Today, we’re thrilled to bring you an exclusive excerpt for Women in SFF!

King Street Run is V. R. Ling’s genre-blending fantasy thriller. Before we dip into the excerpt that Victoria herself has cherry-picked for us, let’s find out a little more about this debut from the official blurb:

To Thomas, archaeology was time travel…
little did he know how literal that would turn out to be.

Thomas Wharton, an archaeology graduate, becomes drawn into the problems of a series of anachronistic characters who exist in the fractions of a second behind our own time. These characters turn out to be personifications of the Cambridge Colleges; they have the amalgamated foibles, history, and temperament of their Fellows and students and, together with Thomas, must enter into a race against time to prevent their world being destroyed by an unknown assailant.

King Street Run is a satirical fantasy thriller set among the iconic buildings of contemporary Cambridge.

King Street Run is available now from Elsewhen Press – you can order your copy HERE

Note from Victoria: No doubt it doesn’t need to be pointed out, but I’m a compulsive explainer – the excerpt isn’t a continuous piece of the story but rather a series of scenes spliced together quantum leaping through the first chapter.

Five words. That’s all it took. Just five words to sow the first, far away thought that somehow, something was horribly wrong. The kind of inexplicable nagging that digs a crevice into the pit of your stomach and takes root. The kind of realisation that, like it or not, something is heading straight for you. Like a cricket ball. Ignore it as he tried, and he really did try, that cricket ball was making a beeline for Thomas.

–– ∞ ––

Thomas H. Wharton was a student of King’s College, Cambridge. Prior to winning a scholarship to study for a Masters in archaeology he completed a degree at King Ethelred’s College in Winchester and much like its namesake, Thomas had been unready for life in academia. He was the first person in his family to attend university and despite his scholastic greenery – indeed, perhaps because of it – he had a pragmatic approach to tackling life’s pitfalls; useful training for the metaphorical sinkholes not far ahead.

Time had been feasting upon Michaelmas Term for nearly a month and for Thomas, who was as awed by the surroundings as he was daunted by his course, there could not have been a more glorious, more cheery October morning. Buttoned up from knees to nose in a padded green parka, the young man was in characteristically chirpy form as he made his way to the Student Facilitation Building in Mill Lane; on a mission to submit a request for a supervision room. 

–– ∞ ––

As he wandered through the busy streets, admiring architecture and soaking in the atmosphere, Thomas was soon again in fine fettle and he stopped at the bakery to inspect the vegan options. He had been vegetarian since he was 17 and over the past few years had evolved that one step further. Just as his eyes met with the sausage rolls, his attention was snared by the reflection of a man standing very close behind him, looking over his shoulder. Thinking how outrageously impolite it was to stand so close when there was plenty of room for them both to look in the window coveting savouries at a civil distance, Thomas turned around with “Do you mind!” cued on his lips, but there was no one there. 

He paused, then spun to look over his other shoulder but still there was no one standing anywhere close to him. In fact, there wasn’t anyone within at least several metres of him. He looked one way down the street then the other but it happened so fast that he hadn’t caught sufficient sight of the man to identify him and so he brushed it off, thinking he must have been mistaken. 

With hands in pockets, Thomas strolled casually through the College Gatehouse. At King’s the last building before the river is Bodley’s Court, a striking nineteenth century affair with beige stone walls and Gothic ambitions. It is largely laid to lawn with a path carved through the middle and an old quince tree just off-centre. The tree is surrounded by a neatly dug circle of earth, its gnarly trunk and branches reaching out from the ground like a wrinkled hand. Life may rush on about it, students come and go, but the elderly quince has seen it all before and takes time in its stride, fruiting every 40 years or so if the mood takes it. To the west, facing the river, sits a small patio area with a faded wooden bench; inviting enough to remind students to take time out to enjoy their surroundings but liberal enough in its dispensing of splinters to send them back to work. It is here that Thomas would huddle every morning, feeding the ducks with grain that he bought from a stall in the market. 

–– ∞ ––

By now, Thomas had reached the centre of the bridge and, as was his custom, paused to look over the side. This was partly because of the picturesque view and partly to check if anyone was on the Member’s Only area of the bank. It was a glorious landscape and in his short time at Cambridge this little stretch of river had become his favourite place to think. Looking from the bridge, the fabled Chapel sits resplendent in its Gothic charm and beside it, keeping watch over the river, is the Gibbs Building, a classic Georgian construction with a large, central archway. 

