Hope for the Best

Book 10: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The tenth 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, Ben Aaronovitch or Doctor Who, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor.

'Jodi Taylor does it again. A brilliant yomp through history' - Reader Review

You can't change History. History doesn't like it. There are always consequences.

Max is no stranger to taking matters into her own hands. Especially when she's had A Brilliant Idea. Yes, it will mean breaking a few rules, but - as Max always says - they're not her rules.

Seconded to the Time Police to join in the hunt for the renegade Clive Ronan, Max is a long way from St Mary's. But life in the future does have its plus points - although not for long.

A problem with the Time Map reveals chaos in the 16th century and the wrong Tudor queen on the throne. History has gone rogue, there's a St Mary's team right in the firing line and Max must step up.

You know what they say. Hope for the best. But plan for the worst.

Readers love Jodi Taylor:

'Once in a while, I discover an author who changes everything... Jodi Taylor and her protagonista Madeleine "Max" Maxwell have seduced me'

'A great mix of British proper-ness and humour with a large dollop of historical fun'

'Addictive. I wish St Mary's was real and I was a part of it'

'Jodi Taylor has an imagination that gets me completely hooked'

'A tour de force'

Release date: April 25, 2019

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

Dramatis Thingummy

My resolution to write books with fewer characters has been even more unsuccessful than my resolution to give up chocolate. Please don’t judge me.

St Mary’s Personnel

Dr Bairstow Director of St Mary’s. One step ahead of everyone. As usual.

Dr Peterson Deputy Director. Stubbornly refusing to act in his own best interests. Nothing new there.

Mrs Partridge PA to Dr Bairstow. Kleio, daughter of Zeus, and Muse of History.

History Department

Mr Clerk Historian.

Miss Prentiss Historian.

Miss Sykes Historian.

Mr Bashford Historian and chicken lover.

Miss North Historian. About to do her duty.

Angus Non-egg-producing historian.

R&D

Miss Lingoss Multi-hued weirdo. Now wearing a beanie.

Medical Section

Dr Stone Medical doctor. Devious, cocoa-drinking optimist.

Nurse Hunter Still not giving anything away.

Security Section

Mr Markham Head of Security. Personal status still shrouded in mystery.

Mr Evans Security guard. Not Welsh and suffering because of it.

Technical Section

Chief Tech. Officer Husband, hero and bringing his own

Farrell doughnuts.

Mr Dieter Another chief technician. Rumour says if you put one in a warm, dark place and cover it in shit then you’ll have another by the morning.

Mr Lindstrom Ordinary technician. If there is such a thing.

Time Police

Commander Hay Commander of the Time Police. Doing what she thinks is right.

Captain Farenden Her adjutant.

Captain Ellis Matthew’s long-suffering mentor. Possibly not quite as indifferent to Max as he thinks. We’ll see.

Max Former Head of the History Department. Now a lowly officer in the Time Police and making friends wherever she goes. Not so much changing History as re-routing it.

Map Master Not having a good day map-wise.

Mr Grint Grint the Grunt. Let’s face it – he and Max are never going to get on.

Mr Nash Re-routing History partner in crime.

Mr Oliver As above.

Mr Bevan As above.

Master Sergeant Zapped and zipped. And in her own

Romano detention centre, too. She’s not going to be happy.

Greta Van Owen Former historian. Is she leaning back towards St Mary’s?

Medical doctor Another cheerful, chatty officer brimming with social skills and joie de vivre.

Various others too numerous to mention.

Others

Mrs De Winter Former schoolteacher. Sibylline Oracle.

David Sands Former historian. Shacked up with Rosie Lee and therefore entitled to some sort of award.

Gareth Roberts Former historian. Beard owner.

Rosie Lee PA to Head of History Dept. According to her job description.

Benjamin Her son.

Ian Guthrie Former Head of Security. Has something planned but you won’t learn about it in this book.

Unpleasant people

Malcolm Halcombe Former representative from Thirsk University. About to make the biggest mistake of his life.

