3. A Second Chance (20 page)

A shadow flickered on the other side of the clearing. Then another. Things were gathering. Attracted by the blood.

I looked down at Ronan. Still alive. For a moment, I considered dragging him back to the pod.

I heard a sound behind me.

Instinct kicked in.

I left him. I left him there to die alone.

They were closer than I thought. As I sprinted towards the pod, two erupted from the trees to my left. Another one from the right. The classic pincer attack.

I heard Ronan scream something.

I had forgotten how fast they moved. And how agile they were. Because, just as I was running towards the pod, and only feet away from safety, another came over the roof of the pod, straight over my head, landing just behind me.

I don’t think it saw me initially. All its attention was on Clive Ronan. And then it did, swerving and slipping in the mud and coming straight at me.

I swear I flew into that pod. I don’t even remember my feet touching the ground, expecting at any moment to feel the sharp claws digging into my back as they brought me down, its hot breath in my face as they tore at my flesh, ripped out my guts …

I slapped the manual switch as I hurtled through the door, praying battery power was one of the few things still working in this fatally damaged pod.

It was. The door jerked, stopped and jerked again.

Screaming was not the right word to describe the sounds coming from Clive Ronan. Three shapes were closing in.

But there had been four. Where was the fourth?

As if in answer, just as the door was about to close a big, blunt head suddenly thrust itself into the closing gap between door and jamb.

Deinonychus.

Shit.

The shock made me jump backwards. The door stopped moving. I could hear its breath panting out through red-rimmed nostrils. One cold predator eye fixed on me and, displaying dismaying intelligence, the head wriggled and pushed, seeking to force the door open again. A large, three-fingered clawed hand appeared, scrabbling at the doorframe.

We consistently underestimate the intelligence of everything that isn’t human. Either accidentally, or because maybe it had watched me, this thing had worked out how to get through the door. There was no point in me vainly slapping the switch. The sensors wouldn’t allow the door to close. Five minutes ago, I’d been grateful for that. And I couldn’t override the safety protocols. This pod wasn’t programmed with my authorisation.

It wasn’t well enough coordinated to get head and hands working together – yet. My best course of action was to persuade it to remove its head and somehow get that door closed.

I flung open the locker doors, frantically looking for something – anything at all – that I could use as a weapon.

The first locker was empty. The second contained only empty boxes and an old blanket. Oh God, there must be something …

The third, however … the third contained the fire extinguisher. I could tell by its weight that it was empty, but never mind. I’d once belted Jack the Ripper with one of these and it hadn’t done him any good at all. I couldn’t see the fire axe, but this would do.

I heaved it up and turned to the door. Standing to one side so it couldn’t see me, I clubbed its hand. You couldn’t call it a foot. Or even a forelimb. It definitely looked like, and was being used as, a hand.

Concentrate, Maxwell.

I clubbed again and then lowered the extinguisher and caught its snout on the upswing. Unfortunately, far from this deterring it in any way, it uttered a shriek of pain and redoubled its efforts to get the door open.

There was no help for it. Standing at an angle, I just couldn’t do enough damage. I moved in front of the door.

It had tilted its head to one side, furiously wriggling and twisting, trying to widen the gap. A deep, low, bubbling snarl awoke age-old instincts and filled me with the same overwhelming need to scuttle for cover that my own mammalian ancestors would have had. It stood as tall as me and we were eye to eye. It could see me. I’d been identified as its prey and like a shark it wouldn’t go away until it had me.

I changed the angle of the extinguisher and instead of swinging at its snout, I jabbed instead.

It really didn’t like that, roaring angrily. Maybe it had some sort of scent receptors in its nose that rendered it extra sensitive. I don’t know. I just knew I had to finish this soon. I jabbed repeatedly, sweat running down my face. I was screaming words in time with the blows.

‘Get. Out. Of. My. Bloody. Pod. You…’

Even over the rank stench of Ronan’s pod, I could smell the rotting meat on its breath. See its blood-caked snout and the wicked, cruel intelligence in its eyes. I’ve often wondered why, even after hundreds of millions of years on this earth, dinosaurs never made the great evolutionary leap. Language, culture, tools, and all the rest of it.

