Her final flicker of interest was snuffed out as I shook my head. “Sorry. Don’t think my boss would like it.” And his Victorian counterpart certainly wouldn’t, seeing as he didn’t know me from Adam.

  “More tea, dearie?”

  I shook my head. I’d had one cup already; now I was desperate for a smoke to take the taste away.

  We smoked the last of my Gauloises in the street outside Mrs. M.’s. Jem had looked surprised when I’d suggested we go out-of-doors to smoke, but the ingrained habit was hard to break.

  “Are you going straight back to the theatre?” he asked between puffs.

  “No.” I couldn’t imagine trying to get back in broad daylight. In any case, it’d most likely be locked up until after noon. “I’ll try tonight—around the time I’d normally meet you.”

  Jem smiled, a little shyly. “Then we got a whole day to ourselves. What do you want to do with it?”

  “I want to see London. See it as it is now.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough. Just need to fetch my hat, and we can be off.”

  People stared, at times, as we walked through the streets. I suppose I was a bit oddly dressed—mine was the only bare head around, for a start—but Jem didn’t seem to mind. Then I forgot my self-consciousness as we wandered through a market. Our ears were battered by calls from the street vendors, offering us anything we could possibly want and all manner of things I couldn’t conceive anyone ever having a use for. We passed a stall selling second-hand hats, and I considered buying one for a moment, the better to fit in, but squeamishly baulked at the idea of becoming infested with whatever vermin the previous owner had given a home to.

  I glanced at a man with a stack of what looked like cut-up sheets. It was enough to set him off: “Here’s your cheap towellings. Cheap, cheap, cheap tow-tow-tow-towellings! Here’s towels a penny a piece, two for tuppence. What every husband should buy for his wife.”

  I looked away again hurriedly before he decided I really was interested in buying rags for my nonexistent wife. Across the way, I saw several women haggling over old stockings with the feet cut off.

  Jem must have noticed my bewilderment. “Don’t they have markets where you’re from?”

  “Not like this.” I thought of the farmers’ market held on Parliament Hill every Saturday, with its neat stalls displaying ostrich burgers, spelt bread and overpriced organic vegetables with cosmetically applied daubs of mud.

  “What do people do then, when they’ve got things they don’t want no more?”

  I hesitated—but I couldn’t quite face trying to explain car boot sales and eBay. “There are places you can sell things,” I hedged. “Or people give them to charity.”

  As we walked, the character of the market changed. Now the street vendors offered live animals—squirrels in cages for two shillings, or tethered sparrows for a penny.

  “Why would anyone want a sparrow?” I asked, incredulous.

  Jem shrugged. “They’re for children.”

  I saw what he meant when a small boy rushed up and bought one; grinning, he towed it away attached to a string like a tiny, terrified balloon. At the end of the street, a thin, starved-looking man with a club foot and hunchback stood stoically with a tray of bird’s nests for sale, while ragged children danced around with mocking calls of “Silly-Billy” and “Hobbler.”

  Every time I was tempted to stay here with Jem, some new sight of callousness or squalor rocked me, made me aware I wouldn’t last a week in this world with no money, no home—nothing.

  Enticed by the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg, we treated ourselves to sweet rolls from a baker’s stall. We ate them down by the river as we watched the barges plying their smoky trade across the murky waters of the Thames. The warehouses and wharves of St Katherine’s Docks were hives of activity, constantly loading or unloading bales and barrels and casks of spices, tallow, wine and who knew what else—not an upmarket marina development for yacht-owning bankers, euphemistic or otherwise. Men called, dogs barked.

  “How on earth do they manage without machinery?” I wondered aloud.

  Jem looked surprised. “They got machinery. I’ve seen it. There’s great treadwheels in there for the loading and unloading. Takes half a dozen men to turn them, or more.”

  A rat scampered unabashed across our path. I shivered as Jem’s words conjured images of Oscar Wilde’s stay in Reading Gaol. “I thought that was just what they made people do in prison. I can’t imagine anyone choosing to do it for a living.”

