3. A Second Chance (14 page)

‘You heartless, hypocritical bitch! I can’t believe … you’d leave this boy to die. This is Helios, for God’s sake. You gave him chocolate. You played hopscotch with him. You have a chance to save him and you’re telling me to just turn him out? Out there? Do you actually know what’s happening out there? Or are you so caught up in History and yourself that you’re too stupid to notice? Well, I’m not you, thank God. I won’t do it. Shoot me if you dare.’

‘I’m not going to shoot you, Chief Farrell. I’m going to shoot him.’

I levelled the gun at Helios.

‘Or you can open the door and put him outside to take his chances. They’re better than if you try to keep him in here.’

He didn’t move. He didn’t believe me and it was vital that he did.

I clicked off the safety. Would I do it? Would I kill a child? Most importantly, would he believe it? He must. It was our only way out of this.

I hated him for what he was making me do.

The silence dragged on and on. Finally, he turned his head and said, ‘Door.’

Only then did I realise I’d been holding my breath.

Without looking at me, he said, ‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Agreed.’

Then he was gone.

Peterson and Guthrie re-entered the pod. Guthrie raised his eyebrows when he saw the gun but said nothing. I made it safe and put it back.

Tim checked over the console. I washed my face and hands, dabbed at my nose again with shaking hands, tried to tidy my hair, and straightened my clothing. I’m an historian and we never go back looking scruffy.

Without seeming to, I watched the clock, wondering what the hell I would do if he wasn’t back within twenty minutes.

But he was.

Guthrie said, ‘Here he comes,’ and as he spoke the door opened and Farrell tumbled in.

I wasn’t the only one staring at him in shock. He looked exhausted and even through his two-day stubble his cheeks were grey and hollow.

Without looking at anyone, he took himself off to a corner and sank to the floor.

I said, ‘Whenever you’re ready, Tim.’

‘Jump initiated.’

And the world went white.

That night, I partied harder than I ever had in my entire life.

I drank. I ate. I drank. I danced. I drank.

Markham and I participated in the infamous tray race and nearly broke our necks.

My attempt to drink a yard of ale nearly drowned Miss Prentiss.

Kal and I sang “Blow the Man Down” in a way that gave sea-shanties a bad name.

I caught Guthrie or Peterson looking at me occasionally, so I smiled, waved, and partied even harder. I knew that if I never spoke of it then they wouldn’t either. I’d lifted the incriminating tape from the pod’s internal security system and destroyed it. If Guthrie noticed the gap, he never said anything.

No one ever knew what Leon Farrell had tried to do. I didn’t write him up. That was the most I was prepared to do for him.

We never spoke directly to each other again in this life. We communicated through com links or third parties. I avoided him if I could. I never forgave him.

Whenever he looked at me, his eyes were ice-blue and empty. He never forgave me.

We never left St Mary’s. Our new life together died, stillborn.

I should have been devastated but I wasn’t. I was buoyed up on a wave of righteous anger. That he, of all people, could have tried to do such a thing was almost past belief. And so I took my rage and my fury and I nursed them. I could never forgive the man who had forced me to choose between him and my job. Because, in the end, with my back to the wall, I had chosen my job – as, I think, we both always knew that I would.

Chapter Thirteen

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story of Troy. Legend tells us that the cause of all the trouble, Helen, returned to Sparta with her husband and, typically, the pair of them lived happily ever after, while for everyone else the bloody aftermath rumbled on for decades.

Odysseus struggled to get home for twenty years. Kassandra and Agamemnon would both be murdered by his wife, Klytemnestra. Him in his bath, naked and vulnerable; and her, stabbed in Agamemnon’s bedchamber as she quietly awaited her self-predicted fate.

We left Odysseus and his problems for another time and another jump. That would be a major assignment in its own right, but both Kal and I jumped to Agamemnon’s palace at Mycenae because we wanted to see the end of Kassandra’s story.

We went as bath slaves. We landed well ahead of the actual event, slipping into the deep shadows and spending hours waiting, unmoving and silent. We witnessed what we had come to see and slipped away in all the confusion and upheaval that follows a mighty king’s murder.

Troy was the end of many things and the beginning of others.

For everyone in that part of the world, after Troy, nothing was ever the same again.

Or for me at St Mary’s, either.

It was a measure of our growing independence and prestige that, for this presentation, Thirsk came to us.

We wined and dined them and then sat them down in the Hall. I gave my usual introduction, outlined the mission parameters, and described the methodology. The streamers came on-line and suddenly we were there – on that small hill outside Troy, panning across the fertile plain that was as familiar to me as yesterday.

I felt my heart contract and, under the guise of watching the holo, moved back into the shadows.

We took them through the city, showing brief glimpses of daily life. Not too much – we didn’t want them descending into vigorous academic debate – or screaming and hair-pulling as lesser mortals might call it – before we’d finished.

We gave them shots of the upper and lower city – a brief look at the royal family – a very brief glimpse of Achilles and Hector as they faced off for their fatal confrontation – a fabulous shot of the Black Ships piling up on the beach and finally, a far-off shot of the devastated city burning – all black smoke and ash and the long lines of people on the beach.

