Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  I looked him in the eye. ‘All of that is very true. But perhaps you should ask yourself why the Time Police are so interested in this particular pod. Why they have pursued it for years. And why they are dealing so harshly with its owners.’

  ‘The Time Police are interested in every illegal pod. And they deal harshly with everyone.’

  I said softly, ‘But this pod is . . . special. And its inventors even more so.’

  There was a very long silence. No one moved. On the other side of the door, people were having a perfectly normal evening – having dinner, meeting exciting new people, booking an evening’s adventurous sex – ‘you bring the Pyrex and I’ll bring the goat’ – while in here, I was breaking the few remaining rules left to me. After all, I’d changed – sorry, re-routed – History, so why not now start to plunder it?

  He said very slowly, ‘In what way is this pod so special?’

  I lowered my voice. I might as well make it as difficult as possible to those listening in. ‘Let us assume that during the pod’s construction, certain protocols were either not built in or somehow bypassed. It was not deliberate. No one is quite sure how, but this pod is able to remove items from the past. Successfully. By which I mean no one dies. Unless they’re caught by the Time Police, of course. In the interests of full disclosure, I must point out that anyone taking on this pod will immediately find themselves in the gravest danger.’

  He stood up abruptly and returned to his desk. To show my independence, I remained where I was, but I suddenly felt very isolated and afraid. For something to do, I sipped my water and took stock.

  These were intelligent men. Intelligent enough to know that power speaks for itself. That they had no need for shouting and violence to intimidate others. Polite and quietly spoken they might be, but only up to a point. At this moment it didn’t suit their purposes to hurt me but that could all change in a heartbeat and I had no back-up of any kind.

  I rather thought I was safe for the moment. There was no point in them killing me now. If I didn’t make the rendezvous, Mikey and Adrian would simply jump away and re-join St Mary’s. They wouldn’t be happy, but they’d promised. Everyone would be very sorry the plan hadn’t worked and then sit down to think of something else.

  On the other hand, Mr Wolfe, or more likely, Mr Khalife, might decide he could prise the location of our rendezvous from me, turn up in my stead, somehow overcome the two of them and try to seize the pod. I was sure Adrian and Mikey, veterans of Time Police pursuit over the years, would be more than equal to that, but that wouldn’t benefit me. It dawned on me that, at that moment, I really was in a very bad position. On the other hand, it wasn’t the first time I’d been without back-up. Could be the last, though. I thrust that thought away.

  Mr Wolfe seated himself slowly and precisely, straightening the few items on his desk that had somehow managed to disarrange themselves in his absence.

  ‘I have sources, Dr Maxwell, and yet I have heard nothing of this.’

  ‘And you won’t. The Time Police will lock this down as tightly as they can. There’s no way they will want word of this pod getting out. And certainly not that they had it and let it go. They will concentrate every resource on recapturing us. We need a protector. The strongest there is.’

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Maxwell, but I would like to be absolutely clear on this. You are telling me that you possess a pod able to remove items from their own timeline?’

  He’d got the phraseology exactly right. More than ever, I was convinced I had the right man and this would succeed.

  I nodded, and then said, ‘Sorry – for the benefit of hidden microphones, I just nodded.’

  Another silence fell. Both of them possessed the gift of complete stillness and the knowledge of how to use it. Suddenly, Atticus Wolfe pulled open a drawer, pulled out a piece of paper and held it out to me.

  I looked at it and then looked at him. Surely, he didn’t expect me to sign something?

  ‘A preliminary sketch.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You wanted to paint my portrait. I believe the established procedure is to begin with preliminary sketches.’

  ‘Here? Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  So – no pressure then. I wondered if this was a test. If I made a good job of the sketch then he would continue with our transaction. If not . . .

  I stood up and approached his desk. I stirred his pen pot until I found a pen I could use, said, ‘With your permission,’ and pinched his blotter to use as a makeshift drawing board. Even more cheekily, I plonked myself down in his visitor’s chair directly opposite him and asked if he could turn slightly to his left.

  There was a lot resting on this. I told my hands to stop shaking and my heart to slow down. I didn’t rush into it. I made myself spend some time just staring at him. Looking at the planes and angles of his face. He sat perfectly still, showing no signs of impatience. No one spoke.

  I started with the inside corner of his right eye because if I could get that right then the rest should follow, and then spread outwards. The bridge of his nose, his other eye. The flare of his nostrils. The angle of his cheekbones. The set of his eyebrows.

  I didn’t rush, but I didn’t have to. I had some trouble with the curve of his mouth and in the end, I left it very loose – just a line and a shadow. Actually, the whole drawing was fairly loose. I concentrated on the shadows, using the white paper to suggest the highlights. The precise planes of his face slowly began to emerge. I was lucky. The likeness was there from the very beginning. Given the circumstances under which I was working, I could so easily have made a mess of it. I narrowed his eyes slightly, emphasised his cheekbones – which were magnificent anyway – and worked away in silence.

  Complete stillness had descended upon the room.

