Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘You don’t know that. How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, actually, I recently fell out of a corridor window . . .’

  ‘As you do,’ said Sands and I ignored him.

  ‘. . . on to the flat roof and had to climb back in through Peterson’s window,’ I said airily, hoping my face wasn’t as red and hot as it felt. I still can’t think about that without wanting to curl up into a ball and die of embarrassment. If my plan went badly I might get my wish.

  Roberts frowned. ‘Max, there are massive flaws to this plan.’

  ‘There are massive flaws to all my plans. We usually manage to work through them.’

  ‘What about the pod? Are you going to leave it on the roof?’

  ‘No, one of you will accompany me, lower me down the chimney and pull me back up again. If I don’t make it then you’ll bring the pod back here and formulate your own plans for rescuing us.’

  Off they went again. ‘You can’t surely be planning to climb back up the chimney.’

  ‘I don’t think I have a lot of choice, do I? Although looking on the bright side, if they catch me then it won’t be a problem.’

  There was a short silence during which none of us said that if they caught me then my problems would only just be beginning. All our problems would only just be beginning.

  Sands said heavily, ‘I can’t even begin to think how many things can go wrong.’

  ‘Then don’t try,’ I said crisply.

  ‘All right,’ said Roberts. ‘You’re inside. You’re alive. Then what?’

  ‘I find Peterson. And possibly the others if they’re all together, but definitely Peterson, because he’s the one who knows the location of the remote site.’

  Now there was a longer silence because no one would say it.

  ‘Suppose he’s already told them where it is?’

  ‘He won’t have.’

  ‘Max,’ said Sands gently. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said stubbornly. ‘It’s Peterson. He wouldn’t.’

  ‘He may not have had any choice. If they put a gun to Bashford’s head and demand the whereabouts . . .’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell them.’

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘You underestimate him,’ I said, trying not to get angry.

  ‘And,’ said Mrs De Winter quietly, ‘remember Max wouldn’t give in when they threatened Miss North. Dr Peterson would do no less. No matter at what cost to himself and others.’

  ‘There are drugs,’ said Roberts.

  ‘And this is why I have to get in there,’ I said. ‘Before they start using them.’

  ‘And out again,’ murmured Roberts.

  ‘I have to get in there, find out what I can, and then get off to Dr Bairstow as soon as possible. We have a few days at least before they expect us back from Jerusalem. People always make the mistake of thinking that if three days have elapsed there then the same amount of time will have elapsed here.’

  ‘To return to my original question, how will you find him? There are bound to be guards.’

  ‘I don’t know how many men Halcombe has but there are three less of them now.’

  ‘And, as you say, he might well have the bulk of them stationed in or near Hawking awaiting your return,’ said Sands. ‘So, the majority of his people could be at the other end of the building. Max, I think you might actually have a chance but I still think we should come with you.’

  ‘No. If I’m caught – and I might well be – your job is to come and rescue us. You’ll get us all out and we’ll go into hiding until this is over. If we all go together we risk being caught together. So far, Halcombe has no idea you’re back in the game. Let’s keep it that way.’ I looked at them anxiously. ‘You are back in the game, aren’t you?’

  ‘Never out of it,’ said Roberts.

  ‘She said in the game, not on it. Plonker.’

  I sat back and let them get on with it because if they were bickering quietly then they weren’t asking the big question. Halcombe had no pod but he still wanted the coordinates. Yes, he’d had one briefly but he’d been stupid enough to let it slip through his fingers. He’d concentrated on the short-term prize and by doing that he’d lost it. Peterson could give him the coordinates. Actually, he could set them to music and do a small dance – but without a pod to get there they were completely useless. None of this made any sense unless somewhere, there was someone standing behind Halcombe. Someone who did have a pod.

  I know I’d said Peterson would never give away the coordinates but Sands and Roberts were quite right. He might not have any choice.

  I had to get him out before it was too late.

  23

  There was a certain amount of preparation first. We don’t just recklessly propel ourselves into trouble, you know. We make meticulous preparations. We try to foresee every contingency. We hope for the best but plan for the worst. And then we recklessly propel ourselves into trouble. Sands and Roberts disappeared into town to the outdoor sports shop, coming back with a harness and some rope. Mrs De Winter procured a pack of paper coveralls. I lay around watching my bruises change colour and kidding myself I felt better every minute.

  By late afternoon we had everything we needed. I practised getting myself in and out of the harness. It wasn’t difficult. Left leg, right leg, pull it up to my waist, tighten and check. I practiced with my eyes shut until I could do it in the dark – because I’d have to – and until I could do it without falling over. Which took slightly longer.

  Despite my protests, both Sands and Roberts insisted on accompanying me. In vain did I say one would be sufficient and that it made sense not to put all our eggs in one basket. Neither of them was happy with my plan and actually I can’t say I was looking forward to it much, either.

