A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (10 page)

He dropped me on the floor where I curled up and coughed.

‘Computer, initiate jump.’ and the world went white.

Chapter Seven

The first thing I noticed was the smell of burning. Was I on fire?

I sat up and looked around. He’d obviously had nearly as bad a day as I had. The front panels were off the console. Two of the boards had been removed. One of them was a melted mess. My technical knowledge is limited to switching things on – and occasionally off – but I’m pretty sure boards shouldn’t look like that.

A large number of red lights flashed angrily, demanding action of some kind.

A spent fire extinguisher lay on the floor. Powder and foam flecked the floor and walls. It looked as if a small eruption had taken place in here, as well.

I sat up, cracked my stiff hair off my face, and said, ‘You see – this is what happens if you let a techie drive. Did you leave the handbrake on again?’

‘Don’t start,’ he said, tersely, flicking switches like a lunatic. ‘It’s been a lively morning.’

‘More or less lively than avoiding Vesuvius and the Time Police?’

‘You have no idea. Just to give you a flavour of today’s catastrophes – I’ve been trying all day to get to you. I’ve jumped to Pompeii yesterday, next Tuesday, last week, tomorrow, and finally, now. I’ve overridden every safety protocol on the board. I’ve fought fires, electrical failure, and a major fit of pod-sulk. Do not push me today. I am a man on the edge.’

He turned as he spoke and I was shocked. He’d said he had a bit of a struggle, but that wasn’t the half of it. The back of his left hand and the left side of his face were encased in medical plastic.

‘You’d better let me take a look at that.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, impatiently. ‘The plastic is doing its job. I’m more concerned with you. Here, drink this.’

I gulped down the water he offered. I couldn’t get enough. It ran down my chin and splashed onto my PJs. I was in such a state. Parts of my face and the backs of my hands were red with tiny burns. My chest hurt. My back hurt. My shoulders hurt. Everything was coated in fine dust. I shed a cloud of it every time I moved. At some point, I’d melted one of his wellies and not even noticed. I didn’t even want to think about my hair. It would never be the same again.

He fingered the black square of material. ‘What’s this?’

‘My good deed for the day.’ I told him what had happened, expecting all sorts of scolding, but he just smiled.

‘The tanks are full. Get yourself a shower. Are you hungry?’

‘No. Just very, very thirsty.’

‘Well don’t drink your shower. I don’t want any historian habits here.’

I staggered stiffly into the shower, throwing my ruined clothes back into the pod. The shower was wonderful. By the time I had finished shifting volcanic rubble from all my nooks and crannies, the bottom of the shower tray looked like a builder’s yard.

As I turned off the water, his arm appeared around the door with a pair of shorts and a man’s T-shirt.

He had a mug of tea ready for me. There should be medals struck for men who produce tea at exactly the moment it’s needed. I slurped thirstily and slowly everything subsided. I was suddenly aware that I was very tired.

‘Where are we?’

‘England. Sometime between the last Ice Age and modern times.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No, and neither does the pod at the moment. All the safety protocols are down. I’ve had to override a lot of systems. I had real trouble getting it back to Pompeii during the eruption. As I said, I jumped to yesterday. When I tried to force it, it gave me next week. I had another go and got tomorrow. That wasn’t good. We really don’t want to be in Pompeii tomorrow. The heat was blood boiling. There was a … smallish … fire inside the pod and I jumped away as quickly as I could. By now, I was jumping around all over the place. I pulled the boards out, disconnected everything in sight, and gave it a strong hint as to its future if it didn’t do exactly as I wanted, crossed my fingers, jumped, and there you were. Had you been waiting long?’

‘Too busy consorting with the enemy,’ I said cheerfully, unwilling to admit, even to myself, that I’d had even the smallest doubt that I’d ever see him again. ‘So we’re hot to trot?’

‘Yes, I can fix the worst of it.’

Something in his voice wasn’t right.

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And the bit you’re not telling me. The really bad news. What’s happened at St Mary’s?’

‘The Time Police are there.’

I stared, speechless.

‘Don’t panic. It wasn’t a problem.’

Why wasn’t I reassured? ‘Why not?’

A long, a very long silence.

I felt my stomach shift. Something bad had happened. ‘Leon?’

