by Jodi Taylor
I laughed.
We sat on the stairs in the deserted Great Hall. All around us were whiteboards, data tables, and files. Piles of paper were strewn around the floor and stuck on the walls. The only thing missing was the historians themselves. All of them, except me. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind.
‘Right,’ said Markham, uncharacteristically business like. ‘I think we can agree that whatever has happened to them has happened to all of them. Even Mr Sands.’
I nodded. Jagged pictures flashed through my head. A massive stone edifice, ablaze from top to bottom, running red with molten lead, slowly imploding and helpless historians trapped inside, their screams lost amongst the sounds of crashing masonry and roaring flames …
I pushed all that away. Not helpful. Markham was outlining a course of action.
‘We’ll land as close to the cathedral as we can get. We’ll check in with Sands, find out what’s gone wrong. It might be something simple. Depending on what he tells us, we’ll go after the others.’
I agreed. ‘We should arrive around 10.30 in the morning.’
‘We could go in earlier.’
‘We’re not sure where they’ll be. By 10.30, they’ll definitely be inside St Paul’s so we’ll know where to look for them. If, for some reason, they’re not there, we’ll initiate a widening search around the cathedral. We’ll take tag readers – if they don’t melt. It’s going to be hot, I’m afraid.’
‘The only reason they wouldn’t be inside St Paul’s is if they’ve been trapped elsewhere. Or maybe …’ he trailed off, but I knew what he meant.
In a desperate attempt to save all London, Charles II would order vast numbers of houses to be demolished to prevent the fire spreading even further. A building could have come down on them. A whole street could have come down on them. Even if they’d sought safety inside their pods, they could have been buried under a vast pile of burning rubble, slowly suffocating … stifling in the immense heat …
‘OK,’ I said. ‘We’ll take water, tag readers, fire axes to clear a pathway. And rope. Anything else?’
‘Blasters. To defend ourselves.’
‘Against what?’
‘We don’t know. That’s just the point. We’ll wear fire suits, helmets, gloves, and boots – the usual stuff. Like we did at Alexandria.’
That had been our first salvage assignment. The Great Library at Alexandria. That had been burning to the ground as well. Maybe one day we could embark upon a salvage assignment that involved vast amounts of cool, clear water.
‘Meet you in Hawking in an hour,’ he said.
We met in Hawking. We wore fire suits, heavy boots, and helmets. My gloves were stuffed into my belt, along with a fire axe. The suits were stiff and heavy. I was already sweating heavily and we hadn’t even started yet.
Like Markham, I carried a cloak. They’re so useful – you can tear them up for bandages, carry things or people in them, use them as a disguise – even actually wear them as cloaks to keep warm and dry. I don’t know why we ever abandoned them. You try ripping up a waxed jacket to make a tourniquet.
We walked to Number Six. We were silent. The whole hangar was silent. There was no Leon around to give everything a reassuring last-minute check.
Mr Lindstrom was nervous. I think exactly the same thought had occurred to him.
‘I’ve checked everything thoroughly, Max. Remember, you must be out by 11.30.’
I nodded. Markham was stowing our gear.
Lindstrom gulped nervously. ‘I’ve laid in the coordinates and Miss Perkins has verified them.’ He swallowed again. ‘Just in case of error.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lindstrom. I’m sure there was no need, but we both appreciate your attention to detail.’
‘Yeah,’ said Markham. ‘And you can buy us a drink when we get back. Mine’s a pint and they don’t call this lady the Margarita Monster for nothing.’
‘Do they?’ I said, surprised.
‘Well, not to your face, obviously.’
Poor Lindstrom was looking a little taken aback. In the absence of Leon and Dieter, he’d suddenly been propelled into the front line. I was more confident in his abilities than he was. None of Leon’s or Guthrie’s teams were idiots, no matter how many times we told them they were.
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Markham, making himself comfortable at the console. ‘If neither of us comes back then you’ll have a cheap evening. Albeit a lonely one.’
