Daniel Johnson sat in the huge library, the crackling fire making the room unbearably hot.

James Riding tried not to fidget as he felt the sweat trickling down his collar - why had he worn a bloody suit and tie? Who was he trying to impress? He was sure the multi-millionaire author couldn't care less what he was wearing.

Johnson tapped a gold-adorned finger on the hardback.

'Thank you for this, James, I look forward to reading it one day.'

He picked the book up, casually passing it to one of his ever-present flunkies.

The man walked to the far end of the room, eyes scanning the hundreds of spines, fingers tracing titles, authors, (maybe the DDC numbers?), before slotting the first edition, signed copy of 'I See You Jack!' into the row.

From the lack of interest shown by his host, Riding doubted the pages would ever see the light of day again.

'And the pocket watch?' Gold jangled as Daniel held out his hand.

'About that, erm, sir� '

Riding felt sick with the heat, sicker at the thought of losing his passport to the past.

'I still have so much research to perform, so many unanswered questions, but. . . with a little more time. . . '

'Time is no toy, my boy, and you. . . you have, quite simply, used yours up! My debt to you is paid in full, our transaction complete. The world has another best-selling author and I have my little memento, signed and catalogued!'

'But, Mr Johnson, sir, if you could see your way to. . . '

'One more trip? Another tome for the shelving? James, dear boy, they're already positively groaning!'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but that first night I was here, with the others. . . '

He decided to take a chance, telling Johnson he had discussed the watch with another writer may be breaking Johnson's rules, but it was worth it to keep hold of the pocket watch.

'One of the guys. . . I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name. He was writing a Western, I think. . . Anyway, he said this would be his third trip back. So. Erm. So, it is possible. . . ? '

'Possible, certainly. Likely, not so much. You see James, we have very clear, very traditional rules. Rules that go back centuries, in fact.'

Johnson gestured to the some of the more obviously ancient books around him.

'The first pocket watches are said to have come out of Germany, as far back as 1510! But these, my dear boy, go back much further. Where and when has been lost in time, sadly a mystery even I cannot decipher. You see, the Council of Scribes (very ominous, I know!) decreed long, long ago, that Man's greatest attribute was the ability to tell a tale.

The original Scribes decided it was their duty to ensure every story told should be as accurate and well-researched as possible. Hence the pocket watches. Even before them, there existed the means to travel.

But with this gift comes great responsibility – and even greater consequences, if they were to be misused.

And trust me, my boy, these consequences are as severe as they are inevitable, and are acted upon swiftly and mercilessly.

Each Council elects an Editor, whose purpose it is to ensure no jiggery-pokery ensues, and gives them the wherewithal to correct any mistakes, any bending of the rules, any buggering around with the natural timeline.

I have the honour, and the burden, of being such an Editor. But I started out just like you my boy, a struggling author, keen to tell a good yarn.

Indeed, most of the great authors in history have been granted this same opportunity, this mode of research.'

He paused, gesturing for the servant to pass him a book.

'Take this one, known throughout the civilised world, the author in every school curriculum. But do you think, back in the latter part of the fifteen-nineties, Shakespeare had access to Google? Cut and paste Wiki job on Julius Caesar? There is some academic argument that he never left England, but, obviously, knowing how this works, he was certainly in Italy – on several occasions!'

Johnson gestured to the many works on the library walls.

'They've all had your opportunity, James, from Dickens to Wordsworth, Woolf to Steinbeck, all given a gift, all warned of the consequences.

When you follow the rules, anything is possible, anywhere, and for any amount of times. But – and here's the rub, young James – start messing around with History and that's it, game over, as the kids say!'

He held up his palm before Riding could object.

'As I owe you my life, quite literally, I will overlook your stupidity. Seven victims will be recorded, with historical accuracy, as thirty-one.

The Ripper will remain an enigma, his reasons doubly so. Just more long-dead bodies for hacks to scribble about. But you, my dear boy, will have nothing further to do with Jack, prostitutes, or my bloody pocket watch!'

The anger in Johnson's voice shook Riding, the man getting redder in the face with each word.

'But I only travel for research! I've never done anything to. . . '

'Enough!' Johnson held up his hand, 'There is no excuse for your careless actions. I mean, James, how could anyone be so stupid as to leave a notebook, full of details of crimes that hadn't happened yet, for Jack the bloody Ripper, of all people, to find?'

Riding was about to ask how he knew, but thought better of it. Obviously the Council of Scribes were a hell of a lot more powerful than he could have imagined – that is, if he had ever even heard of them in the first place.

'I told you there would be serious consequences against any author transgressing the terms. You have had a lucky escape, my boy. History has yet to be altered. Let's hope it remains thus.

'I owe you, but this is the end of our acquaintance. Give the device to Wallace on your way out. I wish you well.'

Riding reluctantly fished the pocket watch from his jacket, handing it to the waiting Wallace.

The watch was placed onto a display cabinet close to the door, alongside seven identical pieces and one ancient-looking hourglass.

Wallace stood to one side. 'Allow me to escort you to the driveway, Sir.'

As Riding reached the doorway, he became distracted whilst searching in his pockets for his car keys. He stumbled, reaching out for the heavy doorknob. His weight caused the door to swing back, knocking over an ornate jardiniere.

Wallace stooped to right the planter, turning to escort Riding from the premises, but James had already left.

'No manners, not a bloody one! People today are such bloody yobs.'

Wallace left Johnson complaining to himself, closing the library door silently, the firelight reflecting off the hourglass, dancing on the seven pocket watches in the cabinet.

FWR

11.03.24 Front Page

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