by Jodi Taylor
He turned away. ‘You know I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.’
I pretended to be stupid. ‘Had what?’
He looked at his feet. ‘You know.’
Long lines of bitterness etched themselves across his face.
‘Leon, I told you. Nothing happened.’
He turned away abruptly. ‘Not with William Hendred.’
I was bewildered. ‘What are you talking about? No – hold on – who are you talking about?’
He turned back to me. ‘Peterson.’
The unexpectedness took my breath away.
I think I’ve said before that I’m shallow. That I can only do one emotion at a time and that’s usually hunger. At that moment I was so taken aback that I don’t think I actually felt anything at all. I just stared at him. Probably my mouth was open. Once upon a time, before life had knocked me about so much, I think some sort of red mist would have enveloped me and I’d have felled him to the ground, or ripped off his head. Or something.
I didn’t do any of that. Not because I’d grown as a person or matured or anything daft like that but simply because I was too gobsmacked to move. And then there was a tiny spurt of anger. Not the familiar, red, all-encompassing destructive rage, but the cold, sharp, white, laser-focused rage that picks its target and kills quickly and cleanly.
‘What did you say?’
‘You know what I said. I said Peterson. It didn’t take the two of you very long to forget me, did it?’
Surely he didn’t mean …? He did. He meant the night Peterson plucked up his courage and asked me out, and I plucked up mine and said ‘yes’. And then it never happened. Because that was the night they told me there was a tiny chance that Leon might still be alive.
A small part of me knew this wasn’t Leon talking. This was pain and frustration and the fear of losing everything he held dear. I wanted to tell him how mistaken he was. Because he hadn’t seen Peterson in his smart jacket and with his neatly combed hair, putting aside his own feelings and trying so hard to be pleased for me.
‘I never stopped thinking of you, Leon. Not one single day – not one single hour passed when you weren’t in my thoughts. I never forgot you. You, however, appear to have forgotten that when I first came to this world, you had taken up with Isabella Barclay. Peterson and I turned to each other for comfort, but you took up with the woman who murdered me.’
His head jerked up but I swept on. ‘I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you, Leon.’
I was out of the pod, out of the paint store and into the long corridor before I even thought to draw breath.
Six steps later I stopped simmering with resentment. Six more steps and I remembered that I myself hadn’t reacted that calmly on discovering that Leon had taken up with Bitchface Barclay. In fact, I’d walloped him with a blue plastic dustpan.
Six more steps and remorse began to set in. This is my problem. I can’t hang on to the anger. It’s a bit of a nuisance actually. I mean – what’s the point of being married if you can’t harbour a grudge until the end of time, or maintain levels of red-hot resentment throughout fifty years of marriage?
The first person I ran into – literally – was Markham, who stood squarely in front of me so I couldn’t get away, took one look and said, ‘Everything all right?’
I made a huge effort to pull myself together. ‘Of course.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Could you do me a favour?’
He looked wary. He’d been caught like that in the past.
‘I’ve left Leon … near the paint store.’
He nodded his understanding.
‘Could someone just make sure he’s … OK.’
He didn’t ask a single question, saying amiably, ‘I’ll go myself,’ and disappeared down the corridor.
I went to my room and spent some time looking at myself in the mirror. I was still wearing my medieval gear. My wimple-wrapped face looked back at me. This was the face that William Hendred had seen. I smiled and whispered, ‘Requiescat in pace, William Hendred.’
I stood for a moment. Then I closed another door in my mind, changed my clothes, washed my face and hands, and wondered what to do now. I knew what I couldn’t do. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t stay in this room for the rest of my life, so I shrugged my shoulders to give me courage, stuck my chin in the air, and clattered back down the stairs again.
The second person I ran into was Markham, trotting around the gallery.
‘I found him,’ he said, in answer to my unspoken question. ‘And he’s fine. I left him with Peterson.’
I think I might have stepped back, saying, ‘What? How? You can’t … no. Wait. What?’ Before pulling myself together.
‘I left the two of them deep in some sort of discussion,’ he said sunnily and with absolutely no idea of the effect his words were having on me. ‘It looked a bit serious.’
I might have uttered some sort of dreadful oath.
‘Everything OK?’ he said with the perspicacity for which the Security Section is famed.
‘Absolutely fine,’ I said.
He caught my arm as I tried to push past him. ‘They’re all right, you know, Max,’ and I should have listened to what he was trying to tell me, but instead I shot off round the gallery.
‘They’re on the front terrace,’ he called after me.
I found an appropriate window through which I could see and not be seen and peered out. Yes, there they were, walking slowly along the terrace. Peterson was talking, with Leon, now back in his familiar orange jumpsuit, limping slowly along beside him, head bent, listening. They strolled out of sight and I galloped to the next window to pick them up again. And then on to the next and so on, all down the corridor until, eventually, I ran out of windows.
