Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  I called up my own team. ‘Is anyone injured? Anywhere?’

  There was a chorus of reassurance.

  ‘OK, everyone. Forget the knees-up. I’ve just seen Clive Ronan. No idea what he wants but everyone should report to their team leaders, just to be on the safe side. Report any absences.’

  Markham was back. ‘Max, which way did he go?’

  ‘Uphill.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t come past me, so he must have veered off somewhere.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Twenty yards ahead of you. Uphill. At the junction with that narrow alleyway. Outside the shop owned by that woman with the teeth.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Wait for me.’

  I turned to Peterson. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I thought I caught a glimpse.’ He was surveying the people still on the streets, now rapidly emptying. ‘I’m coming with you. This way.’

  We found Markham easily enough now the crowds were thinning. He was standing behind an overturned barrow. He pointed down a dark lane, narrow and unusually twisty, even for Knossos, where the streets frequently detoured around immovable boulders or ancient olive groves. ‘He must have gone down there.’

  The ground moved again. Only very slightly this time. Presumably sated with the blood of bull-leapers, Poseidon closed his eyes, turned over and went to sleep.

  ‘We have choices,’ said Markham. ‘I would prefer you two out of the way while I call up a full security team to check this out, but by the time they get here he’ll be long gone.’

  ‘You’ve got us,’ said Peterson, indignantly.

  ‘And the day just keeps getting better.’

  ‘He’s getting away,’ I said, impatiently, not daring to take my eyes off the alley in case he suddenly reappeared.

  ‘Right,’ said Markham, pulling out a small blaster I hadn’t known he’d brought with him and holding it discreetly at his side. ‘I’ll go first. I’ll watch ahead of us. Max, you’re in the middle – you look up. Tim – you watch our rear. Anything you don’t like the look of – sing out and dive for cover.’

  ‘And then what?’ said Peterson, quietly.

  ‘We have to get him this time,’ I said, desperately. ‘I don’t care what the Time Police say. If he ever discovers he’s immune from capture there’ll be no holding him. We hunt him down and we exterminate him and face the consequences.’

  ‘No, we hunt him down and neutralise him,’ said Markham, the unexpected voice of reason. ‘Then we hand him over and let the consequences fall as they will.’

  ‘No,’ I said, furiously. ‘If we take him in, then those bastards in the Time Police will just let him go again. I’ll do it and take the consequences myself.’

  ‘No point in arguing about it now,’ said Peterson. ‘Let’s get the bugger first and discuss what to do when we’ve got him. Lead on, Markham.’

  ‘I suspect you mean “Lay on, Macduff”,’ said our resident pedant. ‘But I get the message. Stick together now.’

  We stepped into the alleyway and paused to let our eyes adjust.

  ‘I’ve got a small torch,’ whispered Peterson.

  ‘And he’s almost certainly armed,’ whispered Markham back. ‘Trust me, there is no better way to make yourself a target than shining a torch in a dark place. Just go slowly. Test every step. We’ll be fine.’

  I gripped my own stun gun – trust me, no one understands the importance of concealed pockets in a garment more than Mrs Enderby – and put my other hand on Markham’s shoulder. Peterson did the same to me and off we went. We inched our way along, covering every angle. I was looking up, watching for a black shadow against the blue sky. Peterson watched our rear.

  I had a thousand questions. Why was Ronan here? Was he following me? Was he what I thought I’d seen and heard at our remote site all those months ago? With hindsight, yes seemed a very good answer to that one. How did he know we were here? I had an idea about that, but it seemed a good idea to concentrate on the job in hand, so I’d think about it later. Always deal with the now.

