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Cars sped away from the collapse in the middle of London.
Sped was the wrong word. Adrenaline was running down, the need for rushing and chaos was over. The machine lay in a desolate heap, the final crackles of electricity that once sparked like glorious blood through its pipes fading away in pathetic bursts. The greatest attempt at destruction was, itself, little more than a failed experiment.
Except it was not. A failed experiment implied that the results were inconsequential, that the experiment itself never reacted. Mingled in with machinery, broken buildings crunched and crumbled underneath the weight. While most evacuated upon the police’s prompt instructions, there were undoubtedly bodies buried in the rubble, merely the victims of a boy drawn to drastic actions.
And there were other victims and other victors, the names of which left a bitter taste on the professor’s tongue. He never wished harm on anyone, but he could not bring himself to confirm the beloved prime minister’s wellbeing in this moment. He, like a few others, had been taken to police cars and driven out across the city for interviews and statements. The professor, due to a unique kindness from the inspector, had been left to grieve.
The bench was cold, but it did provide a spot to sit and watch without being in the middle of the public eye. Not that anyone would be looking for him anyway – the main priority was safety. Evacuating the area, arresting the criminals who caused this pain. The ground was not safe, the uneven foundations beginning to collapse in on themselves. Logically, he should stand and guide those who had not known what was going on to safety. Logically, a lot of things should be done.
For once, he placed logic on a secondary priority.
Flora sat next to him on the bench, on his left side. On his right, Luke. Two children—children—caught up in something far more sinister than the professor could stomach right now. Of course he had explained it all with simplicity and a professional dissociation – of course the future London was a shell below the earth, of course his apprentice all grown up was really a traumatised child hell-bent on punishing the scientist who tried to stop it, of course everyone was sad and lonely and so mistaken.
Of course time travel had been real.
Because logic would never work in this moment. Logic had dictated she was gone, ripped from breath in the moment of the explosion. Logic had dictated that sinister meant governmental discretion, not scientific discovery. Logic had dictated that a long-lost sister was more probable than his deceased lover returned to life ten years ahead of her death.
And logic had failed him.
Closure felt more mocking than kind. Everything was too murky, too difficult, too illogical to navigate right now. Knowing the truth after believing something so bitter was more like stabbing into a scar, not reopening a half-healed wound. But here he was, sat on a bench in the rubble of his beloved city, grieving her all over again.
At least he had said goodbye.
Parents came for Luke, driving over as soon as news had spread about the ground shaking. Brenda in her pyjamas, Clark in a rumpled work suit. The professor cared for the boy, enough to let him sprint from the bench and sob into his mother’s arms, the father shielding them both from the fizzing graveyard behind them. He needed this, this moment of just being a boy too scared to keep going anymore. He deserved it.
Luke had been very brave. Extraordinarily brave. He had watched his doppelganger destroy his home in a horrid mockery of everything he loved. Instead of flinching, he had stood tall and determined. But everyone got tired, and that was perfectly fine.
A part of him wanted to be that professor, to hold the boy by his shoulders and tell him the life lessons everyone learned; that life was difficult, but you have done well. That pride was an understatement of how much the professor admired the boy, that it was unacceptable of him to let him see these horrors.
That part of him sat silent. Clark came up to the professor, wordlessly wrapping him in a tight hug. The professor returned it as best as he could, mind barely able to control itself, least of all his body. Both had known Claire. Both had missed her dearly.
Luke must have said something. Even in his most exhausted moments, the young boy said enough to make sure the professor was cared for too.
Something almost spilled over again, tears and snow in an alleyway. But he kept it quiet, kept it down, just for a little longer. Clark needed to be with his son, both knew that. A little moment of reprieve for the professor was more than expected right now.
Soon, the Triton’s car joined the mass on the roads, Luke tear-stained and asleep in the back seat.
The professor sat down with Flora again. Luke had parents; Luke had other more functioning adults to care for him. Flora had the professor, a husk of all the ideals he had once preached. And he cared for her as he cared for Luke, but everything was too sensitive to provide the proper care that she needed in this moment.
But Flora was there, and Flora was kind. And she needed help and attention like any other human being. “Are you alright, Flora?”
Bless her – she looked surprised. “I… think so.”
The pause was too honest. “It is perfectly acceptable to not be alright in this moment.”
“I know.” Flora exhaled shakily. “I… I still think I am alright. A bit shocked?”
The professor smiled. “Equally acceptable.” He glanced out to the road. Logic—take stock, plan, however shaky. If he could trust Paul to put helicopter wings onto his automobile, he could trust himself right now. “We shall wait for a few more people to clear out on the roads, hopefully it will make our own departure smoother.”
“Okay.”
The police were still cordoning off sections, the ground still shaky. A call had been made to bring excavation teams to extract those trapped in Future London – below London. Most had escaped in the chaos, Spring and Cog ushering them out in as many as the lift could take, although some of the scientists had taken refuge in the pagoda. An entire criminal conspiracy, right under their feet. How would London have survived without the trusty professor?