They were speechless. We had to show it twice and even then they wanted more.

Afterwards, the Chancellor asked me if I would publish. ‘The ending of the war. The Trojan Horses. You should publish.’

I shook my head. I’d left it a little late to start publishing now. I could imagine the reaction to my paper. I’d rocked enough boats in my time. Leave the world its stories.

I shook my head.

‘Publish or perish,’ she reminded me.

For a member of St Mary’s there are many more imaginative ways to perish than simply failing to publish regularly.

I thanked her and declined.

She regarded me over the rim of her glass.

‘Could I interest you in joining us at Thirsk?’

I paused, my own glass halfway to my lips. Could she? That was a thought. A very flattering thought. After all, I had been prepared to leave St Mary’s. Mentally, I’d already made the jump. Now I was being offered somewhere to jump to.

A new beginning. In new surroundings. Somewhere I wouldn’t remember, every day, how Chief Farrell had poisoned the Troy assignment for me.

I could see Kal regularly. And Peterson and Dieter when they visited.

I could cut my bloody hair.

She was watching me carefully. ‘Think about it,’ she said, and walked away to re-join Dr Bairstow.

Actually, I did. I thought about it a lot.

The next evening there was a knock at my door. I’d been dozing in front of the TV. I shambled over in sweats and with my face imprinted by the pattern of the cushion. One day I’ll be sophisticated. I opened the door to see the Boss standing there. I woke up in a hurry.

‘Dr Maxwell, may I come in?’

‘Of course, sir.’

At least I didn’t have to rush around tidying up. I learned at a very young age not to leave any trace of my passing. The bed was made and everything tidy.

He sat on the saggy couch.

‘An excellent presentation, Dr Maxwell. Please pass on my thanks and congratulations to everyone involved.’

I said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and waited for the real reason for his visit.

‘Am I going to lose you?’

I decided to be honest. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

He nodded. ‘The Chancellor, in what she imagines is a gesture of courtesy, has informed me she is doing her best to poach a leading member of my staff. Tell me, Max, if you do leave, would you be running from – or running to?’

‘That’s a very good question, sir. I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I don’t like myself very much at the moment.’

‘Do you think that by removing yourself from St Mary’s you can escape this self-dislike?’

‘Well, a change is as good as a rest, they say. I don’t know. I’m sorry, sir, these days, I don’t know what I do want.’

He got up to go. ‘While you’re thinking about it, may I offer a word of advice?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Paint. I remember a young historian returning from WWI, some years ago now, a little younger and lot less wise than she is today. She resolved her own unsettled thoughts by dragging them out into the open air, plastering them across the walls in SickBay, and daring anyone to object. I rather liked that young historian and I wouldn’t like to think she’s gone for good.’

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’d like you to clear away the Troy material as soon as possible, Dr Maxwell. I have a new assignment lined up for you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He paused at the door. ‘That’s three consecutive
yes sirs
, Dr Maxwell. Your docility is unnerving. Kindly desist.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I brooded for a day or so. As Dr Bairstow had said, once, long ago, I’d come back from the Somme with a head full of images that wouldn’t give me peace. This was very similar. I had to get this down somehow. If I ever wanted peace of mind, I had to get this down. I planned two pictures, the first showing Agamemnon, dead in his bath, and the second, the death of Kassandra.

Once started, as usual, I couldn’t stop. I painted it all.

The hollow, wet slap of water echoing around the bath chamber. The jerking, jumping light from the flickering lamps reflected in the restless water and bouncing back on the walls and the ceiling. Puddles of water everywhere. The sweet smell of oils and perfumes. Agamemnon’s naked body rocking gently in the choppy water. Squat and blocky, criss-crossed with scars, with gaping wounds that trailed separate scarlet ribbons across the turquoise water.

And standing above it all, tall and straight, wet hair hanging, her sodden clothing clinging to her body, heavy but strong, cold-eyed and implacable, another Lady Macbeth, two thousand years ahead of her time. Her blood-red shadow fell across the body of her husband like a curse.

Even while I was getting that scene down, I was thinking of the next. The other half of the story. This murder would be different. The first showed the accomplished deed, the second would show the other murder as it actually happened.

I wanted to show the contrast between the two women. Kassandra the girl, tall willowy, ethereal, other worldly, powerless now, and Klytemnestra the matron, the queen, heavy with childbearing, supplanted, past her best and dangerous because of it.

Kassandra in robes of turquoise, the same colour as the water in Agamemnon’s bath, red hair exploding around her head, Medusa like; and Klytemnestra in royal purple, her fading hair escaping its intricate knot. Both women’s faces are inches apart, eyes locked in hatred, jaws tense, each knowing the other for what she is, and it is only as you look down that you see she has plunged the dagger deep under Kassandra’s breast, up into her heart. Kassandra is already dead but these two will remain locked in hatred until the end of time. Shadows from every corner reach across the room and every single one is pointed at Klytemnestra.

