- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
The eighth book in the bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series which follows a group of tea-soaked disaster magnets as they hurtle their way around History. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor.
Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness ... and I don't think it would take very much for you to dance my way.
When an old enemy appears out of nowhere with an astonishing proposition for Max - a proposition that could change everything Max is tempted. Very tempted.
With an end to an old conflict finally in sight, it looks as if St Mary's problems are over with. Can they all now live happily ever after?
As everything hangs in the balance, Max and St Mary's find themselves engulfed in tragedies worse than they could ever imagine.
Is this the end?
(P) 2017 Audible, Ltd
Release date: January 1, 2019
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 325
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
And the Rest is History
Jodi Taylor
Dramatis Thingummy
Matthew Edward Farrell
A very small but very important human.
Dr Maxwell
Chief Operations Officer.
Not having a good year. Not having a good year at all.
Leon Farrell
Chief Technical Officer.
Racing up and down the timeline.
Again. Can he save the day? Again?
Tim Peterson
Not in a good place.
Mr Markham
Unexpectedly in charge of the Security Section.
Dr Bairstow
Director of St Mary’s.
Holding them all together.
Mrs Partridge
PA to Dr Bairstow and Muse of History.
History Department
Mr Clerk
Senior Historian.
Miss Prentiss
Senior Historian.
Mr Atherton
Mr Bashford
Miss North
Miss Sykes
Normal historians – where the word normal has a different meaning from in the real world.
Miss Grey
Very unenthusiastic historian.
Technical Section
Mr Dieter
Second Chief Technical Officer.
Mr Lindstrom
Technical Officer.
Terrified of women. He’s not going to fare well at St Mary’s, is he?
Medical Section
Dr Helen Foster
Chief Medical Officer.
Will now never be without a packet of cigarettes.
Nurse Fortunata
Junior Nurse.
Nurse Hunter
If she is married to Markham then not surprisingly she’s keeping very quiet about it.
Dr Nathaniel Stone
Can’t quite believe what’s going on around him. Possesses a degree in advanced deviousness.Cocoa drinker.
Research and Development
Professor Rapson
Head of R&D
One of the tossers.
Miss Lingoss
Multi-coloured member of R&D.
The other tosser.
Dr Dowson
Librarian and Archivist.
Surprisingly subdued this time around.
Others
Mrs Mack
Kitchen Supremo, former urban guerrilla and maker of extremely good cakes.
Mrs Enderby
Head of Wardrobe.
Unexpectedly good with a croquet mallet.
Miss Lee
Supposedly Max’s PA.
Not yet up to speed with telephone answering techniques.
The Time Police(Managing to be both the baddies and the goodies depending at which point in the story you are.)
Marietta Hay
Commander of Time Police.
Captain Charlie Farenden
Her adjutant.
Captain Matthew Ellis
A familiar face.
A doctor
With his hands full.
Officers Trent and Parrish
Pizza bringers.
Officer Van Owen
An old friend.
Sundry Time Police Officers
Whose main purpose seems to be to stand around in corridors fighting with Max.
Adrian and Mikey
Time Travellers from the future and proud teapot builders.
Slowly dying of radiation sickness.
Turk
An alleged horse. Possesses strong opinions concerning personal space.
Lisa Dottle
Not anywhere near as wet as she used to be. Only slightly damp these days and getting drier all the time.Fancies Peterson.
Colin
A dead dog currently residing on top of Max’s wardrobe.
Rushfordshire Stinking Henry
A rather large piece of radioactive cheese.
Clive Ronan
Yep. He’s back again.
Historical Figures
Harold Godwinson
Earl of Wessex and later King of England.
Duke William of Normandy
The Bastard.
Count Guy of Ponthieu
Proud possessor of Harold Godwinson and determined to cash in.
Odo of Conteville
Battling Bishop of Bayeux.
King Harald Hardrada
Earns his seven feet of English soil.
Tostig of Northumberland
An opportunist.
Eystein Orri
Unsuccessfully bringing reinforcements.
Giant Viking
Holding the bridge.
Edith Swanneschals
King Harold’s mistress and body snatcher.
Plus a cast of thousands…
The Lost Army of Cambyses
All fifty thousand of them.
The citizens of Beaurain
All of them probably suffering from some dreadful lung disease.
The citizens of Bayeux
All under their bishop’s watchful eye.
The Viking army of Harald and Tostig
Meeting their end at Stamford Bridge. Not the boring football ground! The other one.
The Saxon Fyrd
Making its final appearance. Never to be seen again.
The Norman Army
Including mercenaries, adventurers and anyone else looking to make a quick buck.
The citizens of Constantinople
Not having a good day.
Crusaders
On their way to the Holy Land and inexplicably stopping off in Constantinople. Pillage and plunder almost certainly have something to do with it.
Prologue
I was back at St Mary’s. I was safe. My baby, Matthew, was safe. Leon was safe. Statements I’d once never thought I’d be able to make. These days, the three of us were a contented family unit. I loved Matthew. Matthew loved me. And Leon loved both of us.
Despite his dramatic entry into this world, Matthew was a happy, friendly, normal little baby, who would gurgle contentedly as he was passed from person to person and spoiled rotten, but mostly – he was mine. I was the one to whom he held out his arms first. He always held out his arms to me. I could hardly believe it. Leon laughed and called him ‘Mummy’s Boy’, but the two of us had a special relationship. For me, it was a time of quiet happiness, because none of this was something I ever thought would happen to me.
True, Leon and I were still at St Mary’s. After Clive Ronan’s attempt to kidnap me, Dr Bairstow had requested that, for our own protection, we remain at St Mary’s, and so we had. We had a suite of rooms up under the roof in the main part of the building, which, as Peterson said, were along so many narrow corridors and up so many crooked stairways, that any passing homicidal psychopath would never be able to find us.
He was a happy bunny these days, as well. No one knew what methods he’d used to persuade Dr Foster to marry him, but whatever he’d done had worked. He was regarded around the building with equal amounts of awe, admiration, respect and sympathy.
‘About bloody time,’ I’d said, grinning at him, and Markham had made a rude noise, which was a mistake on his part because attention immediately shifted his way.
‘So what about you?’ demanded Peterson, moving his chair slightly so Markham couldn’t escape.
‘What about me?’ he said, innocence oozing from every pore.
‘Are you married?’
‘Me?’ he said in astonishment.
