A Second Chance

by Jodi Taylor

  Nothing I recognised here. Early- to mid-twenty-first-century furnishings. Solid. Dull. Clean. Conventional. I fell back again with a groan.

  ‘Come along, Dr Maxwell. Time is short.’

  ‘Go away,’ I said, brave because I was already dying. What else could she do to me?

  ‘I shall, as soon as I see you on your feet and functioning.’

  I got one knee underneath me this time, then the other, a forearm on the coffee table, another on the sofa. And that was it. I hung, quivering with the strain.

  Someone lifted me up and dropped me onto the sofa. I lay back, waiting for the waves of pain to subside.

  ‘Please drink this.’

  God knows what it was. Some ancient corpse-reviver from the groves of Mount Ida, probably. It tasted like someone’s discarded washing-up water. Hot liquid burned its way down my throat and mingled with the other, larger, still-present and definitely-not-going-away pain.

  I closed my eyes, still unwilling to participate in current events.

  ‘Dr Maxwell, open your eyes, please, and listen to me.’

  I sighed. I’d deliberately asked no questions or shown any interest in anything in the vain hope she would just go away and leave me alone.

  As if what I wanted was of any importance.

  The silence lengthened as she waited for me to utter the traditional, ‘When am I?’ followed by the equally traditional, ‘Where am I?’ and followed, in this case, by the very justified, ‘What the hell is going on?’

  I refused to cooperate. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’ I sighed. Of course there wasn’t.

  ‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?’

  Do you ever wonder if there was a Mr Partridge?

  ‘I want you to open your eyes and pay close attention. This is important.’

  ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘As I told you, no.’

  ‘Is this the Elysian Fields?’

  ‘You are in Rushford. Please try and pull yourself together.’

  I opened my eyes and squinted down at myself. ‘The sword’s gone.’

  ‘The wound is closed.’

  ‘The wound still hurts like hell.’

  ‘I said the wound is closed, not healed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not a healer.’

  ‘Could you fetch one?’

  ‘You’re young and strong. Heal yourself.’

  I suppose, if you’re thousands of years old, even I must seem young.

  ‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?

  ‘I need you to concentrate.’

  I sighed. She was never, ever going away.

  ‘All right, tell me.’

  ‘Look around you.’

  I looked around me.

  I was in a small living room in a small flat. I gave it a careless glance and then, forgetting my closed but unhealed chest wound, tried to sit up. I saw an unfamiliar but conventional living room with a fire laid and ready, but the picture over the mantelpiece was one of mine. A Mediterranean landscape, with apple-green pine trees marching down to a sparkling turquoise sea. A painting of a special place for me. Leon and I used to go there, secretly, to spend time together. Special time. I’d painted my favourite view and Leon had loved it and snatched it off my easel before even the paint was dry, and now it was here.

  When I looked more closely, I saw other familiar objects scattered around the room.

  On the mantelpiece stood the small model of the Trojan Horse, made for me by Leon himself and my most treasured possession. And a framed photograph of him and me, laughing together. I remembered the day Dieter had taken it.

  Battered pine bookcases stood on each side of the fireplace. The right-hand one was full of my books. I recognised the titles. They were all here. Even the little book about Agincourt he would leave for me all those years ago. A stuffed scarlet snake hung from the top shelf.

  The left-hand case was full of his own stuff. Books with the words ‘Quantum’ or ‘Temporal Dynamics’ in the title and the occasional thriller.

  I looked around the room. On my right, a door led into a small kitchen from which the smells of something delicious wafted. A closed door ahead of me probably led to a bathroom. On my left, two bedroom doors.

  I lurched to my feet and wobbled off to investigate further.

  The bigger bedroom was his. A pair of jeans lay across a chair. I opened a wardrobe. Men’s clothes. I recognised some of them. On the bedside table stood another copy of our photograph. In fact, the two of them were placed in such a way that wherever you stood in this tiny flat, you could see at least one of them. I began to have yet another bad feeling.

  I limped slowly into the other bedroom. My things were laid out on the dressing-table. My clothes hung in the wardrobe. A book I had been reading stood on the bedside-table. I looked under the pillow with growing unease . My yellow and white spotted PJs …

  The room looked as if I’d just walked out of it. How was this possible? Had I lived here?

  If you want to know who lives in a house, look in the bathroom.

  A man lived in this house.

  One toothbrush. Shaving gear. No hair conditioner.

  I lurched back to Mrs Partridge, still in her alter ego as Kleio, Muse of History, and waiting for me. I sat heavily.

  She looked at me for a long time and then said, ‘In this world, it was you who died.’

  I took a moment or two to sort through the implications of ‘in this world,’ and ‘it was you who died.’ Suddenly, many things made sense. I waited.

  ‘He did not handle it well.’

  No, he wouldn’t. He’d lost too many people in his life.

  ‘Against the advice of Dr Bairstow, he left St Mary’s and came here. Apparently, you had once had a plan to set up home together.’

  I nodded.

  ‘He has built a shrine to you. Your clothes, your books, all your belongings. He brought them all here. He cooks meals for two. He lays the table for two. He discusses his day with you. He talks to you continually. His grief is overwhelming him.’

