The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time
I step into the shower, letting the water scorch away the city’s grime and the edges of my thoughts. As soap slides down my skin, memories flicker—brief, insistent flashes from other lives and nights, as if time can’t quite keep its threads apart.
Suddenly, I can feel Sandi’s mouth on my nipple, her hands around my breasts, warmth and confusion: how can a memory feel so present when I’m here, not there? I shake my head, try to scrub it away, tell myself it’s just exhaustion tangling with desire and the past. I rinse off, letting the hot water hammer me back into the now.
Dressing, I reach for comfort with power—a black Prada dress, the expensive kind that says I’m in charge, preparing for the bloody Boswell bunch, always in need of their leashes pulled tighter than ever. As I fasten my bra, I wonder out loud, “Have my breasts grown?” My nipples tingle. Too many rich lunches, I think. Too much Elena, too much appetite. I smirk at my reflection.
I slip the dress over my shoulders, armour and silk catching in the afternoon light, and get ready for whatever the night will throw at me.
I head downstairs, evening light spilling across the hallway, and spot the battered green Land Rover parked at the curb. Harry is leaning against it, his red hair unmistakable, that wildman grin ready to swallow half the street.
He shouts, “Your carriage awaits, Dr D!” with enough theatrics to turn heads all down the road.
I don’t waste time wondering where the sleek black sedan disappeared to—the one that swept me from the airport three weeks ago. I know Roger too well: if the mood suits, he’d trade a Rolls for a Mini, and probably his own mother if the price was right. For tonight, we’re going old school, country style, and I can’t help but smirk at the contrast.
Harry swings open the rear door, offering a playful bow. “Looking sharp as always,” he says, eyes glinting as they track my black Prada, the authority stitched into every seam.
I’m about to fire back a retort when that prickle returns, slithering up my neck, colder this time. I pause, scanning faces, expecting shadows. It’s the city—it never quite lets you leave the game behind.
I climb into the Land Rover, shoulders squared and smile fixed, knowing this night won’t be boring and nothing ever ends as elegant as it starts.
Upon sliding in, I catch a glimpse of Harry’s least favourite brother, Darrel, wedged awkwardly into the copilot seat. He offers me a curt nod—a bare acknowledgement—before turning his attention to the window, as if the London streets might yield something less bothersome than my presence.
The engine rumbles to life, and we set off toward Clapham, heading for one of Roger Boswell’s so-called headquarters: a worn pub that’s seen more deals, betrayals, and backroom laughter than most boardrooms ever will.
As we park, I catch the glow of familiar faces through the windows—Boswell’s loyal, ragged bunch, already half-loud and half-drunk. I step inside, welcomed by a round of boisterous cheers that ricochet off the old wood and faded wallpaper.
Roger himself stands up, slow and stately, a kingpin in exile. He removes his hat, bows his head, and plants a kiss on my hand.
“Awright, darlin’,” he croaks, voice proper rough, like gravel and whisky had a child. “Fancy a drink, love, or we crack on wiv yer sharp business, eh?”
The room stills, everyone waiting for my answer. In a space like this, every gesture is a signal, every choice a move in the game. I let a smile flicker.
“Let’s see if yer gin’s worth the shout first, Rog,” I toss back, eyes sparking.
He winks, wagging a glass toward the bar. “Oi—gin for the lady! Not the cheap muck, neither!”
The night rolls quietly, inevitably, toward business.
Roger leads me out back—down a creaking hallway, through a battered door—where our drinks are already waiting. I clock a couple of his boys posted at the threshold, eyeballs sharp, arms crossed like statues. That’s odd. This is deep inside Rog’s turf; if he’s posted guards here, it means something’s sour in the cellars.
I flop into a threadbare armchair, gin sweating in my palm, and look him square.
“So, what’s burnin’ your boots today, Rog?”
He grins, all Fox and bluster. “You want the long or the short, princess?”
“I want the truth,” I fire back.
He grunts, swirling his tonic, then finally leans in.
“Right then. Thirty years back, mate o’ mine—John, you ain’t met him, one o’ the straight ones for once—comes ’round wiv a bright idea: insurance for second-hand motors. I gave him the know-how, set him up wiv the garages and a few eager lads. Took him fifteen years of knockin’ doors, but he built up a proper company. Got a tidy slice meself, royalties an’ all.”
He shifts in his chair, jaw muscle twitching.
“Now the big boys smell blood, don’t they? Got some Lord pokin’ his nose ’round Parliament, makin’ laws, wranglin’ in back rooms. They want John out—push him off the board, nick the lot, leave me wiv nowt but thin air.”
I lean closer. “Break it up for me, Rog. What was the idea, who’s this John, and who’s playin’ king thief?”
He gives me his best innocent face. “Hold yer horses. I’m a simple man!”
I snort. “Sure you are. Rog the Fox, born for Sunday school.”
He grins, voice dropping.
“The motors idea’s grown big. Lord What’s-his-name’s makin’ moves, pushin’ John out legal-like. I don’t know them deals—too high up for my shoes, princess.”
His eyes scan the shadows, nervous but hopeful.
“So, can you help? Lend a bit o’ your research magic, maybe sniff ’round them halls I can’t reach?”
I roll the glass between my fingers, mind already tumbling into possibilities. For Rog, nothing’s ever just about lost royalties. For me, it’s never just about favours.
But tonight, it looks as if we’re both playing at foxes—just chasing from another angle, on a board neither of us realises has already moved.
I.Ph.
The C.O.M.C. Files 