Winkle stood on the driver’s seat, peering down toward the corner of Bedford Square. “You pair had a right knees-up on that gaff,” he commented. “A cove might expect a life of high adventure partnering with such a duo. Like Holmes and Watson, ye are, but with extra munitions and explosions.”
Chevie shook herself like a dog and something resembling a teenage female emerged from the dust.
“That’s a nice face, princess,” said Bob Winkle. “If you gave it the lick of a wet cloth, I might lower meself to kiss it.”
They breakfasted like royalty on grub purchased with sovereigns found sewn into the lining of Garrick’s cloak. They ordered coffee with toast, oatmeal with brown sugar, fried eggs and sausage, curried chicken with potato, a platter of bacon, with extra grease for strength. All finished off with beer for the boys in spite of Chevie’s health warnings.
They sat at a street table on Piccadilly after breakfast, watching the avenue fill up with the day’s business.
Bob Winkle flicked a penny at the first beggar to approach their table and set him guarding their little space so they could talk uninterrupted.
Riley sighed and rubbed his distended belly. “I am full as a prince on his birthday,” he declared.
Chevie was less stuffed, having ignored ninety percent of what was offered to her.
I cannot stay here, she thought. My cholesterol count would kill me in a week.
“Okay, gents,” she said, slapping the table with purpose, “we should draw up our plans before you guys get blind drunk.”
Bob Winkle snorted. “Drunk on beer? I ain’t been beer drunk since I were ten.” He grabbed the rest of the black bread from the plate and shoved it into his pockets. “I better go and look to the mare. You two do your good-bye cuddling, and I’ll be back to bring whoever’s going to the Orient. I suppose there ain’t much more than splinters left of that conjuring equipment me and the boys ferried over earlier.”
Winkle dodged down the street, eyes and ears open for bluebottles.
“That guy will land you in trouble,” warned Chevie.
“Well, he won’t be spending his waking hours trying to murder anyone, or his sleeping hours dreaming of death.”
“Maybe so. But I still think you should come back with me. A part of you belongs in the twenty-first century.”
Riley sighed. “But a part of me is here. I have a half brother still living somewhere. Perhaps in Brighton? With Bob Winkle’s help, maybe I can find him.”
“You can afford Winkle’s help?”
Riley shrugged. “For the time being. I know where Garrick kept his cash. I suppose the theater is mine too.”
“So you will search for your brother?”
Riley pulled the magician’s cloak tight around his shoulders. “I am a magician now. I shall put a troupe together and enjoy the theater life until I find Ginger Tom. Perhaps he knows my Christian name.”
Chevie’s eyes were downcast. “Yeah, I bet he does.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the final Timekey left behind by the hazmat team. “The team and their gear went down with the house, but I had Bob’s boys collect their Timekeys while they were setting up the mirror trap, so, if you ever change your mind . . .”
Riley hooked the lanyard around his neck. “Thank you, Chevie. But this is my century, and I belong here.”
Chevie wagged a finger. “Never say never, right?”
“Yes, you are correct. There may come a time when I need to escape.”
“It’s preprogrammed, set up already, so all you have to do is press the button. Make sure the four quadrants light up, or you’ll end up stuck in the wormhole with you-know-who.”
“I will be certain to check.”
Chevie sipped her coffee, which had the consistency of mud and tasted like cough syrup. “I feel there should be more, you know. We’ve gone through hell, and now I’m just gonna walk away?”
“We will always be close, Chevie. I know the secret of your tattoo, remember?”
Chevie patted her own shoulder. “My tattoo? Yeah, well. I’m afraid I got sold a turkey on that one.”
“Sold a turkey?” said Riley, frowning.
“A crock. A bowl of bull. A heap of lies.”
“Your father lied to you? And you lied to me?”
“Afraid so, but I’m telling you the truth now, on account of all the bonding we’re doing. Dad loved telling that story, but the whole Chevron thing came about because my father had a falling out with the owner of the local Texaco.”
“Tex-a-co?”
“Yeah. A fueling station for automobiles. So, just to annoy this guy, and because of his beer problem, he gets a tattoo and then calls his firstborn Chevron, which is a competing gas station.”
Riley pushed his tankard away with the tip of one finger. “So, no noble warrior?”
“No. And I based my whole life on that story, got the tattoo, told anyone who would listen, became an agent. Last year I meet the Texaco guy, who is broken up that my pop died, and he tells me the truth. I am named after a gas station.”
“Wow,” said Riley, who had heard the word used in the future and liked it.
“Wow? That’s it, huh? No magical wisdom from the Great Riley?”
“We have both built our lives on lies,” said Riley. “I was not abandoned to slum cannibals, and your ancestors were not great warriors; but the lies did their work, and we are who we are. I think you are the youngest agent in your police force for good reason. Perhaps in spite of the name Chevron.”
Chevie smiled. “Yeah, okay, Riley. That’s not bad. I’m gonna go with that.”
They abandoned the cab and walked to the house on Half Moon Street. Bob Winkle was doing his utmost to decipher the limited facts he had been given.
“So, princess. You plan to enter this house and stay there for a hundred years?”
Chevie patted his shoulder. “Something like that, Winkle. I would say See you around, but it’s probably not going to happen.”
“So we should kiss now?”
“Of course,” said Chevie and gave him a peck on the cheek that he would have to be content with.
“Next year I will be fifteen,” said Bob Winkle, emboldened by the kiss. “We could be married. I could make fair chink off a battling Injun maid at the fairgrounds.”
“Tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll pass.?
??
“Very well, princess. But now that I am part owner of a theater, the ladies will be all over Robert Winkle. Six weeks I will wait for you, not a minute more.”
“I understand,” said Chevie, smiling. “It’s the best you can do.”
Riley walked her to the front step, while Bob perched on a neighboring set of stairs, watching for constables’ helmets.
“Be careful, Chevron Savano,” he said. “The future is a dangerous place. It is only a matter of time until the Martians arrive.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna watch out for anything with tentacles.”
“Hurry yourselves,” called Bob Winkle. “This is a posh road. Two more minutes and our collars get pinched.”
The boy was right. It would be a shame if this affair were to end in a prison cell.
Chevie hugged Riley tightly. “Thanks for everything,” she said.
Riley hugged her back. “Thanks to you, too, Chevron Savano, warrior and fuel station. Perhaps one day I will put our story into words. It would rival the tales of H. G. Wells himself.”
“Maybe you already did,” said Chevie. “I’ll Google it when I get home.”
“Googling sounds like a painful procedure,” said Riley.
Bob whistled loudly. “I see a helmet, Riley. Leave her be, now.”
There was no more delaying it. Chevie kissed Riley’s cheek and squeezed his hand, then closed the door behind her. The basement room was dark and dank, just as Chevie remembered it from that brief moment before the sack went over their heads. She saw chicken bones in the corner with rats huddled over them like tramps around a bonfire. The rats did not seem concerned by her presence; rather they looked her over for the meat on her bones.
Being stared down by large rats was a good way to focus a person on getting to someplace with smaller rats, so Chevie pulled out Bill Riley’s Timekey and walked briskly to the metal pad.
No time like the present.
She punched the Timekey’s control pad and made very sure that all four quadrants lit up.
After a second’s dry vibration, the key began sprouting orange sparks like a Roman candle.