Chapter 7
You have travelled through time to 1881…
The words, so quickly spoken, were bouncing around in Eva’s head. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, Henry Asheford’s words were all she could focus on. Anything else was background noise, like the JAWS soundtrack. It loomed in the darkness, waiting to terrorize her further.
The murder of her attacker.
The confession that Josiah strangled her dad to death.
Both were two situations that in any other normal circumstance would have shattered her world. Except this wasn’t normal. She had time-travelled to 1881 and had come face-to-face with the man in the photograph.
At one level, like a reflex, it was easy to refuse his words. Time-travelling was impossible. Moving through time into the past or the future was a theory reserved for science fiction. Not real life.
Yet, here she was.
The fire in the living room had died out long ago, and a coldness had stiffened her bones. Eva went to the ceiling-tall window that overlooked the dark vastness of the sea. In the navy sky, the moon was a silver-white disc, and the stars … oh, the stars, billions of them twinkling like a blanket of shimmering diamonds.
Her eyes welled up. She’d never seen that many stars before.
This must be a dream she couldn’t wake up from … or a delusion brought on by a psychotic break from the last two months of hell. Yet, she saw the sea, cliffs, sky, stars – vivid reminders that she was still on the same Earth where she’d awoken that morning. The air smelt like burnt wood and damp moss. If she pressed her palm against the window, she could feel the coolness of the glass against her skin. Everything felt real with the obvious difference that the man in the photograph lived in the not-so abandoned house on the cliff.
You have travelled through time to 1881…
There they were again, Henry Asheford’s words, said in his clipped English accent while his familiar blue eyes pleaded for her to accept them. The same pair of eyes she’d observed in that old black-and-white photograph. A brief thought flashed through her mind. Maybe in her confused state, she had mistaken the photograph for him. Like the guy at the pub yesterday. If she ran out the door, would she discover Gerry laughing, saying something like, Still don’t believe in ghosts now? Would he explain the property was some hotspot for ghost action or a portal between life and death?
She shook her head. God, get a grip. A portal into the ghost world? That sounded like a bad blockbuster film for teens. What was next? The Kraken would come sprawling out of the sea? Sure, it was difficult to accept that Henry Asheford was the man in the photograph, but she couldn’t deny the striking resemblance. It was a younger, happier version of him, with the same startling clear eyes.
“Damn it,” she croaked.
It was him. She knew all along it was.
With a groan, she dropped her head against the cool window. Guilt simmered, flushing her cheeks.
He had come to her rescue, had given her water to wash with, tried to tend to her wounds, had fought against her stubbornness and offered his help. And what had she done? Pushed him away and shouted that he should be dead. Jesus, Eva, what’s wrong with you?
She looked across the living room and into the hallway. The moonlight barely reached that far, turning it into a place of mute shadows.
After she stormed out of his bedroom earlier, Henry had remained silent and she wondered whether he was still there. A powerful urge seized her to bust through his door. What if he had left, and she hadn’t noticed? What would she do then? She couldn’t exactly fix this on her own. Could she run away to try her luck somewhere else? To admit she needed him was as hard as admitting she was in 1881, but if Henry knew about time travel, she had to cooperate, which meant waiting for the morning and apologizing.
Light-headed with fear, she cowered into the padded sofa, bag and cell phone in hand. Hours ago, after washing the blood from her skin, she had tried to call the police, but there was no reception. There was also no 4G. All she had were the photos and music stored on her SD card. Luckily, she had been smart enough to remember her solar-powered phone charger. She took out a pair of headphones, plugged them into her phone and popped them in her ears.
She selected Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd.
She dropped her head against the sofa’s headrest and focused on the guitar’s melody. When the lyrics started, the urge to cry tickled the back of her eyes. She told herself to trust that the situation would be fixed. That soon enough she would be home. Tomorrow she would apologize to Henry. They would talk. Everything would be all right.
The song picked up in rhythm with the guitar riff. She tapped her foot against the floor as the music anchored her back to reality. Soon, she forgot about the murder, about time travel and about Henry Asheford.
***
A poke stirred her awake. She opened her eyes and saw the ghost of the nineteenth-century man. He wore a loose, striped white shirt with beige pants tucked into his brown leather boots. With his arms crossed, his blue eyes gave her a frosty look.
Her heart came to a stop.
The sound of music blared around them.
She blinked a few times.
It was Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees.
Realizing that her headphones had come unplugged from her phone, she jolted up from the sofa. Hands flailing, she searched for her phone but could not find it. You idiot!
