Time Lapse

Chapter One: Killing Time

 Ralph was forty-six when he was called out of retirement. Most would say that was already too young to be retired, but Ralph had left the field at forty-two, resolute that he would never go back. Early in his career he found it a thrill – the travelling, the adventure. Seeing new places, meeting new people, young old, old, and ancient. But later he grew to resent the racing around, never having a base and having to learn a new culture every time he travelled. Worst of all was he always living out of a suitcase. No one could deny that Ralph had served his time and then some. He was an expert, and had strived to become the best in his field. Now all Ralph wanted, indeed all he had done for the last four years, was to live peacefully on his narrow boat Felicity.

But who was to know when Lynard the postman rapped on the window at 3, Wren Moorings with the morning post on Friday that Ralph would soon be going against every promise he had made to himself upon retirement? The tapping, followed by Lynard’s cheery “Morning Ralph!” had woken him. Though it was past nine o’clock Ralph was not a naturally early riser and he resented being woken before his body was ready to greet a new day. Ralph groaned as he flopped out of his bunk and trudged onto the deck.

“Lynard,” he acknowledged, as he emerged, bleary-eyed, into the light. “As usual, far too cheery for this early in the day.” Lynard grinned as he rummaged in his satchel for Ralph’s mail.

“Hardly early, Ralph. It’s half way through the morning for us working folks!” Ralph was taken aback somewhat. It was only now that he looked at his watch, which he never removed, and realised the time.

“You are forgiven for the untimely intrusion, on the grounds that I’ll now be on time to visit Poppy.”

“That’s my good deed for the day then. Can’t keep daughters waiting. They’ll make you compensate with costly gifts. Or worse, by joining them for a movie marathon of awful teenage vampire romances.” Ralph grimaced at the thought. “Still, there are worse things in life. Bet you wouldn’t change her for the world.” Lynard delivered a wad of letters and went on his way, whistling La vie en Rose along the bank. Ralph rifled absent-mindedly through the bills and charity bulletins. Sandwiched between a local council campaign letter and an advert for window cleaners he found a familiar chemical-pink enveloped imprinted with a faint grey water mark. Ralph knew it was from Solomon immediately, but it was unexpected. Envelopes from the Institute came only twice a year – at birthdays and Christmas. That was Solomon taking advantage of his unlimited access to the Council’s franking machine. Ralph certainly had not reckoned, upon receiving that letter, that the meeting would send him on his most perilous quest yet – one which would seal the fate of the fifth generation forever. So Ralph had responded to the letter immediately, not in writing but in person. There had been no time. Solomon had requested Ralph’s attendance that very afternoon. Since Flic was not likely to get him there very quickly, Ralph had wolfed down his breakfast, thrown on a crumpled beige linen suit, and marched to the station in time for the ten o’clock train to London.

It was only en route that Ralph realised in his haste to answer Solomon’s summons he had completely forgotten his plan to spend the day with Poppy. Upon reaching Paddington at two o’clock he placed a quick, apologetic phone call to her. The call had gone directly to voicemail which was unfortunate, as Ralph believed apologies should always be done in person. But there was nothing he could do and anyway, Poppy was never one to hold grudges. Ralph continued from Paddington to Willesden Junction, where he switched to the Orbital line and finally alighted at Imperial Wharf. It was after this traumatic journey – for Ralph abhorred public transport – that he was able to breathe a sigh of relief, drawn from a fresh, crisp atmosphere, instead of the stale air conditioning that has sustained him along the underground. He skipped lunch and headed straight for the Institute, knowing that he must be needed urgently. Solomon hadn’t said much (he never did) but the very fact that he had contacted Ralph at such short notice made it clear it was a matter of grave importance, and Ralph could never deny Solomon a request. The CloCK Institute stood out imposingly against the modern glass and graphite structures that surrounded it, with its twenty-four turrets each supporting a large circular clock. Its impressive façade cast a long shadow across the river, looming over him for a good seven minutes between the station and the tall Victorian building. Well, it seemed like seven minutes, but it was more likely ten when he reached the panelled oak doors. Ralph was always taken by surprise by the modernity of the interiors once you went through those doors. The old red brick walls hardly looked like they could house the high glass ceilings, the bright, nearly luminous walls, and the strange digital tiles between them. He showed his letter to the unfamiliar receptionist who waved a few fingers and at her computer screen, before returning the letter.