JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

by Jodi Taylor

  I followed the same format for all the categories. I outlined the requirements, described the methodology and congratulated them on the reliability of their equipment. I brought up a few stills from the star map, just enough to wet their appetite, then moved tantalisingly on to geology and climate. Again, just as they became interested I switched to flora and fauna. I showed them how to access the raw data. Nothing had been worked up and no conclusions drawn. Not our job.

  I gestured to the piles of disks, cubes and tapes on the table beside me and formally handed them over to the appropriate heads of departments who had been slathering impatiently for the last twenty minutes. Out of compassion for them I’d kept it as brief as I could and I appreciated they wanted to get at it, but I wanted to be sure St Mary’s got the credit it deserved.

  I asked ‘Any questions?’

  Someone stood up (primed by the Chancellor, I suspected) and said, ‘Yes, but what was it actually like?’

  There would never be a better opportunity. Before I could respond, the Chancellor rose to her feet and said, ‘This way please, everyone.’ Muttering and looking longingly back over their shoulders to the piles of data on her table, they complied.

  The Lecture Hall was massive. On the downside, of course, given the seating capacity, I could be embarrassing myself in front of millions. The Chief had already erected and aligned the streamers, three down one side and three down the other. Every chair was taken. Standing room at the back was packed. They contravened Fire Regs and sat on the floor in the aisles. If this place caught fire, not only were they all doomed, but two of St Mary’s finest were going up in flames as well. Better than going down in flames, I suppose. I swallowed and wondered again whether I’d suit an office job.

  The Chancellor introduced us, to a polite smattering of applause. We had a minute’s silence for Sussman. She sat down. Here we go.

  The lights went out, the blinds automatically covered the windows and the streamers came on line.

  I said, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, utilising the very latest technology developed at St Mary’s, I present to you: A Typical Day in the Cretaceous Period.’

  The opening scenes came up and to gratifying gasps of amazement the Alamosaurus head snaked down and looked the Chancellor directly in the eye. All credit to her, she took it well.

  They’d forgotten all about me, so I sat down and watched them watch the holo. My commentary went down well although, honestly, I’m not sure how much they actually heard. They shouted with surprise as each species made its debut appearance and after that it was chaos. I watched them scramble over each other and the furniture trying to get better views. A hundred arguments broke out around the hall as cherished theories were mercilessly amended, embellished or discarded.

  I watched in amused horror as a great dinosaur dollop apparently enveloped a group of venerable academics arguing in the corner.

  ‘Oh, I say,’ murmured the Chancellor. ‘All over the Senior Faculty!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, they’ve been trying to do that to me for years. Jolly well done.’

  ‘Always happy to oblige, ma’am.’

  ‘My compliments to Dr Bairstow. Tell him the cheque’s in the post.’

  They loved it and us, as they bloody well should. We’d scored a huge PR success for St Mary’s. The Boss had asked me to be polite, so I talked to everyone, gave out my card and promised St Mary’s would be on hand to answer any queries that might arise concerning data collection. Finally, we found ourselves in the car park.

  We chucked our jackets on the now empty back seat and I settled myself in the front as we drove slowly away.

  I stared out of the window, still on a high. They’d liked it. It had gone well. I hadn’t embarrassed myself or St Mary’s. I couldn’t ask for more. Now I could draw a line under recent events and legitimately take a bit of time off. I would go for long rides, eat chocolate, do some painting, catch up on my reading and generally laze around a bit. The assignment was all over and I could relax. I decided to start by just looking out of the window, admiring the scenery and enjoying the ride home.

  After two miles I was bored.

  I looked around the car for something to do and obviously, the first thing I saw was Chief Farrell. I let my gaze wander a little. He’d rolled up his sleeves over his forearms. Heaving huge lumps of pod around every day had given him great arms. Great hands too. Even as I looked, he turned. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said happily.

  He yawned.

  ‘Would you like me to drive for a bit?’

