by Jodi Taylor
I moved cutlery and condiments aimlessly around the table while I worked it all out in my head. He reached out and stilled my movements. I had forgotten how warm his hands were.
‘Say it out loud,’ he said.
‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you this, but the second half of the play, although contemporary with the first part, was written by someone else.’
‘A forgery?’
‘Or a fake. I never know the difference.’
It was his turn to stop and think.
‘Someone in the 17th century substituted a different ending? Why?’
I shook my head. ‘A message, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘From another historian? Trying to tell us something?’
I’d been thinking about that. One person above all others would have known of Dr Bairstow’s intention. One person was always around when something important happened …
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I thought, when I saw the OS map with the John Knox House that I was on to something, and now, the plot is not just thickening but solidifying. What’s going on?’
‘There’s two separate issues here. The mystery author. And the altered ending. Who? And why? Speculate.’
I ignored the who and concentrated on the why. ‘I think … I think something is happening in 1567 and someone is trying to tell us that. The altered ending is a warning. Suppose the Play comes true. Mary lives and Elizabeth dies. Mary is Queen of Scotland and England. She moves to England – the seat of power. Her son, James, remains behind as nominal king of Scotland. Mary dislikes him – he’s Darnley’s son, after all. His power is minimal – he doesn’t have the freedom to pursue witches. And if James isn’t pursuing witches, Annie may not be arrested. She doesn’t become sick. The whole thing never happens. That’s the reason for all this. Clive Ronan is deliberately trying to change the course of History. For Annie.’ I paused. ‘Except that … why hasn’t History intervened? We all know what happens to historians who even think about interfering. Why is History holding back now?’
He said quietly, ‘I think you haven’t thought this through.’
‘Really, what did I miss?’
‘You didn’t miss anything; you just didn’t go far enough.’
‘Tell me.’
‘If Annie doesn’t get sick then Ronan doesn’t shoot Edward. Or steal Number Nine. Or kill anyone. Edward doesn’t need to travel back to found St Mary’s. I don’t join St Mary’s. Maybe St Mary’s isn’t founded at all. In which case …’
I caught my breath.
‘Paradox.’
He nodded.
I said urgently, ‘So I ask again. Why hasn’t History laminated him across the landscape?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know … But I may have an idea …’
I was angry. ‘This is ridiculous. This guy is ripping a hole in the timeline and History does nothing. I only think about intervening in a possible robbery and history nearly drops a ten-ton rock on me. Kevin Grant tried to save a woman and child at Peterloo and had his head split open. And these were trivial events. Comparatively. This bastard Ronan is interfering with major events and History does nothing. Why? What’s going on here?’
‘I don’t know at the moment,’ he said again, looking even more unhappy. ‘I really don’t. Don’t press me. There’s something I must check when we get back.’
‘Is Ronan mad to take such a risk?’
‘Yes, I think he’s mad.’
‘Do you think he’s in Scotland?’
Yes.’
‘We should go,’ I said, getting up.
‘No. We should finish this first. We need to neutralise Knox before we go off to deal with Ronan, otherwise one day they’ll catch us in a pincer movement and crush us. One thing at a time, Max.’
I sat down again and thought about the series of events that had led to this moment.
Dr Bairstow, motivated by economic reasons, had had what probably seemed at the time to be an excellent idea and jumped back in time to commission The Play. Which gave someone an opportunity to warn us of events we would otherwise know nothing about. Four centuries later, investigating that had led us to the discovery of that treacherous bastard Knox and the damage he had done.
No incident, however seemingly trivial, is unimportant in the scheme of things.
One event leads to another, which triggers something else and before you know where you are, the ramifications spread far and wide throughout History. Echoing down the ages. Getting fainter and fainter, but never completely dying away. They talk of The Harmony of the Spheres, but History is A Symphony of Echoes. Every little action has huge consequences. They’re not always apparent, and sometimes, in our game, sometimes effect comes before cause, not after.
