Just Visiting Read online

  Just Visiting

  Fiona Glass

  ∞

  Vitreous Press

  Just Visiting

  Fiona Glass

  Published by Vitreous Press

  Copyright © Fiona Glass 2020

  The moral right of Fiona Glass to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art design: © Fiona Glass. Male model image © Marco Lastelli; large clock image © Gerd Altmann; small clock image © ArtTower—all on Pixabay.com

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to both James Rasmussen and Susan Mac Nicol for believing in the original version of this story enough to publish it. I hope you approve of what I’ve done with it!

  Future Imperfect

  'Sorry, lad, I'm just visiting.’

  Madoc shook his head at the young chap trying to pick him up, then wished he’d used some other words. That particular phrase brought too many memories, on a night when he was already drowning in them.

  Twenty five years. He didn’t know where they’d gone. Well, he did, of course; he could write a book on the events that had played out across that time. And there were people—his best mate Carl for one—who said he should. But that would mean more fame, more attention, less chance of living his life the way he wanted it. Less chance of slipping out for a quiet drink at a dockside bar every now and again.

  He sipped his pint, letting the music and chatter wash over him, watching the shifting crowd. Youngsters, mostly, the generation below his, who’d grown up with all the advantages he’d never had. It hadn’t made them inconsiderate—memories dinned into them by parents and teachers made sure of that—just less fearful and more self-assured.

  More persistent, too. Like this young chap, still hanging round with a hopeful look in spite of Madoc’s put-down. For a moment he wondered if he was making a mistake. The lad was cute, no doubt about it, with neat dark hair and a look, almost, of Josh. And up for it. His eyes lit up when he saw Madoc looking at him.

  'Fancy a drink?’

  Say yes, you old fool. He could hear Carl’s voice nagging now. You deserve some happiness. Stop punishing yourself. It wasn’t that easy, though. Sheer hard experience told him one-night stands never worked. And thanks to Josh, a one-night stand was all it would ever be. He shook his head again, smiling to soften the blow. 'Flattering, but no. For all sorts of reasons, but mostly just wrong time, wrong place.’

  The lad smiled back. 'Fair enough. You’re way out of my league anyway. You’re Madoc Owen, aren’t you? The man who changed—’

  'Not here. Not tonight. Tonight I’m just any other man, having a drink, waiting for a friend.’ As he’d done in the last four bars he’d visited. Hung round, drinking warm beer, trying to merge with the scenery, until they were all starting to merge into one. He could barely remember if this was the Last Ship or the Call to Arms. Thanks to Josh and his riddles he felt bound to try them all, but after this one there weren’t too many left. Well, apart from one, and there was no way he was trying that.

  The lad had finally got the message and moved away, but others would take his place. It happened all the time. He was enough of a realist to know it had more to do with who he was and less with how he looked. One more reason for not wanting to give in to it, to the voices—including Carl’s—that said What’s the worst that can happen? It’s just one night. But then that’s what he’d told himself about Josh, and look how that turned out.

  It felt weird, anyway. This whole idea of people mingling, drinking together, taking one another home. The law might have changed but for him it was all too new, too soon. He kept on peering into the shadows, sensing a trap, expecting the caste bullies to rush out at him. Hard to persuade himself, even now, that he was safe. If he'd gone into a bar and propositioned another man when he was this kid's age he'd have been dragged away and thrashed. He’d always managed to avoid it—chosen an alley with another way out—but simply not being caught wasn't always enough. The caste gangs had suspected anyway and treated him rough. And back then, there’d been so many things to get treated rough about. He sometimes thought the castes thought up new ones every other month, just to keep the rest of them on their toes. And he’d been dealt what felt like the worst hand possible.

  'You want a refill on that, mate?’ The barman, pushing a cloth around the table, pointed to his almost-empty glass.

  He glanced round, startled out of his reverie. Must be nearly closing time; the crowd had thinned, the revellers off to their beds, or to one of the new dancing clubs springing up in town. A few still sat in the corners nodding off over their pints, but he could see straight away that none of them were Josh. 'No thanks, I’m off. Looks like the man I was waiting for isn’t coming after all.’

  The barman had turned away to straighten some chairs, but swung back and pulled a sympathetic face. 'Blind date, was it?’

  Madoc drained the last of his drink. 'Just someone I hoped would be here.’ He sighed. Another year, another wasted night. How long would this go on for? How long, if ever, till he caught Josh up? Well, it wouldn’t be this year, that much was clear. He banged the empty glass on the table top, grabbed his jacket, and stood up.

  Outside it had started to rain, and a chill wind was blowing leaves about. He tugged the jacket on and turned the collar up, hunching into the soft folds of material before shoving his hands in his pockets and staring out to sea. The bright lights of a time-ship glowed in the distance; hard to tell in the darkness whether it was far enough out to make its blink. Either way, within the hour there’d be another queue of travellers waiting at the quay. That never seemed to stop no matter what else was happening. These days they had a smart new terminal to line up in while their baggage was checked. Not at all like when he’d worked down here, hanging round outdoors while the elements did their worst. Days—and nights—not unlike this, with rain soaking his clothes and the wind threatening to blow his manifest right out of his hands.