  ‘No. I choose life.’

  ‘That’s a little bit unkind, Chief.’

  ‘Miss Maxwell, I have every respect for your many abilities. You are a talented and passionate historian, a skilful artist and a fierce and loyal friend. You are warm, compassionate, smart, funny and incredibly sexy. You are also the world’s worst driver. Ever. God knows how you passed your driving test. I can only assume the examiner was so dazzled by your beauty that he ticked the ‘pass’ box before you even put the keys in the ignition.’

  A couple of heart-thumping seconds passed before I was able to say, ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, his eyes on the road.

  ‘And if you pull over now, I’ll give you the blow-job of a lifetime.’

  We hit a tree.

  The only sound was the ticking engine. I got out to survey the damage. ‘Well, for crying out loud, Chief!’

  He clambered out and buried his head in his arms on the car roof. I looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you hurt?’

  He lifted his head, sighed and pulled out his phone. ‘Dieter! Yes, crank up the low-loader will you? We’ve had an accident. No, we’re fine. About three miles out, on the Whittington road, just before the crossroads. Yes, at the top of the hill. About half an hour, then. OK.’ He snapped the phone shut and walked round the car undoing his trousers.

  ‘You. No more messing about. Across the bonnet of this car. Right here, right now.’

  Before I could move he lifted me bodily and tossed me across the bonnet. It was hard and hot. So was he. He pushed my skirt up around my hips and tore off my knickers. I really didn’t know that could happen. I don’t know where they went. I never saw them again. He slipped two fingers inside and, satisfied, pushed himself into me – hard. It should have been brutal, but it wasn’t. I arched up to meet him, wanting every inch, wrapping my stockinged legs around his waist and pushing hard against him. We crashed together and I felt heat building in and around me. His hands were all over me, rough and urgent. I moaned and this galvanised him further, thrusting harder and faster. It hurt, but it was glorious and I couldn’t have stopped to save my life. I pulled up his shirt and raked my fingernails across his back. He gasped and groaned, but didn’t stop. I bit his neck and he took my head between his hands and kissed me, tongue pushing its way into my mouth, matching the rhythm of our bodies. I could hear a wailing noise, rising in crescendo and volume. Oh God, it was me. I twisted my hands in his hair and pushed back, matching him all the way. He whispered, ‘Lucy,’ and as soon as he said it, I was away, heaving and shuddering and gasping as wave after wave broke over me, increasing in frequency and strength. I couldn’t stop, all control gone, totally abandoned, lost in a sea of sensation and pleasure, until my body convulsed, a scream ripping from between my clenched teeth. He pushed again and again, prolonging the moment endlessly until, with a series of harsh, inarticulate cries, he shuddered and collapsed across me. I could feel him inside, pulsing over and over, as he finally released himself and we both slowly came down together.

  Eventually, he lifted himself up and looked down at me. I sprawled across the bonnet, breasts exposed, skirt around my waist, legs spread wide. My hair had come down and hung over my face.

  He rested his weight on his hands and tried to catch his breath. Slowly, he withdrew and straightened up. ‘Dear God.’

  I struggled to breathe. I pushed my hair off my face and looked up thr
ough the green and gold dappled sunshine to the blue sky above.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Let me help you,’ and he did, helping me sit up. He pulled down my bra and tucked in my shirt. He was slow and careful and very gentle. His hands shook so badly I had to button his shirt for him, so we took care of each other. Finally, we were presentable. Not decent. We would never be decent again.

  I slid down off the bonnet and cast a quick glance around, wanting to make sure my knickers weren’t hanging off a nearby tree. He caught and steadied me. Still experiencing aftershocks, I was almost unable to stand.

  We sat together on a nearby log, his arm around me. He gently kissed my hair as I twisted it back into shape.

  ‘Do I look all right?’

  ‘Not in any way. You look wanton and dishevelled and knicker-less and outrageously desirable. I’m a lost man.’