Major Sullivan Halcombe’s right-hand minion. If he wasn’t claustrophobic before, then he is now.

His men

Sex-club owner and staff

Atticus Wolfe Immoral sex-club owner, trafficker, vicious and untrustworthy. Not your standard Jane Austen character.

Demiyan Khalife His PA. Even more vicious and untrustworthy. Fortunately.

Waiters, bouncers et al.

The villain

Clive Ronan Heading for trouble.

Historical personages

Mary Tudor More sympathetic than might be thought.

Her household

Various Londoners

Three men and their rabbit

Priests and priestesses of Amun-Ra

Citizens of Kush

With a full supporting cast of:

Bees, horses, doughnuts – ta-dah! dinosaurs, dodos, camels, a cobra, donkeys, a very pretty ram, and an enormous prehistoric snake poised to make the evolutionary leap but who now probably won’t bother.

Matthew Farrell Insufficient data to comment.



1

I was worried about what Matthew would make of his parents’ disabilities, because – let’s face it – neither Leon nor I were in good condition at the moment. Leon was still recovering from being blown up in Hawking Hangar and I’d been shot and then fallen off the roof – hey, shit happens – and I was so busy worrying about us that I never even considered that Matthew himself might be walking wounded as well.

Leon was getting around well and only sometimes needed his stick, but I was still in my wheelchair, looking pale and interesting. Or, if you listened to Markham, pathetic and feeble.

St Mary’s, obviously, thought Leon and I were hilarious. There may be organisations where personal tragedies are treated with sympathy and support but, trust me, St Mary’s isn’t any of them. There were all sorts of jokes flying around which I’m not going to repeat because they were cruel and insensitive. Although the ones about Leon were quite funny.

Anyway, it was the day of Matthew’s long-awaited visit. Leon and I assembled ourselves on the pan outside Hawking, awaiting his arrival. The Time Police were punctual. They always are. It’s one of their many irritating features, along with no sense of humour and shooting you dead if you look at them wrong. Their pod materialised – not one of their detention pods, I was pleased to note – and Matthew, accompanied by Captain Ellis, stepped out.

I felt Leon stiffen beside me. I didn’t need to stiffen. With both ankles encased in flexi-boots and my arm in a sling and flexi-glove, I was there already and, now, here was Matthew making a major contribution to the Farrell family’s current lack of working limbs. His left arm was swathed in a bright blue flexi-glove that stretched nearly to his shoulder, and a large piece of sticking plaster adorned his forehead. It had an inaccurately depicted dinosaur on it.

I glared at Captain Ellis, who spread his hands defensively. ‘Not my fault.’

‘What happened?’

‘He fell out of a tree.’

‘Why?’

‘Lost his grip.’

‘I mean – why was he in a tree?’

‘His dirigible got stuck.’

Leon said with interest, ‘Still not solved the steering problem, then?’

In addition to having a poor grasp of priorities, men are very easily distracted. Especially techies.

Matthew silently shook his head. He doesn’t talk much.

Leon frowned. ‘Have you tried . . . ?’ And the three of them embarked on some long, incomprehensible discussion of interest only to those with a Y chromosome or no social life.

I could see a change in Matthew since his last visit. He’d filled out and he seemed more confident. He still wasn’t chatty – his early years as a climbing boy in the slums of London had left their mark upon him – but his silences were no longer hostile. Dr Stone had warned me that, while bright enough, he would probably never develop as a normal child. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, Max – he’s just a product of his early upbringing. Be prepared for the unexpected.’

‘Must talk to Auntie Lingoss,’ said Matthew, spotting her over by the hangar and setting off across the grass towards her, without even the slightest interest in why his mother was currently occupying the St Mary’s wheelchair.

‘Wait until he starts harvesting you for parts,’ said Leon, grimly. Noticing my expression, he added hastily, ‘Wheelchair parts, I mean.’

Captain Ellis was grinning. I enquired coldly why he was still here.

‘Glad to see you too, Max.’

