Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Why would I feel thirsty?’

  ‘Well – and don’t think I don’t feel badly about this because I do know pregnant women aren’t supposed to take drugs – I slipped a little something in your tea. Just a little beta-blocker thing. Just to slow you down a little. Relax – well, you probably are already, aren’t you? Sit back and let everything just wash over you and then …’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’ I said, trying not to feel relaxed. This was surely just psychological. Like when people say, ‘Max you’re looking tired,’ and suddenly I feel as if I could sleep for a week. I tried to sit up and look alert.

  Somehow, he’d got the mug off me without me noticing. When had that happened? I saw another mug held in front of me.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t afford any more drugs. ‘No.’

  ‘I would if I were you. This could be the last cup of tea you get to enjoy for a very, very long time. If not forever. Take it.’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Well, I think in a couple of hours, you’ll be sorry, but suit yourself.’

  The mug disappeared.

  Something seized my arm. ‘Up you get.’

  I tried to make myself as heavy as possible.

  ‘Now stop that. You’ll need to find yourself water and somewhere safe to spend the night and you can’t do that if you’re skulking in here. Be sensible – the sooner you’re out there, the sooner you can start your lovely new life.’

  Something heaved me to my feet. I swayed. Not deliberately.

  ‘This way.’

  I heard the door open and hot sunshine flooded into the pod.

  ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘Well, I have to say I think even a travel agent would have to describe it as a complete shithole. There’s no wealth here. No trade routes. No nothing. Just a handful of badly built huts filled with desperate people trying and mostly failing to survive. The infant mortality rate is dreadful. There’s barely any water. It’s baking hot during the day and bitingly cold at night. The only excitement is when the slavers turn up – every three or four years – and take away anyone they think they can make a profit from. When I say that’s usually only three or four men and never any women, then you’ll understand just how bad – how truly awful – life is here. Welcome to your new home.’

  By now, I was approaching the threshold, blinking in the sunlight. I felt him put his hand on the small of my back to give me one last shove. I had nothing to lose. I threw myself backwards, hoping, I think, that I could at least crush the life out of him.

  He stepped aside and I crashed heavily to the floor, hurting my back.

  ‘Get up.’

  I could feel him trying to grab my arm to drag me outside.

  As best I could, I curled into a ball, tucking in all my extremities so he’d have nothing to grab hold of.

  He seized my hair and tried to drag me. There was no way that was going to work, but it was so excruciatingly painful that I instinctively put up my hands to try and pull his hands away. He released my hair and seized a wrist.

  I grabbed for one of the seat columns, meaning to hang on for grim death.

  ‘Let go or I’ll break your fingers. How long do you think you’ll last without working hands?’

  It was a psychological moment. If I let go – if I accepted that I was going to be forced outside, like it or not – then he’d won. It would be like giving in. I was determined not to do that. I would fight every inch of the way. I tightened my grip.

  He covered my body with his own. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. That funny pain stabbed again. I heard his voice in my ear. ‘How about in your eye?’ and felt the prick of the dart on my eyelid.

  I let go.

  He grabbed my ankle and pulled me to the door. I scrabbled for a grip on something. Anything. I tore my fingernails clawing at the carpet. I kicked out with my other leg, but nothing would stop him. I twisted so I was on my back. He was grunting with effort. I kicked again and my foot connected with something. I heard him hiss with pain and he kicked back.

  A huge burning spasmed in my left knee, which went numb.

  ‘Stupid bitch. Do you want me to cripple you as well?’

  I was being dragged outside. Desperately I tried to cling to the doorframe, but couldn’t get a grip. I was being pulled face down through the dust. My top rode up and I could feel stones and rough vegetation scratching my stomach. I scrabbled again, screaming and cursing him, digging in my fingers, trying to stop this. Because I was fighting for my life. And that of my child.

  All too soon, it stopped, and I was coughing and choking in the dust, trying to think … What could I do …?

  I’d missed my chance. His voice came from some distance away.

