Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  There was a very long silence. I stared at the floor hoping to give the impression of someone weighing the issues and working her way towards an informed decision, whereas actually, I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what I wanted. I wasn’t lost, as such, but I was . . . I think ‘adrift’ might be the word I’m looking for. Thoughts and images whirled through my mind. In a single twenty-four-hour period, my whole life had changed. I knew things I thought I’d wanted to know and now realised I didn’t. Trust me, ignorance is bliss. Clive Ronan was out of my life. I could do anything I wanted. If only I knew what I wanted.

  Dr Bairstow was watching me. I waited hopefully, but when it became apparent he wasn’t going to say anything, I asked, ‘What is your recommendation, Dr Bairstow?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I cannot pretend the next months will be easy, even by our standards. And times are changing. New people will be joining us with new ideas and new ways of doing things. There will be new challenges. New problems to solve. No one could deny these last years have taken their toll on you, but Clive Ronan is dead and his balance sheet is clear. You could walk away and begin a new life and no one would think any the worse of you.’

  I nodded. All true. And all very tempting at this moment. On the other hand, making a decision now, while I was still, if not full of white-hot fury, at least feeling a little heated, would not be wise. And I had Matthew to think of. He’d had so many homes. He was settled here. And happy.

  More silence fell.

  ‘And,’ he continued, folding his hands on his stick and not looking at me, ‘our friends in the Time Police are expressing a strong desire to . . . discuss . . . recent events regarding Clive Ronan and his misuse of the teapot with you. I believe the expression “her head on my desk by morning” was used by Commander Hay. It would certainly be prudent to distance yourself from any possible fall-out. In fact, Max, a wise historian would disassociate herself from us as quickly as possible. Our future here could range from slightly uncertain to downright perilous.’

  I lifted my head. ‘You’re telling me to leave?’

  ‘Well, I think you should know – our future here may not be peaceful, and you’ve certainly earned the right to a long and peaceful life. Free from the sort of stresses that are bound to be coming our way before long.’

  I frowned and tried to work out how I felt about a long and peaceful life. And then my eye fell on the piece of paper shoved at me by Dr Stone. Not a prescription, as I’d thought, but just a few words on a scrap of paper.

  Would you be running to or would you be running from?

  Well, that was a very good question. Dr Bairstow, ­surprisingly, was advising me to leave. To run from the Time Police and the trouble he thought was coming our way. But what would I be running to? Besides, running never helps. Trust me. Far better to stay put and kick the living shit out of it. Whatever it is.

  I stared out of the window. ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I took myself off to the one place I felt safe. My office. It was the weekend and Rosie Lee wouldn’t be there. Of course, she wasn’t there much during the week, either.

  Markham was leaning on the banisters, waiting for me.

  ‘How are you feeling, Max?’

  The accent had gone again. This was the real Markham showing himself to me. The least I could do was return the compliment.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘I still feel used and manipulated but mostly I’m ashamed at being so . . . I don’t know . . . so wrong. I don’t feel I can trust my own judgement any longer. And if I can’t, how do I expect others to?’

  He leaned on the banisters again and we looked down into the Hall below, empty at the moment but with boxes and boxes of data stored around the walls, waiting for us to get stuck in.

  ‘You’re wrong there, Max. There’s nothing wrong with your judgement. Look around you. Everyone here relies on you to some extent. Dr Bairstow may be the head of this unit but you’re the heart. People will follow you anywhere. Don’t you remember after Matthew was taken – people couldn’t give you anything except silent support. The entire unit waited with you – over there – on the stairs. It was all they could do and they did it.’

  I shook my head, very nearly overcome again. He took my arm, saying, ‘Come on,’ and we began to walk around the gallery.

  ‘Max, thanks to you I’ve had a life. I have friends. I have a family. Things I never thought would happen. All thanks to you. I don’t have that many friends and I can’t afford to lose even one of them.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Besides, your son hasn’t yet finished building my personal assistant and if you do leave, then you’d probably want to take him with you, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably, yes.’

  ‘You do know I want you to stay and have nothing to bribe you with, don’t you?’

  I was still thinking about that dreadful day. The day Ronan snatched Matthew. Everyone had done a little something to help. Rosie Lee had even made me a cup of tea.

  I stopped dead and Markham walked into me.

  ‘For God’s sake, Max. Hand signals would be helpful.’

  I saw my office. My briefing table. The scattered files. That mug of malevolent tea. Or malevolent mug of tea. One or the other. Squatting in the middle of my table probably until the end of time because I wasn’t going to shift it and I was bloody sure Rosie Lee wouldn’t.

  Markham was watching me anxiously. I smiled suddenly at him and he took a step backwards.

  I took his arm.

  ‘Actually . . .’

