by Jodi Taylor
‘Well, you get tomorrow and the weekend off. You’ve already learned the basics of calculating coordinates. There will be a lot of work in the simulators while you get that sorted out, but it’s necessary. I remember on my course, a colleague managed to land himself in the middle of the Spanish Armada. Literally. They still haven’t worked out how he managed to do that. From there, you go on to simulated situations, when they’ll throw everything they can at you to see how you cope. It’s a lot of work, but now that you have these jumps under your belt, it should make a lot more sense than doing things the other way around as we used to.’
Markham got to his feet and took down the Instructions in the Event of a Fire notice.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Well, basically, all it says is that if there’s a fire to put it out, and if you can’t then to exit the pod with all speed. I think we can work that out for ourselves. And if we are on fire then who’s going to stop and read the instructions anyway?’
He stuck my card up in its place where it looked very pretty and I suddenly realised that I was going to miss them. Technically, they would continue to be mine, but the day-to-day supervision was passing to others and I found that now that the time had come, I was actually quite reluctant to part with them.
I looked around the pod. So, here we were at last. Final assignment completed. No one had fallen off the bridge. No one had been run over by a runaway carriage. Despite enthusiastically consuming stall-bought lemonade and several animal-product pies, none of us had died of anything horrible. We hadn’t drowned, nobody had managed to set fire to the Suspension Bridge and we had tons of good footage.
Atherton had followed my thinking. ‘Surely this must be our most successful assignment ever,’ he said, tempting fate beyond … well … temptation, because at that moment, Mr Hoyle dramatically whipped out a pistol and in a voice oscillating between terror and determination, equally dramatically announced that he was now in control.
A stunned and slightly perplexed silence fell.
‘You’re already in control,’ I said, not a little exasperated. ‘You’re mission controller, remember?’
‘That mission is over with,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Forget it. You …’ he pointed his gun at North, remembered her tantrum at Thurii when things hadn’t gone as she had decreed, pointed it at Sykes, remembered that she was a psycho, and finally pointed it at Atherton, who despite his good nature, looked none too pleased at being last on the list of those being threatened.
I looked over at Markham who shook his head very faintly. The message was clear. He was on the far side of the pod, sitting on the floor. He couldn’t get to Hoyle in time.
The silence in the pod was complete as we all stared at him. No one moved. Something clicked on the console as a read-out updated itself and he jumped a mile. The pause was going on too long. He was too strung up. Whatever he was steeling himself to do – now that the moment had come, he was shaking with nerves. With everyone still staring at him, the gun began to tremble a little. That impassive exterior was beginning to crack. That’s the problem with these quiet, intense types. When they finally lose it – which they always do – they really lose it. Now that his moment had come – whatever that moment was – he was losing control of himself. This was becoming dangerous. Firing a gun in a pod is even more hazardous than firing a gun in a passenger aircraft at thirty thousand feet. You don’t want high-velocity bullets impacting the working bits, leaving you stranded and with no means of getting home. Even worse if they actually hit someone and I’d seen enough blood-soaked bodies on the floor to last a lifetime.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘You are indeed in control, Mr Hoyle. Please indicate your next move.’
He rummaged for a slip of paper, gun pointing everywhere. I glanced at Markham, who again shook his head. Play along. I turned my attention back to Hoyle who had found what he wanted and passed it over to me.
I turned the paper around and played dumb. ‘What’s this?’
‘Coordinates.’
‘I am aware of that. Where and when are these for?’
He blustered. ‘You don’t need to know that. Just lay them in and make the jump.’
‘You really are the most incompetent hijacker in the entire history of hijacking,’ I said. ‘How long have you been at St Mary’s? In which lecture did I ever give you the impression that historians are stupid enough to jump blindly to a set of coordinates of which they know nothing?’
‘Is that a serious question?’ he said angrily. ‘Because the serious answer is – all of them. And accompanied by cats disguised as babies, kidnapped livestock, fire, disaster, and any number of small explosions as well. So lay in the coordinates and make the jump.’
