Out of Time

Prologue

I think it was probably the tiny sound of the plastic card hitting the ground that woke me from my reverie and drew my attention to the fact that the man in front of me had just disappeared.

When I say 'disappeared', that's exactly what I mean. He hadn't just wandered off, or walked away. There was no one on my side of the street for a hundred feet in either direction. He hadn't slipped behind me, either. He had, quite literally, vanished into thin air.

I glanced down towards the ground and at my feet was a plastic card, the size of a standard credit card. At the time, I assumed it was a credit card, though it wasn't a design I recognised. Scarcely surprising, I suppose, given that there must be thousands of different designs out there. Maybe it even runs into hundreds of thousands. I've no idea. Anyway, this one had a photo of an ostrich on it. Not the whole bird, not even the entire head, just a pair of somewhat startled looking eyes staring out at me. I guessed that someone had dropped it accidently, and I bent to pick it up, though I had no idea what I would do with it then. Hand it in to someone, I guess. Maybe the bank, or the Police?

When I looked for the name of the bank, though, there was none. There was a name embossed into the card, Dr R. Kemp, but no bank name, which seemed a little odd. There wasn't the usual sixteen digit number embossed into the card, either, or that security code on the back. I was on the point of deciding that it wasn't a credit card at all, especially as it didn't have the distinctive gold microchip embedded in the front face, but it did have the ubiquitous brown magnetic stripe on the back, which meant that it wasn't simply an over elaborate business card. Possibly, I thought, it was an identification pass, or a door key. Maybe this Dr Kemp needed it to gain entry to his office?

There was no phone number, or address, on the card, but someone, Dr Kemp presumably, had, rather unwisely, written a four digit PIN code on the back in black biro. At least, it looked like a PIN code. Interestingly it sounded more like a message than a number, 'one to wait for'. In retrospect it was probably Dr Kemp's little joke.

Anyway, I needed some cash, and, - no, I didn't use Dr Kemp's card. I had my own card in my wallet and I pushed it into the ATM in front of me, then keyed in my PIN in the normal way. There was nothing unusual about the transaction. The machine gave me back my card and dispensed the notes that I'd requested and that would have been that, had I not, for reasons I can't wholly explain, then inserted Dr Kemp's card into the machine.

Now, I wasn't interested in trying to withdraw money against Dr Kemp's card. I consider myself to be an honest person and I have sufficient money of my own without needing to steal it from others. I think it was just curiosity that prompted me to put the card into the slot and key in the number written on the back. I think I was hoping it might give me a clue to the bank that issued the card, or a phone number to report its loss to, but, on reflection, that was always unlikely. My own card doesn't throw up that kind of information, so why would I expect Dr Kemp's card to be any different?

The screen that lit up on the ATM once the PIN had been accepted, looked, at first glance, exactly like the one that had been displayed for my own card, until I looked more closely. Instead of the usual options to withdraw cash, with or without a receipt, to obtain a mini bank statement, or to change the PIN on the card. The menu simply said, 'Request a Statement' or 'Time Services'.

Since I didn't wish to obtain a statement, I selected 'Time Services' out of mere curiosity.

I was presented with a screen which looked, superficially, similar to the ones offering a choice of amounts for cash withdrawals, except that the options offered were '-5 mins', '-10 mins', '-1 hr', '+5 mins', '+10 mins', '+1 hr', or 'other'.

I stared at the screen for several seconds, unsure of what I was seeing and then, impulsively, selected '-5 mins'. The screen changed to a message saying 'Transaction Accepted' and there was a quiet whirring of electric motors as Dr Kemp's card was slowly ejected from the card slot. I took it back, wondering what exactly I had just transacted, when the machine suddenly disappeared.

Actually, it wasn't just the machine that had disappeared. The entire building, in which the ATM had been embedded, disappeared. Even that isn't correct, though, as I came to realise. It was actually me that had disappeared, for I found myself a street away from the ATM, outside a newsagent's shop, feeling in my pocket for change.

It was a moment of déjà vu.

To say that I was momentarily disorientated would be a considerable understatement. I was totally confused. I recalled that I had intended to purchase a newspaper and had discovered that I had no money with me. I had some money now, of course, because I'd just withdrawn it from the ATM. The notes were still in my wallet as far as I knew..

I was also still holding Dr Kemp's plastic ATM card in my hand.

My first thought, was that I'd had some sort of blackout. A Petit Mal, or something similar, in which I'd actually walked from the ATM back to the newsagent's without being aware. This thought was more than a little worrying. I'd never had an episode like that previously. Perhaps this was the precursor to something more serious?

