Wallday's Wonder
My dear reader, do you know what it feels like to be watched?
The prickling of skin, the shroud of a long forgotten second sight that rolls like cold waves over your shoulders.
And it was that sensation that started this story, an overwhelming feeling that I was being stalked like a buck in one of the royal parks.
But that is to give my situation airs and graces beyond my means. I was in the city, true, but it was not in the more salubrious colourful districts of high society, but the grey and dreary setting of the working classes, a ramshackle hodgepodge of factories, warehouses and dwellings all thoroughly too close together.
My stay had started on business but it was not long before my attention had been turned to keeping my mind occupied and the city was more than happy to oblige, with sport of all kinds available to any bachelor in my position, as long as he had enough money of course.
Luckily, this was still near the start of my residency and the maintenance of funds was not yet a problem, due mainly to my thrifty nature and my landlady leaving a particularly heavy supper of mutton stew for me each evening as part of the board she provided.
And so it was, as I was taking a turn about the nearest park to help digest that evening’s repast that I fully began to feel the nature of being observed by someone. The feeling was intense, like the pinpricked shiver of a sleeve dropping over a scalded wound. It made me halt in my tracks and look round for whomsoever had inflicted this strange sensation upon me.
I instantly saw the person - no people - who were watching my movements. Two gentlemen who were conspicuous in their lack of movement in the otherwise bustling evening park life.
The closer of the two was a long and lean man, smartly dressed, pinched of face and with shocks of yellowing white erupting from either side of his verdant felt derby. The other gentleman, some 100 yards further on from his fellow watcher, and at his ten o’clock, was sturdier, with the heft of someone who has spent his lifetime shouldering the kind of great weights of cargo you find at the docks up and down the river.
Neither man acknowledged my noticing of them. They looked on imperious and blank, staring intently at my position but with a vagueness that’s bordered on disinterest.
That in itself felt strange enough and with a sudden chill overcoming me, I turned on my heels and started, briskly, towards Mrs Knightley and the inevitable nightcap she would offer me out of that mixture of generosity and loneliness that often besets older innkeepers in their twilight years.
I set off swiftly and was just two streets away when not one but two sets of footsteps broke out of the shadow of my own, quickening and growing in stature until they were on me and hands were on my shoulders and I was spun forcibly round mid-step.
The two men from the park.
They did not attack and they did not threaten, but their manner was hardly friendly, and they seemed to view coming into close contact with me as more of a dutiful hindrance than a crime of passion.
“Mr Wilkins,” the leaner of the two men spoke in a low growl, “Please don’t struggle. We only want to speak with you. It’s nothing dangerous.”
The larger chimed in, “It’s nothing that’ll hurt your good self.”
Dear reader, I did not feel I was struggling, but the firmness of their grips and the calmness of their words made me physically slump and succumb to them. They had me in their grasp and, even if their demands were malicious, there was scarce anything I could have done to it should I have even wished to do so.
Sensing my options were somewhat limited, I acquiesced and flopped into their control. As I did so, their grips lightened but gained more direction, and I was guided back along the street, and towards one of the nearby public houses.
Now sat down at a small corner table by the weakening fire, my would-be captors leant in conspiratorially.
“Mr Wilkins, you see, it’s like this. We work for a certain...” there was a pause, “gentleman who has been noticing your recent scientific studies. He knows that you have come to the city to find patrons for work and that you are eager to gain the backing so you can finish your work and make your own mark on the world of science.”
It was as shocking as it was flattering. I had indeed travelled to the city with the hope of finding someone from the city’s fast accelerating industrial elite. Their wholehearted involvement and investment was the next step required.
But I had not expected an approach so rapidly or so readily. My brain told me that there must be something amiss, but I must confess that my curiosity and eagerness to finish my work proved too strong and I needed to hear more on their offer, if only to provide temporary succour and lift my spirits.
And so they explained, at length, about the offer at hand and how they came to be following me this evening.
It transpired that rumours had spread swiftly about the ‘strange young gent’ who had come to be staying at Burdett Road and that he had something of great scientific importance that he was looking to share with the right investor.
“And so you see,” the lean man said, through a cloud of stale breath, “It is with this in mind that we were asked to identify and locate you, to take steps towards bringing you in contact with our employer - if that is something that would be of interest to you..?”