He flourished the gun. At least, I think he did. He was so strung up that his arm seemed to be waving around the place on its own. I could see his finger, white on the trigger. Time to slow things down a bit. I sat back and spoke quietly.
‘You won’t use that in here. You can’t risk damaging the pod and you can’t shoot me because I’m the only person authorised to operate this pod.’
Wisely passing over Sykes, who would have eaten him if he’d tried it with her, he pointed his pistol at North and said, ‘No, but I can shoot her.’
North ignored him and faced Sykes. ‘I told you he was an oik.’
‘Yeah, you did,’ she admitted. ‘Looks like you were right.’
Some sixth sense must have warned him because he spun around towards Markham who had already started to move. At the same time, Atherton jumped at him. The three of them collided heavily and crashed to the ground. North and Sykes jumped back and flattened themselves against the lockers and I swung my legs out of the way.
I could hear Markham shouting. ‘Put it down. Let go of the bloody thing, will you? Before someone gets hurt.’
And then the gun went off.
Everything went horribly silent and still.
Chapter Twenty
I had a terrible sense of déjà vu. I saw again the blood-soaked floor. Randall, limp and lifeless. Peterson with his terrible wound. All I could think was – no, not again. Please God, not again. Time ticked on and no one was moving.
After a hundred years or so, Atherton rolled off the top of the heap and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
I swallowed. ‘Are you all right, Mr Atherton?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said, pulling himself slowly to his feet.
On the floor, Markham and Hoyle lay locked together in some dreadful parody of a fond embrace. The gun was an inch from Markham’s right eye. As far as I could see, they were both unhurt.
Hoyle sucked in a deep ragged breath. ‘Lay in the coordinates or I’ll shoot Markham dead. Do it now.’
I know it’s traditional to say, ‘Over my dead body’ or something similar, but believe me, the phrase, ‘Over someone else’s dead body’ is far more frightening. And compelling. Besides, as I once said to Leon – the priority is always staying alive. Being dead seriously limits your options. I wanted Markham alive and functioning. With him by my side, anything was possible.
‘Very well,’ I said quietly. ‘But first, is anyone hurt?’
There was a ragged chorus of shocked no’s.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, impatiently. ‘Just make the jump.’
‘If that bullet has penetrated the console and damaged the boards then we’re not going anywhere,’ I said. ‘Whether you want us to or not. And since you’re only ever going to get one try at this, Mr Hoyle, you’d better make sure you get it right first time.’
Still on the floor, he nodded.
I slipped off the seat and pulled the front off the console. ‘The rest of you look around. If the bullet’s not inside any of you then it must be somewhere else. Find it.’ I pulled out the boards and carefully inspected each one.
There was no need. I could tell by the lack of acrid smoke and shrieking alarms that they were undamaged, but while I was bus
y with this, someone else might have a plan.
I think everyone else must have thought the same about me because two minutes later North had discovered the splintered hole in the bathroom door, and Markham still had Hoyle’s gun in his eye and no one had a plan.
‘Well,’ said North with admirable cool, sticking her head around the bathroom door to inspect the damage. ‘The toilet’s shot.’
‘That’s actually very funny,’ said Sykes. ‘Who’d have thought?’
‘Mr Hoyle, please allow Mr Markham to rise. Nobody is to make any sudden movements. Both of you get up slowly, please.’
Very, very slowly, the two of them climbed to their feet and faced each other. Markham flicked his eyes at me for instructions. He might have been saying he could disarm him but I wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, we wouldn’t be historians if we hadn’t been born with more than our fair share of terminal curiosity.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘What’s this all about?’
Hoyle was staring at Markham, not taking his eyes off him, stubbornly saying nothing.
‘I could beat it out of him,’ said Markham, helpfully, peering at me from around the pistol.
