by Jodi Taylor
‘Thank you for making us feel so welcome.’
He flashed me a brief smile. ‘Not at all, Dr Maxwell. Would you like to give me a gentle cough now?’
I closed my eyes. Doctors. I hate them.
Leon remained unconscious. I spent as much time with him as they would allow me. He hadn’t woken up next to me for a long time and I was determined I would be there when he eventually opened his eyes. He lay motionless, barely visible through all the equipment surrounding him. Occasionally he seemed to sigh. I held his hand and waited.
Two days later they told me I was much better. I could barely move and barely breathe so this was obviously some Time Police definition of the word better – as in ‘not actually dead’. I was commanded to exercise and there was no arguing with them, so twice a day I allowed myself to be pried away from Leon’s bedside to roam the corridors, keeping my eyes peeled in case I came across anything that could be used against them in the future. Because, of course, they were just the sort of organisation to leave top-secret stuff lying around where any prying historian could get her hands on it, weren’t they?
Anyway, I was shuffling painfully down yet another anonymous beige corridor, worrying about Leon, when two officers appeared, walking towards me. The corridor wasn’t wide enough for all three of us abreast and since it was obvious I had the manoeuvrability of a super-tanker with the handbrake on, they were going to have to step aside for me.
As I limped past, I heard one of them say, ‘Bloody St Mary’s – they think they own the place.’
I stopped dead.
There are those who say that violence is never the answer. Apparently, having a massive punch-up is not the mature way forward. The response to any sort of conflict, they say, is a fair-minded discussion in which both sides are able to state their grievances in an attitude of tolerance and non-judgmental what-not. All parties are supposed to discuss their feelings and agree a solution. According to these people – who, let’s face it, are not normal – conflict resolution should proceed thusly:
Giant, scarred, muscle-bound Time Police officer: I am upset that so many St Mary’s personnel are currently in our building. It makes me feel threatened and afraid.
Small and only slightly less scarred St Mary’s historian: I recognise and understand your feelings. I am upset that my husband is possibly dying and your hostility makes me feel vulnerable.
TP: I regret my attitude has caused you to react in this manner. Your feelings are understandable and I will endeavour to keep my insecurities in check.
St Mary’s: I am grateful for your endeavours. I accept the validity of your feelings and will keep my appearances to a minimum. Perhaps later we could embark together upon a session of meditation and relaxation to embrace feelings of mutual tolerance and respect.
TP: I endorse your suggestion and would like to offer you this small phial of lavender and tea-tree oil which I find to be extremely beneficial in times of stress. I am also in possession of a mantra which, when chanted regularly, induces feelings of great calm and tranquillity.
St Mary’s: I am most grateful for this show of understanding and pleased that a resolution to this conflict has been proposed. I look forward to joining you later.
TP: Would you like to borrow my leg-warmers?
St Mary’s: What a kind thought. Which way is the bar?
And then, of course, there’s the proper way of doing things.
I spun – well, lurched – around and was in his face, demanding to know what his problem was.
He replied that I, along with every other member of St Mary’s, was his problem and that every time he turned around there was another of us scuttling along the corridor. Like rats.
I replied that we were here only because the Time Police make such a piss-boiling cock-up of everything they touch that they need St Mary’s to sort it all out for them.
Any reservations he might have had about thumping an injured historian went straight out of the window. They were closely followed by any sensible qualms I might have had about taking on two enormous, state-sponsored bullies while in less than perfect health myself. We squared up to each other. I was all set to go. My boys were upstairs in pieces, and now the god of historians had presented me with two of the people responsible for that, an empty corridor, and just the sort of mood to do some damage. I take back everything I’ve ever said about the god of historians. As deities go – top banana!
Fortunately for all of us, at that moment the lift door opened revealing Captain Ellis on the threshold with Matthew at his side.
Damn and blast. Obviously, I didn’t want Matthew to see his mother brawling in public. We all stepped back, held a small competition to see who could summon the falsest smile, while making it absolutely clear that hostilities had only ceased because of the presence of a senior officer and a small boy, and began to edge past each other.
‘Are they going to shoot Mummy again?’ piped Matthew. I thought I detected a slight note of anticipation.
‘No one’s shooting anyone,’ said Ellis reassuringly, and stared across at his men, who said nothing but managed to convey their disappointment at this sad state of affairs.
‘Where are you off to?’ I said, donning my mother hat.
‘Time Map,’ said Matthew simply, obviously losing interest now he’d ascertained no one was about to shoot Mummy.
Ellis just grinned. They disappeared around a corner, the officers cast me unloving looks, and I pushed off while I still could.
