by Jodi Taylor
‘Not as many as die around Ronan.’
‘Because you betrayed him. He was the one who wanted to end it all. We wanted to be together. We would have been and …’
I spoke quietly to get her attention. ‘Is that what he told you?’
She stopped suddenly, panting with emotion. ‘What did you say?’
‘Did he never tell you about Isabella Barclay?’
‘What about her?’
I pretended to hesitate. ‘Well, if he hasn’t told you then it’s probably better if I say nothing. He’ll tell you if he wants you to know.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I swear I’m not. Look, obviously I don’t want to say too much if he hasn’t mentioned her …’ I am never going to heaven ‘… but you should definitely ask him about Izzie Barclay.’
‘Why, what happened to her?’
‘She died, too. They all die in the end.’
She was struggling to get to her feet. I had no means of stopping her and I certainly wasn’t going to within touching distance. Every second I had her attention was a second nearer her recapture.
‘This is not the same at all. We want to be together. That’s all we ever wanted. He came to you. He trusted you. I told him. Over and over, I told him not to. And I was right. He should have listened to me. You betrayed him.’
She was on her feet now and we were screaming at each other but even over the noise we were making I heard it. I heard the door open behind me and realised what she’d been doing. She’d been doing the same as me. We’d been keeping each other occupied until reinforcements arrived.
And now, of course, the question was, who had opened the door? Who was standing behind me?
I turned slowly, confident it would be Markham.
It wasn’t Markham.
Bollocks.
He pushed the door closed with his foot, wedged it shut, and started to edge across the roof. It gave me a shock to see half-healed scratch-marks all down one side of his face. I’d done that. At Persepolis. Only a week or so ago. And now that I looked more carefully, his wrist was bandaged, too.
My one thought was that I could do nothing about Ronan but I could and would prevent Dottle escaping. She was obviously privy to his plans and the Time Police would make her talk. If they couldn’t then I was prepared to have a go myself.
The same thought had obviously occurred to him. He pointed his gun at her.
‘Sorry, Lisa.’
She was backing away. We both were. Because that makes such a difference when confronted by a maniac with a high-powered weapon probably capable of disabling an aircraft carrier.
‘Clive? What are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry, Lisa. As they say – it was good while it lasted.’ He was striding across the roof, gun pointed towards both of us, heading towards his pod, presumably. He was going to get away. Where were Markham and the security team? I could hear shouts and footsteps pounding on the stairs. They’d be here in seconds.
But he’d be gone in seconds.
He stood in a patch of empty roof and said, ‘Door.’
The door opened.
She screamed. ‘Wait for me. What are you doing?’
‘Can’t afford to hang about. See you around sometime.’
‘You can’t leave me here.’
‘You underestimate me, my dear, of course I can.’
Her voice was that of a little girl. A bewildered little girl. ‘But … why?’
He paused in the door, turned and smiled. A nice smile. Not his usual sneer, or a mad grimace, or an unpleasant smirk, but a pleasant smile, warm and friendly. ‘Because, my dear, you’re not Annie.’
He raised the gun and fired at her.
I heard the shot.
The impact knocked her back hard into me. I staggered against the low parapet which caught me mid-thigh. I flailed wildly for a moment, but her hands were tied, she could do nothing to save herself and her weight carried us both over the edge.
The last thing I saw was Markham bursting out onto the roof.
Too bloody late now …
They say your life flashes in front of your eyes. Or is that only when drowning? I never know, although I’m sure I’ll find out one day. Anyway, I can categorically state that my life did not flash in front of my eyes. It didn’t have time. There was only just enough time for me to think, I’m falli – when I wasn’t. I was crashing through a tree. My world was suddenly full of the smell of conifer.
Fortunately, my body is a great deal better at self-preservation than my brain, which is generally left to fend for itself on occasions like this. I instinctively clutched at things – branches, I assume. I got a broken finger for my trouble, but the tree was soft and whippy and it slowed my fall to some extent. Most importantly, it turned me around so, as I slithered downwards, I could land more or less on my feet.
