Chapter 6 - Sepia Panorama.

As soon as Justin had disappeared from sight into the maw of the Tube station, Brian turned on his heel and hurried back towards Duckett’s passage.

He might have been a little disappointed that his rendezvous with the fair-haired pilot hadn’t resulted in something more immediately satisfying, but now he was more motivated than ever to figure out this time traveling schtick. Justin had promised him there would be more kissing, and Brian was determined to make that happen. But to do that, he had to figure out how the damn time portal worked.

Luckily, Brian was starting to get a better grip on the street plan around the Covent Garden area of 1941. He managed to make it back to the future site of the Royal Oak pub with only one wrong turn along the way. He quickly scanned the street corner, ensured that there was no one around, and then ducked down the darkness of the passage.

Things got a little more difficult at that point, though, since the black out of the Blitz necessitated there be absolutely no light at all along the the small alley. The high walls on both sides of the narrow space cut off pretty much all ambient moonlight. Before Brian was more than five meters down the lane, he was forced to grab hold of the wall and feel his way along. He started to worry that he would completely miss the spot he needed to find. After tripping over a loose cobble and almost landing on his face, however, Brian gave in to the exigencies of the situation and pulled out his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Three quick taps and the phone was turned on with the flashlight function activated. After that, it was much simpler to find his way along to the bend in the wall marking the all-important location of the time portal.

“Now, to figure this thing out once and for all,” Brian mumbled, his shoulders set in a determined stance.

Holding the flashlight up high enough to illuminate a broad swath of the alleyway, Brian reached out with his right hand and slowly stepped across the width of the alley, watching to make sure he would catch the exact moment that his hand encountered the portal. If it were there. He managed to make it all the way across the alley to the other brick wall without encountering any anomaly.

“OK. So we know this thing -  whatever it is - isn’t in the middle of the path. Which is probably good, because otherwise everybody and their brother would be stumbling into 2016,” Brian said, voicing his conclusions as he went.

Next, with the flashlight still in his left hand and his left elbow trailing lightly along the brick wall to steady it, Brian carefully felt along the wall with his right hand. He moved his hand as slowly as he possibly could, covering only a centimeter or so at a time, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the portal. When his fingers were only about a foot away from the metal guttering pipe that he’d noticed on previous occasions, he began to feel a faint electrical tingling, prickling against the sensitive skin along the back of his hand.

“Aha! Gotcha!”

Brian stopped and carefully examined the area as closely as possible, trying to memorize the exact location where the sensation had begun. Then he let his fingers slide through the plane of time until most of his hand had disappeared. Which, of course, freaked him out all over again, even though he’d experienced it multiple times now. He didn’t think there was any possible way that seeing your hand disappear in mid air would ever become normal. And just to make doubly sure, he pulled his hand back one last time to ensure things were still okay. But, when his hand reappeared completely intact, as it always had before, Brian was once again reassured.

The next thing was to figure out how big this time rift was. With his left hand still braced against the wall and the flashlight pointing crossways over the alley, Brian extended his hand forward through the rift until it disappeared and then slowly moved his arm to the right, away from the wall, towards the center of the alley. He watched as the stump of his arm moved through the air a good two feet, maybe a little more, away from the brick wall. And then, suddenly, the entire thing reappeared.

“So, it seems we’re looking more at a ‘crack’ in time than a ‘portal’, per se,” he commented to himself quietly. “No wonder this damn thing’s so hard to find.”

Leaving the safety of the left-hand wall for a moment, Brian walked back across the alley to the right-hand wall. Then he walked further down the alley, away from the entrance to the passage, ready to stop at any moment if he felt that telltale tingle of electricity. However, as he had sort of expected, he did not come up against any sense of the anomaly on this side of the alley. He continued to walk down the right side of the alley for two or three meters. Then he stopped, went back over to the left-hand side wall, and felt his way back towards the guttering pipe. Only, this time, there was no tingling sensation at all. Not even when he moved beyond the spot where he was sure he’d felt it before.

