1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (21 page)

‘I understand your motives, but he has a right to know.’      

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘How would you feel if it was the other way around?’

‘He need never know.’

‘Losing a child is nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I only knew I was pregnant for about twenty minutes and he never knew at all. I don’t think it qualifies.’ Even to me that sounded hollow.

‘What if he finds out?’

‘How can he?’ I looked at her hard.

‘Think this over very carefully, Max. It’s not just you who’s involved here.’

She stood up and then hesitated. I waited. She was hopeless at this sort of thing. Without looking at me, she said awkwardly, ‘Thanks for bringing him back.’

‘You’re welcome, Helen,’

She changed the subject. ‘Your clothes are here. We’ll wash them if you like and you can go back in a dressing gown.’

‘No thanks. This is literally all I have in the world.’

‘Mrs Partridge and I saved some of your stuff. She’ll be along to see you later. So what’s it to be; your custody or mine?’

‘Mine,’ I said, and reached for my clothes.

Back in my old room I put the Horse on the empty shelf and the photo next to the bed. I was home again. I was back where I belonged. Around me I could hear St Mary’s getting on with the day. Doors opened and closed; people called out to each other. The floorboards in my room creaked as the radiator warmed up. I sniffed – they’d had curry for lunch. This time last week, being back at St Mary’s was all I had wanted. A lot had happened in the last week. Why wasn’t I happier?

I lay on my couch and everyone turned up at once. Peterson, liberated from Sick Bay, arrived first with two cardboard boxes. ‘Some of your books,’ he said. ‘How do you organise them?’

‘By order of enjoyment.’

‘Yes, that’s helpful.’

‘Fiction goes on the top shelf, alphabetically, and everything else underneath in chronological order.’

‘Apparently various people grabbed bits of your stuff before Barclay got in here. Helen got your books and Kal got some of your clothes. It’s all slowly on its way back to you.’

Mrs Partridge was hard on his heels, clutching folders and trailing a printout.

‘Miss Maxwell, there is some paperwork to work through here.’ She sniffed and looked around the room. ‘I really think you should do your laundry.’

‘Before we start,’ I interrupted. ‘I want to thank you for saving those two items for me. They mean a great deal to me. Thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome, Miss Maxwell. Shall we make a start? Now then, Dr Bairstow has approved the following expenditure. Firstly, unfair dismissal; you were inappropriately dismissed and the correct procedures were not adhered to. Secondly, there are subsistence payments for your period outside the unit. Thirdly, there is compensation for your illegally seized belongings and computer. I’m sorry we couldn’t save your artwork; it was all destroyed. Your computer has been sterilised and even the operating system is gone, I’m afraid. Fourthly, back pay from your day of dismissal to today, the date of your reinstatement.’

I said, ‘Um, isn’t there a bit of a discrepancy here? You can’t compensate me for dismissal and at the same time say I was on the payroll. Surely, it’s one or the other? And you’ve paid me at the wrong rate as well.’

Listen to me telling Mrs Partridge she’d made a mistake. Death-wish Maxwell, they call me.

She said evenly, ‘No, I believe Dr Bairstow’s figures are correct.’

‘But …’

‘They are quite correct, Miss Maxwell.’

‘But …’

‘Just sign, Max,’ said Peterson. ‘I’ve got a similar deal. Not as generous as yours but good enough. You’ve lost more than anyone else. Just smile and sign.’

This was the Boss. This was the Boss doing what he could to put things right. I looked at the column of figures. The total was huge; too huge. I shook my head and said, ‘But, Mrs Partridge …’

The door crashed back into my already pock-marked wall and Chief Farrell was suddenly in the room. He looked terrible. Even worse than when I’d left him a couple of hours ago. His face was haggard with purple-green shadows under his eyes, which were dark and glittery. I took a breath to speak but never got the words out. I realised with a sick lurch to my stomach that he knew. Somehow he knew and he was angry. No, beyond angry. I’d made a big, big mistake.

He interrupted me. His voice shook and I realised with a twist of fear that he was losing control and this was going to be ugly. It came out in an Exorcist-style rasp. My chest tightened.

‘When were you going to tell me? I thought we’d got past all this, but obviously we haven’t. You’re never going to change, are you? I’ve just been wasting my time with you. Why didn’t you tell me?’

I should say something. He paused to draw breath and there was an infinitesimal window of opportunity, but no words came. Peterson and Mrs Partridge seemed paralysed.

‘You weren’t ever going to tell me, were you? You can’t even talk to me now. What is it with you? Anyone would think – oh, I see, of course. How stupid do you think I am? I see it now. It wasn’t mine. Whose was it? What about you, Peterson? Was it yours? You two are pretty close. Oh, no, of course not. It was fucking Sussman’s wasn’t it? You never had eyes for anyone but that worthless piece of shit. And you were going to pass it off as mine, but luckily you lost it, so you didn’t need to mention it at all. And no one else was going to tell me. I had to hear it from Barclay. You called her a bitch. Well, it takes one to know one.’

He spun on his heel and was gone, taking all the air in the room with him. My world crashed around my head. Somehow, I got myself together and took a deep breath. The centre held. I could function.

I turned to Mrs Partridge and said lightly, ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten where you wanted me to sign. Can you show me again please?’

She silently pointed and I moved the pen blindly. Half the signature ended up on the table-top, but she made no comment. She gathered up her papers, caught my eye, said quietly, ‘Do your laundry, Miss Maxwell,’ and left, closing the door behind her. I turned to look at Peterson who sat among my books, looking like Lot’s wife.

‘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 for ever.

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?’