half raised to her lips. “Dynasty. As in the Romanovs?”

“Yes.”

“You think I should go to Moscow? In today’s climate?” She ignores the numbers for now.

“Well, you did say Anastasia.”

She frowns. “Joan is the most boring name ever and that was the first exotic one that came to mind.”

“I see. If you really don’t want to go to Russia, we have several other cases on file.”

“I don’t want to go to Russia.” She has unsettling images of being tailed by the KGB.

“Are you sure? It’s just that the name you give me is quite often the starting point for your next trip.” He sounds quite put out.

Joan decides she’s had enough champagne. Probably more than enough. She places the half-full glass on the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not making any sense whatsoever. I think I should go. Thank you for the champagne.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder.

“Joan.”

The way he says her name makes her pause. She presses her lips together. Her heart is pounding. She feels herself breaking into a cold sweat. What if he doesn’t let her leave? What if the drink was drugged? Is she going to be trafficked?

“Let’s begin again, shall we? My name is irrelevant, but you call me Marcus. Every so often, we meet. You take a trip. You do us a small favour. You return home. You remember nothing. We meet again. And so on.”

She swallows hard. She has so many questions. For no particular reason she starts with, “And what do I get out of all this….. meeting? And tripping?”

“Adventure, Joan! A respite from the dull drudgery of your daily life.”

She bristles slightly. It’s all very well for her to call her life dull, and she can’t deny that it is, but she rather resents him doing so. “But, if I don’t remember any of it, what’s the point?”

“Your passion is history. You get to live it. As it happens,” he says, enthusiastically waving his arms in the air, remarkably without spilling any champagne.

“You’re not serious. I mean, you can’t possibly be talking about….” She can’t bring herself to say the words.

“I am. Both serious and talking about….”

“No! Nope! Don’t! Just….. don’t. I’m leaving now, and don’t you dare try to stop me! I don’t know who put you up to this, but it’s just… Tell them I am not that gullible. Or desperate. It’s not funny, and frankly, champagne notwithstanding, I am more than a little annoyed. Good day….. Marcus.” She whirls, a mistake considering the alcohol, takes a moment, then stomps out the door.

Marcus smiles and takes another sip. He so enjoys their little chats. He checks his pocket watch. The second hand ticks along. Completes a full minute. Then another. Then another three. Interesting. It doesn’t usually take her this long. Maybe it’s her age? He is idly wondering what will happen if she doesn’t come back when the door opens, bounces off the wall, only missing her on the rebound because she’s already standing in front of his desk.

“Time travel?”

He nods, leaning forward to place his glass down.

“Time travel,” she repeats slowly.

“Yes,” he replies though it was not a question.

“Travelling through time.”

“Mmmm. One can’t travel through time. Time is not a door after all,” he laughs at his analogy. She does not. He clears his throat. “It’s more travelling along time.”

“Travelling along the time line then.” She can’t believe she’s actually having this conversation.

“Mmmm. Time isn’t a line one can travel as such. Try, if you will, to imagine a wonderfully complex system of….”

“No, I’m not imagining anything. Except, maybe, this conversation. That’s it! You didn’t catch me when I stumbled. I fell. Cracked my head. I’m hallucinating while I wait in a dingy corridor to be admitted to a hospital ward.” Thank goodness for that. Not that spending hours in the emergency room would be her preferred activity on the afternoon she retired, but it beats accepting that she is here, slightly tipsy, listening to the crazy wittering of Sir Reginald. Or should that be the wittering of crazy Sir Reginald?

Marcus sighs. This is taking so much longer than it usually does. She’s always been so open to the suggestion before. Excited even.

Joan picks up her glass and downs the contents in one. Hey, her hallucination, she can do what she wants. “Right. Let’s just say that I believe you. Time travel is a thing. A thing that I do. So, where’s the machine?”

He can’t help it; he looks at his watch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something? Or some time maybe?” she tries, and fails, to keep the sarcasm from her voice as she plonks, rather unbecomingly, down on the chair.