I scowled at him but refrained from the traditional criticism of the Time Police’s failure to capture the renegade Clive Ronan, because the truth was that he’d been living on our roof for quite some considerable time and we hadn’t noticed. Although, to be fair, neither had the Time Police, but it was embarrassing, just the same.

We had, however, managed to get his accomplice’s body out of the tree. The operation had been quite complex, involving a cherry-picker; Angus the chicken in an observer’s capacity; less than helpful suggestions from Professor Rapson, hanging precariously out of his window for a good view; an inordinate amount of rope; the entire Security Section; Miss Lee, who had taken advantage of my absence to be a nosey-parker; and finally, when the situation had become desperate, Mr Strong and his chainsaw. Down came the tree, Dottle and all. I was sorry I’d missed it, but I was in Sick Bay at the time, having my bones glued back together.

It’s a bit of a bugger, but the truth is that, at my age, the bones don’t knit quite as quickly as they used to and I was having trouble knitting. Or so Dr Stone said. I told him I personally blamed my lack of knitting on the poor standards of medical care currently prevailing at St Mary’s, and that turned out to be a bit of a mistake because the next moment he was standing over me with a syringe the size of a Saturn V rocket.

I sat up in a hurry. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Nothing for you to worry your little historian head about. Good heavens, what has Mr Bashford done now?’

I twisted my head to look and the bastard got me.

‘Ow,’ I said indignantly, rubbing my arm.

‘There,’ he said happily. ‘That should do it.’

‘What do you mean – should?’

He stared dubiously at the syringe. ‘Well, I have to admit I’m not completely confident because I’ve only ever used this stuff once before and that was on a ginger tomcat.’

‘What? Did it survive?’

‘Sadly, no.’

‘What?’

‘Relax. It was run over by a bus.’

I sagged back on to the pillows with some relief.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘It had some sort of fit about ten seconds after the injection and ran out into the road. Don’t worry, we won’t let that happen to you.’

‘It’s a little late now, surely.’

‘We thought we’d tie you to the bed and hope that will increase your chances of survival. Hold still now.’

‘Bugger off.’

He grinned. ‘Bet you’re feeling better now.’

I hauled the bedclothes up to my chin. ‘Much. I can hear my bones knitting faster than a bunch of tricoteuses at the foot of the guillotine.’

I know it sounds as if I’d done nothing but lie around and not be tied to my bed, but I hadn’t been wasting my time. While vari­ous flexi-boots and gloves did their work, soothing swollen flesh, healing broken bones and torn ligaments, and rendering me not only pain free but quite euphoric on occasions, I’d used the time to do some thinking. Quite a lot of thinking. And a lot of planning, too. I suspect Nurse Hunter was quite surprised at my docility. She was always bursting in and staring at me suspiciously, looking for signs of misbehaviour. I would stare back, looking for signs of marriage and/or motherhood. We – Peterson and I – had failed to elicit information of any kind from Markham. I don’t know why we thought we’d succeed where teachers, police, magistrates, the army and Dr Bairstow had failed. And if I wasn’t being either the starer or the staree then I was being surrounded by visitors.

Peterson came every day. Wearing his blues again, because he was in charge of the History Department until I was back on my feet. He seemed his usual self, but he wasn’t. He was all over the place. Dottle’s death and its implications had affected all of us and Peterson most of all.

I knew Lingoss had stayed with him throughout Dottle’s arrest and all the subsequent drama. She brought him to visit me in Sick Bay. I think it was when they were getting Dottle out of the tree and they wanted him out of the way. Sick Bay’s on the other side of the building. I wasn’t feeling that brilliant myself at the time, but Peterson had a strange, lost look and I feared for him.

Lingoss and I exchanged glances. ‘I’ll get some tea,’ she said. ‘Are you allowed to drink anything, Max?’

‘No one’s told me not to,’ I said, ‘so yes.’

She disappeared.

Peterson stood by my bed. There was a chair, but I don’t think he could remember what it was for.

He said hoarsely, ‘Max, I . . . told her things. I did this.’ He gestured at my battered state. ‘This is my fault. This is all my fault.’