‘There were only two officers on site and they were easy to avoid.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Because …?’

‘Because they were too busy looking for Helios. Max, they know.’

‘They know Helios is Joe Nelson?’

‘No, no. They don’t know Helios is Joe Nelson. They just know Helios is there. Somewhere.’

‘What will they do if they find him?’

‘Arrest Dr Bairstow, Peterson, Guthrie – and me, of course. You’ll be all right – you’re dead.’

‘Not funny.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘I meant – what will they do to Helios?’

‘At worst, they’ll shoot him. At best, they’ll take him back.’

‘To Troy? Right in the middle of …?’

I saw it all again. The thick black smoke rising from the ruined city. The flames. Dead people everywhere. Burning bodies. Kassandra dragged from the temple. Little runty man breaking my nose. The lines of women and children on the beach waiting to be shipped as slaves. Dead babies bobbing in the surf …

Even though he was a grown man now, Helios would be dead in seconds, along with every other man in Troy. They would be taking him back to his death. But if he stayed, they’d shoot him as an anomaly. Certain death for Helios, whatever the Time Police did to him.

Leon was staring at his hands.

‘Unless …?’

He looked up. ‘What?’

‘Unless …?.’

‘Unless we take him back ourselves. To a time and place of our choosing. In that way, we can give him a small chance.’

‘Yes … yes, that would work. He’s a man now. We could take him back to, maybe, one year on from the war. The city was never abandoned, you know. They rebuilt afterwards. It was never the same again, of course, but he would stand a chance of survival. Or from there, he could move away. It would be his decision.’

He nodded. Both of us were skirting around the important issue. Finally, I said it. ‘Will he go?’

Because the thought of forcibly relocating him … dragging a struggling man into the pod, Joe Nelson from the Falconberg Arms, who’d lived all his adult life in modern times, who might be screaming and begging for his life, and then just heaving him out at the other end … abandoning him to the nightmare that was Troy …

This is what happens when historians interfere with History. Helios should have died at Troy and he didn’t. I’d been surprised at the time that History hadn’t sideswiped us all out of existence. Now I had a horrible feeling we were being taught a lesson. That we were being made to face the consequences of what we had done. Whatever happened to him – whether Helios died in this time or long ago, we would have this on our consciences for the rest of our lives. What was Leon thinking at this moment?

I put my hand on his arm. ‘This must be your decision, but whatever you decide, I’m with you all the way. To the death, if necessary. I won’t leave you to face this alone. Nor Peterson, or Guthrie, or any of you. Whatever you do, you can count me in.’

He reached for my hand. ‘I’m going to take him back. It’s got to be me. St Mary’s is too closely watched.’

‘He won’t run?’

‘No. His exact words were, “You risked yourselves for me. At the very least, I can do the same for you.”’

I swallowed. ‘So what’s the plan?’

He was suddenly brisk. ‘Remove your tag and leave it at Pompeii. Stop them following us once and for all. Then we can jump back to St Mary’s, pick up Helios, and take him back to Troy.’

‘How will we get him away from the Time Police?’

‘I’ve left the worst news till last. St Mary’s will arrange a diversion.’

‘Oh … dear.’

He spent all night repairing the pod. I spent all night coughing up major amounts of volcano. I drank as much water as I could and then spent the rest of the night in the toilet. The glamour of an historian’s life.

When I awoke, he’d spread a cloth on the floor and laid a small meal.

‘I’m going to give you painkillers in advance, so you need to eat.’

I tucked in to a croissant, some cheese, and a few dried apricots while he opened locker doors so I could see. We had enough food for an army, two sleeping bags, basic medical supplies, and toiletries. Best of all, I was wearing clothes that weren’t yellow and white. Life was looking up.

I cleared away the meal while he got the medical stuff together. Because now it was tag-removal time and, suddenly, I wasn’t anything like as enthusiastic as I had been, but it was that or living in a box until I died. And until it was gone, we couldn’t risk going back to St Mary’s, so I’d better shut up and get on with it.

I showered, tied up my still sticky hair, and lay down on the floor. He opened a sterile pack and started to lay things out. A bottle of brandy stood within easy reach. I stared resolutely at the scorch mark on the ceiling.

He picked up a syringe. ‘Just a little prick.’

