Avid, eclectic reader; writer of micro-fiction, short stories and novellas (content warning etc). Main account @dav@social.maleo.uk #fedi22 #scifi #writing #tfr

The Owl and the Watch

Time always moves forwards, even if one travels backwards…


1

The Owl was exactly as I remembered it. The dulled but acrid smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, an aroma I’ve not inhaled for a long, long time. The chocolate-brown bar, unvarnished for a decade, sits at the apex of a long space in which someone had haphazardly arranged tables and chairs for punters to position themselves for the inevitable balance of sonorous conversation and silent contemplation.

I paused momentarily in the entrance, breathing in the memories, before taking tentative steps through the throng of punters; a few of them look up from their pint pots, evaluating my alien presence in what is usually a very local environment. Some stopped their conversations, dulling the sound and producing that characteristic feeling of quietness when the unknown meets the expected; I felt the absence smothering the otherwise fond recollections I have of this place. I sped up through the assault course of seats and souls, heads turning as I pass.

Reaching the bar, I signalled to the landlord, a portly man in his early fifties, wispy off-ginger hair (a kind man may have called it ‘strawberry blond’), who was standing with a gingham towel, polishing water spots from the glassware. I remember well that he was very particular about the upkeep of his pub, ensuring happy customers and healthy coin.

“What can I get you?” He asked with a short smile and without putting down the glass or towel currently in action.

The feeling of something lost washed over me – followed swiftly by the sensation of opportunity. “Could I have a pint of Guinness?”

“On the way; that’ll be a pound twenty.” With one hand, he began pouring the slow stout into the pot just polished; the other, he extended towards me, palm open to collect the fee. I reached into my pocket and retrieved a few silver coins, which I swiftly deposited into his hand.

“Keep the change.”

He looked at the coins in his hand and raised an eyebrow. “There’s only a quid here mate, you owe me another twenty pence regardless.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at me, bemused by what he must have thought was an attempt to underpay.

“Shit, sorry.” I dug into my pockets, took out a few more coins and proffered my full hand to him, from which he plucked a single silver polygon. I left my hand outstretched until he, with a look of relaxed humour, took another silver coin.

“That one’s for me, alright?”

“Absolutely!” I felt the look of relief appearing in my cheeks, red as the evening sun.

He stopped pouring the pint and let it rest on the drip tray, the pint slowly transforming from a cloudy taupe to black; mesmerised, I watched as it finally settled a centimetre or two from the top of the glass, to then be swiftly retrieved by the landlord, lifting it back up to the tap and filling it to the brim; again, the haze slowly cleared to a perfect separation between milky head and black liquid. He passed it over the bar, swiping the glass along the bar towel to remove the residue of overspill from the base, placing it delicately in front of me. I waited before lifting the glass, allowing a sheen of condensation to form on the surface, just like I remembered it from when I was younger. Reverently, I lifted the glass to my lips and sampled a taste of my history.

At best, it was disappointing. It was more bitter than I recall, less sweet.

The landlord must have noticed me grimace; with another sparkle, he asked, “Is it alright?”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s just not quite how I remember it tasting.”

He looked at me for a second or so, his eyes suddenly noticeably green, then said, “Well, those lines have just had a clean, so it won’t be that; might just be a slightly altered recipe in these new batches.” He was reaching for me here; the formula for this beer hasn’t changed for years – decades, even. This is entirely because I hadn’t had a glass of it for over a decade and, therefore, just couldn’t accurately place what it had tasted like.

“No, no – it’s just… been a long time since I’ve had one.”

“Tee-totaller?”

I thought about this briefly before responding; “Yeah, I suppose so.”

He flashed green again. “Well, let me know if you need an intervention after you’ve finished that one.” His Cork accent sounded slightly out-of-place given the Birmingham accents around us, but there was something in the way he said ‘intervention’ that was distinctly part of the fabric of the establishment. I clearly wasn’t the first “non-alcoholic” that he served and I certainly wasn’t to be the last. I nodded and smiled; he half-smiled, then turned away and returned to his polishing.

