Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

by Jodi Taylor

  I sighed. ‘We really shouldn’t involve him. He’s going to be Deputy Director. And he’s not fit enough yet.’

  Peterson had sustained a terrible wound in 15th-century France. His arm was healed and he’d regained some movement – enough to come third in the Security Section’s Annual All Comers One-Handed Bra Unfastening Competition (or SSAACOHBUC for short), but if things went south, he might not be able to defend himself. I saw the scene again – Peterson sprawled on the floor, soaked in blood, dying under my hands …

  Markham said gently, ‘Surely it’s his decision to make, Max.’

  ‘It’s not one we should ask him to make. We’d be putting him in a difficult position.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just you and me, then.’

  ‘Just you and me. Do you know what you have to do?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right, we’ll meet in the paint store in … thirty minutes.’

  I raced around the building like a madwoman because I didn’t have time to be discreet. I strode into Wardrobe and requisitioned what we needed. Confidence is the key. I’m the Chief Operations Officer and head of the History Department. If I can’t march around helping myself to all the equipment needed for an illegal jump to save a colleague, preserve the reputation of St Mary’s, and protect the timeline, then who can?

  I deposited everything at the back of the paint store, safely concealed behind the tins of Sunshine Yellow, and went off to see what had happened to Markham. I found him in what the Security Section likes to refer to as their nerve centre, which was a fancy name for a small, windowless room with a kettle, seven mugs, two tins of biscuits, a calendar picturing two fluffy kittens sitting in a slipper, and the petty cash box lying open on a shelf and bulging with IOUs. Half a dozen monitors showed various views from around the building. A giant fuse box with a zigzag lightning bolt painted across it was attached to the wall.

  Markham was festooning strings of fairy lights around the security monitors. A cat’s cradle of wires connected them to each other and the fuse box.

  I opened my mouth to demand what the hell he thought he was playing at and then remembered to whom I was talking.

  ‘Pretty,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said. ‘When this is over I’m going to rig them to flash on and off in time to “White Christmas”. Now stand in the middle of the room and, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything metal. In fact, put your hands in your pockets.’

  ‘Why?’

  He threw a switch. There was a white flash, followed by a bang, followed by the smell of burnt fish. I just had time to register that all the monitors had faded to black with only a little white dot in the centre, when all the lights went out. Then the fire alarms went off.

  Hat-trick.

  ‘Deary, deary me,’ he said, in a voice of immense satisfaction. ‘I wonder how that could have happened.’

  In the distance, I could hear my husband Leon, the unit’s Chief Technical Officer, demanding to know which idiot was responsible for … the last part of the sentence was lost as a door closed somewhere.

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Well, speaking from personal experience, evacuating St Mary’s is a bit like herding cats. No one will be able to find Professor Rapson. Mrs Mack won’t move without Vortigern.’ (Vortigern is her beloved kitchen cat.) ‘And he won’t move at all if he can help it. No one will be able to remember where the assembly point is. Someone will fall into the lake. All the historians will just stand around looking stupid and refusing to budge because it’s snowing out there and they don’t want to get their precious selves cold and wet. A good hour, I reckon.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said in awe. ‘Absolutely bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said modestly. ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘On this occasion – yes.’

  He produced a torch and we slipped out of the door.

  It was chaos out there. It’s bedlam at St Mary’s when the lights are on. It’s a hundred times worse when the lights are out.

  All around us was a maelstrom of raised voices shouting conflicting instructions, supernova-bright torches blinding everyone they shone on, dreadful language, and the odd scream as someone fell over something. We crept cautiously along the corridors, but quite honestly, they wouldn’t have noticed if Napoleon’s army had swung through on their way to Moscow, singing the 1812 Overture scored for full chorus, twenty-one cannons, and a tambourine.

  We battled our way through the crowds. ‘Like salmon swimming upstream,’ said Markham at one point, eventually arriving at the paint store. We oozed inside and closed the door, shutting out the noise behind us. In the sudden silence, I heaved a sigh of relief. Difficult part over with.

