London streets are full of lunch grabbers and people who savor a stroll and clutter the pavement. I dodge along using lampposts to swing my way past men with sandwich boards advertising Bovril and Mint Imperials. I’m going to the rendezvous, the sweet spot where time blurs and I can escape from this dreary colorless 1921. Don’t get me wrong: I love a pair of delicate lips in dark red, cupid bowed onto a pancaked face, but when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.

 

My almanac of sporting wins funds me well, but horse betting has to be managed. Now the double-breasted trench coats are starting to notice and the authorities are asking questions. Besides, I’m a commitment phobe, my girl here will never understand, she’s getting too needy. I suspect another baby of mine is on the way for me to avoid when I return.

 

I skid to a halt at the entrance to King’s Cross station, I look for the glimmer out of the corner of my eye, one step to the left, three forward. The tingling starts and the rush of air hits me like a tube train going past at speed, flicking up the essence of darkness, rodents and half-chewed apples. I relax into the journey and close my eyes.

 

It’s not my choice where in time I land. Once I was in medieval London, and the stink was eye-watering. I’ve never been anywhere worse... well, maybe when I was hounded out of Connecticut for impregnating a few maidens. The past is a concrete pathway: solid, dependable, stretching back from my birth and a joy to navigate if you know your history. The future is not safe. Each path is like forked lightning, the pattern changing with side branches which lead nowhere. It’s a gamble, a bet, a wager on your life and the thrill is intoxicating.

 

Confidence is critical when arriving in a new time zone. When I first jumped, it was disorientating, but I now relish each move in this chess game. Meeting myself years ago, and learning my time trade has been all-consuming. I’ve amassed a fortune over the years, knowing when to sell and when to buy. My London and New York homes I share with the many versions of me are opulent safe places, but the urge to travel itches and pulls. Occasional messages are left by other-time me, tantalizing notes that mean little without context. It’s the scribbles with bloody fingerprints that cause unease. I stopped reading them.

 

Silence. I am standing on a train track. I recognize Grand Central so that’s a good start, gotta love New York. I bought a brownstone on Park Slope when I was bootlegging during prohibition. It’ll be a relief when I walk through the door.

 

The terminus smells of dust and cobwebs. A door bangs in the wind, newspapers flurry past, I grab one, it hangs limp in my fingers, the date is 2029, Monday the 8th of January. Not too far ahead in time, so not too troublesome. There is no one here, maybe they don’t use trains anymore. The tracks look derelict, an arrivals board sways on one remaining cable. I sit on a bench, original 1920s I’d say by the design, and look at the newspaper. It’s full of war, refugees and warnings to stay at home. I close my eyes and concentrate, no traffic noise, no people laughing, no pigeons cooing.

 

I pull sandwiches from my pocket. They’re squashed; no marks for presentation. Time travel makes you hungry and the calories expended are huge. I wolf down the bread and cheese, the tang of pickle playing on my tongue. This could be my last meal for a while.

 

Time to leave the terminus. I take the passage signposted to 42nd Street. Outside there is devastation, buildings are rubble, there’s no fire burning, no smoke rising so this didn’t happen yesterday. I turn and re-enter the passageway, see the glimmer, but it’s faint, one step to the left, three forward. The tingling begins, it reaches my shins before petering out. I search again for the glimmer, but it eludes me.

 

I return to the tracks, a wind blows rubbish around, a notice board of missing people flutters its memories. A side branch of time, abandoned. The notes I’ve written. Why didn’t I read them all? Was there mention of being stranded?

 

All I need is a live rendezvous. Other stations along the line may prove more fruitful, a popular crossroads, perhaps a bus depot. Should I walk to Penn? Glimmers are powered by the energy of other people’s footsteps. Where have they gone?

 

I start walking.