  Pushing my luck, I got up, moved around the desk to peer closely at his eyes. Mr Khalife stirred very slightly and I decided that was enough.

  Ten minutes later, I was done. And I wasn’t displeased. Although that wasn’t any credit to me. Some faces just scream out to be painted and I couldn’t screw them up if I tried, but this was good work. Even I was satisfied. Although I wasn’t the important person here.

  I laid it on the desk in front of him. His own face looked up at him. Still and stern, looking slightly away at something only he could see.

  The room filled up with another long silence. I think it was a deliberate ploy to unsettle visitors. It certainly unsettled me.

  Finally, he stirred. ‘Perhaps we could discuss some specifics.’

  I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. I had thirty-five minutes before I needed to depart. I had decided against informing Mr Wolfe of our two-hour deadline. I certainly didn’t want to give him information he could use against me. And it would be our protection against the inevitable moment when he decided he didn’t need us any longer and would go it alone. Fat lot of good that would do him. One hour and fifty-five minutes later he’d find himself looking at some seriously irked Time Police officers. No need to bother him with that information either.

  On the other hand, I had only thirty-five minutes, so I kept calm and asked what he had in mind.

  ‘You will bring me something.’

  Success!

  ‘All right.’ I stood up.

  ‘Something unique. Something that could not possibly have come from say . . . a museum or a private collection somewhere.’

  Ah. I wondered if he’d been caught like that before. Someone had stood before him proudly flourishing some artefact that they had, in fact, lifted from a museum just down the road.

  ‘All right.’

  He said again, ‘Something specific.’

  ‘If you are thinking of someone’s famous jewels, then no. Too difficult. And too easily traced.’

  ‘I was thinking of, possibly, something from the Titanic.’
/>   My stomach clenched. ‘Absolutely not.’

  He swept on. ‘I want proof, Dr Maxwell. Something unique. A one-off. Not something that could have been stolen from a collection or a museum. Some headed notepaper, perhaps, from the passengers’ lounge.’

  Oh, for crying out loud. I had no doubt Adrian and Mikey would be up for it but there was no way I was going anywhere near the Titanic. Pods have slightly less buoyancy than the Great Pyramid encased in lead and the Atlantic goes a long way down.

  ‘Well,’ I said, to gain time. ‘That’s certainly . . . specific.’

  ‘I have been deceived in the past, Dr Maxwell.’

  By whom, I wondered, and tried not to think about what could have happened to them.

  ‘Something that could not possibly have come from this time.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ I headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To procure something specific and unique. Something that will impress even you, Mr Wolfe.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘A surprise.’

  I reached the door. Not to my surprise, Mr Khalife was there before me.

  ‘Are you going to check to see I haven’t stolen an ashtray?’

  ‘Mr Wolfe has not given you permission to depart.’

  ‘I don’t need his permission to depart.’

  He said very gently, ‘Such discourtesy so early in our relationship.’ He was close enough to see the line of sweat on my top lip.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I’m as shocked as you, but no doubt Mr Wolfe is excited to see what I shall bring him, so I’m prepared to make allowances.’

  ‘I think Mr Wolfe feels his interests would be best served by you remaining here for the time being.’

  ‘I’m sure he does but, as I said before, if I am not at a specific place at a specific time then the offer is withdrawn.’

  ‘You are fugitives. You need protection. You need Mr Wolfe.’

  ‘You are correct. I am a fugitive. And I do need protection. But not necessarily Mr Wolfe’s protection. If I am not at the rendezvous point, my colleagues will simply make the same offer to a . . . excuse me, I have trouble with this name . . . Mr Spirios Panagopoulos, who is not, I believe, unknown to Mr Wolfe.’

  ‘And how will this trouble Mr Wolfe?’

  ‘It will not trouble Mr Wolfe at all. Except that then Mr Panagopoulos will possess what Mr Wolfe does not.’

  ‘It is you, I think, who will be the loser.’

  ‘I’m on the run from the Time Police,’ I said, bitterly. ‘I’m a dead woman walking. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps even Mr Wolfe cannot protect me from them. Perhaps it would be in all our best interests if I simply walked away and we all pretend this meeting never took place.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’ His voice came from the other side of the room.

  I turned back to Mr Wolfe, still sitting at his desk. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours.’

  Twenty-four minutes would more than do it but no need to tell him that either. I didn’t want to make this look too easy.

  ‘Very well. Good evening, Mr Wolfe. Mr Khalife.’

  I reached for the door but he was ahead of me again. ‘Allow me, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I had a feeling turning my back on Mr Wolfe would be considered unwise as well as discourteous so I nodded and backed out of the room into the hall.

  The place had filled up since I’d arrived. There were more people in the bar now – still all sitting at tables. No one was standing at the bar. No one was alone. Everyone had at least one companion. Some of the conversations had become animated. Behind them, in the dining room, more tables were occupied. Waiters were flying to and fro with laden trays. I wondered how much a meal here cost. Which obviously led me to wonder how much an evening with one of Mr Wolfe’s ‘company’ cost. And he earned at both ends of the transaction. He took his cut from both the donor and the recipient of whatever services had been negotiated and at comparatively little risk to himself. I reminded myself this was only a small part of his trade. The public face of his occupation. The working conditions of those hundreds of women further down the scale would hardly bear thinking about. A short life of violence, hardship and disease was their lot.

