Page 1 of Echoes on the Wind (Borrowed Time #2)

February 2001

The steam from my coffee hit the cold air of my breath, leaving condensation on the window of the study as I looked out over the front garden. The man from the estate agents had been out there for over twenty minutes, battling against the wind and rain in his attempts to hammer a ‘for sale’ sign into the ground near the gate. He’d already dropped it twice, but when I’d opened the window and shouted an offer of help, I’d been informed that his insurance wouldn’t cover any injury I might receive, so I’d pulled it closed again and continued to watch, bemused.

His efforts had attracted the attention of others, too, and a man stood at the foot of the driveway, wrapped up against the weather but seemingly unconcerned about loitering in it, and watched as he worked. If the agent noticed, he paid him no mind, instead keeping his attention on the task at hand.

By the time he had the sign in place, lopsided as it was, his pale blue shirt had turned see-through from the rain, and he offered just a brief wave up at me in the window before dashing into his car and pulling off the drive, almost hitting the onlooker as he sped off towards town.

The man remained for a few seconds, staring up at me from the gate, but as I nodded toward him in acknowledgement, he scurried off along the pavement and disappeared behind the tall conifers that framed the outer edge of the garden.

I turned from the window, kicked my feet through the paper scraps and old notes that littered the floor of my father’s former study, and let out a sigh as I stared across the room. It had been a long time since this house had felt like home, but now that we were selling it, I couldn’t deny the conflicting emotions that were stirring in me.

Growing up, it had at times felt more like a prison than a home, with our father governing over us with an iron fist. Lee, my twin brother, had escaped to make his own way in the world as soon as he was able, but I’d stuck around, dutiful and responsible, desperate for approval that always seemed just out of reach until I eventually came to resent being there at all.

And yet, it was still the only home I had known for much of my life. It was where Lee, Sophia and I had played as children, where I’d had my first kiss with Ryan Connolly in year 10, and where, on the rare occasions that we weren’t all arguing, we could act like any other normal family. Despite everything, I knew I would miss it once it was sold.

The old study had become my base of operation over the last few months. The mess I’d made of it would have provoked my father’s ire had he still been alive to see it, but I had little concern for his standards of tidiness anymore, and swept more paperwork onto the floor as I took a seat at the desk.

On the wall opposite, my father stared back at me, stern and disapproving. It spoke volumes that the only photograph to ever grace the walls of his workspace would be a portrait of himself, rather than one of the family, and yet I’d never been able to bring myself to take it down. Instead, it took centre stage in my own workspace.

Surrounding his image, a collage of notes, drawings, maps and newspaper clippings adorned the wall, running from the door to the window like an evidence board for a crime scene. To anyone else, it would undoubtedly look like a jumble of useless information, but to me, it was a perfectly curated timeline of events and research that detailed my time in 19th-century Wales, and what I’d found since returning. Admittedly, what I’d learned amounted to very little, but the wall gave me comfort, and I had no intention to stop adding to it until I found a way back.

I clasped my coffee in both hands and leaned my elbows on the desk, scanning the wall from left to right. I did this every day, like a ritual. Or maybe it was a habit now. An obsession, perhaps? I’d sit, and I’d stare, and I’d ponder, willing the mass of documents I’d collected to somehow reveal a way back to the past and the life I’d built and left behind.

And yet the truth, in the rare moments I would allow myself to acknowledge it, was that the months of research didn’t even matter. I just needed to feel like I was doing something, anything, to find a way back. The endless notes and documents helped somewhat towards keeping my mind at rest, but they were little more than a distraction. They would never be what sent me back to Gwyn and the life I’d built. Only the ring could do that, and no matter how much I tried, nothing I’d come up with would make it work again.

I’d spent hours in libraries, scouring the internet for tales of time travelling stones, reading research papers on theoretical physics, and even attended lectures by so-called experts, but all avenues led me to the same conclusion; it wasn’t possible. And yet I knew that it was. Somehow. The ring was the key. I just couldn’t figure out how.

Frustrated, I shook off the thoughts of doubt that were creeping in again and fished around in the drawer for a pen, then moved to the map that hung next to my father’s picture and attempted to draw a cross over the town of Swansea, the site of my most recent visit. In my efforts to squeeze out the last of its ink, I pressed down harder on the thin paper in front of me, tearing a hole through it and leaving a gouge in the plasterboard behind. I stepped back, looking at the map of Britain and the newly formed fault line I’d just created in the earth over South Wales, and resolved to put a picture over it before anyone came to view the property.