No, really. Would London have survived without him?
“Professor?”
“Yes, Flora?”
A pause. Snow dipped between them, not yet cold enough to stay but settling over them in damp drips. The professor had half a mind to take off his jacket and rest it over Flora’s shoulders, although he could not bring himself to part with anything right now. She did not look cold currently, although he made a small compromise to do so if she started to look uncomfortable.
He knew the question before it left her lips. “Are you alright?”
A long inhale. Take stock, plan. Let logic go, just for a moment. “No, Flora. I will never lie to you. I am not alright.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Of course. But… mmm.”
The professor kept his eyes on the buildings and organised chaos beyond him. If he were to cry, then he would let himself. But he currently did not feel the hotness in his nose and eyes, so he continued. “Claire… meant a lot to me. For a long time. And I had once made peace with the fact that I… never got to say goodbye.”
It was sentiment, nothing more. A goodbye was always final until the next time you saw them again. The chances of that goodbye, the top hat wonky atop his head, Claire smiling and rushing out of the door, the chances of that goodbye being the final one were always there. Morbidly so, but he had said goodbye, even if he had never made it special.
Why would he? He had assumed she would come home.
“I am simply grieving, Flora. And I cannot promise that I can make these next days easy, but…”
He glanced out along the buildings, still tall and proud and the peak of London. The ones in front, not behind. “But I promise that you will always have a home with me.”
Flora nodded, swallowing loud enough to hear. Her hands fiddled with her sleeves. “Thank you, professor. And…” She frowned out against the skyline. Flora had never enjoyed the cities as much as the professor had.
“I know grief too.”
It was how they met – a baron’s funeral, promise of treasure. The professor had not gone in the name of glory or even particularly of grief, but in the name of mystery. But grief had brought them together – a town grieving over a baron, a daughter left to grieve alone. She had needed a family and he had been there.
And he had often ignored her in the name of mystery. Leaving her in a quaint village town, protecting her in a university office. Had he protected her from the dangers of the world or merely isolated her as a guarded tower once had? Had he cared for her as a family should?
It was all too much. He let out a long breath. The hat was almost too heavy on his head. “I am sorry, Flora.”
Flora laughed quietly. “It feels strange hearing you apologise. I accept.”
“Thank you.”
He should have doubled down, explained why he was sorry, why he could not protect her as a father-figure should, why he could not emotionally be there in the way a young lady needed right now. But he was tired. And if it were acceptable for Luke, it could be acceptable for him.
A constable – one of Chelmey’s, directed to treat the professor and his associates with upmost respect and responsibility – instructed them to vacate the area, also informing them that the Inspector would be around to his apartment within the week to conduct statements from the professor himself and his ward. The professor had thanked the constable – young, nervous – before leading him and Flora to his car.
Of all the things that happened that night, it was a miracle that the car had not totally fallen apart.
Sure, it was scuffed beyond decency, one of the headlights cracked and enough dents to constitute buying a new car entirely. But the Laytonmobile remained, the engine functioning, the airplane wings retracted back into its shell. He ought to find Paul again and ask him to remove those elements. They were lovely, but the professor had no desire to fly the car over London again any time soon.
If he could find Paul in the first place. After the arrests, he had disappeared into shadow. Not unexpected, but mildly amusing.
Soon they sat in the Laytonmobile, the professor pressing a few buttons just to return the vehicle to its ‘car’ status before relaxing as much as he could behind the wheel. Now all the instructions and car sirens and general rumblings of a city brought to the brink of destruction were outside the metal shell, everything felt far more claustrophobic. The snowy air allowed his emotions to diffuse harmlessly. Trapped with Flora inside the Laytonmobile allowed them to fester into mould.
As expected, the roads were slow. Painfully slow. The professor knew a second route, one that would normally take longer but may, in this case, be quicker. Hasty, half-dressed officers corralled off certain roads; a huge section of the city had to be protected from the public. But for now, they were stuck on the main road out from the explosion, meaning they were not getting anywhere quickly. Most likely, the Triton’s car was not too far up ahead.
Flora stared out of the front window. “What will happen to—to Clive?”
The professor raised his eyebrows but cast no judgement. “He will, probably, go to jail. He has committed many crimes, including kidnapping, mass destruction and involvement in criminal conspiracy.”
Flora nodded. “Right.”
“My apologies for not softening those words.”
“No, I am glad you didn’t.” Flora threaded her hands through each other, fingers in horrible knots. Similar to the professor’s emotions, hers too seemed to be even more fragile in the confines of the car. “I knew he—yes, well. He has done dreadful things.”
The professor almost chuckled. “Indeed.”
“Do you… think he is redeemable?”
