And she knew, too, she wouldn’t stop anyone vandalising the painting. She knew, because she had seen the portrait slashed in the future.
‘It’s eleven twenty,’ Tartan said. ‘We’re going to arrive in ten minutes. Shall we get back in the time machine?’
‘That’s not what we agreed. The vandal must be on their way.’ Square Jaw nodded at Odette. ‘She’s going to intercept them.’
‘Is there any point?’ Tartan asked.
Square Jaw’s lips parted in surprise. ‘Yes! We need to do everything we can to change the course of history.’
‘We can’t. I’ve thought this all along. If we did, it would be paradoxical.’ Tartan turned to Odette. ‘What do you think?’
‘We were asked how time travel can prevent crime,’ Odette mused. ‘I think we can provide an interesting answer even if we fail to stop the vandal.’
‘So let’s get back in the time machine!’ Tartan said.
‘I’m not going to fail at this task just because you two give up early,’ Square Jaw said. ‘I’ll intercept.’
Odette raised a hand. ‘You’re being rash. I didn’t say I wouldn’t try. As it happens, I want to ask the vandal a question.’
So Tartan and Square Jaw went one way – back to the hall of time machines – and Odette found a shady alcove in the corridor from which to spy. She saw a woman approach: Grace Taylor. Odette recognised her from the television. She wore a gold breastplate. A roundel of reflected light shone at her shoulder.
‘Dr Taylor,’ Odette called softly.
The time traveller stopped, and peered into the alcove. Odette moved out of the shadows.
‘I’m one of the candidates,’ she said. ‘From the… near future. Very near.’
‘I see,’ Dr Taylor said. ‘Can I help?’
‘I wanted to know something. The picture you’re about to vandalise – you chose that one for a reason, didn’t you? I took the plaque as evidence. You took pleasure in painting someone you hated, just to destroy it.’
‘How dramatic.’ Dr Taylor checked her watch. ‘I prefer to say I was making an artistic statement. Was there anything else?’
‘Is that a standard exercise for Conclave applicants?’
‘Yes – when they want to be investigators.’
‘How many people have done this exercise before?’
‘This exercise exactly? None. But around seventy applicants have endured a variation of it. Sometimes the crime’s a theft, once it was arson.’
‘Has anyone ever changed the outcome?’
‘Not yet.’ Dr Taylor paused. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I must be—’
A round, rubber ball struck Dr Taylor in the eye. Her hands leapt to her face.
‘Fucking Nora!’ she exclaimed.
At the end of the corridor stood Square Jaw, catapult in hand.
‘She’s about to leave,’ he called to Odette. ‘Pull the knife!’
Odette glanced down at her pocket. But Dr Taylor saw the direction of her gaze; she ripped Odette’s pocket from the jacket, and the knife fell to the floor.
Dr Taylor picked it up, and shook her head. ‘I’ll take that. You two have delayed me quite enough.’
Odette couldn’t bring herself to speak to Square Jaw. By assaulting a senior time traveller, he had surely ruined his own chances of a job offer, and had possibly jeopardised Odette’s opportunity too. She hoped Dr Taylor would distinguish between their actions. They walked back to the time machine in silence; Tartan had already departed without them.
28
FEBRUARY 1983
Margaret and Veronica
Since 1969, Margaret had followed Angharad’s recommendations for recruitment. Only people with a clean bill of mental health, as demonstrated by their medical notes, were recruited as time travellers; and among new recruits, hazing rituals were commonplace. But Angharad’s final recommendation – to issue ultimatums to employees with death anxiety – didn’t have to be implemented until 1983. That year one particular employee was struggling, and failing, to manage her poor mental health. Her name was Veronica Collins; she was an interpreter, who was aged twenty-eight when her symptoms came to the attention of the Conclave’s clinical psychologist, Dr Siobhan Joyce. Margaret’s reaction would give Veronica a clear motive for subsequently placing Margaret’s life at risk.