I stifled a yawn as I scanned the documents, and rubbed at my eyes in an attempt to keep my tiredness at bay. Sleep never seemed easy to come by anymore, and I spent most days fuelled by coffee and determination. I took another sip to keep me going, but missed my mouth entirely and poured the remnants of my mug down the front of my shirt.

“Shit!”

By the time I got into the kitchen to clean up, I had to hold the material away from my skin to stop it from burning. I pulled my shirt up over my head and tossed it into the laundry basket, then as I turned to the sink for a cloth, I jumped back, swearing again as I locked eyes with someone through the window.

The tall, broad man cut an imposing figure as he stood there motionless in the rain. He was dressed in black from head to toe, and in that instant of seeing him, it felt like my heart would thud its way out of my chest.

“Who the fuck are you?” I shouted, pushing the window open, but despite the anger in my voice, he remained still and silent.

Strangers and reporters turning up to see ‘ the man who’d returned from the dead ,’ as one local paper had dubbed me, had dwindled in the months after my return, but most of them at least had the decency to knock the door instead of creeping around the gardens.

“You can’t just come onto my property. I’ve told your lot before. Go and find someone else to harass.”

The man’s lips curled up ever so slightly, the only hint so far that he could move at all, and as I opened my mouth to shout again, he took a step forward, slow and calculated. My heart raced as panic crept over me, and as he took a second step, I felt myself inching back from the window.

“I’ve told you once already. Piss off!”

I tried to steady my voice, but it wavered as I shouted at him, and he grinned as my panic became more evident.

“This isn’t funny. I’m going to call the police.”

His smile faded at that, but still he stepped closer. With just a few feet between us now, he reached into his right pocket, and my hand gripped onto the window handle so hard that I thought it might snap off.

Slowly and deliberately, he began to pull something from his jacket, all the while keeping his eyes locked with mine, but the sound of wheels coming up the gravel driveway caused both of us to break the stare and look off to the side of the house. The intruder cast a quick look back at me a moment later, then immediately began to run.

“No, stop,” I shouted, and as he disappeared around the side of the house, I burst through the kitchen door and ran down the hallway. Through the entrance to the study, I could see him through the window, running down the driveway towards the gate, but as I reached for the front door, it burst open, and Lee stopped me in my tracks as he barged through with his phone pinned between his ear and shoulder.

“Lee, move,” I yelled, trying to get around him, but he waved at me to be quiet and kicked the door closed behind him.

“Yes, he’s here with me now,” he said down the phone. “Do you need to speak to him?”

He pushed his way into the office carrying a large box under his arm, a bag in his other hand, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth that was burnt down to the nub. He stuck his chin out towards me and wiggled it a bit, then rolled his eyes downward, and I reached out to take it from his lips and dabbed it in the ashtray he kept on the filing cabinet.

“I’ve already told you. It’s all in hand, and we’re both on board,” he continued as he freed himself of the things that he was carrying. With his hands empty, he switched his phone to his other ear, raised his eyebrows and shrugged at me. “Well, I’ll speak with him now, but unless anything changes, we’ll both be there first thing Monday to sign. Great. See you then.”

“Did you see that man outside?” I asked impatiently, and he took a glance through the window as he pushed the aerial down on his phone and slipped it into his back pocket. “He was watching me, Lee.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” he said, offering me another shrug, but when he saw the look of concern on my face, he moved back to the window, giving it another, more thorough scan. “There’s nobody out there, Tom.”

I crossed my arms tightly over my bare chest as I looked off down the driveway. The man had left me feeling uneasy, but there was no sign of him now, and Lee’s lack of concern was making me wonder if I might be overreacting. It wasn’t as though I hadn't been on edge a lot lately.

“What did he want?” he asked, and he turned to the window once again, following my gaze to the gate.

“Nothing,” I said, playing it off. “It doesn’t matter. Who was on the phone?”

“Hira, from the solicitors in Cottenham. She wants to get your name put back on the house before it sells so that there’s no issue with any money down the line.”

“I’ve already told you we don’t need to do that,” I said. “I trust you. It’s just more fuss that I could do without.”

“I want to,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders and forcing me to look at him. “Mum should never have cut you out in the first place. She must have known I’d give it all back to you. It’s just going to cost me 800 quid to do it.”

