Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  He spread his hands. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’

  ‘It’s the only way you can assure yourself that whatever we bring back is completely and utterly genuine.’ I held his eye. ‘And exclusive.’

  He made no reply for a long time and then said, ‘What sort of trip?’

  Now I had to be careful. If I told them what I proposed, and if Clive Ronan was involved somehow, then an ambush would be easy and I’d had enough of that.

  ‘Egypt,’ I said. ‘The funeral procession of Tutankhamun. What do you think?’

  ‘What will I see?’

  I tried to put myself in his shoes. What would he want to see?

  ‘Ancient Egyptians. Processions. Grave goods.’

  He looked unmoved.

  ‘Gold. Probably quite a lot of gold. You could think of it as a preview. A chance to scope out future opportunities.’

  He nodded, his face giving nothing away. I was certain, sooner or later, he was going to double-cross us but I could hardly complain because I fully intended to double-cross him.

  I walked to the door, not looking at the dead dodo. ‘Ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Mr Khalife knows where. Wear something loose and flowing.’

  ‘Are you insane? Why would I trust you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Trust me – don’t trust me. Your choice. We will wait five minutes. No longer. If you’re not there you will never see us again. Take your dodo and do with it as you please.’

  Well, they were never going to let me go, were they?

  ‘I think not, Dr Maxwell. I rather think we should discuss your continued presence here and how it will ensure future good behaviour from your colleagues.’

  I shook my head. ‘You haven’t met my colleagues, so I’ll forgive you, but trust me, they have absolutely no conception of the words “good behaviour”. And they’re certainly not stupid. They’ll land, wait for five minutes and then leave. Then you’ll be stuck with me and I can produce any number of teachers and ex-employers to testify I’m the most awkward sod in existence. There are two blokes back in 1400 who still wish they’d never clapped eyes on me. You’ll have no choice but to shoot me, dispose of the body, and hope the Time Police never put two and two together and use it as the excuse they’ve been waiting for.’

  Listen to me defying organised crime.

  His face was carved from stone. ‘I am not convinced you and the Time Police have completely sundered your relationship.’

  Shit. Stay calm, Maxwell. ‘Best you don’t shoot me then. Not until you’re completely certain. They get very upset when people shoot one of their own. And it’s not as if they’re not itching for an excuse to take you down.’

  All true, according to the Time Police file.

  He stared for a moment. ‘How did they ever come to recruit you?’

  ‘Seconded,’ I said, because telling the truth is a Good Thing.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘St Mary’s.’

  He was incredulous. ‘A religious establishment?’

  ‘Well, there is often a great deal of futile god-invoking going on so yes, if you like, an establishment with a religious interest.’

  He stared at me some more. I stared back. How much of a risk-taker was he? A big one, I suspected. You didn’t get where he was without pushing your luck.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘Ancient Egypt – yes or no?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Khalife.

  ‘Why there?’ asked Mr Wolfe.

  ‘Because I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Khalife again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Wolfe.

  Mr Khalife was not happy. ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Peace, my friend. You will be accompanying me.’

  I frowned.

  ‘A problem, Dr Maxwell?’

  ‘We have space issues. You are neither of you small men. I might have to scrunch you up more than is commensurate with your dignity.’

  ‘Mr Khalife will gladly make the sacrifice.’

  Mr Khalife was a very unhappy man. Guess who was going to get the blame for that.

  33

  He was even less happy at seventeen minutes past eight the next morning. I know we’d said ten a.m. but seventeen minutes past eight is such a much more innocuous time of day.

  We had landed in their back yard when they were expecting us in the alleyway. And we were early. I’ve become an expert in avoiding ambushes.

  I took a quick look around. This was the bit of the club the punters would never get to see. It seemed deserted enough. We’d parked next to piles of empty crates and in front of a long row of wheelie bins. It was tidy – there were no bodies or vomit and no one was being knee-capped. Nocturnal establishments don’t tend to be lively at seventeen minutes past eight in the morning, but I had a good stare around at the blank walls and empty windows, just to be on the safe side.

  I rang for deliveries again and scampered back to the pod.

  If they’d had anything sinister planned for us then nothing showed in their faces although they were neither of them very cheerful. I had no idea whether it was because their plans had been foiled or if it was just early morning grumpiness.

  It got worse. I hadn’t tried to prepare them for their first sight of the pod because how many ways are there to describe a twelve-foot high teapot that don’t actually include the words twelve-foot high teapot? I’ve never heard such an eloquent silence. Not even from Dr Bairstow who does that sort of thing quite well.

  They were going to be even more unhappy when they realised we weren’t going to Ancient Egypt.

  I was pleased to see they’d obeyed the ‘wear something flowing’ directive. Both wore dazzling white jellabiyas. I wasn’t sure how accurate they would be where we were going, but Jebel Barkal was a cosmopolitan place and they shouldn’t stand out too much. Their turbans were traditionally long – to be used as a shroud should they fall in battle – which could be quite useful if we found ourselves in difficulties. Not that we would. I had no intention of straying much more than ten feet from the teapot. This would be the safest jump ever.

  First things first.