I bought my newspaper, but instead of heading directly home, I retraced my steps to the ATM out of curiosity, hoping that my moments of missing memory might come back. The déjà vu feeling persisted the whole way, but no memory of walking back to the newsagent returned.

When I arrived back at the ATM, I was still clutching Dr Kemp's card and I recalled quite clearly having put it into the machine only a few minutes previously and the options I'd been offered. It seemed quite a ridiculous notion that my memory loss could have been caused by the '-5 min' selection I'd made at the machine, but once that idea had been spawned, it just wouldn't go away.

I found myself glancing around in a rather furtive manner, which would have looked distinctly suspicious to anyone who might have been watching me, but, as far as I could tell, no one was in the least interested in me, or what I was doing.

I dithered for a minute or two, but eventually curiosity over came indecision and I found myself pushing Dr Kemp's card into the ATM for the second time and keying in his PIN.

Once again, I was offered the choices of requesting a statement, or 'Time Services'. Once again, I selected 'Time Services' and was offered the same choice of times as before. I hesitated briefly, but then made the same choice as previously, '-5 min'.

The screen changed to 'Transaction Accepted', exactly as it had earlier and, a moment later, the plastic card was slowly ejected with the usual internal electric whirring. I took it and, almost immediately, found myself once again in front of the newsagent's shop.

The effect, again, was slightly disorientating, but this time, I have to admit, not wholly unexpected. This really was a case of déjà vu all over again. Once more, I had no recollection of walking from the ATM back to the newsagent and I had to accept that it wasn't that I'd forgotten making that walk. I'd never made the walk. Yet, I'd clearly been to the ATM, because I had the money in my wallet. I also had Dr Kemp's card, which I'd picked up from the pavement in front of the machine. Not only that, I had a rolled up newspaper under my arm that I'd purchased earlier.

There seemed to be no explanation other than that each time I selected '-5 min' on the ATM, I was sent back five minutes in time, to wherever and whatever I was doing five minutes previously. Clearly this was ridiculous and contravened all the laws of physics as well as good old fashioned common sense, but I couldn't come up with any better explanation. It would also explain how Dr Kemp 'disappeared' while I was waiting to use the ATM. Unfortunately for him, it appeared that he'd dropped his card before making his trip, and not picked it up again before the time shift kicked in.

Of course, I had no way of knowing which selection Dr Kemp had made when he used the card. Surely, though, he would realise that he'd dropped it and try to get back to retrieve it. If he had simply gone back five minutes, though, as I had, he would surely have been waiting by the machine when I had walked back the first time, but there had been no one there.

I quickly realised, though, that there was a flaw in my argument. It had probably been two or three minutes after he had disappeared that I had made my own '-5 min' selection. By the times I'd purchased my newspaper and walked back, it would have been, maybe, eight or nine minutes after Dr Kemp had disappeared. Assuming that he had gone straight back to the ATM to look for his card, he would have realised that it was already picked up by someone and there would have been no reason for him to wait around longer. Maybe I'd only missed him by seconds.

Of course, he might have made an entirely different selection. I had no idea if he had gone back five minutes, ten minutes, or even one hour. Or, maybe, he hadn't gone back at all. Perhaps he'd gone into the future, assuming that's what the '+' options on the menu implied.

If he'd gone into the future, how would he ever get back to the present without his card? Unless he was from the future, of course, and he was simply using his card to get back to his present? If he'd gone into the past, I presumed that he would eventually catch up with the present again, as I had. If he'd gone into the future, with no means of getting back, then I guess he would have lost that amount of time for ever, and be permanently living in what would have been his future.

It occurred to me that I could probably rule out the '-10 min' option, because he would have arrived back at the ATM looking for his card while I was still stood there. It also occurred to me that I could check out the '-5 min' option quite quickly by choosing it again and running back to the ATM and waiting for him. I would need to go back ten minutes, though, because I'd been stood here thinking it out for several minutes already. I resolved, therefore, to travel back ten minutes and then hurry back to the ATM and wait for ten minutes to see if Dr Kemp turned up. I could then return his card and, perhaps, find out more about it.

For the third time that morning, I used the card, but this time selected the '-10 min' option. This time I was prepared for the feeling of disorientation at the end of my trip and I was ready to find myself standing outside the newsagent's shop again. What I hadn't expected, was that I would find myself back in my own garden, poised to walk out of the gate on my way to the newsagent.