I continued to sip the pint, quietly taking in the look and layout. There was a large glass mirror, frosted with the name of the pub at the top and with an ornate etched border around the perimeter, set in the centre of the wood surround; this, in turn, was flanked by shelves of spirits. Above the mirror, on a small purpose-built shelf, was a stuffed barn owl, mottled brown and staring glassily at the surroundings; its eyes followed me as I looked at it, peering into my skin and counting the goosebumps which appeared as a result. It had always been there, but now it felt like it knew. Nervously, I took another sip of the stout and turned my head, unable, however, to avert my stare – until snapped out of it by a bump from behind as another customer weakly stumbled to the bar to top up their intoxication. I took the opportunity: turning, and spooked by the stare of the stuffed, I instead surveyed the room and absorbed the past. I sipped my drink again, taking in each bitter tone and each coffee and chocolate note which found its way to me. As I lost myself in the aroma of the drink, my watch, inanimate until now, started to vibrate gently on my wrist.

‘I must be here on the wrong day if he’s not here yet,’ I thought, a wave of melancholy coming over me. Speeding up and completing my consumption, I nodded at the landlord (who looked rather surprised that I’d gone from sipping to chugging in mere moments), and left the pub as quickly as I could. I didn’t notice the heads turning to look at me as I departed.

2

A few days later, I returned. The locals, recognising me from my previous visit, didn’t appear as confused at my appearance as the last time. They, instead, mostly carried on their conversations – admittedly, a little more sotto voce than they were talking prior to my arrival, but at least it wasn’t immediately silent – with far fewer of them observing my passage through the pub.

I beelined to the bar; the landlord was, characteristically, polishing his glassware, this time with a towel celebrating the Queen’s jubilee. Spotting me, he put the glass down.

“Welcome back! Will it be a Guinness again?” He had the memory of a man long practiced at remembering customers, orders and how correlating the two of those things resulted in repeat business.

“No, thank you, not today. I want to try something else I’ve not had for a while.”

“Oh, right – what are you thinking?”

Pondering the variety available, I settled on something my mom used to drink. “Can I get a Glenmorangie, please? A double – with one ice cube?”

The eyebrows raised again. “You sure? That’s quite a bit harder than a Guinness, especially if you aren’t used to it.”

I looked him dead in the eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Alright, feller.” He spun on his heel and worked his way through a complicated dance, retrieving in stages a glass, an ice cube, a shot measure and the bottle of scotch from the shelf to the left of my seat. I didn’t remember it being there before, but there it was then; I continued to watch him as he placed the ice cube into the glass, then as he decanted the golden liquid into the 50ml measure and deftly presented the glass to me. Then, he stopped; he simply watched me as I took my first sip of whiskey in a very long time. He didn’t even immediately indicate the need for payment.

Again, I grimaced – but, this time, the flavour took me. Smoky and smoother than I’d expected, it slipped gently down my throat, burning slightly as it went. I must have looked like I was enjoying this one, once the sharpness left my face, as the landlord said, grinning: “Well, it seems that one agrees with you! That’ll be three quid, mate.”

Smiling back at him, I nodded, feeling the warmth fill me up from the neck to the crown. I passed him three of the off-gold coins I carried with me, then took another sip, allowing the sting and the resulting warmth to touch every corner of me. I looked up; the owl appeared to turn its head and offer me a beaky grin, simultaneously amused and deprecating – it knew that I was about ten millilitres away from an extraordinarily long nap.

As I drew another iota of liquid from the glass, I heard a characteristic giggle emerging from behind the bar. Then, with gusto, the owner of the noise appeared: a door marked ‘Staff Only’, at the side of the bar, flew open; from it, hooting and howling, came a superhero with metal-effect plastic wings attached to his back rocking up and down as he pummelled the dusty floor with both soles, his diminutive ochre leather shoes creating a distinctive slap and scratch as they ran up to the landlord and back out again as he turned on his heel, screeching “I am the Angel!” and being responded to with “Back out of here, now, son!” by our illustrious, suddenly magenta, and otherwise calm landlord.

“Your son?” I asked, immediately wide awake and with a Cheshire Cat grin spreading across my face.

“Aye, he is; little terror.”

“How old is he?”

“Oh, he’s five now, still a nipper. He starts school in September, but until then, he’s part of the fixtures and fittings.” A wry grin emerged at the corners of his mouth as the puce diminished and the door at the side of the bar closed, the lasting image of tight brown curls being lost behind the teak door.

“Into science fiction at the moment, is he?”