‘Yes, you.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘You did.’
‘Did I? When?’
A few days after Matthew’s somewhat unconventional entry into the world, Markham had let slip he was married. To Hunter. They’d been married for years he’d said, and then nipped out of the door while we were too gobsmacked to stop him. Peterson and I had been attempting to get to the bottom of this ever since, but as teachers, employers, policemen, magistrates, army officers and Dr Bairstow had discovered, Markham can be a slippery little sod when it comes to prising information out of him. He was being one now, grinning at us over his mug of tea. We’d tried every possible approach and were still none the wiser, and neither of us had the nerve to approach Nurse Hunter, the terror of St Mary’s.
We all work at St Mary’s. Or, to give it the correct title, the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. Our job is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time. It’s not time travel because, as Dr Bairstow never fails to point out, we are not living in the pages of a sci-fi/fantasy novel, and no one argues with him, because our lives are hazardous enough without deliberately asking for trouble. So we never mention time travel. Although that’s what we do.
We’re located just outside Rushford at the end of a country lane that goes nowhere, because the Government thought we couldn’t do much damage in this remote corner of a quiet county. That assumption was about as correct as government assumptions usually are. Surely the law of averages dictates that one day they must get at least one right.
Anyway, my name is Maxwell. I’m Chief Operations Officer and returning from maternity leave to a crowded schedule. We had a lot on these days. There were important anniversaries coming up and Thirsk University, our nominal employers, had commissioned an in-depth study of the events culminating in the Battle of Hastings. We were to witness the aftermath of Harold Godwinson’s shipwreck – the one that placed him in the power of William of Normandy, followed by that critically important oath-taking ceremony at Bayeux. Then on to Stamford Bridge – that’s the battle, not the much less interesting football ground – when Harold defeated the forces of Tostig and Harold Hardrada and then, nineteen days later, the struggle at Hastings itself and the end of Saxon life in England. If time and finances permitted, there would be a jump to William’s coronation on Christmas Day, 1066. Something which I wouldn’t be able to attend. We’d had a go at that jump a couple of years ago, allowed ourselves to be distracted and missed it.
The last few months at St Mary’s hadn’t been without incident, either. Only a few months ago, to worldwide excitement, the Sword of Tristram and a crown from the Holy Roman Empire had been discovered in our woods. I was on maternity leave but I wandered up a couple of times, parked baby Matthew under a tree and helped out. The sword and crown were exactly where we’d left them although, as Peterson said at the subsequent piss-up, they were hardly likely to get up and move, were they? There wasn’t much of the sword left – only the pommel and a sliver of metal with a fragment of that all-important verse remaining. The rest was just a dark shape in the soil, but the crown, being mostly of gold, had fared much better.
Dr Chalfont, who had headed the dig, had been reinstated as Chancellor of Thirsk University just in time for them to take credit for the find. Which had been the whole point of us burying the stuff for her in the first place. She had returned to Thirsk in triumph and, according to rumour, the Night of the Long Knives had been nothing in comparison. The panelled corridors of the stately and venerable University of Thirsk had run red with academic blood. Metaphorically speaking. It had been, said the Chancellor, the light of battle still in her eye, an invigorating experience and an excellent opportunity for a great deal of dead wood removal, but she would be grateful if we would never put her in such a position again. We had nodded and promised.
So here we all were and everything was fine.
I was a member of a happy family – somewhat to my surprise.
Peterson was training to be Dr Bairstow’s deputy.
Markham had been reinstated as Major Guthrie’s number two. And yes, all the bad jokes had been made.
St Mary’s was relatively stable and solvent.
Everything was absolutely fine.
It began as a day just like any other. I awoke to a crisp, frosty morning and decided to go for a run. You can’t use giving birth as an excuse forever. I’ve never been what you might call toned, but even I could see it was time to get into some sort of shape. Yes, I’d been on maternity leave, but I wanted to hit the ground running, so to speak, and therefore a little time spent running now might mean a lot less time hitting the ground later on.
I left Leon and Matthew in the bath, playing Attack of the Deadly Flannels. I’m not sure what the game entails, but there’s always a lot of splashing and shrieking – and that’s just Leon. Followed by massive mopping up afterwards, of course.
I blew them both a kiss, ignored Leon’s invitation to join them, and shot off to pick up a bottle of water, bumping into Miss Dottle on the stairs.
Dottle wasn’t actually a member of St Mary’s. She and her boss, the idiot Halcombe, were from Thirsk University, and had been foisted on us last year. That had been my fault – we did something really bad, but no one talks about it so neither will I. Anyway, he’d tried to sabotage an assignment and Dr Foster had diagnosed him with leprosy – as you do – which had got rid of him nicely, leaving us with the much more likeable Miss Dottle.
‘Sorry,’ I said, as she bounced off the banisters.
‘That’s quite all right.’ She peered at me.
‘Off for a run,’ I said. ‘Need to get back into shape before taking on the 1066 assignments. A couple of times around the lake should do it.’
As always, she looked over my shoulder for Peterson. She’s a quiet girl and, even though she’s Thirsk’s representative here at St Mary’s, people do quite like her. Besides, as Peterson pointed out, we’d sent them Kalinda Black – or that six-foot blonde psychopath, as Leon always refers to her – so they had rather got the worst of the deal. Miss Dottle was actually quite sweet. True, she had an enormous crush on Peterson, blushing like a sunset whenever he appeared over the horizon but, let’s face it, if you’re going to have a crush on anyone, you could do worse than Peterson. A lot worse.
It could be Markham, for instance, who was the next person to get between me and fresh air.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.
‘Honestly, I get kidnapped just once…’
‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been tasked by Dr B to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘You’ve been what?’
‘Well, actually, he said, “Mr Markham, should anything happen to Dr Maxwell, I will hold you personally responsible and the consequences will be commensurate with my displeasure.”‘
I winced. ‘Ouch.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘So, to repeat myself – where are you off to?’
‘A couple of times around the lake,’ I said, patting my midriff. It rippled in a disconcerting manner.
Markham stepped back. ‘The sooner the better I’d say. Got your thingy?’
My thingy – as the Security Section refers to it, because they have to keep things simple otherwise they can’t cope – was the personal attack alarm, hanging around my neck. For further security, they’d increased the number of my tags. In addition to the normal one in my arm, they’d inserted another in my thigh. ‘In case your arm gets chopped off,’ said Helen, comfortingly, and a third under my shoulder blade.