  I put my hand on his cheek and he leaned into it, turned his head and kissed my palm.

  ‘Can we do that again?’

  ‘Well, I think I can hear the low-loader, so you might want to hold off until we get back home, but I warn you, I’m not finished with you. I want you again. And again.’

  I drew a sharp breath and for a moment, lost my place in the world.

  Dieter arrived. He jumped down and we went to meet him.

  ‘Are you two OK?’ he asked. ‘Because you don’t look it. Bloody hell, Max, sit down will you. You too, Chief. I think you’re both in shock.’

  ‘No, we’re fine.’

  ‘You crashed the Boss’s Bentley, Max. I’d develop shock if I were you; and severe internal injuries. It’s the only thing that will save you.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the Chief. ‘I was driving.’

  Dieter winced. ‘You crashed the car? What happened?’

  ‘Deer,’ I said quickly. They both looked at me. ‘A deer ran across the road. We swerved. Missed the deer. Hit the tree. We could have been killed. Neat bit of driving. Good job it wasn’t me. We’d be a ball of flame by now.’

  The Chief rolled his eyes and folded his arms.

  Dieter said, ‘A deer? At four o’clock in the afternoon?’

  ‘It was confused,’ I offered.

  ‘It’s not the only one. Did you bang your head?’

  ‘Not my head, no.’

  ‘Get your stuff,’ said Dieter, ‘I’ll start the winch.’

  ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No thanks, Chief. Perhaps you’d better get Max on board.’ He grinned. ‘You both look pretty shagged out to me.’

  So we did as we were told and climbed into the cab.

  We were all quiet on the way back. Word had got round and a small, jeering crowd met us at the hangar doors. No sign of the Boss. He would be off somewhere organising our P45s.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said Dieter, walking round the front of the vehicle. He opened the passenger door and helped me down.

  ‘Doctor Foster says to go straight up,’ said Polly and I groaned. God Almighty, was there no respite?

  Helen, thank God, didn’t mess about. ‘No blood, no pain, no fractures. Chief, as the marginally more sensible one here, watch out for pallor, shaking, decreased physical co-ordination and loss of consciousness.’

  ‘Already had that!’ I muttered and got a nudge.

  ‘Of course, Doctor, pallor, shaking, unconsciousness – got it.’

  ‘Go away now. I think the Boss wants you. Before you go, Maxwell, a word.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside.’ He closed the door behind him.

  ‘What’s up, doc?’

  She looked unusually serious. ‘I need you to answer this question honestly and completely. It’s important. This has serious implications.’

  I felt uneasy. ‘What?’

  She looked at me sternly. ‘Have you just had intercourse?’

  I threw caution to the winds. ‘Not so much intercourse as such. More like full-blown, in your face, head-banging, shrieking, shuddering, mind-blowing sex that’s probably illegal in many parts of the known world. Why? Are there medical implications?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing to do with that. It’s just there’s an awful lot of money changing hands in this building even as we speak and I want to be sure I get mine off Peterson.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say, shut it, blushed, swallowed and opened it again.

  ‘You’re speechless, aren’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good, that’s an extra tenner Peterson owes me. You can go now.’

  We left. Emerging from the lift I went to turn left, back to the main building but he caught my arm and pushed me across the foyer. To the paint store! We were going to the paint store! We were almost running when we hit his pod door and then we were inside and safe.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Get them off now.’ I was pulling off my jacket when the world went white. I knew where we were; somewhere quiet and private five thousand years ago where noise didn’t matter.

  We didn’t make it outside. Up against a wall inside the pod, outside on a blanket, outside off the blanket, outside up against a tree; the man was a machine. They say the quiet ones are the worst. Take it from me, the quiet ones are the best.

  Hours later, night fell. I knew how it felt. We wound down to a halt.

  ‘No more,’ he gasped. ‘For God’s sake, woman, leave me alone.’