  ‘What will you do if you get stuck?’ asked Roberts, putting into words the one thing I was trying to avoid thinking about.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said, honestly, because I didn’t know. Being ‘stuck’ was a very real problem for climbing boys. It’s where the term ‘stuck’ originated. You’re working your way up the chimney and somehow your bottom drops below the level of your knees and then you’re stuck. You can’t move either up or down. You’re stuck. And if your master can’t somehow manhandle you back out again then you die. And if that happened to me then the only way to get me out would be to demolish the stack. They couldn’t just leave me there. After a couple of days, the smell would be awful and I’d be dribbling down the chimney.

  ‘They’ll probably just light a fire and smoke you,’ said Roberts, cheerfully, and then caught Mrs De Winter’s eye. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘My son was a climbing boy. It’s obviously in the blood.’

  We assembled outside the pod. Mrs De Winter watched from the doorway.

  I wore a paper hazmat suit, which literally covered me from head to toe, with the harness over the top. My boots were tied around my neck. It’s easier to climb in socks and we didn’t want sooty footprints everywhere. Sands carried the worryingly thin but apparently incredibly strong rope. I’d drawn the line at one of those orange hard hats – health and safety people look away now, please – because if I banged my head the impact would echo down the chimney, whereas banging my naked head wouldn’t make half so much noise.

  ‘All set?’ I said brightly, and they nodded.

  We waved to Mrs De Winter and entered the pod.

  ‘Computer.’

  It trilled helpfully. Obviously, its previous attempt to murder me was just so much water under the bridge.

  ‘Computer, re-activate access to Sands, D and Roberts, G. Authorisation: Maxwell five zero alpha nine eight zero four bravo. Confirm.’

  ‘Access granted Sands and Roberts. Confirmed.’

  ‘Get your passwords banged in as soon as poss
ible. You might have to leave in a hurry.’

  They nodded and suddenly there wasn’t anything left to say.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘be clear on this. Never mind what happens to me. Your main priority is for God’s sake to make sure you and the pod aren’t discovered. Otherwise they’ll have you back to Jerusalem before you know what’s happening, and we’ll all be back to square one again.’

  They nodded again.

  We landed without a bump. ‘Speaking of which,’ said Sands wickedly, ‘how is Peterson these days?’

  ‘I’ll tell him you asked after him.’

  He sighed. ‘One last time, Max, are you sure about this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’

  We stared at the screen.

  ‘I can’t see anything anywhere,’ said Roberts, moving the cameras around. ‘And there’s nothing on the proximity meters.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean there isn’t anything there,’ said Sands.

  I picked up my bag. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  We switched off the lights, opened the door and slithered out into the dark. And it was dark. The chimneys were darker masses against a dark sky. I don’t know where the stars had gone. They probably didn’t want to be involved.

  Sands nudged me and I remembered to switch on my night-vision goggles.

  The big chimney – the one in the Great Hall – was right in the middle of the building. I remembered them starting to build it back in the happy days of 1399. Theoretically this should be a walk in the park. Or a fall down the chimney.

  ‘Come on, Santa,’ whispered Sands and lifted me up on to the stack. There was no chimney pot to remove which was a huge bonus. In fact, this chimney was lower than the other, more modern ones which tended to be taller and narrower. I’d never have stood a chance with any of those.

  I peered downwards. Everything looked green and eerie. A long, rough stone shaft stretched downwards and then doglegged out of sight. I hated to admit it, but it wasn’t anything like as wide as I had remembered. Bugger.

  I wondered if it was too late to knock all this on the head and go down the pub instead. I have to admit – it was a close call.

  I sat on the lip and Sands clipped on the allegedly strong rope, whispering, ‘Ready when you are, Max. Remember – any problems, yank on the rope and we’ll haul you back out again.’

  I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak. How do I get myself into these situations? Because if I became stuck there was no way they could get me out and we all knew it.

  I’m going to have a bit of a whinge. Skip ahead if you like.

  I’m an historian. Yes, I know I’m not famous for looking ahead but, after I’d graduated, if I thought about my future at all – which I didn’t really because I don’t do that – I suppose I thought I’d spend most of my time in sun-dappled libraries poring over obscure documents and making the occasional groundbreaking discovery.

  Or – if I was hip and trendy – becoming a TV historian and standing dramatically on the ramparts of a fallen hill fort and making History hip and trendy for all. I never thought, for one moment, I’d end up swinging like a pendulum in a medieval chimney. Who would? I mean, I chose History because, apart from a little genteel digging in the sun, there was very little heavy lifting and it was out of the wind and rain.

  I sometimes think History’s having a bit of a laugh.

  I made an awful noise as I scrabbled around for my first foothold. Sands and Roberts took the weight. I could only hope the chimney was as solid as it looked. I could just see myself losing my grip, slithering and crashing into the fireplace and finding myself surrounded by armed men. Or falling with sufficient speed to wedge myself in the dogleg and die there. Very slowly.

  My foot found a projecting stone. I let it take my full weight, reckoning if it gave way then at least I was still in a position where Sands and Roberts could easily pull me out.

  The stone held. I groped for another and found it. I took a deep breath. Here we go.