“Hmm. That makes no sense,” he mumbled. “Unless . . . It only goes one direction on each side of time . . .”

Immediately reversing direction, Brian felt his way back towards the guttering pipe and, voilà, his hand disappeared again.

“Bingo!” He almost yelled in his excitement at figuring out the mystery. “So, in 1941, you have to move from the entrance of the passage down the length of alley to get back to 2016. And, it then follows logically, that to get back from 2016 to to 1941 you have to move from the far end of the passage back towards the entrance. Simple. Well, simple, if you don’t worry about the physics of the thing,” He laughed to himself, realizing that the entire premise was crazy to begin with and worrying about the physics behind just how this was happening was a futile waste of his time and brainpower. “Maybe, I might someday confess this to some science geek, and let him or her figure it out. But I doubt it. Nobody would believe this. Not even Einstein himself.”

To test out his theory, Brian proceeded to head through the time rift back towards the year 2016. As had occurred before, he watched his hand disappear through that odd shimmering wrinkle in the plane of space that seemed to exist right next to the old guttering pipe. This time, however, he didn’t stop with his hand, and followed through with the rest of his body. He again experienced that strange moment of blankness where everything around him disappeared and he could no longer see the alley that was right in front of him. But two heartbeats later his vision returned, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he took in the well lit alley of 2016. And then he was through the rift and back to his own time.

As further proof, he quickly turned and re-inserted his hand back through the portal, moving it in the direction of the alley’s entrance. As expected, it disappeared. Reassured that he had this figured out, Brian pulled his hand back, walked to the other side of the alley, moved a couple meters down, and then, returning to the left-hand side wall, he followed the wall along its length further from the entrance. And, nothing. As he’d surmised, the rift didn’t work going this direction in this time.

“Piece of cake,” Brian concluded, satisfied with his experimentation and overjoyed to know that he still had a way back to Justin for his next visit.

Once he was assured he had figured out the time portal, Brian carefully stepped around the affected area, and made his way back to the high street. The Royal Oak seemed much busier as he passed by it this time, but he wasn’t at all tempted to go in. Brian now had an agenda.

“Cynthia, I need some stuff from the art department and I need it yesterday,” Brian barked into the loudspeaker of his phone less than ten minutes after he’d walked into his hotel suite at The Strand Palace.

“Yes, your majesty!” Cynthia replied snarkily, unafraid of her boss no matter how loud he bellowed. “You do realize it’s almost five pm here, right? I don’t even know if there’s anyone still left down in the art department.”

“I don’t care. Call them back in. Have them work all night if necessary. I need this stuff by tomorrow,” Brian demanded. “I need to show Britcom’s CEO how truly amazing VanGuard’s art department really is,” Brian said, thinking through his cover story as he went.

“Can’t you just show them one of your previous campaigns? The one you did for Liberty Air was fantastic.”

“They’re ALL fantastic - but, no, that’s not going to cut it, Cyn. He’s seen that stuff. And, frankly, anyone with photoshop on their mobile phone could do crap like that. That’s not much of a test,” Brian asserted with his usual disdain of the art department. “No, I need something more showy. Something with a more personal hook.”

“Okay . . . what did you have in mind?” Cynthia asked, seeming to have caught Brian’s enthusiasm for this project.

“It turns out Britcom’s CEO is a huge World War II buff. He loves all that retro crap,” Brian lied through his teeth, hating it all the while but unable to think up any way to get what he needed without a bit of prevarication. “So I was thinking that, if we can show him that our art department could recreate some of the memorabilia of the time, we would blow him away. I might even be able to sell him on something with that kind of historical flair for the second stage of our marketing campaign.”

“What sort of stuff are you after?” Cynthia asked as she took notes, tapping away loudly on her computer.

“Do you think the guys downstairs are up to recreating the money of the time? You know, old pound notes and stuff like that? It shouldn’t be too hard with modern technology.”

“So, let me get this straight . . . you want our art guys to make you counterfeit currency from World War II?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t that be illegal? And how is that going to help in a marketing campaign in 2016?” Cynthia asked, sounding perplexed.

