by Jodi Taylor
The walls were covered in graffiti. They’d left notes and reminders to each other, jokes, odd bits of formulae, coordinates, to-do lists, insults, cartoons and so on. I tried to focus but my eyes were still wonky. I’d wait for the paperback edition.
They’d stuck Leon’s signal beacon up on the wall. Given its purpose, which was to replicate the radiation signature for the Time Police to follow, I thought they’d have concealed it somewhere discreet. Under a bunk or something. I don’t know why I thought that. The metal box was attached to the wall in full view of anyone who cared to look around. Apparently, they felt that standing a plastic model of a T-rex on the top constituted sufficient disguise to render it invisible and, just in case that didn’t work, Adrian had stuck a scruffy piece of paper on the front with the scribbled message Warning. Pre-set. Mikey, do not turn this off.
The radiation leak was fixed but Leon’s beacon would broadcast a very similar signal. The Time Police would be on it immediately. So once again our problem would be to stay ahead of them – because they would be hunting for us in earnest – and we would never be able to stay anywhere for longer than two hours. I wasn’t looking forward to this one bit.
We had to do it though. We had to look authentic. Which meant continual jumping. And this pod lurched up and down the timeline as smoothly as the North Sea in a force eight gale. Adrian and Mikey were all right – they were used to it – but I foresaw much vomiting in my future. I hoped we had plenty of cheese.
‘Time to get some distance between them and us,’ said Adrian, and we had to endure a series of bone-breaking jumps as we endeavoured to build up a lead over the Time Police. I just lay on the floor with my eyes closed. They knew what they were doing. They’d been doing it for years. They probably thought it was fun. My job was simply to lie here and not die.
I lay and shivered as we bounced around the timeline. Without the cheese, I might have been pebble-dashing the walls with the enormous breakfast that had seemed such a good idea at the time. An hour into life on the run and I’d had enough already.
Finally, we came to rest. Don’t ask me where.
‘I think that should hold them for a while,’ said Adrian, switching things off. Mikey raised the hatch, heaved out the infamous wooden ladder, and I wobbled up and out, sat on a nearby rock, took in deep breaths of some much-needed fresh air and waited for my outlying extremities to reassemble themselves in the correct place. This sort of thing was definitely for the young.
‘We’ll tidy up inside,’ said Mikey, handing me another piece of cheese. ‘You keep an eye on things out here.’
Out here was a featureless plain that stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. I suspected I would be underemployed, but I appreciated them leaving me alone for half an hour or so. I was still shaking like one of those quivering trees and now that my sensible half had had time to catch up, I was beginning to realise how many times we’d nearly been shot.
My part in our adventure was temporarily over. I’d got them out. It was up to them to keep us safe.
I could hear the two of them firkling away inside, finally having time to uncover all the food and clothing left for them by a thoughtful Chief Technical Officer. Cries of delight and excitement wafted from the open hatch. I suppose that for two teenagers who, until taken in by St Mary’s, had been slowly dying of radiation poisoning, starvation and hot pursuit, all this was luxury indeed.
Mikey appeared with a mug of tea and huge bar of chocolate. There was a note attached to the chocolate. You’d better get this down you before you puke. Take care and see you soon, Leon x.
Have I said how brilliant he is?
‘Well?’ I said, munching away. ‘What do you think of your new facilities?’
‘Oh yeah, fantastic, Max. There’s tons of food. And you don’t have to cook any of it. You just have to pull the heating tab. It’s brilliant. And there’s blankets. And some soap. All sorts of things.’
The hazards of the last thirty minutes appeared to have completely passed her by. On the other hand, she and Adrian had been running from the Time Police for years, so this really was a normal day for them.
‘How long can we stay here?’ I asked.
‘Another hour. To be safe, another forty-five minutes. I’ve set the alarm. Gotta say, it’s good to be back with the old girl again.’ She patted the teapot’s hull affectionately.
I felt depressed. If she regarded their pod as an old girl, in what light did she regard me? Ancient relic, probably. That was certainly how I felt.
Adrian joined us, munching on something that probably should have been cooked first, but the teenage digestive system is different from that of normal people.
‘Another two jumps, I reckon,’ he announced thickly. ‘Just to muddy the waters a little. If you think it’s necessary, Max.’
‘I honestly don’t know, but I think we should err on the safe side.’
There’s a phrase I don’t use often, but I was beginning to appreciate its hidden benefits. Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. And when the next person enquired whether I was insane, the answer, sadly, was going to have to be yes. And there was no point in appealing to these two idiots. It was all a huge adventure to them.
I had a thought from the last time I’d been on the run from the Time Police. ‘Try for somewhere meteorologically or geologically hazardous,’ I said. ‘Leon and I once lost them for a while at Pompeii. I know from experience that sort of thing causes their instruments some problems and even they weren’t prepared to track us down in the middle of a volcanic eruption. With luck, by the time they re-calibrate, we’ll be even further away.’
He nodded, swallowed the last of whatever he’d been eating, and with a dramatic swirl of his long coat, climbed back into his teapot.
