The Curious Case of the Man and the Watch

The Curious Case of the Man and the Watch

‘He thought it was their first date; she maintained it was their anniversary,’ I told my colleagues. ‘That seems to be where the argument started.’

Doctor Gruber looked up over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Early onset dementia?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘The subject is only thirty-four.’

The other three doctors present looked pleased that theirs wasn’t the first case to be discussed and I hated them. They always seemed so self-assured.

Doctor Gruber asked me if the argument had been violent and I shook my head. That made him sigh heavily.

‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell us why this man is detained here under the provisions of the Mental Health Act,’ he said, leaning back in his ergonomic chair.

I picked up the summary of events the police had provided. It was short on the sort of detail Doctor Gruber liked but gave all the salient points, so I read it verbatim.

‘Daniel Martin and Lauren Purnell had a table at Café Paris. Staff reported that an argument broke out in which Ms Purnell took exception to Mr Martin failing to mark an anniversary and threw wine over him when he claimed he’d not met her before. The disagreement escalated to a level whereby the staff called the police. On their arrival the situation was diffused but when Mr Martin was asked to settle the bill for two starters and a carafe of Bordeaux, he tendered what appeared to be counterfeit notes and was arrested. It was at this point that Mr Martin claimed to be a time traveller from the future and the notes in his possession were legal tender in his time.’

‘Ah,’ said Doctor Gruber, ‘now we get to it.’

Mr Martin wouldn’t be the first time-traveller we’d had at the hospital. We already had a woman who claimed she had fallen into a time vortex on the way home from watching the execution of Anne Boleyn. But there was no point in mentioning that and I continued reading.

‘Once in custody, Mr Martin became increasingly agitated, demanding the return of a wristwatch, taken along with all personal possessions on detention, and that he be allowed to return to his own time. The police requested a mental health assessment and…’

‘And another fruitcake ended up in our patisserie,’ Doctor Gruber interrupted and my colleagues laughed. That was an accurate take, if politically incorrect.

I knew what was coming next. Gruber would want to know what conclusions I had formed. This was the part I hated most in case reviews; talking through my own practice while colleagues gently shook their heads or let out little sighs that took lumps out of my professional confidence. All that while Doctor Gruber tapped his pen impatiently on the table-top, occasionally raising an eyebrow that screamed are you really a qualified doctor?

The truth was my encounter with Daniel Martin was strange. That’s common in my profession, but this man was…well, different.

There was no highly agitated speech or other particularly concerning presentation, but he kept looking at the pale band of skin on his wrist where his watch had been. Then he’d look up at the clock on the wall of the consulting room and wince.

‘You seem a little anxious,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me why?’

He stopped pacing. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

‘You can talk to me,’ I said.

He nodded, but uncertainty was painted across his face. Then he said, ‘I’d be really grateful if I could have my watch back. The police took it off me.’

I asked him why it was important to him and he laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

He began to pace the room again, but with less urgency. It was the kind of pacing people do when they’re thinking. I stayed silent for a while and just observed him. I imagined women found him attractive. Probably men too. He had rock star looks, with thick unruly black hair and designer stubble. He was athletic and there was an intensity in his blue eyes that was almost transfixing. That’s what drew me most. I can always see mental instability in people’s eyes, but I couldn’t see it in his.

‘Tell me your story,’ I said.

He smiled and that turned to a chuckle. ‘It didn’t go very well when I told the police.’

I shrugged. ‘I have to assess your mental well-being.’

‘It’s not so great,’ he said, with a frown. ‘I’m not unwell, though, doctor, I just can’t stay in this time.’

I asked him why that was and he said he could only remain outside his own time for a short while. Strangely, while it was no way to form a professional opinion, I wanted to believe him.

‘Tell me how you came to be here,’ I said.

He sighed. ‘You already know. Please can I have my watch?’

‘Talk to me and we’ll see,’ I said.

And then he told me. He said no one believed him, but he was indeed a time traveller. He worked for an organisation in the future and wasn’t supposed to travel in time for personal reasons, but he did. More than that, he wasn’t proud of those personal reasons and now they had resulted in more trouble than he could handle.

‘You see, doctor,’ he said, ‘I got into dating lots of women at the same time. Something that would be really tricky to manage in the present but is easy when you can travel back and forward in time. Today I can see someone last year and tomorrow someone a couple of months from now. It was all going fine until…’

‘Until?’

He finally stopped pacing. ‘Until I keyed in the wrong date and travelled back to my anniversary with Lauren when I thought I was going back to our first date.’

I found myself asking, ‘Why did you want to go back to that occasion?’

He looked at me askance. ‘Because if you’ve already done the first date, you can go back and do it again knowing how to make it better. All very wrong, but wouldn’t you if you had the chance?’

God knows I am used to madness, but it made some kind of sense. I knew time travel was impossible, but this man wasn’t remotely like the delusional people I encounter almost daily.

I stood up and told him we would talk again soon.

‘My watch.’ He clasped his hands together in a prayer like fashion. ‘You promised if I told my story you’d let me have it.’

Those eyes again. A mixture of pleading and persuasion. When I handed it to him, I realised that it had stopped. He said the watch hadn’t told the time for eighty years.

‘Then why do you want it? ’I asked

He smiled broadly. I could feel his tension evaporating as he fastened the

timepiece to his wrist. ‘It does something better than tell the time.’

Of course, I confined my report to Doctor Gruber only to the patient exhibiting anxiety and claiming to be a time traveller.

When I’d finished, Doctor Gruber nodded and asked, ‘So what is your diagnosis?’

‘Too early to say,’ I said.

‘Really?’

Gruber wore a look that said, what’s the matter with you?

My so-called colleagues all looked delighted. The more time Gruber spent making me feel small, the less he’d have to do the same to them.

‘I need more engagement with him,’ I said, ‘but I managed to reduce his anxiety levels significantly without medication.’

Gruber said, ‘How?’

‘I gave Mr Martin his wristwatch. It’s very unusual looking. It doesn’t even work but he calmed markedly. I judged there was no appreciable risk in returning it to him.’

And that’s when I discovered how wrong my judgement was because an orderly entered at a rush to tell us that Daniel Martin was gone.

‘Gone?’ Doctor Gruber’s voice was raised.

‘But I locked him in,’ I said, aware of all eyes being on me.

Gruber slammed his palm down on the table. ‘You couldn’t have done.’

The orderly handed Doctor Gruber a print-out which he snatched and read.

‘This is impossible,’ said Gruber, passing the print-out to me.

But the impossible was there in a digital record of my locking the door with Daniel Martin inside and another of the orderly opening the door later to find the room empty.

It was then that my phone pinged. An email, but how could it be from Daniel Martin? It read – thank you for returning my watch. By now you’ll realise it was my means of travelling back to my own time, so I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing Lauren again. Oh, and if you’re interested in time travel there’ll be a meeting in the central library at eight o’clock last Thursday.

There was no salutation; just a photo of him wearing his watch next to a calendar from eighty years ago.