1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (10 page)

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll do climate and geology,’ as if conferring a huge favour. ‘You do the star map, which you want anyway. You can do flora, which I don’t fancy. We’ll both have to do fauna because it’s big.’

‘And the holo?’

I pretended to consider, turning the corners of my mouth down.

‘Oh, Max, come on. I tell you what, you let me do the holo and I’ll do all the housekeeping. All of it. And I’ll talk to Barclay about the star map specs so you don’t have to and then you can talk to the Chief about the pod, equipment, layout, etc., so I don’t have to. It’s perfect.’

It bloody was, too. Game, set, and match.

We shook hands on it and went for a late lunch.

We were, of course, the centre of attention. Sussman loved every minute of it. Professor Rapson dropped an extensive research programme on the table that would mean us not sleeping from now until the end of the next millennium. Major Guthrie produced a massive survival training schedule. I decided to forge a sick note. The Chief congratulated us with a handshake and a request that at least one of us attend sessions on pod and equipment familiarisation.

The next day I settled myself in a study carrel and began to review the material I would want uploaded to subliminal reference tapes. There was a lot; tons of it actually. I called up Gorecki’s Third Symphony and as Dawn Upshaw let rip, I got stuck in.

I was roused, hours later by Doctor Dowson, part of whose job was to ensure historians didn’t lose all track of time and become welded to the furniture. Stumbling stiffly off for a drink, I met Chief Farrell and we took our tea outside into the sunshine.

Gradually a routine developed. I spent the mornings researching, broke for lunch, usually with Chief Farrell, took my data to Barclay’s team for uploading, spent an hour or so discussing equipment operation with the technical section and rounded off the afternoon with Professor Rapson, setting up the next few days’ research programmes. After which, I collected my tapes from Barclay, had a working dinner with Sussman when we updated each other, grabbed a drink with him or Kal and Peterson, went to my room and wallowed in a long bath while playing the tapes (during which I usually fell asleep), before toppling into bed, entangled in my earpieces.

In between all this, I assisted Kal and Peterson setting themselves up for late nineteenth-century Vienna, debriefed them when they got back and saved Sussman’s life when he told Kal her bum looked big in a bustle. We updated our field medic skills and I began to talk to the furniture.

Having got what he wanted, Sussman knuckled down and got with the programme. He also got Barclay off my back for which I was grateful. I repaid him by ensuring Farrell dealt mainly with me which was no problem at all for either of us. The Chief and I usually lunched together and, when weather permitted, we sat outside against a sunny wall scoffing sandwiches. By unspoken agreement we didn’t talk work during lunch hours, preferring to take half an hour or so just to think about something else. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all, sitting with our faces turned towards the sun. ‘Like daffodils,’ I said on one occasion.

‘What?’ he said, laughing. ‘Daffodils?’

At that moment, Dieter said, ‘Hold it,’ and a camera flashed. He looked down and tinkered a little. ‘Yes, it’s working fine now.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Farrell. ‘Not bad. Do you want a copy?’

‘Yes please,’ I said. There were very few photos of me in this world and even fewer in which I didn’t look either drunk or criminally insane and this one had him in it as well. A couple of days later it appeared in my pigeon hole in a neat frame. I put it next to the Horse.

It was a lovely day. I spent a little longer than usual over lunch and most of the techies had disappeared for the regular Friday afternoon football match. I leaned back against the wall in the sun and closed my eyes, savouring the peace and quiet. No one was around and I was half asleep when someone sat down on the ground next to me. I knew who it would be without opening my eyes.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi yourself,’ he said, offering me half his sandwiches. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

He wrapped them back up again and put them down. ‘This is peaceful.’

‘Mm …’

The far-off sounds of violence receded in the afternoon sunshine. I enjoyed a pleasant feeling of isolation.

‘Miss Maxwell. Max …’

‘Mm …’ I said again.

‘Are you awake?’

‘Mm …’

‘I’ve been looking for an opportunity to talk to you; sometime when you’re not drunk, or obsessing about something. Sometime when you’re
listening.
’

‘I’m listening,’ I said, a little indignantly, because really, I hadn’t been.

The long silence made me open my eyes. ‘Chief, I’m here, awake, listening. Is there a problem?’

‘It’s not always all about work, you know.’

‘What is it all about, then?’

‘You’re happy here, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘Why do you ask?’ I sat up suddenly. ‘Are they cancelling the mission? Are we looking at redundancies?’

‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t panic.’

‘It’s an historian thing. And it’s not just any old panic. It’s highly trained panic. It’s taken years of hard work and practice. Please don’t mock.’