  Mr Khalife escorted me personally to the front door. ‘Goodnight, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Do you have delivery facilities here?’

  He seemed surprised. ‘Why would you ask?’

  ‘In twenty-four hours I will have a delivery for Mr Wolfe.’

  ‘May I ask the nature of the delivery?’

  ‘You may, but I think Mr Wolfe should be the first to know, don’t you?’

  For a moment, he regarded me with no expression at all and I went cold all over. I forced myself to smile politely. ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you this evening, Mr Khalife. I shall see you again soon.’

  ‘Within twenty-four hours, Dr Maxwell.’

  I smiled in what I hoped was an enigmatic manner, although I’ve been told that really doesn’t work for me. Someone – I’ve no idea who – flung open the front door with a flourish and I was back out in the cold night air.

  I said a polite goodnight to the two well-dressed thugs on the door. I’m an historian and it’s one of our basic rules – always be polite to the man with the machine gun/spear/army/clipboard/vicious dog/whatever.

  They both ignored me. As far as I could see, neither of them had moved at all during my visit inside.

  I trotted carefully down the steps, turned left and strode confidently up the street. Past the lighted windows, now with their curtains drawn. Back towards the hum of traffic in the distance.

  I turned a corner and was out of their sight. I took a firm grip on some expensively ornate railings and sucked in great lungfuls of oxygen. The sweat was pouring off me. I could feel cold damp patches under my arms, in the small of my back, even the creases of my knees. The night was cool but that wasn’t why I was shivering. There had been no threats, no hostility, not even raised voices, and yet, throughout the entire interview, I had been conscious of such a sense of menace. I had never met two men who frightened me more. Not even the two massive men on the front door. Atticus Wolfe had terrified me from the moment I walked into his office. As had his so-called personal assistant. Of Demiyan Khalife’s loyalty to his boss there could be no doubt. There was a closeness there. A bond. Complete loyalty to one another. I wondered if they had grown up together. It seemed likely. I wondered whether they were aware they both possessed the same facial marker – the Kushite fold that had given me so much trouble in Mr Wolfe’s sketch.

  I had no doubt that had Atticus Wolfe so much as lifted his little finger, I’d be face down in the Thames by now. And I’d probably never have known anything about it.

  I took two or three more deep breaths and straightened up before someone rang the police and reported a strange woman hugging their railings. This was a well-to-do area – they would be here in seconds. I set off again.

  I was almost certain I would be followed. Not a problem at this stage. In fact, I couldn’t blame Mr Wolfe for his suspicions. I walked briskly, only looking behind me to cross the street. No one was in sight but I was convinced they would be there somewhere.

  I took the long way back, cutting down narrow streets full of smart houses with window boxes and expensive curtains. They were tiny, narrow-fronted houses that would have cost more than both Leon and I would ever earn in our entire lives. Just down here was an alleyway between two houses. An iron bollard prevented vehicular access. I turned down the alley. Being between two high brick walls with no way out was not comfortable. I’d once had a very unpleasant experience in a narrow Whitechapel alleyway. Still, I’d survived that. I could survive this.

  I listened for footste
ps but could hear nothing. If they were there then they really were very good. At the end I stopped and looked back. The alleyway was empty. I felt rather silly. Then I worried that perhaps they hadn’t believed me. Perhaps I wasn’t important enough to warrant the effort. Perhaps no one was following me at all.

  I pulled myself together. No – of course they were. Somewhere, they were here.

  And so were Adrian and Mikey. The alleyway opened up into a wider area – one of those funny spaces where two alleyways converge and no one can think of anything useful to do with such a tiny space. I could see the teapot against the far wall. Initially, I’d been concerned its unusual shape would promote comment but fortunately it bore a really very startling resemblance to the public conveniences dotted around the area. It was still a little early, but I wondered how many slightly confused and increasingly desperate revellers had tried to gain access.

  The hatch was down and locked. There was no sign of life. They were under strict instructions. I stood some ten feet away where they could see me. There was a pause which I chose to believe was them carefully surveying the area to make sure I was alone, although with those two I wasn’t optimistic.

  The hatch opened and their heavy ladder thudded to the ground. I clambered up and in. The hatch closed behind me.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  A steaming mug was placed in my hands.

  ‘You cut that rather fine,’ said Adrian. ‘Should we go?’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  I hung on tight to my tea as the world shuddered and went purple.

  32

  The next landing was better. Or possibly the vast amounts of cheese I’d consumed were beginning to kick in.

  We made no move to disembark. I’d warned them to be very careful.

  ‘They once suffered an invasion by Clive Ronan,’ I told them. ‘A lot of people died. They’re rather keen to prevent a repeat of that. There is every possibility they’ll shoot first and apologise afterwards.’