I broke both my ankles.
I fell forwards and broke my collarbone.
I lay quietly for a while, thinking of Actium, sideways and bracelets.
It took me a minute to get myself together again. I kept thinking, bloody hell, I’ve fallen off the roof. I’ve actually fallen off the roof. A large piece of yellowy-green conifer lay beside me. Squinting up at the tree, I could see I’d torn away a huge piece as I fell. I could see the scar where it had ripped away. Mr Strong would not be pleased with me.
The rest of the tree seemed to be occupied by Miss Dottle who hung, motionless, head downwards, not looking that healthy.
I thought I saw someone leaning over the parapet. They were silhouetted against the sky and it could have been anyone. I heard a far-off voice shouting, ‘Medical emergency,’ and wondered who was hurt.
It was rather nice, just lying here. I found the smell of conifer to be pleasantly soothing. I seemed to have landed in some sort of flower bed. I was betting there were any number of plants and bushes crushed beneath me and I was grateful to every one of them.
There was something important I had to do and I really should get up and deal with it. Or – a much better option – I could leave it to someone else to sort out. My conifer branch and I would just lie here … in the sun … not doing anything very much … I closed my eyes.
And opened them again to find Dr Bairstow kneeling beside me and carefully crossing my arms over my chest.
I couldn’t let that go. ‘A bit premature, sir, surely.’
‘Alas – the pitfalls of wishful thinking.’ He paused. ‘I think you may have a broken bone here, Max.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘At the moment, I have no idea. There was a great deal of gunfire but traditionally you appear to be the only casualty.’
‘But the security team?’ I was too dazed to remember their names. ‘How are they?’
‘Armoured’, he said shortly. ‘Their pain is not sufficient to prevent enough bad language to curdle milk.’
‘There’s another casualty, sir.’ I nodded over his shoulder to the tree-borne Miss Dottle.
‘Ah. Do we know her status?’
‘He shot her and she fell of the roof, sir, so utilising my wide-ranging medical expertise, I’d say she hasn’t survived.’
‘I hesitate to contradict your wide-ranging expertise, Dr Maxwell, but I feel I should point out that if you did then so could she.’
‘But I haven’t been shot, sir.’
He raised an eyebrow and I squinted down. My shoulder was stained with blood. Mine. And I should know. I’ve seen it often enough.
‘Bloody bollocking hell,’ I said, mildly aggrieved. ‘The bullet went straight through her and into me.’
Markham turned up, shouting over his shoulder, ‘I’ve found her.’ He holstered his gun. ‘Max?’
I said good afternoon, because now he’s head of the Security Section the power has gone to his head and he insists on standards being maintained.
‘Wotcha,’ he said, and I decided I was too injured to cope.
‘What’s the damage?’ h
e said, crouching beside me.
‘I think I may have broken a finger.’
‘I’ll say. And you have one foot pointing in a refreshingly original direction and the other pointing backwards.’
‘What?’ I tried to sit up and hurt my arm.
‘And your arm as well. All minor injuries.’
I found his casually dismissive tone quite irritating. ‘I fell off the bloody roof, you know.’
He shrugged. ‘Been there. Done that.’
‘And I’ve been shot.’
‘Boring. I get shot all the time.’
I closed my eyes. ‘I can see why.’
He stood up and began to circle the tree, gun in hand, just in case.
‘She’s dead,’ I said helpfully.
‘She certainly is. She looks well and truly wedged to me. God knows how we’re going to get her down.’
I closed my eyes again. ‘I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.’
‘We can’t just leave her up there.’
I didn’t see why not. ‘I don’t see why not. I’m sure Professor Rapson would relish the opportunity to investigate an authentic sky burial.’
‘Well, for a start, we’ll have every vulture in Rushfordshire circling overhead.’