‘In case all your arms and legs get chopped off,’ said Markham.
It’s good to have friends.
Sighing and rolling my eyes, I presented my thingy for inspection, was instructed to wave as I passed the windows, not to overdo things, to remember my water, to try not to fall over my own feet, or get lost.
Since he showed signs of wanting to come with me, I asked him if he really was married, which always shifts him faster than one of Helen’s constipation cures goes through a short historian, and eventually I made it out into the fresh air.
Bloody hell, half the morning gone already.
I wandered over to the lake, stretched out a few non-existent muscles and set off.
I have my own formula. A hundred yard’s jog. Hundred yard’s brisk walk. Hundred yard’s sprint. Hundred yard’s jog again. It covers the ground surprisingly quickly. Although not as quickly as having a pack of enraged villagers coming at you waving pitchforks and torches and shouting about burning the witch. Then watch me really move.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Things wobbled a bit, but casting my mind back to pre-pregnancy days, things had always wobbled a bit, so I didn’t take a lot of notice.
The day was lovely, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and cool enough to keep me comfortable. The swans, always as far away from St Mary’s as they could possibly manage, floated serenely on the lake or stamped around the reed beds muttering to themselves. We all gave each other a wide berth.
I completed one circuit, chugged back some water and, encouraged to find I was still alive, decided to give it another go.
I set off again, anti-clockwise this time, rather enjoying myself and, just as I was at the very furthest point from St Mary’s, just where the reed beds hid me from sight, I came upon Clive Ronan, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, and apparently waiting for me.
Remembering the last occasion on which I’d seen him, the time when he’d kidnapped me and left me to give birth alone and lost in time, I screeched to a halt and began to grope for my thingy. Sadly, it was under my T-shirt to stop it bumping around so was not, therefore, immediately accessible.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I mean you no harm. I’m not armed. Look.’
His gun was on the ground some feet away. ‘Pick it up if it makes you feel safer.’
I did pick it up. As I’d suspected, it was empty but I could always use it to club him to death.
He stood up very slowly. ‘I’m not armed,’ he said again, arms in the air, rotating slowly. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and I could see he had no gun.
‘No ankle holster,’ he said pulling up his jeans. ‘And no knives either. No hostile intentions of any kind.’ He sat back down again. ‘I can understand that after our last encounter you might have a few … issues … with me, but since you apparently made it back safe and sound, I hope you’ll be able to set those aside for a few minutes and talk. How is the young lad by the way? Does he look like his dad?’
I ignored the questions. He wasn’t going to get any information out of me.
He gestured to another log. ‘Please sit down.’
I ignored that too.
He seated himself again slowly and carefully. ‘I have something to say to you and…’
I finally located my thingy and pulled it out. Carefully, because I’d once set it off accidentally and birds had erupted from the trees, glass had shattered, every dog for miles around had begun to howl, and Dr Bairstow had blamed me for stopping his clock. You get the picture. It’s loud.
I’ve been dealing with Ronan for years now. He’s a killer without conscience. He’s ruthless. A complete bastard. He couldn’t possibly have anything to say to me. Activating my alarm would have the entire Security Section here in moments. And Leon, probably, dripping wet, baby in one hand, Glock 9mm in the other. And the History Department, of course, all wanting to see what was happening, and keen to make a bad situation worse.
‘I want to stop.’
There was a silence, while my brain struggled with what was actually quite a simple sentence.
‘What?’
‘I want to stop.’
I stared at him.
He sighed and leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. ‘I want to stop running. I want … I don’t want to…’
He stopped talking and stared at his feet.
I wasn’t altogether surprised. I think I’ve said before that living outside one’s own time is not easy. Today’s society is much more fragmented than in the past – people are no longer linked in the traditional groupings of family, tribe, guild, or village, but even today, without a NI number, a credit rating, or an ID card, there’s little chance of being accepted into society. Life on the outside is never easy. Everyone belongs somewhere. They may not like their life but it fits them exactly. It’s where they’re meant to be. Leave it for any length of time and History reacts by making things as difficult as it knows how.
Ronan had been running for years, damaging himself and everyone around him. His trail was littered with corpses and the wreckage of other people’s lives. I could understand that he would want to stop running. Especially now that the Time Police were on his case. The question was – would he be allowed to? Should he be allowed to?
I thought of Mary Schiller. Killed and left in a box for four hundred years. And Jamie Cameron. Killed to make a point. And Big Dave Murdoch who died saving me. I thought of what Ronan had done to Bashford and Grey. And to me.
I said nothing because silence is the best way to get people to talk.
Not looking at me, he said, ‘I want to stop running all the time. I’ve found somewhere … I want to settle down with … I want to stop all this. Sooner or later, Max, one or both of us is going to be dead. And that doesn’t have to happen. I now know the … the value of what you have, and I want it too. So I’m saying – you back off – I back off – and we both of us get on with the rest of our lives.’
I found a voice. ‘That’s it? That’s what you want? A decade and more of killing everyone in your path and now you just want to close the door and walk away?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A new beginning.’
‘What about all the people you ended?’
‘I can’t do anything about the past. But I can do something about the future. People who might die in the future now might not. If we can agree to stop this.’
‘I can’t agree. I mean, it’s not my decision. Dr Bairstow, Director Pinkerton, The Time Police, Leon – I can’t begin to count the number of people who want to take you down.’
He squinted up at me. ‘Have you ever heard of MAD?’
‘Mutually assured destruction? Yes, of course. Are you saying…?’
‘It hasn’t happened yet, but you don’t have to be a genius to work out where this is leading. We’re all caught up in this deadly, downward spiral of violence and revenge and it’s going to end badly, Max, for all of us. You have a son now. You have responsibilities. Surely you want to keep yourself and Farrell alive for him. You want to watch him grow up, don’t you?’
I lifted my thingy. ‘I can do all that by having you arrested. Now.’
‘I’ll be gone long before they get here.’
‘After you’ve killed me, I suppose.’
‘No. I’ll just step into my pod, which is only just over there and disappear again, leaving you to reflect on a wasted opportunity which could have changed everything.’
‘Why me?’
Something in his face changed. Even his voice was different. Softer, but somehow more compelling.
‘Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness. You always have, and I don’t think it would take very much for you to dance my way. I can’t think of anyone I would rather have to speak for me.’
‘I told you, I don’t have the authority.’
