No Time Like the Past (18 page)

‘Well … um … I am fine now, aren’t I?’

‘As far as I know,’ she said, lighting another cigarette and puffing her smoke out of the window.

I looked up at the smoke detector. She read my mind.

‘Of course it’s got a battery in it. To have a detector without a battery would be irresponsible.’

‘And does the battery work?’

‘God, I hope not. Looking after you lot has got me up to thirty a day again.’

‘Speaking of looking after us …’

‘Yes. Right. No, as far as I can see by running my eyes over you, you’re fine. About ten pounds overweight, of course, and I want to test your eyes sometime, and your left knee isn’t up to spec, and your bowels move slightly more slowly than continental drift …’

‘Yes, all right,’ I said, interrupting this depressing litany. It would be a miracle if I made it through the night at this rate. ‘The thing is …’

‘Yes?’

‘The thing is …’

‘Yes?’

I struggled for words. ‘Leon is being … cautious.’ I sat back, quite pleased with my choice of words.

Complete waste of time.

‘You’re not getting any, are you?’

‘No. I thought you could help.’

‘Forget it. I’m not having sex with you.’

‘I don’t want sex with you. I want sex with Leon!’

I hadn’t realised I’d raised my voice until Hunter stuck her hear round the door. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, it’s just Maxwell going through a dry period.’

I said coldly, ‘Don’t let me keep you from your duties.’

Hunter grinned and pushed off.

‘Well?’ I said to Helen. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘Have sex.’

‘Yes, very helpful.’

‘What else do you want from me?’

‘I wondered if you could do me a certificate or something.’

‘What sort of certificate?’

‘I don’t know. Something to say I’m roadworthy.’

‘This is not an MOT centre.’

‘Helen …’

‘Look, I’m not saying you’re as you were – you’re not. However, you are perfectly capable of having sex without anything dropping off. Well, not dropping off you, at any rate. Just sit down and talk to Leon. He’s just a little nervous about you at the moment.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Perhaps you don’t know what it was like for him, sitting by your bed, waiting for you to wake up.’

‘But what has that to do with not wanting to have sex. Does he think it’ll kill me?’

‘He might not be thinking very clearly at the moment. Talk to him. Tell him you can’t die of sex.’

I said darkly, ‘You can the way I do it.’

‘Just get out of here and take your ego with you.’

‘I’m going to tell Leon your battery’s flat.’

‘Do that and I’ll have you flat on your back and your legs akimbo while I do something interesting with ten feet of rubber tubing.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t want to have sex with me.’

She blew more smoke. ‘Just … go, will you?’

All right, that could have gone better, but it had given me an idea. Racing off to the kitchen, I found Mrs Mack. ‘Do we have any doughnuts left?’

‘I think so, yes, three or four.’

‘I’ll take two please.’

I spent rest of the afternoon doing everything I could to wind him up.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I have a major assignment coming up and I don’t want to be let down by the Technical Section.’

‘What?’ he said, outraged.

I went on to demand immediate updates on the readiness state of every pod in the place. I argued over the servicing schedule. I showered him with unreasonable demands. He was everything that was patient and reasonable and I really had to work at it, but by close of play, he was hanging on to his self-control by a thread. There would be Words later on.

Back in in my room, I showered and put on my old Thirsk sweats. I was just pulling out two wine glasses and a plate when he banged on my door – rather more vigorously than I thought necessary.

‘Come on in.’ I said, apparently oblivious of today’s thundercloud look. ‘Can you open this for me?’

We sat at the table, sipping. The wine was rather good, but I didn’t want to give him time to relax. The more wound up he was, the better for my purposes. I looked at him. He’d showered too and was wearing the most dilapidated sweats I’d ever seen and that included even mine. They were obviously cherished. The logo was so faded as to be indecipherable. I stared at it. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘This?’ He squinted down at his sweatshirt. ‘These were awarded to – well, there’s only six in existence.’ He smoothed the material gently with his hand.