The answer to that, of course, was that they already had everything they needed not just to survive, but to triumph and if the comet hadn’t ended everything, they’d be here still. Unchanged. Like sharks. And crocodiles. They didn’t need to evolve any further. They already had it all.

In the end, I really don’t think it was anything I did that shifted it. I think it could hear the other members of the pack feasting on Clive Ronan – when had he stopped screaming? – and worked out it was getting nothing but a noseful of grief here, with nothing to show for it.

Not without some difficulty, it pulled its head out of the door and with one leap re-joined the others. They snapped and snarled at the newcomer as they perched on the body like giant birds of prey. One had a long strip of flesh dangling from its jaws. I caught a glimpse of Ronan that made me wish I hadn’t.

Sobbing with fear, I slapped and slapped at the door switch and of course nothing happened because I was just confusing it. I shut my ears to what was happening outside, made myself draw a deep breath, gently pressed the pad and finally, the door closed.

I eased myself down to the floor, clutching the fire extinguisher as if my life still depended upon it, panting and sobbing in the dark. After a moment, the dim emergency light flickered on.

I told myself I couldn’t have saved him. He was dying anyway. And after what he’d done to Sussman, it was a kind of poetic justice. And justice for Jamie Cameron and Big Dave Murdoch and all the other members of St Mary’s, past and present, whom he’d killed over the years. I felt no regret for the end of Clive Ronan.

It was the end of his pod too, sadly. When my hands finally stopped trembling, I removed the front of the console. The first board was almost completely destroyed. And the second. And the third. This puppy was never going anywhere again.

And by extension, neither was I.

So, this was how my life ended. I should have known I’d go to the Cretaceous one time too many. I sat in the chair and stared blindly at the blank screen. There was no hope of rescue. No one even knew I was here. Probably I’d not even been missed yet at St Mary’s. I always imagined my final resting place would be in the little St Mary’s churchyard, with Tim on the one side, then Kal, then Helen, with Ian on the end to keep us all in order. It had been an oddly comforting thought, spending eternity amongst my friends.

I rubbed my face with my hands and tried to think. Searching around the pod, I could find no food, no water. The cells were nearly empty. The toilet was unspeakable. Nothing worked. I could die inside the pod or outside the pod. It was just a case of choosing the least unpleasant option.

I sighed.

Taking a deep breath, I hit the manual door switch again. That and the emergency light over the door were the only things in the entire pod that still worked. But not for long. Not once the battery ran out.

The clearing was empty. No sign whatsoever of Clive Ronan. Not even a bloodstain. The Deinonychus had disappeared. Probably because of the weather. Because things just weren’t bad enough, were they? I could hear the wind rising and the sky was one, long, endless bruise.

I’d experienced a tropical storm during my first visit to the Cretaceous. It had lasted two days and been pleasantly spectacular when I was snug inside with plenty to eat and drink. This one would be different. I wondered if this was an occasion when I could legitimately feel sorry for myself,

Even as I looked, the sky grew even darker. Clouds boiled. The wind gusted more strongly. Dust, leaves, and small branches whirled past. It was like that scene from the Wizard of Oz. I kept looking for the cow. And then the witch on the bike.

This was going to be a big one. At least I was going out in a blaze of glory.

Fighting down a mounting panic, I made myself remember I was an historian. First and last, I was an historian. Keep busy. There was a job to do here. I found a few pages in a stained and wrinkled scribblepad and started a final report. I worked away, trying hard to lose myself in the task in hand. Not very successfully, because dying alone in the Cretaceous period was not really how I wanted to end my days. I lost my train of thought, couldn’t find the right word, gave it up because I couldn’t see properly anyway, and laid my head on the battered console. Apart from the odd buffet of wind, the inside of the pod was completely silent.

And then someone knocked at the door.

I didn’t move. I’m not sure what I thought. That Ronan was reincarnated? Or regurgitated? That I’d gone mad? That it was debris picked up and slamming against the pod? That I was so desperate I was imagining things? I don’t know. But since none of these was good, I didn’t move.

