A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  I shouted, ‘Get out of the way, you morons.’ At the last moment, they leaped for their lives.

  I clattered through the garden tables and chairs, got something caught in a wheel arch and felt the steering wheel jump in my hands. The car bounced heavily off a large stone urn full of geraniums.

  We clonked across the grass, shedding garden furniture faster than election promises the day after the results are announced. I had hardly any speed at all, but it was downhill now. I clipped a silver birch, to the detriment of the wing mirror, but that was going to be the least of his problems.

  I don’t think so, Dr Maxwell, do you?

  Nearly there.

  I floored the accelerator to build up the revs. We surged sluggishly forward. With the engine screaming and trailing clouds of smoke, steam, and glory, I drove Chief Farrell’s car straight into the lake.

  The engine died and everything was suddenly very quiet. Smoke drifted serenely across the surface. There a little bubbling and hissing but otherwise everything was surprisingly peaceful.

  If I hadn’t been getting wet, I could have sat there all afternoon. With some difficulty, I forced the door open and fell out. The water was nearly up to my waist. I struggled to the bank. What seemed like the entire unit lined up on the bank, faces blank with shock. Guthrie, still in his mud- and blood-stained football kit said, ‘What the …? What happened? Are you hurt? Where’s the Chief?’

  I was tempted to say he was in the boot.

  ‘Still in the hospital.’

  ‘But why …? What …?’

  I walked past him and strode, alternately whistling and squelching, back along the terrace and through the front door. Faces appeared at all the windows. Without slowing, I took the stairs two at a time, and preceded by the smell of stagnant water and leaving a trail of pond scum, I dripped into Mrs Partridge’s office.

  She looked up with absolutely no expression whatsoever.

  ‘Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘What ho, Mrs Partridge! Do you have some of those ‘Deduction from Wages to Pay for Damages Incurred’ form-thingies?’

  She reached up behind her and pulled one off a shelf.

  ‘On second thoughts, better make that two. It’s carnage out there.’

  Silently, she handed me another. I signed both and cheerfully handed them back to her. ‘There you go. Save you a bit of work later on.’

  As I turned to go, the Boss called from his office. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, Dr Maxwell. My office.’

  I was too angry to care.

  ‘Already looking forward to it, Dr Bairstow.’

  I did not slam the door on my way out.

  Peterson turned up. I suppose I’d been expecting him. We climbed out of the window and sat on the flat roof outside my room. It was sunny and warm in the evening sun and a million years from the trauma of the afternoon. He cracked a beer.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘God, no.’

  I wasn’t going to break the silence, which stretched on and on.

  He finished his beer, crushed the can and said, ‘So, it didn’t go well, then?’

  I didn’t know whether to nod or shake my head, so did neither.

  ‘Hey, this is me. Remember last year, when it was you and me against the world?’

  I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t want him to go away, so I reached out and clutched at the material in his sleeve. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. To all intents and purposes, he was asleep.

  I made a huge effort to get on top of the hot rock of betrayal sitting on my heart. Blue sky, white fluffy clouds, birds twittering, distant voices; everyone else’s world was carrying on while mine had fallen apart. There was no movement from Peterson. I went to get up but without opening his eyes, he pulled me back again.

  ‘Do you want me to kill him for you? I can do it slowly and painfully. He will suffer.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, but I can kill him myself. I’ve already made a start with his car.’

  ‘Yes, that was awesome, Max. You never disappoint.’

  I smiled bitterly, but said nothing.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘My job. As well as I can. As hard as I can.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  I controlled a quivering lip. ‘Well, I have to see the Boss tomorrow at ten. I think we can guess what that will be about. I might need you. Afterwards.’

  ‘Is Farrell coming back?’

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

  I leaned back and closed my eyes as well. The sun went down behind the roof parapet and all the shadows inched their way towards us.

  Chapter Twelve

  Yesterday’s bravado had subsided, leaving a nasty, cold, empty feeling. I really wasn’t looking forward to my interview with Dr Bairstow.

  There was no hint of the cosy armchair chat this time. He’d cleared his desk – never a good sign – and stared bleakly at me over the empty expanse. I wasn’t asked to sit. I stood before him, slightly tidier than usual and with a dawning realisation of what I’d done.

  He contemplated me silently for what seemed like a very long time. Dimly, in the background, I could hear the rest of St Mary’s crashing through their working day. Up here, in his office, it was very quiet indeed.

  After an age, he spoke.

  ‘When I promoted you to Chief Operations Officer, Dr Maxwell, I confess I did not think it necessary to apprise you of the sort of behaviour I would find unacceptable in a member of my senior staff. That I obviously did need to make this plain to you, leads me to believe I may have made a serious error in promoting you.’

  He paused. I gritted my teeth and stared over his shoulder.

  ‘You appear to have committed a felony, and should Chief Farrell wish to proceed against you, I shall not interfere. Am I making myself clear?’

  I nodded, waiting for him to ask that all-important question – why? Because I couldn’t tell him why. I could never tell anyone why.

  ‘The only thing at present staying my hand is that Chief Farrell telephoned me last night to inform me of your precipitate departure and expressing concern for your welfare.’