“No, no, forgive me. To answer your question, there is no machine. Mr Wells really did us no favours with that one. Splendid book though.”

“No machine?”

“No.”

“How do I get there then? Portal? TARDIS? Magic beans?” She leans forward and helps herself to another drink.

“Watch.”

“I am watching! Trust me, this stuff is too good to spill.”

He shakes his head. “No. A watch. As in a timepiece you wear on your wrist. The clue is in the name.”

She blinks. “A watch? A watch lets me travel through, I beg your pardon, along time?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Apple’s latest update really is a massive leap forward.”

“I’m not quite sure what a piece of fruit has to do with anything, but you are correct, the technology will indeed be a remarkable leap.”

She rolls her eyes as she takes another long drink then, carefully so as not to spill any, she presses the crown on her watch. “Which app is it then?”

“Joan, that watch doesn’t allow you to time travel.”

“Damn! Is it expensive? It seems like it would be, these things certainly are.” She waves her wrist. “I mean I’m not exactly watching every penny, but I’m not Joan Bezos.”

Marcus looks at her blankly.

“As in Jeff? Amazon? Really? Have you been living under a rock?” She sighs heavily. “Never mind. So, I need a watch.”

“You do.”

“Okay. A watch you are going to give me?”

“Yes.”

“And, as I don’t have one and you say I’ve done this before, I return it when I get back?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Does this mean you are ready to go?” he asks warily.

“Absolutely. Let’s do this. Moscow here I come. I assume I’m not going to be the Anastasia Romanov?”

“No, no. Aside from the fact that particular Grand Duchess won’t be born until 1901, you can’t be someone who exists in their own time period. That is……”

“Impossible? Weird? Dangerous? Because the rest of all this is soooo believable.”

“I was going to say beyond our current capabilities.” He reaches inside his jacket, producing a folded piece of paper which he holds out to her.

Unfolding it, she frowns at the unfamiliar words. “Russian, I’m guessing?”

“Indeed. When you arrive, you will memorise this then repeat it to a certain holy man who is on the verge of……”

“Rasputin!” she blurts out excitedly. “I get to meet Rasputin!” Despite not believing any of this is real, her reaction is purely visceral. And slightly embarrassing.

“Goodness me no!” He looks quite horrified by the very idea. “Father Konstantin Fedorov. A well-educated, if naïve, young man from Pavlovsk, is travelling to Moscow to enjoy the many celebrations planned for the coronation of the Tsar and Tsarina. He shares a carriage with an enchanting lady and her chaperone, who are also to attend the festivities. Indeed, so enchanting is this paragon of womanly virtue that Father Konstantin is on the verge of laicising himself……”

“Whoa! Hold on there, Mr Oxford English Dictionary. Laicising? In public? In front of her chaperone? Is that even legal?”

“A laicised priest is one who has left the priesthood,” he explains patiently.

“Oh. Right. I thought it meant he….. never mind. Carry on.” She studies the crease in her trousers. It needs ironing.

“Quite. The point is, he must not, under any circumstances, give up his vocation.”

“Why? I’ve never heard of him. Who cares if some randy priest from the Dark Ages defrocks himself? Before defrocking an enchantress,” she snorts, amused by her play on words.

“It is barely over a hundred years ago, Joan, hardly the Dark Ages. And, you yourself made the point, you have never heard of him. That will change if he is allowed to follow this new path.”

“Change in a bad way?”

He nods gravely. “A very, very bad way.”

She looks at the letter even though the Cyrillic letters mean absolutely nothing to her. “And this,” she waves it at him, “will make him forget his… love?”

“It will help him…. make the correct decision.”

“Jesus. No pun intended. What does it say?”

“It is probably best that you don’t know.” He steeples his fingers under his chin.

“Ah hah! You said I’ve to memorise it. So, putting aside the fact that I don’t know any Russian, I will know what it says.”

“Yes, but not until you arrive.”

“Arrive. In Moscow in 18…..”

“96. Yes.”