Brian sighed loudly. “Listen, I know what I’m doing. He loves this type of shit, okay? I just know if we show him what our guys can do, he'll be throwing more money at us than Gardner could ever dream of.”

“Okaaay. Whatever you say boss . . .”

“And, no, it’s not illegal to reproduce discontinued currency,” Brian opined, crossing his fingers and hoping that what he was saying was true. “Not unless you try to pass it off as being real to a buyer, which would be fraud. But it’s not like I could even try and spend it here in 2016 - England updated their currency to a modern decimal system sometime back in the seventies. And those old notes look nothing like modern money. This is just for show, Cynthia. But I still want it to be good. I want Britcom’s guy to THINK it’s real . . . at least at first.”

“Got it.”

“And, maybe some type of identification card too? Something that would provide a reason for an American like me to be over here in London back in the middle of, say, the London Blitz? I could flash it at him and get a chuckle or something, you know?” Brian was sure that his longtime assistant would immediately see through this flimsy ruse of his, but it was the best he could come up with on the spot.

Cynthia laughed aloud. “‘Brian Kinney, International Man of Mystery’ sort of thing?”

“Exactly! And make me look a little dangerous. Hot and dangerous,” Brian teased, glad to hear that Cyn seemed to be getting into the spirit of the deception.

“If I later find out that this is just some weird kink to help you pick up a guy, Brian, I’ll personally kick your ass so hard you’ll need pliers to pull my Manolos out of it,” Cynthia warned, only half kidding.

‘The woman is too damned perceptive by half’, Brian thought to himself. “Just do it, Cyn. You can bitch at me for it later.” Then, before she could complain to him further, Brian hung up the phone.

“Okay. Now that that’s sorted . . .” Brian turned to his laptop computer and set to work to learn everything he possibly could about not only the time period but also about one Justin Taylor, First Officer, Second Eagle Squadron.

Brian awoke around 7:30 am the next morning, exhausted and with a terrible crick in his neck. He’d spent half the night hunched in front of his laptop researching The Blitz in great detail and getting himself all in a tizzy about the safety of his blue eyed boy. Especially when he read that in only two weeks, 1941 London would be hit by one of the heaviest attacks since the war began. Bombs would be dropping all over the city from 21:00 until dawn with the heaviest bombing happening right in central London - where Justin was currently boarding. And that didn’t even cover the dangers Justin was getting himself into with the missions his squadron was going to be flying. Brian felt sick just thinking about it.

The worst thing was when Brian happened upon an interactive map of London 1941 showing the precise location of where every single German bomb was dropped. When he first looked at it, it just seemed like a scary blur of red dots. He was amazed that London had survived an onslaught like that. The sheer number of bombs that hit the capital was staggering. It was the best illustration he could think of to explain why they called it ‘The Blitz’. And it didn’t get any better when he expanded the map and looked more closely at the individual dots - there were a lot that were far too close to where Justin’s boarding house was for Brian’s liking. It was made even worse because the creators had included photos from the time which matched up to the individual bomb sites - pictures which made it all seem far too real. He had spent more than two hours obsessing over that map before he eventually fell asleep, his head lying on the computer keyboard, dejected and worried as hell.

Now that it was morning, though, Brian was revved up and ready to do something with all his newfound knowledge. Deciding he needed to get going with his day, Brian checked his phone to see if Cynthia had managed to work her magic and, lo and behold, he found a snarky email from his faithful assistant waiting for him in his inbox.

My Dearest Boss,

Lucky for you, your assistant is amazing! So amazing, in fact, that I highly recommend she gets a raise. I managed to convince both Daniel and Steve from the art department to stay late last night, so that they could complete your unusual request. It wasn’t easy, especially with VanGuard putting a hold on all overtime. This meant I had to treat them to dinner - they were extremely grateful for the Chipotle that I ordered in using your card. But, with a lot of persuasion, and a few threats, I got them to do as you ordered, Oh Inflexible One. Two thousand pounds in 1940’s currency and your own personal wartime identification documentation are all sealed up ready to be shipped overnight to you. Attached below are examples of what they’ve made. I hope you find this satisfactory, as it was a pain in the ass to get done at such short notice. If it’s not satisfactory, you can bite me.

