Harry

‘Good day to you sir!’

The door slammed open, and he strode in with haste. He barely took three strides to cover the four metres from the front door to the living room.

Stunned by the interruption, Harold remained seated.

The lanky man looked around the room. The television had frozen on Fiona Bruce’s face as she considered another antique destined for the auction house. Harold wondered if he’d somehow hit the pause button during the disturbance. The empty fork he held was suspended in space near his closed, full mouth. He wanted this man to understand that he was not one for confrontation, that there was no provocation; he chanced not even to chew. The man’s eyes hovered over Harold.

Harold could see that the man was far clear of six feet tall. He wore a deep crimson shirt that shimmered as he moved, and what appeared to be an out of fashion long black cloak, with the hood pulled high. Harold felt ashamed that he wore a stained white vest, crusty black boxer shorts, and dirty white socks. I wasn’t expecting company!

Harold watched as the man reached into the depths of his cloak and produced some sort of toy gun, complete with flashing lights. It made a faint whirring sound, although Harold thought he may be the only one to hear this, as it was held mere centimetres from his face.

Harold dared not move. His unchewed food poised on his tongue and waited for inevitability.

‘I am sorry, but I am going to have to kill you.’ The man’s eloquent and polite tone would have shocked Harold even further, were he not already in the paralysing throes of extreme emotional trauma.

The whir of the gun increased. Harold swallowed hard. Food caught in his throat. He couldn’t shift the wedged food. He couldn’t breathe; his face went red with the effort. He dropped the fork, stood abruptly, and knocked the contents of his dinner tray into the television screen. Harold looked at the man, fear and panic in his eyes.

‘Oh. Ah … I am so sorry,’ the man threw back his hood and placed the gun on Harold’s chair. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’ He grabbed Harold, twirled him round and, with minimum effort, began to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. After the third thrust, a piece of chicken the size of a golf ball ejected itself and hit the television.

‘Oh, I do so love antiques,’ the man said as he looked at the screen. He was quick to release a relieved Harold as he bent down, ran his fingers along the television casing, then leaned in closer and sniffed at the plastic with a long inhalation. ‘They do not make them like this anymore.’ His wide grin reminded Harold of his nephew as he played with his favourite train set. ‘Early twenty-first-century, fifty-inch, four-K, ultra-HD televisual device, with full surround sound.’ The man’s eyes closed, and he sniffed once more at the casing.

As though he suddenly remembered where he was, the man turned and looked at Harold. His features hardened and his lips tightened, like he were about to scold a child. ‘You know, you really should chew your food.’ He picked up the gun and aimed it at Harold.

‘Please, please, please,’ Harold begged, hands held in defence of his face. ‘Why would you save me, only to kill me?’

‘That is a fair observation.’ The man pulled the trigger. The gun spat and spluttered; the lights went off and the whir descended in tone. ‘Oh,’ the man said. He turned the gun over and scratched his head. He then looked to Harold. ‘Would you mind terribly if I waited while it recharged? It is so very temperamental you see.’

Harold nodded. What’s going on?

‘P-please, sit down,’ Harold managed to say. ‘F-forgive the mess.’ He chided himself as he moved his plate and dinner tray off the floor and to the side of his chair.

‘Thank you kindly,’ the man said. His physical presence dwarfed the puce three-seat sofa; he sat in the middle, his arms rested atop the backrest, his hands drooped over each end, his legs were wide with knees raised. Harold noted the man’s sharp, angular features; his pointed nose and tight lips were highlighted by his piercing cheekbones, all under the watchful gaze of his penetrating eyes.

Harold sat, conscious of his pudgy physicality and soft features. He took a few deep breaths, hopeful he could negate the anxious fear which rose from deep within. Am I dreaming?

‘This is a nice place you have here,’ the man said as he inspected the small living space. He looked over the simple mantelpiece and scrutinised a modest landscape, housed within an unsophisticated picture frame. ‘Minimalist.’ His gaze moved to Harold. ‘Oh! Where are my manners?’ He leaned over and stuck out his hand. ‘Wilson Gaffney, freelance time fugitive bounty hunter.’

