by Jodi Taylor
‘And I’m her…’ he stopped. ‘At least I thought I was.’
‘I think you still are,’ I said quickly. ‘Her main fear was that you would find out.’
‘In which capacity, he said bitterly. ‘Head of Security or…’ he stopped again.
‘As Ian Guthrie,’ I said gently.
He locked the gun away, taking his time about it. When he turned back, his face was perfectly normal, if a little grim.
He said, ‘Max…’
‘She can’t stay here at St Mary’s, Ian. It would be cruel to try and make her.’
‘I know,’ he said, heavily. He smiled bitterly. ‘I think I had hoped for something of what you and Leon have but it doesn’t look as if this particular story will have a happy ending.’
He straightened his shoulders. ‘It looks as if we might have some decisions to make, doesn’t it?’
‘Something for you both to think about,’ I said, ‘but have Christmas first. New year – new beginnings.’
He nodded. ‘Sound advice. And from an historian. Who’d have thought?’
I grinned at him. ‘You already know what you’re going to do, don’t you?’
‘I do, yes.’ His rare smile lit up his face. ‘You know what?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I think I shall miss you most of all, Scarecrow.’
Right, that was settled for the time being. Only several more problems to go.
‘Very Christmassy,’ said Helen, staring at our red noses. The standard of wit in Sick Bay is not high but this probably wasn’t a good time to mention that.
She indicated Markham. ‘What have you done to him this time?’
Silently, Peterson handed over the can.
She took it, read the label, and rolled her eyes.
‘How long’s he been like this?’
‘Only today, really,’ said Peterson. ‘And we dunked him in the Nile as soon as we discovered what we’d … what had happened. So he’s nice and clean, at least.’
‘Just to be clear, you’ve added immersion in a parasite-riddled, leech-infested open sewer to his original symptoms?’
Put like that, it didn’t sound good.
She glared impartially at the two of us. ‘Two days’ observation for both of you. Don’t even think of trying to get out of it.’
We watched her wheel away a still chattering Markham, presumably to have his symptoms alleviated but you never knew with her.
‘She’s pleased to see me,’ confided Peterson.
‘How on earth can you tell?’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘Will you be telling her I was the one who poisoned Markham?’
‘Not unless she turns ugly for some reason and I have to save myself.’
‘You’re a true friend, Tim.’
Grey, Bashford, Gallaccio, and Cox were waiting for me.
‘We’ve warmed the bed for you,’ said Bashford.
Grey said nothing, staring anxiously at me.
I put her out of her misery. ‘It’s OK. Problem solved. Gun recovered and returned.’
The collective sigh of relief nearly blew me off my feet.
‘Thank you,’ said Grey. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘What happens now?’ said Bashford.
‘I’ll go and see Dr Bairstow as soon as I can,’ she said.
‘I’d have a word with Major Guthrie first,’ I said.
She paled. ‘How much trouble am I in?’
‘Not anything like as much as me, so stop worrying.’
‘Max…’
I remembered I was supposed to be head of the History Department and drew myself up. I’d like to think I loomed. I certainly gave looming my best shot.
‘Listen to me, you lot. It’s all sorted now, but if any of you ever, ever do anything like this again, I will kill you all. One by one. Slowly. And painfully. And I will get away with it because there are thousands of years of History out there, and I know exactly where to bury the bodies. And what to say to Dr Bairstow afterwards. Now, go away and give me a moment’s peace, please.’
They clattered out, leaving me alone in the ward. I was too strung up to get into bed, so I showered, washed the dust of Egypt out of my hair, put some cream on my nose, and sat in the window seat, looking out over the white gardens. Dusk was falling and the uncurtained windows were making pretty patterns of light on the snow. Someone had built an enormous snowman on the South Lawn. I’m almost certain the carrot is supposed to go on the face.
In the distance, I could see Atherton and Sykes trudging off through the snow. God knows what they were up to, but if it was anything illegal someone would be in to complain about it soon enough.
I heard the door open and close. Silence. I knew it was Leon. I sighed and struggled to marshal the words to explain what I’d done. How important it had been to get the gun back. How the fact that I’d given away my wedding ring didn’t mean I didn’t value it.
He came to sit opposite me in the window seat. ‘Move your knees.’
I moved my knees and we sat together.
He picked up my hand and looked at the white line on my finger. ‘Did you lose it?’
I shook my head. ‘Worse. I gave it away.’
‘Well,’ he said comfortably, ‘I expect it was for a good reason.’
I nodded. ‘It was, but that doesn’t mean I was happy to do it.’
‘Why not? I thought to an historian, the preservation of the timeline was paramount.’
‘It is, but these days I have other priorities as well.’
‘Such as?’
‘You. The two of us. Soon to be the three of us. I want you to know I didn’t let it go lightly. I’m not sure how much I can say at the moment. How much I should say. I need to talk to Dr Bairstow, but I’m sorry Leon. I am really sorry.’
To my amazement, I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
He squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying. Pregnancy makes my eyes run.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I had stupidly forgotten that. Mention it to Dr Foster at your next ante-natal session.’