The knock came again. A definite rat-a-tat-tat this time. Since things couldn’t get any worse, I got up and opened the door.

And there stood Leon Farrell.

Chapter Seventeen

There really aren’t supposed to be any long-term mental problems with leaping up and down the timeline. Helen says so. We get the odd bit of timelag every now and then, but a stiff drink and a nap usually sorts that out. Occasionally someone mutters about radiation hazards, but, as far as I know, no one has ever reported hallucinations before.

Not that I was complaining. Of all the things in my life that I could be hallucinating, this was top of the list. So shut up, Maxwell, and enjoy the view. You can work out what’s going on later.

He was younger than I could ever remember seeing him, and whip-thin. His hair flopped over his forehead in the shaggy, historian style. He wore woodland greens, body armour, and carried one of the big blasters.

There were no words I could say. I just stared. Around me, the sky darkened further and the wind howled. A heavily leafed branch cartwheeled past.

He said politely, ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

He didn’t know me. He had no idea who I was. I stepped back and let him in. The door jerked closed behind him, abruptly cutting off the noise of the storm outside.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell, but I was still struggling to re-adjust my ideas and not in the least bit inclined to apologise for poor housekeeping. He stood looking around the pod. I had no idea what was going on. An hour ago I was talking to a horse and now here I was, back in the Cretaceous period sixty-seven million years ago, and with a man who’d been dead for nine months. You couldn’t make it up. I thought, just for once, I’d shut up and see what happened next.

Nothing happened – that’s what happened next. I had forgotten how little he had to say when I first knew him. I could grow old waiting for him to utter something. It was obviously up to me.

‘Can I help you?’

He blinked. ‘What?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘What do you mean, “Can I help you?”’

‘Well, you knocked at my door. Did you want something? Have you run out of sugar? Can I help you?’

‘I don’t take sugar.’

There’s a sign on my office wall, which reads – 
In the event of emergency, bang head here
. Long ago, Peterson had pointed out that it was much too high up on the wall for my head to reach and I had replied that it wasn’t
my
bloody head that would be banged against the wall. I would give anything to have that sign now. It would be something to aim at.

We stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. He was being strong and silent and I was already on emotional overload and picking up speed. Deep breath and start again, Maxwell.

‘Is there some reason you are here?’

‘Yes, but there’s no time now. We need to get back to my pod before this storm gets any worse. Are you hurt at all? Can you walk?’

‘No and yes. Let’s go.’

‘Do you need to take anything from your pod?’

‘It’s not my pod.’

‘Then what …?’ But at that moment, something heavy slammed into us and the pod shuddered. ‘There’s no time. We need to leave now. Stay behind me and keep close. It’s not far.’

We got the door open again and stepped outside. The noise was tremendous and, in my experience, there would be lightning any minute. This was not the place to be.

‘Leave the door open,’ he shouted over the racket.

He was right. Leaving the door open would hasten the pod’s destruction, but I still felt bad. This was a pod. This was Number Nine – it hadn’t asked to be stolen and mistreated and used for dishonourable purposes. I patted its side gently to say farewell, and to let it know that an historian was here at its end.

We set off. I trotted behind him, arms up to ward off airborne vegetation and stinging dust, He had a blaster but it wasn’t needed. Everything else had far more sense than to be hanging around in weather like this.

It wasn’t far. I could see his pod, parked with its back to a low cliff that would provide some shelter from the wind. My hair whipped around my face and dust stung my eyes. Lightning split the sky ahead of us and thunder boomed a reply. The heavens opened. I’ve been caught in a Cretaceous downpour before. For some reason the water always seems wetter in this period. It took only a few seconds more to get to his pod and then we were safely inside. The door closed against the meteorological mayhem outside.

I took a minute to get my breath back and push my hair back off my face. Since I was the guest, I sat down and unlaced my muddy boots. Historians don’t like dirty pods.

Outside, there was a real sound and light show going on. There’s something a little unnerving about the ferocity of prehistoric storms. And they’re not over quickly, either.

