by Jodi Taylor
‘Tim, what’s the matter?’
He had the thousand-yard stare that never bodes well. ‘Tim, look at me. Look at me.’ I took his cold hands. Finally, to my relief, his eyes focused on me, but he still looked half-blind. I knew what this was; one shock too many.
‘It’s OK, Tim. Just sit for a moment and I’ll make some tea. Or would you like me to fetch Helen?’ Who was going to have some explaining to do.
‘I never thought it would be you two. I thought you two were rock solid. I never thought he would … he could … When we were lost, before you came, he kept saying, “She will come. She will come.” He never doubted for one moment you would come. Sometimes, he said, “If she can’t come, she’ll send.” He believed. And I believed his belief.’
He swallowed. ‘I used to look at the four of us and think about who would go first. Obviously, Markham because of his hands and then I thought the Chief would be next because he would die defending him because that’s what he does and then Guthrie who would fight alongside the Chief and I would be the last one left and how would I feel? To be alone in that place? But he never lost his faith in you and when we heard your voice over the speakers he sat down on a rock and the tears just ran down his face and he said to me, “I knew she would come,” and knowing you both I would have bet my life that the two of you would be together for ever. And now, not forty-eight hours afterwards, to think … to say those things about you, to say them to you, in front of …’ He shook his head.
I gripped his hand more tightly. ‘It’s nothing, Tim. I don’t know what he was talking about …’
He shook his head again. ‘Yes you do. So do I.’
Yes, he did. As did Barclay, apparently. How? Why was Barclay talking to Farrell? Well, that was easy – she’d be making trouble. More to the point, why would he be talking to her? I was too tired to think about it.
We sat for a long time. I held his hand and gently rubbed his back. He sighed. ‘This is not about me.’
‘Nor me,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But shall we go and have one of our prescribed four meals a day?’
‘Why not? Give me ten minutes to wash my face and hands.’ I didn’t need ten minutes, but he did.
‘I’ll see you there,’ he said, getting stiffly to his feet. He paused for a moment. I grinned at him. ‘Get out of here.’
I tried to tidy myself up bit and clattered down the attic stairs to the landing. I was just passing Wardrobe when Whissell the Weasel stepped out and made me jump. I remembered he’d been part of my team in the Cretaceous – the one with the broken nose. It hadn’t improved his appearance any. And I remembered him from my training days as well. I’d never liked him and he knew it. A man who could legitimately describe his occupation as brain donor. I stopped and the small hairs on my neck began to rise. Instinct told me this was not good. Shit, shit, shit.
He stepped up close. ‘Slut!’
Oh God, did everyone in the unit know? How had this got round so quickly? Was this how it was going to be from now on?
‘Moron!’
‘What?’ he said, taken aback.
‘Sorry. Deaf moron!’
‘Bitch!’ Ah, we’d moved on. ‘All these years you acted like Little Miss Perfect. You were too good for the rest of us and now it turns out anyone can have you, Little Miss Slut.’
He grabbed my arm and pulled me into Wardrobe. My face bounced off the wall.
I’d been at St Mary’s for five years now. They’d never taught me to handle difficult personal relationships, but on the subject of attempted assault in any century you care to name – they’d bored on about that forever.
I waited until he caught hold of my jacket then stretched my arms behind me and pulled away. He found himself holding my empty jacket. I couldn’t match him for strength but I saw a sweeping brush within reach and that, I could do! I seized the broom handle and waded in. They say, ‘ A red mist descended …’ Well, it bloody well does. I was so angry. Boiling, red-hot, gut-churning angry. Something burst inside me like an angry sun. I just wanted to hurt somebody and here he was. Legitimate prey!
Eventually, breathless, I stepped back. He was swaying, but still on his feet. I stepped forward and punched him with my other hand, remembering to un-tuck my thumb this time. It still hurt though. He crashed to the ground. I nursed the pain and waited for him to get up.
