Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Sir, it’s a twelve-foot-high teapot.’

  ‘I’ll admit its appearance is a little bizarre but there are any number of low-profile tasks for which it would be invaluable, don’t you think?’

  I didn’t know what to think. Yes, we could do with another pod. And yes, it was a very good idea to remove what he referred to as ‘some of its more controversial features’ – its ability to remove objects from their own timeline, or the way it could override normal safety protocols – but even so . . . However, he hadn’t signed off on my appraisal yet so I was reluctant to argue.

  I gathered from his silence that there was even more to come.

  ‘Regarding your very natural apprehensions over Ronan, Max, how are you dealing with recent events?’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ I said confidently. ‘I’ve talked things over with Leon and we’ve decided the worst thing we can do is let him ruin our lives. We won’t give him that power over us any more. And since it’s all out of our hands anyway, we’re just going to carry on as usual.’

  ‘An excellent strategy. And you might want to consider this: how many times has Ronan had a go at you? How many times has he failed? You might be angry and frustrated, but I am certain that’s nothing to the way he feels. Once again, he had you in his hands and you got away. I personally would not care to be around Clive Ronan at this very moment.’

  Very true. I hadn’t thought of things that way.

  He pulled out another file.

  ‘And as a first step towards carrying on as usual, I have a task for you. I’d like you to return to our remote site. As you know, we had to leave in rather a hurry last time and there was no opportunity to carry out a thorough FOD plod. We did what we could at the time, obviously, but anything to do with America is such a sensitive issue we must be absolutely certain we have left nothing behind. I’d like you to take a team and clear the site. There will be some equipment to dismantle, final FOD plods to carry out and so on. It’s a big area to cover thoroughly and we were there for some months. I estimate between three days to one week to get it done. By the time you return, not only should our personnel issues be resolved, but I will have spoken to Professor Penrose as well.’

  Well, that all sounded good. With the added bonus of a week in the fresh air, a little gentle exercise, and no one trying to kill me or eat me. Yeah, I could do that.

  It got even better.

  ‘Take Leon and Matthew, if you like. I think it would be good for you all to spend a little time together.’

  I beamed.

  He shuffled a few papers before I started embarrassing us both by thanking him. ‘Who else will you include in your team?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Markham, I think, sir, for security. Evans and Dieter for strength and any heavy lifting. Leon, obviously. Sykes, and either Bashford or Atherton from the History Department. And possibly Mikey – Miss Meiklejohn – from R&D. With your permission, sir, I’ll talk to them this afternoon and we’ll jump first thing tomorrow. We’ll take the big pod, I think – TB2.’

  He signed my appraisal with a flourish and handed it back to me. ‘That all sounds quite satisfactory. See to it, please, Dr Maxwell.’

  2

  Well, plenty there to think about. A bit of a holiday coming up. Kal on her way back to St Mary’s. The possibility of losing North and regaining Van Owen. Professor Penrose to tutor Matthew. Yeah – all good. I was feeling quite cheerful when I left Dr Bairstow’s office.

  Markham was outside, talking to Mrs Partridge. I could tell from her expression that things weren’t going well. On the other hand, this was Markham, so it wasn’t clear which of them things were going badly for. It would seem he was trying to persuade Mrs Partridge to allocate him an assistant.

  I had a momentary twinge of guilt. This was all my fault. I’d packed him off on the steam-pump jump because I’d been in Sick Bay at the time and he’d been my proxy with a hidden agenda – i.e. getting Peterson and Lingoss together. Which, to be fair, he’d done – in his own peculiar fashion – but at some point, in between decking himself out from head to toe in pink and trying to drown Miss Lingoss in the moat, he’d somehow got the idea he wanted – nay, urgently required – an administrative assistant.

  His argument was running thusly: ‘Max has an assistant.’ I opened my mouth to tell him he could have Rosie Lee – no problem at all, just let me nip back and break the glad tidings – but he swept on.