Dr Joyce picked up on Veronica’s problems during a routine mental health check. She immediately telephoned Margaret to say she was bringing Veronica to see her. On arrival, Veronica’s first comment surprised Margaret.
‘I’m so grateful you’re finding out in 1982,’ Veronica said. ‘It would have been dreadful, later in the century.’
‘In what way?’ Margaret asked.
‘The silver Margarets are utter bitches. You’re easier to talk to.’
‘I see,’ Margaret said. There was a tendency, among time travellers, to treat green and silver selves as separate people, but it was still a faux pas to criticise one to the other. Veronica’s comment did not place her on a good footing.
To Siobhan, Margaret said, ‘Would you care to outline the problem?’
‘Veronica’s using time travel in some troubling ways,’ Siobhan said. ‘Mainly to assuage anxiety. According to her psychometric results today, she meets the criteria for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.’
In 1983, OCD was not a term in layman’s usage, but Margaret had heard it used by travellers from the near future.
‘Hand-washing?’ she said. ‘Checking the door is locked, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Siobhan cautiously. ‘But there’s more to it than that. A person with OCD usually feels an excess of responsibility. All of us experience passing worries about whether we turned the oven off, but the person with OCD might imagine a disastrous gas explosion, involving fatalities, injuries, or loss of home, for which she is solely culpable. Checking provides relief from anxiety, but the relief wears off, so the person checks again, then again, eventually developing a ritual even if she’s aware her behaviour is illogical.’
Extraordinary, Margaret thought. How glad she was not to have that weakness of mind. ‘And this is true for Veronica?’
‘In her case, she repeatedly worries that she’s killed a person during one of her time travel trips and somehow forgotten her involvement.’
‘I’m frightened that I’ve killed my grandchild,’ Veronica added. ‘I’m twenty-eight, for Pete’s sake.’
‘She keeps returning to his gravestone for reassurance,’ Siobhan said. ‘The epigram says he died peacefully of old age.’
‘How many times have you returned?’ Margaret asked.
‘Hundreds. Thousands.’
The scale of Veronica’s problem, then, was significant. Her mental weakness could jeopardise the Conclave, as Barbara’s had done, if Margaret didn’t strictly manage Veronica’s decisions from here. That would be achieved more easily if they spoke to each other alone.
‘Thank you, Dr Joyce, for diagnosing Veronica,’ Margaret said. ‘But I’ll take things from here. Please don’t let us keep you from your duties.’
Siobhan straightened in surprise. ‘If that’s what you think best.’
She left. Veronica searched for a tissue.
Margaret adopted what she hoped was a benevolent tone. ‘My dear, have you told any family members about your difficulties? Any friends?’
‘No, I… I didn’t think they’d understand.’
‘Good. Your instincts, I think, are correct. People don’t understand. They propagate unfortunate stereotypes of time travellers and sadly this… disorder… would give them further ammunition.’ Against the Conclave, as much as Veronica, Margaret silently added. ‘But you still have options, and I will support whichever you decide upon.’
Veronica nodded uncertainly.
‘Two paths are available to you,’ Margaret said. ‘First, you may remove the source of your anxiety by leaving your position at the Conclave. I will ensure you receive a good reference and severance package, provided yo
u sign a non-disclosure agreement. It is essential that you remain silent on the reasons for your departure.’
‘And the other path?’
‘You stay. You tell no one of your distress. You undertake desk work, without access to the time machines, until your disorder improves. And you commit to a programme of reconditioning, which I’ll oversee.’
‘Re-what?’ Veronica asked.
‘Conditioning. The focus of your distress, Veronica, is the death of a loved one. I propose we neutralise your responses to the certainty we all must die.’ Veronica should be familiar with hazing. Whenever wenches joined the Conclave, there was a degree of rough and tumble. But clearly the hazing had been insufficient in Veronica’s case; it would have to be escalated, till she adjusted to Conclave life as the other time travellers had done.