  ‘Right,’ I said, channelling official tour guide. ‘Let’s have your guns.’

  That got the sort of reaction you would expect.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No. Absolutely no guns. This is my world. If you want to survive then you do as I say. No guns. If you shoot someone and they turn out to be an ancestor then you might never have been born at all, in which case you never got to shoot your ancestor and at this point we’re dealing with the P-word.’

  There was a thought-filled pause and then a slightly baffled Mr Khalife said, ‘Do you mean penis?’

  I sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

  I said patiently, ‘No, I mean paradox. Not that it would get that far because History would have taken you out long before you’d be allowed to create such a thing. Trust me – I’ve seen it happen. So – no guns. Or knives.’

  I’m pleased and proud to say I’ve caused the opposite sex a great deal of trouble and grief over the years and today was no exception. Their very lack of expression spoke volumes.

  ‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘You will be putting yourselves in extra­ordinary danger if you carry any sort of weapon.’

  ‘Then how do we defend ourselves?’ enquired Mr Wolfe.

  ‘Well, you’ll have Mr Khalife here to do that for you and I’ll do as I always do, which is run like hell.’

  OK – so we hadn’t scored highly with the teapot. Our scores had plummeted further when I made them give up most of their weapons – I say most, because even I wasn’t stupid enough to assume they didn’t have a couple of knives, hand-grenades and small thermo-nuclear devices concealed somewhere about their persons – but I think it’s safe to say their first sight of Adrian and Mikey took ou
r score right down to nul points.

  The two sides stared at each other. Adrian was wearing his dramatically long coat – I suspected he intended to be buried in it – and Mikey was in her favourite disreputable old flying jacket and flying helmet and had completely unnecessary goggles on top of her head. They beamed politely at our prospective passengers who stared stonily back again. I would not have thought it possible for Mr Khalife to look any more unhappy, but he managed it.

  He turned to me. ‘Are you insane?’

  I was tempted to come back with my usual response, ‘No, Dr Stone had me tested,’ but I suspected an imminent sense of humour failure.

  He pointed a disbelieving finger. ‘These are children.’

  Shaking my head, I said, ‘It’s a well-known fact that most physicists have done their best work by the time they’re thirty.’

  Huge apologies to physicists everywhere.

  ‘It’s the same with temporal dynamics.’ I tried to remember when I’d been more authoritative on a subject I knew absolutely nothing about. At this rate I’d be able to run for parliament. ‘These two designed, built and operate this tea . . . this pod. It is far in advance of anything yet produced, which, I believe, was what interested you in the first place. If, however, you have changed your minds . . .’

  ‘Sir?’ said Mr Khalife and they exchanged a look.

  Mr Wolfe smiled. ‘My friend, I have never known you to give bad advice, but I think a small compromise here might benefit everyone.’

  He meant a hostage.

  Adrian, Mikey and I had discussed this. It made sense. Accidents aside, there was nothing to stop us spiriting the two of them off into the wide blue yonder and never bringing them back. Adrian had volunteered, saying he could do with a bit of a holiday, warned Mikey the teapot was still a couple of decades out and not to forget to compensate for drift.

  I saw no signal, but two men appeared from the back door. I recognised the two bouncers from last night. They kept their distance but we all knew why they were there.

  ‘Oh great,’ said Adrian in excitement. ‘Can I be the hostage? Pleeeease. Do you have the Sports Channel? Can I play my guitar? Any chance of a McBurger or three?’

  He started to walk towards the two men. ‘Hi, my name’s Adrian. What’s yours?’

  They stared over his shoulder to Mr Wolfe who smiled slightly. ‘Why not?’ He raised his voice. ‘Give him everything he wants.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Adrian, with enthusiasm.

  ‘Bummer,’ said Mikey. ‘Is it too late for me to be the hostage?’

  ‘Can we get a move on, please?’ I said, motioning Mikey back to the pod. Wolfe and Khalife stood stock-still. Had it all been too easy?

  ‘Come along,’ I said, making chivvying gestures. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  Mikey waved at Adrian who waved back again. I wondered if either of them had even the faintest idea of how much danger he was in.

  I climbed up the ladder. Then Wolfe. Mr Khalife brought up the rear.

  Mikey helped me inside. Wolfe and Khalife swung themselves down like athletes. I reminded myself I was the brains of the outfit – not the brawn.

  They looked around. I could feel their surprise.

  I know I’ve already described the unlikely interior of their teapot. Nothing much had changed except now it was redolent with the results of dodo travel-sickness. I felt quite nostalgic for cabbage.

  We sat them down facing the wall because, as Mikey explained, having no safety protocols wasn’t always a good thing and we could land anywhere. She added cheerfully that there was nothing to stop us rolling a hundred feet down a sand dune and that it had happened once before, although it had been hilarious because Adrian had been eating spaghetti at the time and she’d practically had to cut him free. She finished by telling them that if they were facing the wall then they couldn’t see if anything went wrong and ignorance was bliss and to trust her.

