Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  My mind flew back to my wedding day. The reception was nearly over. I was standing in the room set aside for the bride, just prior to changing out of my wedding dress. It had been a magical day. The weather and setting were perfect. My father had kept his distance. Len looked so handsome and I was convinced I had finally escaped my father. I’d kept Len a secret and when I found out I was pregnant, I thought I had left John Maxwell with no other choice than to let me go. That I had won. That I was free of him. Then I turned around. Len and my father were standing a few feet away, looking at me and smiling identical smiles.

  My heart lurched with fear and then my father said, ‘No need to be gentle, Len, my boy, I never was,’ and my heart stopped altogether as I realised how stupid, stupid, stupid I’d been and how completely I was trapped. Len turned and smiled at my father, and in that moment, I had a brief glimpse of how my life would be. It turned out to be twenty, a hundred times worse.

  Well, not any more. We were out of here. Both of us. Now.

  Matthew hovered anxiously, his eyes huge with fear.

  ‘Get your coat, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

  He nodded and went out into the hall. I watched him struggle into his coat.

  ‘And your shoes.’

  He rammed his feet into his shoes and as he did so, I heard Len’s key in the lock. Oh my God, he was back. Back already. There was no time to wonder why.

  I whispered, ‘Quick – come here.’

  Matthew fled back into the kitchen. I shut the door and said, ‘When I say run – you run.’

  He made to get past me.

  ‘No – not to your bedroom. Outside. Through the garden gate.’ I thought quickly. ‘Down the street. To the call box. You know what to do.’

  He did. We’d rehearsed this. Against the day when I would no longer be able to protect either him or myself. Run down the street. To the telephone box. Dial 999. Tell them who he was, ask for help and wait. Don’t speak to anyone. Stay in the telephone box and wait. Someone would come.

  He clutched my hand. ‘Mummy . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. Just go. Go now.’

  Len was fumbling with the kitchen door. I could hear his muttered cursing. I watched the knob turn. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Neither could Matthew. We both stared. And then, slowly, the door opened.

  I pushed Matthew behind me. My heart was in my throat. I leaned against the table for support.

  Len stood in the doorway, eyeing us both, and then switched his gaze to Matthew, wearing his coat. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Run. Don’t look back. Run.’

  Matthew whirled about and wrenched open the back door. I felt the cold blast of night air, heard his running footsteps on the path and then he was swallowed up in the dark.

  Len strode forwards. I slammed the door shut and stood in front of it. Blocking his path. Every moment I could gain for Matthew . . .

  He was in front of me . . .

  ‘Get out of the way.’

  ‘No.’ I still had one working arm and I used it to hang on to the doorknob.

  ‘Get out of the way.’ He tried to pull me away from the door.

  ‘No.’

  I saw his fist . . . massive . . . it filled my vision . . . there was a blinding, red-hot, jagged pain. I felt my nose crunch. Tasted blood. Hung on to the handle. Matthew. Must hold on. And another blow. My head flew sideways and hit the door. I was falling. He wrenched the door open, pushed me hard and I fell backwards out through the door and—

  27

  I was back in the cloister, staring through the open door into the blackness beyond. My face was on fire with pain and—

  No, it wasn’t. Slowly, I straightened up and looked down at myself. There was no pain. Only the memory of pain. I looked around. There were the cloisters. There was the bench. There were the gardens. All growing dim as the daylight slowly faded.

  I shouldn’t be here. For more reasons than the approaching curfew, I shouldn’t be here. I should go. While I still could. Because I’d been warned. Several times, now I came to think of it. But I’m not bright and finally there had been a warning not even I could ignore. And there would be no more. Something told me if I stepped through that door then I’d never come back. That the darkness beyond was more than just darkness.

  I didn’t waste time wondering why, or who. I was out of here. Now. Before it was too late.

  Tucking the altar cloth safely in the front of my chasuble, I straightened my headdress, took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and said, ‘It’s all right. I’m going.’

  I’ve no idea who I was talking to.

  I turned about and walked away. At the garden door I turned and looked back. Darkness had gathered in the corners of the garden. Details were lost in the shadows. I couldn’t see the door.

  I made my way back through the deserted courtyard. Lights were appearing at various windows. One of the guards was lighting his lantern. I could smell woodsmoke in the air as someone lit a fire against the damp night.

  The front gate would remain open all night, probably, but they were just about to close the back gate. One guard paused when he saw me approaching, holding the door open for me.

  I thanked him, stepped through the gate and strode briskly across the square, my skirts flapping around my ankles in my haste. There were hardly any people around now. Dim lights showed through windows. I could hear the sound of shutters closing. Mechelen was retiring for the night and so should I. Before my legs gave way.

  I made my way down the darkening streets. The rain was back and giving the impression it was here for the night. I passed the church, turned right at the horse trough, found the pod and called for the door. I ran the last few paces. I was never more grateful in my life to be safely back inside. And that includes a professional career littered with battles and earthquakes and dinosaurs.

