standing there. But as I raised my hand to press the buzzer, and the fear hit my stomach, I realised I was much more afraid of the first option. I could deal with embarrassment. I couldn’t deal with a dead body.
The doorbell rang out throughout the house. There was no movement, no response. The worst scenario started to form in my mind. They’d probably blamed Martin for bringing me to the hospital the day before, for getting me involved, and for the fact that I’d kidnapped Robert before they had a chance to kill him. I suddenly understood why Martin had been warning me to keep out of it, for my apparent “own good.” Well, I hadn’t realised they were time traveller killers, had I. I thought they were just investigating time travel, so that they could cover it up. Quietly, without murder. And now they had gotten to Martin, and he was probably lying dead in his living room with a bullet in the middle of his chest. It would be up to me now to continue his good work; I would have to be brave and carry on his legacy…
There were footsteps behind the door and the lock on the other side turned. The door was yanked back, and Martin was standing there, angry, wearing a brown dressing gown.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “You’re not dead.”
“What the hell are you doing here!” He stopped yelling at me for a second to take in the sight of Robert standing behind me, in full regalia. “What. The. Hell. Is he doing here?” He seemed shocked at the very sight of Robert. Hadn’t he been informed about my heroic rescue mission?
I guess that the reason he hadn’t sent me a text or email was that he didn’t realise anything usual had taken place the day before. Well, apart from a time traveller turning up, but apparently that was all par for the course in the life of Martin Anderson.
Robert lifted his hand up in a half-hearted wave, but didn’t say anything in the way of a greeting. He seemed to resent being there.
I felt like I should explain the situation to Martin. “I had to rescue him from the hospital, you see-”
“Why the hell did you have to do that?” Martin adjusted the tie on his dressing gown to make sure it was properly done up. It was still raining and Robert and I were barely sheltered on the balcony.
“Can we come inside?” I asked.
Martin’s eyes popped wide open. “I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate…”
“Come on man, it’s freezing out here,” Robert pipped up.
Martin shook his head but reluctantly stepped back to let us through the door. We walked into his living room and I almost stopped dead at the decor. It was decorated head to toe in historical artefacts and memorabilia, most of it war-themed. There were antique guns displayed on all the walls, alongside helmets, medals, and numerous photos of tropes of soldiers.
And the furniture. Was Martin 39 or 79? It was all brown leather couches and ornate rugs. I walked over to one of the uncomfortable looking couches and took a seat. It felt as bad as it looked. Robert took an uneasy seat beside me, also eyeing the decor with suspicion. I looked at him and realised, from the look of him at least, that he was probably a hippy. But that was the strange thing you see: because I’d always thought Martin was the most left wing person I knew. So the guns, and the war memorabilia…I didn’t know what to make of it all. I supposed it could all be for purely aesthetic purposes. But Jesus: it was shockingly jarring.
He still seemed entirely unsure about my presence in his house, but Martin at least ventured to take a seat across from us. He repeated his earlier question. “Why the hell did you have to escape from the hospital?”
“Do you have any cigarettes?” Robert asked. “I am dying here man.”
“No,” he snapped. Then, taking a second thought, he looked at Robert and added, “And you shouldn’t be smoking anyway, given your asthma.”
Robert’s eyes shot up. “Asthma? I don’t have
The doorbell rang out throughout the house. There was no movement, no response. The worst scenario started to form in my mind. They’d probably blamed Martin for bringing me to the hospital the day before, for getting me involved, and for the fact that I’d kidnapped Robert before they had a chance to kill him. I suddenly understood why Martin had been warning me to keep out of it, for my apparent “own good.” Well, I hadn’t realised they were time traveller killers, had I. I thought they were just investigating time travel, so that they could cover it up. Quietly, without murder. And now they had gotten to Martin, and he was probably lying dead in his living room with a bullet in the middle of his chest. It would be up to me now to continue his good work; I would have to be brave and carry on his legacy…
There were footsteps behind the door and the lock on the other side turned. The door was yanked back, and Martin was standing there, angry, wearing a brown dressing gown.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “You’re not dead.”
“What the hell are you doing here!” He stopped yelling at me for a second to take in the sight of Robert standing behind me, in full regalia. “What. The. Hell. Is he doing here?” He seemed shocked at the very sight of Robert. Hadn’t he been informed about my heroic rescue mission?
I guess that the reason he hadn’t sent me a text or email was that he didn’t realise anything usual had taken place the day before. Well, apart from a time traveller turning up, but apparently that was all par for the course in the life of Martin Anderson.
Robert lifted his hand up in a half-hearted wave, but didn’t say anything in the way of a greeting. He seemed to resent being there.
I felt like I should explain the situation to Martin. “I had to rescue him from the hospital, you see-”
“Why the hell did you have to do that?” Martin adjusted the tie on his dressing gown to make sure it was properly done up. It was still raining and Robert and I were barely sheltered on the balcony.
“Can we come inside?” I asked.
Martin’s eyes popped wide open. “I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate…”
“Come on man, it’s freezing out here,” Robert pipped up.
Martin shook his head but reluctantly stepped back to let us through the door. We walked into his living room and I almost stopped dead at the decor. It was decorated head to toe in historical artefacts and memorabilia, most of it war-themed. There were antique guns displayed on all the walls, alongside helmets, medals, and numerous photos of tropes of soldiers.
And the furniture. Was Martin 39 or 79? It was all brown leather couches and ornate rugs. I walked over to one of the uncomfortable looking couches and took a seat. It felt as bad as it looked. Robert took an uneasy seat beside me, also eyeing the decor with suspicion. I looked at him and realised, from the look of him at least, that he was probably a hippy. But that was the strange thing you see: because I’d always thought Martin was the most left wing person I knew. So the guns, and the war memorabilia…I didn’t know what to make of it all. I supposed it could all be for purely aesthetic purposes. But Jesus: it was shockingly jarring.
He still seemed entirely unsure about my presence in his house, but Martin at least ventured to take a seat across from us. He repeated his earlier question. “Why the hell did you have to escape from the hospital?”
“Do you have any cigarettes?” Robert asked. “I am dying here man.”
“No,” he snapped. Then, taking a second thought, he looked at Robert and added, “And you shouldn’t be smoking anyway, given your asthma.”
Robert’s eyes shot up. “Asthma? I don’t have
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