‘My apologies. Speaking as your primary trainer, it’s gratifying to see my poor efforts bearing fruit.’

‘So when historians are rioting in the streets, you must be absolutely over the moon.’

‘To drag the conversation back on track …’

‘Yes, sorry Chief. You wanted me.’

He looked taken aback for a moment before pulling himself together. ‘Do you remember when we met?’

‘Yes, on my first day here. You were coming down the stairs.’

He said, ‘You’ve come a long way since then. You stood in front of me, radiating attitude and defiance and now look at you, heading up the most important assignment we’ve ever had. I’m very proud of you.’

No one had ever been proud of me before. No happy, smiling family at my graduation. He stared out over the gardens. I wondered what on earth was going on.

‘Chief, is there a problem with the assignment?’

‘No, everything’s fine with the assignment. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, we’re getting there slowly. Not long now. I can hardly believe it.’

‘The experience of a lifetime?’

‘No, that will be Troy.’

‘Apart from Troy, do you have any plans for the future?’

‘Oh, yes. Thermopylae. Agincourt. Ramses the Great. Don’t get me started.’

‘No, I mean plans that do not actually involve St Mary’s.’

‘Well, no, not really.’

‘Do you see yourself doing this for ever, then?’

‘That’s a bit unlikely. I mean, none of us make old bones, do we? Look at poor old Kevin Grant.’

‘And yet you still …’

‘Well, as either Achilles or Kurt Cobain would probably have said, “A short life but a merry one.”’

‘Do you really mean that? Don’t you see yourself moving into a more – conventional line of work? Or what about a family?’

‘Oh God, no. Families are the invention of the devil. I’m never doing that.’

‘They’re not all bad, you know.’

Something in his tone of voice stopped me pursuing this line of conversation. And it was true, for some people families could be a source of strength and security. Just not for me.

‘My family is at St Mary’s.’

‘You mean Sussman?’

‘What? No!’ Where did that come from? Suddenly, it was vitally important to get this straight. ‘He’s my partner. That’s all.’

He nodded and shifted round to face me. ‘The thing is, Max … I wanted to say …’ and stopped again.

Good God Almighty, he was worse than me. I had no idea what he wanted to say. A corner of my mind remembered the conversation I’d overheard in the paint store. A treasured memory I’d tucked carefully away and took out occasionally to relive and hug close to me. And the Trojan Horse. And the photo. But looking at him now, I had no clue. I knew what I wanted to hear, but he was shy, I was wary, he was a senior officer – seriously, what were the chances? And how much of this was just wishful thinking on my part? Imagine if I said something and he didn’t …

I turned towards him and caught him smiling down at me with such a look of – and then the sodding, bloody football thudded against the wall beside us and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A voice shouted, ‘Can we have our ball back please?’

I threw it back to Dieter. When I looked back he was eating his sandwiches with one hand and typing on his scratchpad with the other. Thank God I hadn’t said anything.

I felt really stupid. ‘I have to get back,’ I said, getting up.

He nodded. ‘Max …’ I looked back at him. ‘After this assignment …’

I nodded and walked away before I became even more confused.

I met Kal at breakfast one day soon after.

She handed me her newspaper and grinned. ‘What do you think?’

I peered at an ad for a local hotel and their next event.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Spa, beauty treatments, massage, Jacuzzi, and ta-dah, the big finish: dinner, cabaret, and disco. They’ve got that illusionist off the TV. We book in for one night, spend the day making ourselves even more beautiful (always supposing that’s possible), drink too much, dance till dawn, have a bit of a lie-in, a very careful late breakfast, and be back here before anyone notices we’re gone. What do you think? It’s just what we need. Come on, when did you last get away from this place?’

Suddenly, it sounded absolutely fabulous. ‘Oh God, yes,’ I said with mounting excitement. ‘Look, they’ve got an indoor pool. We can lie around sipping cocktails and looking sophisticated.’

‘Well, I can,’ said Kal. ‘One sniff of the glass and you’ll be unconscious; but it’s a good thought. And here’s another; let’s ask Helen if she wants to come.’

‘OK. Here she is now. Ask her.’

‘Ask her what?’ said Helen, seating herself alongside. We showed her the article. Surprisingly, she was enthusiastic. ‘Count me in. I’m sick of this place. And you two
must
go. Given your occupation, I’m aware of the irony, but the pair of you should definitely get out more.’

‘I have to go; the Professor wants me,’ said Kal. ‘I’ll book it this afternoon and let you know.’ She exchanged a glance with Helen. ‘Separate rooms?’

‘I’m not sleeping with either of you two,’ said Helen. ‘You both snore and Max makes funny whiffly noises as well.’