He didn’t look particularly comforted.
‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘If we do make it back, Markham will buy you a drink instead, and if we don’t, then I’ll buy you one.’
We shunted him outside while he was still thinking about it.
We landed on the north side of St Paul’s, in Paternoster Row, just outside Paul’s Gate. Excellent work, Mr Lindstrom.
‘Max. Listen. We have one hour. Not a second longer. We must be gone by 11.30, which will be about half past two in the afternoon in Mauritius. We dare not cut it any closer. No arguments. No excuses. After sixty minutes, we’re out of here.’
I nodded. He didn’t have to tell me. If, for any reason, I was still here when I was due to arrive in Mauritius … what would happen?
It struck me that he was looking unusually serious. I know that we were in the middle of the biggest fire London had ever seen, and that we would be poking around a cathedral whose roof was about to fall in on us, and that I was pushing our safety protocols to their limit, but all this sort of thing was meat and drink to Markham. As far as he was concerned, all assignments were like this. Maybe Hunter had consigned him to the outer darkness of her affections again and he was feeling gloomy. He slapped a gun on his sticky patch. ‘Let’s go.’
We had one hour.
We slipped out of the pod and my heart sank. We’d hugely underestimated the severity of the blaze. The heat was overwhelming. The entire north side of Paternoster Row was ablaze. The roar of the flames was deafening. Inside my helmet, I could feel the sweat running down my face. I could even feel the heat of the ground up through my heavy boots.
Our priority was to find the pods.
As we stood getting our bearings, a pleasant female voice said, ‘Sixty minutes remaining to terminal event.’
I turned to Markham and could see jumping flames reflected in his visor. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Countdown. Down here,’ he said, tersely, and we set off at a run.
The pods were exactly where they should be, clumped together in their usual configuration, a neat three-sided square, just inside the East Gate, Augustine’s Gate, and, as far as we could see, completely unscathed.
I called up David Sands.
No reply.
‘Behind me,’ said Markham, and we inched forwards to check them out.
Numbers Three and Five were empty. I checked the consoles and everything was just as it should be. Markham even checked the toilets, presumably in case they were all hiding in a three feet by three feet space.
Number Eight, however, contained an unconscious David Sands. He sprawled face down on the floor, breathing heavily. Blood had seeped from a wound on the back of his head.
I looked around. ‘What happened here? Was he overcome by smoke? Did he fall backwards and hit his head on the console? Where are Helen and Dieter?’
Markham was bending over him. ‘Check the console.’
I scanned the read-outs. Everything was normal. ‘The next set of coordinates has been accessed, but he would have been prepping for a quick getaway.’
‘Maybe. We’ll check it out later. Come on.’
We heaved him into the recovery position and left, closing the door behind us.
‘Fifty-five minutes remaining to terminal event.’
We set off, working our way back to the north side of the cathedral. Faintly in the distance, we could hear the sound of explosions. The ground shook and even above the roar of the flames, I could hear buildings coming down.
I act
ivated my com.
‘This is Maxwell. Can anyone hear me? Report.’
Static crackled in my ears.
I shouted to Markham. ‘They’re around here somewhere, I think. I just can’t get a clear signal.’
He looked up at the huge edifice, towering above us, wreathed in burning wooden scaffolding and at the solid wall of fire in the streets around us.
‘Really? You astonish me. ‘
All the time, we were working our way around St Paul’s. More explosions in the distance caused pieces of burning wood to cartwheel through the air, scattering sparks on landing and starting their own individual little fires, which would eventually join up and become the huge conflagration that would kill us all. Bloody hell, this really was no place to be. Sod the artefacts. We’d get our people out. We’d laugh at them for having to get themselves rescued and get them straight back to St Mary’s for something long, cold, and extremely alcoholic.
Another explosion, bigger and much closer. Were they blowing up the nearby streets in an effort to save St Paul’s?