Obviously someone had a word with Commander Hay. I suspect she had a word with Dr Bairstow. Who turned up to have a word with me. Apparently, we were all to be shipped back to St Mary’s. Even the still unconscious Leon. I think it was felt that relations between our two organisations would be immeasurably improved if we saw much less of each other for a while. A bit like marriage, I suppose. Anyway, mutual relief at seeing the back of each other caused us all to be quite civil to each other and, by the end of the week, we were back at St Mary’s. I felt better at once, although Dr Bairstow warned me that any fighting in the corridors would result in his extreme displeasure. I was so happy to be home that I was easily able to ignore the injustice of his comments and just smiled and nodded.
I wasn’t around when Hunter and Markham were reunited, but I was sitting with Guthrie when Peterson and Grey turned up.
‘Just like old times again,’ slurred Markham from beneath his mass of flexi-bandages and tubes. Very little of him was visible, which Peterson said was a huge improvement, and had he considered making this his permanent look.
I thought he looked like a badly wrapped Egyptian mummy, and Guthrie, speaking in a painful whisper, likened him to one of those adverts for toilet paper, except the puppy did it better.
Peterson was pinning a sign above Guthrie’s bed.
Here lies One-eyed Guthrie, twinned with Cyclops, Nick Fury, Mad-Eye Moody, Rooster Cogburn, Odin and Horatio Nelson.
When he was satisfied it was level, he climbed down off the chair, put a very brief hand on Guthrie’s shoulder, and went off to sit with Markham.
Grey, confronted with the wreck that was Guthrie, sat wordless, silent tears pouring down her cheeks. If – when – Leon ever opened his eyes, I was going to be at least as bad. I felt so sorry for her, but any sympathy would just push her right over the edge. And maybe the rest of us, too. Guthrie looked at me through his bandages, appealing for help.
I nodded.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he said to her, carefully not noticing her tears. He had to turn his head to see me as well. ‘I’m less clear about you, but that just about sums up our working relationship.’
I beamed at him. ‘I’m visiting the sick.’
He nodded over to Leon, still asleep in his cubicle and still surrounded by medical machinery. ‘Don’t you have your own sick to visit?’
‘He’s not awake yet.’
‘He’s not stupid, is he? If I’d known that I would find you crouched at my bedside, then I
wouldn’t have woken up either.’
‘Hey, I’m sick too, you know.’
‘That is pretty much the consensus. Both here and at Time Police HQ.’
‘Aren’t sick people supposed to be saintly and patient? That’s where the word comes from.’
‘I’ve worked with you for more years than I care to remember. On at least three separate occasions that I can remember, I have had to exercise the greatest self-control to refrain from shooting you. I have also not stabbed you, poisoned you, drowned you, or pushed you out of a window. And don’t think that last one wasn’t a struggle. I have, at all times, conducted myself with the greatest professional decorum. I’ve never even boxed your ears and I can’t begin to describe what a temptation that’s been. So yes, saintly exactly describes me.’
‘Actually, I meant the word patient.’
‘I work with historians. Patience is a given.’
‘Hey,’ said Grey, who had used the time to get herself under control and wipe her eyes. ‘I’m an historian too, you know.’
He took her hand. ‘One makes allowances for the woman one loves.’
She smiled mistily at him. He smiled back.
I told them I was departing in search of a sick bag and struggled to get up.
‘Need a hand?’ said Peterson.
‘I’m fine. I can do it.’
‘You should let others help,’ said Markham, veteran of more than his fair share of hospital treatment. ‘No man is an island.’
Peterson wheeled around to face him. ‘When did you read John Donne?’
‘Just now,’ he said, nodding at the small leatherbound book on his bedside table.
‘No,’ said Peterson, firmly. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough. Where were you educated?’
‘School – same as everyone else.’
‘And then?’
‘More bloody school,’ Markham said feelingly. ‘I mean – it just went on and on.’
‘Which school?’
He shifted in his bed, radiating all the righteous discomfort of one who nearly died for the cause and is determined to cash in on that. ‘Oh, all sorts. Can’t remember the names of most of them. I think you should all go away now. I’m feeling rather weak, you know.’
‘Tell me the truth and I will,’ said Peterson commandingly. ‘Are you married or not?’
‘He’s married?’ said Grey in astonishment, twisting in her chair to look at him. ‘To whom?’
‘Hunter,’ I said.
‘You’re kidding. Although actually, now I come to think of it…’ She paused, considering.
‘If you say our children will be both smart and beautiful then I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ warned Markham.