It makes your head ache.
We took our tea and coffee outside, and that was where Pinkie found us. We were politely invited to join the briefing being held in her office.
I recognised familiar faces, especially from Security, but there were new ones as well. They were getting themselves back on their feet, and if they could nail the bastard who had sold them out, then they would be able to draw a final line under what had happened to them.
It was a snatch squad, pure and simple. Touch down, locate and apprehend; then straight back home again. No messing. They were aiming for three in the afternoon. Quiet time – when he should be working in his office.
We watched them go from Hawking. They all seemed confident, if grim. I wasn’t so sure. He was a slippery son of a bitch and it sometimes seemed that he and Ronan had people everywhere. Everyone has a price and it’s not always money. I could see him slipping through their fingers, as Ronan always seemed to slip through ours.
As soon as Number Five disappeared, techies moved forwards and began to put out chairs; three chairs in a line behind a table and then a mass of seats behind them in a semi-circle. All facing one solitary chair set a little distance away. A very familiar adversarial layout. What seemed the entire unit was filing into the hangar. Some arranged themselves along the gantry. We took seats in the front row alongside the other Chief Officers. I picked out familiar faces, but this wasn’t a social occasion. It was necessary, but no one was going to enjoy this.
The hum of conversation slowly died away as the minutes passed. Tension built. I sat quietly and looked at the floor.
They were only gone about half an hour. The lights flashed above the plinth and a heartbeat later, Number Five was back. Ten seconds later, Number Seven materialised. They had him. And his pod. Our pod, rather.
Immediately, the blast doors came down, sealing Hawking from the outside world. I felt the building shake. Armed guards took up positions around the hangar. All the lights came on, bathing the entire hangar in a harsh and unforgiving glare. As harsh and unforgiving as the next hour was likely to be.
At last, the pod door opened and the Director led the way out. Behind her, walked a heavily guarded Alexander Knox. He seemed in pristine condition. I admired their restraint. If it had been me, he’d have fallen down every flight of stairs between my time and theirs. Still, most people are much nicer than me.
It was so quiet I could hear the electronic hum of lights and equipment.
They pushed Knox forward. The Director sat in the middle chair. Ben, the doctor, was to her right and Evan, the Senior Historian, to her left.
I watched Knox settle himself and look confidently around at his former unit. I thought of Dr Bairstow and couldn’t help making the inevitable comparison.
The Director stood.
‘This is not a trial according to the laws of this land. St Mary’s deals with its own problems. Your crimes are against St Mary’s. St Mary’s will judge you. Does anyone here have any objections?’
The obvious answer to that was Knox himself, but he said nothing, just blinking in the bright light. At a gesture from the Director, some of the lights were lowered. The rest of us were in shadow but he was still alone and exposed in the h
arsh glare. Vain as ever, he tried to straighten his clothing, but maintained his silence. No bluster or hasty denials. This was a clever man and he was holding his fire. I remembered again how effortlessly I’d been manipulated and wondered if he might actually talk his way out of this one.
Mrs Partridge slipped into the seat next to me and gave me a brief smile.
The charges were read. They were straightforward. They listed everything Ronan had done and charged Knox as an accomplice. It was a very long and comprehensive list.
Still he said nothing. I stirred uneasily.
The Director asked him to plead.
He said nothing.
She said, ‘If you do not speak, we will assume you are admitting your guilt and proceed accordingly.’
He said nothing.
Around me, people were restless. This was bad. All right, they hated him. They wanted him dead, but they would have been more comfortable with outright denial, or pleading for his life, or even any sort of response at all. This behaviour made them uneasy. The Director had wanted this done in front of everyone because everyone had been affected. Everyone should see justice done, and I could see why, but I was wondering if this was going to backfire on her. He’d only been here a few minutes and already resolve was wavering. He really was a master manipulator.