He left the words trail and the question hang in the mouldering air. He was waiting for a response, perhaps further questions and I am slightly ashamed to report, dear reader, that I showed little in the way of restraint or even dignity, swiftly and positively smiling and shaking both my would-be kidnappers’ hands and fidgeting excitedly on my barstool awaiting further instruction.
And so it came to pass that by the end of the week I had an appointment in my diary with Mister Josiah Wallday, one of the leading names in the industrialisation of the country and well-known to anyone with even the most passing interest in the machinations of modern society.
Wallday was a man big in character but small in stature. But, as compact and robust as he was, he was embiggened beyond his own structure by a radiant and mesmerising personality, and it was this that inextricably drew people into his company and kept them there, often, so it was said in more hushed tones, against their own better judgment or strength of will.
Yes, Wallday was a formidable businessman for sure and had a steely determination to drive through change and innovation at all costs, with a view to cementing his name in the nation’s history and of course turning a smart profit in the process.
“Ahh, Wilkins,” Wallday beamed with a warmth that seemed to radiate out of his cheeks, and spoke with an accent that brought a rural lilt to an otherwise forthright City patter, “Come in, come in, sit, sit. You have no idea how much I want to hear all about you and your discovery, sit please.”
I sat, dutifully, all the while trying to contain my nervous excitement of being in his presence.
Wallday sat in his own chair, behind an enormous desk covered with stacks of files, with loose papers and blueprints spilling in every direction.
He leant towards me, his demeanour shifting from jovial to serious as he adjusted his position, his fingers steepling as he did so.
“Wilkins, I won’t flannel you with all the usual hogwash. I know why you’re here and I think I can give you what you want. Or at least a good portion of it. I can supply you with the space and materials and money - have no doubt - to continue your research. All I want in return are the sole rights to your discovery. You’ll get your recognition of course, with a very tidy salary - for life mind you - in one of our divisions. But the profits, the property, the very idea of what you’ve created: that’s all mine.”
“W-well, thank you Mr Wallday of course,” I started.
“No need to thank me yet,” he interrupted me almost immediately, before continuing, “I don’t invest in people, in ideas, that I do not have complete faith in, Wilkins. I do not put my name to things that will not change the world we live in. You have that kind of gift. Now you just need to deliver on your promise and release your work over to me. I’ve had all the paperwork prepared in advance of this meeting...”
Wallday began to search his desk, quickly finding the relevant papers and thrusting them towards me with a hard smile on his face that was pleasantry draped over ruthlessness.
“Thank you again sir,” I said, “For believing in me and my work of course, and I am flattered, but I would need to review the details and...”
“Say no more, say not one word more,” Wallday was already up out of his seat and halfway across his office and left me there, for the rest of the afternoon in fact, to read through every line and detail of the contract he had presented.
I can tell you dear reader that the words Wallday’s battalion of barristers and actuaries had prepared were strict bordering on cruel but the opportunity it presented was too good and, I’m sure you can already guess, I signed the paperwork that very day and became the latest of Wallday’s protégés.
I was given my own workspace and access to equipment and resources - whatever I needed, whatever the cost, as long as I could get the job done and make my years of study and theorising into a workable, profitable reality. I declined politely from having my own retinue of Wallday staff to assist me, preferring to tackle the problem personally and getting one hundred percent of the final satisfaction as a result.
Those early halcyon days, soon became weeks, then months and before too long I was receiving memos from Wallday’s private office enquiring, then requesting, then demanding updates - and for meetings - to discuss how I could accelerate progress and fulfil my early promise.
Tensions understandably mounted, but then an ultimatum was delivered and a deadline was put in place: the final Friday of the following month. This would be when the culmination of all my work would be unveiled to the assembled press by Wallday himself, in one of his typically flamboyant displays of technological prowess.
I was certain I could still get the results I wanted, but even so, I still received letters each day from Wallday, chasing to make sure all would be well, all would be in place, in time for his arrival on stage.
Indeed, right up until the morning of the event itself, I was still receiving personal correspondence asking for assurances of success and advising of the consequences of failure.
Arriving at the venue for the announcement, it was easy to see that no expense or effort had been spared on Wallday’s part.
The stage was set immaculately, a grand circular dais surrounded by a circuit of curtain in a fine ultramarine brocade. Around it, row upon row of sleek benched chairs rippled out in a great concentric circle towards the walls of the great hall.