I sniffed, appreciating his efforts to comfort me. ‘I haven’t got over the last one yet. Helen and I watched a short film about childbirth and it was so gruesome we had to turn it off. She had a stiff drink, I had a cup of tea, and we swore we’d never have sex again.’
‘You’ve had sex with Helen Foster?’
I managed a chuckle. ‘Not recently.’
‘That’s better. Aren’t you going to open your Christmas present?’
‘I have a Christmas present?’
‘An early one.’ He grubbed around in his pocket, pulling out a huge red and gold striped rugby sock, which he dangled in front of me.
‘Thank you, I said, wondering why, out of the two of us, I was always the one who was reckoned to be slightly odd. ‘Am I supposed to wear it?’
‘It’s your Christmas stocking.’
‘It’s an old rugby sock.’
‘Not today it isn’t. Here. Merry Christmas. Sorry I didn’t have time for tangerines or nuts.’
I took the sock. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I regarded the sock.
‘Get a move on,’ he said, grinning.
‘What?’
‘Open your present.’
The sock wasn’t as empty as I thought. There was something in the toe. I rummaged around, pulling out a small box, which, according to the picture on the front, should be full of paperclips. If he’d been an historian, I would have suspected a surfeit of Christmas punch. Or possible concussion.
‘Well, go on. Open it.’
‘Now?’
‘I don’t think there will ever be a better time. I’m sorry it’s not wrapped, but I didn’t think you’d mind.’
I opened the box carefully and stared.
‘Well? Don’t you like it?’
Nestling on a bed of cotton wool was a wedding ring. My we
dding ring.
I’m not often stuck for words but on this occasion, I just sat and stared, too afraid even to reach out and take it. Eventually, I dragged my eyes away to his face.
‘How did you know?’
‘Because I’m the dog’s bollocks,’ he said modestly. ‘Observing the big white mark on your finger, your guilty expression, and remembering Bashford and Grey’s recent jump, I leaped, gazelle-like, to the correct conclusion. Easy for a man of my talents.’
‘You mean you checked your pod logs.’
‘And that as well.’
‘You went back for it?’
‘I did. I simply retraced your jump and followed you following them. I made your stallholder an offer he couldn’t refuse and retrieved your ring.’
Wild thoughts ran through my mind. What had he done? Had we substituted the problem of the gun for something even worse? What had we left behind now?
‘Oh my God. Leon, what did you offer him?’
He smirked. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper.’
The afternoon began to take on a slightly surreal quality. ‘What?’
He repeated it patiently. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper. You know – “Property of St Mary’s” stamped on each sheet. Although God knows why. It’s not as if anyone has ever queried ownership. Either before or after use. I don’t know why on earth you didn’t think of it. A clear demonstration of the superiority of the technical mind I think even you must admit. Anyway, he was delighted. When I left, he was pulling off the individual sheets, one by one, to the huge admiration of those around him.’
Toilet rolls – enough of a novelty to be valuable and attractive and very biodegradable.
‘Leon, you are…’ I stopped, unable to go on.
‘Yes? Don’t stop there.’
I shook my head.
‘You’re not going to cry again, are you?’
I shook my head.
‘Give me your hand.’
I stretched out my hand.
He slid it on to my finger. ‘Max, I give you this ring – again – because I love you. You are all the world to me and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.’
‘Leon, I take this ring – again – because I love you and…’
I couldn’t go on. More pregnancy tears.
He cleared his own throat, dropped a kiss in my hair, and put his arm around me.
I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad. Dr Bairstow would frown at me but I’d survive that. Elspeth Grey and Ian Guthrie would work something out. With luck, Helen would never know it was me who had inadvertently poisoned Markham.
And it was Christmas. It was snowing. St Mary’s smelled of good food. All my historians were home safe and sound, and I was here with Leon.
Sometimes – every now and then – there are moments of stillness. When nothing moves. When there is a sudden realisation of absolute happiness. A small, still moment to be remembered and cherished.
I burrowed deeper into his arms, enjoying his solid warmth. ‘So, apart from all that, how was your day?’
‘Well, someone hooked up the security monitors to every set of fairy lights in the northern hemisphere and rigged the whole lot to blow the main fuse and set off the fire alarms…’
I tutted at such misbehaviour.
‘Someone else shoved half a ton of wet linen into a locker in my pod and it stinks to high heaven.’
I chirped sympathetically.
‘My pod is filthy and reeks of people who haven’t showered for a very long time.’
I indicated my astonishment.
‘And some bugger’s pinched my last can of WD40, but other than that…’
THE VERY FIRST
DAMNED THING
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I had such a strong urge to write this story. Phrases and images kept popping into my mind as I was trying to concentrate on whichever book I was writing at the time. In the end, it seemed easiest just to give in and get on with it. So I did.
Apart from the research I had to do for Waterloo – a nod in the direction of the anniversary, though I didn’t want to make too big a thing of it because nearly everyone in the country could make a better job of it than me – it was one of the easiest stories I’ve ever written. Words just flowed. I could see everyone’s backstory very clearly.