If she hadn’t already been very, very dead I’d have climbed out of bed, broken bones and all, and slaughtered her on the spot.

He shook his head. ‘How could I get things so wrong?’

‘We all did, Tim. You can’t take all the credit. Come and sit down, you daft bugger. Before you fall down.’

He dropped heavily into the chair and gestured at my flexi-boots. ‘This is my fault.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s mine. I should have realised sooner.’

He shook his head. ‘You had your hands full last year, Max.’

‘We all did.’

He said quietly, ‘It was a shit year all round.’

‘It’ll get better, Tim. Remember – this too will pass.’

Lingoss reappeared with tea. I watched them both as she carefully handed him his and, somewhere, a neurone lifted its battered head and began to fire.

‘I’ve put a little something extra in it,’ she said.

That roused him. She did work in R&D after all.

He regarded the cup with suspicion. ‘What? What have you put in it?’

‘Oh, just a little something the professor and I knocked up in the lab.’

He made a huge effort at normality. ‘Don’t drink it, Max. You could grow another head.’

‘Well, Markham’s been having it on his cornflakes for years,’ she said, ‘and it hasn’t done him any harm.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

I sipped my tea. Of course, she hadn’t put anything dreadful in it. That was Hunter’s job – but Lingoss was doing exactly the right thing. Taking his mind off things. A bit like stubbing your toe when you’ve just broken your arm. I looked at the two of them. Yeeeees . . . I’d had a bit of a brilliant idea and I needed to talk to Markham.

Peterson took a cautious sip. ‘Tastes like whisky.’

She beamed. ‘Good. Keep thinking that.’

Markham, now firmly in charge of the Security Section, had been another visitor, and determined, single-handedly, to eat all my grapes.

Bashford, Angus and Sykes, that eternal and bizarre love triangle, visited most evenings. And Atherton. Even North turned up once or twice, presumably to check whether I was dead yet and was it too early to apply for my job?

Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson visited each afternoon – apparently for the specific purpose of ignoring me and having a massive argument about something or other over my helpless and shattered self.

Even Ian Guthrie had hobbled in. He was doing well – better than me anyway, he would say smugly. He’d only stay for half an hour – because he didn’t do chatty – and then return whence he came, saying he didn’t want to set his recovery back by associating with the History Department. Or damage his public image by associating with the History Department. Or . . .

‘Yes,’ said the History Department. ‘And your point?’

Leon came every day. He would limp in. Really, said Markham, you had to go a long way these days to find a working set of legs at St Mary’s. We didn’t talk a lot, but then again, we didn’t need to. We would hold each other’s hands and then he would smile and kiss me and go away again.

So, as you can see, I’d had to do most of my thinking at night because there was a lot going on during the day.

Anyway, Matthew’s long-awaited visit was here and everyone was determined to make the most of it.

He spent the first day racing around saying hello to everyone. Mr Strong reintroduced him to the horses. They all seemed pleased to see each other. The Security Section included him in their football team after first promising to moderate both their language and the violence. Mrs Mack made him a constant supply of jam tarts and sausage rolls. R&D had a whole raft of stuff for him to be involved in. Leon and I took him into Rushford to see the new Star Wars and he enjoyed it so much we had to take him back the next night. Peterson came too, saying he’d always wanted to see it and was too embarrassed to go on his own so I had to invite Lingoss as well. Leon raised an eyebrow, but as I pointed out with perfect logic, she had been present when he invited Peterson and it would have been rude not to have included her. He made the traditional noise techies make when we break a cup-holder, so I maintained the tradition and ignored it.

The two of them, Leon and Matthew, spent hours poring over Matthew’s carefully drawn diagrams of his dirigible and discussing the steering issue. And me? I just hung around, helping and healing as best I could.

And then, one rainy day, I was sitting at our table, painting. What with one thing and another over the past months, I hadn’t had the opportunity to do very much, so I was taking advantage of my enforced inactivity. Currently, I was working on a pastel sketch of a row of sunflowers – all brilliant golds and yellows against a blue background. Matthew, as I thought, was at the other end of the room. I had no idea what he was doing, but he was doing it quietly, which was good enough for me.