There was space for about 150 members of parliament, investors and the press, but, in Wallday’s words, it would likely be ‘standing room only’ by the time of The Great Unveiling, with even more people expected to try and sneak in to get their first glimpse of the next of his technological breakthroughs.
Wallday was, as to be expected, already there, pacing back and forth along the front row of seats, in a combined giddy state of nerves and excitement.
“My boy, my boy”, his face erupted with a smiling laughter that filled the auditorium, “We are here, we made it, we did it - it’s time the world saw what we’ve got in store for it. We’ll be making history tonight!”
“I’m sure we will, sir,” I ventured back, choking back a slight tremble in my voice, “All those weeks (“months,” Wallday interjected) of planning, all the care taken. I’m sure - I hope - that tonight will be one for all here to remember forever.”
“I can’t wait to...” Wallday started to look at the small box that his staff had brought in behind me, “see the results for myself.”
He trailed off, catching himself unwittingly licking his lips and looking back to me with a start, as if surprised to see me there.
“Yes, yes. Tonight is going to be nothing short of spectacular my boy,” he had already turned around and shouted the last of his words over his shoulder, “Nothing!”
I smiled to myself. I hoped he was right. All this time, all this work. Now it all came down to this very evening and making a mark - our mark, MY mark - in history.
And picking up my box, I carried it up onto the stage, passed behind the curtain and began my preparations for the final reveal of something quite staggering.
The crackle of excitement the crowd was dense and hot, matching the summer evening itself.
The whole city’s press were assembled, along with several ministers carrying senior positions in the cabinet, members of royal households - both domestic and foreign - and even a smattering of rival industrialists, whom Wallday always took great pleasure in inviting to his events to show just how comfortable he was with the gulf between his achievements and their own.
I was, of course, nervous. My mind constantly filling - positively overflowing - with dread, rolling over and over on the nagging doubts of what could go wrong.
If Wallday had any such last minute worries or concerns, his demeanour certainly didn’t betray them. He was, as usual, bubbling with his own energy and clapping his hands and stamping his feet as he worked his way around the room of guests.
Hoots of laughter - rapturous and not at all mocking - followed him around the hall and, as he came closer to me, wiping tears of joy away with his handkerchief and extending his arm out to shake my hand as if we hadn’t seen each other for a dozen centuries or more.
“My boy,” he started as if we had been talking all this while, “This is it. Our time is now.”
He patted my shoulder as he walked by me and trotted straight up onto the stage, bounding with all the fervour of a gun dog on its first season.
The demands Wallday laid out for me were simple. My work must be complete of course, and function as I had promised, but it must also be simple to use. ‘Straight out of the box’ as he put it and with no prior knowledge of how to use it but only the understanding of what it promised to deliver to the everyday person holding it for the first time.
“It all adds to theatre of it all I suppose,” Wallday had told me in one of our earliest meetings, “If I’m surprised, the audience will be surprised. If I’m shocked, the audience likewise. I want the world to go on that journey with me. Make it happen, boyo.”
I had of course dutifully nodded then and had since spent much of my time on making what Wallday would hold in his hands deliver a message as simply and with as much clarity as possible.
The lights dimmed. A hush fell. There was a flash as spotlights fell onto the curtains and with a swish the curtains glided round to reveal Wallday on the stage, leaning on a table, with the small, unassuming box I had prepared just inches away from his hands.
All focus was now on him. The industrial impresario clearly revelled in these surroundings. Grinning with obvious pride as the crowd applauded his presence. Paying homage to the unrivalled apex predator of this particular habitat.
He patted his hands down towards the audience, a mix of faux modesty and genuine request so he could assert his dominance over the room.
“Thank you, thank you - lords, gentlemen of the press and industry. You honour me with your presence as I know how busy you are. Well, you are as busy as me I should imagine!”
A ripple of agreement and laughter and bluster was returned.
He continued; “As you know, I have always prided myself on taking the dreams of the common man and transforming them from flights of fancy into a reality. Changing those ‘what ifs’ to ‘when cans’ and making the world a smaller place - a more controlled and understandable place - for us all.”
Without breaking eye contact with the crowd, his hand sought out the box on the table. His index finger toyed with its closest corner. He paused, cleared his throat, blinked rapidly for a moment as if to clear his vision of an unexpected glare of light before continuing.
“Time!” Wallday exclaimed, before adding more softly, “Time, my friends. Time is the one thing we all need and none of us ever have enough of it. I know I don’t...”
