Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  He finished scraping his tray. ‘How long have I been gone?’

  I lied. ‘A couple of months.’ Nor did I tell him that if we hadn’t found him this time Treadwell would have written the pair of them off and they’d have been here for the rest of their lives. That wasn’t something Clerk ever needed to know.

  We talked for hours.

  ‘Two options,’ I said. ‘We go back for reinforcements to extract Prentiss or we attempt something ourselves. Here and now.’

  Sands considered. ‘The downside of the first is that we lose even more time and Prentiss suffers even longer. The downside of the second is that if we fail, we alert Prentiss’s owner, Clerk is recaptured, we’re captured and everyone dies.’

  ‘You go back,’ said Clerk. ‘You must. There can’t be any argument. You have to go back.’

  Sands looked at him. ‘You’re not saying we.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here, try and get close to Paula and tell her help is on the way.’

  ‘We’re not leaving you,’ I said. ‘Not again.’

  ‘You have to, Max. I can’t leave her. We’ve been together for years. We’re partners. You wouldn’t leave Peterson.’ He gestured. ‘Or Sands. Or any of us. I have faith you’ll come back for us.’

  His point was valid. We’d only have one shot at this. We had to do it properly.

  ‘I understand,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘But how safe will you be? Your employers will be looking for you.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘For you, hardly any time at all. A few hours. If that.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll find a hole somewhere and go to sleep until you come back.’

  He suddenly looked exhausted.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Sands dubiously, and I shared his doubt. So much could go wrong. Suppose he was discovered in our absence. He didn’t look strong enough to fight off a light breeze.

  He nodded. ‘If I go back, then Dr Stone will have me in Sick Bay for days. Weeks possibly. I have to be here when we get her out. She’s my partner.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ offered Sands.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. Just . . . please . . . don’t leave us here again.’

  I took his hand. ‘I promise you we’ll organise the rescue teams and come straight back again. I promise you we’ll get Prentiss out and you’ll be there to see it. I promise you we won’t leave either of you here. There will be a happy ending.’

  ‘And we’ll bring you back a smart new tunic and clean you up properly,’ said Sands, practically. ‘We’ll tidy up your hair and beard and make you look respectable. They’ll be looking for a ratty runaway slave – not a minor household servant or scribe.’

  I looked at Clerk. He nodded. Sands nodded.

  ‘OK then,’ I said. ‘It’s dark out there. Let’s find you somewhere safe to sleep. We’ll go back and get everything organised. We’ll only be gone a couple of hours. Then we’ll get Prentiss and sort out what to do next.’ I looked around. ‘Gentlemen, we have a plan.’

  We found Clerk a safe refuge only a few yards away. Behind what looked and smelled like an old goat shed, a sagging old wall was slowly returning to the earth from which it had sprung. Between the two was a shallow depression in the ground. And it was masked by the wall. We gave him a blanket and he curled up. It was dark and unless you were right on top of him, he was invisible.

  ‘We’ll be right back,’ I said, handing him a water bottle and a supply of high-energy biscuits, and, not without huge misgivings on my part, we left him there.

  And, finally, Treadwell showed his true colours.

  I fought my way out of Sick Bay and went to see him, still somewhat resentful he hadn’t come to me. It’s true there were few things more frightening than opening your eyes to see Dr Bairstow standing at the foot of your bed, but that’s not the point, is it?

  I brought Treadwell up to date and waited.

  And waited. He stared at me for a long time. I could practically see the wheels turning. I stared back. What was the problem?

  ‘You see,’ he said, eventually. ‘I warned you. This is a risk to which women are particularly prone. It’s not their fault – they can’t help it – but they’re exposed to hazards that don’t apply to men.’

  ‘Prentiss won’t want to leave her baby.’

  ‘In that case she has made her choice. That’s what you women want, isn’t it? To make your own choices? If this is hers then I’m not going to force her to return against her will. Bring Clerk back.’

  ‘You can’t split them up.’

  ‘I think I can.’

  ‘He won’t leave her.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a choice. He works for me.’

  ‘He’ll resign.’

  ‘Then in that case I think we can assume both he and Prentiss have sundered their link with St Mary’s voluntarily and we should respect their wishes. Permission refused.’

  I hadn’t known I’d needed permission to rescue our own people and told him so. ‘Dr Bairstow . . .’

  ‘Is dead, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Nevertheless . . .’

  ‘There is no nevertheless, Dr Maxwell. I have offered to pull Prentiss out and you say she will refuse that offer. Mr Clerk has done likewise. There is nothing more to be done. And before you exhaust us both – it is their choice.’

  ‘We’re St Mary’s,’ I said tightly. ‘We never leave our people behind. You’re ex-military – I thought you would understand that.’

  ‘They have elected to remain.’

  I struggled to put my case calmly. ‘Setting Clerk and Prentiss aside for one moment – have you considered the ramifications of your decision? Do you really want this unit to know their new Director will abandon them? Especially if it becomes financially expedient to do so? Yes, we might rescue you should you find yourself in difficulties, but only if it doesn’t cost too much.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell, a considerable amount of time and resources have already been—’

  I interrupted. ‘Wasted?’