She grimaces, the effects of the champagne beginning to wear off. “Okay, so somehow, I find this conflicted priest, tell him…. oh! Wait a minute. That has to be breaking every single rule of time travel.”

Marcus frowns. “In what way exactly?”

“Uh duh! The butterfly effect? Chaos theory? I take it you have heard of that Professor?”

“Oh, I’m not a Professor, Joan, I’m…..”

“Not the point.”

“I understand. You are referring to Mr Bradbury’s story ‘A Sound of Thunder’ in which he proposes that the untimely death of a single butterfly in the past can change…..”

“Yes! I mean I haven’t actually read it but I assume that’s the one that makes my case.”

He really does wish she would refrain from interrupting him. “Time is not that fragile, Joan.” He used to say that time was not like a fragile, delicate woman. He has learned not to.

“Still, surely I can’t take anything from this time back without changing the future?”

“It is not only possible but absolutely essential that we do just that.”

“You change the future? You…… manipulate the future?” she asks, aghast.

“We… try to ensure the…. correct outcomes.”

“The correct outcomes? Who decides what that is? You?”

“Well, not just me.” He smiles deprecatingly.

“This is…. no. That is wrong. So wrong.” She imagines a group of Bond-like villians sitting around a table dictating world events. Or NATO as it’s sometimes known.

“Actually no, it isn’t. Joan, you have done this many times. No harm has been done….”

“No harm? No harm? Do you watch the news? The world is totally fu…screwed up!”

“Trust me, it would be far, far worse without our interventions.”

She opens her mouth to protest some more, then promptly closes it again. Why is she getting so wound up? This is not real. Butterflies die all the time. Watches, no matter how smart, do not enable time travel.

“Some more champagne, perhaps?”

“Absolutely. You keep saying we or us or our. I take it you don’t just mean you and me?”

“Of course not. We, as in our unit.” He fills her glass.

“Unit. So, there’s a lot of us then? Whizzing along time, fighting the good fight, righting wrongs at the whim of some despotic general? Or worse, politician?”

He frowns. “Joan, you have my word, there are no despots involved, either military or civilian.”

“Well, no despot thinks they are one, do they? Anyway, you’re telling me I’m a part of some secret time army?”

“Army, no. There’s only around a dozen of us in this particular time frame.”

“So more like a secret time gang then.” She shakes her head. This is one long hallucination. “What’s it called?”

“What is what called?”

“Our gang? Unit,” she amends, seeing his eyes almost disappear under his deeply furrowing brows.

“The Spatial Time Distortion Department,” he proclaims grandly.

“The STD…. Department. Really?” she laughs.

“I am not sure why you find that so amusing, but yes.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Tell me what it says. The letter I mean.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“I don’t care. Tell me, or I’m walking out the door.”

Marcus sighs even more heavily. He removes his monocle and rubs his eyes wearily. “It tells him that, should he follow Satan’s path of temptation, great sorrow will befall his beloved and his um…genitalia will turn black and wither away. Before falling off.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes.

Joan blinks several times. “I….. see.”

The silence stretches out.

“And….. why would he believe some strange woman on the street?”

“You will appea……. He will be praying for guidance. Your words will guide him.”

“Are you saying….. he’s going to think I’m….. God?” she whispers, suddenly fearful lest she be smited. Smote? Smitten?

“Well…… I would imagine it is more likely, although I am just guessing here, that he’ll think you’re an angel. Or messenger.”

“Oh. Well, that’s alright then.”

“Joan, while I do appreciate that this is a lot for you to take in, it….”

“No, no! Not at all, Marcus. This is just a typical, run-of-the-mill Tuesday for me. But you are right, time is of the essence as they say,” she smirks. “So, can I have that watch now?”

He narrows his eyes, not fooled in the slightest. “You can.”

She waits. He doesn’t produce a watch.

“So….”

“Perhaps you have some more pertinent questions?”

“Sure. Why not? Ummm… I take it I’ll be able to speak Russian as well as read it?”