Leaning nonchalantly against the moss patterned stone, Thomas observed three people by the river; a woman standing, looking into the water, and two men sitting on the grass further back, one with dark hair and one with light. If Thomas had been anywhere else in the world he might have thought there was something odd about the trio, but as this was Cambridge he didn’t think too much of it. The oddness came partly from the way the people were dressed, as if they had fallen from the pages of a Victorian science fiction novel, and to a lesser extent an unusual atmosphere that surrounded them, which at the time he excused as the mind fog created by a challenging day. There was also something familiar about them. Something Thomas couldn’t quite put his finger on. He looked at each of them in turn but could not remember where he had seen them before.

Perhaps, he mused, they had been on television. 

The woman was slim, a little over 1.8 metres in height and she had light brown hair rolled into a neat French pleat. Her long coat was cut away at the front into a tunic, fastened with a row of black buttons. The fabric was dark blue with a similar plush lining, but on the back there was a single red line down the centre and a thinner, parallel yellow line extending from each shoulder. An attached hood lay dormant across her back and as she moved the bottom of the coat rippled as it brushed the top of the grass. The tunic had a high collar and there was what appeared to be a brass whistle fastened where the breast pocket would otherwise have been, a long chain looping through the top button hole. Her costume was finished with tight fitting black trousers, like jodhpurs, and a pair of low-heeled black boots, each with a bronze buckle at the top near the knee. 

“You have to give it to the Victorians,” said Thomas under his breath, “they had style.” 

He raised his forehead in contemplation. “They also had appalling levels of social injustice, poverty, corruption, and colonialism, which lacks commendation, but style, yes. By the cart load.” 

Of the two men seated on the grass, the dark-haired man, who was strikingly pale and with well-defined sideburns, was a commanding figure. He wore black trousers, a grey waistcoat, a white shirt with long sleeves that reached his knuckles, and black boots with four square clasps up the sides. A black tailcoat with an unusual side pocket – navy in colour with a light blue stripe at the centre edged with red – completed his outfit. The man was focused intently on a blade of grass held between his fingers, lazily stripping it apart as he lay on the bank, but despite his distracted air, the three people were deep in conversation. All of a sudden he threw the grass aside and stood up, turning from the river, hands on his hips, staring down and shaking his head. 

The man on the left, who had a classic angular face, sandy coloured hair, and wire-rimmed spectacles, had also stood up and it struck Thomas that the three people were exactly the same height. If given maximum wiggle room on the fashion front, the sandy-haired gentleman was passable as Victorian but erred more towards the 1930s. His light brown suit jacket had a subtle herringbone pattern and there were dark brown patches over the elbows. The remainder of his attire was stylishly neutral; beige trousers, a checked shirt, brown tie beneath a tweed waistcoat, and well-shined brown brogues. A brass chain looped from a lower buttonhole in the waistcoat to a side pocket, and now and again the man would pull out a full hunter brass pocket watch, flip open the cover, stare at the face for a few seconds, then shake his head as he replaced it. Thomas screwed up his brow and stared hard at him. Of the three figures, the sandy-haired man was the most familiar.

Deciding to give the people a few moments to, hopefully, finish up and move along, Thomas looked about him at the delightful setting, and his mind began to wander.

–– ∞ ––

With a deep breath, Thomas cleared his thoughts and peered over the bridge again. The unusual characters were still there. He paused, puzzled at what they were doing. Maybe it’s for something at the theatre, he contemplated. A much respected venue for student productions, the ADC Theatre is just a few minutes walk from King’s and it was not unusual to find students and their associates practicing their roles in secluded nooks of College grounds. He stepped back for a moment, looking down at his faded War of The Worlds t-shirt depicting a Martian tripod discharging a heat ray; “Maybe I should make an effort to dress with a little more élan,” he pondered. He rested his elbows back on the stone bridge, leaning his head to one side in his hand and quickly amended the decision, “But I’m keeping the t-shirt.”

The three people did not appear to be arguing but judging by their body language they were either rehearsing a rather intense play or discussing some eclectic subject. Thomas had no desire to interrupt them but similarly he was keen to sit by the river and gather his thoughts, so he decided to approach, greet the strangers, and continue walking further up the bank so as not to encroach on their space. Or them on his.

