3. A Second Chance (17 page)

We sat at the top of a low rise and I listened to the sounds of the sea.

‘Are you leaving?’

‘What?’

‘Are you leaving St Mary’s?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, I heard the Chancellor offer you a job and I know you’re not very happy at the moment. Can I do anything?

‘You just have.’

‘I didn’t do anything and you didn’t answer the question. Are you leaving?’

Was I? Was I really going to leave St Mary’s?

‘No, of course not. In what other job do you get to see the face of your ancestors? I couldn’t do another job even if this one kills me. Which it probably will.’

He was silent for a while, poking the coarse sand with a stick.

‘Glad you’re staying.’

‘Me too.’

He put his arm around me. First time ever.

We sat in silence while I had a bit of a think.

‘Tim, did he do all this just to keep me here?’

‘Dr Bairstow? Wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

‘Tim …’

‘Yeah, I really wouldn’t mention that to anyone, if I were you. Let’s get our stuff. We should be getting back. Mission accomplished.’

‘And we didn’t really interfere that much.’

His face brightened.

‘That’s right. This time, we’ll hardly have to fudge the report at all.’

Chapter Fourteen

Six months later, I was in my office getting ready for one of my favourite tasks. This was when I sorted out the assignments for the coming year.

Forget computers, data-stacks, and high-tech. The easiest way to plan for the coming year’s assignments is to push the tables together in a U-shape, send your bitterly complaining assistant out for three rolls of lining paper, and get stuck in.

Miss Lee had marked off the centuries and I started laying things out.

Firstly, on pink sheets, there were the assignments from Thirsk. Since they paid our wages, they had priority.

Secondly, on green sheets, anything carried over from the current year. This didn’t happen often, fortunately.

And thirdly, on blue sheets, suggestions and requests from people at St Mary’s. And what a varied lot there were. Major Guthrie wanted Bannockburn. Again. He never seemed to realise he’d stand more chance if he selected a battle that England actually won. There was a request for The Great Exhibition at CrystalPalace. That would be from Kal, impervious to my argument that anything that recent was practically yesterday and didn’t actually qualify as History at all.

I’d got as far as the Famous Assassinations assignment. This was one from Thirsk. In no particular order, we had Archduke Ferdinand at Sarajevo, whose death was a major cause of the First World War, Abraham Lincoln, and Julius Caesar. I rather fancied that last one for myself. One of the worst things about my job is that I don’t get out and about in History as often as I used to. One of the best things about my job is that I can cherry-pick. I definitely fancied Caesar. I wondered if Peterson did as well. A nice little trip out for the pair of us.

There was a tap at the door and Markham and Roberts sidled through. Miss Lee, scenting entertainment, abandoned whatever task she was engaged upon, and I braced myself.

‘You asked for suggestions,’ said Markham, ‘but we were out on assignment and missed the deadline. Is it too late?’

Technically, yes, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue.

‘Show me what you’ve come up with.’

Roberts stepped forwards. Smart, alert, and polite – I was instantly suspicious.

‘Well, we thought we’d go for something a little different. You know, less battlefields and blood and more refinement and culture. So we’ve given the big boys a miss and put together three nice, quiet jumps that encapsulate the rich origins of –’

‘Just get on with it,’ I said.

‘OK. Bohemia, 1265. Belgium, 1366 and Munich, 1385. As you can see, not the most obvious choices, but areas which, we feel, would benefit from a rigorous and thorough examination into the –’

I said, flatly, ‘Bohemia, 1265. King Otakar sets up the new town of Budweis and grants them a license to brew. 1366, the Stella Artois brewery is founded, and 1383 is, I believe, a very important date for lovers of Lowenbrau everywhere.’

Markham stepped back in astonishment. ‘Good gracious. What an extraordinary coincidence. I had no idea. Did you?’

Thus appealed to, the other musketeer shook his head and indicated his own surprise.

I tried hard not to laugh.

They regrouped.

‘Well,’ said Roberts, ‘what about 1374 – the Dancing Mania of Aix la Chappelle?’

I was tempted. Who wouldn’t be? A massive and widespread outbreak of spontaneous dancing. Probably caused by ergot poisoning, but nevertheless …

I looked at the two beaming, guileless faces in front of me and couldn’t find it in my heart to reject them.

‘Leave the details and I’ll consider it.

They scampered from the room.

