by Jodi Taylor
‘An endless supply,’ said someone.
‘And it’s the same colour,’ said someone else.
‘We could have Diuretic Days . . .’
‘Or if not to generate power, then how about acupuncture,’ said someone. There was silence while powerful minds addressed this new opportunity.
‘Except won’t the needles get a bit hot?’
‘A torture device,’ said someone, enthusiastically. ‘Massive market for that sort of thing.’
And then, thank God, I was out of the door.
I trotted round the gallery to Dr Bairstow’s office. Mrs Partridge was wearing black. She didn’t look up as I entered so I went straight through and found myself face to face not only with Treadwell, Peterson and Hyssop, but Malcolm Halcombe and Major Sullivan as well. Evans was standing nearby, cradling one of the big blasters and keeping a very close eye on the pair of them.
I braked to a halt on the threshold and thought, ‘shit’.
I suspect another quick word of explanation might be in order.
Malcolm Halcombe was Treadwell 1.0 and most of the reasons why he, Treadwell, was being regarded with such suspicion and hostility. Halcombe, backed by the unpleasant Major Sullivan and his team of thugs, had attempted to force themselves upon St Mary’s and St Mary’s had promptly buggered off to our remote site. Sadly, a few people had been left behind here and they hadn’t fared at all well. Ask Evans, who’d been unable to stand by the time he was rescued. And he’s a big bloke so imagine what they must have done to him.
Anyway, in an effort to curry favour with his bosses and earn a spot of cash from St Mary’s – hands up, anyone who thinks this seems relevant to our current circumstances – the idiot Halcombe had attempted to force Miss North and me back to the crucifixion for a once in a lifetime bit of recording and documenting. Sadly, everything connected with that event is designated Triple-S – Site of Special Significance – and strictly illegal. I wouldn’t even open the door, the pod was threatening to self-destruct and we were all slowly suffocating. Sullivan was about to shoot North as an incentive when, fortunately, and for the first time in their lives, the Time Police turned up and made themselves useful by arresting us all. I went on to catch up with St Mary’s and North stayed with the Time Police. They thought she was wonderful and vice versa.
Anyway, Halcombe and his mates were all sentenced to a long prison stretch. I still couldn’t believe Treadwell hadn’t been briefed on the Time Police. I needed to have a bit of a think about that because I reckoned there was something going on somewhere, and now it would appear Halcombe and Sullivan had been released from Time Police custody. Considerably older and almost certainly none the wiser. I’ve no idea what had happened to their colleagues. Either they’d been released separately or, more probably, they hadn’t survived.
And why us? Why had the Time Police dropped them off here? Because they’d been arrested for a St Mary’s-related offence, I suspected. From a Time Police point of view, they were now our problem. They would simply have dropped them on the South Lawn and buggered off.
I was quite shocked at their appearance. They hadn’t aged well. Halcombe must now be around seventy – Sullivan a little more. Not great ages – not even at retirement age – but the years had not been kind to them.
We all looked at each other in silence. Their crimes were still fresh in my mind because for me, it hadn’t been that long ago. They were lucky North wasn’t still here. Sometimes she’s not as completely in control as she would like to be and doesn’t hesitate to go off on one occasionally – to the appreciation of those around her.
Treadwell was talking to me. ‘Dr Maxwell, I understand you were present at the arrest of these people. Perhaps you would care to explain what happened.’
I bit back what I’d been going to say and tried to confine myself to the facts.
‘They’re your people, Commander. They and you originate from the same source. They also weren’t familiar with the Time Police and they paid the price. The one on the right is Malcolm Halcombe, leprosy status unclear, who thought he’d force a couple of historians on an illegal jump and incurred a gaol sentence of – what was it? – thirty years. The snivelling one is Major Sullivan – tasked with enforcing the illegal jump. Unfortunately for them, the Time Police turned up and rescued us. Halcombe and Sullivan were tried, found guilty and imprisoned. Now it seems they’ve been released into our custody.’
Evans stepped forwards. ‘Permission to give them both a good kicking, Max.’
Hyssop spoke. ‘Back in line, Evans.’
I ignored her, considering this, my head on one side. ‘They’re old men – it hardly seems right, somehow.’
Treadwell gazed at them, his face quite expressionless. Sullivan seemed to be out of it completely. I’m not sure he realised where he was. A far cry from the days when he strutted around St Mary’s pretending he was in charge.
The Time Police actually don’t torture people – at least I don’t think they do – but their prison system is brutal. I only know bits and pieces – gossip from the mercifully short time I worked with them – but apparently, they take you off and imprison you in another time. Anyone else taking someone out of their own time would suffer the consequences, which, funnily enough, would involve being taken out of their own time as a punishment. Am I the only one who sees the irony? No one knows where or when their prisons are located, obviously, but there are no comfy cells, regular meals, government inspections, leisure facilities, education opportunities or any of that girlie crap.