‘And me,’ said Sykes. ‘I’d like to have a go too.’
‘No one’s beating anyone,’ I said, exercising my primary function as peacemaker and keeping everyone alive. ‘Just tell us what all this is about, Mr Hoyle.’
‘You don’t frighten me,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m not a nice person. I didn’t want to be Training Officer. I’ve nursemaided you lot for what seems like forever and I’m sick of it. This was your final jump. On Monday, I hand you over to Chief Farrell and Professor Rapson for the last part of your training and I’m buggered if I’m going to let anything stand in the way of getting rid of you at last. I’ve never liked the look of you, Hoyle, and as far as I’m concerned, if you don’t tell me what’s going on right this moment, you will be involved in an unspecified but unfortunate accident this afternoon. We will be unable to bring back your body for burial, and everyone will be very sad for about ten minutes, and then we’ll all go to the bar and this time next week no one will even remember your name.’
All right, possibly a little harsh, but I really wanted to know what was going on.
‘Can I still give him a bit of a kicking?’ enquired Sykes, hopefully.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Trust me,’ said Markham to Hoyle. ‘I’ve known Maxwell a long time now and she really doesn’t mess about when she’s seriously pissed. And all she has to do is ask the computer to identify the coordinates so why don’t you just do yourself a bit of good and tell us what this is all about.’
He stepped back as he spoke. At the same time, I swivelled the right-hand seat for Hoyle and sat back, hands clasped unthreateningly in my lap.
He moved slowly, and sat at the console, pointing the gun at me. ‘You. No sudden moves.’
‘You’ve obviously never worn a crinoline,’ I said. ‘No one’s making any sudden moves, I give you my word. Sit down, everyone. No one moves until I say so. That’s a direct order.’
They all moved back and reluctantly sat down. Sykes and Atherton were still glaring at Hoyle, and North was looking at him as if he was something found at the bottom of a grease trap. Just for once, I was in complete agreement with her.
‘Come on, lad,’ said Markham. ‘What’s the game here?’
For a moment, I didn’t think he would speak. Finally, he said, ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Better make a start then,’ I said. ‘Begin with these coordinates.’ I laid the paper in front of him. ‘What is so important and so secret you couldn’t just put in a request in the normal manner?’
‘I couldn’t take the chance. If I did that and permission was refused … That would have tipped you off and I would never have been able to …’
I said, through gritted teeth because I really was getting pissed off now, ‘To what? Where and when are these coordinates?’
He still said nothing.
I turned back to the console. ‘Computer.’
The computer chirped its response.
‘No, no, I’ll tell you. It’s … I wanted … I’m sorry, this isn’t easy. I’ve been planning this for so long, and it’s so important and I’ve just …’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Sykes. ‘Don’t make me come over there.’
The fight went out of him. ‘All right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘My full name is Richard Neville Laurence Hoyle.’
He stared defiantly around the pod, possibly a little disappointed at the lack of response.
‘Yes?’ said Atherton. ‘So what?’
I felt some sympathy for Hoyle. It had obviously never occurred to him that whatever fanatical beliefs had driven him to be here and now, those beliefs meant nothing to anyone else.
He twisted his hands together around the gun and looked sideways at me in a suddenly very familiar pose … That expression … Richard … Neville … I had one of those blinding revelations that either drives you into the arms of religion or the bottle. Or both. The two often seem to go together. Because now – now that it was far, far too bloody late, of course – now I knew who he reminded me of. There it was. The famous pose. The face in three-quarter profile, the hands clasped together, although in the painting, I always think he’s nervously twisting a ring. Dark hair hanging around his face, the intense gaze, the wide, sensitive mouth.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Sykes, who’d seen it too. ‘It’s Dick the Turd.’
That did it.
‘Don’t say that,’ he shouted furiously, leaping to his feet. Sykes, alarmed at this sudden violence, did the same. As did Markham. And Atherton. Even North.