He looked towards the heavens. “He can’t get enough of it. His favourite at the moment is some ridiculous character from one of the kids shows on TV. He is obsessed with those bloody plastic wings, zooming around the place like he’s a bird or something.”

I took another sip of the nectar; it cascaded down my throat in helix, as I processed this. “What do you think he’ll be when he grows up?”

He looked at me, curious. “I don’t know, feller; perhaps an astronaut?”

We locked eyes; after an uncomfortable nanosecond, I looked away – up and immediately into the eyes of the owl, the amber of its eyes flashing at me as the feathers appeared to ruffle and return to their previously recumbent state. I observed it for a moment, it’s locked eyes seeing through me and into my past, reading and consuming what it saw, judging and calculating what it means for my future. From the corner of my hearing, the landlord called me, breaking my reverie.

“Looked a bit like a space cadet yourself there, matey…”

“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“That whiskey gone to your head?”

“No, no -“ I pause. “Well, maybe a little.”

“I’d better not break out the Irish then, a Bushmills would tip you over the edge!” The towel, until then in the clutch of his bear paws, was then thrown over his shoulder to allow him to motion towards the second shelf down, where the Irish whiskey stood proud. Smiling, I nodded.

“You aren’t wrong!”

We both chuckled simultaneously, sharing that moment of clarity, understanding and connection. I continued to sip the drink, waiting patiently for my guest – absent on my previous visit – to arrive, whilst the landlord went back to his polishing and placing of glasswares. I must’ve been there for about half an hour nursing the whiskey until he finally entered the establishment.

Wearing a distinctive jet-black long-coat, a charcoal trilby, and with patent leather shoes polished to within an inch of their lives, he looked like he was a member of the mafia. He strode, confident and undeterred by the swivelling heads, through the wooden tables and outstretched legs until he reached me. Ignoring the gaze of the landlord, he uttered a single word.

“Watch.”

I looked him square in the voids of his eyes as I took the watch off my wrist and, nervously, handed it to him. Breaking the stare, he looked down at the proffered device, took it in a thin and pointed hand, turned it over to review it from all angles and, satisfied, pocketed it. From the opposite pocket, he retrieved a very different looking watch – the screen was deeply anachronistic, a computer display of numbers sitting alongside a small digital representation of contemporary dials. The numbers were steadily counting down from forty-five minutes, inexorably towards zero – as I watched the numbers diminish, dropping to forty-three minutes as I quietly observe the screen.

A gentle cough. I looked up to see the landlord, who in turn looked baffled. The visitor’s face snapped towards him, quick as sin. He narrowed his eyes, nose pointing directly at the landlord accusatorially, before he looked back at me.

“Don’t forget: Novikov.”

His oily voice coated the room, dark and unctuous – and terrifying. My voice was cast out of my body; all I could do was nod, averting my eyes from his, looking down at the sticky green carpet which lined the bar area, a remnant of a past before wooden flooring became de rigeur. Seemingly, he accepted the nod as confirmation of my understanding; he turned on his heel and, without another word, strode back out of the bar.

A moment passed.

“He was a funny feller.”

I tilted my head back upward, looking at the landlord, from whom the sentence had emerged. He looked perturbed, but not to the point of being overly concerned. It was clear in his face that he’d seen his fair share of ‘funny fellers’ over the years he’d been plying his trade.

“Yeah, he’s not a man of many words.” I understated with the fluency of a child who didn’t want to get into trouble having kicked a ball into the neighbour’s greenhouse.

The name he uttered circled in my mind, however. Novikov. I knew why I was there and why I needed this particular iteration of the watch. I couldn’t have got it from the travel agents who had given me the first watch as it had… limitations. This one, however, was free of constraints, engineered in such a way that the keeping of time was more malleable. Nervously, I looked around; the landlord had returned to his work and nobody else was within immediate eyesight of the watch. With the touch of someone caressing a priceless artefact, I touched the glass front of the digital display and it bubbled into colour, golden threads weaving across the centre of the screen, winding around each other until they, eventually and after a few moments, coalesced into a single rope, constantly rotating along its central axis. From it, a cyan spur appeared, a line reaching from a particular spot on the rope towards the edge of the display, with today’s date – 18th July 1983 – and the current time presented through minuscule text in mustard, subsequently joined by a pulsating dot which appeared on the rope, blue as the line and almost accusatory. Finally, the end of the line was joined by the words:

‘YOU ARE HERE.’