The stone steps leading down to the river have a small metal gate at the top and Thomas paused before it, admiring the narrow trail as he fumbled in his pocket for the key. Some of the overhanging trees have grown so large that their giant roots twist and turn in and out of the risers creating impromptu half-steps. Thomas adored it. Having finally switched to the correct pocket and feeling the cold metal at his fingertips, he pulled out the key, passed through the gate, and as requested by the sign on the front, secured it behind him. It was approaching ten minutes past 1pm and with clouds gathering, the remaining daylight was already fading to grey.

“Afternoon,” greeted Thomas as he reached the bottom of the steps.

The two men turned to face him. The woman gave a brief, scrutinising glance but quickly looked back to the river. Upon seeing the people up close, Thomas had a revelation. They’re steampunks! he thought. Back home, Thomas had lived near the town’s Arts Centre, a funny little lozenge of a building with a neglected, slightly domed roof covered in self-seeded wispy brown vegetation, scruffy white stucco walls, and – courtesy of its leaky guttering – a prominent green line at one side of its wide double doors. It looked like an old boiled sweet covered in pocket fluff. One of the most popular events it hosted was a bi-yearly steampunk festival. Thomas never partook, but he used to sit on the wall at the top of his street and watch the neo-Victorians arrive in their homemade finery: elaborate outfits that embraced 19th-century aesthetics and the spirit of industrial machinery, all tastefully garnished with elements of classic science fiction. He had always found it an inexplicably hopeful sight. Without thinking, as is so often the wont of his species, this is precisely what he concluded the three people were dressed for and he couldn’t help but comment.

“Terrific outfits!”

The sandy-haired man was the first of the three to smile and the first to offer a hand outstretched in friendly welcome, the other hand tucked casually into his trouser pocket. 

“Welcome Thomas, welcome. Delighted to see you,” was his opening gambit. “I’m Nick.”

Confused at how the man knew his name and subsequently worried he may have missed some kind of tutorial, Thomas responded with a crack in his voice.

“Oh, sorry, am I late? I didn’t realise.” He had attended such a large number of introductory seminars, formal dinners, casual lunches, and preliminary meetings that his first instinct was to doubt himself and consider if he had indeed forgotten one.

“That is, no one told me. Maybe the SIS:TUM isn’t working.” As he spoke, his mind raced through the pile of paperwork on his bedroom desk and very gradually, as he mentally sifted through the envelopes and invites, he became increasingly certain he hadn’t overlooked anything.

“Actually, I wonder if you may have me confused with someone else. I was just taking a stroll. I don’t think I’m meant to be here.”

“One has to admire your existential approach,” grinned the dark-haired man, also offering a hand. He appeared slightly younger than Nick, with prominent cheekbones and a strong, square jaw.

“I’m John,” he said. “And the maudlin water baby over there is Trinity.”

At that moment, the woman turned towards them, a weighty expression in tow, and she uttered the five words that would turn Thomas’ life inside out. 

“The river is flowing backwards.”

As the words left her lips, Thomas had taken a step forward and the air seemed to thicken around him. He continued to look at Trinity, trying to focus, but her movements slowed to an unnatural speed. A strand of stray hair blown in front of her pale face was moving as if he were watching the scene in slow motion. He turned his head to the steps and stared in disbelief as the remaining daylight faded over the grass, evaporating like water in burning heat, shadows retreating as if running from his sight, and the sounds around him shrank gradually to an unsynchronised dub. With the exception of a few surreal reds and greens clinging on here and there, the colours of his surroundings turned monochrome. The vista took on the appearance of an artificially coloured 1950s photograph, the type commonly used on birthday cards depicting happy, smiley people wearing swimming suits at Clacton beach. A sharp chill entered through the back of his neck and shook every nerve as it rattled down his limbs. He began to feel light headed, but still he tried to keep his focus, walking towards Trinity and to observe the river for himself.

“It’s not running backwards,” slurred Thomas as he staggered forwards. “I saw it from the bridge and it looks normal.” 

He stepped back, wobbling as if three sheets to the wind. 

“It’s normal,” he repeated, looking around at the bizarre change in his surroundings. “It’s everything else that’s wrong.” 

Trinity stepped forward to stop him from falling, placing a hand on his shoulder. She looked squarely into his eyes.

“Not that river,” she responded calmly. “The one behind it.” 

Her serene demeanour was the last thing he remembered before waking up on his bed in Bodley’s Court.

–– ∞ ––

King Street Run is available now from Elsewhen Press – you can order your copy HERE