  No it wasn’t. Peterson was waiting for us.

  We stopped dead and everyone looked at everyone else.

  When it became apparent he wasn’t going to speak, I said, ‘How on earth did you know?’

  He raised his eyebrows at me, his expression enigmatic. At that moment, he looked very like Dr Bairstow. He was going to make a wonderful Deputy Director.

  ‘Is that a serious question? It’s Christmas. The two of you are whispering in corners looking mysterious. Grey’s in tears. Then, mysteriously, the lights go out. Why didn’t you just make a public announcement?’

  Markham shuffled his feet and muttered something.

  I sighed. ‘Does everyone know?’

  ‘If you mean Chief Farrell and Major Guthrie – Leon’s racing around trying to get the lights on and the fire alarms off, and Guthrie’s gearing up for the invasion he’s convinced is imminent. Of course, neither of them is going to be pleased when they discover the true cause of the emergency.’

  ‘I may have to live abroad for a while,’ said Markham gloomily.

  ‘You should live so long. So, what’s this all about?’

  I was uneasy for him. ‘You oughtn’t to be involved.’

  ‘Tell me or I grass the pair of you up to Dr Bairstow right now.’

  ‘You tell him,’ I said to Markham, and pushed my way past them to retrieve our equipment and load up the pod.

  Pods are our centre of operations. We use them to jump back to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. We live in them and work in them. Occasionally, we die in them. They’re small, cramped, and smelly, and that’s even before you add a couple of historians to the mix. Leon’s pod is a single-seater, so this one was even smaller and more cramped than usual. I activated the screen and watched the two of them indulge in a heated discussion while I laid in the coordinates.

  When I emerged, task done, Markham was just finishing. ‘And let’s face it, it wouldn’t be Christmas if we weren’t stealing Chief Farrell’s pod and breaking all the rules for a good cause.’

  ‘Once. We did that once.’

  ‘All traditions have to start somewhere.’

  Peterson sighed. ‘So how is this going to work, then? Don’t tell me you haven’t got a plan?’

  ‘We jump to the original coordinates. Very carefully ensuring we are not seen by Bashford and his gang, we shadow them. We follow their every move. With luck, we can identify the exact moment the gun goes missing. As soon as they’re clear, we swoop in, grab the bloody thing, and jump back to St Mary’s. Markham will get it back to the Armoury and no one ever knows a thing about it.’

  There was a brief silence as we contemplated all the many things that could go wrong with this simple plan.

  ‘If they catch sight of us …’ said Peterson doubtfully.

  ‘They won’t,’ I said with a confidence worthy of a much better scheme.

  Peterson shook his head. ‘You’ll go too far one day, Max.’

  ‘Very likely, but not today. Shall we go?’

  That’s the thing about time travel – or investigating major historical events in contemporary time, of course – once we were actually in Ancient Egypt, we were off the clock. We could take as long as we liked to find this bloody gun and still g
et back less than an hour after we jumped. We climbed into the pod.

  ‘There are only rations for about a week,’ announced Peterson, rummaging through the lockers. ‘If we haven’t found it by then we might have a problem.’

  ‘We’d have less of a problem if you stayed behind,’ I said, pointedly.

  ‘And more food, too,’ added Markham.

  ‘Drag your mind away from your stomach, will you?’ said Peterson.

  ‘Hey, I’m not the one jeopardising the entire mission with my unwanted presence,’ said Markham.

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ I said in my newly acquired role of mission facilitator and peacemaker. ‘Let’s get out of here before anyone comes looking for us.’

  There was the usual quarrel about who was to drive. Peterson lost because he can’t help bouncing his pod whenever and wherever he lands. We’ve never dared take him to Constantinople in case he skims, pebble-like, across the Bosphorus and we end up in the wrong continent. I left Markham to make this telling argument while I made myself comfortable and started flicking switches. Peterson’s indignant response that, since we weren’t actually going to Constantinople it hardly mattered, was ignored.

  ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  And here I was again. Ancient Egypt. I’d been here before. Several times, actually. If I had it right, we’d arrived during the reign of Hatshepsut, when Egypt was at the height of her power. One of this female Pharaoh’s many achievements was her trading expedition to the legendary land of Punt in the ninth year of her reign. She built five ships – quite an achievement in a land where wood was scarce – and this was what Bashford’s team were here to check out.

  Bashford’s pod, Number Five, should be arriving any moment now. We’d aimed to arrive just before them because we couldn’t afford to miss a second.

  ‘There,’ said Peterson, leaning over my shoulder as they materialised. ‘On the other side of that palm grove. Don’t let them see us.’

  This was the real reason we’d brought Leon’s pod. It has a camouflage device. And no – it’s not cloaking. It’s camouflage. Apparently, there’s a difference. Leon will be happy to explain it to you, although that will be a week of your life you’ll never get back again. I operated the system and, to all intents and purposes, we were invisible. We just had to hope a camel didn’t walk into us.

  I watched the screen, waiting for Bashford’s team to emerge, while Markham and Peterson quarrelled over the gear I’d blagged from Wardrobe. Since I hadn’t expected Peterson to join our happy band, unless one of them was prepared to wear a dress, it was obvious there wasn’t enough to cover the pair of them adequately. Peterson solved the problem by pulling rank, leaving a complaining Markham to do something ingenious with an old bed sheet he found in a locker.

  ‘There,’ he said, securing himself firmly with a length of material he was using as a belt. ‘What do you think?’

  Markham looks unkempt and dishevelled in any century. There are people in the world who can make even the richest and most gorgeous clothes look scruffy and, if they had a professional organisation to represent them, Markham would be Chairman. And probably Secretary and Treasurer as well.

  We contemplated him.

  ‘You look like a girl,’ said Peterson.

  ‘And not for the first time,’ I told him.

  ‘I think he looks adorable,’ said Peterson.

  ‘I think I look like someone wearing a bed sheet.’

  ‘Perhaps we could tell people he’s on some sort of institutional day-release scheme,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘We’ll tell people he’s our slave,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Why am I always the slave?’

  ‘Demarcation. We’re historians. You’re not. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘They’ll be out in a minute,’ I said, endeavouring to get things back on track. ‘We should get a move on. Keep an eye on things. I’ll join you in a minute.’

  I scrambled into the long linen tunic-dress I’d brought with me. It was a little tight because of my expanding waistline, but my waistline is always expanding. It seems to have been a one-way process throughout my life and pregnancy wasn’t helping. I tied up my hair, plonked the coarse black wig on top, and sighed. I was going to be very hot.

  I had, however, brought a linen parasol and my make-up bag. Two minutes in front of a mirror with eye shadow and black eyeliner and I looked moderately respectable. As did Peterson. Markham looked like a grumpy transvestite who had escaped from a Care in the Community Programme. With mascara.

  ‘Just stay at the back,’ advised Peterson.

  ‘Here they come,’ I said.

  I might as well say now that their behaviour during this assignment was impeccable. Bashford – when not concussed – was an excellent historian, and his team, even Grey, was unobtrusive and professional. They walked as a quiet group, heads down, discreet.

  They had a strict walking order. Bashford at the front, then Gallaccio, then Grey, and Cox brought up the rear. The men had wicker baskets heaved over their shoulders and Grey carried a soft, knotted pack. It had straps but she wouldn’t wear it on her back, insisting on carrying it in her arms. So that she could get to the gun quickly, as I now realised, because hindsight is so marvellous and we all have it in spades.

  They walked well-trodden paths, but even I couldn’t have got lost here. All paths led to the bustling boatyard.

  I know there are still places in the present world where boats are made by hand – I’ve seen one or two as a tourist – but this was amazing.