  Apart from the main thoroughfares, there were few streets as such in Knossos. There was the very grand road leading off to the north-west that eventually led to the really posh part of town and the Little Palace – we still had to establish who lived there – and another going north down to Heraklion and the huge harbour, but most of the residential houses tended to have that jumbled ‘just built anywhere’ look. Craftsmen’s quarters were even less well organised. There were the houses themselves, with their working areas nearby, shaded by trees or awnings, or even bundles of twigs woven across wooden supports. Then there were the huge storage areas where pots and amphorae were kept safe from tremors in tiers of carefully constructed, straw-packed wooden cages. We, however, were working our way along a narrow path running between the backs of two rows of buildings, full of unwanted materials and a ton of old rubbish.

  The little path was narrow and getting narrower all the time. The sun must rarely shine here. It certainly wasn’t shining now. Dark shadows collected in every doorway. Misshaped pots and shards of pottery littered the ground, crunching beneath our feet at every step. Our progress was very slow – and that was before we stumbled up and down uneven steps, slipped in the donkey shit or inched our way around blind doglegs. In my heart I knew that Ronan was far away and getting further away from us every moment. At one point, something furry brushed past my ankles, but whether it was an alley cat or a deserting rat I didn’t see.

  I watched the rooftops. Most of the workshops were single storey and set below ground level for some reason, so the roofline wasn’t that much higher than my eyes. There were no signs of movement and hardly anywhere to hide. Only an occasional box or basket placed up there to store something or other out of the way.

  We shuffled along. I could hear Peterson breathing and the hubbub from the street behind us growing fainter every minute, but this hot, close space was completely silent. Sweat ran down my face. My eyes stung with it.

  After a while, the workshops became further and further apart and then, after two dilapidated old buildings, their wood bleached grey by the sun, and a huge, stinking rubbish heap that must be riddled with rats – we were out in the open countryside.

  We looked about us. We’d emerged from the eastern side of the town and the sun was low in the sky and behind us. The slight breeze was very welcome after the stifling heat of that narrow place. I pulled my blouse away from my sweaty self to let the air circulate a little. Peterson mopped his face and Markham stepped aside and opened his com, reporting failure and warning the others.

  To our left, a path skirted the town, leading down through ankle-turning rocks. Ahead of us, on the other side of the tiny river, rising ground was covered by a small wood of scrubby pines either too bent or too spindly to use for columns or boatbuilding, peppered with a few deciduous trees. Well above us and just out of sight were the bull pens. Beyond those were our pods. Ronan wouldn’t have gone that way. Not only would he not be able to access them and he knew that, but Evans would be waiting for him.

  Behind us lay the great mass of Knossos – palace and town, now settling in for a night of festivities. I wondered again about the remaining bull-leapers. Were they still alive or had they survived the arena only to fall sacrifice to the gods?

  I turned back to survey the landscape. Which way would Ronan have gone?

  Into the trees would be my guess. There was nothing downhill except a small shrine built around a solitary oak tree. I hesitated. I’d galloped blindly into the woods at our remote site and I couldn’t rely on a bunch of directionally challenged Northmen to bail me out this time.

  ‘We should get back,’ said Markham. ‘He could be anywhere and our safest place is back at the pods.’

  Peterson was nodding his agreement. I wasn’t happy but I couldn’t think of an argument. He was right. We shou
ld be getting back. The light was taking on an orange glow as the sun began to set. We turned and followed the little river uphill. Always bloody uphill.

  The smell of hot cattle grew stronger as we approached the bull pens.

  As I’ve said, there were about fifteen of them, with a clutch of haphazard single-storey wooden buildings in the middle. Our path passed them on the eastern side – a corresponding path on the other side led down to the west side of Knossos and ultimately to the Little Palace over to the north-west. It was a good site for them. The pens fitted neatly between the two paths for ease of transportation, with a ready supply of water to hand and far enough from urban areas so no one was disturbed by the smell and racket. No one important, that was. Historians don’t count.

  As far as I could see, only about half a dozen pens were still occupied. I wondered if the other bulls had been taken down to the arena for future, upcoming rituals. Those remaining seemed very agitated, probably because of the recent tremors. They were penned and couldn’t get away and it was making them nervous. Men were running around, shouting, strengthening fences and tethers. The men looked hot, busy and not in a good mood and we decided to leave the path and give both bulls and men a wide berth.