‘I do not!’ I cried, indignant.

‘You do,’ they said in unison and exchanged another look. ‘Separate rooms.’ Was something happening here? I don’t snore that badly; although the bit about the whiffly noises might be true. I’m told they’re hilarious.

They pushed off together and I sat sipping my second cup and savouring the pleasure of not thinking about the Cretaceous for a moment.

I looked up and saw Izzie Barclay pulling out a chair at the next table. ‘Hey, Izzie, how are you?’

I got the pained look she always gave when people didn’t call her Miss Barclay, or (more laughably) ma’am.

‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she said crisply and began to spread her toast. Low fat spread. No marmalade. It figured. That was why she was thin and I wasn’t. Or would ever be. On the other hand, who eats toast without butter or marmalade? No wonder she was such a misery. I had a sudden thought and looked at her. We should invite her too. It would be a nice thing to do. She must be lonely. Nobody liked her much. She looked up from her toast.

‘What?’

I took a breath, ‘Izzie …’

Mrs Partridge appeared abruptly at my shoulder, clutching an armful of papers. ‘Miss Maxwell, Dr Bairstow would like to see you at once.’

‘Two minutes,’ I said.

‘No, I’m sorry, now please.’

I sighed and got up. ‘I’ll be back,’ I said to Barclay and followed Mrs Partridge upstairs. It took longer than I expected and unsurprisingly she’d gone when I got back. I set off to Hawking after her, but got distracted by something and it went out of my head. If it hadn’t, if I’d asked her, if she’d come,  how much would have been different?

Chapter Seven

On the Saturday morning I packed a bag and met Kal and Helen outside. We wanted to slip away as discreetly as possible, having no desire to explain our plans to anyone. We tussled briefly over whose car to take and eventually settled on Helen’s.

Determined to get our money’s worth, we made full use of all the facilities, including the hairdresser. I let them cut my hair. Not short, obviously, but an amazing amount lay on the floor when they’d finished. And it looked so much better, sleek and shiny and giving the impression I could control it. Yes, like that was ever going to happen. Monday morning and it was back in the sock bun – like it or not.

Back in my room, I dressed slowly – impractical but pretty underwear, an oriental style gold and black tight-fitting dress and my precious butterfly shoes. They were actually the only girlie shoes I owned. I’d bought them on a rare shopping trip in Rushford, years ago, shortly after I came to St Mary’s, just to remind myself I was a girl. I loved them and rarely got the opportunity to wear them. Tonight, however, the shoes and I were hitting the town! They seemed quite excited.

I put on a little make-up and it looked OK, but everyone knows that if a little is good then more must be even better, so I added more. In my defence, I can only say I would be making an entrance with two tall, slim women, each in their own way quite stunning and the odds were that no one would notice me anyway. Kal was going for her snow princess look in glittering white and silver with Helen doing dominatrix in severely cut dark red.

‘Bloody hell,’ we all said, looking at each other.

I’ve got to say, our entrance was a triumph. Just for once, when the conversation paused briefly, it was for all the right reasons. We were escorted to our table by the head waiter himself, who ruthlessly elbowed his subordinates aside for the privilege.

The table was laid for six.

‘This is the wrong table,’ I said. ‘This is for six people.’

I’m not bright.

Kal perused the wine menu and ignored me.

Helen looked round the room and ignored me.

‘Guys,’ I said, but someone put a margarita in front of me, so I didn’t care any more; it was a good table, right up front, so I just sat back and was grateful.

‘Can we order?’ I said. ‘Because I’m famished and I need to soak up all the alcohol.’

‘In a minute,’ said Kal vaguely. She looked round the room too. Since everyone else was doing it, I joined in. The first people I saw were Dieter and Peterson. Followed by, of all people, Chief Farrell, looking a total knockout in a black suit, black shirt, and silver-grey tie. Wow!

‘Look!’ I said, cheerfully. I know, but the margaritas were beginning to kick in. ‘There’s some of our guys.’

I’m not bright.

‘Oh. What a surprise,’ said Helen. ‘So there are.’

‘Oh. Goodness me, you are right,’ said Kalinda. ‘Shall we ask them to join us?’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

Have I said I’m not bright?

Kal waved. They came over.

‘Good evening,’ said Dieter. ‘You all look very nice.’

‘Yes,’ said Farrell. ‘Very nice.’

Peterson rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Orange people stand aside for a minute. Watch and learn, guys.’ He pulled out three long-stemmed roses from behind his back.