He was peering at the screen. This was his pod so I stood quietly.

‘Are you very wet?’

‘A little, yes,’ I said, over the sound of dripping water.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can get you back right now. The lightning rod is deployed but I don’t want to take any chances. We don’t want two broken pods here. I’m going to power down for an hour or so. Until the worst of it is over.’

He passed me a towel from the toilet and I patted myself dry. My jumpsuit was sodden. In the old days, I would have just whipped it off but this was another time and another place. I hesitated. I had T-shirt and shorts underneath, but even so …

‘You should get that off,’ he said unemotionally, pulling off his own wet clothes. ‘I think I’ve got an old sweat shirt somewhere.’ He passed me an old black thing, but at least it was warm and dry. And my socks were dry, so it could be worse.

He pushed up the trip-switch and I was back in near darkness.

He snapped a lightstick, which sent out a warm glow, and we sat, side by side at the console. This storm was shaping up to be a real doozy. We could be here for at least twenty-four hours, possibly forty-eight. Someone was going to have to say something soon.

I cleared my throat. ‘Why exactly are you here?’

‘To render assistance. To you, I assume. Why are you here? Are you alone? Should I be looking for anyone else?’

And now it really was crunch time. What exactly did I tell him? The answer, of course, should be – absolutely nothing. If I said or did one tiny thing that changed his future, then that would change my past and then we’d have paradoxes dropping out of the skies like a sumo wrestler whose jetpack has suffered a malfunction. Shortly followed by Mrs Partridge, the Muse of History, resolving the situation in her own very unique and usually terminal style.

‘I’m on assignment. Just me. Please don’t let the fact that I can’t tell you about it make you think I’m not extremely pleased to see you. Do you have a name?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, you’ve switched off the power. I’ve been in the Cretaceous before – it’s practically my second home. These storms can go on for days. We can’t do anything. We can barely see each other. That just leaves talking. So, what can I call you?’

Reluctantly, he said, ‘Leon. What do I call you?’

He’d always called me Lucy. I never knew why. Whenever I asked, he just said, ‘The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.’

‘Lucy.’

He looked startled. ‘What did you say?’

‘Lucy. You know, the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.’

‘I do know,’ he said slowly, ‘I was just thinking … nothing.’

‘Well, that’s nice.’

Our little conversational well dried up.

I had a hundred thousand words rattling around inside my head, precious few of which I could actually say. It seemed so desperately unfair. How many people in the world have hoped and prayed for a second chance like this one? Yearned for an opportunity to tell someone the things we only realise are important after it’s too late? I couldn’t let this opportunity go. I just couldn’t. This was a gift from the gods. I could talk to him. Explain. Apologise. Make everything right with him. Talk with him one last time.

No, I couldn’t. I mustn’t. The slightest wrong word could bring catastrophe. Although, looking at the state of him, I suspected he was more than halfway to catastrophe already. The wounds of his family’s deaths were still very recent. I could only guess at the effort it must take for him to get up in the mornings. When every day must be even more full of pain than the last.

I stopped thinking about myself.

I could tell him to hold on. That he had a wonderful future ahead of him. That he was loved and would love again. That all this would pass.

No, I couldn’t.

I began to wonder if, instead of a golden opportunity – a second chance – this was some sort of punishment.

‘Do we have enough power for some tea?’

‘I’m afraid not. I can offer you some water, though.’

‘Thank you.’

Nearly being killed always makes me thirsty.

He passed me a mug of tepid water.

I sipped and thought. I couldn’t be that reckless. If I said or did anything to change his future, the whole of reality might just roll up and disappear. I’d been given a second chance. A chance to say goodbye to the man snatched from me with so much unsaid and I couldn’t take it. Life’s a bastard.

The wind roared again, or it might have been thunder. It was hard to tell the difference in here. The noise outside only emphasised the silence inside.

Well, if I couldn’t talk to him, at least I could look at him. I opened my eyes. He was looking directly at me. To find myself staring into those familiar blue-grey eyes was disconcerting. I tried to smile politely.