‘You’re not responsible for your actions anyway,’ said Peterson scathingly. ‘Max, we’re going to get to the bottom of this. You hold him down and I’ll punch his head.’
Markham painfully pulled the bedclothes up to his chin. ‘Why is it so dark? Am I slipping away? Is that you, mother?’
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Hunter from the doorway. Dr Stone stood with her. I had a nasty feeling they’d been there for some time. Certainly long enough to hear Peterson threaten one of their patients with violence.
Markham reached out a trembling hand to her. ‘Save me.’
‘You’re never going to believe this, but Max was about to beat up a helpless patient,’ said Peterson, displaying the qualities that would take him to the very top of the management tree. Along with all the other monkeys.
‘I am frequently appalled at the horrifying levels of violence displayed at St Mary’s,’ said Dr Stone. ‘Everyone who isn’t a patient should leave now. That includes you, Maxwell.’
‘I’m a patient,’ I said, miffed at my loss of status.
‘You’re only a former patient,’ said Dr Stone to me. ‘You’ve been downgraded to convalescent. Go away and stop harassing the sick people.’
‘You can’t harass Markham – it’s not possible. We’re just trying to find out if he’s married to Hunter or not.’
Hunter wheeled on him. ‘You’re telling people we’re married?’
‘I really don’t feel at all well. I think I may have been overdoing things. I’m quite badly injured, you know.’
She was glaring at him, hands on hips.
‘Why are you telling people we’re married?’
‘Note,’ whispered Peterson to me. ‘She’s not denying it. A little courage and strength of purpose and we’ll finally get to the bottom of this, Max. Take your cue from me.’
She swung around to him. ‘Why are you still here?’
He quailed. ‘I – er – um – we…’
‘Don’t you want to be married to me?’ quavered Markham, piteously.
Heads swung back to Hunter. Who paused.
Markham was grinning at her over the bedclothes.
She glared back at him and he just grinned some more. Asking for trouble.
‘You can wipe that stupid smile off your face right now.’
‘Go on then, tell them we’re not married.’
She went to speak, paused and looked at him.
He returned her stare in what he probably thought was a beguiling manner.
Apart from Leon’s machines, the ward was very quiet.
She folded her arms. ‘I’m not saying anything about marriage, but I’ll tell you this for nothing – our child is going to be both smart and beautiful.’
‘Well, of course it will be,’ he said smugly, and then stopped.
I saw the exact moment realisation dawned. ‘Wait. What? What did you say?’
He tried to sit up, hurt himself and fell back on his pillows again with a cry of pain. I thought everyone would rush to help, but no one was looking at him. For some reason, everyone was staring over my shoulder. At the same time, one of Leon’s many machines began to beep. For a second, I didn’t get it. And then I did.
I turned slowly, half in hope, half in fear. It was Schrödinger’s Cat all over again. I remember I moved very slowly. Everything was happening very slowly. I looked at Leon. Waiting for the realities to collide. To know … I was trembling all over. I remember someone putting their arms around me to hold me up. My legs were going. I couldn’t take it in. Because suddenly, I did know.
Leon had opened his eyes.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks to Dr Alan Greaves BA MA PhD from the University of Liverpool for his company over lunch and for allowing me to pick his brains concerning buried artefacts. Any mistakes are all mine.
And to Sian Grzeszczyk who so graciously allowed me to use her surname as an inspiration for Max’s eye test.
More thanks to Jan and Mike for their hospitality.
Thanks to the world’s newest superhero, Editwoman, who patiently answers questions ranging from the use of coffins at funerals, to how to spell the plural of willy, where the hyphen goes in baboon-buggering son, and the difference between otic conflagration and aural conflagration. Not a lot of people know that. I certainly didn’t.
The Nothing Girl
Getting a life isn’t always easy. And hanging on to it is even harder.
Known as The Nothing Girl because of her stutter, disregarded by her family, isolated and alone, Jenny Dove’s life is magically transformed by the appearance of Thomas, a mystical golden horse only she can see. Under his loving guidance, Jenny acquires a husband – the charming and chaotic Russell Checkland – together with an omnivorous donkey and The Cat From Hell.
Jenny’s life will never be the same again, but a series of ‘accidents’ leads her to wonder for how long she will be allowed to enjoy it.
Hailed as a fairy tale for adults, Jodi Taylor brings all her comic writing skills to a heart-warming and delightful story.
For more information about Jodi Taylor
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Ac
cent Press Ltd 2017
www.accentpress.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Accent Press 2016
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2016
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of
Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786152398
eISBN 9781682995969