  Inside, the pod was warm and apart from the occasional tick of the chronometer, very quiet. I flicked on the kettle, and taking great care to concentrate solely on the task in hand and not think about anything else – anything else at all – I undressed, shaking the moisture off my habit and folding it carefully. I laid the altar cloth neatly on the top of the pile, got back into my blues, checked my hair and by that time the kettle had boiled.

  I was struggling. For some reason, my left arm ached and wouldn’t work properly. I lost count of the number of times I fingered my nose and ran my tongue around my teeth. Everything seemed intact but there was the memory of crunching bone. My hands were shaking so badly I daren’t fill the mug more than two-thirds full otherwise the tea would have gone halfway across the pod.

  I made myself sit back in my seat and just breathe. I had to calm down. I couldn’t possibly go back like this. What explan­ation could I give? I sat and sipped my tea and concentrated on my breathing.

  I know I’m irresponsible. And reckless. And I take unneces­sary risks. But I’m not stupid. Well, not that stupid. I know when I’ve been given a warning. Whatever this business was . . . whatever had happened in London and why . . . this was not for me. I was to stay away or the consequences would be dire. And possibly, given what had just happened, not only for me – and that was a risk I wasn’t prepared to take. I finished my tea and looked around the pod.

  ‘All right. I understand. No more.’

  Again, don’t ask me who I thought I was talking to.

  At once, that feeling of dread . . . whatever . . . subsided. Warmth crept back. My hands stilled. The memories didn’t go away but they dimmed. My fears dwindled. The world slowly came back. The real world.

  I checked the screen. It was properly dark by now. Everyone was inside. I could go whenever I wanted. I poured myself another cup of tea, sat back and thought about Matthew and Crete and Markham’s tireless quest for administrative assistance
and Leon and Peterson and Lingoss and very definitely not . . . not . . . about matters that weren’t for me.

  I finished my tea. I was quite calm. Time to go home.

  I got as far as Wardrobe – fortunately not meeting a soul anywhere – and dropped the nun’s habit and altar cloth on Mrs Enderby’s desk. I scrawled a brief thank-you note and just as I turned to go, I had the weirdest feeling. The world tilted and for a second, I didn’t know where I was. My legs wobbled and my strength gave out. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to sleep. I had to sit down in a hurry. It might be wise to rest. Just for a moment.

  I leaned back in the chair and looked out through the open door into the lighted Hall beyond. I could just catch a glimpse of the big whiteboard, bare and shining, waiting to have Crete-related stuff, reminders, queries, bad jokes and insults scribbled all over it. My eyes were heavy.

  Markham walked past. I didn’t think he’d seen me in here because I hadn’t bothered switching the light on, but a second later he returned, walking backwards.

  ‘I thought I saw something. Whatever are you doing in here?’

  ‘Mrs Enderby asked me to put something on her desk.’ Always tell the truth if you can.

  He looked down at me. ‘Should I get someone?’

  ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’ I paused, searching for words. ‘Perhaps I came back to work too early.’

  Now he paused too and then said, ‘Too much too soon?’

  I nodded. ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We trailed across the Hall at the speed of a sleeping snail.

  I looked around. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Heavy goods lift. I know most historians have mastered stairs but you don’t look to be one of them.’

  ‘Well, that’s rude. You’re not very tactful.’

  ‘That was my tactful comment. You don’t want to hear what I was originally going to say.’

  We travelled up in the lift, which Professor Rapson regards as his own particular domain. A kind of extension to R&D. It was full of odd pieces of kit, including an iron maiden.

  We looked at it as the lift rattled its way upwards.

  ‘I’m sure I instructed the professor to return that to Thirsk,’ I said. ‘Before we have a terrible accident.’

  ‘And it’s on the first leg of its journey,’ he said soothingly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  I doubted that but he meant well so I sought to change the subject.

  ‘There’s a sack of potatoes over there.’

  ‘Either on its way to or from the kitchen, Max. Stop fretting.’

  I peered around again. Propped against the wall was a pile of old wood, surmounted by a lobster pot.

  ‘There’s a pile of old wood and a lobster pot,’ I said, determined to find something I could complain about.

  ‘Yeah. Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’

  He walked with me up the last few stairs to our attic room and rapped on the door. ‘Delivery for L Farrell Esquire. Signature required.’

  The door opened and there was Leon. My heart swelled. Our sitting room was brightly lit and warm and comfortably untidy. He and Matthew had obviously been working at the table. Leon’s files were spread everywhere and Matthew was bent over his homework. That was when the realisation hit me. This was my world and I couldn’t lose it. I wouldn’t lose it. Whatever it was I wasn’t supposed to know anything about was fine by me. This was far more important.

  Leon looked at me in concern. ‘Max? What’s happened?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Too much too soon,’ scolded Markham, handing me over like an old package.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Nothing serious. An early night should sort me out.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Markham and disappeared.