On any other day, he would have said yes, that everyone is capable of good, of realising their mistakes. That was logic, that was kindness, that was humanity. It was the foundation of connection, that everyone has the capacity to be and do good. “It is understandable if you still feel some fondness for him—”
“Please, professor. Answer my question?”
Flora had never demanded a thing in her life. Even now, her voice was soft, laced with uncertainty and nerves. The professor felt the guilt marry the grief in his chest, an unnatural and emotionally devasting union. “I certainly hope so. He is a… deeply flawed and traumatised individual who will receive extensive help upon his incarceration. However, it is up to him to move on from this.”
“Okay.”
And that was Flora – question asked, answer received, own mental path to make. She was curious but not stupid. Asking questions, emotional or otherwise, never made a person stupid. The professor knew he could label her as naïve or even simple, but that was far from the case. Flora was a young lady trying to navigate a world she had been all but barred from only a couple of years ago. She deserved guidance, not distance.
He had a duty. He could grieve alone. “If I may continue my point from earlier?”
“Oh! Of course.”
His hands wrapped around the steering wheel, urging the Laytonmobile onwards by a few inches. “I understand your fondness for Clive—well, for Future Luke. It was remarkably easy to trust him, as was the intention. And, if I am not mistaken, I believe your trust in him extended a little past my own.”
Flora flushed. Despite it all, human, wonderful Flora’s cheeks turned a soft pink. “He—He was kind to me. And I—I felt a little… jaded. So, his kindness meant a lot.”
“Perfectly understandable, my dear Flora.” Another thing for them to discuss. But for now, grief. “I want to reassure you that whatever fondness you held for him was neither silly nor a mistake. And whatever anger—or fondness—you retain now is perfectly normal.”
She was silent, although he could see her nod in the periphery of his vision. Something glazed, watery, came over her eyes—or maybe his? Difficult to tell. “I… also feel that fondness. And that anger. And that grief. And I promise that whatever help you may need over these next few days, I will always aid in providing it.”
The cars moved onwards again. The professor could see the turn only a few yards ahead. The next movement would send them onto the alternate route home. Flora’s voice was quiet and weak. “Can we go back to St Mystere soon?”
A desire to return home, to those who provided the comfort of the past and not the present. “Of course, my dear.”
“Thank you.”
Silence, too much. Cars and movements and policemen calling out beyond the car windows, but silence between father and daughter. It was easier to ignore everything when Flora asked questions and he, the diligent professor, answered them. He could fall into his role so easily, ignore the hole in the street behind him, ignore the police cars leading away old friends and enemies, ignore the alleyway where he kissed Claire for the final time.
Flora spoke again. “And… if there’s anything you want to do, we can do that too.”
There was a question somewhere in there. The professor inhaled. “I imagine I shall take some time off from teaching.”
“Dean Delmona will understand.”
He always did. So many times, Delmona had insisted he take time off for emotional leave. When would be the day where he put his foot down and insisted the professor take a vacation far away from England, where the horrors always seemed to find him? “Yes, I imagine he will.”
Another silence. He had not really answered whatever question Flora had asked. “There are a few things I will need to do following—this. We will both need to talk to Inspector Chelmey, then I imagine I shall be contacted if we are required to speak in any following trials or investigations. There are some which will be, hopefully, reopened, in which I will give my complete and utter co-operation to whoever is heading them.”
“What about you though?”
The professor glanced at Flora. She was staring at him with those big, watery eyes, hands trapped at her chest. He glanced away. “I… I will do things as I see fit.”
Flora nodded. The cars gave way and the professor merged onto the split, able to direct his attention to driving down the roads. It was not too much of a diversion, a surely much quicker than remaining in the flock on the main route. And anything to help split his attention would help.
As he saw fit. Which mostly meant locking himself in his office again, pouring over notes and praying sinister forces would not snatch them away again. At least Chelmey was going to be on his side now.
Because it was not just grief – it was action. Reopening cases, revisiting memories and moments and documents. Chelmey had openly said he would investigate Bill Hawks’s involvement, hopefully meaning he could deal some semblance of justice for the victims, for Clive, for Claire. No doubt he and Clark would resume contact, a flaring part of him desperately needing to know and see that Luke was happy, or as happy as he could be.
If only he would have the time to sit and properly deal with the fact that through everything that had just happened, he finally got to say goodbye. He knew the truth, no matter how awful it was, that her death was more than a scientific inquiry grown out of control, but one man’s greed that spiralled into a stained success, corpses and broken families in his wake.
He ought to visit Claire’s grave, now that she was there.
Flora swallowed again. “She seemed lovely.”
The professor tightened his grip. “She was.”
It was only when he parked the car, let them inside to his apartment and collapsed on the sofa that Flora cried, clinging to his arms as a child would a father. Unable to bring himself to tears just yet, Hershel held her close and waited for the sun to rise over a deserted London.