Part of me was in shock and disbelief. This was St Mary’s for God’s sake. How could this happen? We were falling apart. The damage Barclay had done to this unit ran deep.
Abruptly, Peterson appeared beside me and he really looked like someone ready to do some damage. ‘What the hell …?’
All of a sudden, I’d had enough. I couldn’t stay here. These were people whose good opinion I valued and it had gone. All I’d wanted was to get back to St Mary’s. I would have sworn St Mary’s was in my bones, but now it was spoiled for ever. I was out of here. I reached over to a work table. There was a coffee mug full of pens and markers. I selected something indelible, knelt beside Weasel and wrote, I RESIGN, across his forehead and signed and dated it.
Peterson chuckled, stepped forward and took the marker from me. He wrote, ME TOO, on one cheek and signed and dated the other one, picked up my jacket and we walked out. We were half way down the stairs when he said, ‘Are you going to put that broom down anytime soon?’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘I’m not hungry. I’m going to the bar and I’m going to spend my last night at St Mary’s getting right, royally rat-arsed! Would you care to accompany me, Mr Peterson?’
‘An honour and a privilege, Miss Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can’t set some sort of record for alcohol abuse, disreputable behaviour and generally pissing people off.’
‘Well,’ I observed. ‘We’ve made a good start.’
‘Yes, but we can do even better. We just have to try harder.’
We entered the bar, radiating defiance and attitude and typically there was no one there apart from the bar staff. They eyed us uneasily. You’d think they’d never seen a woman clutching a broom before.
‘Now then,’ said Peterson to them. ‘We don’t work here any more, so you’re going to need to run a tab and we’ll settle up at the end of the evening, or more probably, the beginning of tomorrow morning. Margaritas for the lady and single malt for me. Keep them coming and I’ll sign the tabs.’
I protested.
‘Yeah, like you can even hold a pen. Come on.’
We found a table and got stuck in. I drank to drown the anger and betrayal. My own unit had rounded on me. More drinks arrived. Peterson signed, looked at me and ordered another round.
It was either late afternoon or early evening, depending on how you approached things. Given that Weasel must be in Sick Bay by now, the lack of senior staff coming to investigate was surprising. Still, give them time. They did have a knack for turning up just as St Mary’s was on the verge of meltdown. I took another long drink and felt it start to do me good.
‘Tim, you don’t have to do this, you know. This is my fight.’
‘What?’ He pretended horror. ‘You’re surely not leaving me here alone with all these big, rough boys?’
I looked at him. ‘Seriously.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do have to do this. Firstly, I haven’t forgotten what I owe you, even if others have. Fourthly, we’ve given ourselves to this bloody unit and asked for nothing in return. You needed someone today and where are they?’ He gestured round the empty room with the hand not holding a glass. ‘Thirdly, I’ve had a brilliant idea for making our fortunes and secondly, let’s see them run this place with no historians. Barclay tried it and look what happened to her. On a related subject I have to say, Max, I’ve never seen anyone knock two people senseless in one day. I swear it’s a pleasure to drink with you. Hey, drink-slingers, another two over here please!’
‘What’s Kal going to do when she arrives back and we’re gone?’
‘She will pause only to torch the place on her way out.’
‘But what about you and Helen?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll explain and give her an address. If she wants me she can find me.’
‘And Kal and Dieter?’
‘Max, you’re not responsible for all these people. We can all sort ourselves out. You concentrate on you. Drink up!’
So I drank up, sucked the salt off my bottom lip and the corners of the room blurred.
Others started to trickle in. They stared across at us, as well they might. I looked down at my blood splattered T-shirt. ‘It’s official. I now have nothing to wear.’ I sniffed and mopped my tender nose with my sleeve.
‘You’re such a class date,’ complained Peterson. ‘It’s a little late in the day, but should you be drinking with antibiotics?’
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I stopped taking them to make room for the booze.’
‘Fine grasp of priorities, that woman.’
‘So what’s this fantastic money-making scheme, then?’