Mikey and I sat in the sun a while longer.
‘You all right with this next bit, Max?’ she asked suddenly.
I nodded, because while you’re not supposed to lie to the young, nodding doesn’t count.
I spent the time gathering my scattered wits and getting my thoughts straight. I’d read the files left by Charlie Farenden. I knew where and when we should be. Just as soon as we had a decent distance between us and the Time Police. Commander Hay and I had discussed whether they should refrain from pursuit altogether – being caught prematurely would ruin everything – but she’d said we had to make it look as realistic as possible and I’d agreed. A large number of the Time Police were currently with Dr Bairstow who, at this moment, should be reclaiming St Mary’s and kicking the idiot Halcombe down the stairs. I was sorry to miss that but even I can’t be everywhere at once. And I was certain Mrs Enderby could supply Dr Bairstow with a crochet hook should he not have brought his own.
I believe we touched down briefly in Mughal India, to avail ourselves of their monsoon facilities and then hopped off to somewhere white. The whole world was white. The landing on that one was flawless but that was because we landed in twenty feet of snow.
I enquired whether they had a periscope, but with that teenage inability to understand sarcasm, Mikey had replied they had a camera on a stick and did I want to see?
I thanked them and declined.
And then, the time had come.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
As I’ve said, there’s such a thing as pod etiquette. You don’t just shoulder someone aside in their own pod and lay in coordinates. That’s rude. I gave the coordinates to Mikey and she laid them in.
I clutched my cheese like a talisman as the world shuddered violently and went purple again. When we landed, Adrian flicked on the screen.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I was shocked. And surprised. And seriously concerned. I’m not familiar with London and I honestly hadn’t realised we would be that close. Yes, we were on the other side of the ri
ver, but through a gap in the skyline, I could easily make out the Battersea Power Station, dramatically lit against the night sky. Even as I watched, the nine p.m. London to Paris airship chugged majestically overhead, navigation lights flashing as it went.
‘This is good,’ said Adrian, confidently. ‘They may not be able to pick up our signature this close.’
‘Or, alternatively,’ I said, drily, ‘they could just look out of the window and wave.’
They agreed yes, that was perfectly possible, although not likely. I think they were beginning to see me as some sort of elderly aunt who needed to be reassured at every given moment. I looked at who was doing the reassuring and shook my head. Neither of them had even the faintest conception of self-preservation. I wondered if Mikey ever remembered she had been shot. That had been me once. When had I become so cautious? So careful? So prudent? I decided to blame motherhood. It changes a person – and not always for the better.
I needed to crack on.
I’m not going to give away any secrets, and the whole thing was redacted shortly afterwards anyway, but somewhere between Chelsea Square and Carlisle Square, there’s a tall, narrow building that looks the very epitome of anonymous respectability and really, really isn’t.
I’d seen plenty of photos and 3D images of the exterior. But very few of the interior layout. Apparently, recording devices did not function well inside. It had been made very clear to me that once inside this house, I would be completely on my own. Because although the building genuinely looked as if it had been picked up from 19th-century Cheltenham and dropped down here for the sole purpose of looking down on its neighbours, it was, actually, a sex club. A very, very exclusive and very, very expensive sex club.
Yes, all right, go on. Get it out of your systems. I don’t blame you. Your reactions were as nothing to mine. Shock. Surprise. Alarm. Apprehension. Denial. Disbelief that such an establishment should exist in such an area. And, all right, just a very little curiosity.
Up until this moment, I’d given most of my attention to the breaking-out-of-Adrian-and-Mikey part of the assignment and spent comparatively little time on the getting-into-the-sex-club bit. I hadn’t considered that to be particularly hazardous. Now, staring up at the discreetly flood-lit building, I rather thought I might have been wrong. At least I was familiar with the Time Police and their layout. Sex clubs were a bit of an unknown to me.
Even now, after all these years, my imagination always gets things wrong. In my youth I had always imagined Ancient Rome to be magnificently imposing, with gleaming white buildings and wide, paved roads, gracious porticoes and impressive temples. The reality is that most of it was made up of tall, badly built tenement blocks, and narrow streets stuffed full of beggars, vomit, and mule shit. Their much-vaunted public fountains were not much more than receptacles for rotting vegetables, dead cats and the like. And that was when they weren’t being used as public urinals.
I think I thought a sex club would be a scarlet and black, shabby, garishly-lit, music-blaring, everyone having a great time sort of house, with scantily clad young men and women draped suggestively over the front steps and possibly even – given these enlightened days – some scantily clad young livestock.
What I got was a gracious, five-storey Regency building with wrought iron balconies, reminiscent of a spa town in its heyday. Far from being accessorised with over-friendly . . . staff . . . the only people visible were two enormous black men, beautifully dressed in exquisite black suits, black shirts, black ties and the obligatory sunglasses – which must surely have rendered them nearly blind at this time of night. They were standing on either side of the imposing double front doors, occupying exactly the position where more traditional establishments would have placed carefully cultivated bay trees in carefully understated wooden tubs.