“I did not intend to awake to the high-pitched screeches of a … woman?” Henry said.
Barry Gibb’s famous falsetto scream came.
“Good God,” Henry said. “Will you turn that blasted whining off?”
“I’m trying.” She stuffed her hand into the crevices of the sofa, found her phone and quickly pressed Pause. “Sorry … okay, I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to hear that music.”
“Music?”
Her heart thudded harder against her chest. “I guess there are probably better songs to introduce you to seventies music with, although some would argue that Stayin’ Alive was the epitome of that decade.”
His expression hardened.
Shut up, Eva, he’s about to throw you out.
“Allow us to make a rule,” he said. “As long as you and I coexist in one space, I expect that you keep your oddities to yourself and I will do the same.”
She exhaled in relief. “You’re not … you’re not kicking me out?”
“I am not in the habit of throwing poor, helpless women onto the street. No matter how rude they may be,” he said with fire in his tone.
“What I said yesterday—”
“It is a matter already forgotten,” he quickly said. “How did you sleep?”
Surprised at his civility, and unsure how to answer, she glanced around the room.
The sun was rising over the sea, revealing the living room as a decorative space of opulence: white, stucco ceiling, deep-navy wallpaper, forest-green sofas with dark wood accents and one mighty stone-carved fireplace that sat opposite the wall of sash windows to the sea.
“I um…” She struggled to find the words. “I slept well enough.”
“I suppose one of us must have their wits about them.”
She tore her gaze away from a wall lined with bookshelves to look at Henry. He was clearly upset and for good reason. Apologize now and tell him you want to go home.
“Can I get you some breakfast?” he said.
“No.”
His mouth tightened into a flat line. “How quick you are to reject my offer … yet again.”
She didn’t know why her first instinct was to say no. All she wanted was to say sorry, but the more his striking eyes bore into her, the less she could think. It also didn’t help that the sight of him in the morning sun was distracting enough to derail her thoughts into the wall. He was certainly the man in the photograph, and unlike the black-and-white, grainy image, he was in full colour.
Oh my God, it’s Henry Asheford in Ultra High Definition.
The sun brought out vivid flashes of auburn in his dark-brown hair that swept in waves across his head. Despite the judgment in his piercing blue eyes, there was a softness to them that radiated kindness, and his mouth, narrow with a thick lower lip, showed signs of dimples or ridges at its corners that would deepen with a broad smile. There was even a hint of auburn stubble across his square jaw.
Oh, God, I need fresh air now.
“Where is your bathroom?” she said.
“There’s a privy out front and a toilet table in my bedroom.”
“Toilet … table?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Does the term confuse you?”
“I just need to pee.”
“Yes, let us not waste time with propriety.” He frowned. “The privy is what you need.”
Heart ramming hard against her chest, she took her bag, whirled around and headed to the front door. As she stepped outside, a cool wind rushed into her face. Startled by the sudden harsh breeze, she halted. Something bumped into her from behind and she looked over her shoulder to see Henry’s face an inch away from hers.
She jerked away. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I did not think you would stop mid-stride,” he muttered.
“Are you following me?”
“Perhaps.”
“If I wanted to run away, I would have done it last night,” she said. “I don’t need a chaperone to go pee.”
“Believe it or not, I too must relieve myself.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“Do not give me that look,” he said, a redness in his cheeks. “We’ve murdered together, we’ve fought, and we’ve both ruined one another’s lives. I’d say we’ve thrown modesty to the wind, wouldn’t you agree?”
She shook her head and turned to continue down the path. Without knowing where to head, she assumed the faint trail in the dirt leading down a hill toward the forest line would take her to the outhouse.
After a few minutes of walking, the sound of his boots behind unsettled her.
A thought came. What if this was a trap? What if Henry was leading her deep into the woods to kill her and bury her body in a leafy pit? No one would know, and he would get rid of his problem. He had been quick to put a knife to Josiah’s throat; what else was he capable of?
You also put a knife to his throat.What does that say about you?
The thought made her dizzy. She peeked over her shoulder at him.
He was walking a short distance behind her. Hands in pockets, he stared at the dirt with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes snapped up.
She quickly averted her gaze.
“Is there something you wish to say?” he said.
“Where’s the outhouse?”
“Privy,” he said.
“Whatever. Privy, outhouse. Tomaytoes, tomahtoes.”
“We passed it long ago.”
She stopped and faced him. “And you tell me that now?”
“You were so determined to march by the damned thing that I could hardly put a stop to it out of fear you would bite my head off.”
“What happened to you not wanting anyone seeing the weird alien from the future?”
