1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (22 page)

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 other 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?’

He nodded and sighed. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Tim – thanks.’

He glowered at the Chief. ‘Don’t take any crap from him,’ and wandered unsteadily away.

I managed to get myself up the stairs and into my room. It was still a bit of a shock to see how bare it looked. I’d made the bed and my smelly sports bag lay in the corner. I heard Mrs Partridge. ‘Do your laundry, Miss Maxwell!’ My books still littered the floor where Peterson had left them.

I didn’t sit down. I stood in the middle of the room so he would make it quick, folded my arms and said, ‘How can I help you?’

He leaned a hip against the couch for support and seemed unsure what to say. I hated this. I didn’t want any more messy emotions or feelings. Just get it over with. But he didn’t, so I said, ‘Chief, I can understand why you want to go. I want to leave myself. We both need a new beginning. It was fun, but it was a mistake and I can see now why the Boss discourages workplace relationships. Surely we don’t have to make this any more difficult than it is. I’m sorry you feel you have to go. St Mary’s loss is the Space Programme’s gain. I hope, not too far into the future, you’ll be able to look back at – everything – and find a few happy memories.’

OK, not my best, but I was drunk, battered, stressed, and distressed. Full house again! He jerked upright, stared at me a moment, and then said, in a voice that cracked so much I hardly recognised it, ‘I don’t want to be only a memory. I know you can’t … you don’t … it’s not easy for you, but it’s not easy for me either. I don’t want much. I just want you to tell me you love me sometimes.’

I shook my head. ‘Yes, you see, I can’t do that.’ He turned his head away. ‘I love you all the time.’

He made to speak, but suddenly his chest heaved and he collapsed onto the arm of the couch, coughing out terrible, racking, dry sobs. He covered his face with his hands. I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t know what to do. I walked up to him, put my arms around him, and rested my cheek on top of his head and made a discovery.

Some behaviour is contagious. Yawn in front of me and I’m at it for the rest of the day. And vomiting. If I so much as hear someone heave I’m barfing up everything I’ve eaten in the past ten years. Now I discovered a third behaviour. Crying. Even as I stood with him, something forced its way up through my chest. And again. And again. It was uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop. He put his arms around me and we cried together.

It wasn’t romantic. This was no gentle mingling of tears. This was painful and raw and wet. My tears ran down into his hair, his were soaking the front of my T-shirt, which was pretty well covered in body fluids anyway. After a while, we slowed down, but he didn’t let go. He really was in a bit of a state and he hadn’t been in good condition when he came in. I couldn’t let anyone see him like this.

I persuaded him to let go, went into the bathroom, and wet a flannel with warm water. I gently washed his face and hands, got his boots off, and put him to bed. He went out like a light.

Things were a bit more difficult for me. I’d never cried like that before and it was every bit as unpleasant as I’d always thought it would be. My head throbbed (although that may have been the drink), my sinuses were blocked, and my throat raw. I looked terrible and my chest and hands hurt. I wasn’t going to be doing that again anytime soon. I made a quiet cup of tea and sat down to pack up my books again. Half an hour later I’d finished and there was still no way I was going to be able to sleep and, besides, my bed was occupied. I looked round for something else to do.

My sports bag. I pulled it over and began to sort out the stinky mess inside. The bag itself went out on to the roof to air. I clumsily turned out all my pockets and stuffed everything into my laundry bag. That left my jacket; burnt and ripped, but still the only one I had. I started to feel the pockets, but something had gone down a hole in the lining. I fished around, finally locating it in an armpit, yanked it out and everything in the world changed. For ever.

Chapter Fifteen

I honestly thought I was going to faint.

What a day this was turning out to be.

I held on to the back of the couch and tried to breathe deeply. It didn’t help. I sat down and leaned forward, putting my head between my knees. It works better if you put your head between someone else’s knees, but after a while my head cleared. I sat up and opened my hand. You would not have thought such a tiny thing could change the world.