‘First, a red rose for the love of my life, the beautiful Helen. A white rose for my partner, the Ice Princess, Kalinda. And a golden rose for my golden friend, the lovely Max.’ Five people stared at him. ‘And that, my orange friends, is how it’s done.’ He seated himself next to Helen and smiled at her. She blushed. Never thought I’d see the day.

Kal stood up. ‘Would you like to sit here, Chief? Then I can sit here.’ Nobody ruthlessly gets their way like Kalinda. In a flash, everyone was sitting down in their new places. I stared at my rose, which matched my dress. As did Helen’s. As did Kal’s. A solitary non-alcohol soaked neuron began to fire.

We ordered and ate. The cabaret started. I was very conscious of him sitting next to me. We watched the show and then the disco started, so after shouting pointlessly at each other for a few minutes, we got up to dance. The usual thing happened. Just as we arrived on the dance floor the good music stopped and they started with the smooch stuff.

We suffered the usual embarrassed indecision. What do you do? I got no clues from him, so I smiled and stepped forward. We could do distance dancing. It didn’t happen. I stepped forward into his arms. He took my hand and wrapped the other firmly around my waist. We danced. I stepped a little closer. He tightened his grip. Normally, I don’t like this sort of thing. I get panicky if held tightly, but this was – nice. He danced well. He smelled good too. He didn’t hum with the music. I rested my head on his shoulder. The music stopped. I looked up. And he kissed me.

My whole world stopped. Along with my breathing, my heart, my thought processes, and Time itself. And hundreds of fragments of glorious colour and light swirled and swept across the room. Oh no, sorry, that was the glitter ball.

I’m not completely without experience. There was a very nice boy in my last year at Thirsk, whose name I can’t remember; and another during my time in Europe, whose name I can’t remember either. Nothing serious. If truth be told, it was mainly curiosity – after my childhood, would I be able to – would I even want to? I felt nothing; nothing at all. Sex is a bit like scratching a rash – it’s nice when you stop.

I rested my forehead against his shoulder and tried to remember my name. He leaned forward and spoke into my ear. ‘I really, really need to speak to you. Tonight. In fact, now.’ He slid an arm around my waist and we left the room. I wondered what the protocol was for asking a senior officer to one’s room.

‘Would you feel safer in my room or yours?’ he asked.

‘Mine,’ I said firmly. ‘Three oh five,’ in case we got separated on the way. We headed for the lift.

My room was warm and dim – a bit like me really and he settled himself on the couch. I wandered aimlessly. Drink, confusion, high heels, all making significant contributions to my lack of grasp on current events. He said nothing and eventually I came to rest alongside him and assumed an attentive expression. I wondered again how two people who normally had no problems communicating when they wore blue and orange could become so tongue-tied when wearing black and gold. Wasn’t there some work done on using colours to induce certain states of mind? Like painting the home team’s dressing room a vigorous red and the visitors’ dressing room boring beige?

I re-focused to find him staring at me. ‘Where do you go?’ he demanded in exasperation. ‘I’m about to make the biggest speech of my life and you’re just not here!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said defensively. ‘I was thinking about colour-induced moods.’

‘I’m not even going to ask. Focus!’

‘Sorry.’ I wriggled round to face him and waited expectantly. He said nothing, just stared at me, and I began to feel a little alarmed. Several times I thought he seemed about to speak but nothing happened.

Eventually I said, ‘Look, I’m well and truly focused now, but I’m not sure how long I can keep this up. If you don’t get a move on then I’m going to be wandering off again. What’s the problem?’

He took my hand and held it gently and I knew this was going to be bad.

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yes,’ I said, because I did, but with a little twist of unease.

‘Well, you shouldn’t. Nothing is what it seems, least of all me.’

Shit. He was married. No, he was a woman. No, he was gay. I thought I felt something tear inside me.

‘Well, what are you then?’

He took a deep breath and exhaled, not looking at me. ‘I’m from the future.’

‘You’re … from the future?’

I don’t know why I should be so surprised. I know I’m an historian and we tend to think in the past, but, after all, our now was someone else’s past. Really, the only surprise should be that it hadn’t happened before.

He nodded fractionally. Now I could see it – the typical historian’s instinct to give away as little as possible. I could relate to that. Don’t contaminate the timeline.

‘Why are you here? Are you on assignment?’ Bloody long one if so; I’d known him four years and he’d been at St Mary’s two years before that. ‘Are you a fugitive? Are you on the run?’

‘No, no, nothing so exciting.’ He got up and began to wander around the room. I recognised that behaviour. I hate being bombarded with questions, so I left him. After a while he stopped by the window and turned to face me.

I said, ‘Why not start at the beginning, go on to the end and then stop.’

He smiled his small smile. ‘Yes, Lucy.’