‘Seriously? You’re saying that to an historian?’

‘Couldn’t resist it. Ready?’

‘Ready when you are.’ I closed my eyes.

He paused. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Max. We should have had at least a little time together.’

‘I’m not complaining. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be there with.’

‘Say that again in ten minutes,’ he said, grimly.

‘It’ll be easy,’ I said from a position of complete ignorance. ‘Tags are tiny. How difficult can it be?’

He swabbed my arm with something cold, and I felt the prick of the needle. He also made me swallow two painkillers. He picked up a scalpel and hesitated.

I sighed. ‘I’m going to have to do it myself, aren’t I?’

‘There’s no way I’m letting an historian near a sharp implement in an enclosed space. Here we go.’

To begin with, it wasn’t too bad. I could feel something was happening, but so long as I didn’t actually look … I kept my eyes on the ceiling. The scorch mark was shaped like Australia. I could see Darwin.

‘Are we there yet?’

‘No.’

I turned my head away and counted the dents on the locker doors.

And then, suddenly, a nasty twinge. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to distract him.

‘Are you unconscious?’

‘I was keeping quiet out of consideration for you.’

‘I feel more reassured when you’re talking. I don’t actually listen to the words, but the drone of your voice, maundering on and on, is comforting.’

‘Would you like me to tell you a joke?

‘I’ve heard historian jokes. They’re either pathetic or so sick that only an historian would think they were funny. Do you actually know a joke that isn’t either historically based or revolting?’

‘Of course,’ I said, inaccurately, as a river of pain coursed up and down my arm.

He wiped the blood away and peered closely.

‘I can’t find it. Sometimes they … migrate.’

‘What, like geese?’

‘I’m going to make the incision a little larger.’

‘Did I see a bottle?’ I lifted my head and swallowed some brandy. ‘Yuk. I hate this stuff.’

He tried to take the bottle away but I wasn’t having any of that.

‘Off you go, then. Let’s hear this famous joke.’

‘Oh, OK. Well, there was this man … And he wakes up in hospital.’

‘A medical joke. Most appropriate. Continue.’

‘Nnng … this man … wakes up in hospital and the doctor says …’

I clenched my teeth. I really didn’t want to scream and put him off, so I gritted my teeth, thought of the Battle of Salamis, and had another mouthful. Yuk.

‘Is that it? Well, all right, I’ll grant you it wasn’t sick, but it wasn’t very funny, either.’

‘No,’ I said, appreciating his efforts to distract me. ‘There’s a bit more.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘This man wakes up in the hospital and the … doctor says … “
It’s all right, mate. You’ve been in an accident on the Great North Road, but …
you’re all right now
.”’

‘Ah! There is a happy ending. That’s nice. Not the usual historian style at all.’

‘No … Not finished yet. Just shut up, will you. Aagh.’

‘Please try and keep still.’

‘Sorry. It’s all the excitement …’

‘A common reaction among women whenever I’m near. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Lousy joke, by the way.’

‘And the doctor says, “
But sadly, in the accident, your todger fell off
.”’

‘What? Is this is the historian definition of the words – happy ending? Your todger falls off?’

‘And the man says … “
Oh no!
” and the doctor says … Aren’t you finished yet?’

‘What? I’m confused now.’

‘You’re hacking your way through my blood vessels, muscles, capilliarilleries and God knows what else. You’d better not be bloody confused.’

‘Just get on with this painfully long and unfunny joke, will you?’

‘Yuk. Where was I?’

‘The poor bloke’s lost his todger. Not, if I might venture an opinion, a suitable subject for mirth, but I’m accustomed to you failing to meet my standards of propriety and decency.’

‘So the man says, “
Oh no
.” And the doctor – aaagh.’

‘Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t find it.’

‘Well, keep looking. Where’s it going to go, for crying out loud? And the doctor says, “
Don’t panic. We have the technology. We can rebuild you
.” And the man says … “
Thank goodness
.”’

Silence. I kept my eyes on him, grim and focused. I didn’t dare look at what he was doing. Red-hot waves of pain ran up my arm with the occasional short, sharp, purple jab of agony. I took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the thread.

‘And the doctor says, “
Yes, but to rebuild you will cost a thousand … pounds … a thousand … pounds …
”’