Perhaps he thought Ronan would descend and pull him out of this. Or no, maybe he still had people here. People he hoped could get him out. I watched him closely. His eyes flickered around the hangar. He could only clearly see the three judges in front of him. The rest of us must be just a blur in the shadows.
Around me, dust fell and the building ticked in the silence. Everyone waited in vain. He still said nothing.
She conferred briefly with her fellow judges.
‘Dr Knox, your failure to respond to the charges laid against you leads us to assume you believe you have no defence and are, therefore, pleading guilty. This is your last chance to answer the charges before you. Do you have anything to say?’
He spoke.
Finally, he spoke.
‘I ran. I admit it. I ran. Not in fear for my life as you are so quick to assume, but in a last, desperate effort to save my unit and induce the invaders to follow me. By leaving St Mary’s, I hoped enough of them would chase after me, thus enabling you to overcome the rest. That my efforts were unsuccessful is not my fault.’
Evan said, ‘And why would they follow you, Dr Knox?’
He smiled slightly. Evan had asked exactly the right question. I began to feel the whole thing sliding away.
‘Because, Director,’ he paused very subtly after the word, ‘members of St Mary’s, I knew the location of the remote site. If – as you are all so keen to believe – I am a renegade and a traitor, tell me why didn’t I just give him the details immediately and save the lives of what – thirteen people? If I am indeed as bad as you think me, all I had to do was tell them. After all, according to you, I’d already given them everything else – codes, protocols, etc. So why didn’t I give them what they came for; the location of the remote site, as well?’
Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit.
All around me, I could hear whispering. Suddenly, it was so obvious. Why hadn’t he told them?
Because he wasn’t one of them.
But he ran, the other half of my brain argued.
Yes, he had, but to draw them away. It could have worked.
No, hang on. St Mary’s – my St Mary’s – was only half an hour up the road from The Red House. He could have got help any time. Instead, he’d started a new life – a very successful new life – influencing the great and the good. Politicians, royalty, church leaders, business people, top-ranking police, and military personnel – they all passed through his hands. Forget St Mary’s. What damage had he been doing to the country over the years? And the arrogant bastard hadn’t even bothered to change his name.
Was he going to get away with this?
And then Mrs Partridge stood up.
‘I wonder if I might speak?’
I don’t know about other organisations – I expect it’s the same pretty much anywhere. People think power lies with the Director, or the CEO, or the General, or whoever. No, it doesn’t. The most powerful person in any organisation is the PA to the boss. The keeper of secrets. The only person who understands the filing system. The key holder. The gatekeeper. The one who takes the minutes. And in St Mary’s case, Kleio, Daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History, as well.
It was a dramatic moment and not surprisingly, given the Ancient Greeks’ love of drama, she made the most of it. Murmurs swelled and faded again as she walked slowly forwards, her wheels clicking on the hard floor. She took her time and when she eventually arrived to stand in front of the three judges, complete silence had fallen.
But, most importantly, and for the first time, Alexander Knox had started to sweat. On the surface, he was as relaxed and casual as before, but under the glare of those harsh lights, I could see a tiny pulse throb under his jaw.
Evan pushed his chair back slightly and the legs grated on the concrete floor. He raised a hand in apology.
The Director said, ‘Please, Mrs Partridge, go ahead.’
She half-turned to include the judges and Alexander Knox together.
‘Dr Knox is correct. He did not give away the information regarding the location of the remote site.’
Whispers echoed around the hangar. I had the strangest sensation that everything was sliding away. We were losing control. He was going to get away with it.
She walked forwards until she was so close to the judges she could have touched them. They gazed up at her. Her voice carried around the hangar, loud, clear and firm.
‘I took the co-ordinates from the safe and hid them before the attack occurred. Dr Knox could not possibly have given them away to our enemies.’
‘You see,’ shouted Knox. ‘Didn’t I just say that very thing?’ He made a huge effort to regain his composure. ‘I mean, thank you, Mrs Partridge. Thank you for telling the truth today.’ He moved towards her and she drew back behind the table to stand alongside Evan. The guards pulled him back to his seat.