It wasn’t supposed to be so long, but there were so many characters with such interesting stories to tell. I particularly enjoyed Markham stealing the furniture, Professor Rapson’s flies and the young lady from SPOHB.
I also wanted to say more about the Battersea Barricades, the civil unrest and all the other bits and pieces I’d alluded to throughout the books, together with Dr Bairstow’s struggle to get the show up and running. I’d like to say more about Mrs Mack and maybe Mrs Enderby as well – perhaps that’s for future stories.
Of course, the star of the show is Dr Bairstow and most of it is seen through his eyes. And it was while I was writing this story that I had an idea about a future Mrs Green … Yes, that could be interesting…
THE VERY FIRST
DAMNED THING
One of the most important events in the history of mankind – after the discovery of fire, the development of the wheel, and the invention of chocolate, of course – occurred in London on an overcast chilly rainy afternoon, and it is entirely typical that it should have been witnessed only by two bedraggled pigeons and a scrawny cat.
The cat, slinking his way across that almost unheard of London phenomenon, a half-empty car park, paused and considered the sudden appearance of a small stone shack in the back right-hand corner. Since cats possess intelligence far superior to that of the human race, he found nothing untoward in this occurrence, picked up the pace, and vanished out of the car park and out of this story.
The pigeons, it can be assumed, considered their options and then continued with their own plans for the afternoon.
For long minutes, nothing happened and then, almost on the stroke of three forty-five, a tall gentleman, clad in a long dark overcoat and well muffled against the cold, stepped out of the hut. For a moment, he stared about him, his expression bearing a more than passing resemblance to a middle-aged vulture waiting impatiently for the soul of an imminent corpse to get a move on and start heading towards the light. His disapproval deepened further as the rain increased and he opened his umbrella with something of a snap.
Nearly two years after the final victory at the Battersea Barricades, London was still a drab and dreary place. Damaged buildings glistened wetly in the drizzle. There was no colour. Many shop windows were empty. Cannibalised vehicles lined the pavements. Everything was broken down or worn out or just plain old and that included the people. In the aftermath of any major conflict, the younger generation are usually conspicuous by their absence.
The gentleman, leaning rather heavily on his walking stick, gingerly picked his way across the remains of the scaffolded Chelsea Bridge, contemplated for a moment the miraculously unscathed outline of Battersea Power Station, and descended a flight of steps to the cluster of inconspicuous buildings huddled between that and the bridge itself. Passing a newsagent’s, he paused to contemplate the headline, ‘Where did all the money go?’ compressed his lips, and approached an anonymous, shabby, grey building amply decorated with pigeon product. The modest sign over the door read ‘Britannic Enterprises’. Just as he opened the front door, a nearby clock began to strike four. The gentleman allowed himself the satisfied nod of the habitually punctual.
In his tiny office to the left of the door, a grizzled, grey-haired man looked up, an expression of welcome on his face.
‘Dr Bairstow, sir. Nice to see you back again.’
‘Glad to be back, Mr Strong. I believe I have another appointment with the panel in Room 29 at four this afternoon.’
‘You do indeed, sir. If you care to place your feet in the marked area … That’s it, sir … And look up, please…’
The biometric nee
ds of the security system having been taken care of, Dr Bairstow consented to be wanded, while agreeing that yes indeed, it was very chilly out, but that was only to be expected at this time of year.
‘There we are, sir, all done. I’ll get the major to take you up.’ He pressed a hidden buzzer and another door further down the shabby corridor instantly opened and a tall man with dark blond hair stepped out. Since Mr Strong had already vanished back into his cubbyhole and no actual conversation had been exchanged, Dr Bairstow concluded that the major had been watching proceedings via the discreetly concealed but always present CCTV cameras. Very shabby the building might be, but the security was top of the range.
‘Dr Bairstow?’
‘Major Guthrie, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. This way please.’
‘This way’ proved to be along a dusty corridor to an old-fashioned, open cage lift at the end. Clashing the doors open, the major ushered his guest inside and pulled the doors to behind them. Ignoring the old-fashioned push buttons in front of him, none of which would have taken him to his destination, he said quietly, ‘Second floor. Room 29. Authority Guthrie, bravo echo two.’
The lift purred surprisingly smoothly upwards.
Emerging, the two men turned left. Room 29 was at the end.
Major Guthrie tapped at the door and opened it, announcing, ‘Dr Bairstow.’
The three people sitting behind an empty desk rose politely to their feet. In keeping with the office, which had surely not been decorated since the relief of Mafeking, they too wore grey. Grey suits, white shirts. The men wore plain grey ties – the woman a scarlet scarf twisted around her neck. Other than a set of military prints depicting scenes from Waterloo, this was the only splash of colour in the room.
Greetings were exchanged, the major left the room, and everyone sat down. There was a long pause. Dr Bairstow waited impassively.
The man sitting on the left, who had been introduced on previous occasions as Mr Black, began. ‘Well, Dr Bairstow, our experts have finally finished reading your proposals. Based on what you have given us so far, they say that what you propose could be done. The full details of how it could be done, of course, are the parts you have chosen to withhold.’