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Oxford, England, 2018
After a change of trains at Birmingham, they arrived at Oxford in the late afternoon. Rory and Murray walked out of the station and down the steps.
“The Physics Faculty.” Rory gazed around at the buildings immediately in front of him. People surrounded them in a rush, eager to get home for their evening meal, he guessed.
“Yes. The Physics building is nineteen minutes away past the Ashmolean Museum, according to Google Maps.” Murray pointed to his head.
“Och. The roads are intact bitumen.” Rory blinked, recalling his mother’s descriptions of the past.
“Concrete footpath!” Murray pointed to the ground as they walked along the street past honey-coloured stone buildings.
People rode by on bicycles and cars drove close.
“What’s that smell?” Murray asked, sniffing the air as a car passed.
“Burned petrol,” Rory answered. “Something I have nae come across in a long time.”
Their route took them by the Ashmolean Museum.
“Looks like something out of a history book on ancient Grecian architecture.” Murray paused in front of it.
Rory grabbed him by the arm and tugged.
We don’t have time, brother.
Many people walked by Rory, bumping his arms now and then. A red double-decker bus passed them every ten minutes.
“Tourists seeing the sights.” Murray informed him.
In the front of sandstone buildings, older style, ornate and imposing, groups or individuals stood and smiled, holding a long pole in front of them that held a mobile phone.
“What are they doing?” Rory nudged Murray, who shook his head.
Rory’s senses were on high alert noting every quick movement, anything he could interpret as an offensive action. His arm muscles tensed, and he wished he had his knife at least. People seemed relaxed and self-absorbed. No one appeared overtly aggressive. None had the tell-tale signs of darting glances or the jumpy movements of someone with sinister intent.
No one had a weapon. That Rory could tell. No bulges in jackets or the back of trousers. There may have been knives tucked in boots, or was he looking unnecessarily?
Up ahead, a young black woman in a neat black dress played a violin. Its high-pitched melody went before her and people stood in a circle around the open violin case. As they watched, their heads inclined, listening. The music swam around Rory as they approached the outer edge of the circle, by-passing the listeners. A young lad bumped into an older man standing at the edge of the crowd. The lad’s hand slipped something square and brown out of the top inner pocket of the man’s jacket. Rory blinked. A pickpocket.
Rory stiffened. No, he’d have to keep out of it.
Most people were his and Murray’s age. Students. Passers-by spoke to each other in many different languages. Rory only spoke English and the Gaelic, but the languages floating past him were probably French, German, Spanish and Italian. There were strange English accents too. He recognised a North American accent from his Canadian brother-in-law, Alistair, but a group of students spoke it differently again to anything he’d ever heard.
“Australian, I think,” Murray said when Rory gave him a questioning glance as the group of speakers passed by them.
The building that housed the Physics department was newer than most. No honey-coloured stone, just grey, lots of windows and geometric shapes. They walked into the front door and found the noticeboards.
“What now?” In front of Rory were Physics posters—another language all together.
“How were you going to find him here?”
Murray looked at a noticeboard that had timetables on it.
“Oh, it’s Summer School.” Murray turned as a group of students walked past them. “Hey guys...” He strode off with the group and was soon deep in conversation with them.
Rory pressed his lips together as warmth for his brother centred in his chest. Murray seemed so at home here. He looked like a student. He would love this. Excel at it. In another time he would have been here, in his element. A momentary heaviness came over Rory.
Murray walked back, his expression alight.
“He’s not teaching Summer School this year, but they think he’s at home.” Murray was the most animated Rory had ever seen him. “They didn’t know where, but he lives here in Oxford.”
Rory made to go but Murray hadn’t moved. Murray stared at the poster on the wall next to the noticeboard, covered in mathematical symbols.
“What is it?” Rory moved next to him.
“Oh, an equation.” Murray breathed through his mouth.
“Come, let’s go. Telephone book again?”
Murray didn’t move. Rory got hold of his arm and tugged gently. Murray resisted.
“They’ve dedicated this whole building to teaching and making new discoveries in Physics.” Murray’s voice was husky and caught in his throat. “And there’s a building like it solely dedicated to Mathematics.” Murray’s eyes were watery as he turned to face him.
“Oh, no you don’t, brother,” Rory said in a quiet voice. “I need you. The future needs you.”
Rory tugged Murray’s arm again, his feet remained in place. “Murray.” Rory’s voice was firmer now. “In a few weeks these hallowed halls will not be as they are now.”
“But think of what I could learn in those few weeks!” Murray’s face contorted.
“I’m sorry. But you can’t. Your brains are required for a higher purpose. Greater things where there is a greater need... Brother... Murray...We must go.” Rory had never pleaded before, but he had no qualms about doing so now.
Murray finally moved. “Google. White Pages.” Murray’s voice was flat as he walked ahead of Rory, shoulders slumped.
“Aren’t all pages white?”
***
THEY WALKED ALONG BUCKINGHAM Street until they got to the third of the red-brick three-storey dwellings.
“You sure this is it?” Rory asked.
Murray nodded beside him. He had said little since they left the Physics building. The evening light was still with them; the long day of the summer solstice only days away. Rory turned to Murray.
“I’ve still no idea what we’ll say to him.” Rory flicked an eyebrow up at Murray.
