by Jodi Taylor
The dress was gorgeous. And huge. The Virgin Queen didn’t mess about when it came to her wardrobe and neither did Calvin Cutter. If we added any more layers we’d have to put the bloody thing on wheels.
The dress was being modelled by a tall figure standing in the middle of the room on a sheet, arms outstretched. They’d obviously reached a tricky point in its complex construction because a team swarmed over the wide petticoats like ants over Mount Snowdon. The heavily embroidered cloth of gold overskirt was flipped up and covered the model’s face. Two more people were fitting the sleeves and another was crawling on the floor tacking up the hem.
I stared. The model did seem rather tall and I couldn’t think who it could be. We didn’t have anyone that tall in Wardrobe.
Beside me, the officer stiffened.
‘Well,’ I said, cheerily, ‘nothing to see here.’
He didn’t reply, walking slowly into the room, circling the figure which, at the same time, and by a strange coincidence, was also rotating, in accordance with instructions from the construction crew, and keeping its face well averted.
‘Shall we go,’ I said, trying to edge him towards the door.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, slowly.
Shit.
I looked in dismay at Mrs Enderby, still slightly dishevelled from crawling about on the floor. The officer caught us staring at each other and drew an unfortunate conclusion.
‘And through here …’ I said, gesturing back towards the archway, and hoping that subconsciously he’d move in that direction.
He didn’t. Of course he bloody didn’t.
‘All of you.’ He gestured at Mrs Enderby’s team with his gun. ‘Step back.’
As one, all those working on the dress stared at Mrs Enderby. No one moved.
‘I don’t know what you want, young man,’ she said, stepping between him and the petticoat-enveloped figure standing on the sheet. The really quite tall figure standing on the sheet.
Again – shit.
‘I want you all to step back, ladies – before any of you gets hurt.’
As he spoke, he moved towards the model, transferred his gun to his other hand, and groped around what I shall refer to as the bosom area.
The model uttered a shriek of rage that rang around the room, drew back her arm and fetched him a ringing slap that nearly lifted him off his feet. Before he could pull himself together, he was enveloped in a maelstrom of outraged femininity, all shouting and waving their arms. Words like ‘pervert’, ‘dirty devil’, and ‘sex maniac’ bombarded him from all sides.
His cries for assistance did not go unnoticed.
The other members of his team burst through the archway, guns raised and ready for anything, although they might not have been ready for the sight that met their eyes.
Mrs Enderby, ably supported by Mrs Mack and Mrs Shaw – both of whom had appeared from nowhere – and surely only someone with a mind as evil as mine would suspect they’d been waiting behind the door for this very purpose – were being more than vociferous in their condemnation of nasty rough soldiers who tried to put their hands down other people’s bodices.
Technically the three of them were outnumbered and outgunned by the Time Police, but that didn’t seem to be holding them back in any way and the Time Police were giving ground under their onslaught. I remembered these three had fought at the Battersea Barricades, stepped back against the wall and let them get on with it.
Chairs and tables were overturned. Tins of pins flew everywhere.
The original officer – the cause of all the trouble – staggered and fell backwards over the person who had been tacking up the hem. The remaining policemen pulled out their guns and shouted to the model to put up his hands.
There was a great deal of flailing around and finally the layers of dress were pulled aside and a dishevelled Rosie Lee emerged, red-faced and furious.
‘What the fu …?’
Half a nanosecond later she had a gun in her face.
Mrs Enderby surged forwards and knocked it into the air. ‘Get away from her at once. How dare you attack a member of my staff. And look at the damage to this dress.’
She wasn’t alone. Mrs Shaw and Mrs Mack were on either side of her. The rest of her department surged around like so much indignant pin-bearing flotsam and jetsam, jostling bewildered Time Police officers who knew something was going on but couldn’t quite put their fingers on it if only all these bloody women would stop shrieking at them.
Their true quarry, young Adrian, green smocked like the rest of them, had abandoned his tacking and was kneeling on the floor picking up pins. We’d kept him on his knees to hide his height.
Back at Ground Zero, the officer was trying to defend himself from three stout, middle-aged women. He was losing on all fronts.
‘I thought it was him. She was tall.’
It wasn’t often Rosie Lee was able, legitimately, to attack people and she was obviously determined to make the most of it. ‘I’m standing on a stool, you pathetic moron.’
‘Watch your tone,’ he said sharply and unwisely.
I judged it time to intervene – and muddy the issue a little more. ‘What in the world is going on in here?’ I turned to the officer and demanded, ‘What did you do to her?’
Miss Lee burst into noisy tears. ‘They tried to pull my clothes off.’
‘We didn’t. Nothing. I just …’
‘It says “No Entry” on the door for a reason,’ said Mrs Enderby. ‘But they couldn’t wait to get in here and start tearing her clothes off.’
‘He put his hand down my bodice,’ wailed Miss Lee.
‘I thought she was a boy.’
‘Are you insane?’ demanded Mrs Enderby. ‘Does she look like a boy? Do any of you actually have any idea what a boy looks like? Would you like me to get one in for you so you can familiarise yourself with people who aren’t girls? Or are you just a bunch of sick perverts?’
