by Jodi Taylor
‘Anyway, the crowd panicked as well.’
I nodded. I could imagine the scene. Even today, the word leper has the power to spread fear.
‘The female beggar wasn’t alone and some sort of punch-up started as her companions pitched in to help.’
The correct procedure would be to withdraw quietly, regroup a street or so away, and continue with the assignment.
‘So what went wrong?’
‘He ran.’
Of course he bloody did.
‘He ran. We had to run with him, of course.’
‘And he ran straight back to Number Five?’
‘Yep.’
‘Thus leading a great crowd of people to the pod.’
‘We couldn’t get in. There were people milling about everywhere. We were pushed and pulled all over the place. Eventually, I managed to get inside. Halcombe was already there. I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t leave all of us behind. North turned up shortly afterwards, and while I was treating her arm, Atherton arrived. I called up Sykes and the others and they’d been shunted in the wrong direction and were on the other side of town, lying low. Halcombe was panicking. He wouldn’t wait for them, overrode me, and called for emergency extraction.’
What a shambles. What a bloody, bloody shambles. What the hell were Thirsk thinking when they unleashed this idiot on us? You only had to look at the way he spoke to Dottle to realise he had the people skills of a polecat. He’d set everyone’s backs up from Day One, culminating in this disastrous jump. He couldn’t have made himself more …
I stopped dead, staring into space. Clerk carried on for two or three paces and then slowly stopped.
‘Max?’
I’d been stupid. I’d made some unkind jokes at his expense and called him the idiot Halcombe, but it was me who had been the idiot. Halcombe wasn’t an idiot at all. Halcombe was a very, very clever man. He’d done all this deliberately. He’d seized his first chance to sabotage an assignment and now St Mary’s had chalked up two successive failures. At all costs, I needed to stop him reporting back to Thirsk.
‘Max?’
No time to explain. Halcombe was a threat and I needed to neuter him as quickly as possible. I mean neutralise. No, as you were – right the first time.
‘Mr Clerk, I am concerned that members of this unit might have come into contact with a potentially hazardous disease.’
‘But we didn’t Max. Not us, anyway. Halcombe was the only one who might have had any contact and he …’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘This is most worrying. I’m sure that if Dr Bairstow were here, containing the threat to Mr Halcombe would be his first priority. I want you to get yourself off to Sick Bay with all speed. My compliments to Dr Foster and inform her that Mr Halcombe is far too valuable for us to take any chances. He’s to be confined in the isolation ward at least until Dr Bairstow returns and can assess the situation for himself. No visitors. No phone calls. Total isolation, Mr Clerk. Please make that very clear to Dr Foster.’
For a moment, he stared and then he grinned from ear to ear. ‘Got it, Max. Poor sod. It’s not as if life in isolation is any fun.’
‘I’m sure Dr Foster will know exactly what to do under the circumstances. Off you go.’
He shot off and I made my way to Wardrobe where they were waiting for me.
Mrs Enderby had found me some sort of tent to wear. I tied up my hair and surveyed my team. Markham, Evans, Lingoss, and me. What could possibly go wrong?
Markham handed me a stun gun and pepper spray. I stuffed them into my concealed pockets. I donned my wimple, pulling the coarse, scratchy fabric straight on my shoulders, thinking about what Halcombe had done. This assignment could not have gone more wrong. Objective unachieved and now never likely to be. The pod damaged and three people lost. Well, I couldn’t do anything about the first two disasters, but I could get our people back. And his person, too – Dottle. I thought about the mentality of someone who would abandon one of his own team to further his own ends, and gave a little shiver.
Mrs Enderby, fussing around, said, ‘Everything all right, Max?’
‘Yes. I wonder, could someone get me a com please and ask Dr Peterson if I could have a word?’
‘He’s waiting outside for you.’
He was indeed, looking very grave. I suspected he’d worked it out as well.