  ‘I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring you a present and perhaps, if you’re nice to me, I’ll let you have it. Goodbye Max.’

  I rolled over and pushed myself up.

  The pod sat some twenty feet away, door shut. Invulnerable. There was nothing I could do.

  I knew he was watching me. I gave him two fingers and then, because he wasn’t worth so many, just the one. I could imagine him laughing.

  Then the pod was gone. Dust swirled in the vacuum. I was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I’m not ashamed to say I panicked. That’s one of the few advantages of being an historian. You can go from nothing to flat-out panic in about one third of a nano-second and I did. Ignoring the pain in my knee, I ran hither and thither. Don’t ask me why. I ran to where the pod had been. Maybe I thought it had been fitted with a camouflage device and he was still here, invisible, watching me. Extracting every last ounce of revenge.

  He wasn’t, but that didn’t stop me. I limped around, shouting for him to come back and face me. I cursed him with all the bad language I knew. In every language I knew. I shouted for Leon. Tears ran down my cheeks, and all the time, the brazen sun blazed down and I wasted precious effort and energy running around and achieving nothing.

  Eventually, not looking where I was going, I tripped over something and fell heavily, sprawling on my face in the dust. I don’t know how long I lay there, gasping and sobbing until, finally exhausted, I subsided into hiccupping sobs.

  I think it was at this point that the cruelty of Ronan’s revenge was brought home to me. I might survive. I probably would. But what of my baby? What of my hopes for a life with Leon? All my plans for the future? None of that would happen now. Could ever happen. With one simple action, he’d ruined my life. And the life of my child. And Leon’s.

  ‘Good to see you again, Max. I’ve missed you.’

  Was that what Leon had meant? That I was here and he was there and this was the end of our life together.

  I know I lay in the dust for a very long time until, conscious of the heat of the sun on the back of my head, I sat up, wiped my face, pushed my hair behind my ears, and started to think properly.

  Lifting my head, I looked around me. I was on a small plateau overlooking a wide, barren, cracked plain that had once been a lake bed. I could see the ridges where water had once flowed. The last remnant, a tiny stream, meandered through a sludgy marsh that I could smell from all the way up here.

  Some attempt had been made to dam the stream and the muddy water had oozed sideways to form a small, dark pool apparently devoid of life. There were no reflections of blue sky in the water. No glints of light as the sun caught wind-blown ripples. No birds floated serenely or waded in the shallows.

  Some thirty or forty mud-brick huts squatted miserably in the sun. There was no shade, no trees, no wind, although the thick dust piled up on the south and east sides of the huts spoke of vicious winds when they did come, hot from the desert, bringing drought, famine and more misery in their wake. I could see what I took to be a well at what I took to be the centre of the village. I could only guess at the quality of the water. If it hadn’t dried up. The streets, such as they were, were filled with rubbish and debris just left lying around. The
re was no livestock, no dogs trotting busily about their business, no cats basking on the roofs, no washing hung over walls and bushes, no children played. It looked dirty, squalid, and desperately, desperately poor.

  What catastrophe had led to the lake drying up, I had no idea. I do know that about seven thousand years ago the world underwent a great climate change. The one that led to the transformation of the Sahara from fertile green plains to harsh desert. Something similar might have occurred here, although on a smaller scale. Why were people still here? Might there be old people here who remembered the days before the desert? Were they desperately hanging on in the hope that one day the rains would return? Or were they just too afraid, too apathetic, too poor, or too stubborn to seek a new place for themselves?

  I’ve seen some shitholes in my time, but nowhere had I ever seen a place exude such an air of hopelessness and despair. At what point had the inhabitants given up? When had survival, not living, become the priority?

  I wriggled into the shade of a rock, tried to make myself comfortable, and made a few decisions. Starting with staying away from that squalid little settlement for as long as I could. Of course, it was always possible they would take me in and share their meagre resources with me, but it was more probable that they would not, either driving me away with stones and curses, or using me as unpaid labour for the rest of my very short life. I would take a day or two to suss things out. Once I found water – and I would – there would be no rush.