I cursed and craned my neck and then had a brilliant idea. I heaved the window up – carefully, because some of our sash windows are linear descendants of Madame Guillotine, and leaned out. I could just see them if I stood on one leg and hung precariously out of the window. They were still walking and talking, deeply involved in their conversation. I watched anxiously. Leon was making some point with short, emphatic gestures and Peterson was nodding. What was that all about?
I leaned out even further and fell out of the window.
Apparently, these days, it’s heart disease that’s the killer. And cancer, of course. And stress. Falling out of the window doesn’t do you a lot of good either, even if you only fall three feet or so onto the flat roof underneath and the window slams shut behind you, narrowly missing taking your leg off.
I sprawled, winded, on the dirty roof littered with gravel and odd bones and bird shit and thought, why me?
Dragging myself to my feet, I brushed myself down and looked around. I was on the low flat roof between the main building and the Staff Block. The window behind me had locked itself shut – of course it had. Why wouldn’t it? – and I couldn’t get back in.
There were three windows opposite me. One, I was almost certain, was Markham’s. Not that it mattered, because it was shut and locked. The other two belonged to Peterson. One was open. I could wriggle in through the window, whisk myself out of his door – no one ever locks their doors at St Mary’s – and be away down the stairs with no one any the wiser.
I heaved myself into his room, dropping heavily to the floor on the other side, but I knew he wasn’t in, so no problems there. I didn’t hang around either. I had the door open in seconds and just as I thought I’d got away with it, I heard their voices on the stairs.
Bloody bollocking hell. Does nothing ever go right? I could just imagine what Peterson would be thinking if he found me here. And I didn’t even want to think about what Leon would be thinking. For God’s sake, Maxwell – do something.
I stepped back, closed the door quietly and took a panicky look around. There was nowhere to hide. Well, there was his bedroom through the open door over there but I wasn’t going anywhere near that.
There was a bookcase with a picture o
f Helen. Nowhere there.
Under the table? Don’t be stupid.
Behind his chiller cabinet? The one with the Portable Appliance Test Failure sticker. In all of St Mary’s, only Leon’s doesn’t have one of those. He used to go around cutting the plugs off the failures in a well-intentioned effort to save everyone’s lives until he realised people were just twisting the wires back together again, covering the join in a giant wart of duct tape, keeping calm and carrying on. I know he did once attempt to remonstrate with Bashford about this but, as Sykes had pointed out, the man had replaced his girlfriend with a chicken. Electrocution was the kindest thing that could happen to him.
Concentrate, Maxwell. There was an armchair. Yes. Behind the armchair in the corner.
Their voices were very close. I heard the door handle rattle. They were coming in.
Fear lent me wings – as the saying goes. It also lent me a jetpack and super booster. I was across the room at only just under the speed of light and squeezing behind the chair as the door opened.
‘… need to get this sorted before it becomes a problem,’ Peterson was saying.
‘I quite agree,’ said Leon. ‘Prompt action, I think and …’ he stopped and there was a short pause.
I held my breath, hugging my knees and making myself as small as possible, telling myself they hadn’t seen me.
‘Anyway,’ said Peterson, in a slightly different tone of voice, ‘I’ve got the report here. I don’t have to tell you …’
‘No, indeed. I’ll take a look and let you have it back this afternoon.’
There was another pause and then Peterson said, ‘Was that …?’
‘It very much looked like it, don’t you think?’
‘Why?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, I’ll get right on this.’
‘Thank you, Leon. For your eyes only, obviously.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks. Do you fancy a spot of lunch?’
‘Why not?’
There was another strangely odd pause and then Peterson said, ‘You coming, Max?’
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God …
‘Um … no …’ I said, as casually as I could from behind the armchair. ‘I think I’ll just hang on for a bit.’
‘OK then. See you later.’
‘Yes,’ said Leon, and I could tell by his voice he was grinning. ‘See you later, Max.’
‘Mmhm,’ I said, channelling all the nonchalance I could muster.
The door closed and I heard them moving off down the corridor.
I sat, on fire with mortification, hugging my knees, eyes squeezed tight shut, and I then toppled slowly to one side and lay among the dust bunnies.
As soon as I could, I took refuge in my office, where no one would ever know what had just happened and everything was just fine until Rosie Lee returned from lunch.
‘Why are you so dusty?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re all black down one side.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Looks as if you’ve lain down in a bed of dirt. Have you lain down in a …?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said, foreseeing I was going to have to make my own tea for at least a month to shut her up.
‘Because that’s what it looks like.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’
‘Well, if was anyone else I’d agree but …’
‘I must have brushed against something,’ I said desperately.
‘Brushed? Rolled in it more like.’
‘Look, could we just …?’
‘I mean, you look as if you’ve been under someone’s bed.’
Surely there must be circumstances under which murder is legal? Or even qualifies for a small reward?
She was probably going to go on forever – or at least until I sent her home early out of sheer desperation – when Peterson stuck his head round the door. I felt myself begin to go red all over again. The only good thing about this situation was that Leon wasn’t here.
‘Can you spare a moment?’ he asked. ‘Meeting with Leon and the Boss. In his office.’