I glanced up; the landlord was looking at me again. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking at the watch – just at my reactions to it. I coughed gently, placed three more pounds on the bar, then said:

“I might need that Bushmills, actually.”

With that eyebrow firmly raised, he went about his way, the ballet of bottle and glass. The beverage was, this time, placed firmly in front of me; he held the glass for a little longer than was comfortable, not releasing it until he’d said: “Take it slowly, now.”

I nodded. I had no intention of knocking back this drink, but need it I absolutely did. What I intended to do next needed some Irish courage. It took me a full twenty minutes to drink that shot of whiskey – and every moment of it was delightful. I couldn’t have extracted any more joy from it whilst, otherwise, lost in thought regarding the plan. The plan which I’d spent a decade conjuring. The plan which had taken dozens of people unaware of their involvement (and one or two who knew a little but not a lot – and one who knew everything but was able to keep his beak shut for a bribe). The plan which, if not enacted, could alter thousands, maybe millions, of lives – but, the thing that made me the most fearful: could end mine.

As I reached the bottom of the glass, I looked into the eyes of the landlord. He looked back at me, expectantly, towel over his shoulder; the owl looked down on us both knowingly, wise and portentous, the harbinger of time. He deserved to know the truth.

“I’ve got a story to tell you.”

3

It was in the year 2037 that time travel was finally invented. Quantum computing had been the turning point, enabling us to work out algorithms that dealt with maybe as well as certainly. The maths involved had taken almost thirty years to construct, Universities in a massive hurry to be the first to announce the Next Computing Revolution; corporations eager to monetise the past. I’d been born in the midst of this race; my father, a theoretical mathematics professor at the University of Oxford, during which tenure he’d met my mother (who was a Doctor of Literature) in the Bodleian, had been at the forefront of it’s development.

In 2041, he was murdered in a burglary at our home, an apparent corporate sting for any research which had yet to be published. The inquiry announced that the death was unplanned; the burglars caught courtesy of Britain’s obsession with CCTV and tried, receiving sentences for burglary and manslaughter which were far less than they should have received. The autopsy showed that my father had an advanced cancer that we were unaware of which would have limited his lifespan anyway, which was taken into consideration when sentencing, alongside his ongoing and expected contributions to the world’s knowledge of quantum physics.

I still remember the funeral; it was terribly bright, uncharacteristically hot for a British summer. The cremation was sparsely attended, as was his wish, with an open casket wake occurring the night before, in keeping with the Irish side of his heritage. We served Escovitch fish, Calaloo and Bammy at the meal afterwards, in keeping with the Jamaican side of his heritage. We celebrated his parents; his mother, my grandmother, had come from Jamaica to Britain in the Windrush days, a child of ten, with her mother; his father, an Irishman, had been born when his parents had settled in England after the Second World War. They’d met in Birmingham, one running a pub, the other working as a seamstress.

Nana, we used to call her, was a force to be reckoned with. She was strong and controlled, independent and unwavering in her beliefs. She lived to a ripe age, bringing up my father after the disappearance of my Granddad. I never met him – he disappeared before I was born. Father spent years after Nana died working on his theorems, his algorithms, his calculations, in order to reach a point where he felt he could look into the past and find out what had happened to Granddad. They murdered him before he was able to complete his work. In the years following, the science was refined; the research he’d left with the University unlocked time in a way we’d never been able to prior to this – whole industries were set up to exploit it. In 2066, where I’m from, you can go on a holiday to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or experience first-hand the thud of the guillotine as the aristocracy are culled to make way for the Republic, or travel to see the Dodo prior to the discovery of it by man. Also, the future is a new kind of dry – has been for a couple of decades, since synthetic alcohol was created. Synthol allows you to feel intoxicated, with no resulting hangover, but equally you don’t feel intoxication in the same way as it self-limits its impact on the body – so the past is the only place to get a real drink anymore, one that really makes you feel drunk.