  The work had seemed endless at times. Repetitive, boring, dull. How many hours had he spent doing it? Thousands, probably. Hours he’d rather forget. Even though they were an integral part of what he was. And without them, he’d never have met Josh...

  Past Imperfect

  'C'mon, four-eyes, haven't you finished that arsing manifest yet? We've got travellers waiting to catch their blink and you're the only thing holding 'em up. They can't go without their belongings and they can't take their belongings till you've checked 'em off on the list.’

  Madoc winced as Mick Oates the supervisor shoved him so hard he almost fell. Rules were tight on the docks. Time travellers had to have every last scrap of their luggage checked, to make sure they weren't leaving with any more, or less, than they'd started with. Everyone was aware of time-loops and the havoc they could cause. But he was all thumbs this morning and looking out for the supervisor’s ready fist wasn’t going to help. He ducked his head, wanting to shout back but knowing no good could come of it. 'Sorry, Mr Oates, sir, I've nearly finished.’

  'Well make it quick, moron, I've a timetable to keep. If you spent less time staring at the men's arses and more doing your job you'd have finished by now. I see you ogling again and you'll catch the back of my hand.’ Oates held one of those impressive fists up close to Madoc's face. He’d been a prize-fighter, back in his prime. The muscles might have gone to flab but th
e knuckles were still pure iron.

  Madoc stared back into the sneering hate-tinged gaze with as much deference as he could manage. Last time Oates hit him he'd knocked the glasses clean off Madoc's face and broken them, and it had cost two weeks' wages to have them fixed. However tempting it was to lose his rag he couldn’t risk that again. He scraped one boot on the dock, imagining Oates’ face beneath the heel, and ticked the last couple of items off on his list. 'There. All done, Mr Oates. Sir.’

  If he thought that would earn him a reprieve he was asleep at the blockhouse and dreaming again. All Oates did was huff impatiently and grab the manifest from his hand. 'Right, don’t stand there pissing about, get on with something else.’

  It was normal for him to take a break between one ship leaving and the next one coming in, however brief that might be. Once each set of travellers had embarked there was nothing much for a baggage checker to do, but he’d learned from experience not to admit as much to Oates. 'Anything in particular, sir?’

  'What am I, your arsing kindergarten teacher? I don’t know. Just make yourself useful for once.’ And the man stalked off towards the relative warmth and comfort of the staff room at the side of the dock.

  Probably going for a fag and a hot drink, Madoc thought, wishing he could do the same. The wind was like a knife this morning, cutting through his work gear as though it wasn’t there. At least he was on his own for a bit and could look busy without actually doing anything—something all the dock workers learned within their first few weeks. Sweep up a bit here, put his broom down, march up and down in a determined manner there... but really he was thinking about how much his feet hurt and how unfair it was that a oaf like Oates got all the home comforts while he was stuck out here. Then again, that was the way the caste system worked, and he could hardly expect that to change.

  ∞

  It was the shouts that first alerted him that something had gone wrong.

  'This way, please, sir. Sir! Whoa, watch your step—’

  He’d thought all the travellers from the latest ship had gone, but one seemed to have lost his way. Not only had he been separated from the group, but he was here, on the dockside, on his own, without so much as a holdall to his name. Madoc frowned. That wasn’t right. Every passenger who passed this spot had luggage to check in. He wondered if he should do something, say something, but he was too lowly to approach a caste member without being asked. And traveller or not, this guy was caste through and through, with pale skin and dark hair and clothes that looked like they’d cost at least two years’ worth of the wages Madoc was paid. Besides, there was a caste overseer on the other side of the water—the one who’d called the warning, presumably. He was paid four times what Madoc earned. Let him sort it out.

  The traveller, though, had other ideas. Maybe he wasn’t lost at all. Instead of stopping and looking around or even calling for help, he headed straight for the spot where Madoc stood. He had his mouth open—to ask for directions, perhaps, or more likely to yell at Madoc for not moving out of the way. Whatever it was, Madoc never knew, because at the last minute the man tripped over Madoc’s discarded broom, wavered on the dock edge, then swooped arse-over-elbow into the greasy waters below.

  Madoc didn't even stop to think. That was a caste member floundering around down there. A caste member who’d tripped over his discarded tools. If anything bad happened, guess who would get the blame? And the penalty for causing the death of a caste member? He couldn’t remember offhand, but it wouldn’t be good. He kicked off his boots, laid his glasses on top of them and leapt straight in. The water was freezing. The cold cut through his clothes so fast he could feel the shock setting in. He couldn’t succumb to it, though. He was used to these conditions. The stranger might not be so hardened to the elements. He took a deep breath, thrashed his way to the man, then supported his head while he paddled both of them awkwardly back to the dock.

