The Time Bunker

About the Author

Mac grew up on a farm in Yorkshire. At 18, he moved to London to complete his teacher training and remained there for 12 years. Whilst living in London, Mac became interested in filmmaking, attending the Metropolitan Film School and wrote/directed his first short film at the age of 26. He has also directed a number of music videos. Following the birth of his first child in 2010, Mac returned to Yorkshire. He developed his love of storytelling whilst working as a primary school teacher, realising the importance of story in a child’s life. Besides, writing and filmmaking, Mac is a multi-instrumentalist, playing in a variety of bands across the area.

Dedication

In memory of George Ramsay (1952–1997). If only time travel were possible.

Copyright Information ©

Mac Ramsay 2022

The right of Mac Ramsay to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398437241 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398437258 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgements

Natalie, you didn’t hesitate in insisting I ‘go for it’ and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you ‘Fearnes’ for giving me such amazing feedback and encouragement; I sincerely hope you enjoy the final thing. Val, the best mum, dad, nana, friend, loan shark, counsellor and child minder on the planet. Your support over the years has been invaluable.

Chapter 1

April 12th, 2010

It was the darkest day he could remember. The day most people only experience in nightmares. St. Mary’s Church was crammed with the devastated faces of mourners dressed in black. Angelo Villan was a popular man and his sudden and premature death, as the result of a motor-cycle accident, had shocked the community. He, his pregnant wife Marie and 4-year-old son Noel, lived in a picturesque town in the Yorkshire Dales, where Angelo himself had lived since childhood.

Angelo was a motorbike enthusiast – a real petrol head. It was a warm Sunday evening in spring when he had decided to take his motorbike out for a spin around the windy roads of Nidderdale, as the hard-core biking community often did. It helped him to relax and gather his thoughts before beginning a new week running his motorcycle repair garage, ‘Hawkins,’ which was situated on the outskirts of town.

Up in the dales, the roads are narrow and windy, but Angelo knew them well and rode confidently. However, the driver of a car coming from the other direction was not so careful, and had hit him head on; killing him instantly. According to rumours, the driver, a teenage boy who had not long since passed his test, was on the wrong side of the road and may have been looking at his phone as he drove. What a waste. Angelo died because some kid couldn’t wait to read a message.

People would often say that Angelo was lucky because it would all have been over with before he even had time to think. Noel certainly didn’t feel lucky. Up until that moment, he had believed his dad was invincible.

Noel’s mum was a teacher at the local primary school and always seemed to be busy. ‘Teachers are always cross,’ Noel used to think, ‘Who would ever want to be one?’ It was Angelo who had brought up Noel during those formative years. His mum had a steady job and so went back to work soon after his birth; Angelo postponed his career to raise his son. It wasn’t until after Noel’s 3rd birthday that he took the plunge and opened his own garage, his dream business. For the four years that Noel spent with his father, they were inseparable, but now he was dead and he wasn’t coming back.

Many people came to pay their final respects to the deceased man, including a large population of hairy tattooed bikers, dressed in black leathers. At the funeral, the church was so full, there was standing room only. Noel Villan walked behind the coffin with his mother who wept uncontrollably, for the love of her life. All he remembered of that dark day was black clothes and sad faces. He was only four and didn’t understand until much later that his dad would never be coming home. He was told by his mother that his dad had been very badly injured on his motor-bike and would now be living in heaven with God. He couldn’t remember the word ‘dead’ being used until much later.

Noel’s last memory of his father was his voice calling from the front door as he left to ride his motorbike, I’ll be back in an hour or two.

The engine started and faded off as he rode away from the house. And that was it– he was gone. Forever.

Chapter 2

MOD

I don’t remember the exact date I discovered it, but I know it was definitely sometime in late August because it was during the school summer holidays. Obviously, I had no idea what it was to start with. On the edge of our town is a wooded area known locally as ‘the forest.’ It isn’t actually a forest – it’s much too small, but it’s big enough, and has enough trees to have adventures in. Myself and my best friend Aaron, would often play in the forest. It was a great place to do things that you didn’t want your parents to find out about. Our favourite thing to do was to light campfires. I wonder why boys are so fascinated by fire – I have never met a boy who isn’t.

I would steal boxes of matches from the kitchen cupboard and Aaron would bring a fire-lighter or two. In the summer, when the fallen branches are tinder dry, it is easy to get a fire going. We would often light one and just sit there staring into the flames, lighting sticks and watching them glow as the breeze passed around them. We would talk about all sorts – girls mainly, but often bigger questions. What is the meaning of life? Is there a god? Why do people have to die?

We would also find dried plant stems and pretend they were cigarettes. There is a certain type of thistle that, when it dies and dries out, the stem becomes a hollow brown tube. We would light the end in the fire and when it was smouldering, we’d put our lips around it and suck. It was the single most disgusting taste in the world, and we would hack our lungs up when we inhaled the smoke, but boys of a certain age will do pretty much anything to impress each other and we were no exception.

It was during the summer holidays, and I’m fairly sure it was a Saturday, when I first made the discovery that would quite literally change history.

Aaron was with me. We were in the forest, throwing stones at a discarded beer can that we had hung from the branch of a tree by passing a length of string through the ring pull. For ages, we just sat on the ground, unearthing small pebbles and lobbing them up at the hanging can. It’s amazing how much entertainment you can achieve from such a simple game. I liked the sound it made when you hit it – a satisfying crunch. I’d hit it four times and Aaron only twice, so I was in the lead.

I remember the unusual noise vividly. I threw a rock-probably the largest I’d thrown that day. It missed the can and as it landed, it made a clanking noise rather than the thud you’d expect from a large rock hitting the forest floor. It had hit something heavy and metallic.

It startled us enough to make us both sit up. We looked at each other and said nothing for a second or two.

That’s weird, Aaron remarked, Did you hear that? Let’s take a look. I agreed and armed with sticks, we fought our way through the knotty undergrowth; the tangle of thorny bramble branches scratching our legs as we did so.

I spotted it first. Hidden beneath a knot of entwined forest shrub, was a circular, rusty, metal disc on the ground. It was about the size of one of those large hula-hoops that teachers use in PE lessons at primary school. At first, I thought it was laid on top of the ground but on closer inspection, I realised that on one side, there were hinges and on the opposite side, a handle. It reminded me of a manhole cover; the type that you find in gardens to access the sewage pipes. Embossed in the centre were three letters; MOD, followed by the words, ‘DO NOT ENTER.’

I wonder what MOD stands for, commented Aaron looking at me to see if I knew.

I don’t know; perhaps it’s some sort of access to the drains, I replied.

In the middle of a forest? Aaron was sceptical. There would be no reason to run drains through the middle of a forest,