  ‘Peterson has an assistant.’ Which was true. Peterson had the lovely Mrs Shaw and they adored each other. He brought her flowers – she brought him chocolate biscuits. It was a match made in heaven and Markham’s chances of separating them from each other were non-existent.

  ‘It’s all the paperwork,’ he was saying to Mrs Partridge, drooping tragically and unwisely over her desk. ‘There’s watch lists and rotas and files and equipment checks and weapons logs. It just goes on and on.’

  He stopped, apparently too overcome to continue.

  An unmoved Mrs Partridge pointed out that Chief Farrell was assistant-free and yet he managed perfectly well.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, cunningly, leaning closer. ‘That’s the beauty of my scheme, Mrs Partridge. We could share him.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to say “her” because that sounded a bit sexist,’ he said, grinning in what he probably thought was an ingratiating manner. ‘Although now you come to mention it,’ continued the man responsible for pursuing a member of the medical profession from the first moment she had walked through the front door, ‘if there’s a choice . . .’

  Mrs Partridge shut her top drawer with a snap. ‘I regret to inform you, Mr Markham, that the chances of persuading any sentient female to venture within fifty feet of the Security Section are vanishingly small.’

  He assumed his wounded face. The one that makes him look like an abandoned puppy tied up outside a fur factory. ‘Well, that’s a little unkind, but fortunately I’m not easily hurt. A bloke will be fine. In fact, he could join the football team. We could do with a new striker. Evans is rubbish. And then, when he’s not scoring the winning goal, he could do a little filing. Record-keeping. Photocopying. Tea making. That sort of thing.’

  Assuming her I really don’t care face – or her normal expression, if you like – she stood up. ‘My highly qualified staff are carefully selected for their administrative skills and not their ability to pursue a pig’s bladder up and down a muddy field.’

  He backed off, saying, ‘Actually, I think things might have moved on a little from pig’s . . .’ before the door closed behind her and he realised he was talking to her empty desk.

  I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Do you know, I think you might be making progress. She’s definitely coming round to the idea.’

  He blinked, hopefully. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I do, yes. I think you should move your campaign up a gear. You know, a constant barrage of written requests, verbal requests, telephone calls, emails. I think your problem is that she’s not taking you seriously enough. You need to convince her of your dire need.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, his face illuminated by the inner glow of enlightenment.

  ‘Have you considered skywriting?’ I said, which might have been a step too far.

  ‘Oh my God, Max, that is so brilliant.’

  ‘No,’ I said, alarmed.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Professor Rapson.’

  ‘No,’ I said, even more alarmed. But it was too late. He’d gone. And I’d only been back on the active list for ten minutes.

  My morning ordeals continued. Returning to my office, I was faced with my assistant, Rosie Lee. Before I could say a word, she presented me with a homemade badge which read I’m not insane. Dr Stone had me tested. Results on application. Followed by a request for her to go home early, which I denied. Always start as you mean to go on.r />
  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  She stared haughtily. ‘I’m far too busy at the moment.’

  I sighed and sat down. Barely had my bum hit my seat than the door opened and my department surged in, every single one of them bringing me tea. I thanked them for their thoughtfulness, lined up the mugs in front of me, started with the one on the left and began to work my way across.

  Rosie Lee was furious. ‘I make the tea around here.’

  Rather disappointingly, no divine thunderbolt occurred, but there was a lot of human amusement.

  My department had increased slightly in my absence. Actually, as Rosie Lee never failed to point out, a lot of things usually improved in my absence. Departmental efficiency . . . a massive reduction in paperwork . . . peace and quiet . . .