  “There’s always a crowd of men turns up every day, hoping for work. Fourpence an hour, they pay you. That’s two and six for a full day. Harris goes down there sometimes, when he’s hard up. Ain’t many places you can find work that pays that well, if you’ve got no training, no character and no one to put a word in for you. Docks is one of ’em.” Jem fell silent.

  He didn’t have to tell me Piccadilly Circus was another.

  After we’d eaten, we smoked the Three Castles cigarettes we’d bought from a tobacconist’s booth, five for a penny. My careless use of my Zippo lighter garnered a few curious glances, and I made a mental note to get some matches next time we bought cigarettes. As it was a plain, classic design, it hadn’t occurred to me to remove the lighter from my pockets, along with my watch, my phone, my wallet and anything else conspicuously modern. I’d left them in a drawer back at the Cri. Heaven knew what Rob would think if he happened upon them.

  “I seen you use that before. Don’t they have matches no more, where you’re from?” Jem asked. He gazed hungrily at the lighter.

  I handed it over and showed him how to flick the flame on. When he gave it back, it was with a look of regret that made me want to let him keep it. It was too risky, though. Who knew where it might end up, or for that matter, what a modern-day archaeologist would make of finding a lighter from the twenty-first century nestling with Victorian relics?

  I’d expected the cigarettes to seem strong and harsh to my modern tastes, but in fact they were surprisingly smooth and mellow.

  “You know these’ll kill you?” I said ironically to Jem after a few puffs.

  “Sez who? Anyhow, who’d want to live to be old, some poor bugger picking oakum in a workhouse uniform?” Jem took an appreciative drag on his cigarette then blew out a cloud of smoke.

  I tried to imagine him grown old: his full lips thinned and paled, his bright blue eyes faded to grey, his hair sparse and white. It didn’t repulse me. I could see myself watching Jem grow old and growing old with him.

  Embarrassed by my sentiment, I ducked my head.

  We walked back towards the West End after that, riding on an omnibus down the Strand to St James’s Park as twilight fell. Although it was getting colder, I insisted on climbing to the top deck, the better to look out at the familiar, yet strange city we travelled through.

  Jem seemed to notice my familiarity with buses. “Do they still have these in your time?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Yes, but they have engines, not horses.” I gave a short laugh. “They don’t go much faster, though, not in the city centre. Too much traffic. And the tickets are a lot more expensive.” We’d paid only pennies for our fare.

  “Is everyone richer, then, in the future?”

  “Yes, I suppose they are. Even people who aren’t so well off. At least, nobody starves.”

  “Sounds good,” Jem said, his tone wistful. “So ain’t there no Mary-Anns, then? Nor gay girls, neither?”

  I frowned. “Of course there are—” I stopped. “What exactly do you mean by gay girls?”

  “You know.” He sunk his voice so low I could barely hear him. “Whores. Why, what’s it mean to you?”

  “Oh.” I found this snippet of etymology, to be honest, a little disturbing. “Where I’m from, being gay means...” I recollected we were in public. “Something else. I’ll tell you later.”

  Jem sent a knowing look in my direction. “Ah. Come on, we’d best be moving. It’s our stop next.”

  It was a relief to escape from the dirt and stinks of the streets into the relatively fresh air of St James’s Park. I didn’t know the park all that well, but from what I could remember it seemed much the same now as in my own day. The lake still curved elegantly down the centre, and Buckingham Palace stood, appropriately majestic, at the end.

  Here in this world of ladies and gents in fine clothes, my appearance—obviously either disreputable or just plain odd—attracted more attention than in the poorer districts.

  “Do you think she’s going to call a constable and get us chucked out?” I whispered to Jem as a young woman clutched her husband’s arm at our approach. It seemed we were the nineteenth-century equivalent of hoodies. I wasn’t used to this—white, English-speaking, middle-class, I’d never been an undesirable before.