I pulled away and sat down behind the desk, avoiding the topic, just like I did every time he brought her up. “Where have you been, anyway?” I asked, changing the subject, and I leaned over and peered into one of the bags he’d set down. “You were gone before I even got up this morning.”

His eyes lit up, and he reached down for the box he’d placed on the floor, then laid it on the desk. “To get this.”

Inside was a red and gold electric guitar, which he held against his body and pretended to play, and his crooked grin widened into a smile as he waited for my reaction.

“Lee, that must have cost a fortune,” I said, and he nodded enthusiastically. “It’s beautiful.”

I reached out to touch it, but he pulled it closer to him protectively.

“Worth every penny. Talking of which,” he said, setting it down against the desk. “I got something for you, too.”

“If it’s a tambourine, you can take it back,” I joked. “I don’t want to be in a band with you.”

“No, it’s better than that,” he replied as he dug deep into his pocket. “I found these in that little antique shop on Rose Crescent today.”

He slapped his hand face down onto the desk, and when he pulled it away again he revealed four coins; two half-crowns, a shilling and a penny.

“Lee, that’s amazing,” I said as I reached into the drawer under the desk .

Since my return, I’d been filling a spare wallet with old money that I’d been buying from auctions and antique shops. I was determined that when I finally found a way back to the past, I would be more prepared than the first time, and I already had enough notes and coins to see me right for at least six months, if not longer.

“I see the sign has gone up,” he said as he turned his attention away and leaned against the windowsill. “Did you get any packing done?”

I walked around the desk and stood next to him as he stared out over the garden. “I was going to,” I lied. “I got a bit distracted.”

He looked over to the wall of documents, knowing instinctively what I’d been distracted by, then turned his focus to me. The look of pity he gave me made me feel immediately defensive. “You can’t keep putting life off, Tom. It’s not good for you.”

“It’s important, Lee,” I snapped.

“Yes, but so are you. You can’t spend your life cooped up in this room, staring at that wall all the time. I know what this means to you, I do, but you can’t just put your life on hold. Where is it getting you?”

I moved away again, rubbing at my temples to try to calm myself down. I was in no mood for another lecture, no matter how well-meaning he was being, and I certainly didn’t need reminding that despite all my efforts, I wasn’t getting anywhere.

“I’m not having a go at you, brother,” he said, putting a hand on my arm. “I’m just trying to look after you. If Mum were here, she’d–”

“She’d what?” I shouted, failing to suppress my annoyance. The rage of the topic overcame me, and I grabbed at the map on the wall, tearing it away. “She’d throw this on the fire, too? And what about these?” I yelled as I tore through a collection of newspaper clippings. “Burned as well? Shredded? Hidden from me?”

“Tom, stop,” he shouted. “Don’t do this.” He reached out to me, but I batted him away and set my hands against the wall, ripping clean through everything and sending shreds of paper, as well as my father’s portrait, smashing to the floor.

“Tom,” he shouted again, this time more forcefully. He grabbed hold of me by the shoulders, roughly turning me to face him, and when I wouldn’t meet his stare, he shook me hard and moved his head into my eyeline. “It’s ok,” he said, bringing his voice to a calmer tone. “It’s ok.”

Before I could say anything, he pulled me into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around me and holding my head against his shoulder. I struggled against him, but not with enough effort to pull free, and as I finally relaxed into his grip, he began to lower us down until we were sitting amongst the mess on the floor.

“I feel like I’m going crazy,” I admitted, as much to myself as him, and it took every ounce of effort to hold back the tears that were beginning to sting the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Lee.”

He held my hands in his and tried to meet my stare. “You’re not crazy. You’re just stressed out. You haven’t exactly had it easy since you got back, and I know you feel like you’re getting nowhere with all this, but we can fix it again. Look.” He picked a piece of scrunched up paper from the mess and tried to smooth it out across the hardwood floor. “If you ignore the ripped corners, it looks fine.”

“Just leave it,” I replied. I felt stupid for lashing out and wrecking everything, but maybe it was needed. Maybe it was time to admit defeat.

He leaned around, collecting everything that was in reach of him, and continued to smooth the bits of paper out and order them into a neat pile, knowing that once my dramatics were over, I’d want to come back to them.

“ He wouldn’t be too happy about the mess,” he said as he picked up the smashed frame containing our father’s portrait. “Still, he looks happier now.”

The smashed glass had scratched into the image behind, scoring a line into the picture that made him look like he had an exaggerated smile, and I couldn’t help but laugh as Lee held it up to me.