They’d pulled themselves together by this time, grouping together in a tight clump, guns bristling. One of them must have had a blaster because I could hear the whine of it charging up over the sounds of indignant womanhood. I knew I really should intervene before someone got hurt, but at that moment Dr Bairstow turned up, standing in the doorway and leaning on his stick.
Rosie Lee shut up. Adrian crawled around the back of the dress, well out of sight. Everyone else subsided.
‘I have been waiting for your report on this afternoon’s disgraceful behaviour for some considerable time, Dr Maxwell. If you thought for one moment that any delay would lessen my … annoyance … over this unit’s reprehensible behaviour then you were mistaken.’
I said, ‘Yes, sir,’ reviewed what he’d said and amended that to, ‘No, sir.’ And even then, I wasn’t sure I’d got it right.
‘Report.’
‘A considerable number of casualties, sir, the worst being Miss Grey.’ I spared a minute to hope Cox and Evans had had the sense to hide Elspeth under a bed somewhere. ‘She is, at present, undergoing surgery. I do not, as yet, have any details but Dr Stone will report as soon as possible.’
‘You misunderstand me, Dr Maxwell. I was referring to …’ he gestured around him ‘… this.’
‘Sorry sir. Err … as you can see, the Time Police are here. Again. They haven’t yet introduced themselves and I’m sure it probably wasn’t intentional bad manners and general ignorance that prevented them from making their presence known and formally requesting permission to carry out a search as detailed in the treaty signed after we kicked their arses at the Battle of St Mary’s.’
Having given him this promising opening, I stepped back to let him have some fun.
Their officer stepped forward. ‘Dr Bairstow, we are tracking an illegal pod and our readings show …’
‘Where?’ he interrupted. ‘Let me see these readings.’
There was a muttered consultation with his men. ‘The radiation signature is very faint. As yet, we have nothing conclusive.�
�
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Our intention is to locate and apprehend …’
‘On what evidence?’
There was another consultation and some head-shaking. I heard, ‘Echoes everywhere, sir. All over the building, including the roof. Outside on the grass, outside the hangar, all over. Some new – some old. There are even signatures from our own pods from previous visits.’
The officer turned back to Dr Bairstow. ‘As at this moment, Dr Bairstow, it is not possible to …’
He got no further.
‘So, to sum up, you have arrived this afternoon, in pursuit of something your own equipment tells you might not be here …’
‘With respect, Dr Bairstow, this unit has a record of harbouring …’
He might as well have spared his breath. I could have told him that.
‘… perpetrate an unforgiveable assault on one of my staff …’
Rosie Lee redoubled her sobs. The entire Wardrobe department crowded around to comfort her
The officer made a real effort to regain control of the situation. ‘We are the Time Police …’
Dr Bairstow looked around at the milling crowd. ‘I can certainly see that. Tell me, how is the hunt for Clive Ronan progressing?’
‘I can assure you that every member of …’
‘And yet you are not?’
‘I’m sorry?’ he said, stiffly.
‘You and your team do not appear to be engaged in what Commander Hay assures me is your primary objective at the moment, the capture of Clive Ronan, though she assures me that she has deployed all her best people to this end. Can I infer from this that you and your unit are not … how can I put this … her best people?’
He turned an unlovely crimson. ‘Different department.’
‘I think that has been apparent to all of us. So, other than having impeded our casualty clearing, stormed our medical centre, compromised the treatment of Miss Grey, turned my unit upside down, sexually assaulted one of my staff and compelled me to leave my duties in order to quell a riot, what do you think you have achieved this afternoon?’
And now his colour was verging on purple. ‘I …’
‘Quite so. Mr Markham. Kindly ensure our guests are signed out – you should probably sign them in first – and then escort them to their pod, if you would be so good. Dr Maxwell, my office. At your earliest convenience.’
I said meekly, ‘Yes, sir,’ and watched the Time Police follow Markham’s team from the room.
Thirty minutes later, I was in Dr Bairstow’s office. He pulled out a bottle and two glasses from his bottom drawer.
‘Report, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Everything’s fine sir. Adrian is still concealed in Wardrobe. He’ll sit quietly in a corner, tacking hems, just in case the TP suddenly reappear hoping to catch us out. Mikey’s surgery has been successful. The bullet has been removed and she is expected to make a full recovery. Miss Lee has been plied with alcohol and is now feeling comparatively benign, although it might be an idea to keep the Time Police away from her in future. For their own good.’
‘Any other casualties?
‘No, sir. Every officer was able to make it back to his pod unaided.’
‘I meant among St Mary’s personnel.’
‘Sir?’
He sighed. ‘I believe the History Department brought the barn down.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘You had forgotten the demolition of a substantial wooden structure that has stood on this property for some considerable time?’
‘Oh God, sir, it’s not listed, is it?’
Wrecking listed buildings leads to all sorts of trouble. Trust me.
‘Fortunately, no. That does not mean, however, that I am accepting its loss with a careless flick of my wrist and a light-hearted laugh.’
‘No, sir,’ I said, trying to imagine him doing either of those things and failing.
‘Casualties, Dr Maxwell?’