  I wondered what Farrell had told him. How much did he know?

  ‘I advised him of the situation here and he is to return either later today or tomorrow, to assess the matter and proceed accordingly.’

  I nodded again, waiting for him to demand my resignation. As usual, he read my mind.

  ‘I will tell you what I told him. I would not accept his resignation, and I will not accept yours, either. I neither know nor care what is happening between you, but you will find a way to work together. That is an order. Am I still making myself clear, Dr Maxwell?’

  I nodded again, praying for this to be over soon. I’d had many bollockings over the years but his words were searing my soul with shame. True, I’d annoyed him once or twice, but I’d never disappointed him before.

  I focused hard on the wall behind him.

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’

  I lifted my chin.

  ‘I’m not sorry I did it. I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way, but I’m not sorry I did it. However, I am sorry to have disappointed you, sir.’

  ‘I will not tolerate such behaviour in my unit.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘I suggest, Dr Maxwell, that you review your financial resources. The events of yesterday are going to cost you dearly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Dismissed.’

  I fled, and by a devious route, avoiding people wherever possible, made my way back to my room where Peterson was waiting with a mug of tea and a packet of tissues. Twenty minutes later, I blew my nose and was ready, although with no great enthusiasm, to face the world.

  The next day, I was in the dining-room, nose down in my lunch and wondering why personal catastrophe never affected my appetite, when a ripple ran around the room and everyone suddenly stampeded out the door.

>   I knew what this was. Chief Farrell was back.

  Peterson and I continued a somewhat dogged conversation concerning upcoming assignments. Through the window, I saw the taxi drive away. Chief Farrell walked up the drive, looked over to the lake, paused for a moment, and then started off across the grass.

  I knew Dieter had winched his car out of the lake, because David had persisted with a blow-by-blow account, despite my loudly expressed lack of interest.

  The Chief disappeared from view and Peterson and I continued to eat. People slowly filtered back again. I hoped their gravy had congealed.

  Neither of us attempted to seek out the other. We communicated by email, our com links, or by proxy. I was, therefore, quite surprised when he paused by my table one lunchtime and handed me a piece of paper.

  I took it without looking at him. Around the room, everyone fell silent, presumably waiting for me to fall senseless to the ground, which I nearly did when I saw the total. I could have bought a house for the same amount. Or two houses. Or possibly a small village. How could it cost so much to repair just one car?

  I took it between two fingers and handed it back to him.

  ‘Please give that to my assistant.’

  He handed it back.

  ‘Please do not use St Mary’s resources for personal matters.’

  ‘Mr Sands will deliver it to my in-tray for my attention later on. The matter will be attended to when I have a moment.’

  I pushed it back to him.

  He left without a word.

  That night, I fired up my laptop and emptied every bank account I had. I still had the compensation from my unfair dismissal and, having been alerted the hard way to the stupidity of not having any savings, I had been putting a bit by. If I added everything together, I could just cover it.

  Just.

  The remaining balance was in double figures and followed the decimal point. I had barely pennies to my name.

  I shunted the whole lot into his bank account, told myself I regretted nothing, and settled down to watch the latest Bond movie with Peterson and Helen.

  The next day, the whole lot pinged back into my account again.

  I thought it was some electronic cock-up and whizzed it back to whence it came. Barely an hour later, it came back again.

  What the hell did he think he was playing at?

  I stormed back to my office and David.

  ‘Knock-knock.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I sat, seething, at my desk and then spent twenty minutes rummaging in unexplored drawers for my rarely-used chequebook.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said David, as I banged another drawer shut.

  ‘Chequebook.’

  ‘Bottom left-hand drawer in an envelope marked ‘STD clinic – test results’.’

  It was, too.

  I scribbled out a cheque, shoved it in an envelope, and gave it to David with instructions to put it in Farrell’s pigeonhole.

  The next morning there was an envelope addressed to me in familiar jagged handwriting. I opened it up and a hundred tiny pieces of cheque fell out.

  I drew out the money in cash and spent the evening pulling the bank wrappers off the bundles, shoving it all in a carrier bag, and mixing it up. The next day I entered the dining room, marched up to the table he was sharing with Dieter and Polly and upended the bag. Loose banknotes floated everywhere. They fell into his lap, his gravy, his water glass, on the floor, in Dieter’s custard, and Polly’s coffee.

  I dropped the bag on the top and left the room.

  When I returned to my office an hour later, my desk was heaped high with dirty, sticky banknotes. They were stuck to each other and my desk. Many had fallen on the floor and had dirty footprints. I identified gravy, custard, ketchup, mayonnaise, coffee, butter, and what smelled like motor oil.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ said David.

  ‘Apparently not. If he doesn’t want the bloody money then why stick me with the bill?’

  ‘Put the money back in your account,’ said Peterson, coming in behind me.

  So I tried and that wasn’t easy. Hot with embarrassment, I explained it was exactly the same money I’d drawn out a few days ago. Remarks were made about abnormal wear and tear. I was sick of the whole bloody business by now. If he wanted reimbursing, he could come and ask for it. Otherwise – forget it.

