JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

by Jodi Taylor

  We nodded.

  In my mind, I saw snapshots: Grant on our first day, filing papers. Grant sitting alongside me in a classroom, his face frowning in concentration as he built his data stack. Grant with his head close to Nagley’s as they laughed over something on his scratchpad.

  I remembered his calm good nature and his willingness to help Stevens. But mostly I membered him bursting with pride at being the first away – the solid workhorse who somehow got to the prize before the flashier Sussman and Maxwell. And much good it had done him. I felt a pricking behind my eyes, but tears wouldn’t bring him back.

  Peterson reached for his drink. ‘Kevin Grant,’ he said.

  ‘Kevin Grant,’ we said.

  That was bad, but the next was worse. A week later, Lower and Baverstock came back from 1389, the Peasant’s Revolt. They were Senior Historians and I didn’t know them that well. There were only the four of us to meet them now and two of us were certainly a little quieter and more thoughtful than we had been a week ago.

  This time, there was no messing. The Chief, alerted by something unknown to us, went straight in and stayed in. A minute later, Dr Foster and two medics flew down the hangar and went in. And stayed in. Thirty minutes later they were all still in there.

  ‘No,’ said Peterson softly. ‘No, no, no, not again.’

  ‘They’re not clearing the hangar,’ said Sussman. ‘It might not be too bad.’

  But it was.

  Baverstock was dead. An accident. He’d fallen under a horse in the chaos following the death of Wat Tyler and been trampled, dying shortly afterwards on the floor of his own pod. He and Lower had been together a long time. It was more than a working relationship. His death finished her. She couldn’t let him go. She held him while silent tears poured down her cheeks. When they tried to move her she lost control, screaming incessantly, unable to stop. They tried to sedate her but she fought them off and people were slipping in all the blood, so they had to leave it and Dr Foster and the Chief sat with her and Baverstock for nearly two hours before they were able to get them both out quietly. We never saw Lower again. I did ask Dr Foster once and she just said, ‘She’s taken care of,’ and I knew to leave it alone.

  Sussman and I were quiet for a few days, but St Mary’s carried on around us and after a while, so did we. It wasn’t that we were uncaring and I’m sure many other people grieved as well, but we did it in private. We attended the service and Grant’s and Baverstock’s names went up on the Board of Honour and then we moved on.

  So there we were; only four of us historians in an organisation established for twelve. Normally, Sussman and I would undergo a series of small, unimportant, bread and butter jumps to give us experience and work the excitement out of our systems. Roman Bath was scheduled, together with a jump to 11th-century London to watch the foundations being laid for Westminster Abbey. We should be supervised by a Senior Historian, except there weren’t any left. We got the best they could offer. Sussman and Black disappeared to Bath and Peterson and I got Westminster Abbey. The main purpose of the jump was simply to confirm the co-ordinates for the Time Map, but Peterson said it would be a pity not take a look around; the comment that gets so many historians, past and present, into such trouble.

  I liked Tim Peterson. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Kalinda Black who was tall, blonde and terrifying. She looked like a Disney Princess, spoke with a broad Manchester accent and, rumour had it, drank the blood of newly qualified trainees to keep herself young.

  Entering the pod, Peterson threw himself into his seat, put his feet up and declared me in charge.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Get on with it or we won’t be back in time for the footie.’

  I verified the co-ordinates and, fingers crossed, initiated the jump. We landed without even the slightest bump, completely failing to materialise inside a mountain or at the bottom of the sea, much to my secret relief. Heart thumping, I checked the cameras and announced it was safe to venture outside.

  ‘Excellent work,’ said Peterson, opening his eyes. ‘Do you know the way?’

  ‘Yes’ I said firmly.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, and we discreetly exited the pod. He was very good. He stood back and gave me a couple of minutes to take it all in.

  I saw more stone buildings than I thought there would be, but this was London after all and Edward the Confessor’s England was a peaceful and prosperous place. Having said that though, most of the buildings were still built of wood. Sturdily constructed and with thatched roofs, but wood still seemed to be the material of choice. Many houses had let down fronts that converted to table tops from which a variety of goods and services were being touted. The noise levels were tremendous. Nobody seemed to converse in less than a bellow. A pall of pungent wood smoke hung over everything.

  There were plenty of people on the streets. Some were bareheaded and I could see mops of light-coloured hair. These were Saxons for the most part and taller than I expected. I remembered one of my professors at Thirsk telling me that hair colour was not a reliable way of telling Saxon from Norman since the Normans themselves were descended from Northmen as well. The most reliable method, she always insisted, was to measure people’s thighs. As a rough guide, if the thighbone was longer than the shinbone then you were Saxon. If it was the other way round then you were Norman. I have Saxon legs. I peered sideways at Peterson’s.

  ‘Why are you staring at my legs?’ he asked, more amused than annoyed. I hoped.

  ‘You have Norman legs,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I was warned about you. Come on and don’t gawp,’ which was a sound piece of advice. Nothing makes you stand out more than looking like a tourist, or a foreigner, or an enemy spy; none of these being good looks for inoffensive historians looking for a quiet life.