  It was Monday morning and I was preparing to crack the whip. The History Department awaited me downstairs. I was pulling my notes together ready for the debriefing. Rosie Lee was assisting me by watching.

  I rummaged through a drawer. ‘Have you seen the file on . . .?’

  The door crashed back against the wall making me nearly jump out of my skin. And I dropped my notes all over the floor.

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  Six hazmat-suited figures burst into the room. One of them was clutching a loudly ticking machine which might have been a Geiger counter but was more probably an alarm clock in a metal box. He waved it wildly around the room.

  ‘It’s here,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve found it, sir.’

  Markham strode into my office. ‘You know the drill, Gallacio. Locate. Isolate. Destroy.’

  Gallacio waved his clicking machine towards my briefing table. The clicking increased impressively. ‘Here, sir. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Right. Stay back, everyone. Out of harm’s way. Designated staff – move in.’

  Cox moved in with a pair of those extendable tong things but Evans stopped him. ‘Sir, there are civilians present.’

  Markham recoiled dramatically. I began to enjoy myself.

  ‘Dammit, man,’ he roared. ‘This is a catastrophe. Initiate decontamination procedures.’

  Evans shouted back. ‘Are you sure, sir. This is an enclosed space. Confirm senior officer override of all safety procedures.’

  ‘No time,’ bellowed Markham back at him. They were all of six inches apart. ‘Every second counts. Saving the civilians is now your number one priority.’

  ‘Understood, sir. Step forwards, decon crew.’

  Cox and Keller bounded forwards, clutching a complicated piece of kit that looked as if a giant goldfish bowl and a reticulated python had enjoyed an intimate experience. The bowl was full of a strange green sludge that appeared to glow slightly. I began to enjoy myself even more.

  Evans pointed at Rosie Lee. ‘Saving Female Civilian Number One now, sir. Female Civilian Number One – assume the position.’

  Well, even I knew that wouldn’t go well.

  ‘The hell I will,’ she snarled. ‘You point that thing at me, Eva
ns – and yes, I know it’s you – and I’ll use it to perform a tonsillectomy on you. Taking the scenic route. With the blunt end.’

  ‘Female Civilian Number One refusing to cooperate, sir.’

  ‘Move to DEFCON 2, Mr Evans.’

  ‘Moving to DEFCON 2 now, sir.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she shouted. ‘Will you lot bugger off?’

  ‘We’re trying to save your life, you dozy bint,’ he shouted back, abandoning military protocol in favour of civilian insults. ‘You’ve been exposed to a toxic hazard but we think we can save you.’

  She pointed to the green sludge. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘Well, we usually keep it for the drains and even then only in emergencies, but Professor Rapson says it’ll be ideal for neutralising the biochemical hazard apparently residing in this office. It shouldn’t cause a problem as long as we wear protective gear.’

  ‘It appears to have escaped your notice that I am not wearing protective gear.’ She was really losing her rag. I began to enjoy myself immensely.

  Evans shifted uneasily. ‘Nothing was said about civilians wearing protective gear.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s already too late,’ suggested Keller, backing away from her. He pointed at the mug of ex-tea. ‘This stuff’s been here for weeks.’ He looked up in excitement. ‘It’s very possible everyone along this corridor is already as good as dead.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Markham firmly, reigning in this inappropriate enthusiasm, ‘we are the Security Section and we must do our duty. On my mark . . . pump.’

  Rosie Lee uttered a shriek of rage that would have shattered the windows if they hadn’t already been open. ‘If so much as one drop of that stuff falls on me . . .’

  ‘You’ve been exposed,’ began Markham again, but she elbowed him aside, seized the mug and flung it and the contents out of the window. There was a moment’s silence and then the sound of shattering china.

  Below, Bashford’s voice rose in complaint. ‘Oi! Some bastard’s just dropped a mug down here.’

  Rosie Lee hung precariously out of the window. ‘It’s your own fault for standing there, you moron. Why aren’t you in the Hall with the proper historians?’

  ‘I was just taking Angus for a walk.’

  ‘Then it’s your own fault. If you’d stayed inside then you wouldn’t have been hit, would you?’

  I could hear the grin in his voice. ‘Actually, it wasn’t me that was hit.’

  There was a very nasty silence as everyone mentally reviewed the whereabouts of everyone else. Historians downstairs. Techies in Hawking. Security Section in here with me. R&D R&Ding with the doors shut. In other words, everyone exactly where they should be. Which left just one person unaccounted for . . .

  ‘He’s on his way up,’ shouted Bashford. ‘Angus estimates you all have about seventeen seconds of life remaining.’

  Rosie Lee stood frozen for a moment and then grabbed her bag. The Security Section parted to let her through. Evans politely held the door open for her. Her footsteps quickly died away.