I was looking at a fir cone. Not a big one; about three or four inches long and having easily as bad a day as me. It was almost completely burned away on one side and quite badly charred on the other. I put it gently down on the table, rubbed my face with my hands, and tried to think. A few minutes later, I got up and quietly put the kettle on again. My thoughts were all over the place so I sat back and let my mind wander as it wanted.

About twenty minutes later, I got up and found pen and paper. I jotted words at random. I drew lines to connect them. It took an hour because I was slow and clumsy. My hands hurt too much to type so I fired up my data table and dictated quietly. It was the middle of the night. I sat in a little pool of light and changed the world.

I took what I had, awkwardly built my data stack, indexed, and colour coded. My thoughts were on fire and the words just presented themselves as I needed them. I read it through, drew a couple of organisational charts, wrote the introduction and a conclusion and sat back. Only now was I conscious of how cold and tired and stiff I felt. I read it through again and couldn’t think how to improve it any more. I headed the file,
Boss – this will rock your world!
 – obviously not completely sober yet then – and sent it off to him.

Dawn was not far away and I was far to strung-up to sleep. I made another cup of tea and took it into the bathroom. I lay in hot water for an hour, wondering if I’d missed anything, got out and dressed in the old sweats which were all I had left. Farrell still hadn’t moved, so I checked he wasn’t dead, grabbed my battered old jacket, and quietly let myself out.

Sitting on the stairs I activated my com and called the long-suffering Peterson. It took a while but eventually his voice said, ‘What?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Strangely, I’m in bed.’

‘Get up, I need you.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Something important and I need to speak to you as soon as possible.’

‘Dining room. Five minutes. Have coffee.’

He looked awful. Wet hair standing on end and still in last night’s rumpled clothes. I handed him coffee.

Jenny Fields, the kitchen assistant, was on earlies. I said, ‘Bacon sandwiches please, Jenny. Quick as you can.’

I took him to a table.

‘Tim, are you with me? I need you to concentrate. This is vital.’

Something in my voice must have got through to him because he took a good swig of coffee, closed his eyes briefly, and then said, ‘Go ahead.’

‘Cast your mind back to the Cretaceous.’ He nodded. ‘OK, you’re at the tree line, looking towards the pod. I’m holding up the blaster.’ I mimed holding up a blaster. He nodded. ‘I’m racing off away from the pod. There’s a bloody big lizard chasing me and the Chief and Guthrie are chasing the lizard. You get Markham into the pod. Are you with me so far?’ He nodded.

I leaned forward. ‘What happened next? Tell me everything. In as much detail as you can.’

He was such a good friend. He asked no questions. Closing his eyes, he said, ‘I got him into the pod and sat him down. I went back to the door which I’d left open because you’d be coming back in a hurry but I didn’t want anything else getting in. I could just see you ducking and diving. You were in a hollow and –’

‘Never mind me. What did
you
do?’

‘I stood by the door and watched. I smelled burning. Your jacket was beginning to smoulder. I stamped on it.’ He stopped.

‘Go on.’

‘I heard shouting. I looked over and everything was running back towards the pod. I grabbed your jacket off the ground, shook out the all the wood and cones, and checked around quickly to make sure everything was inside – worst FOD plod ever. I threw your jacket into the pod and jumped in after it. The three of you appeared – you fell in through the door. I went down and you landed on top of me and Guthrie fell on top of you. Someone got the door closed and said –’

‘No, never mind. That’s the bit I wanted.’

The bacon sandwiches arrived and we both realised we were famished. He cut my sarnie up for me. He had more coffee. I had more tea. He went back for more sarnies. When he sat down he asked, ‘Any chance of knowing what this is all about?’

‘Yes,’ I said and opened my hand to show him the burned pine cone. For a long while he just stared – as I had done. I watched the blood drain from his face – as mine had done. ‘Oh my God,’ he gasped. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’

‘Shh!’ I said looking over my shoulder as people started coming in for the early shift.

‘How did this happen?’

‘Well, I have a theory. This is what I wanted to talk to you about. Come into the Library.’ We found a quiet corner. The place was deserted anyway, but I was feeling cautious. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever said that. I spoke for about half an hour, just giving him the outline. At the end I asked ‘What do you think?’

