Tunnels 03, Freefall

To Will's eye it looked very modern. He used it to listen to his own heartbeat, then chucked it back into the trunk, to giving it a further thought as he continued his search for more exotic objects.

12

    On her way back from work, Mrs. Burrows dropped into the local newsagent's to pick up an evening paper. She had taken a part-time position with a firm of solicitors, where she did some reception work, typing and general filing. It wasn't as if she needed the money, as the sale of the family home had brought in much more than she'd anticipated, but the job gave her a sense of purpose again, and she enjoyed the company of the other people in the office. And as she only worked a couple of days a week, she had time to continue with her own investigations, and also to keep the pressure on the police to come up with results.
    As she paid for her newspaper, she noticed that the shopkeeper was staring at her.
    "Hope you don't mind me asking this, but are you Dr. Burrows' wife?" he ventured.
    Mrs. Burrows didn't reply immediately, studying the man's face to see if there was anything in it that suggested hostility. After the incident outside the employment agency, she had grown chary of local people. She was only too aware of the looks she received while she was out shopping or on her way to her gym.
    "Yes," she replied eventually. "I'm Celia Burrows."
    "Ah, good. Then I have these for him," the shopkeeper said, ducking below the counter and producing a sizeable pile of magazines. He began to go through it. " Curators' Month ... one... two... er, three copies," he said, putting them in front of Mrs. Burrows. Without looking at her, he continued to speak. "I took the liberty of canceling his orders after a couple of months... but there are also three copies of Excavation Today , and some--"
    "You know he's gone... he's gone missing," Mrs. Burrows blurted.
    The man's expression turned to embarrassment, and he found it difficult to meet Mrs. Burrows' gaze as he shuffled the remaining magazines. "I know, but I thought you might like them for..." he tailed off.
    "For when he comes back?" Mrs. Burrows finished for him. She was about to add, "I don't think that's going to happen," but decided it wouldn't be wise. The way public sentiment was against her, it might be taken the wrong way, and this man too might jump to the conclusion that she knew more than she was letting on. So, instead, she took some notes from her purse and thrust them at the shopkeeper. "Look, it's all right, just give them to me. I'll pay for them now." The shopkeeper sorted out her change in the uncomfortable silence that followed. Without waiting for him to put them in a bag, she snatched them from the counter and left the shop.
    As she stepped outside, there was a flash of lightning followed by the rumble of thunder. "Great timing," she muttered as a heavy rain began to fall. She used one of the magazines to shield her head from the downpour. As she struggled up the High Street, the glossy covers of the other magazines became more and more slippery, and kept sliding from under her arm. She'd just dropped them for the second time when she spied a litter bin close by. "Sorry, Roger," she said as she heaved them all into it.
    Hurrying along, she swore as the rain showed no sign of letting up. She'd stopped at the curb to check for traffic before crossing the road, when she happened to look back in the direction she'd just come.
    "What the hell!" she exclaimed.
    With their backs to her, two men were standing around the bin into which she'd thrown the magazines. She could see that they were carefully taking the magazines out, and scrutinizing the covers, before putting them, one by one, into a suitcase. The men were both stockily built and were wearing dark-colored jackets with some kind of curious shoulder mantle -- they looked like something from a different time.
    For some reason, possibly because she'd been upset by the incident in the shop, she was gripped by a precipitant anger.
    She had no idea who these men were. Too well dressed to be tramps , Mrs. Burrows thought. Her first guess was that they were lorry drivers -- not from England but from the Continent, because of their unusual garb. On the spur of the moment, she began to yell, breaking into a run towards them.
    "What are you doing? Leave those alone!"
    Although she'd thrown the magazines away, they had been so much part of her husband's life in the old days and so important to him, it felt wrong