Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  I found my voice. ‘You lied to me,’ I said. ‘Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown are alive. I don’t know what’s going . . .’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he said impatiently. ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet?’

  Since I hadn’t worked out anything yet – let’s face it, until not long ago I’d been unconscious and exploring the unpleasant bilges of my psyche – I said nothing, but kept my end up by looking as if of course I knew everything but there were just one or two teeny-tiny points that still required elucidation.

  Treadwell sighed. ‘I know what you are thinking but I am not the person you should fear.’

  ‘Who then?’

  He sighed. ‘Edward Bairstow is . . . a friend of mine.’

  Well, that stopped me in my tracks. Not the statement itself but the fact that Dr Bairstow had friends. And this friend in particular.

  A penny began to drop. ‘He set all this up,’ I said.

  ‘We did, yes.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Commander Hay, Bairstow, Mrs Brown and I put all this together. We thought we’d give the box a good shake and see what fell out.’

  ‘Why?’ I jiggled my handcuffs. I don’t know why I did that. They weren’t just going to unlock themselves, were they?

  I said again, ‘Why?’ And then I had it. ‘You wanted to see what the idiot Halcombe would do.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And where he went. And who he met.’

  ‘That’s right – and there he was, all set to be released back into the wild – all ready to lead us to the answers – and who should walk through the Red House door?’ He sighed. ‘You possess a gift, don’t you, Dr Maxwell? A strange and wonderful gift.’

  I said flatly, ‘I thought I was dead. If I listen, I can still hear the shot.’ I wondered if I’d hear it for the rest of my life.

  ‘I know,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  Well, that took the wind out of my sails.

  Annoyingly, he was answering all my questions. I was determined to find something to be grumpy about, however, so I said, ‘So . . . did he miss? Halcombe, I mean. I know he’s an idiot but even so . . . it was point-blank range.’

  ‘It wasn’t he who fired the shot,’ he said.

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Hyssop.’

  ‘Hyssop shot me?’

  ‘No one shot you,’ he said impatiently. ‘Can we move on?’

  ‘But there was a gunshot. I heard it. I don’t think I’ll ever stop hearing it.’

  ‘Hyssop shot Halcombe. She was only a few feet from you which must be why you confused who had shot whom. She saved you.’

  I refused to be grateful. ‘What was she even doing here?’

  ‘Supervising the removal of Halcombe and Sullivan to a halfway house from which they could eventually be released and, with luck, lead us in some very interesting directions.’

  ‘So she’s nothing to do with Gaunt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And, presumably, not part of your plans for Halcombe.’

  ‘No. She was here solely in her function as Head of Security at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Why would she save me?’

  ‘Well, as to that, she seemed to feel she owed you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You must ask her that.’

  ‘But I’ve been unconscious,’ I said, determined to make my point. ‘Because I was shot.’

  ‘You’ve been unconscious,’ he said, ‘because you fainted.’

  ‘I bloody didn’t.’

  ‘Sorry. I should have said you succumbed to the cumulative effects of shock, pain, stress and pants-wetting terror. On my recommendation, they’ve kept you under for an hour or so while the lovely Mr Gaunt concentrates on damage limitation here. I hesitate to say there’s nothing actually wrong with you when there is obviously a very great deal wrong with you, so let’s just say you are unharmed.’

  ‘Not dead.’

  He sighed. ‘No. Captain Hyssop moved swiftly and competently to deal with the situation, relieving Halcombe of your gun and shooting him before he could do any harm.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She didn’t by any chance shoot Sullivan as well, did she?’

  ‘No. He was persuaded to let you go.’

  I sighed in a dissatisfied manner.

  ‘If I could just remind you of my original plan, Dr Maxwell – having no history with either Halcombe or Sullivan, I could legitimately let them go. With Dr Bairstow safely “dead”, and a new order established at St Mary’s, we were working on the assumption that they would feel safe enough to resume at least some of their former dealings and we could monitor their movements. A plan which now is on hold until Sullivan’s leg heals because a certain someone walked through a door she had no business walking through. If anyone should be expressing dissatisfaction, it should be me.’

  Time to move on. ‘Where is Dr Bairstow now?’

  ‘Well, thanks to you, no one knows at the moment, do they?’

  ‘So you’re still in charge of St Mary’s?’

  He sighed. ‘Define in charge. Bairstow said he’d warned me, but he really didn’t tell me the half of it.’

  ‘I’m not going to apologise,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘No one ever expected you to.’

  ‘Prentiss,’ I said angrily. ‘And Clerk. Did Hyssop’s team deliberately . . . ?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. It was just something that could have happened to anyone at any time. Just a normal, everyday mishap. That it took so long to rescue them is regrettable. Believe me, you didn’t say anything to Hyssop she didn’t say to herself.’

  ‘She’s useless,’ I said bitterly, quite overlooking the fact she’d saved my life. ‘In fact, at one point they were so rubbish I was convinced she and her Half-Wits were Time Police.’

  ‘They’re not, no.’

  This was one of those moments when the Universe stops in its tracks and waits for me to catch up.

  ‘Alas, Dr Maxwell, I fear you must brace yourself.’