‘Your word carries weight. A great deal of weight. What do you have to lose? Love what you did to Halcombe, by the way.’
‘I’m sure had you been in my position you would have done something similar.’
‘Indeed I would. Why didn’t you shove him into a real leper colony?’
I said in exasperation, ‘Again – he doesn’t actually have leprosy.’
‘No, but he soon would have if you’d done that, wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t think I dance quite as close to the edge of darkness as you sometimes imagine.’
‘No? Well, if you say so.’
I stared at him, shocked.
‘Oh come on, Max. We both think the same way. The only difference is that you only think about these things and I actually do them.’
He stood up slowly.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘I’ve planted the seed, which is all I came to do. Talk to Edward, Max. Tell him what I’ve said.’
‘I can tell you now what he’ll say.’
‘Can you?’ He smiled. ‘Ask him what Annie would have wanted him to do? May I have my gun back please?’
I turned, took a few steps, and threw it into the lake. When I turned back, he was gone.
I whirled around a couple of times, but he really was gone. A sudden hot wind rustled the dead, dry reeds as his pod jumped away.
I could see something white on the log where he’d been sitting. An unsealed envelope with my name on it. Inside was a sheet of paper.
Thank you for listening. If Edward wants to take this further – and I hope he does – then meet me at the coordinates below. A little remote, I know, but excellent all round visibility, which makes it a good place for neither of us to be ambushed.
Au revoir.
I folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and jogged back to St Mary’s.
‘He’s in a meeting,’ said Mrs Partridge, not looking up from her desk.
‘Please interrupt him.’
She looked at me for a moment and then disappeared back into his office. I could hear the murmur of voices and then she reappeared.
‘Come in, please.’
Dr Bairstow and Miss Dottle were seated at his briefing table, teleconferencing with the Chancellor. She smiled. ‘Good morning, Max.’
‘Good morning, Madam Chancellor. My apologies, but I must speak to Dr Bairstow at once.’ I turned to him. ‘Something has happened, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Madam Chancellor, Miss Dottle, my apologies. We shall resume as soon as I am able.’
The screen went blank. Dottle picked up her papers and her scratchpad and scurried from the room.
‘Well, Dr Maxwell?’
I gave him the details and sat quietly while he sat quietly. His face, as usual, gave no clue to his thoughts and, believe me, I was looking. Eventually, he said, ‘Did you believe him?’
I didn’t make the mistake of replying instantly. I sat and ran through everything. What Ronan had said. How he had said it. His body language. His facial expressions. I sifted through my thoughts and impressions and then said, ‘If I had not known who he was, then yes, I would have believed him.’
‘So, as far as you can tell, based solely on this morning’s events, he was telling the truth.’
‘I think so sir, yes.’
I waited while he picked up the note again.
‘You have, of course, checked these coordinates.’
‘I have, sir. They translate to a location in the Egyptian desert, around 525BC.’
‘He’s being cautious, Max. It would be very difficult to arrange an ambush in the middle of the desert. There would be little cover for miles around.’
‘That would work to the advantage of both of us, sir.’
‘Yes, indeed. He appears to have given this arrangement some thought.’
Silence again as he sat and stared out of the window. ‘If I asked you to, would you go?’
‘Like a shot, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘If he’s genuine, then this is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss. If he’s not, then I can shoot the bastard, and that’s an opportunity I can’t afford to miss.’
He stirred in his chair. ‘If I alert the Time Police, they’ll want to be there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if I don’t alert them and he escapes or attacks you – then they will have a legitimate grievance, and the fault will be solely mine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go and have some lunch, Max. Come back in an hour. Not a word of this to anyone.’
‘Yes sir. And no sir.’
*
I sat with Markham and Peterson at our usual table. They chatted away. I sat and listened with half an ear, busy with my own thoughts.
‘You all right, Max?’ said Peterson. ‘Don’t tell me this morning’s gentle trot has knackered you completely.’
‘Of course not,’ I said with dignity. ‘If you don’t want your sandwich, can I have it?’ and he was so busy defending his lunch that he forgot to ask any more questions, and Markham was playing fish finger Jenga and not listening anyway.
It was only as I was leaving that I noticed Leon wasn’t there. Slightly concerned as to the whereabouts of the male members of my family, I went to look for them, eventually running them to earth in our room where Leon, covered in a protective sheet, was feeding Matthew. The way he eats – Matthew, I mean – it’s the feeder rather than the feedee who needs to wear the bib. One mashed banana can cover every available surface for miles around and has frequently done so.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘How did your run go?’
‘Unexpectedly,’ I said, wondering whether to say anything or not. Leon’s not always very balanced on the subject of Clive Ronan. I hesitated, remembered Dr Bairstow’s instructions, and said nothing. If he wanted to, he could brief Leon himself.
I set off that evening. It was that funny time of day when people have finished eating and are wondering what to do next. Have a drink in the bar? Wander down to the pub in the village? Pile into someone’s car and go into Rushford? Whatever they decided to do, they wouldn’t be doing it in Hawking Hangar, which should be deserted.
Dr Bairstow limped along beside me. ‘You have your instructions, Dr Maxwell.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Take no risks.’
‘No, sir.’
In accordance with instructions, Dieter had sent his people away. Only he remained. The hangar was empty and echoing. Two rows of pods sat quietly on their plinths. There was no tinny radio playing music, no tinkle of dropped tools, no bad language, no hum of power drills. I almost didn’t recognise the place.
‘I’ve checked the coordinates and laid them in for you,’ he said.
‘Ta very muchly.’
I dumped my bag in a locker and turned to check over the console.
Pods are our centres of operations. They’re small, cramped, smell of cabbage and the toilet rarely works properly. I was in Number Eight, my favourite pod. We’d seen some adventures together and it would be hard to say which of us looked the most battered. The console was to the right of the door, with the wall-mounted screen over. I scanned the various readouts – everything looked normal – and seated myself in the uncomfortable seat, wriggling my bum to try to iron out the lumps.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got worms as well,’ said Dieter, watching me squirm as he bashed away at his scratchpad.
I stopped wriggling. ‘As well as whom?’
‘As well as Markham.’
‘Oh God, really? I’ve just eaten with him.’
‘More fool you.’
‘And it’s not as if it’s the first time. Or even the third. How does he do it?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s Markham – home to every passing parasite looking for somewhere dark and moist. Everything’s set here. You OK?’