He was gabbling now.
‘I told you, I told you. It’s all a mistake. I know how it looks but that’s not how it was. I thought if I ran, then they’d think I was trying to hide the co-ordinates and come after me. I was trying to draw them away. This is my unit. I would never do anything …’
He was pushed abruptly into his chair and subsided.
‘May I continue?’ asked Mrs Partridge, apparently unruffled.
The Director nodded.
From behind the table, she turned to face Knox. ‘You did give them the co-ordinates, but not the right co-ordinates. You passed on the ones I had substituted some time previously. You, Director,’ she nodded at Pinkie, ‘in your capacity as Chief Technical Officer had the correct ones, of course, as did the then Head of Security, both of you being, in my opinion, loyal and dependable members of this unit. You –’ and she fixed Knox with a look somewhat similar to the harpoon Captain Ahab used to pursue Moby Dick, ‘in my opinion, were not. Therefore, I removed them and substituted – something else. As I had anticipated, you did indeed attempt to betray your colleagues. You were, however, unsuccessful.’
Knox found a voice. ‘You can’t prove any of that.’
She smiled thinly and her voice sliced through the hushed hangar.
‘Acting on information provided by you, Dr Knox, Ronan sent twelve of his people to those co-ordinates to locate and bring back the pods. They never returned. They couldn’t – not from where I’d sent them.’
She paused and I shivered, wondering just where and when they were. It wouldn’t be good and if Mrs Partridge said they wouldn’t be coming back, then they wouldn’t. I remembered Katie Carr saying there seemed to be fewer of them after a while.
Knox was staring at her, his mouth open. He wasn’t the only one.
She continued.
&n
bsp; ‘I imagine that, at this point in your relationship, you and Mr Ronan decided to part company. Your usefulness to him as Director was ended. You were allowed to take Number Seven and depart for a new life. In return, you agreed to provide a base for him and his people whenever required. And that, Director is what I wanted to say.’
I could only see her profile as she stood slightly behind Evan, already merging slowly back into the darkness.
You could have heard a thistledown drop.
The Director stirred and cleared her throat.
‘Does anyone else have anything to add? Not you,’ she said, as Knox opened his mouth.
Complete silence all around the hangar.
‘Very well. Alexander Knox, you have …’
And that was as far as she got, because Evan leaped to his feet beside her, stuck a gun in her temple and said, ‘Shut up. Dr Knox. Quickly. Go to Number Seven. Get the door open and I’ll …’
And that was as far as he got because Mrs Partridge stepped back out of the darkness, walloped him hard round the back of the head with her scratchpad, which shattered on impact and he fell face forward across the table.
At the same time, Knox got a rifle butt in the kidneys, so that was both of them out of the game for a bit.
Long seconds passed. Farrell poked my knee.
‘Breathe.’
I took a couple of deep breaths to get my lungs working again and waited to see if anything else would happen, but that seemed to be it for the time being.
Knox was replaced, not gently, on his chair and Evan, bleeding and dazed, dropped beside him.
Mrs Partridge made no move to pick up the pieces of her scratchpad. Obviously feeling that finally the children could be left to handle things by themselves, she said politely, ‘Do you require me for anything further, Director?’
Pinkie dragged her eyes away from the scene in front of her.
‘No, not at this moment, thank you, Mrs Partridge.’
‘Thank you, Director,’ and she undulated back into the darkness.
Now they had him, they had to decide what to do with him. And Evan too. I stared at the man I had made Senior Historian and wondered if I should be locked up somewhere where I couldn’t do any harm. This was why his injuries had been comparatively light. And why he’d been so bolshie afterwards. Of course, Ronan would leave one of his own people in with the prisoners. He had been one of them the whole time. Saying nothing as his colleagues were shot, beaten up, raped – maybe, in some way, he even helped to select the victims. I was not the only one gazing shocked and bewildered as he struggled to sit up. He got no help from Knox.