  Pausing for breath, we turned our faces north again, always looking for that telltale red glow over the horizon. Or that sinister plume of black smoke warning of the volcanic explosion that would tear Thera apart and send one or more giant tidal waves roaring this way. But there was nothing. The sky was blue and clear.

  Roberts was calling me. ‘Max, where are you? Lost again?’

  ‘We’re on our way back. There’s no sign of Ronan here but keep both sites on high alert. No one goes anywhere alone.’ No one was supposed to anyway but it never does any harm to reinforce these things. ‘That includes latrine breaks.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘Synchronised shitting. That’s always fun.’

  Another one taking things seriously.

  The sun was lower in the sky. Its colour had changed from incandescent white to a more user-friendly yellow-orange. Soon, the mountains would glow peachy-gold. Then they’d turn red and long shadows would begin to creep across their slopes. There’s not a great deal of twilight in this part of the world. One moment it’s daylight and the next – it’s not, and all good historians should be tucked up in bed.

  ‘So, what do we think?’ I said as we set off again. Uphill. Always bloody uphill. Logic dictates that with so much uphill there has to be a downhill, but if there is then I’ve missed it. It’s always bloody uphill. And in this heat.

  ‘About . . .?’ said Markham cautiously.

  ‘Our day.’

  ‘Which bit? The assignment so far? Our first bull-leaping? The tragic deaths of those young people? The earth tremors? The appearance of Slimy Clive? Our plans for tomorrow? You need to narrow it down a bit, Max.’

  ‘Clive Ronan, of course,’ I said, in some exasperation.

  ‘Well, honestly, if Peterson hadn’t seen him as well, then I might have thought you were having one of your well-documented spells of paranoia.’

  ‘Um . . .’ said Peterson.

  ‘You mean you wouldn’t have believed me if Peterson hadn’t confirmed it?’

  ‘Um . . .’ said Peterson.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any answer that will make you happy so I’m just going to shut up now.’

  ‘What about that time at the remote site? It must have been Ronan who chased me through the woods.’

  ‘Max, we covered the area pretty thoroughly when we were searching for you and we found no trace.’

  ‘I see,’ I said nastily, but I was very hot. ‘Because Peterson couldn’t back me up, it obviously never happened.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Peterson tried again. ‘Max, I think . . .’

  But we never found out what he thought because a sudden silence fell. The cicadas ceased their deafening racket. Everything stopped. The only sound was the wind, sighing softly in the pines.

  Beneath our feet, the earth groaned in pain, sounding for all the world like the bellowing of a massive bull imprisoned deep underground. Poseidon the Earth Shaker was awake again.

  Almost immediately the ground jerked quite violently. I fell down into the dust and Peterson fell on top of me. The ground jerked again. As I’ve said, this wasn’t my first earthquake but it’s not a good feeling. The sensation of solid ground, always so reliable and safe, suddenly moving beneath our feet without any warning at all is disconcerting. Sometimes, a split second before it hits, a flock of birds will soar into the sky, shrieking a warning. Or the dogs, sensing something, will howl. Once, at Troy, when we’d experienced an earthquake there, Ian Guthrie had seemed to know in advance. I remembered how he’d clutched at his head. How, in that second before it hit, the slightest sound caused him pain. I believe there are people who have some sensitivity to seismic tremors and with our usual luck, not one of them were here with us today.

  The quake seemed to go on for a very long time. Some fifteen to twenty seconds, I think, which I’ll agree is not long in the scheme of things, but try it lying face down in the dirt in a seismically active area on the eve of the biggest eruption in the ancient world and with that great lump Peterson sprawled on top of you. Twenty seconds is twenty seconds too long.

  We lay very still long after everything subsided. Just in case. Eventually, Peterson rolled off me and I sat up and wiped the sweat off my face.