  I think at this point they were so bemused at this charmingly informal approach to time travel that they’d have gone along with anything. If they’d seen pods before I couldn’t help wondering what they’d been expecting this time. Banks of sophisticated equipment? Flashing lights? Steely-eyed operatives feeding complex mathematical and temporal equations into some kind of super-computer? Trust me – you don’t need any of that. Which was just as well because we didn’t have any of that.

  I joined them on the floor, hoping they would find my presence reassuring, rather like goats and racehorses, but I could have been kidding myself. I said, ‘You might want to brace yourselves.’

  I think they were already braced, but they found a little extra from somewhere.

  I heard Mikey talking to the computer. The teapot shuddered and the world went purple.

  It was bad for me. I can only imagine what it must have been like for them. I pushed at Mr Khalife. ‘Get off me.’

  He heaved himself up. Wolfe was staring at the floor with the intent expression of someone concentrating on keeping his insides inside. I could now add grey to his impressive list of skin colours.

  We gave them a moment to regain their composure. I remember thinking that if this didn’t cure them of wanting to accompany us on all future jumps then nothing would. Alternatively, of course, they could just think of someone who had annoyed them recently – they had a long list, I was willing to bet – and despatch them in their place.

  Mikey was rummaging for the cheese. ‘Here you are,’ she said cheerfully, holding out a handful of sweaty lumps.

  Their silence was eloquent.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s right. At the moment, you’re suffering nausea, headaches, disorientation, and poor coordination. You will go on to experience feelings of disconnection and the fear of being lost. To say nothing of the sheer weight of time bearing down upon you as you struggle to find your place in it. All that will pass. Cheese will help.’

  I think they felt it was one of those situations where the cure is worse than the disease, but they wouldn’t be where they were if they weren’t tough and resilient. They took the cheese, munched for a moment and then looked around.

  ‘Just take your time,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to spoil the experience by vomiting over your own feet. Or even worse – my feet. Mikey – how are we doing?’

  ‘Spot on,’ she said, shutting things down. ‘I was easily able to compensate for the drift. Adrian’s such an old woman. Whenever you’re ready, Max.’

  I stared at the screen. It wasn’t as big as the ones I was accustomed to, but the resolution was excellent.

  Mr Wolfe had pulled himself together. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Aha,’ I said. ‘A typical rookie remark. Your first question should always be, “When are we?”’

  Actually, the first question was frequently What went wrong? closely followed by When are we leaving? and Whose fault was it this time? but no need to bother them with that now.

  I indicated the screen with a flourish. ‘Behold.’ And that’s not a word you get to say every day of the week. Not in normal everyday conversations anyway.

  They beheld.

  The sun was just coming up and turning everything to liquid gold. Long, long purple shadows stretched towards us.

  ‘Again, I ask. Where are we?’

  ‘The land of Kush. Around 720BC.’

  There was a bit of a pause. ‘Not Egypt?’

  I said, ‘Not Egypt, no,’ watching his face carefully for signs of disappointment at a possible failed ambush, but as far as I could see there was just non-comprehension and irritation and I get that all the time in my normal working day so it was water off a duck’s back, really.

  ‘And you have brought me here because . . . ?’

  ‘Several reasons. I’ve never been here before and I’ve always wanted to come. It’s the time of the Black Pharaohs. And – something yo
u may find interesting – it’s almost certainly the land of your ancestors.’

  Mr Wolfe said, ‘My family comes from Chelmsford.’

  ‘I daresay,’ I said, ‘but your ancestors were Kushite.’ I indicated with my finger. ‘You both have the Kushite fold.’

  Even I could see that, despite my enthusiasm, Mr Wolfe was underwhelmed.

  ‘This is not Egypt.’

  ‘No, this is the country that rules Egypt.’

  He stared again. ‘I would have preferred Egypt.’

  Bloody ingratitude. Five minutes into his first jump ever and he’s moaning already.

  ‘You mean Egypt with its pyramids and monuments? Its stele and temples? Its wealth and influence? Its riches? Its treasures?’ I paused. ‘And its gold.’

  He nodded and said firmly, ‘Yes. That Egypt.’

  ‘Egypt has no gold. Well, yes, they do, obviously, lots of it, but what I’m trying to say is that gold is not mined in Egypt. This is the land of Kush. Where Egypt’s gold comes from. My thinking was that it would be easier – although not today, of course – for us to steal a little gold at source, so to speak, rather than wait until it found its way up to Egypt. Where they really don’t take kindly to that sort of thing at all. And their punishments are not much fun. You know – impalement. And while I’m the first to enjoy a good laugh, believe me, there are no funny historian-on-a-stick jokes.’

  They took a moment to think about this. I could practically hear their brains working. Passengers apart, I have to say, I was beginning to see the attractions of the shadier side of time travel. You could go where you pleased and do as you pleased when you got there. There were no rules. And not least, actually being able to call it time travel without fear of incurring the wrath of Dr Bairstow. I took a moment to wonder what was happening at St Mary’s and then dragged myself back to the here and now. There was nothing I could do for my colleagues. I needed to concentrate my attention here. I had to keep these two off-balance. Keep them always slightly unsure of what was going on. Not enough to frighten them, because frightened people are dangerous, but just vaguely disoriented and unsettled. And very dependent on me and Mikey.