‘Neutralise my responses…’ Veronica whispered. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Through a series of games. That doesn’t sound so bad, now, does it?’
‘I suppose not. Can I please have some time to decide?’
‘You have until the end of the day. The sooner we know your next steps, the sooner you can start the next stage of your life.’
*
Veronica struggled to accept that the options Margaret presented were the only ones available. Could it be true that her only options were to leave – against her own desire for a career at the Conclave – or have her feelings neutralised? The word was so sinister. Why could she not retain her position and seek an independent medical opinion? Surely the law offered some protection? To understand this point better, Veronica visited the Conclave’s legal department.
A woman named Fay, who had a drooping pompadour of ginger and grey hair, was at the duty desk. Family photographs were crowded round her telephone. Her matronly air appeased Veronica.
‘I’d like to speak to an expert in employment law,’ Veronica said.
‘We don’t have any employment law,’ Fay said.
‘I don’t follow. England has lots of employment law.’
‘Take a seat. I can see I need to explain a few things.’
Veronica obeyed.
‘Policing people who can move between periods with different laws is complex,’ Fay said. ‘So the Conclave has its own governing body, and legislation, to regulate the conduct of time travellers. This constant, stable legislation takes precedence over the relatively changeable English and Welsh law.’
‘But I’m English,’ Veronica said. ‘And we are in England.’
‘No, love. You’re in the Conclave. Think of us as an embassy – a little part of another country, right in the middle of London. And here, workers have no legal protections.’
If Veronica wanted to stay, she really did have to play by the Conclave’s rules.
Fay was looking at her with open curiosity.
‘If it makes you feel better, England’s employment law isn’t great in 1982. Margaret’s trying to fire you, I take it?’ she said.
‘Not exactly, no.’
Fay rolled her eyes, apparently unconvinced. ‘Can I give you some advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Margaret’s a risky woman to tangle with. Leave willingly. You’re still really young. Take it from me – if you could stay, you’d only get callous.’
‘I know you mean well,’ Veronica said, ‘but I’d never leave the Conclave if I didn’t have to.’
She didn’t wait till the end of the day to let Margaret know. The decision was plain, once she realised there really was no third option. If the only way to stay was to play Margaret’s games, then that was what she would do.
29
AUGUST 2017
Ruby and Barbara
After the ambulance had gone, Ruby was at a loose end because her train ticket wouldn’t be valid until six in the evening. She idled her way through the civic quarter, and sat among the statues for a while, but decided to move on after the sixth charity rep approached for a donation.
Down one of the side streets she came upon an old cinema with bevelled windows. The cinema was called The Futurist, which made Ruby smile wryly. They had only one screen, which was showing Barry Lyndon. The woman in the ticket booth explained that the matinee had begun, and if Ruby bought a ticket now she’d be joining midway through the story. She’d seen the film before so it didn’t bother her too much to miss the start. The chief appeal was being able to kill time undisturbed for a couple of hours.
She paid up and entered the auditorium. No one else was there. She settled into a cracked leather seat and promptly fell asleep. The previous night’s restlessness, and the events of the morning, were to blame. She slept through the film’s first act and woke, in some confusion, to a door banging shut. A second audience member had entered. Although the auditorium was dim, Ruby made out a woman’s silhouette. The woman walked with purpose up the steps and into Ruby’s row, and sat right next to her.
Grace. Young Grace in a purple paisley dress. Her eyes were winged with black eyeshadow, Cleopatra style.
‘Hello again,’ Ruby said. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you today.’
‘I knew you’d be here,’ Grace said.
‘Are you saying time travellers track my whereabouts?’
‘Not all the time. But your location today is important.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it relates to my death. You were there, in the cellar, when I had a brain haemorrhage.’ Grace spoke smoothly, as though relaying information she’d read many times. ‘I’ll survive hospital admission but I’ll never regain consciousness. The Conclave will return me to my home timeline and I’ll die there. In 2027.’