  It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We were surrounded by the latest in seismic equipment – and yes, all right, Dr Dowson as well, but we could have coped with that. We would have had all the information needed to make an informed decision re evacuation. Everything would have been cool and controlled and calm and lots of other words beginning with ‘c’, that didn’t include panic, pandemonium and some other word beginning with ‘p’. Peeing, probably, if Peterson had anything to do with it. An ordered evacuation – something that I had been greatly looking forward to for its novelty value. Or if not ordered, etc., then at least with considerably less screaming than usual. Typically for the three of us – we were some way from our pods, our colleagues and the equipment that would tell us what was going on.

  I reached up to Markham. ‘Was that an aftershock or a fresh tremor?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said, pulling me to my feet. ‘But that’s three now. And in a very short period of time. Dr Dowson will know.’

  As if summoned by magic, Dr Dowson’s voice spoke in my ear. ‘Max, some of these readings are becoming a little worry­ing. Do you think you could pop by and take a look?’

  ‘We’re nearly with you. Did you hear the warning about Clive Ronan?’

  ‘We did, yes.’

  Markham intervened. ‘Can I speak to Mr Evans, please?’

  ‘He’s here with me now. Just a moment.’

  ‘Evans here.’

  ‘Evans, get everyone inside. No exceptions. No but I want to stay outside and watch the earthquake whining. Everyone inside. Doors closed.’

  ‘What about the monitoring equipment?’

  ‘Inside as well. I don’t think we need it to tell us things are beginning to get a bit dodgy. Most of us noticed that last one.’

  ‘I was crushed,’ I said to Peterson.

  ‘Really? I was quite comfortable.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Markham. ‘We’re a bit exposed out here.’

  How exposed, we were about to find out.

  34

  I think I’ve mentioned the proximity of the bull pens, haven’t I?

  And the earthquake?

  What I failed to do was put the two together.

  I’m going to digress a moment. Go and put the kettle on. Back in our younger days, when we were all in single-person accommodation, I shared a landing with Kalinda Black on one side, and Helen Foster opposite
me. On the whole, life was pleasant and peaceful, but every Friday night, Kal and Dieter used to do the Milkmaid from Leipzig and the Cavalry Officer from Dusseldorf thing where Dieter tried to buy a drink of milk from the pretty dairymaid only to find he had no money. There would be a brief discussion over acceptable methods of payment – all of which were disproportionately noisy. I had no idea selling milk could make such a racket. I once had to thump on the wall and demand to know if they had a real cow in there.

  Since coming to live a short distance from the bull pens, I’ve now realised just how restrained they’d actually been. You can have no idea of the racket made by a pair of happily-occupied bovines. We’d had to spend several evenings trying to ignore several tons of carnally-inclined beef having a jolly good time.

  One lazy afternoon, down in town, too hot to move, there had been a great deal of technical discussion over the number of lady cows an enthusiastic bull could cover in one day – an innocuous subject, you’d think, and you’d be completely wrong.

  ‘Just think,’ Sykes had said to Bashford, her resentment over years of sharing him with a chicken finally surfacing. ‘Five or six times a day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bashford, thoughtfully – and with a typical disregard for his own life, ‘but with a different cow every time.’

  It was at that point, in the interests of the assignment, I’d transferred Bashford up to Site B. Yes, he’d have to share with Roberts, but that was their problem. There were three of them – Sykes, Bashford and Roberts – and only two sites and unless I was prepared to set up a Site C – which I wasn’t – there was no easy solution.

  Anyway, the reason I’m banging on about bulls and things is because, just at that moment, we found we had another problem on our hands.

  It would be fair to say that being a tiny bit tense was more or less the natural state for these bulls, and now we’d had a couple of tremors and they really weren’t happy. Not at all.

  I can only think the structures must have been weakened by the earthquakes. I didn’t see which of them was the first to have his pen down, but suddenly there were crashing timbers and angry bulls scattering in all directions.