I laid out the last sheets and stepped back, frowning. There were the usual clumps around Ancient Greece, Egypt, and Rome. Someone wanted the Battle of Hastings. That might be a good one – sort out the controversy over the arrow in the eye, once and for all.

There was another clump in the sixteenth century. The Tudors and Stuarts were always popular. I’d have to be careful whom I assigned. Schiller, Peterson, and I had already been there, sorting out Mary Stuart.

And I had various search and rescue operations to fit in around this lot. The Great Fire of London in 1666 and the destruction of St Paul’s Cathedral. We would nip in, (well, I wouldn’t – I was in Mauritius in 1666, but someone would), save what treasures we could find – and nip back out again. With luck before an entire cathedral fell down on top of us. If the god of historians was with us.

I was wandering around the tables, muttering and moving things around, when the phone rang. Without taking my eyes off twelfth-century France, I groped for the handset.

‘Max?’

What did he want?

The line was terrible. He was obviously in Hawking and they were running some piece of equipment that made him sound as if he was on the other side of the universe.

‘Chief Farrell?’

‘Where are you?’

A burst of static hurt my ears.

‘In my office.’

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

‘Apparently, yes.’

‘Lunch?’

‘What? What did you say? I can’t hear you.’

‘I’m waiting.’

The line went dead.

Well, that was odd.

I set off down the stairs, wondering what was going on. The Hall was deserted. Half a dozen historians had obviously decided to be somewhere else.

The dining-room was similarly deserted. Mrs Mack gave me a palms-up
where is everyone?
shrug and I responded with my palms-up
Search me.

A morning of oddities. We’re St Mary’s. It was lunchtime. I should be up to my withers in people clamouring for sustenance. It was Wednesday, too. Toad in the hole day.

The corridor to Hawking was deserted. I met no one. There should have been an advancing orange tsunami of famished technicians who hadn’t touched food for anything up to forty-five minutes. And yet, nothing.

I let myself quietly through the hangar doors and knew at once that something was wrong.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Hawking was never quiet. There was always the hum of electronic equipment, techies shouting to each other across the vast space, the tinkle of dropped tools, and, over everything, a tinny radio playing housewives’ favourites.

There was none of that. Just sound-sucking, heavy silence.

At least I’d found everyone. What seemed like the entire unit was standing around in twos and threes, all facing towards Number Eight.

No one spoke.

Without thinking, I let the door slip from my grasp and it banged behind me.

Heads turned.

Someone said, ‘Here she is now.’

Peterson weaved his way through the crowd.

He stood directly in front of me, masking whatever it was from my sight. And me from them.

His eyes were red and wet. He said, very gently, ‘Chin up, Max.’

I nodded.

He took my hand and threaded it through his arm.

We walked slowly towards Number Eight.

People fell back on either side.

No one spoke.

I saw Dieter sitting on the Number Seven plinth.

He was crying. Dieter was crying. His face was red and blotchy.

Polly Perkins had her hand on his shoulder. She was crying too.

I stepped carefully up onto Number Eight plinth.

Peterson ushered me into the pod.

Dr Bairstow stood in the back corner, his hands crossed on his stick.

I couldn’t see his face.

Helen was kneeling on the floor, packing up her kit.

My world did not end. It exploded. Exploded soundlessly into a million tiny fragments, spinning silently through space. And I suddenly realised I didn’t hate him. Had never hated him. And that it was now far, far too late.

He lay on his back, arms outflung. I could see his tool roll nearby. The console panel was off, exposing the innards.

Helen finished stowing her kit and began to speak. I heard only the words ‘sudden,’ and ‘massive’.

After she had finished speaking, the silence dragged on.

I felt nothing.

Dr Bairstow lifted his head.

I couldn’t look at his face.

‘I know that you and he were not … but I thought, perhaps, you might like a moment …’

How does he know these things?

They left, taking Peterson with them. I was alone. In every sense of the word.

Stiffly, I knelt beside him.

His eyes were closed. He looked asleep.

I took his hands and gently placed them on his chest. For the first time in living memory his hands were colder than mine.

I straightened his clothes and smoothed his hair.

I leaned forward and laid my head on his chest. There was no strong, steady heartbeat.

I don’t know for how long I sat beside him, holding his hand while he made his final journey. While he finally went somewhere I couldn’t follow. To some place from which I couldn’t bring him back.

Time disappeared.

Either a few minutes or a hundred years later, Tim touched my shoulder.

‘We have to let him go now, Max.’

Maybe he was expecting me to protest.