Love, Cynthia

P.S. I like diamonds

At least Cynthia’s email gave Brian something to laugh about that morning. The picture she’d attached of the ID card the guys had created looked fantastic. Brian thought he looked rather handsome, in fact. The image showed that the art department had somehow aged the ID so it looked even more authentic. Cynthia had even done a pretty decent job forging his signature, as she always did. He wasn’t sure about the profession they’d given him - News Correspondent - as he’d never been even remotely interested in journalism. He would have preferred to be something more daring, like Assitant to the Secretary of War or maybe CIA Director. However, he supposed that a real spy would probably not be announcing that on his ID, and being a journalist WOULD be a good cover for a spy. He figured he could work with ‘Correspondent’.

He was a little disappointed that he’d have to wait yet another day to get the stuff in hand, but he figured he could use that time to prepare himself more thoroughly. He wanted to know precisely what he was going to say and do on his next visit. He wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to be walking into the next bombing in the area. And he wanted to figure out what he was going to say to Justin to convince the little spitfire to stay out of the line of fire as well. He already suspected that wouldn’t be easy. Even from just the little he already knew about the brave young pilot, he could tell Justin was a stubborn shit. But Brian could be just as stubborn, especially when he had a good plan to rely on. So, he headed downstairs to the hotel restaurant, determined to fuel his brain and come up with the perfect game plan for Operation Save Blue Eyes.

Brian’s first order of business after he’d successfully managed an English breakfast - he always appreciated the grilled tomatoes but lamented the way everything seemed fried in butter and hated the limpness of their bacon - was to go shopping. Because, well, he WAS Brian Kinney and shopping was one of the things he did best. Plus, if he was going to be making multiple forays into the past, he couldn’t do it with only one period-appropriate suit. So, pushing aside all his worries about bombings, air raids, missions gone wrong, and everything else that might not work, Brian headed back to Saville Row with the intention of getting himself properly outfitted for his planned adventures.

That little expedition took pretty much all morning, of course. There was no rushing fashion. But the tailor promised him that at least one of the new suits he’d ordered would be ready and delivered to his hotel by noon the following day. Which fit in with his plans perfectly. He celebrated by walking the few blocks to Piccadilly Circus and treating himself to a nice lunch at a little cafe there before hopping on the Tube for the quick ride two stops back to Covent Garden.

The walk back to his hotel from the Underground station happened to take Brian right past Duckett’s Passage and, even though he didn’t want to tempt fate by going anywhere near the time portal before he was ready, he caught himself stopping at the entrance to the lane and looking down the path. He was rather excited by his plan to go back and even more excited to see his Blue Eyes again. He thought he could almost feel the pull of it, although he somehow managed to resist.

However, while he was looking down the lane, he happened to once again notice the little shop just around the corner from the entrance. He’d rushed right past it the last few times he’d come that way, not at all interested in some musty old resale shop. But, now that he was thinking about the past so much, he realized that kind of place might prove quite useful. And since he didn’t have any other immediate plans, Brian sauntered over to the place and peeked into the window just to check it out.

The first thing he saw was a beautiful, dark grey, vintage homburg hat that he immediately knew would go perfectly with the new suit he’d purchased just that morning. He simply HAD to have it, and rushed right into the shop without another thought. The frowsty older shopkeeper seemed startled to actually have a customer, practically jumping up off the stool she’d been sitting on while drinking a cup of tea. When she saw the extravagantly handsome man who was her latest customer, she got even more flustered. Brian loved that kind of reaction, though, so he hammed it up even more than usual, flirting shamelessly with the woman as he directed her to the hat he wanted to try. If there was any doubt that he’d look wonderful in the hat, it was promptly dispelled the minute the homburg was placed atop his auburn head. The shopkeeper pronounced him to be ‘dashing’. Looking at himself in the mirror, Brian had to agree.