I nodded.
‘Good luck, Max.’
I wondered how much Dr Bairstow had told him. ‘Thanks. See you soon.’
The door closed behind him.
I felt suddenly nervous and took a deep breath to steady myself. Peering at the screen, I could see Dr Bairstow standing behind the safety line. As I watched, he was joined by Dieter and the
Matthew Edward Farrell
A very small but very important human.
Dr Maxwell
Chief Operations Officer.
Not having a good year. Not having a good year at all.
Leon Farrell
Chief Technical Officer.
Racing up and down the timeline.
Again. Can he save the day? Again?
Tim Peterson
Not in a good place.
Mr Markham
Unexpectedly in charge of the Security Section.
Dr Bairstow
Director of St Mary’s.
Holding them all together.
Mrs Partridge
PA to Dr Bairstow and Muse of History.
History Department
Mr Clerk
Senior Historian.
Miss Prentiss
Senior Historian.
Mr Atherton
Mr Bashford
Miss North
Miss Sykes
Normal historians – where the word normal has a different meaning from in the real world.
Miss Grey
Very unenthusiastic historian.
Technical Section
Mr Dieter
Second Chief Technical Officer.
Mr Lindstrom
Technical Officer.
Terrified of women. He’s not going to fare well at St Mary’s, is he?
Medical Section
Dr Helen Foster
Chief Medical Officer.
Will now never be without a packet of cigarettes.
Nurse Fortunata
Junior Nurse.
Nurse Hunter
If she is married to Markham then not surprisingly she’s keeping very quiet about it.
Dr Nathaniel Stone
Can’t quite believe what’s going on around him. Possesses a degree in advanced deviousness.Cocoa drinker.
Research and Development
Professor Rapson
Head of R&D
One of the tossers.
Miss Lingoss
Multi-coloured member of R&D.
The other tosser.
Dr Dowson
Librarian and Archivist.
Surprisingly subdued this time around.
Others
Mrs Mack
Kitchen Supremo, former urban guerrilla and maker of extremely good cakes.
Mrs Enderby
Head of Wardrobe.
Unexpectedly good with a croquet mallet.
Miss Lee
Supposedly Max’s PA.
Not yet up to speed with telephone answering techniques.
The Time Police(Managing to be both the baddies and the goodies depending at which point in the story you are.)
Marietta Hay
Commander of Time Police.
Captain Charlie Farenden
Her adjutant.
Captain Matthew Ellis
A familiar face.
A doctor
With his hands full.
Officers Trent and Parrish
Pizza bringers.
Officer Van Owen
An old friend.
Sundry Time Police Officers
Whose main purpose seems to be to stand around in corridors fighting with Max.
Adrian and Mikey
Time Travellers from the future and proud teapot builders.
Slowly dying of radiation sickness.
Turk
An alleged horse. Possesses strong opinions concerning personal space.
Lisa Dottle
Not anywhere near as wet as she used to be. Only slightly damp these days and getting drier all the time.Fancies Peterson.
Colin
A dead dog currently residing on top of Max’s wardrobe.
Rushfordshire Stinking Henry
A rather large piece of radioactive cheese.
Clive Ronan
Yep. He’s back again.
Historical Figures
Harold Godwinson
Earl of Wessex and later King of England.
Duke William of Normandy
The Bastard.
Count Guy of Ponthieu
Proud possessor of Harold Godwinson and determined to cash in.
Odo of Conteville
Battling Bishop of Bayeux.
King Harald Hardrada
Earns his seven feet of English soil.
Tostig of Northumberland
An opportunist.
Eystein Orri
Unsuccessfully bringing reinforcements.
Giant Viking
Holding the bridge.
Edith Swanneschals
King Harold’s mistress and body snatcher.
Plus a cast of thousands…
The Lost Army of Cambyses
All fifty thousand of them.
The citizens of Beaurain
All of them probably suffering from some dreadful lung disease.
The citizens of Bayeux
All under their bishop’s watchful eye.
The Viking army of Harald and Tostig
Meeting their end at Stamford Bridge. Not the boring football ground! The other one.
The Saxon Fyrd
Making its final appearance. Never to be seen again.
The Norman Army
Including mercenaries, adventurers and anyone else looking to make a quick buck.
The citizens of Constantinople
Not having a good day.
Crusaders
On their way to the Holy Land and inexplicably stopping off in Constantinople. Pillage and plunder almost certainly have something to do with it.
Prologue
I was back at St Mary’s. I was safe. My baby, Matthew, was safe. Leon was safe. Statements I’d once never thought I’d be able to make. These days, the three of us were a contented family unit. I loved Matthew. Matthew loved me. And Leon loved both of us.
Despite his dramatic entry into this world, Matthew was a happy, friendly, normal little baby, who would gurgle contentedly as he was passed from person to person and spoiled rotten, but mostly – he was mine. I was the one to whom he held out his arms first. He always held out his arms to me. I could hardly believe it. Leon laughed and called him ‘Mummy’s Boy’, but the two of us had a special relationship. For me, it was a time of quiet happiness, because none of this was something I ever thought would happen to me.
True, Leon and I were still at St Mary’s. After Clive Ronan’s attempt to kidnap me, Dr Bairstow had requested that, for our own protection, we remain at St Mary’s, and so we had. We had a suite of rooms up under the roof in the main part of the building, which, as Peterson said, were along so many narrow corridors and up so many crooked stairways, that any passing homicidal psychopath would never be able to find us.
He was a happy bunny these days, as well. No one knew what methods he’d used to persuade Dr Foster to marry him, but whatever he’d done had worked. He was regarded around the building with equal amounts of awe, admiration, respect and sympathy.
‘About bloody time,’ I’d said, grinning at him, and Markham had made a rude noise, which was a mistake on his part because attention immediately shifted his way.
‘So what about you?’ demanded Peterson, moving his chair slightly so Markham couldn’t escape.
‘What about me?’ he said, innocence oozing from every pore.
‘Are you married?’
‘Me?’ he said in astonishment.
‘Yes, you.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘You did.’
‘Did I? When?’
A few days after Matthew’s somewhat unconventional entry into the world, Markham had let slip he was married. To Hunter. They’d been married for years he’d said, and then nipped out of the door while we were too gobsmacked to stop him. Peterson and I had been attempting to get to the bottom of this ever since, but as teachers, employers, policemen, magistrates, army officers and Dr Bairstow had discovered, Markham can be a slippery little sod when it comes to prising information out of him. He was being one now, grinning at us over his mug of tea. We’d tried every possible approach and were still none the wiser, and neither of us had the nerve to approach Nurse Hunter, the terror of St Mary’s.