He looked down and laughed to himself: “I scarcely have time to pull my socks on in the morning before I am being asked to sign a contract and when I’m signing a contract I’m being asked to attend a gala. Every day I am trying to catch up with myself, looking to shave off a second here or a moment there. Always behind, never catching up and forever adrift from the pace life throws at us.
“But what if we could control it? Time that is? What if we could manage it to give ourselves more time to get, as they say, ahead of the game? Wouldn’t that be a marvel? Wouldn’t that be something we would want to use? To master our only impediment in life? To manage how we work? How we accelerate in our understanding and mastery of the world around us? How we get more - 100, 200 hour weeks out of our workforce? And for no extra cost mind you. Wouldn’t that be a gen-u-ine Wallday Wonder?”
By this time, the murmurings of the crowd had reached an almost deafening rumble.
“My friends,” Wallday began, “MY FRIENDS!”
He was shouting now, above the brouhaha and commotion of the room, and he waited patiently until the din subsided to a more tolerable level before placing his hand on the box on the table. Confidently, carefully.
“At great expense, I have invested my own money, my own time into changing the world forever and today, I am going to show you not the future but the present. The world as you know it will never be the same again.”
Wallday opened the box. Looks of concern then confusion then fascination then joy flushed across his face.
He reached inside and steadily pulled out the contents with some grandeur.
To the layman, it would’ve defied detailed description, but the slight object within was built around a central crystalline component, which shone with a pale violet luminescence. Capping it at either end we’re metal clasps, clenched into the shard with the steadfast ferocity of an eagle’s talons.
Brandishing it like a festive party cracker, a hand on either end, Wallday felt for the details, the function, in the caps and smiling softly to himself, he looked up to the crowd, licked his lips once again and spoke once more: “Gentlemen, I bestow upon you the gift of time...”
He twisted the item slowly. There was a slight grind as the crystal and caps meshed together as one and with an instinctive jerk of his wrists there was a thrum, a pulse and a flash of purple light.
The thrum continued.
As Wallday blinked his way back to sight, his vision set upon the audience and he could see that they, that world beyond the stage he stood on, had frozen in time, while he was able to look round and observe them in his own time, as if they have been preserved in a soft purple amber.
“My days. It works. It really works. This changes... changes everything,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve done it!”
“I think you’ll find,” I chuckled as I walked round the back of the stage, from behind Wallday, “that it was I who made this happen. But regardless, this moment will be fleeting. Well, for everyone watching here tonight at least.”
Wallday’s face dropped. He was not used to this kind of challenge. He had been prepared for anything but for this confrontation.
“Wilkins?! What the blazes? What, what do you mean? What’s the meaning of this??”
Dear reader, I struck swiftly. It needed to be done. My cane cracked against his temple and he crumpled to the floor. I strode back over to the wings of the stage, stepping over his form and waiting for my next moment.
As Wallday’s grip on life loosened, so did the strength in his fingers. The crystalline structure rolled out of his palm, splintered on the dais and, with a sputter, the noise ceased. The world around Wallday and I reanimated, springing forward with a jolt as if an invisible rope had been severed.
The first thing I noticed were the faces of the audience. They, as one, began to turn from fascinated wonder to repulsed horror.
For them, time had not advanced, and as it had started to march once more, Wallday had gone from lively raconteur to a crumpled heap on the floor, with only the flash of purple light separating the two states.
There were gasps, uproar. The crowd, upon rising to their feet, descended into a hysteria.
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Please. PLEASE.” My words, although at first futile, cut through and the frothing noise became a low simmer.
“It is clear that Mr Wallday has suffered a tragic accident at the hands of his pursuit of progress. I know, I know…” I was ushered quickly from the stage, the curtains fell, the constabulary soon in attendance.
At some length I was questioned about what had happened, how things had come to pass, what exactly had gone wrong. I did not tell them the truth. I did not tell them that I believed some things should not be possessed by man. That I knew some powers are beyond our comprehension. What happened that night was all a random act of God, an unforeseeable tragedy, I explained, positioning myself as merely another cog in the wheel of Wallday’s works, with no measure of intellect to compare against the great man himself. There was no satisfaction to be had from my testimony – or from anyone that day in fact. It was just a misadventure. A casualty in the name of progress.
But not all things need move forward. Some things are perfect just as nature intended.
And so I did what I must and though my name will not be remembered, the world is a much better place for it.
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