  ‘Is that why you have brought me here? To talk to him?’

  ‘No. I have brought you here to live with him. Here. In this other world. This must be your world now.’

  ‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll talk to him. I’ll even stay for a while until he’s better, but I have a job to do. I have to get back to Peterson. He’s wounded. He needs help.’

  ‘Dr Peterson is safe. The rescue party has found him. They will not find you. Because you are here. In this world.’

  ‘No. I have to go back. Tim …’

  ‘Is safe. He does not need you. Leon Farrell does. It is very important that you remain in this world. There is a job to be done and only you can do it.’

  ‘No, I have to go back.’

  ‘If I send you back, you will die. You were only seconds from death when I brought you here. You will not live long enough to see Mr Peterson.’

  ‘I want to see Tim Peterson. Afterwards, I’ll do whatever you want, but if I don’t see Peterson then you’ll get nothing from me.’

  My God, I was defying Mrs Partridge, the immortal daughter of Zeus. If I hadn’t been seconds from death before, I was now.

  We stared stubbornly at each other.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I can find you a few minutes in your old world. But it will not be long. And it will have to be paid for, one day.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Stand up.’

  I did, and was suddenly back in SickBay. The change was so abrupt, I rocked on my feet to get my balance.

  I was in the men’s ward. Tim lay in the bed by the window, head turned, looking at the dark world outside, his arm heavily bandaged. A single battered yellow rose lay on his bedside table.

  I said, softly, ‘Tim?’

  He turned his head.

  I have no memory of getting across the room, but suddenly I was on the bed. He got his good a
rm round me. I hugged him as tightly as I could.

  ‘Tim …’

  ‘Max! Oh, my God, Max. They found you. You’re alive.’

  ‘And you. You made it. I knew you would. How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine. Even better knowing you’re here. What happened? When did they find you?’

  I sat back. ‘They didn’t.’

  He took in my blood-soaked dress and my tangled hair. I probably didn’t look good.

  ‘Then how did you get back? How did you get away?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  He lay back on the pillows. I could see him trying to work through the implications and not understanding any of them.

  ‘Max?’

  ‘I’ve been allowed back, Tim. Just for a few minutes. I’ve been given a chance to say goodbye. Don’t let’s waste time with questions.’

  ‘Goodbye? Are you – are you leaving St Mary’s? Where are you going? What is happening?

  ‘There’s something I have to do and it’s important. But I only agreed to do it if I got a chance to say goodbye to you. That’s why I’m here.’

  My voice wobbled horribly because I’d suddenly realised I would never see him again. Ever.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’

  He wouldn’t accept it.

  ‘No. No. You can’t leave.’

  ‘I can’t stay, Tim. This is a fatal wound. I can’t come back.’

  I was crying now and so was he.

  ‘Please, Tim, don’t. Be happy for me.’

  ‘I thought you were dead. That you’d given your life for me. I’m happy you’re not. I’m crying for me. You can’t leave.’

  ‘I must. I made my choice at Agincourt and I don’t regret it. Not for a moment. Please don’t you regret it either.’

  He was silent a moment and then said, quietly, ‘There won’t be any more adventures, will there?’

  ‘Yes, of course there will, Tim. For us, there will always be adventures. Just not together any more.’

  He shook his head. ‘This arm is probably never going to be the same. And even if it is – I’m not sure I want to do this without you.’

  ‘Tim …’

  ‘It was always you and me, Max, wasn’t it?’

  I smiled through my tears, ‘Ever since you peed on me. I think it left some sort of imprint.’

  ‘I’m off the active list. Probably for good. Apparently, I’m going to be Deputy Director. Can you believe that?’

  ‘You’ll be superb.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with a touch of the old Tim. ‘I probably will. But you won’t be here.’

  ‘You’ll have Helen, who loves you more than she’s prepared to admit. And Kal. And everyone here. You’ll do great things, Tim.’

  Someone tapped on the door.

  He tightened his grip.

  ‘People are upset. Can I tell them you’re not dead?’

  ‘Tell the Boss.’ I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting in silent grief when there was no need. He’d lost Leon and now me. ‘Give him my love. Tell him I’ll think of him every day. And now, I don’t want to, but I have to go.’

  ‘No. Please. Can’t you stay a little longer. This is all the time we’ll ever have.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, Tim.’

  He said, desperately, ‘Do you remember – that night at Rushford when I gave you that golden rose? For my golden friend, Max .’

  I swallowed. ‘I do. I kept it for ages. Do you remember our night at Nineveh?’

  ‘I remember you yanking us out of the Cretaceous period. You were as pissed as a newt.’

  I laughed through my tears. ‘I remember how bad you smelled.’

  ‘I don’t think you have any idea how much I’ll miss you.’

  I stopped laughing. ‘Yes, I do know. I know exactly how much.’

  I tightened my grip. So did he. We might only have three good arms between us, but we were holding on to each other like two people who knew they’d never, ever, see each other again.

  ‘I wish we could begin it all again, Max.’