I snorted derisively. ‘Yes, but they’re not Thirsk, are they?’

‘Well, no, they were awarded by a French establishment.’

‘Oh,’ I said politely, ‘French. Well, never mind, so long as you like them.’

He twitched a little but let it go.

‘Cheer up,’ I said insensitively.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Your face says otherwise.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

I leaned back in my chair and sipped my wine, wearing the expression I use on the Boss occasionally.

He frowned. ‘What is the matter with you today?’

‘There’s a coincidence. I was just about to say the same to you.’

We sipped in silence.

I got out the doughnuts and put them on a plate.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Well, it’s rude to scarf them straight out of the bag. Just because you’re in a bloody awful mood today doesn’t mean I should let standards slip.’

‘Are you going to eat both of them?’

‘Yes, I am, because I don’t think you’re yet ready for – Ta-Dah! The Doughnut Challenge!’

‘The what?’

‘Ta-Dah! The Doughnut Challenge! Do you not have doughnuts in the Technical Section?’

‘Yes,’ he said tersely and knocked back his wine. ‘I’m just not familiar with The Doughnut Challenge.’

‘You mean – Ta-Dah! The Doughnut Challenge! Well, you wouldn’t be, really, would you? This one really separates the historians from lesser mortals.’

‘Oh. Really?

 I nodded and gazed absently out of the window. The two doughnuts continued to occupy their place in the space-time continuum.

 He sighed. ‘All right, I’ll ask. What is – Ta-Dah! The Doughnut Challenge?

‘It’s not easy …’

‘To explain or to do?’

‘OK, it’s this.’ I pushed the plate to the middle of the table. ‘You pick up your doughnut. You’re the beginner, so you get first choice.’

He nodded, apparently taking this Himalayan-high pile of crap seriously.

‘You pick it up with your right hand – unless you’re a leftie of course. You take one bite, just one, and put the doughnut back on the plate. Your opponent – that will be me – does exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.’

There was a pause. ‘And … that’s it?’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Well … more.’

‘Just one tiny thing. You cannot, must not, under any circumstances, lick the sugar off your lips. Lip-licking is forbidden.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Well, when you’ve finished your mouthful you take another bite obviously, but yes, that’s it. The challenge is to eat an entire doughnut without once licking your lips.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Every Friday, in the History department. The Weekend Starts Here sort of thing.

‘Who usually wins?’

I looked as smug as I could, which is a lot, leaned forward and said softly, ‘I’m very, very good. You’re going down, buster.’

His eyes darkened. ‘We’ll see about that.’

‘So, you’re up for it then?’

‘Bring it on,’ he said, grimly.

‘OK, get your top off.’

‘What?’

‘It’s the stake. Thirsk versus – whatever that thing is. Did I not mention that?’

‘No.’

‘Changed your mind?’

Silence.

‘Welching on a bet?’

He sighed. ‘No.’

I indicated that he should hand it over.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled it over his head and tossed it to me. It was still warm and I could faintly catch his smell on it. It had been a long time … Concentrate, Maxwell.

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Nothing much. I’m just going to nail it to the wall and torture it.’

I dangled his cherished sweat carelessly from one finger and let it drop to the floor. He watched it fall and set his teeth. I tilted my head to one side, gave him the full, shit-filled grin, and wondered how much longer he’d let me get away with this.

‘And what about you?’

I unzipped mine and shimmied it off. Breasts – Nature’s built-in advantage. I had also made sure I wasn’t wearing the regulation grey sports bra that looked as if it could double as the Humber Bridge in its spare time, but my favourite wisp of satin and lace. The catalogue described the colour as ‘crushed raspberry’. Just about the same shade as his suddenly flushed face, and, if truth be told, just slightly too small for me. My cups runneth over. Do I like to win or what? He went very quiet and very still. I saw him glance at the door and shoved the plate in his direction before he could make a run for it.

‘On three. Remember, first one to lick their lips is the loser.’