‘You seem familiar,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you at St Mary’s. Have we met?’

Not yet
.

‘I don’t recall,’ I said, evasively. ‘Perhaps we’ve met in another time. Have you been on many assignments?’

He shook his head. ‘One or two. I’m only recently qualified.’

I looked around. ‘No wingman?’

‘No. I came alone.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything better than water. With luck, this will soon pass.’

‘Sorry to have to tell you this, but it probably won’t. I’ve been here before. This could go on for days.’

He looked startled.

‘Is that a problem for you – Leon?’

‘No, it’s just …’

The words,
What am I going to do with you for days?
hung unspoken above our heads.

I didn’t dare smile.

I was slowly beginning to get myself back together again. The shock of his sudden appearance was subsiding as training and instinct took over. I told myself it was enough just to see him again. I should just accept whatever gift had been given me and be grateful.

A particularly loud crash of thunder made us both jump.

‘So, Leon, tell me about yourself.’

He met this invitation to chat with silence. I should have remembered he wasn’t good with open questions. I tried again.

‘Have you been qualified long?’

‘About six months.’

‘What’s your speciality? Mine is Ancient Civilisations.’

‘Engineering.’

‘Oh. That’s – unusual.’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving.’

Oh, no. No, no, no. That wasn’t good. Never mind me changing his future – it looked as if he was about to do that all by himself.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘When I joined they were full of how important the work was and my vital contribution. So far, all I’ve done is a bit of bread and butter stuff with Teddy. And this, of course.’

‘Well, I’ll say it again, Leon. No matter how trivial you think today has been, I’m still grateful. I wouldn’t have lasted long out there. If the storm hadn’t got me then the indigenous fauna would. Thank you.’

He shrugged again.

I asked, ‘So, what’s next?’

I meant – what’s next now? As in something to eat, maybe, but he misunderstood me.

‘The next assignment is even worse. I have to leave something somewhere for some schoolgirl to find. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone by then.’

I stared at him, struck dumb with shock. That schoolgirl was me. I was that schoolgirl and he was saying that the defining event of my life didn’t matter? The one event on which my whole future depended and he couldn’t be bloody bothered? I felt a surge of fear and anger that surprised me. Delayed shock from Ronan, I guessed.

Years ago, when I was a kid, I was hiding in my wardrobe when I discovered a book about Henry V and the Battle of Agincourt. It changed my life. It probably
saved
my life. I read it until it nearly fell apart. It awoke my love of History. That book set my feet on the path that led to St Mary’s. And here was the man who supposedly left it for me saying he couldn’t be bloody bothered.

‘Well, who’s too precious to get down and dirty with the rest of us?’

‘What?’

‘How long have you been at St Mary’s? Long enough, surely, to realise the importance of what we do. Do you seriously think they’d send you on a mission – any mission – that wasn’t absolutely vital?’

I was really angry now. I’d sometimes wondered what my life would have been like if I’d never got away. None of the scenarios ended well. The thought of one of them becoming my reality was too much for me to think about calmly. I rushed to speak.

‘Get over yourself, Leon. Who are you to say what assignment is or isn’t too trivial to undertake?’

Even in the dim light, I could see him flush. Whether with anger or embarrassment, I was unable to determine. But I’d said too much. Shut up, Maxwell.

‘You don’t understand,’ he began.

‘Oh yes I do. Historians get down and dirty, Leon. Get used to it. We go where we’re told and do what we’re told.’ Astonishingly, this barefaced lie did not get me struck down by the god of historians. I made a gesture of disgust. ‘This is what happens when you give the job to a bloody engineer.’

Much more of this and the engineer was going to open the door and fling the historian back out into the storm. And maybe he should. I was so disappointed in him. We’d never talked much about his early years at St Mary’s. I’d always assumed he didn’t want to relive that dreadful time after his family died. I’d imagined him struggling on, slowly rebuilding his life with the quiet courage so characteristic of him. I struggled to reconcile this haggard, unhappy, bitter individual with the quiet, gentle man who had made my soul sing.