‘Bloody hellfire,’ said Markham, appropriately. ‘We’re going to be burned and blown up. It only takes one of us to fall into the Thames and drown and we’ve got the hat trick. Come on.’
Everything around us was burning. Even the ground under our feet was burning. Even through my fireproof suit, I was burning. Stinging sweat ran down into my eyes. I was drenched.
The building was massive and it seemed to take ages for us to get around the perimeter. We couldn’t get too close. We zigzagged around, trying to find the tiny door on the north side.
‘Fifty minutes remaining to terminal event.’
‘There,’ said Markham. ‘There’s the door.’ He had to shout to make himself heard over the sudden frenzied bleeping of our tag readers. Bloody things. They only ever work properly when if your target is either easily visible or only twenty feet in front of you. Jumping up and down shouting, ‘Hey, hey, I’m over here!’ is often quite helpful, too.
But, our only stroke of luck that day, on this side of the building, only the upper part of the scaffolding was in flames, so apart from lumps of burning wood falling on us from a great height – no problem.
I heard a crackly voice in my ear. Major Guthrie. ‘Max? Is that you?’
‘No. Who’s Max?’
‘Very funny. The door’s locked. We can’t get out.’
‘Are you still in the crypt?’
‘No, we’re only on the other side of the outside door. We’re all ready to go. We just can’t get the bloody thing open.’
Markham shone his torch around the doorframe.
No, they couldn’t get the door open because a bright shiny chain secured the latch. And that chain was secured with a heavy-duty padlock. Someone had not intended that door to open easily.
Markham used the pick end of his fire axe to attack the padlock and I kicked odd bits of burning wood away from the door, which didn’t do my knee any good at all.
‘Forty-five minutes remaining to terminal event.’
‘How’re you doing?’ I yelled, kicking the last piece of wood away.
‘No use. Here. Shove your end in here.’ I inserted my fire axe as instructed and we both strained to prise open the padlock. The very substantial padlock.
No luck.
More debris fell down around us. We cowered in the shelter of the wall. God, it was so hot …
Guthrie’s voice in my ear. ‘Report.’
‘Still working on getting the door open. Are you on fire in there?’
‘Not yet, but it’s very smoky. Get a move on.’
‘On it.’
We strained again, making no impact at all. I tried prising apart the links on the chain but couldn’t get a proper purchase. Nothing we were doing was making any difference.
‘Forty minutes remaining to terminal event.’
Markham reversed his axe and began to hack at the chain. He fetched it a number of powerful blows then stepped aside for me. I did my best, but it was a very substantial chain. I was gasping for breath all the time. Sweat ran down into my eyes. I couldn’t see properly and I was sure most of my blows were going astray. We were wasting our time.
Another enormous explosion rocked the ground under our feet. More lumps of burning wood showered past us. ‘Shit,’ shouted Markham, dancing around and slapping his smouldering fire suit. I pushed him against the door for the tiny amount of protection the lintel would give us and crowded in after him.
‘Thirty-five minutes remaining to terminal event.’
I was melting. And not in a good way. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t stand. I was dissolving in my own sweat. I wondered idly whether the melting point of the human body was greater or lesser than that of padlocks. It didn’t really matter. People, padlocks … We’d all burn in the end.
We both had the same idea at the same time.
‘We’re idiots,’ I said, unshouldering my blaster.
‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘Direct your beam.’
We played liquid fire over the padlock and chain. Nothing seemed to happen.
I blinked furiously to clear my eyes but the sweat stung viciously. I tried to sniff, but no good. Tears and snot mingled with the sweat running down my face. My mouth, on the other hand, was as dry as the Sahara and tasted like it. I was so dehydrated that it was very possible that I would never pee again.
The padlock was holding. I could have screamed from frustration. The heat was melting the lead on the roof but the bloody padlock was still holding. I had a sudden vision of a huge heap of a burned-out St Paul’s with a bright, shiny padlock still nestling smugly atop the smouldering pile.
