The age-old question: what if I could go back in time? Fix the past? Rewrite my wrongs?
And in the Gutter, the answer is always the same: How many different ways could I fuck it up?
And in the Gutter, the answer is always the same: How many different ways could I fuck it up?
A Rip in Time by Anthony Ferguson
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You hold the music box up
for closer inspection. It is the one from the catalogue, you are certain. Found
in a slum on the London docklands in 1986. Sold by Sothebys in 1989 for one
hundred thousand pounds. You place it next to the brooch and several other
items of interest. Another one crossed off your list.
These worthless baubles will
one day sell to collectors for a fortune. What’s more, they will be sold on
that far distant day by yourself. You smile, aware of your anomalous status in
late nineteenth century London. Just another stopover on your voyage of
discovery.
Gaslight flickers on the
filth-encrusted window. A crack in the glass emits the smell of rotting fish
and the river. This tiny doss hole reeks of stale sweat and something else. A
cloth cap and a dark stained apron hang over a rickety chair.
You lift the device from
your pocket and place it on the decrepit table. It is the key to your success,
this shiny little mechanism, for it allows you to travel through time.
You handle the vessel with
the same bloodstained hands you used to obtain it. How was the old inventor to
know he would stumble across such a treasure after years of fruitless
experiment? It was his misfortune to share his secret with you. All that matters
now is that it belongs to you.
You were wise to apply its
capacity to your trade as a dealer in artifacts, and what riches your secret
travels bestow upon you. You read enough about Victorian London to know the
East Enders had a habit of leaving doors unlocked for easy access. The poor
have nothing of worth protecting.
As the waning moon
descends past the grimy window, you check your watch against the faithful
chiming of Big Ben. It is almost dawn. Time to move on.
You pick up the music box,
turn its key and hold it to your ear. Distracted, trying to place the wistful
tune in your memory. A quiet footfall causes you to turn around and you are
face to face with him.
The two of you stand motionless,
eyeing one another as the lilting melody winds down. Caught off guard, you take
in the image of this vagabond in all his shabby gentility.
His dark eyes scan your
strange clothing. He suspects your unnatural presence in this place, just as
you begin to perceive his. It is then that you see it, the bloody knife
protruding from the sleeve, held in a purposeful grip. With sudden realization
you are aware that you cannot know the face, but you do comprehend the name.
His eyes follow your every
move and you are unnerved by his uncanny stealth. In desperation you chance
your arm, lunging for the timepiece, but he is too quick. In an instant a
gnarled hand covers your mouth. The cruel blade shimmers in the gaslight and
your throat is slit from ear to ear.
You fall before him,
undone by the whims of time. The age of gaslight will draw to a close in the
next few years. Herschel’s science of fingerprinting will remain unappreciated
by a capricious government until the turn of the twentieth century. These
things once worked in your favor. Now they work in his.
You lie looking up at him as the light flickers out. Linger long enough to see him pick the object up and examine it, turning it over. He has no idea what it does, but he will learn.
You lie looking up at him as the light flickers out. Linger long enough to see him pick the object up and examine it, turning it over. He has no idea what it does, but he will learn.