We all work at St Mary’s. Or, to give it the correct title, the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. Our job is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time. It’s not time travel because, as Dr Bairstow never fails to point out, we are not living in the pages of a sci-fi/fantasy novel, and no one argues with him, because our lives are hazardous enough without deliberately asking for trouble. So we never mention time travel. Although that’s what we do.
We’re located just outside Rushford at the end of a country lane that goes nowhere, because the Government thought we couldn’t do much damage in this remote corner of a quiet county. That assumption was about as correct as government assumptions usually are. Surely the law of averages dictates that one day they must get at least one right.
Anyway, my name is Maxwell. I’m Chief Operations Officer and returning from maternity leave to a crowded schedule. We had a lot on these days. There were important anniversaries coming up and Thirsk University, our nominal employers, had commissioned an in-depth study of the events culminating in the Battle of Hastings. We were to witness the aftermath of Harold Godwinson’s shipwreck – the one that placed him in the power of William of Normandy, followed by that critically important oath-taking ceremony at Bayeux. Then on to Stamford Bridge – that’s the battle, not the much less interesting football ground – when Harold defeated the forces of Tostig and Harold Hardrada and then, nineteen days later, the struggle at Hastings itself and the end of Saxon life in England. If time and finances permitted, there would be a jump to William’s coronation on Christmas Day, 1066. Something which I wouldn’t be able to attend. We’d had a go at that jump a couple of years ago, allowed ourselves to be distracted and missed it.
The last few months at St Mary’s hadn’t been without incident, either. Only a few months ago, to worldwide excitement, the Sword of Tristram and a crown from the Holy Roman Empire had been discovered in our woods. I was on maternity leave but I wandered up a couple of times, parked baby Matthew under a tree and helped out. The sword and crown were exactly where we’d left them although, as Peterson said at the subsequent piss-up, they were hardly likely to get up and move, were they? There wasn’t much of the sword left – only the pommel and a sliver of metal with a fragment of that all-important verse remaining. The rest was just a dark shape in the soil, but the crown, being mostly of gold, had fared much better.
Dr Chalfont, who had headed the dig, had been reinstated as Chancellor of Thirsk University just in time for them to take credit for the find. Which had been the whole point of us burying the stuff for her in the first place. She had returned to Thirsk in triumph and, according to rumour, the Night of the Long Knives had been nothing in comparison. The panelled corridors of the stately and venerable University of Thirsk had run red with academic blood. Metaphorically speaking. It had been, said the Chancellor, the light of battle still in her eye, an invigorating experience and an excellent opportunity for a great deal of dead wood removal, but she would be grateful if we would never put her in such a position again. We had nodded and promised.
So here we all were and everything was fine.
I was a member of a happy family – somewhat to my surprise.
Peterson was training to be Dr Bairstow’s deputy.
Markham had been reinstated as Major Guthrie’s number two. And yes, all the bad jokes had been made.
St Mary’s was relatively stable and solvent.
Everything was absolutely fine.
It began as a day just like any other. I awoke to a crisp, frosty morning and decided to go for a run. You can’t use giving birth as an excuse forever. I’ve never been what you might call toned, but even I could see it was time to get into some sort of shape. Yes, I’d been on maternity leave, but I wanted to hit the ground running, so to speak, and therefore a little time spent running now might mean a lot less time hitting the ground later on.
I left Leon and Matthew in the bath, playing Attack of the Deadly Flannels. I’m not sure what the game entails, but there’s always a lot of splashing and shrieking – and that’s just Leon. Followed by massive mopping up afterwards, of course.
I blew them both a kiss, ignored Leon’s invitation to join them, and shot off to pick up a bottle of water, bumping into Miss Dottle on the stairs.
Dottle wasn’t actually a member of St Mary’s. She and her boss, the idiot Halcombe, were from Thirsk University, and had been foisted on us last year. That had been my fault – we did something really bad, but no one talks about it so neither will I. Anyway, he’d tried to sabotage an assignment and Dr Foster had diagnosed him with leprosy – as you do – which had got rid of him nicely, leaving us with the much more likeable Miss Dottle.
‘Sorry,’ I said, as she bounced off the banisters.
‘That’s quite all right.’ She peered at me.
‘Off for a run,’ I said. ‘Need to get back into shape before taking on the 1066 assignments. A couple of times around the lake should do it.’
As always, she looked over my shoulder for Peterson. She’s a quiet girl and, even though she’s Thirsk’s representative here at St Mary’s, people do quite like her. Besides, as Peterson pointed out, we’d sent them Kalinda Black – or that six-foot blonde psychopath, as Leon always refers to her – so they had rather got the worst of the deal. Miss Dottle was actually quite sweet. True, she had an enormous crush on Peterson, blushing like a sunset whenever he appeared over the horizon but, let’s face it, if you’re going to have a crush on anyone, you could do worse than Peterson. A lot worse.
It could be Markham, for instance, who was the next person to get between me and fresh air.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.
‘Honestly, I get kidnapped just once…’
‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been tasked by Dr B to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘You’ve been what?’
‘Well, actually, he said, “Mr Markham, should anything happen to Dr Maxwell, I will hold you personally responsible and the consequences will be commensurate with my displeasure.”‘
I winced. ‘Ouch.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘So, to repeat myself – where are you off to?’
‘A couple of times around the lake,’ I said, patting my midriff. It rippled in a disconcerting manner.
Markham stepped back. ‘The sooner the better I’d say. Got your thingy?’
My thingy – as the Security Section refers to it, because they have to keep things simple otherwise they can’t cope – was the personal attack alarm, hanging around my neck. For further security, they’d increased the number of my tags. In addition to the normal one in my arm, they’d inserted another in my thigh. ‘In case your arm gets chopped off,’ said Helen, comfortingly, and a third under my shoulder blade.
‘In case all your arms and legs get chopped off,’ said Markham.
It’s good to have friends.
Sighing and rolling my eyes, I presented my thingy for inspection, was instructed to wave as I passed the windows, not to overdo things, to remember my water, to try not to fall over my own feet, or get lost.