‘I really don’t think you should …’

I mocked. ‘Giving up without a struggle. How typically techie,’ and pulled the plate towards me.

He pulled it back again and took his doughnut.

Here we go …

‘One, two … three,’ and bit into my doughnut.

The secret is to avoid the jam. I chewed slowly and carefully and concentrated on ignoring the increasing desire to lick my lips, which, actually, is not easy. Try it sometime, but pick a different partner. You’re not having mine.

He never took his eyes off me. To distract myself I found myself staring at his chest hair and the way that intriguing dark line disappeared down his belly to all points south. Very useful; even someone with my poor sense of direction rarely lost her way. I lifted my eyes and watched his mouth, then let them wander across his face to those eyes;  those blue, blue eyes, then back down to his lips again. His sugar-encrusted lips.

Oh God … He wasn’t supposed to have this much control. I’d deliberately left a giant loophole in the rules. How much longer before he picked up on it?

He stood up suddenly and for one nasty moment, I thought he was going to make a run for it and I was going to have to chase him through St Mary’s in my bra, but no, St Mary’s was safe. He knocked his chair over backwards with a clatter, shoved the table roughly out of the way, and grabbed me. Not gently. He ran his tongue across my bottom lip and sucked off the sugar. My world slid sideways and flew into a million shining pieces.

‘You never said I can’t lick the sugar off someone else’s lips,’ he whispered and we concentrated on removing every last grain. I ran my hands over him. He was broad and solid. I ran a fingernail across his chest and he shuddered, I hoped for all the right reasons. My own breathing was suddenly all over the place. He was hard and hot and I couldn’t wait any longer. I slid my hand inside his pants. His breathing was fast and shallow, like a cat, and he was very, very pleased to see me.

I started to ease down his pants. He caught my wrists and said into my hair, ‘It’s too soon. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Oh Leon, don’t you know by now? I don’t break that easily.’

Which was true enough, but that didn’t stop him touching me as if I was the most precious object on this earth. His hands, always sensitive, glided feather-light over my body, leaving me gasping and shuddering for more. I closed my eyes and breathed him in, feeling all control slip away. He was everything that was gentle and considerate and after five minutes, I slapped his arm and told him to get a move on.

He lifted his head and informed me he was doing some of his best work here and a little appreciation would be nice.

I told him I’d known him do better.

I was challenged to cite my source.

After four or five minutes, he said, yes all right, but he believed in quality over quantity.

I told him I preferred deeds over words.

He demanded to know why historians were always in such a hurry.

I told him historians have a short attention span and who was he again?

He grinned down at me, his blue eyes dark and very bright. ‘Let me remind you,’ and a couple of frantic minutes later, I had forgotten who I was, too.

Afterwards, when we could speak coherently again, I said to him, ‘Now. What’s all this, “I’ll lift that – it’s much too heavy for little old you”, rubbish?’

He buried his head in my hair so I couldn’t see his face. ‘I love you, but I can’t always tell you how much. I can’t always tell you how much I worry about you. I’m not much good at telling you about things that mean a great deal to me and you do mean a great deal to me, Max. More than anything in the world. And you were so badly hurt. I know you’re bouncing around the place these days like Tigger on a trampoline, but every time I look at you, I see you lying there, white, helpless, hurt … I just worry you’ll do too much.’

I opened my mouth to tell him I’d be fine and then had a second thought.

‘In that case, I’ll slow down a little. Just for you. If you like, we can go back to having lunch together outside Hawking. Sitting in the sun as we used to. That way, you can check me over every day and I’ll pretend not to notice.’

He laughed and reached for me again. ‘Deal.’

First time I’ve never finished a doughnut.

Chapter Thirteen

I didn’t waste any time, making an appointment to see Dr Bairstow the very next day. We desperately needed something to restore our confidence and prestige. In our own eyes, as well as those of other people.

He didn’t immediately look up from his writing. Not a problem. I could wait him out.