‘Oh, yes, you’ll like this. We play to our strengths.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got any at the moment.’
‘Max, your presentations are legendary. That one you did on Agincourt for those school kids was epic.
‘I taught them the origins of flicking the V-sign. Did you see their teacher’s face?’
‘They loved it. They hung on your every word. You tailored it for your audience. It was just right – mud, blood, battles, violence and a big finish. They loved it. As they say now, “They were engaged”, which I always thought to mean something else completely, but maybe I’m getting old.’ He started to brood about getting old. I nudged him back to reality.
‘Oh, yes, look, what I’m saying is, let’s do this professionally. Get hold of the school curriculum and tailor presentations accordingly; fun and light-hearted for the youngsters, bloody and violent for teenagers, serious and scholarly for exam students. We’ll dress them in armour; we’re bound to be able to pick some up off eBay or ‘Rmour is us’ or something. We show them some weapons, teach them some moves. We’ll make some of them up to look as if they’ve got the plague, boils, buboes, pustules, you know. We’ve got a bit of cash between us; enough to get started, so we needn’t charge too much to begin with and then, when people see how good we are, we can put our prices up a bit. And let’s face it, between the pair of us, we’ve got more qualifications than you could throw a short peasant at. In fact, if you didn’t know us at all, you’d think we were quite respectable.’
He was really enthusiastic now. And actually, I quite liked the idea too. He carried on. ‘I can give archery demonstrations. We could cook medieval meals or provide a Roman menu for dinner parties. And not only schools, but private groups, societies, evening classes as well. Max, it’ll be fun. And we’ll be our own bosses. And we might even make a bit of money. Just think – history for profit.’
I kept my face very still and my hand very steady as I put down my glass. Inside my head my thoughts were racing. History for profit – was this how it started? Was I responsible for this ‘offshoot’ of St Mary’s that wreaked such havoc in the future? Did it start this innocuously? Two people forming an organisation that would grow to threaten both St Mary’s and the timeline itself and all because Tim and I had had a bad day and a good idea.
And what did I say to him? ‘Yes, it’s a fabulous idea, Tim, let’s do it,’ and trust myself to guide future events away from dangerous areas?
Or, ‘No Tim, let’s not,’ and then worry that he went it alone; or worse, started with someone else who didn’t have my foreknowledge? Or would it all happen regardless of any action I could take? Were we back to Calvin and predestination? Bloody hell, I was drunk!
We got in another round and Mrs Partridge wafted in. ‘Dr Bairstow’s compliments and could Miss Maxwell please join him at her earliest convenience?’
‘Miss Maxwell’s compliments,’ I slurred. ‘Owing to the copious amounts of alcohol consumed, it’s not only not convenient but probably well-nigh impossible, given the location of his office at the top of an outrageous number of stairs. Probably Miss Maxwell’s apologies would be more appropriate. How about tomorrow morning?’
‘Dr Bairstow is currently downstairs in the library,’ she informed me with considerable relish. Well, that solved that problem.
I helped Peterson to his feet and we set off at an angle. Mrs Partridge frowned at him. ‘For the purposes of this exercise,’ he said carefully, ‘you may regard Miss Maxwell and me as joined at the hip.’ We followed her disapproving back.
Not only was Dr Bairstow present, but Major Guthrie and Professor Rapson were there as well. They didn’t look good. We got sat down and the Boss opened the batting.
‘On behalf of the senior staff at St Mary’s I want to apologise to you, Miss Maxwell. This afternoon’s incident was inexcusable and that it should happen to you, today, is mortifying in the extreme. I hope you will accept our apologies.’
I murmured something.
‘You are very generous,’ he said, choosing to interpret that as acceptance. ‘I can assure you that after suitable treatment at the hands of Dr Foster (another one in Sick Bay, thanks to me. I was on a roll today!), Mr Whissell has been removed from the premises. I hope you will soon be able to put this matter behind you. You have my unequivocal assurance that, should you go or should you stay, nothing of a similar nature will ever happen to you again on this campus.’