‘Bloody hell, Max, what do I think? I think this changes everything. I think … I think we won’t be leaving in three days.’

‘No,’ I agreed.

‘When are you going to tell the Boss?’

‘I already have. I was up all night writing a proposal, outlining future developments, and restructuring his unit. He’s going to have a hell of a shock when he opens his emails this morning.’

‘Wish I could see his face.’

‘You will. This is all your doing.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you’re the one who somehow got this little fellow caught in my jacket lining, thus bringing something out of its own timeline for the first time ever. You did this, Tim. All I did was get in the way.

‘Just think. It gets caught in my jacket. I bring it back to Rushford. I’m too lazy to give my jacket to Mrs De Winter to clean as she asked me to. We might have lost it then. I’m wearing it when I go to Sick Bay. If I’d changed there, as they wanted, we might have lost it again. I’m still wearing the jacket when Weasel has a go at me and it gets kicked across the room. Suppose someone had trodden on it. And finally, I can’t sleep. I’m looking for things to do and I hear Mrs Partridge, clear as day, say, ‘Do your laundry Miss Maxwell
,
’ and then and only then do I find this little chap – on his last legs but hanging in there, safe in St Mary’s at last.’

We regarded the little chap fondly. ‘Yes,’ said Peterson, ‘but that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s the fact that he’s on his last legs that made it possible.’

He’d got it!

‘I’m going to take some coffee upstairs,’ I said, casually. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘You don’t drink coffee,’ he said suspiciously.

‘No, can’t stand the stuff.’

I picked up a flask of coffee and two more bacon butties from the kitchen and took them upstairs. He was still sleeping like the dead. I checked him again and left them on my bedside table.

I’d just rejoined Peterson when Mrs Partridge appeared again; clearly another woman who never slept.

‘I did my laundry,’ I said, before she could speak. I meant it as a joke, but the most extraordinary expression of relief spread across her face. Interesting. I would think about that later. In the meantime apparently, the Boss was requesting the pleasure of our company again.

‘Here we go,’ said Peterson as we bounced up the stairs.

He regarded us from behind his desk.

‘I can’t remember a time when you two weren’t standing in front of me.’ I couldn’t think of a response so I grinned at him, just to annoy him some more.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I want to go through this with you both. Step by step, line by line. Firstly, I want to be absolutely certain this – object – originated from the Cretaceous period and not from the local municipal park. May I see it, please? And the jacket?’

I spread the jacket on the desk and showed him the tear in the lining. I described how I’d bought it, lining intact, from a charity shop about a month ago. I laid the fir cone on the desk. I told him how I’d collected the cones and wrapped them in my jacket. Peterson described throwing it into the pod.

The Boss said, ‘I’d like the Professor to take a look at this. I know there’s not a lot to work with but maybe he can identify the species, hopefully to something that hasn’t existed in the last million years or so. That would really nail it. Now, let’s get to work.’

For two hours we went over my proposals. He challenged every line. I had to justify every word. He pushed. I pushed back. I made my case from every angle possible, advanced every argument I could think of. It was tough – the Boss takes no prisoners.

Peterson, bless him, stuck with me every inch of the way as we slogged through it. I watched the shadows move across the carpet. Lunchtime approached. My mouth got dry and Peterson grew hoarse. I wouldn’t give an inch. I stopped defending and went on the offensive. I questioned St Mary’s established practices and challenged existing thinking. I was in mid-rant when he raised his hand.

‘Enough.’

He stared out of the window for a while. ‘I will speak to my senior staff this afternoon. Please report to me at six this evening. Thank you for your time.’ And that was it.

‘What do you think?’ I asked Peterson as we headed for food and drink.

‘I think I’m hungry.’

‘But is he going to do it?’

‘Of course he is. It’s genius. He was just testing your commitment. Try telling him we’re leaving now!’

Mrs Mack handed me a plate of leaves.

‘What’s this?’