  Jem laughed. “Doubt it. But here—nip in here, just to be safe.” He jerked his head towards a clump of trees down by the river then darted towards them at a run and disappeared inside. Although of course many of the trees were bare on this winter’s day, they were bushy and close enough together here to form a sort of thicket.

  “Jem?” I had no choice but to follow him into the shadows. The air was still, here within the shelter of the trees, and the ground was soft beneath my feet.

  I found him leaning against a plane tree as if it were his lamppost on Piccadilly Circus, a wicked grin on his face. “How do you like this all-sheltering grove, then?” It sounded like he was quoting something, but I didn’t recognise the source.

  I suppose I could have asked him, but then he started stroking himself through his trousers and I suddenly lost all interest in cultural references. “Is it safe?” I asked, even as I stepped up to him and put my arms around his neck.

  “Long as we’re quick.”

  I took a deep breath. “Trust me. I can be quick.” I pressed my body against his, letting him feel how ready I was.

  Jem let out a long, “Mmmmm,” of satisfaction.

  We frotted together for a while. Then he reached between us to fumble at trouser fastenings.

  He’d obviously got the hang of zips, as moments later our cocks were free and rubbing together. I kissed him as he worked us both, there in our little enclave of privacy amidst all of London life. It was heavenly. Though the bark of the tree scratched my fingers and the scents of damp earth and moss filled my nostrils, my world narrowed to Jem and what his skilful hands were doing to me.

  “Close,” I whispered. One hand whisked away, to return a moment later with a pocket handkerchief. With a muffled groan, I filled it with my climax. I felt him shudder and buck as he did the same.

  “Beautiful,” I breathed. The handkerchief disappeared into his pocket, gentle fingers tucked me back into my trousers and did them up again, and in moments we were decent again—although I couldn’t seem to stop holding him, kissing him.

  In the end he pushed me away, laughing. “Come on—it’s getting cold. Can’t stay here all night.”

  We left the grove, smiling so broadly it would have been impossible for anyone seeing us not to guess what we’d been up to in there. Fortunately it was now dark enough that the park was largely empty, and our faces cloaked from the few passers-by we met.

  Chapter Six

  After heading back into town, we sat down to an oyster supper in a smoky little eating house off the Strand. My head spun from the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the day. On reflection, maybe oysters weren’t the best choice to settle my stomach. But they were cheap, and I was worried Jem had spent too much on his day with me. And, well—they were oysters. No matter that in Jem’s day and age, they were cheap as chips; it still felt like we were eating something luxurious. Of course, I wouldn’t be the one reaping the benefit of their supposedly aphrodisiac effect later—but I stifled that thought quickly. For now at least, Jem was mine. I’d be a fool to waste our time together with jealous regrets.

  “Do you think you’ll get back tonight?” Jem asked, wiping a stray drop of oyster liquor from his chin with the back of his hand.

  I couldn’t tell if he hoped I would or wouldn’t. “I think so. I think I’ve worked out why I couldn’t last night—it must be the time. I have to go back to the theatre earlier, before the play has ended.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said. “I’ll wait by the door, and if it don’t work, you can come back with me again.”

  “What about Mrs. M?”

  “I’ll square it with her, don’t you worry.”

  After we’d paid our bill, we walked towards Piccadilly Circus, our steps slowing the closer we got. I judged by the time that it must be about halfway through the first half of Wild Oats. If it didn’t work now... I didn’t want to think about it not working. The day had been good, magical, perfect, but I couldn’t stay here.

  “I ain’t going to see you again, am I?” Jem said softly. “If you go back in there, and it’s all right, you ain’t going to want to risk coming back here again, are you?”

  I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d been so focussed on getting home again... Christ. There was truth in what he said, but my whole being rebelled against the idea of never seeing him again. I opened my mouth to beg him to come with me—but how could I do that? Take him away from everything he’d ever known? And what if I changed time? What if he was destined to one day have a child, or save a life, and that action, or lack of it, would send ripples down time, changing the whole future? Could I take that responsibility?