  Evans strolled slowly to the window and leaned out to see the car park. ‘Female Civilian Number One is leaving the premises, sir. Mission accomplished.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Well thought out and beautifully executed.’

  ‘Good bit of improv, I thought,’ said Evans, pulling off his helmet.

  ‘Guys, I’m touched you would go to all this trouble. Thank you.’

  ‘With the added bonus of not seeing her for a couple of days,’ said Markham. ‘By the way, you owe me for the bottle of something fiery and expensive I had to bribe Bashford with. OK, guys, thanks very much.’

  They filed out.

  Neither Markham nor I were tall enough for a high five but we did manage a medium three and a half.

  I grinned at him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That was fun,’ he said, tucking his helmet under one arm. ‘And you looked as if you could do with a bit of that. I think you should seriously think again about leaving us. You’ll never get another Security Section to clear up your dirty mugs the way we do.’

  ‘You could have just washed it, you know.’

  ‘Not the Security Section way,’ he said. ‘Think about what I said.’ He closed the door behind him.

  It was a lovely evening with a lovely sunset and no sign of a mega tsunami anywhere. Leon and I were in our room enjoying a quiet moment together and discussing the future.

  ‘It’s our tipping point, Max,’ he said, topping up my wine. ‘This is the point at which we could, if we wanted, step back from St Mary’s and take a different path. Or stay on here and wait to see what the world chucks at us next.’

  I sipped. ‘What do you want to do?’

  He put his arm around me. ‘Actually, I don’t know. Is it a cop-out to say “whatever you want to do”?’

  ‘It’s not just about me though, is it? There’s Matthew to think of. He likes it here.’

  ‘He likes Professor Penrose.’

  ‘We all like Professor Penrose.’

  He frowned severely. ‘Some of us just a little too much.’

  I patted his hand reassuringly. ‘He’s my first reserve, in case you and I end badly; then I’ll have an older man to look after me.’

  ‘He’ll definitely be older after he’s spent ten minutes in your company.’

  I smiled. ‘Don’t you want to see how it all ends?’

  ‘In blood and fire, probably,’ he said gloomily, topping up his glass.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?’

  He sighed. ‘As if I’d ever be given the opportunity.’

  I smiled and rested my head on his shoulder. ‘Looks like it’s time for the decision-making tool again. Got a coin?’

  He looked around. ‘Where are my trousers?’

  ‘Up there.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘I believe that’s what I said at the time.’

  He pulled them off the light fitting and rummaged in the pockets. ‘Heads we stay – tails we go.’

  The coin rose into the air, turning over and over, catching the light. It must have landed somewhere because – you know – gravity, but I’d found something else to do. Historians have a very short attention thingy.

  A good while later, Leon broke off to say, ‘Aren’t you interested to see how it landed?’

  I grinned. ‘Who cares.’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  My grateful thanks to Dr Craig Lambert’s Arts and Humanities Research Council-funded project, ‘The Evolution of English Shipping Capacity’, for their assistance on all matters relating to medieval shipping.

  Thanks to Phil Dawson for his advice on the wording of Leon’s arrest warrant.

  Thanks to my agent, Hazel Cushion, happy in her prosecco haze.

  Thanks to everyone at Headline, especially my editor, Frankie Edwards.

  All mistakes are theirs because they obviously weren’t shouting loudly enough.

  Have you met the Time Police?

  A long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel became known to all and the world nearly ended. There will always be idiots who want to change history.

  Enter the Time Police. An all-powerful, international organisation tasked with keeping the timeline straight. At all costs.

  This is the story of Jane, Luke and Matthew – the worst recruits in Time Police history. Or, very possibly, three young people who might change everything.

  THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SERIES GUIDE

  Don’t know where to start with Jodi Taylor’s CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series? Never fear! We know timelines are a tricky business, so we’ve created a go-to guide to help you navigate the series and make the most of your adventure with the tea-soaked disaster magnets of St Mary’s as
they hurtle their way around History.

  JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

  So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you . . . where would you go? What would you like to witness?

  Recruited by the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Madeleine Maxwell discovers the historians there don’t just study the past – they revisit it. But one wrong move and History will fight back – to the death. And she soon discovers it’s not just History she’s fighting . . .

  Jodi Taylor says . . .

  ‘I never meant to write a bestseller. I just wanted to see if I had the mental discipline to write a book. I have to say no one was more surprised than me that the answer was yes. The only thing that surprised me more was that it did so well. I’m continually amazed that historians and physicists don’t spit on me in the streets. Although give them time.’

  Available to download

  A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES

  Wherever the historians go, chaos is sure to follow . . .

  Dispatched to Victorian London to seek out Jack the Ripper, things go badly wrong when he finds the St Mary’s historians first. Stalked through the fog-shrouded streets of Whitechapel, Max is soon running for her life. Again.

  Jodi Taylor says . . .