They stood, motionless, their hands clasped in front of them, just like those Secret Service agents detailed to protect yet another unfortunate US president against the inevitable. I wondered if they were armed. It seemed safest to assume they were.
I halted unthreateningly at the foot of the steps and we all regarded each other. I think it would have been impossible to overestimate their disinterest.
Slowly, very slowly, I climbed the shallow steps.
There was no response.
I made my voice as authoritative as I could. ‘Good evening. My name is Maxwell. I’d like to speak to Mr Atticus Wolfe, please. I shan’t keep him long.’
The one on the left said, ‘Why?’ and his voice was so deep my chest rumbled.
I pushed my specs back up my nose. I was wearing the ones that made me look both intelligent and sexy. ‘Because, according to my list, Mr Wolfe is the fourth most powerful person in London.’
He blinked. ‘What?’
‘Well,’ I said confidingly, ‘I did consider the Lebedev brothers, the third most powerful people in London – I should imagine they’re very nervously watching out for Mr Wolfe in their rear-view mirror, wouldn’t you? – but having considered the situation, I thought I’d have more luck with Mr Wolfe. As fourth on the list, he’s not quite in the top three, but he is the best of the rest and I feel will be more appreciative of the advantage I am about to offer him.’ I beamed.
‘What?’
I leaned towards them, deliberately waited two heartbeats and then said very softly, ‘Please tell him I can give him his heart’s desire.’
Their expressions never changed, but I had the definite impression they thought this highly unlikely.
Their next words proved it. ‘Get lost.’
‘OK.’ I turned to go, saying over my shoulder, ‘My compliments to Mr Wolfe. Tell him Max from the Time Police said she’s sorry we were unable to do business together.’
I made it all the way to the bottom of the steps confident they would call me back and they didn’t. Bollocks. This wasn’t going to work and I didn’t have a Plan B. Back to the pod to think again.
‘Wait.’
I stopped and turned. The one on the right was disappearing through the front doors into the brightly-lit hall beyond. The other moved to a more central position and stared impassively down at me.
I made no move to climb back up the steps – not least because I reckoned at least three cameras were watching me – and remained where I was, taking the time to admire the litter-free pavements, the well-lit houses around the square, and the expensively authentic reproduction street lights. There was a very great deal of money invested in these few square yards. Sadly, none of it was mine. Nor ever likely to be.
I don’t know for how long I waited there until the door opened. And stayed open, letting a bright shaft of light illuminate the steps. The guard was holding it open for me to enter.
I walked slowly up the steps, edged past the remaining security man who made no effort to move out of the way, and oozed into the hall. The door closed behind me, shutting out the hum of the city.
This was my first sex club and I was very, very impressed. Don’t judge me. Captain Ellis had briefed me on what I might expect to find.
‘Relax, Max – there’s no sex on the premises – that would be illegal. There’s no gambling, either, because that would require a licence. It’s a house offering excellent food, drink and “company” to any member who requests it. The “company” can be of either sex and is, without exception, well-educated, intelligent, personable, charming, and able to hold their own in any conversation from football to free-market economies. Introductions are made and there is pre-dinner conversation. During an excellent and very expensive meal, which will be added to the member’s monthly account, a great deal of fine wine will be consumed, and the member and however many of the “company” he or she feels they can comfortably accommodate, are put into a taxi and driven to a mutually agreed private destination. All the action takes place well away from club premises. No one will be swinging naked from the chandeliers.
’
I’d asked if the ‘company’ were employed and hired out by the house.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing so crude. The house provides only the venue. Several attempts at prosecution have failed to prove that the “company” is in any way employed by Mr Wolfe. His argument is that he provides an environment for friends to meet, dine, and get to know each other better. He maintains that what happens after they leave his establishment is none of his business. Which it isn’t. Except, of course, for the vast sums he rakes in afterwards. From both hirers and hirees. His commission.’
‘And they pay? Everyone pays?’
‘Of course they do. Apart from the fact he’d send the boys round to break more than their legs, it’s a highly profitable enterprise for everyone. The “company” – once they’ve been carefully vetted, of course – have the entrée to a tip-top establishment frequented by the very best people. And the very best people have access to good-looking, intelligent, amenable, and above all very friendly experts in their field who are more than happy – for a generous remuneration – to cater to their every whim. And, best of all, the authorities are thrilled because some very top people are members of this club and it makes it easy for them to keep tabs on who’s doing what to whom.’
It didn’t sound too bad and I said so.
He frowned. ‘Max, you need to be aware that Atticus Wolfe is a very astute man. He plays by the rules – as long as they suit him – and that has made him an extremely rich man. And a very powerful one. He’s not one of your backstreet thugs who’s dragged himself up by his bootstraps. He’s intelligent and cultured. Marlborough and Sandhurst.’
‘Sandhurst?’
‘Yes, but not for very long. After being invited to resign his commission he diverted his undoubted talents into other, less structured, areas.’
‘And you are bringing him to my attention because . . . ?’
‘Because we in the Time Police have, for some time, suspected him of being implicated in several serious Time infringements.’