Author: David Barber
So far, the Time Traveller had found nothing worth collecting.
Also, he was being stared at as he walked round the market. He seemed to be the only person dressed in a suit and tie as portrayed in pictures from this time, and while some of the locals wore head coverings, none resembled the brimmed hat of his own costume.
These were notoriously violent years, perhaps they sensed a victim.
He clutched the money tighter in his pocket.
#
“Books are all priced,” said Chelsea Dog. “Just sit and take the money.”
He had somewhere to be, details not explained, like everything Chelsea Dog did. Like his name.
“And don’t go putting customers off moaning about stuff.”
Frank said nothing. He owed Chelsea Dog a favour and was looking after his market stall for the afternoon.
The stall on his left was festooned with dream catchers and scented candles. On the other side was old vinyl. From opposite wafted the occasional smell of speciality cheeses.
Perched on a wooden stool in a cave of books, Frank watched people drift by as if borne by an invisible river. Sometimes they snagged long enough to examine a paperback or two.
Chelsea Dog couldn’t be making much money here. Frank thought it more likely it was how he laundered cash from his other dealings.
The record guy was about Frank’s age, with the same greying beard, but he kept his headphones on. The thin woman with the dream catchers didn’t seem very New Age and complained at length about inflation and rent increases.
A man in a grey double-breasted suit and trilby was studying the cover of Steppenwolf.
“A classic,” suggested Frank, but the gent dropped it back in the box.
“I already possess a less damaged copy.”
After a moment he asked about the badges on Frank’s lapel.
“These? Well, this one’s Kyoto Hi!” Frank pulled a face. “Some fights we lost, just hot air and Dubya moaning about the cost.”
The gent peered more closely, so Frank tapped another.
“Got nuclear power nein danke in Berlin the year the Wall came down.”
“This is most interesting. And do you have provenance for each of them?”
“Stop the bloody whaling. Remember those Greenpeace inflatables banging through the spray to put themselves between the harpoons and the whales?”
Usually by now folk remembered they had somewhere else to be, but the gent smiled encouragingly.
“I was in the Oil Wars,” Frank heard himself saying. “Hard to believe they put lead in petrol then. We put a stop to that and fixed the ozone hole.”
He ploughed on despite the man’s puzzlement.
“You know, the Montreal Protocol.”
“Ah, the banning of chlorofluorocarbons. Though the replacements were greenhouse gases and in the end it was all futile.”
Frank opened and closed his mouth. Who recalled Chernobyl now? There were always new spills, new melt-downs, new extinctions. He’d warned them, but no one ever listened.
“Ephemeral markers of history like your badges rarely survive,” the gent was musing. “So much was lost in the Melt.”
“If you would sell them,” he confided, patting his pocket. “I have money.”
Somehow whales had lingered on, pollution hadn’t fouled everything, and thanks to fossil fuels, sunsets took your breath away.
It’s believers who need hell the most. In his heart, Frank hoped global warming saw everybody roast.