  I led him around muddy London and we found the site easily. Even I couldn’t have missed it. Here was the everlasting chink-chink of metal tools on stone as countless masons and their gangs swarmed over the site. I was surprised at the height of the walls. They had no heavy lifting gear as such – just blocks, tackles, ropes, man power and occasionally horse power. But the work was going well. With wet stones glistening darkly against the grey sky, I could easily see the grandeur to come.

  I looked around eagerly to see if maybe the Confessor himself was on-site today. He would be buried here in January 1066; only one week after the church was consecrated. The first and last English king to be buried there.

  I drew brief sketches of the mason’s marks and Peterson tried to identify the gangs they belonged to. I sketched the shape of the walls. We wandered around the site as we wanted, thanking the god of historians that Health and Safety hadn’t been invented yet.

  Peterson paused a moment.

  ‘Hang on. I have to water a wall.’

  He eased himself between two piles of lumber.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight on this trip.’

  ‘I’m not watching you pee.’

  ‘Well, shut your eyes.’

  ‘I’m not listening to you pee, either.’

  ‘So hum.’

  I turned my back and began to hum Handel’s Water Music.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Peterson, but I wasn’t listening.

  I was watching two men walking behind another man as he skirted the site. They both had their hands to their belts and their body language made their intentions very clear.

  I took a few steps forward so I could see better and many things happened all at once.

  Peterson said, ‘Where are you going?’

  Someone shouted a warning nearby. I couldn’t make out the words, but the alarm and urgency were very clear.

  And it suddenly got dark.

  I didn’t think at all. I don’t know what made me do it. I ran forward two paces, crashed hard into Peterson and my momentum pushed us both back another three or four paces.

  Not far, but far enough for us not
to be under the frighteningly heavy block of stone that thudded into the soft ground nearby.

  We sprawled on the ground, trying to catch up with events. For me it all happened so fast that I was more puzzled than scared.

  I could hear people approaching and several men ran round the pile, shouting anxiously. They pulled up short at the sight of me on the ground, still tangled up with Peterson. And him with his todger out, too. They drew the wrong conclusions, subjected us to several builders’ witticisms, which although in Old English were perfectly understandable and wandered off again. It seemed no one was going to file a Health and Safety report.

  Inside my head, I heard Dr Bairstow say, ‘How difficult is it to cause a 10 ton block to drop on a potentially threatening historian …?’

  I unwound my stupid skirts and struggled to my feet.

  ‘You peed on me,’ I said indignantly, to hide the sickness sweeping over me.

  ‘Get over it. I peed on me as well,’ said England’s first mannequin pis, climbing to his feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  There was an underlying anxiety in his voice and I remembered Kevin Grant had been killed on his watch.

  ‘Well, I’m all wet if that’s what you mean.’ I shook out my skirts. ‘Oh, yuk!’

  He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe it was just an accident. They do happen. Maybe not everything is about us.’

  He thought.

  ‘Where were you going?’

  I remembered. ‘Two men, following another man. I didn’t like the look of them.’

  ‘Maxwell!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to do anything. I just wanted to see better.’ I took a deep breath and said in a small voice, ‘Do you really think …?’

  Now I was aware of my thumping heart. It had been a close call. One minute everything was fine and the next minute, bloody great rocks were dropping out of the sky.

  ‘Where did it come from?’ said Peterson, looking up. There was no scaffolding or A-frames; just a cat’s cradle of rope outlined against the grey sky. He peered thoughtfully across the site.

  ‘I wonder …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I wonder if whatever was going to happen to that man – had to happen. Some key historical event. Minor, but essential. And if you were about to interfere, young Maxwell, then we got off very lightly. Very lightly indeed.’

  ‘What sort of key event?’

  ‘I don’t know; it could be anything. Suppose he’s attacked and someone saves him and he goes on to father children whose descendants are important? Or he’s attacked and killed. He might have gone on to do something unspeakably evil and now he won’t because he’s dead. We’ll never know.’

  My heart had picked up speed as the implications were becoming clear to me.

  ‘I’m amazed we’re not dead.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Maybe History’s in a good mood today.’

  ‘Maybe we’re the good guys,’ I said jokingly and there was a strange little pause.

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Peterson. ‘We’d better take the hint, however, and clear off.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Peterson.’

  He grinned. ‘The name’s Tim. Now, shall we go?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  We edged our way past the block and out of the lumber.

  ‘A nice cup of tea, I think,’ he said, striding out.

  ‘Um … Tim …’ I said, trotting beside him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You might want to put yourself away first.’

  On returning to the pod, Peterson apparently fell asleep. I wrote up the logs, did the FOD plod outside and the POD plod inside, tidied up, made a cup of tea and gently woke my captain.

  He yawned, stretched, smiled, checked around without seeming to and accepted the tea. ‘Nicely done, young Maxwell.’ We were the same age, but I let it go. ‘Return jump set up?’

  ‘Yes, ready to go any time you are.’