“Miserable old git,” he added, then as he moved a piece of glass out of the way he jolted back, dropping the picture to the floor again, smashing it more. A spot of blood trickled off the edge of his finger, and he brought it to his mouth and then inspected it for glass.

“Looks like he’s still punishing you from beyond the grave,” I joked, and Lee curled his lips into a snarl and shunted the photo across the floor into one of the filing cabinets, breaking it further.

“Hang on,” he said, eyeing it curiously. “Look at that.”

The wooden frame had split in two, revealing the edge of the photograph inside, and he carefully grabbed the corner and pulled it upwards. The shattered glass crunched together as it slid away, and just underneath the picture, barely exposed, was the edge of something hidden underneath.

“Did you know this was in there?” he asked as he pulled free a small envelope.

I shook my head and shrugged as he turned it over in his palm, then peered inside the already torn seal.

“What’s in there?”

He fished out the contents, handing me a photograph while examining what remained in his hand.

“Who the hell is that?” I asked, turning it back around and pointing to a woman in the picture who had her arms wrapped around our younger sister, Sophia.

“No idea,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve never seen her before.”

I scanned the back to see if it had anything written on it, then turned it back over and studied it again. Sophia had died when she was four, back in 1977, and judging by her appearance in the image, it couldn’t have been taken very long before she passed. But it definitely wasn’t our mother kneeling beside her, scooping her up and making her giggle for the camera.

“Maybe it’s a bit soon to give up on your research after all,” Lee said, and as I pulled my attention away from the photograph, he put the piece of paper he’d been reading into my hand, then rubbed at his temples.

I stared down at the paper, a letter, and as I scanned the first few words of faded ink, my hands began to tremble, and Lee leaned in to read it again over my shoulder.

12th June, 1978

My dearest Jack ,

I fear this will be the last letter I write to you, and for that, I am truly saddened. Though I will respect your wishes, I cannot pretend to understand them, or that I am happy to see things end this way. We have been through much, you and I, and despite everything, I always imagined that we would see it through to the end together.

I hate that you blame yourself. You must know, deep down, that the loss of your sweet girl wasn’t your fault. My only regret is that I could never make you realise that. I understand your wife’s demands and the toll that they have taken on you, but in time she will learn to forgive you, and she will see, as I do, that there is always hope to be found. You will get through this together.

My poor boy. All you have been through. All you have lost. My heart aches for you. I will always be here when you need me, waiting on you, but until then, my darling, I wish you well.

Love,

Ellie.

I must have read the letter three times over before Lee finally broke the silence. “Did… did dad kill Sophia?”

“What? No,” I said, looking up at him over the letter. “It was an accident, you know that. She even says it’s not his fault in the letter. She fell down the stairs. He just blamed himself because he was the one minding her that day. ”

I spoke rapidly, making sure the words came out before I had a chance to doubt them, and Lee’s expression seemed to soften, satisfied with my explanation.

He took the letter back and read it over again, and as I watched him, I spotted a small scribble of writing on the back. I pushed the paper upward and tucked my head down towards it for a better look, and my heart began to race as I realised what it was.

“Lee,” I said, practically shouting as I snatched the paper from his hand. “Look. It's an address. Elinor Roberts, 27 Sunnydale, King’s Esplanade, Brighton . It’s her address.”

He squinted his eyes as he read the lines tucked into the corner of the back page, then levelled them at me. “Tom, this letter is over 20 years old. She could be dead by now, or living somewhere else. And her name wasn’t Roberts, was it?”

Elinor Lewis was the young girl my father had been courting in 1889 when they’d both vanished, seemingly into thin air. Of course, I knew that like me, they had found themselves thrust through time, but I’d never been able to find any trace of her or the necklace she’d been wearing that contained the same stone as my father’s ring.

“Oh, come on, Lee! Who else would it be? She probably just got married or something. It’s got to be her.”

I knew that I should temper my expectations, but after nearly two years of searching, I finally had a tangible link to someone who had shared the same experience as me; someone who knew how the ring might work. My brain was screaming at me to take it easy because I’d been disappointed enough times already, but I just couldn’t stop the feeling of excited anticipation that was swelling in my stomach.

“It’s her. I just know it.”

“I dunno, brother. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

“What other choice do I have?” I asked. “If there’s a chance she’s still alive, then I’ve got to check it out. I’ve got to go and find Elinor.”