There are a variety of different Time Police gaols, depending on the severity of the crime and I’ve even heard there’s one place where they simply dump everyone on a small island somewhere and just leave them to fend for themselves. Supervision is minimal. The prisoners form their own society, hierarchy, laws and methods of punishment. They have to catch or grow their own food and, more importantly, they have to hang on to it. It’s a pitiless environment. The strong survive – most of them. Everyone else doesn’t. The Time Police turn up occasionally, replenish a few supplies and medical equipment, remove any bodies and notify the next of kin.
And even on release, the punishment continues. Because the Time Police bastards return the prisoners to their own time. Only a few months or a year will have passed for those left behind, but the prisoner has served a sentence of thirty or forty years. They’re old and they’re sick but their world is just as they left it. Their family – staring at them in disbelief and, often, revulsion – are just as they left them. Think about it – even if, after thirty or so years on that island, you haven’t turned feral and should be separated from society for everyone’s sake, how do you find your place in the world again? How do friends and family accept you back?
Halcombe and Sullivan had been in their late thirties or early forties when I last saw them. Now I was looking at two old men, old way before their time. They were both thin but not skeletal. The Time Police would always ensure there was food – just not quite enough of it. That prisoners’ thoughts were always concentrated on where the next meal was coming from rather than plotting mischief or escape. Although, where would they go? They didn’t know when or where they’d been imprisoned. At the back of their minds must always have been the thought that they might be escaping to somewhere even worse.
Sullivan, I think, had given up on the world some time ago. Whatever stood before us was just a shell of a man. Halcombe had lost most of his hair and gained a nasty burn scar on one cheek but his eyes glittered with the old malice. Interesting. You’d have thought Sullivan with his military training would have fared better but Halcombe appeared to be the one least damaged by his captivity.
The silence dragged on. They were looking around the room. I wondered if Halcombe was remembering the time when this had been his office. They both seemed quite bewildered. I suppose anyone would be after thirty years’ imprisonment. Th
e Time Police wouldn’t waste time preparing them for release. They’d just be scooped up one day and dumped back in their own time and if they couldn’t cope then that was someone else’s problem.
Now they were both staring at me. North and I had been the last people they saw from this time and here I was, hardly changed, while they themselves were thirty years older. If they hadn’t hated St Mary’s before, they certainly did now and while I felt the same way towards them, they looked so lost and disoriented . . . Now began the second part of their punishment: their attempts to pick up the threads of their lives.
Treadwell moved out from behind his desk, saying quietly, ‘Is there anyone I should inform of your release? Your families? Friends?’
They each shook their head.
Silence fell again. I don’t think anyone quite knew what to do. Eventually Hyssop turned to Treadwell and said, ‘Your instructions, please, Commander. What would you like me to do with them?’ at exactly the moment Dr Stone arrived, his team behind him. He took one look at the two ex-prisoners and said, ‘No one is doing anything until they’ve had a complete medical examination.’
Treadwell nodded, although Dr Stone would probably have gone ahead and done it anyway, and Sullivan and Halcombe were helped away, Evans with his blaster following closely on their heels. I watched them go. I remembered the state of Evans when he was eventually rescued. I remembered North with that thick, black gun rammed into her eye.
Treadwell turned to Peterson. ‘Dr Peterson, I understand you commanded St Mary’s during the time referred to by Dr Maxwell. Perhaps you could take a minute to brief me.’
Peterson was typically brilliant.
‘Yes, of course, but if you want to know the real story behind what happened, you should ask Mr Evans, who was beaten up every day in their unsuccessful attempts to get me to talk. In fact,’ he said, ‘I’m certain Mr Evans will be delighted to renew the acquaintanceship – as would any member of St Mary’s. After what they did to us, I wouldn’t have any problem with both of them suffering an unfortunate accident during their stay here. But I do advise you to notify your employers of their return and enquire what arrangements have been made for them. None, I suspect. It will be interesting to see if they’re regarded as heroes or inconveniences, don’t you think?’
I nodded. After Halcombe’s embarrassing failure, I wouldn’t mind betting the waters would have closed over his and Sullivan’s heads and it would be as if they had never existed. Now they were back. And here at St Mary’s. A circumstance I found deeply troubling. However, Leon always says there’s no point in running towards trouble – although in my experience running away from trouble is only marginally more successful – so I told myself I’d wait and see what happened next.
Treadwell seemed thoughtful. He went to sit behind Dr Bairstow’s desk. I must stop thinking of it as Dr Bairstow’s desk.
Peterson and I seated ourselves without being asked. Dr Bairstow always politely asked everyone to sit. Unless you were in really deep shit, of course, in which case you planted your feet, gritted your teeth and endured.
Treadwell frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of either of these two men.’
‘There were others,’ said Peterson and rattled off the names of Sullivan’s team. ‘They were arrested when Dr Bairstow led the successful attempt to regain control of St Mary’s.’
It was clear from the complete lack of expression on his face that Treadwell had never heard of them, either.
I exchanged a glance with Peterson. Was it possible that Treadwell was not from the same stable as Halcombe? My theory has always been that somewhere out there, there’s a tiny organisation. A link between Clive Ronan and the government. Or, since Mrs Brown hadn’t known anything about them either, a part of the government no one admitted to. Or even knew about. Rogue, perhaps. Or even – and here’s a thought – not in this time. You certainly couldn’t get more untraceable than that.