While the woman was busy looking for the hatbox that came with his newest sartorial acquisition, and which she insisted he have, Brian continued to look around the shop. Most of what he found was pure junk - kitschy knick-knacks he would never look at twice - but, near the back, he found a rack of some vintage clothing that was actually in pretty good condition considering the age of the pieces. In particular, he was drawn towards a very nice, thick wool overcoat, in a pleasing navy blue with a double row of shiny brass buttons. It was far too small for Brian himself, but it looked just perfect for a slightly built RAF pilot whose blue eyes would match the color almost exactly. He couldn’t wait to see Justin in it and immediately instructed the shopkeeper to add it to his bill, causing the woman to go into paroxysms of glee.

Brian dismissed all the other items of clothing as either too worn or not the right period before moving over towards the counter to pay for his purchases. While the woman was ringing him up, Brian’s eye landed on a little basket of odds and ends that was sitting on the counter. Most of it was simply dross - buttons, beads, little trinkets of no real value - but hidden in amid the clutter, Brian thought he saw a coin. Digging it out, he was thrilled to discover that it was actually a vintage farthing coin with the date of 1937 on it. Exactly what he needed. A quick rummage through the basket turned up another dozen coins of various small amounts, with a face value of maybe a few shillings total. In today’s currency, that would be only a few pennies. But in 1941, it would be the perfect amount to buy him and his Blue Eyes a pint or two. He quickly added these to his other finds, with a word to the shopkeeper that if she ever came across more old coins like that, she should call him - he would buy anything she could get her hands on.

After making the woman’s day with probably the largest sale she’d had in weeks, Brian took all his loot back to the hotel. He spent the rest of that afternoon answering emails, returning calls to clients and doing other stuff for VanGuard that at least got his mind off the Blue Eyed problem in 1941. After dinner, he treated himself to a Grindr hookup, just to take the edge off, and then went for a swim in the hotel pool. He finally made it back to his suite around ten that night, feeling refreshed, relaxed and looking forward to his plans for the next day.

It was still rather early for him though so, after he showered, Brian took his laptop with him and crawled into bed. He scrolled through a few more random websites detailing more of the woes of the Blitz. Brian was confounded and impressed by all the hardships Londoners of the time had faced. They seemed so fucking stoic about it all, at least according to all the contemporaneous accounts he read. He didn’t think his generation would have been so sanguine about being bombed night after night for years on end.

It wasn’t till later, just as Brian was getting sleepy and about to call it a night, that he stumbled across a site that included a much more detailed and extensive history of the RAF’s Eagle Squadrons. He eagerly dove into the information there, reading up on the history of the formation of the various Squadrons, the types of missions they flew and the planes they used. It was fascinating stuff. Brian could see his Blue Eyes wanting to be a part of something that seemed so courageous and daring. Reading it from the distance of seventy five years later, it all sounded so gallant.

At least it did until Brian came across the section of the website that went into specific detail about the various individual pilots that had made up the Eagle Squadrons. Then it started to sound a lot less gallant and a lot more foolhardy. The survival rate for the Squadron’s pilots wasn’t great. The first three American pilots that had volunteered to start up the Squadron were all killed in combat by the end of 1941. Several others were injured so badly that they ended up being shipped home early. And then there were the numerous instances where planes had been shot down during missions. Brian started to get more and more worried as he read through those stories. Especially the one about the pilot that was captured after being shot down, imprisoned for three years in the infamous Stalag Luft III and subsequently died on the Nazi’s ‘Long March’ as the Germans emptied the POW camps in the face of the Soviet advance in 1945.

It wasn’t till after midnight that Brian found the name he was both looking for and dreaded seeing. And the news was even worse than he’d expected. Because according to these records, three Spitfires that were part of the 121 Eagle Squadron were going to be shot down on the night of July 10th, 1941, somewhere over the North Sea between London and Hamburg. None of those pilots’ bodies were ever found. And among the names of those lost, Brian found ‘Flight Commander, Justin Taylor’.