The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [130]
It was a sunny day and his batteries required less than two minutes before they were fully charged.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's go home and start again."
He waved at the marquess then bounded forward and jumped into the air.
"Now!" he ordered.
Reality blinked.
He fell and landed on flat ground beside a tree.
It was night.
It was not his garden.
He looked around. The lights of a small town shone behind him. A tall fence lay ahead, on the other side of a road. Low buildings were just visible in the darkness beyond it. Beside a gate, he saw a sentry box and standing in it, a man in uniform.
The man lifted something to his mouth and a spark of light flared.
Bloody hell. He was smoking! No one smoked in 2202.
Oxford, concealed by the tree, took a couple of steps until he was better able to see the sign above the gate. It read: British Army. North Camp. Aldershot.
This was not possible.
There had been a military base there since 1854 but it had been demolished in 2079 to make way for the town's expanding suburbs.
"Right place, wrong time!" he muttered, moving out of cover.
He approached the sentry rapidly, his stilts making a metallic clacking on the road surface. It attracted the man's attention.
"Christ Almighty!" the soldier exclaimed as he saw the tall gangly figure. "Stop! State your name and b-"
Oxford slapped the weapon aside and, in a sudden fit of temper, took the man by the throat.
"What's the date?" he demanded.
The sentry's face went slack. "Wha-wha-wha-?" he gibbered.
"The date!" spat Oxford, and struck the soldier's face with the flat of his palm, once, twice, thrice, until some semblance of comprehension crept into the staring eyes.
"What's the date?" he repeated. "Day, month, year?"
"Fri-Friday, M-March the ninth," stuttered the soldier.
"Year?" urged Oxford, shaking the man.
"1877."
Oxford's hand dropped and he stepped back in surprise.
The soldier fumbled for his rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger. A bullet scored the side of Oxford's helmet, jerking his head painfully. A shout came from off to the right. He heard the sound of booted feet running on the road. He turned, paced away, ordered his suit to take him back to Darkening Towers, leaped into the air, and landed in sunshine.
"You were gone less than two minutes," called the marquess. "I'm convinced, Mr. Oxford! You vanished right before my eyes! It was simply astonishing! I say, what's wrong with your helmet?"
The time traveller stumbled across the grass and collapsed to his knees at Beresford's feet. He reached up to remove his headgear and yelled in pain as heat blistered his hands.
"Careful! There's some sort of blue flame dancing around your head," advised the marquess. "Wait a moment!"
He ran into the mansion and emerged moments later holding a curtain, which he'd ripped down from inside one of the veranda doors. Wrapping it around the helmet, he lifted it from Oxford's head and dropped it onto the grass. The curtain started to burn. Beresford used the tip of his boot to pull it away. The blue fire flickered around the uncovered black dome then shrank and died.
"I didn't get home," said Oxford, yanking his boots off.
"To the future? Why not? Where did you go?"
"I went to Aldershot, to the place where my home is, but it wasn't there yet. I landed in 1877."
"Forty years from now," said Beresford, picking up the stilt-boots. "Come inside. My guess is you no longer object to alcohol?"
"It's still too early for me, Henry. If you don't mind, I'd like to sit alone for a bit. I have to work out what happened."
"Very well. I have business in London today anyway, and will probably stay overnight, so I'll leave you to your contemplations and will see you tomorrow morning. Treat the mansion as your own."
"Thank you, Henry; you continue to be very generous. I don't know how I'd manage without you. You have been a great friend."
"Not at all; think nothing of it! As a friend, may I make an observation?"
"Of course."
"You're beginning to look a little wild about the eyes, Edward.