The Time Traveller

by Peter Gifford

With a sound like a rubber band snapping Rayn appeared in the room. He stood there for a moment, letting the familiar brief wave of nausea pass. Slowly he opened his eyes. He was in a room, lit brightly with a bare bulb. He looked around. Somewhere between 1990 and 2020, he guessed. She’d be living alone.

Rayn walked through to the kitchen, moving swiftly and quietly from long experience. There was a window to the outside. He looked at the cars going by on the street below, the billboard advertisements, what people were wearing as they walked by.

2003, he said to himself.

He looked at the device on his wrist. May 16, 2003. Rayn smiled.

It was late afternoon. She'd be home soon, so he didn't have much time. He briefly struggled with the sudden desire to see her face again, then brought his mind back to the reason he was here. Something he needed to check.

In the bedroom there was a small table, strewn with overdue bills, loose change, cheap jewellry. There was a small piece of paper. Written upon it in lipstick was a number. Rayn resisted the urge to pick it up. He typed the number into his wrist device and waited for two seconds until it gave him a position and a time. Then he pressed the Jump button.

The paper, pulled by the sudden change in air pressure, fluttered off the table and to the floor.

He opened his eyes again, found himself standing in an alleyway, facing a wall. He put out a hand and steadied himself against the cold bricks as the nausea passed, squeezing shut his eyes in pain. One day, one day they’ll fix that, he thought for the hundredth time. Almost unconsciously he checked where his hand had touched the wall, then standing straight, he brushed himself down out of habit and began walking towards the busy street. A man passed him, wearing black pants and a dark green shirt. Rayn looked down at himself, mentally passing the dark blue jeans and black T shirt. It would do. Amazing how many time periods this costume has passed through, he thought.

To his right was a small cafe called The Iguana. She was sitting at a small table by the window. Long, straight black hair tied in a ponytail, black skivvy, glasses, a small black notebook resting on the table in front of her next to a coffee. She was nervous, looking around, waiting for someone. He’ll never come, thought Rayn, but he didn’t smile. Why are you waiting for him Helen, he thought. He’ll never come. He’s left you.

More than anything he wanted to walk into the cafe and sit down opposite her, and for a moment he struggled with the physical desire of it. Then his wrist device made a soft sound. He looked at it, scanning the list of tasks. CCs mostly — Consistency Checks. They wouldn’t take long. He had time. That made him smile.

She was fidgeting, playing with the pages of the notebook. She looked out of the woindow and their eyes met for the briefest of moments, until he turned away. He felt a hot flush pass through his body as he tried to look as though he was waiting for someone. After a few seconds he dared to look again. She was still staring at him, a faintly quizzical look on her face, like she was digging through long-buried memories with a teaspoon. Her hand touched the window.

His device chimed again. He had work to do. He turned and walked past the window and down the street. It took him only a few moments to make the required checks, feed the information into the device, and move into the next alleyway. Graffiti on the alley wall gave him his next co-ordinates.