  Survival is a state of mind. Yes, all right, water, shelter and food are useful too, but as Ian Guthrie kept reminding us during training, it’s your attitude that will save your life. I would need the sort of attitude that doesn’t turn over a rock and say, ‘Oh yuk! Big squidgy caterpillar!’ but, ‘Oh wow – a caterpillar! And a big green one, too! They’re really tasty! I’ll be eating well tonight!’ Because everything can be eaten. You don’t turn up your nose at anything that is even remotely edible. Insects, for instance, are a valuable source of protein. I would learn to scavenge. I would do whatever it took to survive.

  I could keep myself warm. Guthrie had taught us how to make a fire without matches, and how to take rocks from around the fire and place them at our backs and feet to stay warm during the coldest night.

  I felt a surge of optimism. I could do it. I could survive. I had to survive, because this was my life now. St Mary’s was over. Everything was finished and I couldn’t afford to waste time on regret. Or bitterness. Or self-pity. From now on, every moment would be devoted to survival. I was determined not to lead the life Ronan had mapped out for me.

  I certainly wasn’t going to rush headlong down to the village below. I would observe, take my time, and keep myself and my child safe. I leaned back against the rock and breathed deeply, easing my aching back. Stay calm. Just stay calm, Maxwell. You’re not dead yet.

  But how long before I wished I were?

  Somewhere, high above me, an eagle screamed. I looked up and my attention was caught by a tiny patch of green, high on the rocky slope to my right. A scrubby tree or maybe a few bushes. Whatever it was, green was good. Might there be water up there? Even a trickle would be wonderful. Now that I was calmer, I was conscious of a throbbing knee, raw throat, and raging thirst. Wherever I went, I had to get out of the sun and up was as good a direction as any. I would take things slowly. I’d be fine. Turning my back on the desolate plain below, I set off.

  An hour later, I wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision. It’s not easy climbing a steep, rocky slope when you can’t see your own feet. My knee still hurt. And my back. I struggled and scrambled, wondering if it would have been better to have taken my chances down below. Several times, I lost sight of the bushes and had to struggle hard with the despair that sat like lead at the back of my mind, all too eager to overwhelm me should I let it.

  I sat on a convenient rock and tried not to pant. In my head, Major Guthrie told me to keep my mouth closed. Whether that had been survival training or just exasperation on his part I couldn’t remember, but it was good advice. I put my hands on my bump and said, ‘How you doing in there?’

  The lack of an answer only served to emphasise the deep, hot silence all around me.

  A green-tailed lizard scuttled past, paused as it saw me, and then continued on its way. As I followed it with my eyes, I heard it. Just the very faintest sound. A faint and far off trickle of water. I was right. There was water up here.

  I turned my head this way and that until I was certain of the direction and then set off. It wasn’t easy. I had to detour round larger rocks and then I picked up what looked like a path. I could see goat tracks. Well, I assumed they were goat tracks. Nothing else could survive up here.

  There. There it was. A tiny trickle of water emerging from beneath a rock, and by the first piece of good luck I’d had that day, falling a few inches into a hollowed out rock that formed a small basin. I fell to my knees and cupped my hands.

  The water was icy cold. I remembered to sip slowly. Actually the basin was so tiny that I had little choice, but the taste was wonderful. I sipped and sipped. I splashed my face and the back of my neck. The ground I was kneeling in was wet and deeply pockmarked with goat hoof prints, so the water was good – if a little goaty.

  I began to feel more cheerful. It was possible that I could survive. More than that – I could thrive. Animals and birds would come to drink. I could set traps. And there would always be those delicious fat green caterpillars. It would bloody well serve Ronan right if he turned up again, all ready for a good gloat, and I was king. Or queen, of course. I would have him executed. He would die horribly. It would take days. Up yours, Ronan. You should have killed me when you had the chance.