I carried on my Father’s work, as I have a natural tendency towards mathematics – but my leaning is towards the stories time can tell. Some call me a temporal journalist, reaching back into the past and looking at the nuance, refining calculations and seeing where events have either been impacted on by travellers or where events were natural causality, writing their stories and considering the long-term impacts. Time travel comes with its complications – and causality is the foundations under the house. Take Novikov, for example – Novikov’s self-consistency principle explains that if a time-traveller affects the past, then we have already lived through the effects of that change – that the timeline is unbreakable and paradoxes cannot exist as causality simply allows for the change to have already been implemented. You can’t kill Hitler – but you can be the one to anger Jesus in the Temple. The problem is that, for a time traveller to affect the past, one must first be able to interact with it in a way which allows that alteration.

In comes the watches.

A fundamental aspect of time travel, the watches monitor the traveller and their impact on the timeline. They are manufactured to be contemporary with the age to which the traveller is going – if you’re visiting the Victorian era, you get a pocket watch. If you’re visiting the Romans, you will arrive to find you’ve been placed next to a sundial, from which you have a limited area of motion. The watch’s job is to remind you when you’re reaching the end of your travel time – as time travel is not a permanent leap, taking far too much energy to maintain the connection between one time and another, it can sever the link and pull you back to your own time – but it also has the job of offering a delicate ‘beep’ when you’re about to attempt something which will cause a timeline reset. Any alteration to established historical events which would affect causality is automatically rejected by physics and time itself gets quite angry – causing a reset of the events which you had caused and throwing you, bodily and unceremoniously, back to your own time period.

Thus, it was in the 21st Century that we discovered time has a personality.

This watch, however, has had a couple of major amendments to its operating system. The first is that it allows the traveller to monitor causality – to see when they are part of  the events taking place, rather than just an observer. It looks like a watch from my time period because it needs no camouflage – those that notice it are part of the events about to unfold. Novikov is incontrovertible – the past will always occur as it has always occurred, and any of our involvement in it has already happened. Time doesn’t get upset about this; instead, she simply shrugs and wonders what is left to unfold as a result of it. It’s also one of the main reasons why this watch is so difficult to get a hold of – their distribution and use is very carefully controlled and only routinely available to members of an organisation called the Temporal Alignment Agency – whose job is to make sure that temporal resets aren’t required, as they tend to have the same sort of effect on my present as a Richter 4 earthquake occurring in every molecule in the universe simultaneously – sufficiently unpleasant to make everybody feel sick at the same time, and, though relatively small, can have much greater compound impacts. The dot on the screen helps to identify your temporal status: it is green if you’re an observer; blue if you’re involved; red if you’re about to commit a temporal crime for which a reset will occur. Even so, and even though we are now fully aware that our impact on the past is common and expected, the T.A.A. don’t like people being conscious of their specific involvement, should they attempt to do something which affects the timeline in a way that isn’t causal and accidentally creates a reset. The problem, though, is relatively simple: if you’ve grown up knowing a history, you can sometimes work out that you’re involved and how you need to enact those events. The T.A.A. is particularly aggressive about things like that as they see it as a conscious involvement in the past which could have unintended effects. In fact, there are international laws to prevent it; if you work out your involvement, you’re meant to report it so that the timeline can be reviewed by temporal journalists such as myself, to see if you truly are the person involved, to see exactly what you do and to ensure you don’t cause a reset event; your travel to that point is then carefully managed by the T.A.A and monitored by independent observers of the UN Temporal Oversight Board. Once or twice, someone has broken past these rules and has caused the universe to shake – the last one destroyed much of St. Petersburg.

The second alteration, however, is more interesting. It allows the wearer to send someone from the timeline they’re in to wherever it is they themselves have come from – to pluck someone from the past and bring them to the future. This, as you can imagine, is an extremely non-standard feature – usually reserved for the T.A.A. to forcibly return a crime traveller to the future, for their immediate incarceration. Sometimes, people are accidentally transferred by agents – the agency checks history and then they are either returned if they can do so without causing a reset or… history had already marked them as disappeared and the future gains a citizen.

So, I suspect now it’s time to talk about Granddad’s disappearance. He was a publican, a man of hard work and good humour, by all accounts – and Nana’s stories of him were always the most vivid, regaling us with humour and horror of the times when they were together. My father had often spoken about the last time he saw him: he was behind the bar, entertaining the customers as always – in particular, he went at lengths to mention, a mixed heritage chap in his late thirties who was sitting at the bar speaking to his Granddad on the night he’d simply never come back from his shift. Father often felt like it was his fault that Granddad had disappeared – Father was messing around behind the bar, being a very young boy, and Granddad had got cross.