Markham shut down his blaster and tried again with his fire axe. ‘Yes,’ he shouted. ‘It’s softening.’ He fetched it a hefty blow with his fire axe. ‘Come on, you bitch!’
He rained down blows in a frenzy. I stepped back to give him room and he went at like a madman until I stopped him.
‘Take a break. I’ll give it a go.’
He’d definitely made an impact. The padlock hung askew. I didn’t have any strength to waste, so I took my time, lining up each blow carefully.
‘Thirty minutes remaining to terminal event.’
‘Can’t you shut that off? It’s really getting on my nerves.’
‘It’s so I can get you out in time.’
‘I’m not going anywhere without them,’ I grunted, redoubling my efforts.
‘They might die if you leave, but they’ll definitely die if you stay. We all will, so no arguments,’ he said tersely. ‘Move over. My turn.’
He was a lot stronger than he looked. Half a dozen swift blows and the padlock clattered to the ground. At last. He tore at the chain.
I activated my com. ‘Major?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re getting the door open. Be ready to move.’
‘We’re ready. Just give the word.’
Markham gave a final yank to the chain, which went the way of the padlock.
He seized the latch and gritted his teeth against the pain in his hands. Even through his gloves, what with the fire and then our blasters, it must have been nearly red-hot. He pulled.
Nothing happened.
‘Twenty-five minutes remaining.’
‘Can you please shut that thing off?’
‘No. A little help here?’
I couldn’t do anything. There was only an iron ring so small only one person could grasp it.
I called Major Guthrie again. ‘Major, you need to push from your side.’
‘Copy that.’
A series of thuds from the other side of the door indicated that they were, indeed, pushing. I took a moment just to check that the door did actually open outwards because we are St Mary’s after all, but yes, the door opened outwards. Or it should do. Mystified, I stared at it. There was no lock. I could see the door shudder with every impact. It just wasn’t opening.
‘Wait,’ I shouted ove
r the noise. ‘Stop a minute.’
Ignoring my protesting knee and splitting headache, I crouched for a close look. I was right. A small piece of wood had somehow got wedged under the door, preventing it from opening.
‘Major – pull. Pull the door towards you.’
‘What?’
‘Twenty minutes remaining to terminal event.’
‘Shut up,’ I shouted. ‘No, not you, Major.’
A huge piece of burning wood crashed to the ground between us, reminding us that we really didn’t have much time. Because, of course, that had completely slipped our minds.
Markham kicked it away. ‘Don’t argue, sir. Just bloody do it.’
I saw the door move back an inch or so and began to work at the wedge with my axe. I had to do it by guesswork because I couldn’t see a thing and I was struggling for every breath. I suspected I wasn’t going to last much longer.
‘Move over,’ said Markham, impatiently. He shoved me aside and began to work on the wedge.
‘OK. Got it.’
He seized the ring at exactly the same time as what seemed like everyone behind the door threw their weight at it.
The door flew open. All right, I was wearing a helmet, but nail-studded oak is still nail-studded oak. I flew backwards and hit the ground with a crash that knocked the breath out of me. I lay gasping while St Mary’s erupted out of the doorway, Dieter, Roberts, Peterson and Van Owen in the lead, alternately treading on or falling over me. Only at St Mary’s do the rescuees try to trample the rescuers. Bloody ingratitude.
I sat up painfully and lifted my visor. ‘You stupid bunch of pillocks! This is what happens when I’m not around. The whole thing goes tits up and you have to be rescued like a bunch of little girls.’
‘Fifteen minutes remaining to terminal event.’
I turned to Markham in exasperation. I was burned and breathless. I had a splitting headache. My knee was killing me. I had at least three people on top of me. The last thing I needed was to listen to a well-modulated voice counting down to disaster. ‘Will you stop it doing that? It’s getting on my nerves.’
Markham ignored me, heaving people to their feet. ‘Come on, Max. Time to go.’