by Jodi Taylor
Little Jenny Fields from the kitchen came in with a tea trolley, followed by the Boss and Chief Farrell. I saw Mrs Partridge nod slightly. Suddenly, I didn’t want her to leave. I turned to her and she sat down again. Farrell poured the tea.
The Boss seated himself at the head of the table. ‘This tape and any others of a similar nature will be destroyed immediately on conclusion of this meeting.’
I nodded.
‘You appear to have dealt with the situation with your customary aplomb.’
I nodded.
‘Should I perhaps be reviewing our customary pairings of one male and one female, do you think?’
I shook my head (for a change). ‘Hard to see how you can, sir. Firstly, there are only three of us now until the next intake qualifies and that’s not for at least another six months. Secondly, and this should have been firstly, Peterson would die at the stake rather than pull a stunt like that and, thirdly, one male one female works best. There are always places women can go and men can’t and vice versa. We would be shooting ourselves in the foot, I think.’
‘Very well, we will continue as we are for the time being.’ He paused. ‘No one outside this room has seen these tapes and no one will. I understand the unique bond between our three historians, but I would appreciate you not discussing this with anyone else, Miss Maxwell; unless you feel the need for professional counselling, of course.’
Yes, sir. And no, sir.’
‘To spare you any undue speculation from others, the usual procedures for Mr Sussman will be followed; the service and so on. Please do not feel under any obligation to attend.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Is there anything you wish to say? Or any questions to ask?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘You are surrounded by friends here. If you find yourself in difficulties you have only to ask.’
I nodded.
In the outer office, I said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Partridge.’ She smiled slightly. It changed her face. I couldn’t help smiling back.
‘I think a change of scene would be good for you today, Miss Maxwell. If offered the chance, take it.’
I was staring out of the window in my room when the Chief turned up with my kit as promised. He dumped a box on the table then dug a disk from his pocket. ‘Where’s your laptop?’ I lugged it out from under the couch and switched it on. He sat beside me and inserted a disk.
‘What’s this?’
He looked at me with an odd mixture of concern and sympathy that alarmed me more than I would care to admit. ‘More unpleasantness.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You need to see this. Just watch please.’
I sat back, curled my legs under me and watched a clearing in the Cretaceous come to life. ‘This is …’ I paused. The angle wasn’t right. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘This is from my pod. I’ve just been back to the Cretaceous. You need to see this. And I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’
Again, that chill. I uncurled my legs and sat forward.
Number Eight’s door opened and I stuck out my head. Obviously all was clear because I stepped out, followed by Sussman. I looked at the Chief. Why was he making me watch this? He nodded back to the screen.
I watched the two of us cross the clearing. I watched us walk single file where the path narrowed. I watched Sussman pick up a piece of wood from behind a rock and hit me hard across the back and shoulders. I watched myself stagger forwards and sideways. I watched the path crumble away beneath my feet. I watched my struggle for balance. I watched myself fall. I watched Sussman toss the branch aside, walk to the edge, peer over, shout, ‘Up yours, you fucking, jerk-off bitch!’ and spit.
My throat closed. I had to make a conscious effort to breathe. I’d been over four years with this guy. I’d liked him, worked with him, played with him and lied for him. Massive betrayal sat like lead in my stomach. But more was to come. Other figures walked into the clearing and joined him. What? Who? Where did they come from? Who else was there? There was me. And Sussman. And Farrell. And now this lot. It was like the Cretaceous equivalent of bloody Piccadilly Circus. They all spent some time carefully looking over the edge of the path. I got the feeling they weren’t a rescue party. I tried to think.
Farrell said gently, ‘Tell me what’s happening to you at that moment.’
‘I’m wedged under a fallen tree, quite a long way down. I’m covered in loose shale and stuff that came down on top of me. I’m probably quite invisible from above. Being semi-conscious helped.’ My voice was hoarse and I had difficulty making my lips move.
Finally, the figures turned away and returned to the clearing. Sussman talked to a man in a long leather coat. He had no weapon so I guessed he was in charge. They were too far away for audio, but the body language spoke for itself. They were arguing.
‘I think,’ said Farrell quietly, ‘you weren’t meant to go over the cliff. It was supposed to be a quick, clean kill. There was supposed to be a body. For Sussman to take back.’
‘Why? To what end?
‘I think, and I’m guessing here, but that would have meant the end of the mission. This big, important, prestigious mission. This would be the final nail in the coffin. You may be unaware of how hard the Boss is working to keep us going in the face of what’s being deemed unacceptable losses. He would be removed and the unit would be taken over by – someone else.’
‘Who?’
He shrugged. ‘The government. The military. No idea. But certainly St Mary’s would go in a different direction, with different goals, different targets and maybe instructions to turn a profit. There would be less research, more interaction. It certainly wouldn’t be our endearingly crackpot little organisation any longer. But, and again I’m only guessing here, setting the unit on a path leading straight to the state St Mary’s finds itself in in my time.
I pointed at the screen. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Ronan. He’s angry because Sussman made it personal. Can we talk about him another time?’
‘Why did Sussman wait so long before …?’
