The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [135]
He stamped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Edward Oxford stared after him, then stood, moved over to the fire, and watched the flames consuming the logs.
He landed in the grounds of Bedlam by the southeastern wall at eleven o'clock that same night, a mere two hours into the future; it was still late June 1837. The big hospital loomed behind him, wreathed in fog.
Vaulting over the wall, he dropped into a cemetery, which he crossed rapidly, then jumped the railings on the opposite side, hitting the cobbles of the street beyond directly in the path of a businessman, who screamed, dropped a sheaf of papers, and ran off.
Oxford looked to his left, to where the road joined a busy thoroughfare.
"That must be St. George's Road," he muttered. "This is Geraldine Street, so West Place is straight ahead."
He heard footsteps approaching and quickly walked away from them, crossing the road and entering a mist-heavy square enclosing a small fencedin public garden in the middle. Beyond the railings, trees sagged over deep wells of darkness. It was the perfect hiding place.
He knew that the Original had worked as a potboy in a number of public houses during his early and midteenage years before settling at the Hat and Feathers in 1839, then at the Hog in the Pound for the first few months of 1840. Where he worked this year, '37, was a mystery, but Oxford figured that since the boy was just fifteen years old, he probably laboured close to home. Lambeth was a fairly respectable borough; its pubs were more likely to stick to the regulations and close at eleven thirty; the Original should, therefore, return home within the next couple of hours.
He didn't.
Men passed; some women; a couple of youths; but no one resembling his ancestor.
By two in the morning, Oxford, feeling damp, stiff, and chilled, stepped out from under cover, leaped straight up into the air, and landed on the same spot at eleven in the evening of the next day.
He waited.
Nothing.
He tried the following day, and the next, and the next.
He was exhausted, his nose was running, and his temper had frayed.
Ribbons of energy were crawling over the surface of his suit's control unit. He kept his cloak wrapped around it.
"Fuck this!" he whispered to himself.
At which point fifteen-year-old Edward Oxford sauntered past.
It was half past midnight.
The time traveller recognised the boy immediately; it was like looking at a youthful version of himself.
He bounded over the railings, grabbed the lad by the shoulders, spun him around, and punched him on the point of the jaw.
The Original slumped into his arms.
Oxford hoisted him up and carried him into the gardens.
With the boy in his arms, he leaped three and a half hours ahead. Four o'clock in the morning would be quieter.
Oxford laid his burden on the grass and squatted over him. He slapped his ancestor's face. The Original opened his eyes and screamed. Oxford clamped his hand over the youth's open mouth.
"Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"
He stared into the boy's wide eyes. The Original jerked his head in a spasmodic nod. His body was trembling wildly.
Oxford removed his hand. "Listen to me and remember what I say."
The boy nodded again. He kept nodding.
Oxford grabbed him by the hair.
"Stop that, you little idiot! I have something to tell you, instructions which you must obey!"
The Original's mouth opened and closed. Foam flecked his lips.
"Three years from now you're going to get it into your head to commit a crime. Don't fucking do it, do you understand?"
The boy made a gurgling noise. His eyes were filled with stark terror.
"If you do as you intend, your name will be remembered through history. You will bring shame on every generation that bears it. You will bring shame on me! Do you understand? On me, Edward Oxford!"
The Original started to jabber senselessly.
"Keep quiet!" snapped Oxford. "Pay attention, you little moron! Stay away from Constitution Hill