Eventually, when it became clear I wasn’t going to go away, he looked up.

I grinned at him. He closed his eyes.

‘I believe I have, on several occasions, requested you not to do that, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ I rearranged my features into an expression funereal gloom. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he managed to look even more disapproving.

He frowned. ‘I’m sure this is a question we will both regret me asking, but why are you here? Did I send for you?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. Not unless you despatched Mrs Partridge to swoop down on me, rather in the manner of a Valkyrie scooping a fallen warrior from the battlefield, and she’s missed me.’

‘Both scenarios are equally unlikely, Dr Maxwell. State your purpose.’

‘To blow your socks off, sir.’

‘I should perhaps warn you that these days, my socks are not that easily blown off.’

‘Glad to hear that, sir. I like a challenge.’

He laid down his pen. ‘Proceed.’

So I did. I brought up my data stack, gave him a second to assimilate the contents, and took him through everything from beginning to end. He listened in complete silence, but then, he always did. His method was to allow me to dig my own hole, unimpeded, and then bury me with the flaws, inconsistencies, and weak spots.

I wound down to a halt and waited. Still not speaking, he held out a hand for my notes. I passed them over. He read through everything from beginning to end, went back, re-read a section, checked it against the data stack, laid the file on his desk, and regarded me.

I regarded him right back again.

He spoke. ‘You don’t feel that after recent events, something a little less high profile might be more appropriate?’

‘No, sir, I don’t. We screwed up big time. We can spend years taking small, safe steps to restore our reputation or we can hit them with the biggest coup of the century.’

‘And if it doesn’t come off?’

‘We’re no worse off, sir.’

‘You don’t feel a cautious approach might be indicated?’

‘This is the cautious approach, sir. As you will see, I’ve recommended we only inform Thirsk
after
we’ve successfully concluded the assignment. If we fail then they’ll never know. But we won’t. Fail, I mean.’

‘We did last time.’

‘Actually, sir, we didn’t. Your people performed perfectly. It was Ronan and Barclay who killed Miss Schiller and went on to steal our artefacts and substitute her body.’ I took a deep breath. ‘To prevent that happening again, I propose we deploy the entire Security Section at the second site. For protection. I don’t think historians at the first site will be in any jeopardy, sir. There are no advancing armies or burning buildings. We’ll be fine.’

‘I think you underestimate the History department. I have yet to learn that any historian requires an advancing army or a burning building to get herself into trouble, Dr Maxwell.’

I said nothing. He was coming around. The best thing I could do now was to keep my mouth shut.

He stared hard at his desk for a while. ‘I will give provisional permission. Present me with a mission plan within five days and I will give it full consideration.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I seized the file and data stick and was out of there before he could change his mind.

He said yes. Eventually. He just really made me work for it. And I did. I put together an assignment in near-record time. I raced around the building, involving as many people as possible because we needed this. We needed not just any old salvage mission but something spectacular. Something to get us back in the game. With the History department waiting anxiously downstairs, I marched into his office with my completed mission plan and talked for nearly an hour.

The Man from St Mary’s – he say yes!

I held a full briefing in the Hall. Everyone was there. The whole History department, the Security Section, most of IT and the Technical Section, even Mrs Mack and the kitchen crew, because they were going to have to feed us. I even included the Admin Section who would be assisting Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson in their research. They sat at the back, eager and attentive, in direct contrast to the historians lounging at the front, pretending to be cool about the whole thing.

I stood on the stairs and looked down at their heads, bent over scratchpads and scribblepads. Mr Strong had set up the big screen for the visuals and Mrs Partridge and Miss Lee were distributing the background info. I waited patiently and eventually, silence fell.

‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming. Our purpose today is to discuss our upcoming assignment. I know a lot of you have already contributed a great deal of time and effort. Thank you for that. I shall brief you on the background to this assignment, give details of the teams and their pods, work out a timetable, and answer any questions at the end. Everyone set?’