‘So you could do most of the work and he could get the credit.’
Unbidden, there came to my mind a picture of Sussman in France. The hospital engulfed in flames. Kal and I burst into the pod. Sussman turned from the controls and said – what did he say? He said, ‘Max, my God, I can’t believe it. I thought you were dead. Why aren’t you dead?’
Not, ‘Thank God you’re not dead,’ but ‘Why aren’t you dead?’ And who arranged for us to meet by the linen rooms? And who sent me in for blankets? And who had I met the day before coming from the linen rooms?
Somehow, I got it together. A coincidence. It had to be. I was being paranoid. He was dead and we’d never know now. What I saw next pushed it out of my head completely.
On the screen, Sussman stormed back to his pod. At a signal from Ronan, he was grabbed, held by two men and dragged, struggling, away from his pod. Ronan stepped forward, crouched low in front of him and slashed, stepping back quickly. I watched the blood spurt and heard the scream in my head.
Everyone vanished very quickly. They wouldn’t want to hang about with that amount of blood around. They say sharks can smell blood in the water from miles away. Sharks had nothing on the local wildlife here. Sussman tried to walk but blood gushed from wounds in his upper leg where Ronan had slashed his femoral artery. No power on earth could save him now. He tried to press both hands against the wound and walk at the same time, failing to do both.
‘Davey,’ I whispered. But even as I spoke a shadow flitted across the bottom of the screen. Fast and low. Then another.
‘Davey, get back to your pod.’ I leaped to my feet and the Chief stood with me. He reached down to switch off the laptop but I pulled his arm away.
I watched as the raptors gathered. I watched them circle their victim; classic predator behaviour. He crouched low on the ground, screaming with fear, bloody arms over his head.
Farrell said, ‘Max …’ but I had to watch. Whatever he’d done, he’d once been my partner and my friend. I owed it to him and to me.
I watched as the first two leaped in a pincer movement. Deinonychus. And it’s true; they don’t wait until their prey is dead before eating. I watched them rip and tear. I watched two of them fight over an arm. I watched his head roll away and felt glad because it was over for him. I watched them snarl and gobble. I watched them disperse afterwards. I watched the empty clearing until the Chief gently closed my laptop.
‘You didn’t have to see that,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, yes, I did. I did this. I locked my pod. He couldn’t get to safety.’ My voice was hoarse. I swallowed once or twice. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, warm and comforting. The silence in the room sounded very loud. I could hear my own harsh breathing. I stood tense and still, willing it to slow, to regain control. Gradually, I unclenched one muscle at a time. As I relaxed, so did he. I laid my head back against his shoulder and closed my eyes briefly, then let my head hang forward.
‘Getting back into the pod would not have saved him. He was bleeding to death. Nothing could have saved him.’
‘He was my friend. The first one I made here. We’ve been friends for years. We were partners. We trained together. We cheated together. I wrote papers for him. He held my hair when I threw up. We were friends …’ I hadn’t realised I was speaking aloud.
‘Really? I saw someone who pinched your work and took the credit. Holding your hair was the least he could do. I saw someone who never hesitated to use you for his own gain. How many times have you covered for him with the Boss? And that last business in the pod? He met a bad end and I’m sorry for that, but I’m sorrier to see you blaming yourself for this. It’s nothing you did. It’s not your fault.’
I shook my head. ‘He couldn’t get into the pod to save himself. I killed him.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ His voice sounded crisp and authoritative. ‘You need to be very clear about this, Miss Maxwell. His death was the result of his own actions. And if his plans had not gone wrong it would have been you in that clearing, not him.’
‘But why did you go back? You couldn’t interfere. What was the point?’
‘After we saw the tapes, the Boss sent me back to do some checking. Initially, we thought Sussman was just being … well, Sussman. We were wrong. We think it’s starting.’
I shook my head again, too distressed by all this to speak.
‘I don’t want to leave you alone here, especially when anyone can barge in. Would you like to come with me?’
‘Where to?’
‘To the place I go when I need a little peace and quiet. Come on.’
I remembered what Mrs Partridge had said.
Unsure, but not up to argument, I followed him along corridors and down stairways, through the paint store to his pod. I sat quietly in his seat while he punched in some co-ordinates and then the world went white.
I don’t know why I expected rest and relaxation. I suppose I thought I was entitled to a little gentle cherishing. Was I buggery!
It started well. The door opened on to a sparkling turquoise sea and cloudless blue sky. Fragrant pines marched down to the shoreline and cast dark pools of shadowy purple. Their apple green foliage clashed beautifully with the brick red rock. I’d never seen such colour and light.
‘Where is this? When are we?’
‘A small island in the eastern Med, about five thousand years ago.’
I hesitated, still in the doorway. Old Cretaceous habits die hard.
‘It’s quite safe. There won’t be people here for a thousand years or so yet. What’s the problem?’
I stuck my chin in the air. ‘No problem,’ and stepped outside. The light on the sea dazzled and I was allowed to admire it for very nearly a whole second.
‘Can you get some wood?’
‘What sort of wood?’