  ‘It worked then,’ said Peterson.

  I stared at him blankly.

  ‘Well, look at you. You’re hot, cross, you’ve wasted a whole afternoon at the bank, and they think you’re an idiot. You’re frustrated because you can’t ease your conscience by just giving him money. He wanted to wind you up and he certainly succeeded. It’s his way of revenge. I know this is not possible for you, but the best response is to remain calm and dignified and rise above it.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody hot-air balloon.’

  He remained silent.

  ‘Oh, all right then.’

  It was fear and loathing at St Mary’s, or annual staff appraisal, as it was sometimes known. I had files spread all over my desk and was not in the best mood. David was banging industriously at his keyboard – he never usually worked that hard. I suspected he was looking up new knock-knock jokes. On the plus side, he hadn’t tried to tell me one all day. It was warm and snug inside, cold and wet outside. I was about to mention tea when something made me look up and Chief Farrell stood in the open doorway.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Chief. How can we help you?’

  ‘I’d like a word. Mr Sands, could you excuse us a moment, please?’

  Bless him, David didn’t move but turned his chair to look at me, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘If you could, please, David…’

  He grinned. ‘I have to see Professor Rapson anyway. He says he can fit blades to my wheels. You know – Ben Hur? How cool will that be?’ He disappeared before I had time to veto the blades.

  ‘Please sit down, Chief. What can the History Department do for you today?’

  Keep it polite and distant. It was vitally important not to be angry. Hate and love are pretty much the same thing. Someone you hate is as much the centre of your world as someone you love. Indifference is the killer.

  He sat for a while, looking at his feet. Rain lashed against the windows. He looked up.

  ‘For how long are you going to keep punishing me?’

  I finished stacking the files, taking my time, then picked the whole lot up and dumped them on David’s desk. That would keep him quiet for a bit. Ben Hur!

  Finally, I sat back down, clasped my hands on the desk and said, polite and distant, ‘Oh dear, I think I owe you an apology, Chief Farrell. I’m so sorry if you thought I was just indulging in some sort of grand sulk or having a snit. I thought I had made things perfectly clear and if I haven’t then that’s my fault. I had no idea you felt there was still something to be salvaged from the wreckage. Obviously, I was in error and I’m sorry if this is painful for you, but it must be said. I’m not punishing you. I’m not doing anything at all to you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over. I’m sorry, but I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. I’d like to apologise.’

  ‘I’m really not interested.’

  ‘And explain.’

  ‘Still not interested.’

  ‘You need to hear this.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  He banged the desk. ‘Listen to me!’

  I sighed, threw myself back in my chair and looked out of the window. ‘Whatever.’

  The wind hurled more rain against the glass and the window rattled. It sounded very loud in the silence. There was no expression on his face. Endless moments passed.

  Suddenly, he pushed himself up from his chair and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. I sat back in my chair, feeling suddenly cold. David came back in. He ignored his own desk and plonked himself in front o
f mine.

  ‘What?’

  He banged the arms of his chair in frustration.

  ‘For God’s sake, Max, are you insane?’

  I said, ‘What?’ in a completely different tone of voice.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘I work for an organisation that manipulates time. Do you think that every day I don’t try to think of a way I could go back and warn myself, leave a note, disable my car, do anything, anything at all to change the thing that ruined my life? But I can’t and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too bloody late. But for you, this can be fixed. All one of you needs do is swallow your stupid pride and find a way. Because this is not unchangeable and one of you has to do something before it’s too late. Suppose one of you dies – there’s nothing at all you can do then. It’s too bloody late. But it’s not now. This can still be fixed. So I’m saying, Max, don’t you spend the rest of your life regretting …’

  His voice cracked and he wheeled himself off, crashing heavily into the corner of his desk and having a coughing fit.

  I stood up, although whether I meant to help him or go after the Chief, I’m not sure and was never resolved, because, at that moment, Schiller and Van Owen arrived in the open doorway and in their excitement and impatience tried to get through together. I used the time it took for them to sort themselves out to pull myself together.

  ‘Max, we’ve done it. We’ve found it. You need to come and see this. We’ve found the tipping point.’

  For a minute, they’d lost me. Then I remembered. Our play. The one where Bill the Bard had obviously in some sort of wonky moment immortalised the death of the wrong queen.

  I said, ‘That was quick guys, well done. Show me,’ and we all clattered out together. I turned in the doorway and said, ‘Whenever you’re ready, David. I’d appreciate your input.’

  Face still averted, he said, ‘Two minutes, Max,’ so I left him.

  The hall was buzzing. It looked like everyone who wasn’t actually out on assignment was there. Whiteboards and walls were lined with pieces of paper. Two horizontal rows of paper, one pink and one yellow, ran round the walls. Things were circled or highlighted and arrows led from one page to another and back again. Table tops were littered with maps, photos, reference material, disks, cubes, and sticks. There were piles of paper on the floor with the skull and crossbones motif – the traditional St Mary’s sign for Do Not Touch. Housekeeping had been having a fit for a week. It looked like chaos, but it wasn’t.