They nodded. Here we go.

I brought up the first images.

‘Site One. Florence – 1497. Specifically, the 7
^th
February 1497. The Bonfire of the Vanities.’

A ripple ran through the room. Someone, somewhere at the back said, ‘Yes!’

I continued. ‘It’s the height of the Renaissance. The city of Florence is at the forefront. The old ways are being discarded. The invention of printing means new ideas and new ways of thinking are accessible to the masses. It’s a period of incredible advancement and change and it’s happening all across Europe, but it’s especially happening in Florence. It’s no coincidence that Da Vinci, Botticelli, and Raphael were all born in this area.

‘Or rather, it
was
all happening in Florence. Unfortunately, the city has fallen under the influence of the monk, Girolamo Savonarola. His stated mission is to destroy all “frivolous and sinful pursuits”, which, according to him, is just about everything excluding breathing and eating and even those two only in moderation. He’s a powerful preacher and under his influence, draconian laws are introduced forbidding fine clothes, art, music, homosexuality, and the old favourite, “moral transgressions”.

‘It’s a dreadful time. And it’s not just the adults who are involved. Children, over a thousand of them, will march through the streets collecting items for the Bonfire. They’ve been brought up to shop their parents, their relatives, their friends, everyone. To report all instances of frivolity or luxury. They even snitch on each other. They get people beaten up and arrested. Even being overweight is considered a sin. These are not nice kids. There is a record somewhere of them parading through the streets, singing hymns and carrying candles. Forget it. These are kids in the grip of religious fervour and in a position of power over adults. Do not underestimate them. We will need to tread very carefully.

‘Under Savanarola’s influence, almost everything – cosmetics, books, statues, fine clothes, playing cards, chess sets, jewellery, wigs, musical instruments, even false teeth are to be burned. And, of course, works of art. Which brings me to our assignment. The influence of Savanarola is such that even the artist, Sandro Botticelli, caught up in the moment, volunteers some of his paintings to be cast into the flames.’

I paused and took a deep breath. ‘That’s what we’re after, folks. And everything else we can lay our hands on, of course, but basically, we’re there to bag a Botticelli.’

Silence.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Evans. ‘Just knock on his door and shout the Florentine equivalent of “Penny for the Guy?” Paintings for the Bonfire?’

‘Yes.’

Silence.

‘How many paintings were destroyed?’ asked Dieter.

‘No idea. It could be one or it could be twenty.’

‘Wow,’ said someone. Again.

‘Problem?’ I said.

‘Oh, no …’

‘I think we may be overestimating the difficulties. It won’t be a case of wrenching them from an overprotective artist. He’s so completely under the spell of Savonarola that he’ll probably give them to anyone who asks for them. We just have to make sure it’s us doing the asking. All we need do then is to convey them safely to the second site, where Dr Dowson and his team will dispose of them in such a way as to enable discovery by a University of Thirsk funded excavation in the near future.

‘So – the teams. Two teams for Site One. Clerk, Maxwell, and Sands in Number Eight, and Peterson, Prentiss, and Roberts are in Number Five. This part of the assignment will be under my control, or failing me, Dr Peterson.

‘The third team will be headed by Professor Rapson and is responsible for procuring contemporary storage materials because, as always, all items are to be sourced locally.

‘The fourth team, headed by Dr Dowson and his archivists, will be waiting for us at Site Two. Also on site will be the Security Section, for obvious reasons, and a small team of technicians, just in case we break something. These teams will all be in TB2. Doctor Dowson, if you would like to give us the details of Site Two, please.’

He bounded to his feet and joined me on the staircase, shedding a blizzard of papers in all directions.

‘Thank you, Max. Firstly, I must tell everyone that the usual rules apply – the artefacts will not leave their country of origin. They are Florentine treasures and will therefore be discovered – we hope – near the city.’

He brought up a map on the big screen.