Looking over the desk at the expressionless Treadwell, I wondered if his thoughts were running along those lines as well. Was he, perhaps, querying the real purpose of his presence here? Was he, as he certainly thought he was, the new Head of St Mary’s? Or was he someone’s scapegoat? An excuse for more punitive action if – when – he failed. And when he failed – as he was meant to do – would the real new Director of St Mary’s turn up? I still couldn’t believe Treadwell had been sent to us without a proper briefing.
Apparently, neither could he. Getting up, he opened the door and politely asked Mrs Partridge for some tea, please. I was pleased to see he didn’t just demand it through his intercom.
We sat in silence until it arrived. And he got the good china. Not the best stuff, obviously, because he wasn’t Dr Bairstow, but not the cheap stuff she uses for meetings with the Parish Council, either.
He poured the tea himself. I noticed he knew exactly how I like mine. First out of the pot while it’s still weak, a slice of lemon and two sugars. I was beginning to realise just how thorough this man was. He was no Halcombe, that was for sure.
‘So,’ he said, passing Peterson his own cup. ‘Tell me all about the Time Police.’
Peterson shrugged and gestured for me to do it.
‘Well, a long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel gets out and everyone has a go. It’s chaos, of course, because at that stage, no one, from governments upwards, has any clear idea of the implications. Time begins to break down in places. It’s called Bluebell Time. When too many people decide to visit the same time and place, the fabric of time begins to disintegrate and then you have to put in a patch.’
‘How on earth do they do that?’
I shrugged again. ‘I’ve only ever been involved once so I can’t really say, but I think it’s a bit like laying down decking.’
I didn’t want to go into any great detail about Queen Jane the Bloody. I certainly didn’t want Treadwell knowing that under certain conditions, History can be changed. I could just imagine the results:
Place your bids, ladies and gentlemen. Today’s special offer – the Battle of Hastings. Saxon or Norman victory? Just place your bids here and win the opportunity to change History for all time.
And think of Bosworth Field. We’d have the Richard III society on one hand beating up the Henry VII society on the other, as both sides vied to rewrite the battle according to the way they thought it should go. There had been that incident in Rushford, a couple of years ago, when the two sides, both marching to celebrate Bosworth Field Day, had, by some extraordinary lapse on the part of the organisers, met face to face just outside of Boots. It had been apocalyptic, apparently, and St Mary’s hadn’t even been there.
‘The Time Police?’ Treadwell said gently, nudging me back to the here and now.
‘Yes, the Time Police. They do sort it all out in the end. Most of them aren’t bright – and they’re certainly not gentle – but they do get the timeline under control again. And their losses were massive, so they deserve some credit. I believe now, having achieved their objective, there’s some thinking they’ve outlived their usefulness – and they do seem to spend a lot of time harassing innocent historians . . .’
‘And yet they rescued you and your colleague,’ he said gently.
‘They did,’ I said, ‘and don’t think we weren’t glad to see them. It was a toss-up as to whether Sullivan would exterminate us with his rather unpleasant bolt gun or the pod would self-destruct because we were in a Triple-S zone.’
‘Triple-S?’
‘Site of Special Significance. Areas we don’t – can’t – jump to. Religious stuff, mostly. The idiot Halcombe thought he’d send us back to the crucifixion. He had some sort of plan to prove it did actually occur.’
‘And did it?’
I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘I deleted and overwrote the record of the jump.’
‘Why would you do that?
’
‘I expect my tiny female brain was overcome by the implications and with no big strong man to tell me what to do I was unable to handle the responsibility of making a decision all by my little self.’
There was a bit of a silence.
‘Dr Maxwell, I wish you would not deliberately misinterpret my words.’
‘Commander Treadwell, I wish you would not deliberately underestimate my abilities.’
There was a bit more silence.
‘We’ll leave it there, shall we?’ he said, standing up.
Peterson and I got up to go.
‘If you could spare me a minute, please, Dr Maxwell.’
I sat back down again.
Peterson grinned at me and disappeared out of the door.
I sighed. Now what?
‘Dr Maxwell, I have a query about your assignment.’
‘Ah yes,’ I said, feeling I was on firmer ground. ‘Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar. The Ishtar Gate. It should be quite spectacular.’
‘Yes. I’m very keen. Lots of potential there, I feel.’
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. It’s not the historical aspect that’s important these days – it’s how much money we can make. Well, to forestall your next question – we’re planning a big holo. They always go down well. The one we made of the dinosaurs in the Cretaceous is still one of our biggest earners. I think the grandeur of Babylon in its heyday will play very profitably to many people and organisations.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ he said, ‘but actually, it was your previous assignment I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Amy Robsart?’
‘Yes. I’ve read through your report several times and I still can’t see who killed her.’
‘We don’t know who killed her.’
‘But you were there.’
‘Yes, we saw her fall.’
‘So why don’t you know who killed her?’
‘Because we weren’t there at the crucial moment. Which wasn’t when she fell but some minutes before.’