  OK – tips for those climbing down chimneys. Nice rough stone is brilliant for handholds and footholds. Nasty rough stone barks your shins, knees, cheeks and elbows. Gloves might have protected my already skinned fingers but would have been too clumsy to get a grip. So, I left a fair amount of flesh and blood on the inside of that chimney.

  But, it was sound. Trust Dr Bairstow to keep his property well-maintained. We only ever used this fireplace for the Yule Log, ceremonially brought in every year, and I know he had the chimney swept regularly so there would be no great dollops of soot to send crashing down into the fireplace and give the game away.

  The goggles were a waste of time because I couldn’t see downwards past myself. I couldn’t actually see anything. And the chimney was so narrow I had to keep my arms above my head in case they became wedged at my sides. I had to work very hard at not thinking about what would happen if my arms became wedged at my sides. A dark chimney is no place to have a panic attack. I resolved never, ever, ever to have another brilliant idea for as long as I lived. Which might not be that long.

  It struck me that if I hadn’t been trapped in 1399, if I hadn’t set fire to St Mary’s – well, it wasn’t actually all me, but the idea was mine – then they wouldn’t have rebuilt the Hall to include the very chimney in which I was currently very definitely not having a panic attack of any kind. I was the author of my own misfortune. Or, if I wanted to put a slightly more positive spin on things, my actions now were direct descendants of my actions then. Hmm . . . not that much more positive. Just get on with it, Maxwell.

  I developed a kind of rhythm, never relinquishing a handhold until I was certain the stone I was standing on was solid. Right foot. Right hand. Left foot. Left hand. And so on. The stones were irregular and painful. I was not enjoying this.

  The chimney seemed endless. I had no idea how long I’d been in there. Time was happening to someone else. The only good thing was that it was so clean I wasn’t swallowing down choking mouthfuls of thick black soot. I moved slowly but surely and tried really, really hard not to think about what would happen if the chimney suddenly narrowed. Or if, for some reason, they’d decided to line the lower parts with bricks and all my footholds disappeared and I had to brace myself against the sides and lower myself that way.

  Occasionally I looked up, but even with the goggles I could only make out a square of slightly lighter sky and two darker green patches that might have been heads but I’m pretty sure I was kidding myself.

  My fingertips were rubbed raw. And I was worrying about what would happen when I reached the dogleg. Which couldn’t be much longer surely because I felt as if I’d been doing this for years.

  What did happen when I reached the dogleg was that my wildly waving leg found nothing, my sweaty hand slipped and I fell. I only just managed not to yell, tried to grab at something – anything – and failed miserably. I tried to brace myself against the sides – which didn’t work either – and skidded down the wall, skinning my palms and banging my knees and elbows on everything, until finally I landed, with no small crash, in the fireplace.

  I lay, sprawled in a heap, looking back up the chimney. If Halcombe had turned up at that moment I would happily have surrendered to him.

  After a while, I got my breath back and it dawned on me no one was shouting at me. No one was poking me with their guns. OK, so far so good. I could have lain there all night, but I had work to do.

  Firstly, I had to get out of this suit and get my boots on. The suit was only paper and I ripped it off, bundled it all up with the goggles, and tied it to the rope. I yanked hard a couple of times and watched it all disappear back up the chimney into the gloom.

  I was down. I was in. And I was safe. And no bones broken. Frankly, if you’d asked me to put money on it I’d have laughed in your face. I like to think Matthew would have been proud. />
  The next step was to ensure I was alone. I crouched in the back corner of the fortunately massive fireplace, checking around. The Hall was deserted – as it should be at this time of night. Apart from the ghostly green glow over those doors designated fire exits, there were no lights. You’d be amazed the amount of detail you can make out by the glow of the words Fire Exit and the traditional running man. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t know the place like the back of my hand anyway.

  I sat back on my heels and had a bit of a think. The lights were out. Did that mean there were no patrols? Or that no one was monitoring the CCTV cameras? Had they just activated the sensors and gone to bed? I could hear Markham saying, ‘Sloppy, very sloppy,’ and I would have to agree.

  The problem for me was that while patrols could be dodged or outwitted, laser sensors were a little trickier. Especially since I didn’t know where they were. However, I couldn’t stay here all night. Things to do, people to see.

  I started to stand up and just as I did so, all the lights snapped on. For one ghastly moment I thought I’d triggered something and the game was up. I just had time to scoot as far back into the fireplace as I could get and pull the neck of my dark T-shirt up over the lower half of my white face before two men appeared at the top of the stairs.

  They descended in silence and then two more appeared from the direction of the Long Corridor. If I’d been a minute earlier they’d have caught me.

  ‘Anything?’ said one from the first lot.

  ‘Still no sign,’ was the reply.

  That was good – they were still awaiting our return.

  ‘All quiet upstairs,’ said another.

  Someone grunted and they all trudged across the Hall and back to the Long Corridor. Someone even turned the lights out. You see – sometimes things do go well, even for an historian. They’d told me what I needed to know. My people weren’t in the basement. They might all be together – they might not. I’d head for Peterson’s room first.