Equally, that was what Father credited his path through life with: he was otherwise destined to take over the pub from Granddad. After the family had recovered from the disappearance, Father had thrown himself into school, taking his natural talent in mathematics to another level. Nana encouraged this, supporting him both at home and in his education, scraping money from anywhere she could to get him additional tutoring for maths and science, to help him – including, for a couple of decades, running the pub that Granddad left behind – one we revisited many times after her passing, barely changing over the decades that passed. Nana was one of few in our local area to get a home computer when they were more prevalent in the 90s, a donation from a local organisation which identified the same talent in my Father as Nana did, encouraging him to learn how to code and to use his maths to show the computer what to do. He was a genius – either by birth, by imagination or by learning – and he self-taught his way to changing the world. One algorithm at a time.

4

His eyes bored into mine. After having listened intently to the tale I’d told, he appeared to be searching for what to say, how to say it. I looked at the watch; the rope had once again disappeared, to be replaced by the timer. The borders of the screen were flashing red; one minute remaining. I broke the silence with a request.

“Could I have a Wray and Nephew?”

That elicited an immediate response.

“Are you mad, son? You’re telling me all sorts of fantastic tales about time travel and about paradoxes and about how you lost your Granda, and you want a rum that will knock you into next week, so it will, like it’s the bloody time travel you’re telling me about?”

I took a deep breath.

“My Nana always told me that it reminded her of being home in Jamaica, of her mom and dad and their house near Black River Bay that she left when she was little.”

He stopped moving. Completely.

“What did you say?”

“Well, specifically… she used to say that it reminded her of yaad.”

The colour drained from his face.

“You…”

“Sorry, Granddad.”

“And this is…?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at me with a knowing sadness in his eyes. Tears started to form along the edge of his eyelid, the flush of understanding in his cheeks, empathy clawing at my heart with the ferocity of a hawk scratching open its prey.

I leaned out and touched his arm. The watch started to beep and vibrate frantically, drawing the attention of the flock in the room, heads swivelling in a right pea-souper. Granddad’s eyes opened wide, wider than they had all along, for a brief moment before he simply flashed out of existence, a quick inrush of air filling he gap in the present that his body no longer occupied. The timer on the watch face disappeared and was replaced by the rope again, showing a green dot moving along the timeline, until it came to rest at the end of the twisting rope – a gentle reminder that one cannot travel beyond our point of origin. As there were few punters in the room left who weren’t just a little over the line of inebriation, they collectively shrugged and accepted that someone was playing silly buggers and the landlord must have nipped out. Behind the door, I could hear my father running around with his plastic wings on. He would never know that Granddad had been sent into the future using the technology that he himself had helped to invent; that this was necessary for him to have invented it; that physics dictates that this happens and that I’m likely to go to a temporal prison (a fancy name for being incarcerated in a prison in Cretaceous-era Antarctica) for having done it once I return – as one shouldn’t know that one is part of the plan. Granddad will be fine, once he’s adjusted to his surroundings; the T.A.A. will orient him, as his past is now written as part of my father’s, and he’ll be reintegrated into society after a year or so of coaching. He’ll likely end up running a Synthol bar – he might even be able to reopen The Owl, which I’d left shuttered after Nana passed; I’ve left a sealed instruction with a lawyer to be opened tomorrow and passed on to him as soon as he’s released by the T.A.A.

I reached across the counter for the Wray and poured myself a shot. It is likely to be my last drink – alco or synth – for a long time. I could, however, take my time with this – the watch will deposit me in the same space-time location as my Granddad regardless of how long I’m here, limited only by the contraints of having to arrive back in my original time without having aged significantly. The future, once one is in the past, is largely frozen (from the traveller’s perspective).

Duly, I sipped the rum, taking my time. As I did so, I looked up at the owl. Its eyes appeared to turn green for a second before becoming glassy and inert again. The watch once again started to beep and vibrate gently as I looked up at the owl’s static plumage, a notification that agents were on the way to this location.

It had always been my favourite bird.


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This work by Dav Kelly is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

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