  ‘Allocated to this operation is what I had been going to say and the end result is still unsatisfactory. I will say it again – Clerk and Prentiss are electing to remain where they are. That is their decision. And I have to say, Dr Maxwell, I am, so far, very unimpressed with the performance of your department. The Amy Robsart jump was inconclusive and I was forced to intervene to prevent you wasting more effort on something that would show no return. Now, this big Babylon jump has ended in disaster as well. I have been calculating the considerable expenses incurred so far and . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I said, with mock sympathy. ‘But only two people abandoned to a life of slavery, so inside your parameters of acceptable loss, surely.’

  Treadwell spoke very quietly. ‘On your return to your office you will find a list of assignments I have drawn up and I would greatly appreciate you giving them your urgent attention. And your department’s urgent attention as well. I have made it very clear to everyone that it is in their own interests to follow my instructions in this matter. Accept it, Dr Maxwell – it’s over.’

  He turned on his heel and walked away. Someone else who recognised the value of always having the last word.

  I went back to my empty office, threw Treadwell’s stupid list of assignments across the room, put my elbows on my desk and tried to think. It wasn’t easy to begin with. My mind was filled with images of Clerk waiting, day after day, for a rescue that would never come. After I’d raised his hopes. After I’d promised him everything would be fine, and then abandoned him to live a dreadful life in that glittering city. It would have been better if I’d never found him.

  After a while I got up and made myself some tea. After another while I found a piece of paper and picked up a pen. I drew a cube on the paper and carefully coloured it in. Then I began to write. I drew line
s to connect words. I moved them around. I fired up my data table and looked at what it told me. I took another sheet of paper and drew up the revised version. I looked at it for a long while and then, in conjunction with my data stack, made some more adjustments. I transferred those to another piece of paper. I made another mug of tea. I read through what I’d got so far. I made requisition lists. I had to make sure I missed nothing because there would be no second chance. Not for any of us.

  Finally, as the sky lightened behind me, I had a list of things to do and the order in which to do them, together with another list of things to beg, borrow and steal and from whom. I knew which pod I’d be taking. I also knew I’d be going alone. Which meant I probably wouldn’t be coming back. Solo missions rarely work well but there wasn’t anyone else I could take. It was all very well for me to lose my job – and possibly more – but I couldn’t ask anyone else to make that sacrifice. Not because they wouldn’t volunteer, but because they would. The whole department would come with me if I asked, and I couldn’t ask because that would give Treadwell the excuse he needed to sack us all. The end of the History Department. So it was just me. Because that’s what it always boils down to in the end. You live your life and you might think you gather people around you, but at the very end, when push comes to shove, you’re always on your own.

  I fired off a quick message to Mr Sands, asking him to come and see me at ten this morning. Then I sat back, cold and stiff, and finished off my tea, wondering if I’d missed anything.

  Around the building I could hear doors opening. Lights came on. People clattered down the stairs in search of breakfast. I bent down and started to pick up the drifts of paper around my ankles and Rosie Lee walked in. She looked at me and my mess and said, ‘Bloody hell,’ just as I looked at the clock then back at her and said, ‘Bloody hell.’

  She scowled at the piles of paper, the used mugs, the still twirling data stack. I braced myself to lie on a governmental scale.

  She held out her hand. ‘Pass that lot over. I’ll put it all through the shredder. You make the tea. And for heaven’s sake, do your hair. You look even rougher than usual and don’t think Treadwell won’t pick up on that.’

  It is continually being borne on me that I’m not anywhere near as clever as I think I am.

  I honestly couldn’t think of anything to say to her so I wandered over to the kettle and made two mugs of tea while she plugged in the shredder and I decided that, actually, having a PA who knew when to shred the evidence was far more useful than having a PA who made the tea.

  ‘David says yes, he’ll see you at ten,’ she said, over the noise of her infernal machine. ‘Go and get your head down for a bit.’

  Sometimes even I do as I’m told. I didn’t sleep because if I did, I had a feeling I’d never wake up again, but I did have a shower and a bacon buttie. Not simultaneously, obviously. I climbed into a clean pair of blues and then pulled down my sports bag off the wardrobe and packed a few essentials. Change of clothes. Toiletries. Meteorite knife. Book on Agincourt. Trojan Horse. No room for my now fading red snake.

  I was back in my office at five to ten and it was spotless. No piles of scrunched-up paper where I’d thrown them across the room. No dirty mugs. Just all my lists bundled up neatly and placed on my desk in a file marked ‘Turd Stirrer – Annual Usage’. Rosie Lee had even retrieved Treadwell’s assignment list, unscrunched it and pinned it to my notice board.

  David Sands was prompt, walking through the door at exactly ten o’clock.

  ‘You wanted me, Max.’

  ‘I do indeed. Take a seat, please.’

  I looked over at Rosie Lee who’d turned her chair to face me and obviously had no intention of leaving. I strove for tact. ‘I shan’t need you to take any notes, thanks.’

  ‘Good, because I wasn’t going to.’

