Prologue

‘On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.’

As he spoke these words, Jack Worthing turned slightly away from the people with whom he was speaking and opened out to the fourth wall of the drawing room. A brief pause, and then…

The theatre exploded with applause. A big, bearded man was the first to his feet, with the majority of the crowd following almost immediately. It was a sea of white faces and green carnations rising on a sudden black wave.

One of the few not to join the standing ovation was a young woman, a brunette, who sat two seats away from the bearded man. She looked uncomfortable, possibly because of the tuxedo she wore (it had certainly caused discomfort for other theatregoers), possibly because of where she was.

The young blonde between the two paused in his clapping to look down at her. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin in a ‘come on’ way, but she shook her head and shrugged herself deeper into her seat. The man tilted his head, smiled lopsidedly at her, and turned to the third in their trio, the bearded man. Whatever words passed between the two were lost in the thunderous celebration of the play they had just watched.

Just when it seemed the applause couldn’t get any louder, from behind the now-closed curtains stepped a large man, dressed in the black tuxedo and the green carnation buttonhole that was common amongst the audience. He smiled, tossing his leonine brown hair and raising his hand, a lit cigarette burning in it, for quiet. The audience responded by redoubling their appreciation.

Amidst this tumultuous outpouring, the young blonde suddenly bent over, grasping his right leg, a pained expression on his face. This was enough to bring the woman to her feet, and she helped him past the other theatre patrons toward the entrance. The bearded man followed, and together they assisted the young man outside.

Behind them, the audience had finally quietened and the man on the stage was speaking in a rich, mellifluous voice. The doors of the theatre held in his words, but the rich tone could not be contained.





‘Damn these implants!’

Outside the theatre, Nick was leaning his back against the wall and pounding his fist against his right leg. His eyes had that shining quality common to someone holding back tears. The Doctor and Alf looked on helplessly.

After about a minute, he visibly relaxed and slumped against the wall, shaking his head and standing upright again.

‘You’d of thought that with all their technology the Martians could have built something that worked!’ He looked up at his companions, his eyes clearing. ‘I mean if I stand up for too long, it hurts. If I sit down for too long, it hurts. Too hot, too cold…’ he gestured around the snowy street, ‘running or just standing still, these bloody things use any excuse to give me grief. I can’t even rely on them to hurt consistently!’ Looking sheepish and lowering his voice, he added, ‘Sorry to interrupt your show.’

‘No great loss,’ Alf replied.

‘“No great loss”?’ bellowed the Doctor, plainly scandalised. ‘We’ve just been to the premiere of one of the greatest comedy of manners on this or any other planet, and you say “No great loss” about missing the author’s address to the audience! Still, even that’s not worth keeping you in a position that causes you pain, my boy,’ the Doctor added as he turned back to Nick.

‘And you can always come and watch it any time you like,’ added Alf, fishing out her red-bronze time amulet from inside the collar of her shirt. She paused for effect. ‘So, here we are in London at the end of the nineteenth century…’

‘Fourteenth of February 1895, to be precise. A Thursday,’ interrupted the Doctor.

‘… to watch a play about a lot of stuck-up rich people with too much time on their hands. It’s not exactly my idea of a fun night out!’

‘Really? I think it’s the mutt’s nuts,’ said Nick. ‘He’s got a way with words, whoever wrote it.’

‘The author is Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. And he is the reason we are here. Let’s get off the main road and I’ll tell you more.’ The Doctor headed down a side alley.

Nick began to follow him, but Alf called him back. ‘Did you hear what the date was?’ she asked. Noting Nick’s blank look, she continued with a grin, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, dummy!’

‘Oh yeah.’

Nick reached for Alf’s hand, smiling sheepishly, but she stepped back, a brief look of fear crossing her face. She reached up and touched the scar on her left cheek, then shook her head as though to clear it. She gave him an apologetic half-smile, and said, ‘C’mon, let’s catch him up.’ He almost called her back to speak with her, but then decided to let her sort things out in her own time.

As they rounded the corner, they were surprised to see the Doctor holding a large bouquet of… vegetables? From the liberal sprinkling of snow within the withered bundle, they could safely assume it had been outside in the winter streets for some time now.

‘It appears my warning to the theatre management was heeded, and the Marquess of Queensberry’s attempt to embarrass Wilde was thwarted,’ stated the Doctor rather smugly, tossing the bundle of turnips, beets and carrots to Alf, who deftly caught them.

The Doctor then reached into his pocket and extracted a small pamphlet, browned and crinkled with age. He tapped it against his hand as he waited for his two companions to come closer. ‘I found this amongst some of the artefacts that were waiting to be catalogued at the shop.’ He handed the pamphlet to Nick, who started to read it. Alf peered over Nick’s shoulder to avoid waiting, discarding the vegetable bouquet over her shoulder.

‘I’m not sure I get this,’ said Nick. ‘It’s full of “the corruption of youth” and “the sins of the Cities of the Plains”, whatever they are. Whoever wrote it doesn’t seem to get to the point.’

‘It’s having a go at Oscar Wilde because he’s gay,’ explained Alf, ‘and encouraging all right-minded Christians to treat him like shit. Charming!’

‘Nice try, Alf, but your grasp of the current vernacular is somewhat lacking. At this point in time, “gay” is a slang term with a different meaning, such that someone who is “living the gay life” would be living off immoral earnings.’ As always when lecturing, the Doctor’s face and hands became animated. Both Nick and Alf, used to this, relaxed and waited for the Doctor to get to the point.

‘In fact, the word “homosexual” didn’t exist until 1869, when it was used in an anonymous German pamphlet. It entered the English language in 1892, but has very little usage at this point in time. While it is Wilde’s sexual proclivities that will shortly cause his downfall, the way you are approaching the issue is anachronistic, about seventy-five years ahead of its time.

‘In any case, you two don’t seem to have spotted the most important facet of that pamphlet. On the back, Nick, what does it tell us about the publisher?’

‘Let’s see… It says it’s a private publication of the Reverend Dr Chasuble, and printed in 1900. There’s an address in Paris…’

‘And what do we know about Dr Chasuble?’ prompted the Doctor.

‘That he doesn’t like Oscar Wilde?’ asked Alf, her face betraying boredom with the Doctor’s game.

‘His name is familiar…’ replied Nick, looking skywards in a vain hope of inspiration.

‘His name should be familiar. We just made his acquaintance in the theatre.’

‘He was one of the characters in the play!’ Nick announced, pleased with himself.

‘Exactly. An entirely fictional character, writing a pamphlet attacking his own creator. There is something happening here which may pose a threat to the nature of reality.’

‘So, next stop, Paris?’ asked Alf.

‘Indeed. I believe it will be a very pleasant summer in 1900.’