  At Dr Bairstow’s request, David Sands had returned to the St Mary’s fold and was happily picking up where he’d left off before he resigned. He lived with Rosie Lee and her son in Rushford, but on my instructions, had applied for a bunk in the Staff Block. Officially, it was for those nights when he worked late and didn’t want to drive home, but actually was St Mary’s-speak for when he was so rat-arsed he couldn’t remember where he lived. Dr Bairstow has condoned murder before now, but anyone drinking and driving barely has time to pick up their P45 on the way out. The corridors were reverberating to Sands’ cries of, ‘Knock, knock,’ and the sound of people running away as fast as they could.

  His partner in crime, Gareth Roberts, who had also resigned after the slight unpleasantness when we’d stolen Arthur’s sword – for very good reasons, let me add – had also been successfully tempted back from the real world. He’d been working at the University of Ceredigion, but was now back with us, freed from the onerous task of imparting details of the history of the EU to disbelieving ears.

  Mr Roberts, however, was not quite as young and squeaky and beardless as he had been when he left. In fact, as Kal would say when she first clapped eyes on him, ‘Wow!’

  I myself remarked on his newly acquired hirsuteness.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You won’t believe this, Max, but it started to grow the day after I left St Mary’s. I reckon Dr Bairstow puts something in the water.’

  ‘Specifically to stop you growing a beard?’

  ‘Well, why not? He doesn’t have any hair so no one else is allowed to have any, either.’

  I looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ and he nearly wet himself.

  Anyway, interestingly, no sooner had he clapped eyes on Miss Sykes than he lost all sense of personal safety, and began to pursue her in a mysterious Welsh manner that even I had to admit was a little bit sexy. Miss Sykes herself appeared very impressed. Whether she was fed up playing second fiddle to a gender-neutral chicken was unknown, but in no time at all, the two of them, Sykes and Roberts, were always together. They ate together. She laughed at his jokes. He even brought her little pres­ents, something to which she was completely unaccustomed.

  Unsurprisingly, our Mr Bashford was not happy. Man and chicken seethed. He wasn’t taking it lying down, either. Publicly enquiring of Roberts if his rash had cleared up yet was one of his favourite tactics. Strange how it keeps coming back, he would continue, as Angus nodded her own disquiet at this disturbing revelation. Ominous even, he would mutter, before marching off with his chicken, point made.

  So – here we all were. Pretty much back to normal. Normal enough for Dr Bairstow to hold one of his all-staff briefings to bring everyone up to date. We’d learned by now not to sit in the first row – too public – so Peterson and I were near the back, nodding judiciously at every couple of words and actually poised to be first in the dining room as soon as Dr Bairstow wound down.

  He kicked off by announcing all the staff changes, concluding with Kalinda Black’s return to St Mary’s, which was received with the sort of silence similar to that of the citizens of Moscow on hearing the news that Napoleon intended to spend a little leisure time in their midst that winter.

  Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘One final item today. Chief Farrell has asked me to advise you that over the next few days, all smoke alarm batteries are being replaced by more modern Microbial Fuel Cells. This is in an effort to prevent continual battery removal by those who apparently have no objection to burning to death.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bashford.

  ‘Who knows, Mr Bashford. Rational opinion oscillates between extraordinarily low levels of intelligence or some sort of death wish, possibly religiously based.’

  ‘No, sir, I mean, how will the Micro . . . bio . . . ?’

  ‘Microbial Fuel Cells?’

  ‘Yes. Them. Why exactly won’t they be removed?’

  I could see he was regarding this as a direct challenge.

  ‘I suspect, Mr Bashford, that when the composition of MBFCs becomes widely known, it will lead to a general reluctance to handle them. Certainly without protective equipment of some kind.’

  Obviously regarding that as a clincher, Dr Bairstow gathered himself for his traditional briefing finale. ‘Are there any questions?’

  There never were but today was different.

  ‘Yes, please, sir,’ said Bashford doggedly. ‘What compos­ition?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?

  ‘These Macrobiotic thingies – what is their main constituent?’

  I thought Dr Bairstow answered with a certain relish. ‘Urine, Mr Bashford. Undiluted male urine.’

