The Anubis Gates

Well, that confirms it, he thought nervously. Bullets like this don’t come into use until 1850 or so. There are other twentieth century men here—I mean now—and for some reason they’re hostile. I wonder what the hell they’ve got against me.

And, he thought, I wonder who the hell they are.

He had reached Borough High Street. To his right was the somber bulk of St. Thomas’ Hospital, and to his left London Bridge soared away through the twilight, spanning the broad Thames whose surging, gunmetal-gray face was already beginning to twinkle with the first lights of the evening. There seemed to be more promise across the river, and he turned left.

But why, he asked himself as he walked down toward the river, would time travellers hang around in London in 1810? And why, for God’s sake, try to kill me? Why not just take me back? Do they think I want to be here… now?

A thought struck him. Maybe, he told himself, it’s because I’m looking for Ashbless. Maybe he would have shown up at the Jamaica, but they’ve abducted him; and since I’m from the future myself, I’d notice his absence, so they’ve got to prevent me telling anyone about it.

At the gently curving apex of London Bridge he paused and leaned on the still warm stone rail and gazed west along the river toward the darkening sunset that silhouetted the five arches of Blackfriars Bridge half a mile upriver. I guess I’ll have to make another attempt to talk to Doctor Romany. It’s probably a lost cause, but I’ve got to try to get back to 1983. He sighed, allowing himself a moment of self-pity. If it was just this bronchitis or pneumonia or whatever it is, I might stay and try to beat it and make a living here and now; but when two evidently powerful groups are fighting over you, one wanting to kill you while the other will settle for just torturing you, it’s hard to hold a job.

He pushed away from the rail and began walking down the north slope of the bridge. Of course I could just leave the city, he told himself. Just right now get to the shore, steal a boat and push off—let the current take me to Gravesend or somewhere. Begin life anew.

When he came out of his reverie he was off the bridge and crossing Thames Street. He glanced up and down the lamplit street, remembering the day, two and a half weeks ago, that he’d almost allowed himself to be taken to Horrabin by that fake blind beggar, and then had been rescued by Skate Benjamin.

There were few people out on the streets this Tuesday evening, and the pubs and dining rooms along Gracechurch Street spilled light but little noise out across the cobblestones. Doyle was able to hear the whistling when it was still a good distance away. Yesterday again.

When the first moment of blind panic had passed, Doyle smiled in grim amusement at how Pavlovian his response to that damned Beatles tune had become—he had instantly leaped into a recessed doorway, yanked the ruined gun out of his coat pocket and raised it like a club over his head. Now, as he realized the sound was coming from at least a block away, he lowered the gun and allowed himself to breathe—though the pounding of his heart didn’t slacken. He peered cautiously out of the alcove, not daring to leave it yet for fear of attracting notice. After a few moments the whistler rounded the corner from Eastcheap and began walking down Gracechurch, in Doyle’s direction but on the opposite side of the street.