than a harmless amusement, a naïve desire—that is until last October, when Murray’s Time Travel opened for business.
This was announced with great fanfare in the newspapers and on publicity posters: Gilliam Murray could make our dreams come true, he could take us to the year 2000. Despite the cost of the tickets, huge queues formed around his building. I saw people who had always maintained that time travel was impossible waiting like excited children for the doors to open.
Nobody wanted to pass up this opportunity. Madeleine and I couldn’t get seats for the first expedition, only the second. And we traveled in time, Andrew. Believe it or not, I have been a hundred and five years into the future and returned. This coat still has traces of ash on it; it smells of the war of the future. I even picked up a piece of rubble from the ground when no one was looking, a rock we have displayed next to the Shefeers trays in the drawing room cabinet. A replica of the rock must still be intact in some building in London.” Andrew felt like a boat spinning in a whirlpool. It seemed incredible to him that it was possible to travel in time, not to be condemned to see only the era he was born into, the period that lasted as long as his heart and body held out, but to be able to visit other eras, other times where he did not belong, leapfrogging his own death, the tangled web of his descendants, desecrating the sanctuary of the future, journeying to places hitherto only dreamt of or imagined. But for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of interest in something beyond the wall of indifference he had surrounded himself with. He immediately forced himself to snuff out the flame before it became a blaze. He was in mourning, a man with an empty heart and a dormant soul, a creature devoid of emotion, the perfect example of a human being who had felt everything there was for him to feel. He had nothing in the whole wide world to live for. He could not live, not without her.
“That’s remarkable, Charles,” he sighed wearily, feigning indifference to these unnatural journeys. “But what has this to do with Marie?” “Don’t you see, cousin?” Charles replied in an almost scandalized tone. “This man Murray can travel into the future. No doubt if you offered him enough money, he could organize a private tour for you into the past. Then you’d really have someone to shoot.” Andrew’s jaw dropped.
“The Ripper?” he said, his voice cracking.
“Exactly,” replied Charles. “If you travel back in time, you can save Marie yourself.” Andrew gripped the chair to stop himself from falling off. Was it possible? Could he really travel back in time to the night of November 7, 1888, and save Marie? he wondered, struggling to overcome his astonishment. The possibility that this might be true made him feel giddy, not just because of the miracle of traveling through time, but because he would be going back to a period when she was still alive: he would be able to hold in his arms the body he had seen cut to ribbons. But what moved him most was the fact that someone should offer him the chance to save her, to put right his mistake, to change a situation it had taken him all these years to learn to accept as irreversible. He had always prayed to the Creator to be able to do that. It seemed he had been calling upon the wrong person. This was the age of science.
“What do you say, Andrew? We have nothing to lose by trying,” he heard his cousin remark.
Andrew stared at the floor for a few moments, struggling to put some order into the tumult of emotions he felt. He did not really believe it was possible, and yet if it was, how could he refuse to try: this was what he had always wanted, the chance he had been waiting eight years for. He raised his head and gazed at his cousin, shaken.
“All right,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Excellent, Andrew,” said Charles, overjoyed, and clapped him on the back. “Excellent.” His
This was announced with great fanfare in the newspapers and on publicity posters: Gilliam Murray could make our dreams come true, he could take us to the year 2000. Despite the cost of the tickets, huge queues formed around his building. I saw people who had always maintained that time travel was impossible waiting like excited children for the doors to open.
Nobody wanted to pass up this opportunity. Madeleine and I couldn’t get seats for the first expedition, only the second. And we traveled in time, Andrew. Believe it or not, I have been a hundred and five years into the future and returned. This coat still has traces of ash on it; it smells of the war of the future. I even picked up a piece of rubble from the ground when no one was looking, a rock we have displayed next to the Shefeers trays in the drawing room cabinet. A replica of the rock must still be intact in some building in London.” Andrew felt like a boat spinning in a whirlpool. It seemed incredible to him that it was possible to travel in time, not to be condemned to see only the era he was born into, the period that lasted as long as his heart and body held out, but to be able to visit other eras, other times where he did not belong, leapfrogging his own death, the tangled web of his descendants, desecrating the sanctuary of the future, journeying to places hitherto only dreamt of or imagined. But for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of interest in something beyond the wall of indifference he had surrounded himself with. He immediately forced himself to snuff out the flame before it became a blaze. He was in mourning, a man with an empty heart and a dormant soul, a creature devoid of emotion, the perfect example of a human being who had felt everything there was for him to feel. He had nothing in the whole wide world to live for. He could not live, not without her.
“That’s remarkable, Charles,” he sighed wearily, feigning indifference to these unnatural journeys. “But what has this to do with Marie?” “Don’t you see, cousin?” Charles replied in an almost scandalized tone. “This man Murray can travel into the future. No doubt if you offered him enough money, he could organize a private tour for you into the past. Then you’d really have someone to shoot.” Andrew’s jaw dropped.
“The Ripper?” he said, his voice cracking.
“Exactly,” replied Charles. “If you travel back in time, you can save Marie yourself.” Andrew gripped the chair to stop himself from falling off. Was it possible? Could he really travel back in time to the night of November 7, 1888, and save Marie? he wondered, struggling to overcome his astonishment. The possibility that this might be true made him feel giddy, not just because of the miracle of traveling through time, but because he would be going back to a period when she was still alive: he would be able to hold in his arms the body he had seen cut to ribbons. But what moved him most was the fact that someone should offer him the chance to save her, to put right his mistake, to change a situation it had taken him all these years to learn to accept as irreversible. He had always prayed to the Creator to be able to do that. It seemed he had been calling upon the wrong person. This was the age of science.
“What do you say, Andrew? We have nothing to lose by trying,” he heard his cousin remark.
Andrew stared at the floor for a few moments, struggling to put some order into the tumult of emotions he felt. He did not really believe it was possible, and yet if it was, how could he refuse to try: this was what he had always wanted, the chance he had been waiting eight years for. He raised his head and gazed at his cousin, shaken.
“All right,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Excellent, Andrew,” said Charles, overjoyed, and clapped him on the back. “Excellent.” His
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