  No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

  I fell back on my pillows. Pain raced through my shoulders. ‘Oh, shit.’

  He was genuinely amused. ‘Oh, shit indeed.’

  ‘You’re Time Police.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Well, bloody bollocking hell.

  I couldn’t speak. I was see-sawing between anger at being duped and mortification at being duped so easily. All that crap he’d fed me about not knowing who the Time Police were. I suddenly remembered I hadn’t had to explain to him about the weird and wonderful Time Police sentencing policy. He hadn’t queried why Halcombe and Sullivan had only been away a year but aged thirty. He must have been laughing his socks off at me. And I’d explained Bluebell Time in words of one syllable to a member of the organisation who identified and defined it. And all that guff he’d given me about wanting to bring stuff back. I realised, with some indignation, that he’d been winding me up. All this time he’d been enjoying some sort of joke at my expense. And I’d fallen for it. Bastard Time Police.

  ‘Problem?’ he said, obviously relishing the moment.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t been so restrained when commenting on Time Police policy and performance, but not really. Although I must ask – why?’

  ‘We have concerns about St Mary’s. Oh, not St Mary’s itself, but it has occurred to both Commander Hay and Dr Bairstow that should Temporal Tourism ever become legal, there’s an organisation here already set up. Pods, equipment, premises, personnel – all there for the taking.’

  ‘We’ve fought people off before now,’ I said, feeling I should keep up the St Mary’s end. ‘Including the Time Police, I believe.’

  ‘One of our off-days,’ he said seriously. �
��Trust me, if I’d been in charge of the Time Police then that would never have happened.’

  ‘Clerk and Prentiss,’ I said angrily, zigzagging from complaint to complaint. ‘You would have just left them in Babylon. Just to give yourself some credibility.’

  ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘I know St Mary’s regularly clambers on its high horse, intoning, “We never leave our people behind,” but you’re not the only ones. I had a team of Hunters on stand-by, all set to get them out if anything had prevented you, although I was pretty certain you’d be off there as soon as I particularly forbade you to do so.’

  ‘You knew I had my own pod?’

  ‘I was banking on it. And for your peace of mind, teams have visited Clerk and Prentiss regularly, taking supplies and medicine and little luxuries. They lived long lives and were prosperous. A great deal more so than had they remained at St Mary’s, probably. Their children thrived. As did their grandchildren. They enjoyed a gracious old age. They died peacefully within a few months of each other and, in line with St Mary’s tradition, I’ve had their names inscribed on the Boards of Honour. Which reminds me . . . they asked me to return this to you with their love and gratitude.’

  He held out my wedding ring.

  I went to take it and realised I was still handcuffed. Frustrated, I yanked on the handcuffs again because I never learn and that set my shoulders and arms off all over again.

  Treadwell sighed. ‘I want to make it absolutely clear, Dr Maxwell, that my next action does not, in any way, constitute a binding arrangement on my part.’

  ‘Same here,’ I said.

  He slipped the ring on to my finger.

  I hadn’t finished. ‘And Matthew – the one person who might have recognised you?’

  ‘Safely out of harm’s way. Well, when I say out of harm’s way, I don’t know what he and those other two tearaways are up to at the moment, but I’m sure Chief Farrell will be more than equal to the challenge.’

  He tilted his head. I could hear Gaunt’s voice in the distance, giving someone hell.

  He moved closer to the bed. ‘I know in situations like this it’s traditional to shake hands and say I wish I’d been able to know you better, but the very tiny glimpses I’ve had of you make me more than ever inclined to exterminate you with extreme prejudice. And now I must go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was brought here to make a formal identification, Dr Maxwell. Having done so I see no reason to linger.’

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re leaving me here? Oh, yes – that’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I am leaving you in the wind. An impediment to friend and foe alike.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You make things happen, Dr Maxwell. I am simply leaving you to fulfil your full potential.’

  Gaunt’s voice drew closer.

  I became cunning. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to have me inside the boat pissing out rather than the other way around?’

  ‘I’d rather not have you at all, Dr Maxwell. Floating face down with no boat in sight would be my first choice, but I work with what I can get.’

  Gaunt was almost upon us. I threw a panicked look at the door.

  He was still amused. ‘You went to so much trouble to get here it seems churlish not to let you benefit from an extended appreciation of the facilities.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Gaunt swept into the room, followed by a uniformed nurse with rather nice ash-blond hair and bearing a jug of water on a tray. I suddenly realised how thirsty I was. Although he might be about to waterboard me, of course. I looked at his posh suit. No – he wouldn’t want water all over that.

  He approached the bed but looked at Treadwell. ‘Well, Commander?’

  Treadwell nodded and said, ‘I can formally identify this person as Dr Maxwell, dishonourably discharged from the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research for misconduct in a public office. Well done, Mr Gaunt – you may have let the big one slip through your fingers – only temporarily, I’m sure – but this is a very acceptable alternative. And by the way, Dr Maxwell . . .’

  I turned my head from Gaunt to Treadwell and he slapped me. Quite hard. Although he did have the decency to pull it at the last moment, his open hand made a very satisfactory sound. From where Gaunt was standing it must have looked very convincing.