“Of course.”

“And…. there’ll be some kind of briefing before I go? Costume fitting and….. stuff?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have given you all the information you need and you will be wearing appropriate clothing when you arrive.”

“Convenient.”

“Indeed.” He holds out his hand.

She looks at the watch which, like everything else, seems to be miraculously produced from mid-air. The square face is completely opaque, no numbers, no symbols. It looks exactly like a sleeping smartwatch.

“You may put it on.”

She removes her own watch, places it and the letter in her jacket pocket, and positions the innocuous-looking, all-black watch on her wrist. She flinches as it snaps into place, fitting her small wrist perfectly.

“Press the crown once to initiate temporal displacement. Tap the face twice to leave this time period. Press the crown once, then the face four times to return. Long-press the crown for assistance.”

“Seems simple enough.” She dramatically raises her hand. Surely this will put an end to the hallucination once and for all.

“Stop!” he yells.

“Why? Sooner I go, the sooner I’m back and the good Father will still have all his junk intact.”

“While all of that is true, Joan, I cannot be here when you leave.”

“Why not?”

“This is not my time.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Other than you not being present, are there any other rules I should know?”

“Make sure you are alone and not in a public place. Temporal displacement causes an uncomfortable shift in the atmosphere. Not to mention people are apt to panic when someone disappears before their eyes.”

“I’m sure they are. I’ll be on my way then.”

He nods. “Excellent. Good luck, Joan. I will see you on your return.”

“Do svidaniya. Before you get excited, that’s all the Russian I know.”

“I would never have guessed,” he says drily, rising to his feet.

“Snarky.” She turns to go.

“Next.”

“Who’s next please?”

“Excuse me love; it’s your turn.”

Joan almost jumps out of her skin as she feels a hand on her shoulder. “What?”

“It’s your turn to be served.” The elderly man indicates the counter.

She looks around. She’s in the butcher’s shop. She’s in the butcher’s shop, and the three members of staff behind the counter are looking at her. As are the other customers.

“Oh. Sorry. I was….. dreaming.” She steps forward. “Ummm… I’ll have a small sirloin steak please, and do you have any bacon left?” She can’t see any in the display.

“Just sold the last of it, I’m afraid.” The woman places the steak on the scale.

“I’ll….. just the steak then. Thank you.” She knows she fell, but she doesn’t remember getting up and coming inside the shop. Maybe she should get checked out. She might have a concussion.

“That all, madam?”

Joan nods.

“That’s £7.58, please.”

She rummages in her bag for her purse, pulls out a £10 note, and hands it over. Taking her change, she exits the shop avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

Returning to her car, she deposits her bags. She probably shouldn’t risk driving. It’s a long walk home though, and she really doesn’t want to return to the office to ask someone to drive her. If she takes her time and uses the back roads, surely, it’ll be fine. She feels okay. No headache, no nausea and she’s definitely not sleepy.

Right, she’ll drive carefully, get home, and make a nice cup of tea. She idly wonders why they say that? A nice cup of tea. No-one makes themselves a horrible one surely? Anyway, she’ll have her tea, and, if she loses anymore time, she will call NHS 24.

She glances at her watch……. That isn’t her watch. She tentatively pats her jacket pocket. “Damn!” she says quietly, removing her watch and a folded letter. She doesn’t have to open it to know it’s written in Russian. It was all real. She places both items back in her pocket, grabs her bags and gets out the car. Forget concussion, she definitely can’t risk driving after all the champagne she guzzled.

With a last glance in the direction of the office building, and a rising sense of excitement, she sets off on foot. The walk will clear her head, give her time to think.

She will have that cup of tea. And then…….

She smiles. Press the crown once, tap the face twice.

About Jo Jones: Like my protagonist, I am a retired accounts manager (they do say write what you know!) who loves science fiction and history. Naturally, St Mary's is my spiritual home. I write short stories for my own enjoyment, and I finally found the courage to write and submit my David Sands story. Fingers crossed it is chosen.

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