‘What, now?’
‘Why are you so dirty?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Just what I was asking,’ said Miss Lee triumphantly.
I felt myself get even hotter. I must be glowing like a dust-covered Belisha beacon.
‘Yes, Max,’ he said, leaning against the wall and grinning again. ‘What have you been up to?’
Something snapped.
‘Actually, I was hiding in Dr Peterson’s room as I do every Wednesday morning as part of a complicated and long-standing ritual, the purpose of which I have sworn never to divulge to a living soul on pain of death, so I’m going to have to kill you both now, and it’s all Peterson’s fault because if he swept his room occasionally then no one would have been any the wiser and …’
Rosie Lee returned to her desk with her ‘Now you’re just being silly’ expression.
I subsided. ‘What does Dr Bairstow want?’
‘Tell you when we get there.’
It was serious. I could tell by their expressions. This morning’s nonsense was put aside for the moment.
We sat at his briefing table. Dr Bairstow said heavily, ‘We have a problem. Our new Number Four has returned from its test jump.’ He turned to me. ‘With Mr Clerk, Miss Prentiss and Mr Cox.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Apparently, they have experienced some difficulties.’
‘In what way, sir.’
‘A disagreement arose during the assignment.’
Well, that wasn’t unusual. The collective noun for a group of historians is an argumentation. An Argumentation of Historians.
He went on. ‘A disagreement of such magnitude that blows were exchanged and Miss Prentiss and Mr Clerk have separately informed me they will leave St Mary’s rather than work together again.’
I goggled. Clerk and Prentiss had been together for years. After Peterson, then me, they were our longest-serving historians. Clerk had been on the intake behind me. In the days when we had intakes. The thought of losing either of them was frightening. Both of them leaving would be a disaster. Clerk was calm and quiet, and Prentiss’s good nature was almost legendary. I couldn’t, for one moment, even begin to contemplate an argument of such ferocity that would preclude them ever working together again.
‘And Mr Cox?’ said Peterson.
‘Will never go out with either of them.’
Leon stirred and said, ‘Do we know the cause of this disagreement?’
‘No. None of them will say.’
‘But blows were exchanged?’ I said, resolving to get down there and bang their silly heads together. ‘Who hit whom?’
‘Mr Cox punched Mr Clerk. Mr Clerk returned the blow. Miss Prentiss hit both of them.’
There was only one explanation. ‘Were they drunk?’
He hesitated. ‘According to Dr Stone, that might be a possibility.’
I inhaled sharply. We don’t drink on assignments. We don’t even drink the night before. It’s clearly understood. Yes, we carry medicinal brandy. And medicinal vodka, too. And medicinal wine. Even medicinal beer. But that’s for afterwards. After a successful assignment. Never before and never, ever, ever during.
I stood up. ‘I’ll talk to Mr Clerk and Miss Prentiss, sir.’
‘If you would, please, Dr Maxwell. Mr Markham is debriefing Mr Cox. Chief, I’d like you to run diagnostics on Number Four as quickly as possible, please.’
Leon bristled. ‘Are you saying there’s something wrong with the pod rather than the occupants?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said frankly, ‘but I think we should investigate every eventuality, don’t you? Report back here in one hour, please.’
I got nowhere with any of them. Cox was in the men’s ward, sitting on his bed, staring a
t something only he could see. I left him to Markham.
Clerk was in isolation, staring out of the window with his back to the room. I stared thoughtfully and then went off to try Prentiss.
She was curled in an armchair pretending to read a book.
‘Hey, Max.’
I didn’t bother with preliminaries. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Paula …’
‘No, I mean it, Max. I’m not saying a word. Do what you will … put me on a disciplinary … sack me … I’m not saying anything.’
‘But you must see – this must be investigated and …’
‘I’m not pressing any charges so it’s not important.’
‘Charges?’
She stopped abruptly.
‘Paula, give me something.’
She shivered but said nothing.
I waited, but there was nothing more. And it was the same for Clerk. Hostile silence and folded arms. In fact, he turned his back on me. I got nothing from either of them.
I talked to Dr Stone.
‘All their injuries are consistent with a fairly lively punch-up.’
‘Wait,’ I said, sharply. ‘All their injuries? Are you saying Cox and Clerk hit Prentiss?’
‘It would appear so, but before we jump to any unpleasant conclusions, let’s wait for the results of blood tests and so on.’
I couldn’t believe it and said so.
‘There might be many innocent explanations, Max. They might have been trying to prevent her from doing something dangerous. Or self-harming. We just don’t know.’
‘But surely an explanation like that raises more questions than it settles.’
‘It does indeed.’
‘What did the scanner say?’
‘Their readings were all over the place. Extreme agitation, elevated heart rates. As I say, I’m waiting for the test results. Not long now.’
‘Don’t let them leave Sick Bay,’ I said.
He smiled grimly. ‘Not a chance.’
I reported my lack of success to Dr Bairstow. ‘None of them will say a word, sir. And there’s no chance of any written reports.’