‘Quite light actually, sir’, I said, glad to be able to report good news. ‘I don’t think Mr Bashford even lost consciousness.’
‘Are you sure? I distinctly saw Miss Prentiss covered in blood and Mr Cox appeared to have an arm hanging off.’
‘Make-up, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Casualty make-up, sir. For when we have disaster practice.’
‘We have to practise having disasters?’
‘Sorry. I expressed myself badly. I should have said we have casualty make-up for when we familiarise ourselves with the correct procedures to be undertaken should we have a disaster. To add an air of realism to our simulations, sir.’
‘I congratulate you and your people on the realism of this afternoon’s disaster.’
I beamed. He’d forgotten about the barn. Crisis averted. ‘Thank you.’
‘I thought the collapsed barn was particularly realistic.’
Oh no, he hadn’t.
‘We do our best, sir.’
I looked at him. The current crisis had been resolved. No one had died. There were no bodies buried anywhere. And the barn could be rebuilt. Probably. And annoying the Time Police always put him in a good mood. There were no Deductions from Wages for Damages Incurred forms on his desk, so I took a chance.
‘Tell me, sir, when you first set up St Mary’s all those years ago – all that effort and expense – did you ever think it would be like this?’
He poured me a glass of something and pushed it across the desk.
‘Dr Maxwell, I expended a very great deal of money and effort to ensure that St Mary’s ended up exactly like this.’
I grinned and raised my glass. ‘Good job, sir.’
He inclined his head, graciously accepting his due.
‘Thank you, Dr Maxwell.’
Obviously, despite all our best efforts to distract him with chicken shit and exploding barns, the idiot Halcombe found out about Persepolis. And he wanted to be included. And then he found out about the crown and insisted on being involved in that, too. I couldn’t decide where he would do least damage and took my problems to Dr Bairstow.
‘We have to get rid of him, sir,’ I said. ‘Not just because the Persepolis jump is imminent and the crown is coming, but now we have Mikey and Adrian and that could be a problem as well. At the moment, Mikey is camouflaged among the wounded survivors of Professor Rapson’s Great Battering Ram Catastrophe, but Adrian can’t sit sewing hems in the corner of Wardrobe forever.’
‘No, indeed,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Do I understand your efforts to rid St Mary’s of this troublesome priest have proved ineffectual?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. He has a hide like a rhinoceros.’
‘Hm,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘Sir?’
‘Please do not regard this as any sort of learning experience.’
‘Sir?’
‘Come with me, Dr Maxwell.’
There was a hell of a row going on. There often was, these days. Halcombe and Clerk were standing face to face, toe to toe. Clerk was flushed and furious.
‘You ruined the Caernarfon assignment. None of us can ever go back there again. We only ever get one shot at anything and you ruined it. If you think you’re going anywhere near Persepolis then you’re gravely mistaken.’
He turned to me. ‘You put me in charge of the Alexander part of the assignment and I tell you now, Max, there is no way I’ll have this pillock anywhere near my pod. And that’s final. If he goes – I don’t. Everyone knows he turns and runs at the first sign of trouble – and that was just a small town in Wales. God only knows what damage he could do in a burning palace. I won’t have him in my pod.’
‘Nor me,’ said Atherton, surprisingly, given his usual, ‘let’s all get on together’ position. ‘The bloke’s unreliable.’
‘The bloke’s an arsehole,’ said Sykes, from her position of ‘couldn’t give a shit’. Arsehole being a technical term frequently used i
n the History Department.
Halcombe drew himself up. ‘I represent the University of Thirsk. May I remind you all that I am here at the instigation of the Senior Faculty because of St Mary’s inability to function either effectively or efficiently. Or even legally. Members of St Mary’s staff stole a valuable artefact belonging to the university, and if I had my way, many of you would be serving a substantial prison sentence.’
‘Well, that’s never going to happen, is it?’ said Clerk hotly. ‘Because you’re too busy abandoning people up and down the timeline. If you have your way there soon won’t be any of us left to put in prison.’
Swelling with pomposity, Halcombe warmed to his theme. ‘I have contacted the Chancellor to inform her that the security arrangements here at St Mary’s are in no way adequate for keeping safe such a valuable artefact as the Crown of the Empress Mathilda, and instructing her to cancel all the arrangements pertaining thereto.’
There was a torrent of protest. Shit. This was getting out of hand.
I went to intervene because sooner or later someone was going to thump the pillock, and however commendable I might find that, we’d be in serious trouble. Just as I was taking a breath to calm everyone down, Dr Bairstow put his hand on my shoulder.
‘I’ll handle this, Dr Maxwell.’
‘If you like, sir, but I should point out that the id – Mr Halcombe – really can’t be permitted either to go to Persepolis or disrupt our other plans.’
‘Of course not,’ he said calmly.
Halcombe was attempting to speak again but his efforts were drowned out by the History Department in full flow. Even North was having a go at him. In a dignified and restrained manner, of course, but I’d once seen her attack Herodotus with a wooden tray and lived in perpetual hope of a repeat performance.
She never got the chance. Dr Bairstow thumped his stick on the floor for silence and got it.