I did paint both pictures – and I finished them. I don’t often paint people but this went like a dream. They were big too. Peterson had to stretch the canvas for me. I left them propped up against the wall and wondered what to do with them, and after a week or so they were just part of the furniture until Dr Dowson approached me one day and asked if I would be prepared to let him have them for the Archive. I watched them go with no emotion as they disappeared with the rest of the Troy material.

And I still couldn’t make a decision.

People think we historians are stuck in the past and have no idea what’s actually going on around us. That’s not true. Sometimes we’re very aware of what’s going on around us. Sometimes we even participate.

We were attending another all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow and he really wasn’t happy at all.

‘Good morning, everyone.

‘I’ll put all this in simple terms for the hard of understanding. As those of you who take the trouble to keep abreast of current events will be aware, the latest attempt by the government to implement a form of poll tax to pay for their current crop of stupidities has been meeting with the same levels of success as those achieved in 1381 and 1990. There is countrywide unrest and, even in Rushford, I understand a politely worded letter of protest was delivered to the council yesterday. I personally become very depressed by mankind’s inability to learn from its mistakes. However, any of you thinking of venturing out into the world this weekend should be aware of current events.

‘Please also be aware that your contracts specifically require political neutrality, so if any of you were thinking of indulging in matters riotous, you will be in breach of contract and liable to disciplinary proceedings. Since none of you ever have, or ever will, pay one single penny in poll tax or its equivalent, I will be particularly unsympathetic to anyone attempting to emulate the exploits of Messrs Tyler, Ball, and Straw. I trust I have made myself clear on this matter.’

Disappointed, his unit nodded.

‘Dr Maxwell, may I see you in my office at your earliest convenience, please.’

Shit! How does he know these things? He couldn’t possibly know that Peterson, Markham, and I, full of civic indignation, were off to add to the turmoil in Rushford at close of play today. Markham even had our banners ready. The polite NON AD CAPITAGIUM (No to the poll tax), the hopeful MAGIS STIPENDIUM HISTORICI (More money for historians) and the always accurate POLICITI NOSTRAE OMNEC WANKERS SUNT (Most politicians are not very good).

We suspected he’d obtained the wording from an online translation site. No one had the heart to tell him.

Mrs Partridge was tight-lipped.

‘He’s already had telephone calls from Thirsk, the bank, and the Chief Constable this morning. Please try not to irritate him, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Of course not, Mrs Partridge.’

Fat chance.

‘Good morning, sir. Are we staring at bankruptcy again?’

‘It’s never that bad, Dr Maxwell. There are always areas where – adjustments – can be made.’

I made haste to distract him before he thought about adjusting me.

‘What happened about The Play, sir? I thought we were going to be rich for ever.’

Some five hundred years ago, Dr Bairstow had commissioned a play from the man himself, Bill the Bard, concerning the life of Mary Stuart and buried it at St Mary’s for us to find and become financially independent. This inspired plan had fallen at the first fence when Professor Rapson, sneaking a quick preview, discovered that in this version, the sixteenth century had executed Elizabeth Tudor instead. We’d had to nip back and sort it all out. That part of the mission had been extremely successful. Sadly, the part where we were supposed to bring back that murdering bastard Clive Ronan had gone less well. He’d given us the slip. Again. He always got away. But one day …

However, back to the present. Dr Bairstow hadn’t finished.

‘And then, of course, our collection of sonnets, the incalculably priceless sonnets revealing the identity of the Dark Lady, were somehow – given away, Dr Maxwell.’

Now that was a little unfair. I’d offered them to a future, damaged St Mary’s whose need was far greater than ours. And he’d reburied the sonnets himself for them to discover in the future. How was I to blame?

‘In some nebulous manner which I cannot be bothered to explain, Dr Maxwell, I hold you completely responsible for our current predicament. However, I am giving you the chance to redeem yourself.’

He surely didn’t expect me to nip into the future and ask for them back?

He handed me a file.

‘The Gates of Grief.’

I know this sounds like one of those violent computer games to which the security and technical sections are always challenging each other down in Hawking, but the Gates of Grief is actually the narrow stretch of water in the Red Sea, where the Horn of Africa nearly touches the Yemen, and, according to the latest research, it’s the place where our ancestors made their second and only successful crossing out of Africa, to spread across the rest of the world.

I stared at him. Even after all these years, he still had the power to surprise me.

‘But sir … How …’ and then remembered he wasn’t in the best mood and was unlikely to appreciate a member of his senior staff bleating at him like a confused sheep.

He raised a discouraging eyebrow but I battled on anyway.

‘Establishing the coordinates will be nearly impossible, sir. Estimates vary between 130,000 and 60,000 years ago and …’

‘You’ve been back further than that, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t event-specific, sir. That was just bimbling around in the Cretaceous. The Gates of Grief is just one tiny event in a vast ocean of time and without …’

‘Not a tiny event, Dr Maxwell. One of the most important events in the development of the human race.’

‘Agreed, sir. But the point I am trying to make is that without specific coordinates …’

He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Specific coordinates.’

I stared at it. If Dr Bairstow said these were the coordinates, then they were. I wasn’t going to argue.