Ruby exhaled. Her first feeling was shame, for being flippant about Grace’s condition – in her thoughts, if not comments. Had Ruby been flippant in her comments, back at the hotel? Maybe she’d betrayed her attitude.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, unsure how to express condolences to someone on their own death.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Grace gave a little shrug and shake of the head.
The coolness of her reaction was perplexing. Ruby was about to ask her if she was really all right, but Grace spoke first.
‘You don’t look how I imagined you,’ she said. Presumably she hadn’t met Ruby before – which would make her younger than the shoplifting Grace at Tate Modern.
‘I hope you’re not disappointed,’ Ruby said.
‘Oh, you.’ Grace’s cheek dimpled. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’
They were silent for a moment.
‘You were expecting a conversation,’ Grace said. ‘If you like you can ask me your questions. That seems fair.’
‘Thank you.’ Ruby’s expectations remained low. Grace had been too mysterious, too often.
‘What do you want to ask?’ Grace said.
Might as well go for the big guns. Ruby had nothing to lose.
‘The inquest, next February. Is it for Barbara?’
‘Good God, no. It’s for Margaret.’
‘Margaret? Margaret Norton?’ Ruby had been so sure Grace would skirt the issue, it startled her to get a clear answer.
‘That’s right. Listen, is this going to be a long chat?’
‘Are you in a rush?’
‘No.’ Grace smiled. ‘But there’s a bar around the corner with forty-four varieties of gin.’
*
Barbara had never visited the Conclave headquarters before. High arches of glass and granite spanned the foyer. With Breno at her feet, Barbara asked the uniformed man at the information desk if she could see Margaret Norton.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the receptionist asked.
‘No. But she’ll want to hear what I have to say.’
‘I’m afraid you need to have an appointment. Her diary is booked up so far in advance—’
‘Let me talk to Margaret’s secretary.’
‘Madam—’
‘Just her secretary! I’m sure she’ll do an excellent job of sending me packing.
What harm can it do?’
‘All right, but if I allow that, you must accept it when Dr Norton declines to see you. I’d rather our guards didn’t escort you from the building against your consent.’
‘If she won’t see me, I’ll go as meekly as a lamb.’
Barbara was directed to the fourth floor. From the lift Barbara ventured down a long corridor, her feet sinking into a thick honey-coloured carpet. The secretary was standing at a filing cabinet.
Predictably, he said Barbara couldn’t speak to Margaret without an appointment.
‘Her next availability is in six weeks,’ the secretary added.
‘That’s too long,’ Barbara said. ‘Please give her my name – Barbara Hereford. I wish to discuss strategies for recycling fuel.’
The secretary raised his eyebrows in recognition of the name, but replied, ‘She can’t be disturbed.’
‘Very well,’ Barbara said. ‘In that case I’ll be leaving. I spoke to a journalist only this afternoon; I’m sure I can ring him back and explain that Margaret is happy to waste taxpayers’ money.’
The secretary breathed a heavy sigh, pushed the drawer back into the filing cabinet, and slipped through an oak door. Low voices travelled through the wood. A moment later the secretary returned.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he said.
Barbara let Breno run ahead of her, into Margaret’s circular office. He waited by the captain’s chair, wagging his tail, until she caught up with him and sat down.
Margaret watched from behind her desk, one eyebrow raised. It was many decades since they’d seen each other in person, and Bee observed that Margaret’s style was unchanged. She still had the same smooth immovable hair and a discreetly expensive blazer. But her face, always haughty, had settled with age into a sneer.
‘Hello, Bee,’ she said. ‘What’s all this about journalists?’
‘That was to get me through the door. I knew if I rang or wrote you’d ignore me.’
‘Bee, of course I’ve ignored you. I couldn’t tell you anything you wanted to hear. You would never accept that I had to cut you off.’
‘I was perfectly aware that I’d been ousted, thank you. I’m not an idiot.’
The Psychology of Time Travel Page 13