Harold shook Wilson’s hand. ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful sir,’ Harold said, once he’d checked his arm was still attached. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a freelance time fugitive?’

Wilson scoffed. ‘No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘I am a time fugitive bounty hunter. My work is freelance.’

Harold nodded, as if that made any more sense to him than before. ‘In that case sir, and I don’t mean to insult, but what’s a time fugitive?’

‘Well …’ Wilson’s brow furrowed, ‘that would be you.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Harry …’

‘Harold.’

‘Harold.’ Wilson shifted in his seat, ‘in … a number of years’ time, a progeny of yours will embark on a little …’ Wilson’s voice rose a few octaves, ‘… genocidal killing spree.’

‘How could you possibly …?’

‘Freelance time fugitive bounty hunter,’ Wilson offered to the room at speed.

‘… know anything about the future?’

‘You see, it just rolls off the tongue,’ Wilson concluded.

Harold looked at Wilson with a keen eye. This guy’s crazy! ‘Are you saying that you’re from the future? A … a … time traveller?’

‘Nothing gets by you,’ Wilson chortled.

‘And you believe I’ll be the grandfather of a mass murdering maniac?’

‘You will be the grandfather of a mass murdering maniac,’ Wilson thought for a moment, ‘well … great, great, great grandfather.’

‘That’s insane!’ Harold stood and began to pace the room.

‘It would be insane were I not to kill you right now,’ Wilson checked his wrist and to Harold it looked like Wilson had adjusted his watch, yet a projected image appeared and floated above it. No more than ten centimetres in height and five centimetres wide, it seemed to Harold to be some sort of list, albeit in symbols as alien as any foreign language would be to an Englishman.

‘Why do you have to kill me? Can’t you just go to the future and kill one of my … progenies?’ Harold asked, hopeful of his suggestion.

‘No, no,’ Wilson dismissed the notion with a wave of his free hand. ‘The contract is the contract. I cannot deviate from the details of the contract,’ he consulted his wrist device, ‘and the contract says that the bounty is for Harry Davidson, of 241 Plum Tree Close. Husband to Margret Bloom, and father of Dennis Davidson. Namely you.’

Harold couldn’t contain himself and he exploded with laughter, like a man possessed and tears in his eyes.

‘What is so humorous about this?’ Wilson asked, confusion evident as his face contorted into a landscape of furrows and creases.

‘That’s not me,’ Harold managed between gleeful fits and tearful howls.

‘Of course it is,’ Wilson held up his wrist and with a flutter of his fingers he conjured the image of a keypad. He proceeded to input commands onto the floating pad with deterministic ferocity. It almost looked like Wilson was a conductor, and Harold’s laughter was the orchestral arrangement as it rose and fell with the hand gestures.

As Wilson stood, a beam of brilliant blue light emanated from the wrist device and scanned over Harold. Wilson then consulted the readout on his floating display.

‘Harold David,’ Harold said as he calmed enough to speak, ‘of 241 Pear Tree Close. Unmarried. Child free. And not the man you’re looking for.’

Wilson’s face reddened and his lips pursed; furrows creeped back onto his otherwise inscrutable countenance. ‘Not again,’ he muttered. The weight of his mistake made him look much shorter than he was previous.

‘Well then,’ Wilson asserted, and shut down the readout with a wave. ‘I must say,’ he chuckled, ‘imagine the embarrassment! Haha!’

Harold breathed a sigh of relief as Wilson slapped him on his back.

‘Very well old chap, I’ll leave you be.’ Wilson strolled out of the door in three, long strides. Harold jumped as the television images began to move, and Fiona Bruce said something about the vase she handled.

Over the sound of the television, Harold could hear a distant, clear, articulate voice.

‘Good day to you sir!’