‘What do you mean, what sort of wood? Why do historians always have to overthink everything? Wood wood.’
‘I mean dry wood? Wet wood? Firewood? Building wood?’
‘Building wood?’
‘Well, it’s you. Are you going to knock together a hotel? Build a suspension bridge? Install a spa? Will there be grouting?’
‘What?’
‘Isn’t that what men do? You know, grouting, sawing, sitting in sheds. Men things.’
‘Just wood for a fire.’
‘A fire? It’s warm. Even I’m warm.’
‘To cook lunch.’
‘We have to cook lunch?’
‘No, first we have to catch lunch.’
I shifted uneasily.
‘Is there another problem?’
‘I’ve just come from a time when lunch catches me.’
‘Well, this is your chance for revenge.’
‘Don’t we have rations?’
‘Yes, but you’ve eaten rations for the last three months. Don’t you want fresh food?’
‘Well, the way I look at it there’s some poor little fish out there having a nice lazy day and making plans to meet its mates down the pub tonight and I don’t want to be the one getting the reproachful stare as I knock it on the head.’
He stared at me.
‘I’m just saying,’ I said defensively. ‘I don’t like killing things.’
‘You eat fish. And meat. And eggs.’
‘I know, but I don’t actually go out and club a baby lamb when there’s already a pack of chops in the freezer, do I?’
‘All right, point made. Go and get wood.’
‘But we don’t need a fire now.’
‘But we will later.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s cool at night.’
‘We’re sleeping outside?’
‘Is there yet another problem, Miss Maxwell?’
‘No,’ I said in the voice which means – yes.
He sighed even more heavily than usual. ‘We’ve been here ten minutes. No wood, no fire, no lunch. Remind me again how you survived three months in the Cretaceous.’
‘No fires, no cooking and no sleeping outside.’
There was a long, long silence.
‘What?’
‘Just go and get some wood!’
The reason I can’t deal with sympathy is because I never bloody get any.
I sat beside him on a blanket, leaning back against the warm rock. Ahead of me, the sea flashed and sparkled like a giant glitter ball. I closed my eyes and heard a glass clink.
‘Here.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Slivovitz.’
‘What?’
‘Plum brandy to you.’
‘What?’
‘Think of it as a kind of fruit drink.’
‘Great. I’ll put it towards my five a day.’
I sipped, got my breath back and listened to the enamel on my teeth erode. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. I said so.
‘Just don’t get it near any metal; and for God’s sake don’t spill it on the console.’
We sat sipping and silent.
‘How are you feeling?’
This required some thought. The standard ‘I’m fine,’ wasn’t going to cut it, but I still couldn’t talk about things in a non-wobbly voice. However, he’d brought me here to get myself together, so at least I should make an effort. I gave him an honest answer.
‘I’m better. I was … sad … when he died. Then angry with him, but now I’m back to sad again.’ I smiled. ‘It’s because I’m shallow. I can only do one emotion at a time and even that not for very long.’
He didn’t smile back. ‘You’re more generous than I think I would be.’
‘Yes, well, he’s dead and I’m not. If it was the other way around I’d probably be a bit miffed.’
‘So, what will you do now?’
‘I’ve got my presentation to Thirsk coming up so I’m concentrating on that for the time being.’
He drew a pat
tern in the dust. ‘No, I mean, will you stay?’
‘At St Mary’s? Yes, of course.’
He nodded.
‘Kal and I will probably share Peterson for a while and the new intake will be fully qualified before too long. So, not a problem I hope. I certainly don’t want to be anywhere else. This is my dream job.’
The pattern became more intricate. ‘Is that your only dream?’
‘I did warn you I’m shallow.’ Time to deflect attention from my dreams. ‘What about you? What’s your dream?’
‘Actually I’m living one of my favourites now.’
It was very quiet in the hot afternoon sun, just the chirp of insects and the distant sounds of the sea. ‘Only it hasn’t turned out quite as I intended.’
I chugged back more fruit drink and found some Dutch courage.
‘So what did you intend?’
‘I did think your first time here would be under happier circumstances. I thought we could watch the sun set.’
We both looked up at the sun, which remained obstinately high in the sky.
‘We would drink champagne.’
We both looked down at the gloop in our glasses.
‘And I thought maybe you would be cleaner.’
He leaned down, looked into my face and smiled gently. ‘And sober.’
‘Don’t worry. I think it’s perfect. And,’ said the Slivovitz, ‘there will be other dreams and other times.’
He took my hand. I rested my Slivovitzy head on his shoulder and fell asleep.
After we’d eaten I said, ‘So tell me about this Ronan. The one who …’ I found I couldn’t actually say, ‘… who killed Sussman,’ and changed it to ‘… back in the Cretaceous.’
He moved away from me slightly.
‘It happened before my time,’ he said and stopped. I sat quietly and waited. You couldn’t rush him. Eventually, he said, ‘I was brought in – afterwards.’
‘After what?’
Just when I began to think he might never speak again, he said, ‘There were three of them: Edward Bairstow, Annie Bessant and Clive Ronan. People said they were the dream team, but it was more like a triangle. Do you understand what I’m saying?’