He pulled me to a quiet corner and listened while my words tumbled out, nodding occasionally.
‘I propose,’ I said, ‘that we take him somewhere unpleasant – anywhere in the 14th century should do it – and threaten to leave him there until he tells us everything. What is his aim? Why he’s really here. Everything.’
He shook his head. ‘Tempting, but no. We’ll get our own people back first. Dr Bairstow might not wish us to show our hand and I wouldn’t want to jeopardise whatever he has planned. He might want us to keep quiet and see what Halcombe does next. Or who he reports to.’
I stared at him in admiration. ‘You’re even beginning to think like Dr Bairstow.’
He grinned. ‘Yes, I’m expecting to go bald any minute now.’ He handed me a com. ‘Good thought isolating him, by the way. He knows damn well he doesn’t have leprosy, but there won’t be a thing he can do about it, and I’ve authorised Helen to initiate any treatment she thinks necessary.’
‘Tim, that’s …. diabolical.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, grinning. ‘Now go and get them.’
Chapter Fourteen
We assembled outside Number Three – another one of the big pods, because, with luck, it would need to hold me, Markham, Evans, and Miss Lingoss, slightly weighed down by the two wimples and the broad-brimmed hat it had taken to control her hair, together with the rescuees: Sykes, Bashford and Dottle. We stood quietly out of the way while Dieter finished re-setting the coordinates.
Peterson stood up on the gantry, in the spot usually occupied by Dr Bairstow. He lifted his hand. I smiled back.
We filed in. No one had any bags or extra equipment. It was just us.
I seated myself and there was a pause during which the words, ‘Max, you should not be doing this,’ were not spoken.
‘All set,’ said Dieter. ‘Good luck everyone.’ He let himself out. The door closed behind him.
‘OK everyone. Here we go. Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
We landed on a piece of very muddy ground near the bridge leading to the East Gate. It had been raining heavily and was now raining only slightly heavily, which, for Wales, is practically a drought.
I angled the cameras around.
‘Well, they haven’t closed the gate,’ said Markham. ‘That’s a good sign.’
Opening his com, he said, ‘Sykes, Bashford, report.’
Nothing happened. Nobody looked at anyone else. Silence is never good.
‘Sykes. Can you hear me?’
A great blast of noise filled the pod. Singing, shouting, and crashing furniture. We all stepped back and I turned down the volume.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Evans. ‘Typical Psycho Psykes. She’s started some sort of revolution. She’s probably organising the resistance even as we speak. North Wales could be a free state by teatime.’
A man’s voice shouted something. I heard Sykes shout something back. Not in English. That’s the thing about Sykes – she might have the same sense of self-preservation as a hedgehog taking a shortcut across a motorway – but she did have the sense not to be English in a Welsh-speaking community on the day their English overlord had produced yet another son. As far as I knew she couldn’t speak Welsh, but she was Scottish so it might have been Gaelic. Whatever she said, the shouter seemed satisfied and moved away.
‘Are you all right?’ I said, alarmed. It sounded as if a major riot was happening in a very small place.
‘Oh hi, Max,’ she said, showing no surprise it was me. ‘Yeah, fine. We’re having a bit of a party.’
Mark
ham hastily turned away.
I said icily, ‘What?’
‘A party. Good old King Teddy has laid on all sorts of goodies to grease the wheels with the locals. We’re all eating and drinking ourselves silly and when it’s all gone we’ll probably traipse off and throw stones at the castle anyway.’
There was a short silence. Markham had his back to me and Evans was staring vaguely at his feet.
I said with restraint, ‘Who’s we?’
‘The three of us.’ She broke off to shout something to someone else, pitching her voice high and rattling off tortured vowels at machine-gun speed.
‘What language is that?’ said Lingoss, fascinated.
‘Geordie.’
We all stared at each other.
‘Where are you?’
