Superimposed over everything were large red dots denoting major events in history. Not that the Time Police cared about major historical events – they were there solely for the purposes of navigation and finding one’s way around the Time Map. Because, according to the Time Police, it was Time that was important. History – less so. Without Time, history could not exist. Time was the structure – history simply the furniture therein. According to St Mary’s, however, without History, time is pointless. A bit like the Time Police, they would go on to say. And then run away.
Flickering red lines connected each red dot to others nearby – and sometimes as far away as the other side of the Map as well, because, as anyone from St Mary’s will tell you – and there’s a significant portion of your life you’ll never get back again – nothing ever happens in isolation. Every event is connected to every other event and the Map reflected this.
The enormous room was dimly lit – the centrepiece was the Map, hanging in space, humming gently as it rotated. The Song of the Time Map, as it was known. Small groups of officers stood around the observation ring which had been built about halfway up the Map Room, almost level with the ever-changing now. There were always people there, watching the Time Map slowly evolve, silver light playing softly on their upturned faces.
The Map Master and her similarly obsessed team worked on the ground floor, crouching over their consoles, managing the vast amounts of information that flowed into the Time Map in their never-ending efforts to keep it as up to date as possible. Tiny silver lines extended to form new pathways, growing imperceptibly as they inched their way across the Map. Whether they were reflecting this information or whether the Map was actually sentient enough to grow itself was the subject of lively, sometimes vigorous and occasionally overenthusiastic debate in the bar.
According to the Time Police, Map technicians were instantly recognisable by their weedy frames and unhealthy complexions, being physically unable to cope with long periods of daylight and then only with protective clothing and a safety net. By nature solitary and sad, they lived in the shadows with only each other and a lifetime’s supply of energy drinks to sustain them.
There were eleven of them altogether, although, looking down into the well of the chamber, Matthew could see only six were actually present. One would be on leave – which was Time Map-speak for spending time in his darkened room in the company of magazines of a very specific nature. No, not that sort of specific nature.
Two were on a training course – continuing professional development being a big part of the new Time Police ethos.
Two were off sick – one with an improbable and much discussed groin strain and the other suffering some kind of skin complaint that caused people to approach him wearing a rubber apron, face mask and tongs.
It goes without saying that all members of the section – other than the Map Master herself – were male. Popular opinion maintained she’d accidentally wandered in one day while looking for the Battersea Dogs Home. ‘Looking for something to adopt,’ said someone – and in lieu of something with a cold wet nose that crapped on the carpet, had taken on the Time Map Maintenance section – TiMMs – instead.
Looking down from the observation ring, Matthew could see two rows of three consoles, drawn up in a semicircle to face the Map. The Map Master’s workstation – which apparently made the controls of the Mars lander look like a Lego model – stood on a slightly raised platform behind them. Matthew was only too well aware that nothing escaped her vigilant eye – especially where he was concerned. To one side stood another row of three seldom-manned consoles, which was where they dumped trainees, incompetents and Matthew Farrell.
Alone among Time Police departments, this was not a paper-free zone. Each chaotic workstation benefitted from its own free-form filing system. No food or drink, however. Anyone caught eating or drinking at their workstation could rely on their already slim chances of reproduction being eliminated altogether by a vengeful and dog-deprived Map Master.
On this particular morning Matthew was standing alone on the observation ring watching the Map shimmer. Several other groups of people were also present, walking around the Map, pointing. No one spoke much. The Map usually engendered a respectful silence.
Time passed – as it tends to do, especially with a Time Map – and still Matthew stood and stared. Stillness can attract its own attention and after a while, he began to attract that attention.
Completely unaware others were watching him, Matthew frowned. The light played on his face as he gazed down at the Map, his strange golden eyes gleaming like a hawk looking down from a great height searching for its prey in a distant cornfield. Narrowing it down. Focusing. Homing further and further in. Still as a statue. Concentrating. Finally, he had it.
Turning on his heel, he trotted along the observation ring, disappearing through a door and reappearing several seconds later in the well of the Map Room itself, a forbidden area inhabited only by the Map Master and her team.
The Map Master turned from the console at which she was working. ‘Farrell – what are you doing down here? You know you’re banned.’
Matthew’s eyes glittered with reflected light from the Map. ‘It’s happening again.’
‘What is?’
Matthew gestured. ‘There. Can you see?’
‘No.’
‘There – that section there.’
The Map Master regarded him thoughtfully. The rules demanded she chuck him out. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have form. Sometimes, in her worst nightmares, especially after too much cheese too late at night, she remembered Matthew Farrell, his eyes glowing gold as the Time Map darkened and disintegrated around him. He’d been a child at the time, however, and her instinct told her to listen to him now. She hesitated for only a moment and then held out her gauntlets. ‘Show me. Carefully.’
Slowly, never once looking away from the Map, Matthew drew on the gauntlets and moved closer. Looking up, he moved his right arm, isolating a particular section. This he enlarged, his movements confident and sure, digging deeper and deeper into the cat’s cradle of glowing silver lights, until, finally, ‘There.’
The Map Master moved to stand beside him, squinting up at the Map. ‘Where? I can’t see – yes, I can. Wait – don’t touch anything. Don’t change anything.’
She turned to her second in charge. ‘Connor – replicate this section. Detach the replica from the original and isolate. Enlarge and enhance.’
With a deeper hum, a giant segment of the Time Map replicated itself and appeared before them. A 3D representation at eye level. People left their consoles to walk around it, staring. ‘Where? Yes – there – look. Shit.’
A riot of comment broke out.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Not again.’