  The boatyard was vast. All around us, I could see craft of every description in varying degrees of completion. Reed rafts for hunting game birds in the marshes; papyrus boats, commissioned by the Pharaoh or her priests for ceremonial purposes; and big wooden barges for military use or for transporting cargo. Some were already in the water. Some had been hauled onto dry land and propped upright on wooden spars, presumably for repair.

  Great wooden hulls were silhouetted against the sky. The sound of hammering and sawing filled the air. I could smell the river, hot mud, new wood, and burning tar.

  Stocky men, burned dark by the sun and wearing loincloths or short tunics swarmed everywhere, shouting to each other. Everyone was busy and full of purpose. There were no women anywhere. Any food and water was brought by young boys. I made sure to stay well back.

  Surrounding the boatyard were a number of workshops housing carpenters, rope makers, caulkers, and other allied trades. Canvas awnings slung between them provided much-needed shade in which to work.

  Because it was hot. It was very, very hot. As hot as hell. Dust rose everywhere in great clouds, sticking to my sweaty skin. It was in my hair, my eyes, even my mouth. I could feel it under my clothing. Within minutes, we were all covered in a film of gritty, reddish dust, just like everyone else, but the upside was that now we fitted right in. If Bashford and the others turned around at this very moment, they were unlikely to recognise us.

  Sadly, this worked both ways. We had the same problem recognising them. In fact, if they hadn’t had Grey with them, we might not have been able to pick them out at all. On the other hand, of course, if they hadn’t had Grey with them then we wouldn’t be here.

  They settled themselves unobtrusively, sharing the shade of an acacia tree with several dogs who refused to budge. The best we could get was a clump of thorny bushes some way back behind a sort of lean-to where they appeared to be boiling papyrus. Probably to make caulk. That’s the material with which they waterproof their boats. The demand seemed insatiable. Piles of the harvested papyrus lay around and men arrived with fresh supplies almost hourly.

  Huge vats of the stuff were being heated over open fires and I could see the heat haze rippling above each cauldron, because, of course, we weren’t hot enough, were we? The men working here were practically naked and I didn’t blame them in the slightest. Just watching them made my ha
ir prickle and sweat run down my back. My tunic was drenched and limp.

  Back at St Mary’s, they’d be having a pre-Christmas snowball fight in which many old scores would be settled by a handful of cold wet snow down the back of your neck. I’d give anything for a handful of cold wet snow down the back of my neck.

  I’ve no idea what type of straggly bush was providing our only patch of shade – this is what happens when you’re not properly prepped – but they were apparently made of razor blades. We struggled to the centre of the thicket, made ourselves as comfortable as possible, and watched.

  And watched.

  We never took our eyes off them and I honestly couldn’t see how she’d ever managed to lose the bloody thing. Even when working, she usually kept one hand on her pack and she certainly never let it out of her reach. I noticed too that Bashford was never very far away from her. In fact, deliberately or otherwise, she was never left alone. Even from this distance, I could see how nervous she was, jumping at every sound. Continually alert for the unexpected. It was only this time last year that we were yanking her out of Colchester. I sighed. This was all my fault. I should never have assigned her.

  When Bashford’s team returned to their pod, we returned to ours, since Grey had never left it at night. A shower would have been wonderful but not having been prepped to go out, the tanks weren’t full and we had to conserve water. We did briefly discuss a quick dip in the Nile but I was once chased by a herd (or whatever the collective noun is) of Nile crocodiles; Leon and I barely escaped, and that sort of experience does tend to discourage the use of the Nile for casual bathing and recreational purposes. So we shook out our clothes, washed carefully, and conserved water.

  Days passed. Our supplies grew low and I began to worry. Every morning, just before dawn, Bashford’s team left their pod. We followed on as closely as we dared. Not too close, but not too far behind either. Following in their footsteps, eyes on the ground, always looking for that bloody gun.

  They would settle themselves in for a long day’s observing and we observed the observers. After they departed, one of us would nip over and give the area the once over in case she’d dropped it there. She never had.