‘Shouldn’t that be Alice?’

‘No, you’re my Lucy; the girl in the song – the one with kaleidoscope eyes.’

I was breathless again.

‘Leon Farrell is not my real name. I was born in France. My mother was English and a teacher. I never knew my father. We didn’t have a lot. My mother took extra jobs. So did I. Anything to get by. I got a full army scholarship to – well, a place in France. I graduated with honours and served three years at various land bases around Europe. I got transferred to a carrier, served there for two years, met a pilot named Monique, and married her.’

I sat very, very still.

‘Things were great for a couple of years. She got pregnant. We had a boy. Alexander. Alex. Then another, Stevie. Then she left me, citing career, demands of the military, not enough excitement. I tried to be both parents and carry on working but it was hard. My mother joined us to take care of the boys. Life got better for all of us and it was a pleasure to make things easier for her after all she’d done for me. Those were good years.’ The way he said it made me think there hadn’t been many of those. ‘I came home whenever I could and then I got posted to a research establishment just outside – well, somewhere in England. We all moved. We were happy. Alex started school.’

He stopped, drew back the curtains and stared out into the dark.

‘There was – will be – an outbreak of flu. There’s one nearly every year, I know, but this one was a killer. And cruel. It took the old and the young. Anyone from twenty to fifty only seemed to get it mildly. Other people, the ones outside that age group, just dropped and died. It was that quick.

‘My mother got it first. I’m glad, actually, that she went first. So she never knew … All public establishments closed. The country was at a standstill. I sat with my mother at the hospital until she died, quite quietly and without a fuss. Typical of her. Next day, the boys got it. There was nothing anyone could do. Alex went first. Like his grandmother, he went quietly. Just closed his eyes and drifted away. Stevie … suffered. He didn’t know me. I held him and tried to keep him cool. He cried for his grandmamma. He cried for me. It was … very bad. He died in the small hours. It was the end of my world. I started the week with a happy, healthy family and at the end of it I was the only one left.’

He took a very long, deep breath. ‘They were working on a cure by that time; a vaccine. They took samples of the boys’ blood. And mine, because sometimes … When the doctors asked to see me I thought there was a chance they could … and then they told me they couldn’t … because the boys weren’t mine. They didn’t even have the same father. There was no chance for them. I buried all three on the same day. Their mother didn’t come.’

What can you say? What can you do? He cleared his throat, closed the curtains, and continued with bitter amusement.

‘I was blind drunk for a month. I hit anyone and everyone who spoke to me or who even came near me. I nearly tore France apart looking for my ex-wife, but fortunately never found her. I’ve never seen her since. I don’t even know if she knows the boys are dead. I got suspended from my job and was all set to drink myself to death in six months when St Mary’s found me.’

He turned and started looking out of the window again.

‘Edward found me – in a bar, obviously. He picked a fight; we took it outside, and he hammered seven bells out of me. I woke up in St Mary’s. They offered me a special job.’

He came and sat next to me. ‘Forget all that other stuff. This is what’s important. In my time, St Mary’s is in big trouble. There are, or will be, people who think History can be manipulated, made more profitable. There were more of them than anyone knew. They stole a pod, jumped back and – acquired – two more.’ He watched to see if I would make the connection.

‘Four and Seven! You never found the pods. I thought that was strange. How can you lose a pod?’

‘Exactly. There was no malfunction. We think they killed the historians and stole the pods. And now they have three at least.’

He got up and switched on the kettle.

‘We know that now is a vulnerable time for St Mary’s. Expenditure is massive, there’s no financial return, and losses are high.’

‘They want us closed down?’

‘No, we think they want us – diverted. Or subverted is a better word. St Mary’s must continue now so that it exists in the future. There must be at least one pod for them to steal. So our problem is on two fronts. We don’t want to be closed down by the current authorities and these guys are whizzing up and down the timeline causing havoc. It’s dangerous but profitable so they don’t care. The future St Mary’s is weak and vulnerable, so it made sense to send Edward and me back to fight the good fight here, before they become too powerful.’

I considered this for a while. The kettle boiled and he made some tea. When he sat down, I said, ‘You and the Boss – are here to strengthen St Mary’s?’

‘That’s partly the reason, yes.’

‘But it was the Boss who founded St Mary’s.’

‘Yes, he brought a pod back with him, pretended to “discover” time travel, and used it as the foundation for all the others.’

‘So the Boss brings a pod from the future to now. And that pod is the template for all future pods?’

He knew where I was going with this and smiled.

‘So who actually discovers or invents time travel? Who builds the first pod?’

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You do not want to go there. Trust me, that way madness lays.’ I could believe it.