Clearly I wasn't yet attuned to how this worked. I'd gone back ten minutes in my own time, as far as I could tell, which was about three minutes before arriving at the newsagent. I began to run. I wasn't sure I could get to the ATM in time, since I needed to be there before Dr Kemp disappeared. I was still clutching his card in my right hand and the newspaper in my left.

I passed the newsagent's shop with about four minutes to go and headed on towards the next street, where the ATM was located, but I was completely winded by my exertions and had to slow to a walk. As I rounded the corner and saw the building housing the ATM in the distance, I could see a man standing in front of the terminal, apparently in mid transaction. Could this be the elusive Dr Kemp?

In my haste, I ran straight across the street without looking … and directly into the path of a bus. I had a fleeting glimpse of the look of horror on the bus driver's face as he slammed on the brakes moments before the bus slammed into me.

When I came round, still lying in the middle of the road, there was a small group of concerned looking people gathered around me.

He's coming round, I heard.

Just lie still, mate. There's an ambulance on its way, another voice said.

ATM, I said. I need to get to the ATM.

Don't move, the first voice continued. You've got a broken leg I think.

I need the ATM, I repeated.

You can do that later, mate, the second voice said.

I had a moment of panic. My card, I said. The ATM card. Where's my card?

You're still holding it, mate. Shall I put it in your wallet?

No. No. I need to get to the ATM.

There's time for that later. We need to get you to a hospital and get your leg seen to.

I could hear the sirens in the distance. Was that the ambulance for me, already?

You don't understand, I said. If I can just get to the ATM, I won't need the ambulance. I'd already worked out that if I could only travel back five minutes, I'd be able to avoid the accident entirely. My logic was flawed, of course, since I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious.

I heard someone mutter that he thought I was a bit delirious. Probably concussion, he thought.

No, I'm not, I protested, but no one was listening to anything I had to say.

Needless to add, I had completely lost control of the situation. My chances of engineering an encounter with Dr Kemp now were pretty much zero. Eventually, I submitted to the inevitable and let myself be carried to the hospital by ambulance, with the blue light flashing and siren wailing. After triage, whilst waiting in the Accident and Emergency area for my leg to be X-rayed and plastered, I tried to work out what the time had been when I first encountered, or, more precisely, failed to encounter, the mysterious Dr Kemp. It suddenly dawned on me that I would be able to get the time almost exactly by referring to my bank statement. The printout would show the time and date that I'd made my cash withdrawal from the ATM. That time was barely a minute or two after Dr Kemp vanished. With that thought in my mind, I was able to relax considerably. I was basing my new found optimism on that final choice I'd been offered on the ATM screen, namely 'other'. If this option worked in the same way as it did on the cash dispensing screen, I'd be able to key in a time of my choice. I'd be able to travel back to a couple of minutes before my accident and take more care to avoid the bus when I crossed the road. Quite how I would explain my lack of a broken leg to my wife, who was on her way to the hospital to pick me up, I wasn't sure. For the time being, at least, I wanted to keep my knowledge of the time travel to myself, though I wasn't entirely sure why. I was beginning to see all sorts of possible uses for such a facility and I was hoping that Dr Kemp would be able to answer some of my questions when I finally caught up with him.

It wasn't until two days later that I managed to limp my way down to the bus stop near my home on my crutches and travel just a single stop to the nearest point to the ATM. It was with considerable effort and not a little discomfort that I was able to hop over the street and across the small car park to where the machine was located.

… Or, where the machine had been located, for now, instead of the stainless steel face of the familiar ATM, there was just a hole in the wall with a board across it. On the board was a laminated notice. 'We apologise for the temporary non availability of this facility whilst a replacement machine is being installed. The nearest alternative ATM is … etc. etc.'. The location suggested for an alternative machine was about half a mile away. In my present condition, it might as well have been on Mars. Besides which, I had no way of knowing if any other ATM offered the time travel option, or whether this machine had been unique.

On my return home, I persuaded my wife of an urgent need to visit the supermarket. I knew there was a bank of ATMs there and that she would be able to park reasonably close. I told her that I'd wait in the car while she was inside, but as soon as she was out of sight, I hobbled my way across to the side of the store and slid Dr Kemp's card into the first available machine. I was greatly relieved to see the 'Time Services' option offered once the 'one to wait for' PIN had been accepted. I was even more convinced that this PIN was Dr Kemp’s little joke. I selected the 'Other' option, which, as I'd anticipated, gave me the opportunity to key in my requirement in days, hours and minutes. I'd already calculated my option from the time of my previous cash withdrawal and waited for the 'Transaction Accepted' message to appear on the screen. A few seconds later, there was the usual whirring of an electric motor as the plastic card was ejected.