  I put my head on his chest and felt his heart race. We were in a sorry state, sweaty, covered in dust, bruised and scratched. I’d never felt better. He got to his feet and came back with a bottle of wine and a mug. We shared. I was parched and grateful.

  ‘Should we be getting back?’

  ‘I can’t take you back looking like that. You look like a fallen angel.’

  ‘I didn’t fall – I was pushed.’

  He tightened his arm and bent to kiss me. ‘Please, no.’ I whispered. ‘I can barely walk as it is.’

  ‘Not one for the road?’

  I looked down. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t you have an off switch?’

  ‘Not anytime in the last four years. You have no idea how often I’ve thanked God for baggy jumpsuits!’

  ‘Really?’ I didn’t know I could do that!

  ‘Right from the moment I met you. You stood on the stairs with the sun in your hair and smiled at me and I was lost from that moment.’

  I stretched up and kissed him. ‘Can I trust you in a shower?’

  ‘You’ll be warm, wet and slippery. There will be soapy hands. What do you think?’

  It took hours to get out of the shower. We’d probably be there still if the tank hadn’t emptied. Slowly, we got ourselves ready for the here and now and finally, suited and booted, we returned, no more than half an hour after we left and made our way to the Boss’s office.

  He congratulated me on my presentation. Thirsk had obviously contacted him, telling him all about it and singing our praises. ‘Satisfactory,’ was the exact word used, so he was obviously pleased. He didn’t mention the car.

  ‘Saved your bacon there,’ I said as we left. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘So much. Give me a minute. I’ll see you in the bar.’

  Pushing open the heavy vestibule door I could hear the racket immediately. Either they were re-enacting the battle at Marathon or there was another massive punch up in the bar.

  This happens occasionally.

  Every section, rightly or wrongly, regards itself as the most important at St Mary’s. I don’t know why, since it’s obviously the History Department that runs the show, but techies and security and occasionally R & D always fail to recognise this and someone says something unfortunate, sometimes accidentally, but usually not and away we all go.

  From the doorway I could see this was no ordinary bar fight. This was a riot. Orange, black, green and occasionally blue bodies struggled, locked together, rolling on the floor, cursing, shouting and flailing wildly at each other. Glasses shattered and furniture overturned. The bar staff were yelling for o
rder.

  I pushed my way through the watchers and eggers-on and looked for an opening. Dieter and Markham rolled free, struggled to their feet and squared up to each other. Given their respective sizes, it was rather like a chipmunk hurling itself at Mount Everest.

  Without thinking, (there’s a first!) I tried to get between them and push them apart and Dieter, already swinging a fist the size of a small armchair, caught me just below the eye and knocked me to the ground. He did pull it at the last moment, but, even so, it still hurt.

  But at least the fighting stopped while everyone waited to see what would happen next. Typical. The least they could have done was carry on trying to kill each other and given me the time to get myself together again.

  I wobbled to my feet and tried to pull my skirt down.

  ‘You’re not supposed to hit girls,’ said Markham provocatively. ‘It’s not polite.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Max,’ said Dieter, horrified (as well he might be). ‘I’m sorry.’

  My instinct was to deck him and blacken at least one of his eyes so we could have a matching set. His and Hers. I used the anger.

  ‘What the fuck do you fuckwits think you’re playing at?’

  No one answered but no one looked particularly contrite either. This was going to re-ignite at any minute and at any minute the Boss could walk in and after Bentley Trauma he wouldn’t be in the best of moods. Taking a deep breath, I moved between the opposing groups; a buffer zone with a black eye.

  ‘Well, let’s just have a guess what’s going on here, shall we? Some prat told the “How do you raise the intelligence level of a pod? Take out the historian,” joke. And then some smart arse said, “How many techies does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but you need a lot of light bulbs!” and someone else didn’t find that funny and then some other joker showed his ID to the dog rather than the security guy because everyone knows the dog’s the one with the brains and the next thing is you’re all kicking seven shades of shit out of each other.’