“We’ll start by pretending we’re students.” Murray turned to face him.
“Wing it?”
“Yep. Wing it.”
They climbed the few steps and Murray knocked on the blue door. A man’s voice spoke behind the door while quick, lighter footsteps moved away from it. The door opened and a man of medium build with greying hair and glasses looked at them both in turn.
“Hello, Professor Kensington-Wallace. My name is Murray Campbell, and this is my brother, Rory.” Murray extended his hand.
The professor hesitated then reached out and shook it, then took Rory’s hand. His eyes squinted a fraction.
“My brother missed out on Summer School, but Murray had some questions he wanted to ask you personally. We’ve come all the way from Scotland, and I was hoping you’d let him. Ask you the questions, that is.” Rory turned on his best smile and manners, willing the man to invite them inside.
The professor’s eyes flicked to his right. Behind him, a small child peeped around the corner of the door frame. A faint scent of food, steak and gravy, wafted into Rory’s nostrils. His hunger hit him with a vengeance, gnawing at his insides but he’d have to ignore it.
“I apologise,” Rory continued. “We haven’t arranged to meet with you. We won’t take too much of your time. You see, it’s what my wee brother here wants to speak with you about. He has a theory on time travel.”
“Many do.” The professor didn’t move.
“May we please come in? We really need to speak with you.” Murray’s tone seemed to be more convincing than Rory’s.
The professor gave a brief nod and stood back, allowing them entrance. “Please take a seat in the front room.”
Murray looked at Rory.
A look which said to let him do the talking.
The small room had a two-seater couch and a leather chesterfield, in which the professor sat. A musty smell emanated from the bookshelves, which lined each wall of the room. Rory sat next to Murray on the couch. It was lumpy and caused Rory to lean into his brother. He held himself back and knocked his arm against the books sitting sideways on the shelves behind him—the overflow—causing them to fall. A girlish giggle erupted from the hallway.
“Play with your toys, sweetheart. There’s a good girl,” the professor said.
Rory turned to pick up the books and saw a small girl with long honey-blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes staring at him from the doorway.
Rory smiled. “Hello.” His Scottish accent shouted itself in that one word. So far, the room had been full of well-spoken English. The little girl, about five years old, giggled once more and ran to another room.
“What’s your theory?” The professor grinned and rubbed his hands together.
Rory looked at his brother. On you go, lad.
“Well, basically, it isn’t as impossible as everyone thinks,” Murray said.
The professor nodded.
“Do you believe one day it will happen?” Murray asked. Rory held his breath, not too certain of the angle his brother was taking.
“We have Newton’s thoughts on time, which sparked speculation on travelling through it. Einstein and his wormholes. And there’s Gӧdel... but wouldn’t it be marvellous?” The professor was breathless, and his eyes lit up as he spoke. “Being a nuclear physicist, I haven’t performed any research on the subject. My research concerned warheads and before my post here at Oxford I worked in nuclear power.”
“Aye, we read your paper,” Rory commented. Murray turned and glared. Rory shut his mouth tight.
“But my own thoughts on the matter,” the professor continued. “Well, it may be, but our equipment isn’t sophisticated enough at present.”
“What if I told you it’s so much simpler than it seems and once the world loses its technology, we find out how uncomplicated it is, and we do it?” Murray asked.
The professor opened his mouth to speak, looked from Murray to Rory and back to Murray. “What are you saying?”
“We have travelled back in time from this future where time travel is achieved...simply,” Murray said.
Silence engulfed the room. The professor’s eyes flicked rapidly from Murray to Rory and back again—several times.
“Please, sir,” Rory had to speak. “Dinnae think we are mad, or at it. It’s true, and we need your help. In a matter of days, the world will have an economic crisis from which it will never recover. You would say the world will go backward into violence, anarchy, and poverty. We come from that future and we need your advice about a nuc—”
“Enough!” The professor shot out of his chair and pointed to the door. “Please leave now!” His command was curt.
“But—” Murray began.
“No, Murray,” Rory interrupted him. “We’ve disturbed Professor Kensington-Wallace enough.” To the professor he said, “We’re going, but listen to the news. It will happen.” Rory grabbed Murray by the arm and let himself and his brother out. Kensington-Wallace slammed the door behind them.
“But—?”
“Keep walking, Murray. Don’t ruin it. Give the man time.” Retaining his grip on his brother’s arm, Rory marched Murray down the street.
“But you know it’s already started?”
“How would I ken that?” Rory asked.
“The news running beside the White Pages. The US market started its slide yesterday, and today UK and Europe have followed suit. Asian markets were beginning when we were in the Internet Café.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I thought you were reading it. Oh, I forgot, you got caught up with your cappuccino.” Murray waggled his head from side to side as he spoke. “Again.”
“He’ll think I’ve made it up because of that. We mustn’t be as early as we planned,” Rory said. “We’ll be right in the middle of it by the time we manage to convince him.”
“We’re going back to the professor?”
“Of course. Give him a day to think about it. Especially now it’s happening. Well, it may be to our advantage. Anyway, we aren’t going back to our time until we get what we need from him.” A twinge of guilt swirled in the back of Rory’s mind as he spoke gruffly to his wee brother, but this was too important to bother with people’s feelings.