  By the time he got there the overseer had hurried over to help. Between him and Madoc they hauled the stranger out onto the dock, where he stood dripping and shivering so hard Madoc could hear his teeth knocking together. The overseer took one look at him and ran, mumbling something about alerting the proper authorities. Knowing the way things worked, Madoc thought it was more likely he was putting as much space between himself and potential trouble as possible. Something he himself would quite like to do. It was tempting to simply grab the broom and hide out in one of the store-rooms until someone else took control or the stranger took care of himself. For once, though, there was nobody else about. The stranger’s lips were turning blue. If he didn’t want a disaster on his hands, he’d have to deal with this now.

  'You’d better come back to my room. You can warm up and clean yourself there.’

  'Th-thank y-you.’

  'It’s nothing. Just doing my job.’ Or not doing it. If he’d been paying attention... if he hadn’t left that broom lying about... The fewer people who knew about that, the safer he’d be. 'This way.’

  He led the way to the blockhouse by the dock gate, aware that the stranger was following but not really watching him. Through the main door, along the corridor, up the clanging metal stairs, he made sure he stayed a few steps ahead. That way if he was challenged he could claim the man was nothing to do with him. A defence mechanism learned the hard way from his occasional encounters with other men. At least at this time of day the place was deserted: the day shift were all at work, the night shift snoring in their bunks.

  His room was a mess. There never seemed to be much point tidying it; there weren’t enough hours in the day, and no one else saw it anyway. He swept a few things off the chair and made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the covers on the bed. 'Sorry, wasn’t expecting guests. The shower’s through that curtain. I’ll see if I can get your clothes dry.’

  Unlike most caste members the man was at least grateful. Standing dripping on the rag rug Madoc had inherited from his grandmother, he held out his hand. 'Josh Tanner.’ He wiped slime off his face with a rueful grin. 'Th-thanks for coming to the rescue. I can swim but that w-water's really cold.’

  'It's nothing,’ Madoc said again. Unease prickled between his shoulder blades. Normal caste members didn’t even acknowledge the non-castes’ existence, let alone seek them out and talk to them. So why was this man treating him differently? Was it a test? A trap? Would he be suckered into saying or doing something forbidden, and marched off to the punishment cells? And yet... the man was smiling at him. Not a superior, look-down-his-nose kind of smile, but one that held genuine warmth. There was even a twinkle in his eye. It was enough—almost—to keep the demons of fear at bay. 'Madoc Owen. Nice to meet you.’

  The twinkle turned into an outright grin. 'You too, although the circumstances weren’t exactly what I’d planned.’

  An odd way of putting it, Madoc thought; almost as though Josh was saying he’d engineered the whole thing. He couldn’t have done, though. Nobody would make that much effort just to talk to him. It was so unusual he wanted to make it last. 'You, er, staying long?’

  The smile vanished like the sun going behind a cloud. 'I can’t. I'm just visiting.’

  ∞

  Josh came out of the shower looking pink and newly-scrubbed, in Madoc’s towel and not much else. For Madoc, who’d been draping his visitor’s wet clothes over an ancient clothes horse, the sudden vision took his breath away. All that handsomeness, all that male flesh, so close and yet so totally unobtainable. For God’s sake put some clothes on, he wanted to yell. 'I’ll get you my dressing gown,’ was what he said instead.

  All the way to the wardrobe he could feel Josh’s eyes on him, and again when he handed over the robe. He averted his eyes while his guest shucked off the towel, waiting until he’d got himself decent again. When he looked up, the twinkle was back and stronger than before. Was Josh laughing at him? Probably. It was what caste members did. That superiority, that arrogance, that sense of enjoying a joke that wasn’t shared with him. So when Josh’s hand shot ou
t and grabbed his chin, he jumped.

  'What?’

  'Hold still.’ The man held him, gentle yet insistent, turning his face this way and that, studying him as Madoc thought an artist probably would. Finally, he let go. 'You’re nicer looking than I thought you’d be.’

  The transition from the almost-caress to the insult was more than Madoc could bear. His temper, always uncertain, threatened to explode. 'Yeah, yeah, because non-castes are always as ugly as sin. All those freckles, all that red hair, not to mention the spectacles. Enough to make anyone with good taste sick.’ He’d heard it all before; that and worse. To think he’d thought Josh was different.

  The hand came back, thumb smoothing along one cheek, catching on the bristles where he’d not had time to shave. 'I shouldn’t have— That’s not what I meant at all.’

  'Oh no. Of course not.’ The sarcasm roughened his voice, but somehow Madoc’s anger melted away, if only because Josh’s expression suggested his regret was genuine. 'What did you mean, then?’

  But Josh shook his head. 'Don’t ask me that. I’m not allowed to say.’

  ∞

  That night he gave Josh the narrow bed and crammed himself into the room’s single armchair, all awkward folds and kinks. His neck would kill him tomorrow, but there was nowhere else to sleep except the floor. Until the lights were off, and Josh’s whisper came to him across the room. 'Come on, get yourself in here. You look so damned uncomfortable.’

  'I can’t... I shouldn’t... I mean, you’re caste and—’

  'No I’m bloody not.’ Josh spoke with such force it caught Madoc by surprise. How was that even possible? How could anyone with looks like his be anything else?