Since he showed signs of wanting to come with me, I asked him if he really was married, which always shifts him faster than one of Helen’s constipation cures goes through a short historian, and eventually I made it out into the fresh air.
Bloody hell, half the morning gone already.
I wandered over to the lake, stretched out a few non-existent muscles and set off.
I have my own formula. A hundred yard’s jog. Hundred yard’s brisk walk. Hundred yard’s sprint. Hundred yard’s jog again. It covers the ground surprisingly quickly. Although not as quickly as having a pack of enraged villagers coming at you waving pitchforks and torches and shouting about burning the witch. Then watch me really move.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Things wobbled a bit, but casting my mind back to pre-pregnancy days, things had always wobbled a bit, so I didn’t take a lot of notice.
The day was lovely, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and cool enough to keep me comfortable. The swans, always as far away from St Mary’s as they could possibly manage, floated serenely on the lake or stamped around the reed beds muttering to themselves. We all gave each other a wide berth.
I completed one circuit, chugged back some water and, encouraged to find I was still alive, decided to give it another go.
I set off again, anti-clockwise this time, rather enjoying myself and, just as I was at the very furthest point from St Mary’s, just where the reed beds hid me from sight, I came upon Clive Ronan, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, and apparently waiting for me.
Remembering the last occasion on which I’d seen him, the time when he’d kidnapped me and left me to give birth alone and lost in time, I screeched to a halt and began to grope for my thingy. Sadly, it was under my T-shirt to stop it bumping around so was not, therefore, immediately accessible.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I mean you no harm. I’m not armed. Look.’
His gun was on the ground some feet away. ‘Pick it up if it makes you feel safer.’
I did pick it up. As I’d suspected, it was empty but I could always use it to club him to death.
He stood up very slowly. ‘I’m not armed,’ he said again, arms in the air, rotating slowly. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and I could see he had no gun.
‘No ankle holster,’ he said pulling up his jeans. ‘And no knives either. No hostile intentions of any kind.’ He sat back down again. ‘I can understand that after our last encounter you might have a few … issues … with me, but since you apparently made it back safe and sound, I hope you’ll be able to set those aside for a few minutes and talk. How is the young lad by the way? Does he look like his dad?’
I ignored the questions. He wasn’t going to get any information out of me.
He gestured to another log. ‘Please sit down.’
I ignored that too.
He seated himself again slowly and carefully. ‘I have something to say to you and…’
I finally located my thingy and pulled it out. Carefully, because I’d once set it off accidentally and birds had erupted from the trees, glass had shattered, every dog for miles around had begun to howl, and Dr Bairstow had blamed me for stopping his clock. You get the picture. It’s loud.
I’ve been dealing with Ronan for years now. He’s a killer without conscience. He’s ruthless. A complete bastard. He couldn’t possibly have anything to say to me. Activating my alarm would have the entire Security Section here in moments. And Leon, probably, dripping wet, baby in one hand, Glock 9mm in the other. And the History Department, of course, all wanting to see what was happening, and keen to make a bad situation worse.
‘I want to stop.’
There was a silence, while my brain struggled with what was actually quite a simple sentence.
‘What?’
‘I want to stop.’
I stared at him.
He sighed and leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. ‘I want to stop running. I want … I don’t want to…’
He stopped talking and stared at his feet.
I wasn’t altogether surprised. I think I’ve said before that living outside one’s own time is not easy. Today’s society is much more fragmented than in the past – people are no longer linked in the traditional groupings of family, tribe, guild, or village, but even today, without a NI number, a credit rating, or an ID card, there’s little chance of being accepted into society. Life on the outside is never easy. Everyone belongs somewhere. They may not like their life but it fits them exactly. It’s where they’re meant to be. Leave it for any length of time and History reacts by making things as difficult as it knows how.
Ronan had been running for years, damaging himself and everyone around him. His trail was littered with corpses and the wreckage of other people’s lives. I could understand that he would want to stop running. Especially now that the Time Police were on his case. The question was – would he be allowed to? Should he be allowed to?
I thought of Mary Schiller. Killed and left in a box for four hundred years. And Jamie Cameron. Killed to make a point. And Big Dave Murdoch who died saving me. I thought of what Ronan had done to Bashford and Grey. And to me.
I said nothing because silence is the best way to get people to talk.
Not looking at me, he said, ‘I want to stop running all the time. I’ve found somewhere … I want to settle down with … I want to stop all this. Sooner or later, Max, one or both of us is going to be dead. And that doesn’t have to happen. I now know the … the value of what you have, and I want it too. So I’m saying – you back off – I back off – and we both of us get on with the rest of our lives.’
I found a voice. ‘That’s it? That’s what you want? A decade and more of killing everyone in your path and now you just want to close the door and walk away?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A new beginning.’
‘What about all the people you ended?’
‘I can’t do anything about the past. But I can do something about the future. People who might die in the future now might not. If we can agree to stop this.’
‘I can’t agree. I mean, it’s not my decision. Dr Bairstow, Director Pinkerton, The Time Police, Leon – I can’t begin to count the number of people who want to take you down.’
He squinted up at me. ‘Have you ever heard of MAD?’
‘Mutually assured destruction? Yes, of course. Are you saying…?’
‘It hasn’t happened yet, but you don’t have to be a genius to work out where this is leading. We’re all caught up in this deadly, downward spiral of violence and revenge and it’s going to end badly, Max, for all of us. You have a son now. You have responsibilities. Surely you want to keep yourself and Farrell alive for him. You want to watch him grow up, don’t you?’
I lifted my thingy. ‘I can do all that by having you arrested. Now.’
‘I’ll be gone long before they get here.’
‘After you’ve killed me, I suppose.’
‘No. I’ll just step into my pod, which is only just over there and disappear again, leaving you to reflect on a wasted opportunity which could have changed everything.’
‘Why me?’
Something in his face changed. Even his voice was different. Softer, but somehow more compelling.
‘Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness. You always have, and I don’t think it would take very much for you to dance my way. I can’t think of anyone I would rather have to speak for me.’
‘I told you, I don’t have the authority.’
‘Your word carries weight. A great deal of weight. What do you have to lose? Love what you did to Halcombe, by the way.’
‘I’m sure had you been in my position you would have done something similar.’
‘Indeed I would. Why didn’t you shove him into a real leper colony?’
I said in exasperation, ‘Again – he doesn’t actually have leprosy.’
‘No, but he soon would have if you’d done that, wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t think I dance quite as close to the edge of darkness as you sometimes imagine.’