  I fell back with a cry and then struggled to prop myself on my elbow again, glaring at him.

  Treadwell straightened his cuffs. ‘Feel free to carry on where I’ve left off, superintendent,’ and strode from the room. I felt like shouting after him that you can take this undercover business too far, you know.

  The nurse was hovering in the doorway, looking from me to Gaunt and back again. Presumably the medical staff belonged to the medical superintendent. That dozy wazzock Washburn, if I remembered correctly.

  Gaunt regarded me impassively. There are times when being handcuffed to a bed is fun and there are times when it isn’t. I knew which this was going to be.

  He beckoned the nurse forwards. The water wasn’t the only thing on the tray. He picked up a rather large pair of scissors.

  I struggled to lean away from him. Which turned out to be a complete waste of time.

  When I’d set out this morning, I’d subdued my hair with a ponytail and then I’d plaited it tightly because it makes shoving it and keeping it in a bun much easier. At some point my bun had come unravelled and now I had just the plaited ponytail.

  But not for long.

  Before I knew what was happening, Gaunt leaned over me, grabbed it and began to hack away. I could hear the blades scrunching through my hair. Small pieces of hair fell around me. I tried to struggle and twist but between him, the pain and the handcuffs I wasn’t going anywhere.

  It sounds such a tiny thing. It was only hair. It would grow again. But it wasn’t just a tiny thing. For as long as I could remember, my hair had been part of my identity – not just as an historian but as part of me, Maxwell. To be wrestled with and cursed, yes, but part of me nevertheless. To have someone lay hands on me like this and just hack it off . . .

  It took him only a few seconds and then it was gone. Gaunt stepped back from the bed, scissors in one hand, long plait in the other, and then he turned and just dropped it into the bin. There was a slight metallic sound as it hit the bottom. I stared down at it, coiled and completely separate from me. I wouldn’t be gluing that back on.

  ‘There are standards to which all prisoners must conform,’ he said. ‘That was one of them. There will be others.’

  And on that splendid last word, he strode from the room, brushing past the nurse who only just got out of the way in time.

  I pulled uselessly at the handcuffs, starting up all the little rivers of pain again.

  The nurse stood in the doorway, watching him go, and then came further into the room with the tray.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Absolutely fine as long as I don’t laugh.’

  ‘That’s sex with me out, then.’

  I sighed. My day was not getting any better. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to rescue you. You pulled me out on Crete. I’m returning the favour.’

  ‘I’m not some useless princess, you know,’ I said with dignity. ‘I can rescue myself.’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’d have got impatient and attempted something stupid and – hey – get it? Impatient? But you’re actually a patient. So not impatient.’

  Oh, dear God. Someone who made David Sands look good.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing a wheelchair into the room. ‘I’ve got everything all lined up and waiting for you. All we have to do is go.’

  I cut straight to the heart of the matter. ‘Why are you dressed as a woman?’

  ‘I’m not dressed as a woman. I’m dressed as a nurse. Not the same thing
at all.’

  ‘Can I be there when you tell Hunter that?’

  He twitched the blanket back.

  ‘You’re handcuffed to the bloody bed.’ He looked around. ‘Leon’s not here, is he?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  He was lining up the wheelchair. ‘So how exactly were you going to rescue yourself?’

  ‘You can dislocate your thumb and . . .’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. I’ve seen it in movies.’

  ‘God save me from amateurs. Well, I’ll nip off and have my tea while you try to dislocate your own thumb and release yourself from a set of military-grade handcuffs, shall I?’

  ‘Like to see you do better.’

  ‘Well, I can, but there’s a temporary setback because all your hair seems to have fallen off.’ He began to rummage in the bin. ‘But where there’s hair there’s . . . one of these.’ He waved a hair clip.

  I scoffed. ‘That’s an even bigger myth than the dislocated thumb thing.’

  ‘Want to bet? Watch and learn, historian.’

  He opened up the hairgrip, removed the plastic bobble off the end, inserted the clip into the keyhole and bent it back. Removing it, he did the same again but in the opposite direction this time.

  He held it up and surveyed the angle critically. ‘Yep, that looks good,’ and inserted it into the lock. There was a click and the whole cuff-thing fell away. Four seconds. Possibly five.

  Well, bloody bollocking hell.

  At this point the Legal Department would like me to make it very clear that this is a very wrong thing to do. Especially if the use of handcuffs had been authorised by the police or mili­tary authorities in the lawful execution of their duties and that the publishers, printers and all allied trades in no way condone the improper use of hair accessories. By anyone other than Markham, of course.

  Another nurse appeared in the doorway. A proper one this time, wearing proper scrubs and not some random nursing uniform gleaned from God knows where and a really rather good ash-blond wig. Holding a tray of something, she was halfway across the room before she saw Markham, her cheery greeting dying on her lips as she tried to work out what he was.

  He moved faster than I would have thought possible. In less than a second, he had his arm around her and was ushering her into the bathroom. ‘Now then,’ he said soothingly, ‘we don’t want to make a big fuss and upset the patient, do we? And most of all we don’t want to upset that bastard Gaunt, so you just come with me.’