He paused and sipped his drink. I didn’t dare look at Guthrie. If the Boss was mortified, God knows how he felt. Beside me, Peterson stirred.
‘I agree, Mr Peterson. But there were several reasons why I did not wish to intervene. Firstly, you both are capable of looking after yourselves. And you needed to get some things out of your systems. You see, you can’t just order people to get along. You’re not children,’ he said, in the teeth of all the evidence.
‘Now, concerning your resignations, I understand completely the reason why you feel compelled to leave, Miss Maxwell and why you, Mr Peterson, feel the need to support her. I am not, at the moment, going to try to dissuade either of you. No one should be making important decisions today. However, this unit needs to start pulling together again and for that I need you both. And Miss Black too, if I can induce her to return. I am, therefore, not accepting your resignations at this time. Should you feel the same way in say, three days, then if I cannot change your minds, I will accept them with regret. Do you agree?’
Cunning old bugger!
‘I think I speak for both of us,’ said Peterson slowly. ‘We can agree to those conditions. I think it only fair to tell you though, that Max and I have spent the evening discussing our future, to which, I have to say, we are both greatly looking forward. We both feel it’s time for new beginnings. We only tell you this, sir, so you’re not unprepared for our departure.’
Cunning young bugger! The words, ‘considerable pay rise,’ though unspoken, were up there in neon lights. To support him, I did my best to look less battered and more like someone with a rosy future.
The Boss wasn’t having any of it. ‘In three days you may feel differently. We’ll discuss it then.’ he said, slowly getting to his feet. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you take yourselves out of harm’s way. And get that hand looked at tomorrow, Miss Maxwell.’ He limped off to his coffin.
Behind him, Professor Rapson stretched and got to his feet. ‘Not our finest hour,’ he muttered. ‘I do hope the two of you decide to stay,’ and wandered off. This left Ian Guthrie, who looked exactly as you would expect Weasel’s boss to look.
I said, ‘It’s OK, Major.’
‘No,’ said Peterson angrily. ‘It’s not.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It’s not and I’m very sorry, Max.’ He left too. We watched him go.
‘I’m knackered,’ I said.
‘And me. I’m for my bed.’
And the day still wasn’t over.
We helped each ot
her up the stairs. We had to stop twice to re-coordinate various limbs and stop giggling. We were rendering Stairway to Heaven, giving it everything we’d got and, as we turned the corner, we tripped over the Chief, sitting at the bottom of the attic stairs, forearms on his knees, head bowed.
‘Aha!’ said Peterson, obviously itching to thump someone.
Farrell got to his feet. ‘I wonder if I might have a word, Miss Maxwell.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Peterson, belligerently. ‘Look at her. That’s what happened last time you had a word.’
How much longer could this day go on?
The Chief did something he rarely had to do. He gave a direct order. ‘Dismissed, Mr Peterson.’
Peterson snorted. ‘You’re behind the times, mate. We don’t work here any more. You’re the one who’s leaving, so just fuck off out of it, will you?’
‘You’ve resigned?’
‘In three days,’ I said, ‘Tim and I are out of here.’
‘But you can’t go.’
‘Yes, we can.’
‘I really must speak to you.’
‘You’re not listening,’ said Peterson. ‘Do I have to thump you?’
‘There’s no need for that. I’ve come to tell you I’m leaving too, so you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I’m applying to join the Space Programme.’ I spared a thought for the Boss, who wasn’t having the best day staff-wise. ‘I just wanted to …’ he tailed off. He didn’t know what he’d just wanted to.
Peterson turned to me. ‘This is up to you.’
‘I’ll be OK. He looks as if one good puff of wind would have him over.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘What else can happen today?’ I said, getting that wrong too.
He looked mutinous, but nodded. He looked dead on his feet. I said, ‘Why don’t you go and find Helen?’