  I touched his face and we kissed, very gently and sweetly. Such a lot was said but not spoken. A lifetime of memories with him kaleidoscoped through my head. I could feel his tears running down my face.

  ‘Max …’

  ‘Tim, my dearest friend …’

  I held his face between my hands, we looked at each other for the last time, and then I was back in the little living room.

  She gave me a minute while I blew my nose on my sleeve.

  Finally, I was able to say, ‘Thank you.’

  She inclined her head. ‘I shall leave you, now.’

  ‘Wait. You can’t go yet.’

  ‘You have a task to perform. I should let you get on with it.’

  ‘At least give me some information before you go. What is this task? What must I do? Should I go back to St Mary’s? How did I die? I can’t just come back to life, surely?’

  She stood. ‘Events will play out. You will do whatever is required. Try not to fret too much about the future.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to, do I? I’m dead.’

  The familiar expression of exasperation crossed her face. ‘I keep telling you, Dr Maxwell, you are not dead. Why you have this persistent obsession with your own death is a mystery to me.’

  ‘But what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Your best.’

  And she was gone, because God forbid she should ever make things easy for me.

  I stood alone, in a strange room in a strange world, wondering what on earth to do next.

  The sensible answer would be to change out of my bloodstained garments, have a shower, and tidy myself up a little.

  I went out into the kitchen instead and stared at a tiny kitchen table laid for two, found the back door, and let myself out.

  I knew where this was. I was in Rushford and this was one of those units down by the river. The derelict ones that the council had reclaimed. Living space over a downstairs workshop. Very popular with artists and such. A small courtyard held parking for two cars. To my right, a tiny garden. In the back left-hand corner stood a familiar, small, stone shack. He’d tied a clothesline to one corner and the clothes prop leaned against it. I swallowed a huge lump.

  I made my way carefully down some stone steps into the courtyard. The workshop doors were open to let in the summer sunshine. From inside I could hear a radio playing quietly, some chinky tool noises, and someone talking.

  I oozed quietly through the doors and stood on the threshold, looking around.

  He stood with his back to me, moving around a work area he’d created by pushing three tables together in a U shape. The surfaces were littered with items that meant nothing to me.

  The far end of the workshop had two big windows and between these, he’d made a corner with two tables and set up my easel. My paints were laid out neatly, my brushes in a jar and canvases stacked against the wall.

  Mrs Partridge had been right. He’d made a shrine. I would not have thought my heart could break any more.

  He was speaking. To himself.

  ‘So, one of us is going to have to speak to Mrs Foreman about the precise relationship between electricity and water. When the instructions say to clean with warm, soapy water, they really don’t mean her to shove the entire grill into the dishwasher. And since you yourself are even hazier about the precise relationship between electricity and water than she is, it’s going to have to be me again, isn’t it?’

  He groped along the bench for some implement or other.

  I stood perfectly still, while the blood thumped in my head. He was here. Not five paces away. It was Leon. Leon was here. Not dead. I could walk towards him. I could touch him. Feel his arms around me. Look into his amazing eyes. Feel his hands on me again. Hear his voice. Smell his smell. I tried to remember to breathe. I swear I never made a sound, but some instinct must have warned him.

  He turned slowly.

  I stood in the entranc
e, dark against the bright sunshine.

  He put down whatever it was he was working on and took two steps forward.

  I drew a deep breath.

  He stopped.

  He peered uncertainly.

  His face cleared.

  He smiled, stretched out a welcoming hand, and said, ‘Isabella?’

  And everything inside me screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  They say that should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet yourself, you won’t like what you see. That you won’t like yourself at all.

  I’d never met myself – in my job that would be a bit of a catastrophe. The closest I’d ever come was meeting Isabella Barclay. Who looked very much like me. Bitchface Barclay. Former head of IT at St Mary’s. And I hadn’t liked her. Not one little bit. In fact, I’d hated her so much I’d killed her. Everyone needs to be clear about this – I deliberately killed Isabella Barclay.

  And now, now I’d waded through blood and death – mine – to be here. I’d abandoned my old life and my best friend to be here. To be here with him. And for him. And what did he say?

  Isabella?

  Isabella fucking Barclay?

  My recently damaged heart nearly erupted through my recently punctured chest as a massive wave of searing, red-hot, uncontrollable rage …

  I’d died in this world. Mrs Partridge said I’d died in this world and here he was … Isabella? … Fucking Isabella Barclay?

  My hand closed on something. I had no idea what it was, but at that moment I was so head-burstingly furious that I could have fashioned something lethal from a ball of wet cotton wool. He was dead in my world. Well, now he was about to bloody die in this one as well.

  The radio played “Staying Alive”.

  I stepped forward out of the sunlight to let him have a good look at me before I ended his life.

  Despite everything, I was shocked. He looked both younger and older. Younger, because he wore casual clothes – old jeans and a baggy black sweater with holes in the elbows – and older, because he was suffering. His pallor accentuated the browny-purple shadows around his eyes. His lips were thin and bloodless. Even as we stared at each other, colour surged across his face and then receded, leaving him even paler than before.