  All eyes swivelled up to the three smoke detectors fitted to the ceiling a considerable distance above our heads – and then back to Leon.

  ‘Wow,’ said Bashford, in genuine awe. ‘How did you get it all the way up there, Chief? Did you stand on a table? That’s impressive.’

  I folded my arms and scowled at my feet. No, it wasn’t impressive. Not even a little bit. Further along the row, Nurse Hunter, who also cohabited with a man on a regular basis, folded her own arms over her bump and scowled down at where she hoped her feet would be, but she hadn’t seen them for weeks and frankly they could be anywhere.

  I’m not sure what it is with men. I live with two of them and while I can’t say the bathroom floor is ever actually awash, there is frequently more on the floor than any right-minded woman should have to live with. I swear if Dr Bairstow ever chucks me out of St Mary’s, I’m going to start manufacturing and selling urine-coloured toilet mats. It won’t solve the problem of their poor aim – or in Matthew’s case, talking over his shoulder when he should be concentrating on the job in hand – but it would at least be camouflage.

  Considering God gifted them – men, I mean – with all the appropriate plumbing required for swift and accurate delivery, I just don’t see how they can miss. It’s typical, isn’t it – they bang on about being able to write their names in the bloody snow and yet still manage to miss a toilet bowl directly in front of them. In Peterson’s case, he doesn’t even try – frequently emptying his bladder all over me. Maybe we should just keep them in trainer pants all their lives. Or, as Kal has suggested, paint a large target on the toilet and appeal to their competitive instincts. Although according to Hunter, Markham has any number of marksmanship badges and he still can’t hit a bloody great toilet bowl from less than a foot away.

  But back to the subject in hand. The Micra-bia thingies.

  Leon stood up, assumed his stern face and addressed the room. ‘It is the responsibility of the Technical Section to maintain the smoke alarms as part of our fire prevention system. The instances of battery removal have soared from depressing to downright dangerous. We propose, therefore, to replace conventional batteries with Microbial Fuel Cells. This will occur over the next few days. Your cooperation is neither requested nor expected, but staying out of our way and allowing us to get on with things unhindered will be appreciated.’

  ‘But,’ said Bashford, quoting that poster child for
Health and Safety, Professor Rapson, ‘the wretched alarms keep going off. It’s very irritating.’

  ‘You won’t be saying that when the flames are actually licking round your ankles. Anyway, in short, we’re fed up with saving idiots who don’t want to be saved, so we are replacing the batteries with . . .’ He paused expectantly, a primary school teacher coaxing the correct answers from a remedial class.

  Sykes jumped in. ‘Microbionic . . .’

  He sighed. ‘Microbial Fuel Cells.’

  ‘Yes. Them. But,’ she continued, obviously determined to delve to the bottom of the subject, ‘how did you manage to gather . . . ?’

  ‘The men’s urinals have been specially adapted to harvest . . . product.’

  Everyone looked up the stairs to the gents’ toilets on the first floor and then back to the smoke detectors again. Several people began to move out of the perceived sprinkler range.

  Hunter nudged me. ‘Are they insane? Someone only has to strike a match and we’ll all be inundated in a shower of Peterson’s pee.’

  ‘And not just his,’ said Markham proudly. ‘A substantial percentage will be mine. Especially after last Friday.’

  People began to gather apprehensively around the edges of the room.

  ‘Please remain calm,’ said Leon, calmly. ‘Only the batteries are being replaced. The sprinkler system is still connected to the mains.’

  The room gusted with sighs of relief. He smiled blandly. ‘For the time being.’

  Bashford, standing with his shoulders hunched as if expecting the worst at any moment, enquired, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, water’s precious. Far too precious to go irresponsibly sprinkling it over this crop of lunatics. We in the Technical Section are always looking for environmentally friendly alternatives.’

  I muttered to Peterson, ‘There is nothing environmentally friendly about your pee. And I speak from long experience.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were on fire.’