  ‘Well, there’s no rush, is there?’ and he settled back in his seat, apparently exhausted by his afternoon exertions and smiled at me again. His hair, as always, stuck out in all directions. Female historians have yards of hair – it’s in the rules and regs; all male historians wear a kind of shaggy-sheep look appropriate to any age. Peterson’s made him look like an unkempt hearthrug, but his eyes were gentle. I rarely heard him raise his voice and, a welcome relief amongst volatile historians, he always appeared bombproof. He harboured a passion for Doctor Foster (or death wish possibly) and accepted her complete lack of people skills with good-humoured equanimity. I could have felt sorry for him, Helen Foster on one side and Kalinda Black on the other, but when I mentioned it to him once, he just said, ‘Yeah,’ in a dreamy sort of voice, leaned back, put his hands behind his head and smiled happily. ‘It’s a great life.’

  Anyway, I survived my first jump, which was more than poor Grant had done; made one with Kalinda Black to witness the young Victoria’s coronation procession, during which she saw the parade and I stared at the broad back of the man in front of me and, finally, they let Sussman and me out together, to medieval Shrewsbury at last. We both came back unharmed and they ticked the last box and our rank was confirmed.

  Later that year, I got yanked out of my Ancient Civilisation comfort zone and the three of us, Kal, Sussman and I, got World War One. The Somme. And what a bitch that turned out to be. For Sussman and me, it was our first Big Job, as they were known. And afterwards, things were never quite the same again.

  To begin with, I thought we were going to get the whole initiative, but our assignment turned out to be more specific.

  ‘A Casualty Clearing Centre,’ announced Dr Bairstow, dropping a box of reference material onto his desk. ‘Situated in an old French chateau and one step behind the Regimental Aid Posts. Reportedly destroyed by gunfire; whether enemy or friendly was never clearly established. Massive loss of life. The whole incident was buried as quickly as possible to prevent damage to morale. Controversy is raging again and there are anniversaries and bad feeling coming up. So we’ve been asked to investigate. You’ll need to be on your toes for this one because we don’t have an exact date.’

  ‘So we’re going into a war zone, knowing we’re a target, but not knowing exactly when we’ll be blown to bits,’ said Kal.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be blown to bits,’ he said calmly. ‘After the initial explosion most of the hospital went up in flames. And very quickly too. It’s probably the fire you’ll have to watch out for.’

  ‘Is this for Thirsk, sir?’

  ‘They are acting as intermediary on this one.’ The client, as always, would be secret. The thinking was that if we didn’t know who they were or why they wanted to know, then it wouldn’t affect our findings. Thirsk would offer to undertake ‘new research’. We would nip in and out, then hand over our findings for them to present as ‘fresh evidence’ to the client. They got the credit; we got the money.

  ‘We need to get this right. After Grant and Baverstock, Thirsk are again talking about establishing a permanent supervisory presence here. Something we really need to avoid at all costs. So get the information, get the proof, get it right and get out safely.’

  ‘For how long will we be there?’ I asked.

  ‘We hope to get you in between five days and two weeks beforehand. Records show the hospital as functioning at the beginning of October. By the 14th it had been destroyed. When you return, of course, depends on events. Miss Black will head the mission.’

  ‘Could it have been an accident, sir?’ asked Sussman.

  ‘It’s possible. That’s the official version anyway.’

  ‘Have they thought this through? There’ll be a lot of blame and recrimination flying about,’ said Kal. ‘Isn’t this one of the times it’s better not to know?’

  ‘That’s not our job,’ he said sternly. ‘We gather the information. It’s up to othe
rs what they make of it. That is not our concern.’

  ‘How will we know whether the guns that blow us up are ours or theirs?’

  ‘I am not sending you there to be blown up, Mr Sussman, but to obtain information. And at vast expense too, so please try to refrain from being killed. Or indeed, incurring any sort of injury at all.’

  We said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and backed out of his presence.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sussman in the Library. ‘How did I get roped into this? Where’s Peterson?’

  ‘On leave,’ said Kal absently, examining the contents of the box. We were both startled. Leave? What was that, then?

  Kal and I were going in as nurses. Sussman was an orderly/ambulance driver. Because of the considerable amount of interaction that would take place, we were thoroughly briefed. History and politics of both sides. An extensive Field Medic course, based on the treatments available at the time. They seconded us to a nearby army hospital for three weeks as part of the training; one week’s theatre training, one week on the wards and one week in their A & E, which consisted mostly of burns, fractures, crush injuries, drunken brawls and on one never to be forgotten night, midwifery. I am never doing that again!

  We jumped early one Sunday morning. Chief Farrell and Kal carried out the final checks. Dieter, his senior technician, was fussing around outside, thinking no one knew he just wanted to be close to Kalinda.

  ‘Take care,’ was all the Chief said, looking at me and away we went.

  Landing without a hitch, we peered outside. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the day was dark and dreary. Rain was coming down hard and the few people around were scurrying along with their heads down. No one paid us any attention in our quiet corner.

  The Matron at the Casualty Clearing Centre scarcely looked at our carefully forged papers before deploying us, which was a bit of a bugger because Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson had spent a long time on them. She sat behind her desk, stiff and starched and pointed a Roman nose in our direction. The nose looked us up and down. I got the impression we were found wanting.