  “Jem, I’ll come,” I promised. “Tomorrow night. Same as usual.” Memory hit me. “No—wait—it’ll have to be a few days. Tonight’s the last night for Wild Oats. We’ve nothing on until the new production starts on Thursday. But I’ll see you then.” I tried not to think about what he’d be doing in my absence. I wanted to ask if the necklace would tide him over until then, but how could I? “I’ll bring you something,” I said, hoping he’d understand what I meant by it.

  Jem frowned. “Listen, I don’t want you to bring me no more stuff, all right?” My face must have fallen, because he hurried on. “It’s lovely, what you brung me, but you can’t keep on. How much do they pay you at that theatre? A pound a week? Twenty-five shillings? You can’t keep buying me gold. I don’t want it. Not from you.”

  “Jem, I—”

  “Please, Ted. I don’t want it.”

  I swallowed. He wasn’t making this any easier. “All right. But promise me—if you ever need anything, money or anything, you’ll tell me, right? I mean, I’m not rich, but I’ll always be able to find something for you. And I’ll see you on Thursday.” I couldn’t kiss him goodbye, so I just turned and walked towards the theatre.

  My head throbbed in time with the pounding of my heart as I pushed open the door of the Cri. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it had worked or not.

  Then Rob’s concerned face peered out from behind the box office door. “Ted? I didn’t see you again last night, after—bloody hell, did you even go home last night?” He walked towards me then hesitated. “I’m not checking up on you. What you do is—” He coloured. “Well, it’s your own business. I’m just—you look a bit...rumpled, that’s all.” His face was pinker than the seats in the auditorium.

  I suspected mine was a good match. I was highly conscious I hadn’t showered since yesterday and was still wearing the same clothes. I felt grimy and sweaty, and suddenly wondered just how much of a fright my hair had been looking all day.

  “I’m sorry if I worried you,” I said. “We went out for a meal and it just got a bit late, that’s all.”

  “So...you’re all right, then?”

  I nodded. “If you think I should go home and change...”

  “No point, is there? The night’d be over by then.”

  I slid into my chair and tried to achieve something useful.

  When I looked at myself in the mirror in the gents’, I wasn’t surprised Rob had been concerned at my appearance. My hair was wild, my eyes red and my skin grimy with the coal dust and soot that pervaded the air in Victorian London. I hadn’t much noticed it while I was there. As for being a bit rumpled...after a night lying discarded on Jem’s floor, my clothes looked like I’d slept in them, most likely under a hedge, if it were possible to find such a thing in the city centre. I had a nasty feeling I must smell unwashed. I did what I could to repair the damage and kept my head down for the rest of the evening, trying to ignore my craving for a smoke. I’d left the Victorian cigarettes with Jem and hadn’t had a chance to buy any more Gauloises yet. Luckily I wasn’t called upon to do anything involving members of the public.

  * * *

  Despite the previous rough night, I felt energised, not tired, as I got back to Hampstead and made the short walk home, enjoying the blessed relief of a relaxed smoke. I should bring Jem here—not here and now, of course, but even in 1886, we must be able to make it here by public transport. I wondered how my street would look—had looked—in Jem’s time. Had it even existed?

  When I got into the house, Alasdair smiled at me from his picture. “You’d like him,” I said. “He’s kind, and capable, and the most accepting person you could meet.”

  Alasdair’s smile seemed to grow a little warmer.

  * * *

  I had a lot of time on my hands the next couple of days. Enough to make up for the work I’d missed and to get up to date on my e-mails. I tested my theory about the play needing to be on—and sure enough, every time I went out for a cigarette, the gateway stayed shut. I stood smoking my lonely Gauloise at Eros’s feet, while horns blared and teenage tourists swarmed around me.

  Once, when I went out, Miri passed me on her way for “a decent cup of coffee.” When I went back in, I wandered downstairs to find her sorting through a crate full of props from past productions.