He shrugged. “There isn’t anyone for miles.”
The words rolled off her tongue before she could reign them in. “You’re not luring me out here to kill me, are you?”
He sighed. “I thought I made myself clear that harming you is not my intention.”
His dejected expression was enough to squeeze her heart, and she felt like the asshole again.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, okay?” she said.
“Do you mean to say you’ve accepted the truth?”
“I don’t exactly have a choice.”
“You were quite adamant that it was all a jest yesterday.”
“Clearly, I was confused,” she said. “I’m sure if roles were reversed, you would have acted the same.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I am quite sure I would know better than to tell the one person trying to help that they should be dead.”
She winced.
A flush rose in his cheeks and he turned back toward the house. “The privy is a short distance from here.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” she blurted.
He stilled.
“It was wrong of me to say that to you,” she said.
Turning to face her, he sneered. “Wrong? It was absolutely—”
“Please let me own up to my faults before you hammer me down,” she urged. “I’ve been trying to say it since you woke me up, but I’m not any good at it. I never was. Last night, I was confused, scared and didn’t know who, or what, you were. So, please, let me apologize.”
“I am a man,” he said. “A human being with a beating heart and blood that courses through my veins. Do you not see that?”
“Where I come from, you’re not any of those things.”
A vertical line etched between his brows, and his mouth flattened.
She realized that Henry took the matter seriously, and at that moment, she felt like an ass again. Obviously, she didn’t mean that he should be dead in the literal sense. At that instant, he was living his life. In 137 years, she would live hers. They were supposed to be non-existent in one another’s worlds.
“If we are to talk about what happened, I cannot do it while you believe me to be a … a … phantom of sorts,” he stammered.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Are you? Because there is still a glimmer of disbelief in your eye.”
With a deep inhale, she approached him and held out her hand.
“What are you doing?” he said, eyeing her hand with suspicion.
“Burying the hatchet.”
“I do not understand.”
“I’m offering you a peace treaty,” she said. And because I want to see if you’re real. “Henry Asheford, will you please accept my apology?”
He considered her gesture before taking her hand in his. It was warm – almost too warm –and large; in fact, his hand swallowed hers completely.
Yes, he is very much alive.
“And where is the hatchet you wish to bury?” he said.
“I was hoping to borrow yours.”
“That won’t do. I need it.”
“Then let’s agree to bury a metaphorical hatchet.”
“That suits me better.” He observed their hands. “Does this treaty include holding hands for an eternity?”
A rush of heat entered her belly. “You didn’t accept my apology.”
“Did you apologize? I seem to have missed it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing full well that he was now rubbing it in. “I was a stubborn ass to you and I’m sorry for it.”
He lifted his chin and observed her. “I accept your apology.”
“Right, so, we’re both alive and well. Can we please pee now?” She took back her hand. “And after we do the deed, can we talk about time travel?”
Without a word, he turned and led her to the outhouse. It was a weathered stone hut with a rotting wooden door that hung loosely on one hinge, and to her annoyance, it was just a few metres from the house, hidden behind a thicket of trees.
She reluctantly opened the fragile door and walked in. The door slammed shut against her backside, forcing her to enter the small, dim space. There was a wooden toilet seat with a square lid secured onto a wooden shelf. Above, there was a small rectangular window with dusty spider webs, and a bundle of newspaper hung on the wall.
Aghast, she put her bag by the door. She lifted the toilet lid, consciously avoiding peering down the black hole, and unbuttoned her jeans. She told herself it wasn’t any worse than peeing in a bush as she squatted over the hole.
After finishing, she used a strip of newspaper and quickly regretted it. It was rough and … oh my God, it’s as coarse as sandpaper. She tossed the sheet into the hole, shut the lid and quickly buttoned up her pants. Just as she reached for her bag, she caught a whiff of sweat.
Mortified, she rummaged in her bag for her deodorant and lilac-scented body spray. She removed her jacket, reached beneath her white T-shirt and dabbed fresh deodorant under her pits, then finished with a spray of lilac around her neck. There, that should appease the BO gods until she could shower.
Then she remembered this century had no showers.
A bath?
She hadn’t seen a bathtub in his house.
Her stomach plummeted. Already exhausted by yesterday’s stress, her mood spiralled downwards until the twinge of tears poked behind her eyes. Shouldering her bag, she hung her sweater across her arm and burst through the outhouse door.
Upon seeing her, his brows knitted together.
She tried to mask her emotion, but there was no stopping the tears.
“Are you quite well?” he said.
“No,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”