I said nothing.

He helped me to my feet.

They’d cleared the hangar.

Helen and her team waited at one end.

Tim took me through the doors.

I turned towards my office, but he stopped me. ‘Not today.’

He took me upstairs to my room.

I said my first words in this new life without Leon.

‘I’m fine, Tim.’

‘If you could see what I could see, you wouldn’t say that.’

The tea tasted odd. Very odd.

I closed my eyes.

I could see nothing.

I slept.

I did not dream.

Whenever it was that I awoke, Tim was still there.

He handed me a mug of tea.

‘Drink this. Then you need to tidy yourself up a bit. The Boss wants you. And Kal is on her way.’

‘Kal?’

‘Burning up the motorways as we speak.’

‘She should see Dieter. He’s not going to deal well with this.’

‘She’ll want to see you first.’

‘I’m fine.’

And I was.

No huge red rose of grief bloomed inside me.

No aching sense of loss.

No bitter regret for lost opportunities.

No guilt.

No self-recrimination.

No – nothing.

Tim said, ‘Max,’ and looked more distressed than I could ever remember seeing him.

It occurred to me that I should say something to help him.

I said, ‘Tim,’ and put my hand on his.

Tears slid down his face.

‘Tim, my dear old friend. Don’t cry. He wouldn’t want that.’

‘I’m not crying for him, stupid.’

I’m shallow. I’ve always been shallow. Whether naturally or because of my up-bringing, I don’t know and it’s not really important. When Bad Things happen, I just shut down. Other people don’t like this.
He
didn’t like it. Hadn’t liked it. But it’s a godsend. It keeps my head clear. It allows me to function. Somewhere inside me is a locked room where the Bad Things lie deeply buried. My childhood, the child I carried and lost, Sussman’s treachery, the murder of Isabella Barclay – it’s all there, safely locked away. No trouble to anyone, least of all me. This was just another Bad Thing to be locked away and forgotten.

All things pass.

‘Max, I don’t know what to do for you.’

‘You don’t have to do anything for me, Tim. I’m fine. Let me make you some tea.’

He tried to protest, but I overruled him. He looked dreadful. Of the two of us, I was in far better condition.

He didn’t finish his tea, getting up to go after just one sip.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I have to go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t bear it any longer. Maybe Kal will know what to do.’

Then he was gone.

I finished his tea as well, showered, and was about to leave my room when Dr Bairstow turned up.

‘Sir, am I late? I was on my way.’

‘No, no. I thought I would come to you.’

‘Please, come in.’

He limped straight to the window and drew the curtains. But not before I had glimpsed movement in the room across the roof.

They were clearing out Leon’s belongings.

I appreciated the thought, but it was unnecessary. I was absolutely fine.

‘Would you like to sit down, sir?’

He sat heavily, placing a bottle of wine, two large brown envelopes, and my personal file on the scarred coffee table in front of him.

I put two glasses on the table, sat down beside him and waited for him to begin.

He didn’t ask how I was, which I really appreciated.

Like an echo from the past, he said again, ‘Am I going to lose you, too?’

I responded cautiously. ‘Not as far as I know, sir.’

He picked up the first envelope.

‘I ask because I found this amongst L – Chief Farrell’s personal effects.’

I opened the envelope. Property details. Small flats in Rushford with workspace. For the two of us. To live together. His dream. The one I’d trampled over with all the brutality of someone stamping a fluffy kitten into a field of daffodils.

‘Would you like to have these, Max?’

No. I wasn’t going to torture myself with what might have been.

‘No, thank you, sir.’

He carefully replaced the contents and laid the envelope back on the table, saying, with difficulty, because he really didn’t do this sort of thing well, ‘If you think it would help, I can easily arrange a temporary transfer to Thirsk. If you think a change of scenery would be beneficial.’

I shook my head.

‘Thank you, sir, but unless you object, I’d prefer to stay here. We have a lot on at the moment.’

‘I understand.’

And actually he did.

He began again.

‘I’ve sent him back. In his pod.’

I didn’t get it to begin with. Then I did.

He was from the future. He couldn’t stay here. Nor could his pod. It wasn’t of this time. So the Boss had sent them back.

I’d lost him twice.

Again, he seemed to read my thoughts.

‘It’s his home. They’ll put him with his family.’

Yes, his mother and his sons, who had died in some dreadful future epidemic. A loss from which he never quite recovered. Finally, they would all be together.