‘There are no vultures in Rushford.’
Dr Bairstow climbed awkwardly to his feet. ‘Dr Maxwell has obviously never had dealings with the Parish Council.’
A thunder of boots announced the arrival of miscellaneous groups of St Mary’s and Time Police, some more mobile than others, but all determined not to be excluded from anything that might be happening. I was in grave danger of being trampled. Dr Stone, following on behind, took one look at me and pulled up short. ‘You again.’
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘For God’s sake, I only discharged you an hour ago. We haven’t even changed the sheets yet. Is it too much to expect even a morning to go by without a member of the Farrell family occupying one of my beds?’
Dr Bairstow intervened. ‘Ah, Dr Stone, I wonder if we could have your professional opinion here, please.’
Dr Stone looked up and squinted in the approved medical manner. ‘Dead.’
Dr Bairstow sighed. ‘Not that one. This one.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ He bent over me.
Dr Bairstow hadn’t finished. ‘Mr Markham, I would be grateful if you could arrange for the body to be removed.’
‘At once, sir. Mr Evans, remove the body.’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Cox …’
‘What? How?’
‘I don’t know. Ropes?’
‘What do you mean, ropes?’
‘Lower the body down.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to lift it back up to the roof?’
‘Or across and through the window. Whose window is that?’
‘Professor Rapson’s.’
Dr Bairstow frowned. ‘Under no circumstances …’
‘No indeed, sir.’
I closed my eyes. One of the advantages of being a shattered wreck is that no one expects you to get the body out of the tree. I lay quietly and listened to the war of words going on over my head. Promising to be as much trouble in death as she had been in life, Miss Dottle appeared to be well and truly wedged. I had no idea how they were going to get her down and neither, it seemed, did anyone else.
So, to sum up. There was good. Leon was safe. Matthew would be arriving in a few days. Peterson was … after Dottle, I wasn’t sure what Peterson would be, but no one was dead. Apart from Dottle, of course.
The bad, of course, was very bad indeed. Ronan had escaped. Worse – he might have been on our roof for weeks. Months even. That was going to take some explaining and now he was back in the game. What sort of condition was he in? He’d looked fine to me. And, most importantly, where would he go next?
I heard Captain Ellis again. ‘A good hunter works out where his prey will be, goes there and waits.’
I lay on my back, half listening to the turmoil around me and half thinking about other things. One thing seemed very clear – the Time Police, Leon, Guthrie – they’d all had a go at capturing Ronan and got precisely nowhere. We – they – were doing it all wrong. A new approach was required. Away to my left, someone was shouting for an axe – whether to dismember the tree or the late Miss Dottle was unclear, but obviously a drastic solution was called for.
Yes, it was, wasn’t it? A drastic solution was definitely called for. A couple of neurons blinked in the daylight and got to work. I can only assume my fall had jolted something loose because I’d just had a brilliant idea. A truly, truly, incandescently brilliant idea.
I thought a little bit more and came to a decision. I didn’t know what Dr Bairstow would say about it. Or Leon. Or the Time Police. It seemed safe to assume that no one was going to be happy, but enough was enough. They’d all tried and failed.
Now it was my turn.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Tina Rowles of Gloucester Libraries Enquiry Service who provided information on Alexander and Persepolis.
Thanks to Scott who so patiently answered all my questions on denial of service attacks and never allowed the fact that I didn’t understand a word he said to put him off.
Thanks to Dr Webster of Longlevens Surgery who took the time and trouble to answer all my questions about sewing people’s legs back on again.
Thanks to Accent Press and everyone there.
Thanks to Rebecca, my long-suffering editor.
Thanks to Karen and everyone else who assisted with the medieval English.
Thanks to Kieran Bates of the Coach and Horses who generously allowed me to use the name, The Cider Tree, for the inn at Rushford.
All these people did their best for me, but I’m certain I’ve managed to get most of it wrong somehow. Sorry, guys.