‘Stop,’ I shouted, terrified someone was going to be shot. ‘Stop. Everyone … sit … down. Just sit down. Good.’ I turned back to Hoyle. ‘And you too, please, Mr Hoyle. You can relax, too. I give you my word we’ll sit tight.’
I turned to the rest of them. ‘Don’t make a liar out of me.’
They sat.
Hoyle sat.
Nobody had been shot. A minor miracle.
‘Now. Start at the beginning, Mr Hoyle. What’s this all about?’
Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to tell anyone. I suspected years of secrecy were proving difficult to overcome.
‘Come on,’ said Markham encouragingly. ‘Big breath and off you go.’
‘It’s about … it’s about … him.’
‘You mean …’ began Sykes, and Atherton kicked her before she said Dick the Turd and set him off again. ‘Richard III,’ she finished.
‘Yes, him. I’ve worked for years. To get here I mean. To be in a position to be able to …’
‘Yes?’ said everyone, somewhat impatiently, but it was like trying to get a straight answer from a politician.
He drew a huge breath. ‘To be in a position to get to the Battle of Bosworth Field.’
I was gobsmacked. I think we all were.
‘Is that all?’ demanded Sykes in disbelief, dismissing the final, devastating battle of the Wars of the Roses, the end of the three-hundred-year-old Plantagenet dynasty, and the beginnings of the Tudors with a disparaging flick of the wrist. ‘All this just for bloody Bosworth Field?’
‘There’s no just about it,’ he shouted angrily. ‘It’s where he dies.’
‘But it’s only a battlefield,’ she stormed. ‘You could have just put in for the jump. Or waited. We were bound to get there one day.’
‘Oh yes,’ he shouted, contempt dripping from every word. ‘Sit quietly and twiddle my thumbs while you lot crash around blowing things up, setting yourselves on fire, getting yourselves injured – or killed. They said it was only a matter of time before someone steps in and sorts you all out.’
‘Someone like you, I suppose?’
‘Well why not? At least I appreciate the full potential.’
I did
n’t like the sound of this at all. What potential? And who were ‘they’?
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ I said.
‘Why don’t you make the jump?’ Up came the gun again, wavering away in a manner far more terrifying than if he pointed it straight at me.
I sighed. ‘Let me put it this way. Tell your story and there’s a chance you’ll get to Bosworth. Don’t tell your story and you’ll never get there. Your choice.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘No, I told you. I gave my word. Everyone’s sitting down. No one will interfere. Tell us your story.’
He sighed ‘My name is Richard Hoyle. I’m not American. Or Canadian. I was born in Derbyshire. I’m descended from Richard III. And proud of it.’
‘Yes,’ I said soothingly, before he went off on one again. ‘Now that I know, I can definitely see a resemblance. We all can.’
‘I was supplied with papers and a cover story.’
‘By whom?’
‘Them.’
I couldn’t decide if he was being reticent or whether he genuinely didn’t know. ‘Why?’
‘So I could go to Bosworth Field, of course.’
I exchanged a glance with Markham. Poor deluded boy. Someone had targeted him because of his obsession with Richard III. Someone who knew about St Mary’s had offered him a chance to be at Bosworth. To see it. To experience it at first hand. To see his ancestor. How could he resist? And what did he have to do in return?
‘Who’s “them”?’ said Markham, interrupting my train of thought, which was a pity because I was nearly there.
‘The people who paid me to come here.’
‘To St Mary’s?’
‘To Bosworth.’
‘Why?’
‘So I could witness the battle, of course,’ he said impatiently. ‘Which I’m not doing yet,’ he continued significantly.
‘Yes, but how does that benefit them?’
He shrugged, blinded by his tunnel vision. He’d probably never even given that a thought. Never queried why someone was doing this for him. Or what they would want in return. Although to be fair, how many of us, suddenly offered an opportunity we’d previously thought unobtainable, would question the motives behind the offer? When we get what we want we don’t often look any further.