Unfortunately, my crutches were seriously impairing my mobility. As I reached for the card, my right crutch slipped, throwing me off balance just sufficiently for me to fail to grasp the plastic, but to knock it, instead, out of the delivery slot. I watched it make its fluttering way to the ground as though in a slow motion replay, but before I could pick it up, a helpful child darted forward to assist me. My last sight of the card was of him offering it to me just as he, the ATM, and the entire supermarket disappeared.

I found myself at the side of the street, two days previously. In the distance, across the car park, I could see a man apparently part way through a transaction at the ATM. I glanced at my own hand and saw that I wasn't holding Dr Kemp's card. Neither did I have a broken and plastered leg, nor a set of crutches.

In the distance I could see a bus approaching. Clearly I'd timed my arrival perfectly. I was about thirty seconds in advance of my accident.

I had a choice. I could cross the road safely and confront Dr Kemp, if indeed it was he at the ATM, but I would have no card to return to him. Alternatively, I could do nothing. I could wait until the bus passed safely by and walk home. In two days time, I assumed, I would catch up again with the present, without my broken leg, but also without the time travel card.

There was another choice. If I took the third choice, I presumed that I could re-live the last two days precisely, until the moment I was about to withdraw Dr Kemp's card from the supermarket ATM. As long as I was careful to grasp it firmly this time, I would then be able to repeat the operation and travel back to where I was now, with the card, avoid the accident and meet Dr Kemp.

There was just one slight problem with this alternative. The bus was now only a few yards away. I had about three seconds to choose. …

… I closed my eyes and stepped off the kerb.

Return to contents

Chapter One

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. I was lying on my back, on a trolley, surrounded by people in hospital garb and I couldn't remember how I got there.

He's coming round.

OK. Keep that drip line running. We're going straight to theatre.

We bumped along a wide corridor at a dizzying pace. Yellow green fluorescent tubes on the ceiling whipping past every few seconds. I remembered a bus.

A bus, I muttered.

It's OK, love. You've had a bit of a bump that's all.

It was a bus.

We lurched around a corner, through a pair of plastic curtained doors that were being held open for us. The trolley didn't slow, but passed on, through a second set of swing doors, into a brightly lit operating theatre.

I remembered stepping in front of the bus.

It's my leg, I said.

That's the least of his problems, I heard someone murmur in the background.

You've had an accident, love.

I looked up into the face of a young nurse, who was walking beside the gurney, holding my hand.

It was a bus, I said. I've broken my leg.

It's a bit more than that, she replied. "But you mustn't worry. You're in the right place, now.

I remembered the card. Dr Kemp's time travel card. Where was it? Where was I? More importantly, when was I?

The next time I woke up I was in a hospital bed. My left leg was plastered right up to the hip and suspended in a sort of hoist thing, about a foot above the bed. That thought made me want to laugh. A foot, a foot above the bed, but the laugh died as soon as it came. My whole body hurt. I had a throbbing headache, a throbbing leg and, come to think of it, a throbbing body. My right arm was in plaster and my head and chest were also tightly bandaged. I felt as though I'd been run over by a bus.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

All I got the first time was a fractured tibia and a few bruises.

Hello.

Someone was saying 'hello' to me. I wasn't sure if I was still dreaming.

Hello. Mr Clifton. Are you awake?

This wasn't supposed to happen, I said.

What's that?

All this. I should only have had a broken leg.

You have got a broken leg. That's why it's in traction.

But …

You had an accident. Mr Clifton. You were knocked down by a bus.

I know. But it should have been just my leg. Not all this.

The nurse peered at me with a puzzled expression. You've got a fractured skull, she said. And a broken arm…

… and some other stuff, she added moments later, without elaborating further.

But it should have been just my left leg. That's all it was last time.

She looked at me with some concern, and peered into my eyes as though trying to see inside my head. I think you've still got some concussion, she said. I'd better get the doctor to check you again.

I think I must have dozed off once more. When I woke next, it was dark outside. It took me a few moments to remember where I was. My whole body was throbbing with pain so much that I was surprised I'd slept at all. I had no idea what the time was. Come to that I had no idea what the day was.

How many hours had passed since the accident? I needed to find out.

There was a call bell beside the bed, which I reached with some difficulty. It was several minutes before