  Leon made me a mug of hot chocolate and I sipped while Matthew read me the story he was writing for Professor Penrose. From what I could make out, it concerned a young boy who travels in time and saves the world from a dreadful but unspecified threat. Whole cities were destroyed and everyone died horribly in the end. Something that would have caused me some concern had I not done exactly the same thing at around the same age. My really rather good poem about cannibalism had been returned to me with more red lines through it than I even knew existed, and with the words Unsuitable subject. See me, in red across the top.

  I do remember asking if the subject would have been deemed more suitable had everyone lived – which was not well received – and I had to spend two detentions writing about sunbeams and kittens. I think there were butterflies and daffodils involved as well – until I rebelled, reverted to type, and some kind of apocalypse wiped out all life. I think that’s when they brought in the educational psycho. Still, I turned out all right in the end and Matthew would too, I was sure of it.

  I went off and had a long, hot bath, and when I emerged, they were watching the TV. Twenty-two men raced pointlessly around the screen. Bloody football.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, brightly. ‘Football. That’s nice.’

  I still felt like shit but to allay any suspicions Leon might have as to how I’d spent my day, and because I’m a wonderful wife and mother, I enquired as to the score.

  ‘Nil-nil,’ said Leon, apparently unable to drag his eyes from the screen.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, vaguely. ‘Lovely. What was the score at half-time?’

  Two heads swivelled simultaneously and looked at me and suddenly I’d had more than enough of this day.

  ‘Early night, I think,’ I said, and left them to it.

  28

  Right. No more of that nonsense. Back to reality. I still didn’t know why Dr Bairstow had done what he did but I could manage the situation. I’d stay right away from him. My reports could be sent electronically. If I needed a signature on anything then I could do it through Mrs Partridge.

  I was still angry with myself because I’d thought Dr Bairstow, with all his talk of St Mary’s never leaving their people behind, was different and I’d been wrong. Stupidly wrong. Because, sooner or later, authority always lets you down. Always. Polit­icians, church leaders, bankers, captains of industry, everyone. They say one thing and do another. It’s always all about them. I’d been stupid to think there could ever be any exceptions. Slam the door, Maxwell, and move on. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t have anything to do. After so many distractions, finally, it was time to get to grips with Crete.

  I spent the next day reading through my briefing notes and getting my head around all things Minoan. I bustled about quite happily, laying things out, pinning things to the wall, humming and muttering away to myself until Rosie Lee said how could she possibly be expected to work among all this racket, and I was the noisiest person on the planet, and could she go home early with a headache. Still benefitting from the euphoria of being alive in this world and not battered to death in another one, I informed her she could go home with my goodwill, and she was so surprised she sat back down again and put in another hour’s work before finally disappearing out of the door. How about that?

  I always find it’s best to accommodate people’s preferences as far as possible, so I sent a memo round asking everyone for their preferred areas of responsibility in our upcoming Crete adventure. Replies came flying back almost immediately. Everyone was up for this one. It was a long time since we’d had a Big Job. I allocated tasks accordingly and fixed the briefing for the next afternoon in the Great Hall.

  The History Department had cleared the tables. Various whiteboards stood around, waiting. Mr Strong had lowered the big screen. I had an armful of files and notes and we were good to go.

  ‘Right,’ I said, pulling out a seat. ‘Is everyone here?’

  They were. Mrs Enderby was representing the Wardrobe Department. Dr
Dowson and Professor Rapson had been placed as far away from each other as possible while still remaining in the same room, and historians, scratchpads ready, had seated themselves on anything that looked capable of bearing their weight.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a look at your requests for individual areas of responsibility and it’s all worked out quite well. I’ll run through the teams and then we’ll get down to specifics. Firstly . . .’

  From somewhere above our heads, a door slammed. Footsteps raced around the gallery. Matthew appeared at the top of the stairs, white-faced and frightened.

  ‘Mum. Mum. Come quick. Uncle Markham’s scalded his willy.’

  There was a moment’s stunned silence and then, as one, with a unity and sense of purpose that I, as their departmental head, would never have believed possible, the entire History Department rose smoothly to its feet, all set to investigate.

  ‘No,’ I said, holding up my hand. ‘I’ll check this out. Everyone else will remain here. Mr Atherton, could you alert Sick Bay, please.’

  I turned to Matthew. ‘Show me.’

  I took the stairs two at a time – which was something I hadn’t done for some time and was pleased to find I could still do – and we raced around the gallery to R&D.

  If I’d thought that without the presence of Professor Rapson things might be a little calmer than usual, I was completely wrong. It was chaos in there.

  The first thing I saw was a tall metal box, mounted on what looked like caterpillar tracks, careering around the room and bouncing off the furniture. Fresh gouges in the wall bore witness to several collisions.

  As I stood in the doorway, a strange metallic voice intoned, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, master?’ and a long metal arm with some kind of teapot-shaped device on the end hurled a glittering stream of steaming water up the walls. People were dodging frantically, colliding with each other, shrieking, ‘Switch it off. Switch it off, for God’s sake.’

  In the centre of the room, Professor Penrose was wrestling with what looked like some sort of control box. Wires hung from the contraption and a giant aerial protruded from the front. Never mind the boiling water, he’d have someone’s eye out if he wasn’t careful.