  The pain exploded inside me like a huge, deep, red-hot furnace, radiating outwards, pushing all thought out of my head. I toppled sideways onto the ground, drew up my knees, and yelled, ‘Aaaggghhh.’ It didn’t stop. It went on and on, building in waves, pushing, pushing, and searing my insides. Because I just wasn’t in enough trouble already, was I?

  I tried to remember all those antenatal lectures from Helen. God, I wish I’d listened. Since it had never occurred to me that I’d have to do this on my own, I’d decided I’d just concentrate on my bit and let everyone else get on with things down at the business end. That didn’t seem like such a good idea now. I tried not to hold my breath. I tried to ignore the instinct to fight against it. Go with the flow. Embrace my inner agony. Bollocks, it hurt. It bloody, bloody hurt like hell. Leon Farrell was never coming near me again as long as I lived.

  I rolled over on to my hands and knees and things eased a little. I tried to remember my breathing. In and out was the best I could do at the moment. Gradually, but not anything like gradually enough, the pain subsided. I flopped back onto the ground and tried to think.

  What to do? Where to go?

  My choices were limited. Whether I wanted to go down to the village or not was now immaterial. There was no way I’d make it back down the hillside and it would be dark in a few hours anyway. I should move away from the water. All sorts of things would turn up to drink in the night. All sorts of predators. It would help if I knew when or where I was, but wolves seemed a good bet. And bears. Mountain lions. Jackals. Wild dogs. Carnivorous goats. All of those and more would be attracted to the scent of blood, the cries of a woman giving birth and the wail of a new-born infant.

  I allowed myself a quick sob of self-pity. I had solved one problem only to have another fling itself at me. I could really have done with even one day, just to suss things out a little, get the lie of the land and now – when I needed it least …

  I should time the contractions. I didn’t have a watch so I started to count in my head. Shakily, I pulled myself to my feet. I had hours yet. The pains would build slowly. No need to panic ye –

  The next one hit me like a ten-tonne truck.

  What? No! This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be much more than five minutes since the last one. It wasn’t supposed
to go like this. It was supposed to –

  I dropped to my knees again, gritting my teeth. Sweat stung my eyes. Remember to breathe. Try to go with the pain. Wait for it to go away. Which it did, rolling away again, leaving me breathless, weak, and desperate.

  Because I had to find somewhere safe. And soon, because I didn’t know when or where I was. Because I was lost. Completely and utterly lost. Lost in time and space. Lost somewhere in History. I could be anywhere. Anytime. Now, when I needed it least, I was overwhelmed by a terrifying, dizzying downward spiral of panic that robbed me of the ability to think or to move. The words ran through my head: They’ll never find me. I’m going to die here and no one will ever know. Leon will never know what became of me. Will he think I left him? That I ran away without even telling him I was leaving? No one at St Mary’s will ever see me again and I’ll never see them. I’ll never see anyone again. I’ll die here, either in agonising childbirth, or of hunger, or of exposure, alone, and something will eat me, and my bones will be scattered and no one will ever know what happened to Maxwell and her baby.

  And Leon will have lost another child.

  That thought kicked me like a mule and fortunately, at the same time, another burst of agonising pain put a stop to that nonsense. It’s really quite difficult to feel sorry for yourself when it feels as if a white-hot drill is boring its way through –

  A bright red ball of light soared into the air, exploded with a crack, and hung, fizzing in the air.

  What the f…?

  Initially, I thought it was St Mary’s. Well, who else could it be?

  The answer turned up immediately. The Time Police.

  Of course, it was the Time Police.

  Some time ago, I was involved in covering up the fact that St Mary’s had removed a contemporary from his own time during the Trojan War. The Time Police turned up to arrest us all. We fought back. People died. Theirs and ours. We patched up some sort of peace, but it’s a very wary peace. A little while ago I lied through my teeth to Captain Ellis and his squad when they turned up to investigate an alleged anomaly in Rouen, 1431. We were as guilty as hell, but mainly thanks to Sykes exercising her superpower of vomiting at will, we got away with that as well. But it’s not an easy relationship. We don’t trust them and they certainly don’t trust us. They are, in general, the harbingers of doom.