  I gave up. They were an item. They lived together. He’d probably tell her everything afterwards anyway.

  I took a deep breath, suddenly not sure what to say. He solved my problem for me.

  ‘Treadwell says we can’t go back, doesn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s all over the building. When do we start?’

  ‘I start. You stay.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Now I know why Dr Bairstow always fiddled with the files on his desk. I fiddled with the files on my desk. ‘David, you’re not going.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’re not going because I’m leaving you the most difficult part of the assignment.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m leaving you the History Department. There’s a very good chance I’m not coming back from this one. And even if I do survive it, then Treadwell will be a fool not to seize the opportunity to sack me. Not just for disobeying instructions but for theft, improper use of St Mary’s equipment, breathing, and anything else he can think of. In fact, I’ll be lucky just to be sacked. I’m not involving anyone else because of that. I’m not doing you any favours. I have no doubt he’ll try and impose his own Head of Department and it will be up to you to deal with that in whichever way you think best. I’m probably not the best person to offer advice. It won’t be an easy time for anyone when I’m gone but I hope you understand why I have to do this.’

  ‘I do understand,’ he said, steadily. ‘I just don’t understand why you feel you have to do it alone. The whole History Department will come with you if you’ll let them.’

  ‘And the whole History Department will find itself out of a job on their return. If they return. This is the opening Treadwell’s been waiting for and I won’t hand it to him on a plate. Let him be satisfied with my head. Make him fight for everything else.’

  ‘You’ll never pull it off. Not on your own. And then there’ll be three of you trapped there.’

  ‘My mind is made up, David. All I ask is that you look after the department. They’re difficult and obstinate and never act in their own best interests and you’re the best person I can think of to keep them safe.’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘David – please. It has to be you. Sykes is too young. Atherton’s too nice. Roberts is too volatile. Bashford is too . . . Bashford. Van Owen is my second choice if I really can’t convince you but she lacks worldly guile. You don’t. Anyone who can deal with Calvin Cutter can deal with Treadwell.’

  He smiled a crooked smile. ‘I don’t really have any choice, do I?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Any advice?’

  ‘Don’t linger here out of a sense of misplaced loyalty. The moment might come when you have to get the pods and the people out of here asap. You know what to do – you’ve done it before. Recognise the moment and go.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And be guided by Dr Peterson. He’s pretty good at this sort of thing.’

  He sighed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Keep them together if you can. Once they start applying for other jobs you’ve lost them. You’ll never get them back again.’

  He stared out of the window. ‘Oh God, Max.’

  ‘I’m sorry, David.’

  ‘Answer me one question,’ he said, suddenly.

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes. If you want me to do this, then you have to answer my question.’

  Reluctantly, I said, ‘OK.’

  ‘Why did you stop me going into Rushford that day?’

  Ah. The Question.

  Some time ago I’d died at Agincourt. As you do. Especially if you’re French. Or Edward, Duke of York. Anyway, obviously I hadn’t been allowed to RIP for very long. I closed my eyes in 1415 and opened them in the present. In Rushford. Long story.

  Anyway, in my original world, David Sands had died. In this new one he was still alive. Over the years, though, I’d noticed that things that happened there did tend
to happen here, although sometimes not quite in the same way or in the same order. For instance, at Agincourt, Peterson had sustained a bad wound to his arm which left it seriously weakened, but here, in this world, he’d been injured in Rouen. Same wound. Same arm. Maybe we should just keep him out of France.

  David Sands had been involved in a bad car crash that left him in a wheelchair. He’d caught a nasty infection and died in my arms. Right in the middle of one of his stupid knock-knock jokes. One of the least favourite moments of my life. Then I’d come here and he’d been whole and healthy. Until the day he decided to drive to Rushford and I stopped him and probably saved his life. Neither of us had ever mentioned it before and now he had. What could I say to him?

  Very carefully, I said, ‘I had a bad dream. A really bad dream. The sort you never forget. You were a trainee. You set off for Rushford and were involved in a bad car crash which put you in a wheelchair. Your health wasn’t good. You got an infection. You . . . died. If you hadn’t gone to Rushford that day, none of that would have happened. So when I saw you slipping out of the door, I remembered the dream and I stopped you. It was no big deal. I didn’t have anything to lose,’ I said, lying through my teeth because that was the sort of day it was turning into. ‘So I shouted a warning and you didn’t go.’

  ‘There was a huge pile-up that day,’ he said slowly. ‘On the bypass.’

  ‘In which you were not involved in any way,’ I said firmly.

  He looked at me a long, long while and then said simply, ‘OK.’ And walked out.

  I tried to give Rosie Lee the day off and would you believe it – she wouldn’t go. I swear I’ll swing for her one day.

  I became cunning and changed tactics. ‘All right, if you’re going to stay – put the kettle on and make a brew, type up my final notes on Babylon and do my filing.’

  I gestured at the massive pile under my desk. It’s my way of avoiding Data Protection. I have this idea – rightly or wrongly – that if it never formally enters the filing system then it’s not subject to the Act. And, best of all, in an emergency, I could just throw the whole lot out of the window.