‘Mushroom omelette and salad. Doctor’s orders.’

‘But it’s green.’

‘Green food is good for you’

‘Can’t I have mint choc-chip ice-cream instead?’

‘And this is a glass of orange juice.’

‘What?’

‘And you too, Mr Peterson.’

‘What?’

‘And if you eat it all up, there’s a gooseberry crumble with your name on it.’ I knew she wouldn’t let us down.

‘I’m off to see Helen,’ he said, when we’d finished. I looked at him. He blushed slightly. ‘We have more catching up to do.’

‘You’ll go blind,’ I said and we parted.

He was sitting up in bed drinking coffee from the flask I’d brought. The bacon butties had vanished. He looked much better, as people tend to do when they’ve got fat, calories, salt, sugar, and cholesterol inside them. Bleary and unshaven, but better. I dragged up a chair and put my feet up on the bed. We looked at each other and proceeded to tread carefully.

He raised his mug. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I took a deep breath. ‘How did you know?’

He sighed. ‘I went to debrief her. There’s something we need to know. Whissell was guarding her. I thought there might be a problem getting her to talk. As it turned out, I couldn’t shut her up. She couldn’t wait to tell me. I don’t know what you ever did to her, but she really doesn’t like you.’

‘How did she know?’

‘She was in the next cubicle receiving treatment. Whissell was with her. They heard every word you said.’

‘Where is she now?’

I thought I might pay her a little visit.

He was evasive. ‘Not here.’

Actually, did I care?

‘So,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘What’s happening in the world?’

‘I’ve submitted a proposal to the Boss and he’s considering it. He wants to see his senior staff this afternoon.’

‘I’ll finish this and take myself off.’

‘No rush.’

A pause.

‘So, how are you?’

I started to say, ‘Absolutely fi–’ and then realised my mistake. I took a deep breath. ‘I’m tired. Really, really tired. Tired to the bone. I’m lost. I don’t know where I am in the world. I don’t know if I’m a hero or a villain. I do know my world is full of grief and loss and pain and that nothing will ever be the same again.’

He nodded.

‘And how do you feel?’

His eyes went dark again. ‘Ashamed. I broke the thing I loved most in the world. I can never get that back.

I remembered again the anger and fear I’d felt with Weasel, the red urge to destroy everything in my path. To assuage my own pain and hurt by lashing out at those around me.

I said, ‘Yes you can. It never went away,’ and sat next to him on the bed. He put his arm round me and laid his head on my hair.

He said quietly, ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘You weren’t yourself. None of us were. I think everyone went a little crazy.’

‘Please, tell me. Tell me what really happened to you, Lucy.’

I took a long, deep breath. ‘I’m not sure. By the time I could understand what they were telling me, it was too late.’

I closed my eyes and talked and talked and pretended not to notice his tears plopping down into my hair.

When I woke, he was gone. I showered and shot off to see the Boss.

Peterson was waiting for me with Mrs Partridge. We went straight in. The Boss sat with Major Guthrie, Professor Rapson, and Chief Farrell. The table was covered with disks, cubes, sticks, scratchpads, papers, files. They had the look of people who’d been at it all afternoon.

‘Good evening,’ said the Boss. ‘As you can see we’ve discussed everything very thoroughly. Gentlemen, does anyone have anything to add? No? Miss Maxwell, there will be an all-staffer at eleven tomorrow morning, at which you will present your proposals. Then we’ll take things from there.’

I was surprised. ‘I think it will be better coming from you, sir,’ I said.

‘No, I want you to do it.’

‘Very well,’ I said.

Bloody hell!

Kal and Dieter came back that night. She thumped on my door. Until I saw her again I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed her. She brought wine and we got stuck in. Unlike everyone else, Kal got everything. Everything from the moment she escorted the Boss to Sick Bay, up until the present. We laughed together over St Mary’s creative disobedience. I told her about the fir cone and we talked far into the night. Finally, I took a deep breath and told her about the clinic. She said nothing but put her arm round me. I rested my head on her shoulder and we both fell asleep.