‘We were rather spoiled for choice when it came to selecting a suitable hiding place for our recovered paintings, but after a certain amount of reconnaissance we have selected, as Site Two, the Belverde caves near Monte Cetona. These are a range of naturally occurring caves and there is widespread evidence of prehistoric settlements. We feel it is perfectly possible that 15
^th
-century treasures could have been sent there for safe keeping and then forgotten about until a joint Thirsk/Italian dig will shortly stumble upon them, to worldwide astonishment and acclaim.’ He smiled at me. ‘We hope.’

I smiled back. ‘Listen up, people. We’re St Mary’s and we’re not bright, but we learn from our mistakes and we will be taking certain precautions. There will be absolutely no possibility of anyone following us this time. As I said, almost all the Security Section will be deployed at the caves. Let me remind all of you, they are there for our protection. Please do not ask them to fetch and carry, give you a hand to lift something heavy, or just hold this for a moment. They are there to keep us safe. Allow them to do so. Yes, this is a big assignment, and if we pull it off there’s no doubt we’ll be back to flavour of the month, but it’s not as important as the safety of everyone there. Therefore, everyone, including me, will be answerable to the Security Section. I’ll ask now – does anyone anticipate any difficulties with that?’

Sometimes, you just have to get right in people’s faces and tell them, but apparently, no one had any difficulties at all.

‘The usual sterile conditions will apply at Site Two. These finds will be subject to intense archaeological scrutiny, especially if we do manage to bag a Botticelli. Paper suits, hairnets, and cotton gloves will be supplied and are to be worn at all times in the working areas. By everyone. I don’t want an over-zealous archaeologist discovering that not only did women in the 15
^th
-century dye their hair Sunkissed Blonde, but smothered it in extra-strong-control mousse as well.’

I paused again. ‘Any questions?’

‘Language?’ asked Peterson.

‘Well, most of us will need a crash course from Dr Dowson, but we’re fortunate in that Dante Alighieri wrote his famous
Comedies
in the Florentine dialect, and this became the basis of the Italian language, so anyone who can speak Italian stands a good chance of being understood. Mr Sands does, I believe?’

He nodded. Roberts raised his hand as well. ‘Me too – a little.’

‘Excellent. The rest of us will mug up on the basics. OK, then. Those who need to, report to Wardrobe and get kitted out. Mr Dieter, if you could be kind enough to ensure sufficient paper suits and booties are loaded into TB2, please. Everyone is to report to Sick Bay for a check-up. By Thursday, please. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, if you could let me have details of your teams asap, please. That’s it for the time being. Thank you, everyone.’

We assembled in Hawking. Historians waited outside Number Five. A quivering Dr Dowson and his crew stood by TB2. There wasn’t a great deal of chatter. People were very carefully not thinking about the last time we did this.

‘Change of plan,’ said Leon, materialising beside me. ‘Dieter’s going with the R & D crew – I’m going with you. Just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case anything needs dismantling, reassembling, fixing, whatever. And no, I’m not talking about historians wrecking everything they touch – although they do – I’m also available for heavy lifting and crowd control.’

‘Glad to have you,’ I said, because I was. Disregarding the completely inaccurate remark about historians breaking everything – as if! – he was right. We might have to take things apart to get them into the pods and if you hand a screwdriver to an historian, two seconds later he’ll have blinded himself with it.

I ran my eyes over everyone for one last check. I wore a shapeless sack in a coarsely-woven brown material that itched. I was pretty pissed about it and so was Prentiss, already looking acutely uncomfortable in a similar outfit, scratching herself, and complaining bitterly.

We adjusted each other’s headdress – just a simple  linen hood for this trip – I wasn’t sure how severe the dress code would be, but it seemed simpler to have no hair showing at all. We didn’t want to end up on the Bonfire ourselves.

Peterson gave me the thumbs up. Dieter indicated that now would be a good time for Dr Dowson to enter TB2 and helped him up the ramp. I ushered my own team into Number Eight.

‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Sands.’