‘Inaninn. Sorry, that’s not easy to say. We’re in an inn. Off Northgate Street, I think. There’s a bush outside the door anyway. We’re out the back with the horses. You can’t miss it.’
‘Injuries?’
‘Yes. I’ve done something hideous to my ankle and Dottle’s banged her head.’
‘And Bashford?’ I said, heart sinking.
‘He’s fine.’
‘What?’
‘He’s fine. Not a mark on him. I think he’s taking part in the “How Far Can You Throw the Pig” competition.’
I ground my teeth. ‘The correct protocol is to lie low, keep quiet, and wait for rescue.’
‘We are,’ she said. ‘We’re blending in. Anyone not taking advantage of Old Teddy’s catering is going to look extremely suspicious, Max. The more we eat and drink and throw pigs around, the safer we are.’ Her voice resonated with injured innocence.
‘Sit tight. We’re on our way.’ I closed the link.
I turned to Markham. ‘Can you believe her?’
He stared at me, his face wooden. ‘No. Unbelievable.’
I pulled out a wicker basket, popped in the small med kit, and covered it with my cloak.
‘Let’s go.’
The day was mild and muggy. I could smell the sea. Even over the smells of cooking and horses and wood smoke, I could smell the sea.
We entered via the East Gate. We’d chosen the East Gate because it housed the exchequer to the chancery of North Wales and was a busy place. Men scurried back and forth. Horses were being led away and fresh horses brought up. There was a good half-dozen guards that we could see, probably more that we couldn’t, and none of them would be too cheerful about having to work on this feast day, but we kept our heads down and slipped through – Lingoss and Evans first then, when no alarm was raised, Markham and me.
We gathered in the wide space on the other side of the Gate and looked around.
Edward had strengthened the town walls and laid out the streets in a grid pattern. Directly ahead of us, the High Street ran down to the West Gate and the sea. The castle was away to our left, its uncompleted outline jagged against the milky grey sky. You can’t miss Caernarfon Castle. It’s impressive today. In 1284, still raw and unfinished, it was bloody magnificent. From the English point of view, of course.
In an effort to keep the Welsh in line, Edward had strung his castles all across Wales, but this was his capital, his place of residence – the jewel in his crown. The castle has been described as brutal and it was. A symbol of power and conquest that dominated the town. A constant reminder that Wales was a defeated country. You had to hand it to the first Edward; he subjugated the Welsh, hammered the Scots, and taxed the Irish. This was a king who made absolutely no friends wherever he went and, somewhere over there, he might well be dangling an infant off a balcony, but we had other priorities.
We looked around, getting our bearings. I saw wooden buildings leaning haphazardly over the crowded streets. A group of Grey Friars, cowls pulled over their heads, huddled out of the rain in a doorway. Over to my right, a pardoner was selling indulgences. He probably did a roaring trade so close to Northgate Street. You could lurch into one of the many hospitable establishments there, drink yourself stupid, enjoy the attentions of one or two suddenly very affectionate ladies, stagger outside again, pay to have your sins absolved, and go home to complain to your wife about the day you’d had.
On the corner, an apothecary had set up a temporary stall and was trading busily, selling off small wrapped packets of cures and medicines that might come in useful to those suffering the consequences of over-indulgence on this supposed holiday.
On the opposite corner, a small boy was selling charcoal and cords of firewood, lustily advertising his wares at the top of his voice. Nearby, a haberdasher was unrolling his wares for a group of housewives, their wimpled heads bent over a length of dark cloth. Next door, a spice merchant had set up a tiny stall, his goods carefully stacked off the cobbles, which were running with all sorts of dubious fluids. I caught a brief whiff of some unknown exotic scent.
A fowler wandered past, a brace of wild ducks swinging lifelessly from each hand. Everywhere coopers, tailors, carpenters, butchers, blacksmiths and ropemakers were extolling the virtues of their products. It was all happening in Caernarfon today. The streets were crammed with food vendors, trinket sellers, travelling musicians and all the many street traders for whom this sort of public event was just a huge moneymaking opportunity.