‘No? Well, if you say so.’
I stared at him, shocked.
‘Oh come on, Max. We both think the same way. The only difference is that you only think about these things and I actually do them.’
He stood up slowly.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘I’ve planted the seed, which is all I came to do. Talk to Edward, Max. Tell him what I’ve said.’
‘I can tell you now what he’ll say.’
‘Can you?’ He smiled. ‘Ask him what Annie would have wanted him to do? May I have my gun back please?’
I turned, took a few steps, and threw it into the lake. When I turned back, he was gone.
I whirled around a couple of times, but he really was gone. A sudden hot wind rustled the dead, dry reeds as his pod jumped away.
I could see something white on the log where he’d been sitting. An unsealed envelope with my name on it. Inside was a sheet of paper.
Thank you for listening. If Edward wants to take this further – and I hope he does – then meet me at the coordinates below. A little remote, I know, but excellent all round visibility, which makes it a good place for neither of us to be ambushed.
Au revoir.
I folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and jogged back to St Mary’s.
‘He’s in a meeting,’ said Mrs Partridge, not looking up from her desk.
‘Please interrupt him.’
She looked at me for a moment and then disappeared back into his office. I could hear the murmur of voices and then she reappeared.
‘Come in, please.’
Dr Bairstow and Miss Dottle were seated at his briefing table, teleconferencing with the Chancellor. She smiled. ‘Good morning, Max.’
‘Good morning, Madam Chancellor. My apologies, but I must speak to Dr Bairstow at once.’ I turned to him. ‘Something has happened, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Madam Chancellor, Miss Dottle, my apologies. We shall resume as soon as I am able.’
The screen went blank. Dottle picked up her papers and her scratchpad and scurried from the room.
‘Well, Dr Maxwell?’
I gave him the details and sat quietly while he sat quietly. His face, as usual, gave no clue to his thoughts and, believe me, I was looking. Eventually, he said, ‘Did you believe him?’
I didn’t make the mistake of replying instantly. I sat and ran through everything. What Ronan had said. How he had said it. His body language. His facial expressions. I sifted through my thoughts and impressions and then said, ‘If I had not known who he was, then yes, I would have believed him.’
‘So, as far as you can tell, based solely on this morning’s events, he was telling the truth.’
‘I think so sir, yes.’
I waited while he picked up the note again.
‘You have, of course, checked these coordinates.’
‘I have, sir. They translate to a location in the Egyptian desert, around 525BC.’
‘He’s being cautious, Max. It would be very difficult to arrange an ambush in the middle of the desert. There would be little cover for miles around.’
‘That would work to the advantage of both of us, sir.’
‘Yes, indeed. He appears to have given this arrangement some thought.’
Silence again as he sat and stared out of the window. ‘If I asked you to, would you go?’
‘Like a shot, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘If he’s genuine, then this is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss. If he’s not, then I can shoot the bastard, and that’s an opportunity I can’t afford to miss.’
He stirred in his chair. ‘If I alert the Time Police, they’ll want to be there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if I don’t alert them and he escapes or attacks you – then they will have a legitimate grievance, and the fault will be solely mine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go and have some lunch, Max. Come back in an hour. Not a word of this to anyone.’
‘Yes sir. And no sir.’
*
I sat with Markham and Peterson at our usual table. They chatted away. I sat and listened with half an ear, busy with my own thoughts.
‘You all right, Max?’ said Peterson. ‘Don’t tell me this morning’s gentle trot has knackered you completely.’
‘Of course not,’ I said with dignity. ‘If you don’t want your sandwich, can I have it?’ and he was so busy defending his lunch that he forgot to ask any more questions, and Markham was playing fish finger Jenga and not listening anyway.
It was only as I was leaving that I noticed Leon wasn’t there. Slightly concerned as to the whereabouts of the male members of my family, I went to look for them, eventually running them to earth in our room where Leon, covered in a protective sheet, was feeding Matthew. The way he eats – Matthew, I mean – it’s the feeder rather than the feedee who needs to wear the bib. One mashed banana can cover every available surface for miles around and has frequently done so.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘How did your run go?’
‘Unexpectedly,’ I said, wondering whether to say anything or not. Leon’s not always very balanced on the subject of Clive Ronan. I hesitated, remembered Dr Bairstow’s instructions, and said nothing. If he wanted to, he could brief Leon himself.
I set off that evening. It was that funny time of day when people have finished eating and are wondering what to do next. Have a drink in the bar? Wander down to the pub in the village? Pile into someone’s car and go into Rushford? Whatever they decided to do, they wouldn’t be doing it in Hawking Hangar, which should be deserted.
Dr Bairstow limped along beside me. ‘You have your instructions, Dr Maxwell.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Take no risks.’
‘No, sir.’
In accordance with instructions, Dieter had sent his people away. Only he remained. The hangar was empty and echoing. Two rows of pods sat quietly on their plinths. There was no tinny radio playing music, no tinkle of dropped tools, no bad language, no hum of power drills. I almost didn’t recognise the place.
‘I’ve checked the coordinates and laid them in for you,’ he said.
‘Ta very muchly.’
I dumped my bag in a locker and turned to check over the console.
Pods are our centres of operations. They’re small, cramped, smell of cabbage and the toilet rarely works properly. I was in Number Eight, my favourite pod. We’d seen some adventures together and it would be hard to say which of us looked the most battered. The console was to the right of the door, with the wall-mounted screen over. I scanned the various readouts – everything looked normal – and seated myself in the uncomfortable seat, wriggling my bum to try to iron out the lumps.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got worms as well,’ said Dieter, watching me squirm as he bashed away at his scratchpad.
I stopped wriggling. ‘As well as whom?’
‘As well as Markham.’
‘Oh God, really? I’ve just eaten with him.’
‘More fool you.’
‘And it’s not as if it’s the first time. Or even the third. How does he do it?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s Markham – home to every passing parasite looking for somewhere dark and moist. Everything’s set here. You OK?’
I nodded.
‘Good luck, Max.’
I wondered how much Dr Bairstow had told him. ‘Thanks. See you soon.’
The door closed behind him.
I felt suddenly nervous and took a deep breath to steady myself. Peering at the screen, I could see Dr Bairstow standing behind the safety line. As I watched, he was joined by Dieter and the
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
And the Rest is History
Jodi Taylor
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