And, as Clerk had said, there were beggars everywhere, too. Small, sad people dressed in grey rags stood, lay or hopped, hands outstretched, perpetually murmuring requests for alms, alms, for pity’s sake. None of them were lepers. No leper would ever have been allowed to roam these crowded streets. The guards would have turned them away at the gates.
‘Northgate Street is just over there,’ said Markham, ‘According to my information it’s where the prossies hang out.’
‘How do you know these things?’
‘I knock around with historians. It’s hard not to know these things.’
On reflection, I was neither surprised that he would know, nor that Sykes and Co had ended up there.
We found the place very easily. Partly because, just as Sykes had mentioned, there was quite a large bush planted by the front door – actually it was more of a tree – but mostly because of the small group of angry men gathered outside who were trying to batter down the door.
We halted on the corner and drew back into a doorway.
‘I thought it was too good to be true,’ said Markham in resignation. ‘With Sykes here I’m surprised the entire town isn’t in open rebellion.’
I opened my com and asked, with what I thought was admirable restraint, ‘What is happening here?’
‘Oh, hello again, Max. Have you noticed there seems to be a spot of bother in the street?’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
The shouting rose to a crescendo. Somewhere, a woman screamed. A pot shattered.
‘Nothing?’
‘Yes, honestly. It was two men. As I heard it, some sort of deal went wrong. Either his horse or his daughter – to be honest it wasn’t clear at all – and then the shouting started, tables overturned, crockery smashed, you know how these things go, and then his friends turned up.’
‘How did the deal go wrong?’ said Lingoss, displaying typical R&D interest in the inessentials.
‘Dunno. We weren’t there, but the word on the street is that either his daughter wasn’t the virgin he claimed her to be, or his horse was one of these cut-and-shut jobbies.’
‘What?’ I said, completely at sea.
‘You know – cut and shut. You weld one half of one car on to the other half of another car and sell it on. Quickly.’
‘Is that even legal?’ I said, floundering even further out of my depth.
‘Course not,’ said Markham. ‘It falls apart as soon as you go round the first bend. So I’ve heard,’ he added quickly.
Lingoss and Evans nodded agreement.
I began to experience the familiar sensation of an assignment sliding away from me again, and made an effort to get things back on track.<
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‘Where exactly are you?’
‘We’re still round the back. Sitting on the midden.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s warm and soft.’
Lingoss nodded wisely.
‘Is there back access?’
‘Not where we are.’
‘We can’t get to you. Any chance of you coming to us?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I can barely walk and Dottle can’t see very well.’
‘What about Bashford?’
‘Actually, we may have lost him.’
Oh, dear God.
‘How? How have you managed to lose Bashford?’
‘He went for a slash and hasn’t come back.’
I took a deep breath because it’s supposed to be calming. ‘Why didn’t he use the midden?’
‘I told you. We’re sitting on it.’
‘What has that to do with things?’
‘He said it put him off.’
‘What did?’
‘Us watching him.’
‘Couldn’t you have closed your eyes?’
‘We offered. He said it would still put him off his stroke. I suggested he close his eyes, but apparently that doesn’t work either.’
I pressed my lips together. She didn’t say a word but I swear I could hear her beaming at me, every inch the enthusiastic, helpful historian.
‘You shouldn’t have let him go.’
‘I had no choice. Apparently, when you have to go – you have to go.’
‘And so he went.’
‘Pretty much, yes.’
Markham snorted.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘we’ve been talking to him the whole time and he’s only just round the corner.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ I was incensed and rightly so. The instructions are clear. Stay together in one neat package for ease of rescue. ‘Stay put. Do not move. We’ll get you out.’
Somehow.
‘We need to split up,’ I said reluctantly, because in situations like this, I like everyone to stick together, but someone needed to search for Bashford. ‘Mr Evans …’