I suddenly became aware he was standing at my elbow. I also became aware that despite being at the other end of the room, he’d managed to get an inordinate amount of pastel dust all over himself.

I told him he had a rare gift. He said nothing, staring at my sunflowers. Which, I have to say, were pretty good. And certainly very colourful.

I dusted off my hands. ‘What do you think?’

He nodded.

To get him to talk, I said, ‘Which bit do you like best?’

‘All of it.’

I began to pack my stuff away.

‘How does it work?’

‘How does what work?’

He picked up a stick of colour. ‘This.’

Never before had he shown the slightest interest in things that didn’t plug in somewhere.

‘Well,’ I said casually, pulling out a piece of card, ‘you can swirl the colour about – like this . . .’ I swirled the yellows and oranges I’d used for the petals. ‘Or you can use the edges and make lines or dots – like this . . .’ I drew a series of lines and dots.

He frowned. ‘How do you know which colours to use?’

‘I can use any colours I like. It’s my picture.’ There was a pause and then I said, ‘Fancy a go?’

He nodded, so I passed him over the piece of card. ‘Here you are. See how you get on.’

I handed him pastels, pencils and markers. He was busy for the next ten minutes, covering the card – and himself – with a rainbow of colours. At the end of it he asked for a clean piece of paper.

‘What colour?’

He thought. ‘Black.’

I passed it over and left him to get on with it while I went off to wash my hands. When I came out of the bathroom he was still busy. He’d moved on to markers and rulers. There was a lot of heavy breathing and whispering to himself.

I made us both a cup of tea and put out a plate of biscuits. He ignored both.

I was conscious of a growing excitement. He’d never shown the slightest interest in anything artistic and, as I’d said to Leon, he obviously had his father’s genes. Leon had rolled his eyes and said he gave thanks daily he didn’t have his mother’s. It looked as if both of us had been wrong.

At the end of an energetic and very messy twenty minutes, he’d finished. I was itching to see what he’d produced but first things first.

‘Bathroom,’ I said. ‘And don’t touch anything on the way in.’

I hosed him down, dried him off and chivvied him back into our living room.

‘Let’s have a look then.’

He held it up.

I didn’t know what to say. Yes, he’d smudged a lot of it because he’d never done anything like this before but, even so, it was remarkable.

I was looking at clouds of silver and grey which appeared to swirl and shift before my eyes. Playing hide and seek among these swirls were clusters of small blue dots which surrounded larger more defined red spots – think Jupiter – and the whole thing was surrounded by a filigree of glowing lines, connecting the red points with ruler straight lines It was at one and the same time, familiar and alien. And it seemed to move on the paper. I kept having to blink and focus.

I knew better than to ask what it was. I knew what it was. He’d drawn the Time Map. Or a part of it, anyway.

‘Wow – that’s good. Tell me about it.’

‘It’s Troy.’

I sighed inwardly. Yes, he would choose to paint that, wouldn’t he? There were no warriors or ramparts or ships or horses or anything even remotely recognisable. He’d painted the Time Map’s representation of Troy.

I had a sudden thought. ‘Is this how you see things?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

I had an idea he’d just said something important, although what I had no idea, and there was no time to talk about it because, at that moment, Leon came in, smiled at his family and then looked around him. Yes, I’ll admit, we’d had a craft afternoon and the room wasn’t quite as pigment-free as we might have liked.

‘Matthew, Auntie Lingoss is looking for you.’

The magic words. There was a small whirlwind, the door slammed behind him and he was gone.

I sighed and enquired exactly what was going on in R&D with which his parents could not compete.

‘The professor is in the throes of inventing some sort of acoustic device he says will be able to lift heavy objects and defy gravity. Speaking as someone whose job involves daily lifting of heavy objects, I’m all for it.’

‘Great,’ I said, gloomily, ‘we’ll never get him out of there now.’

‘Well, I’ve tried explaining they don’t blow things up every day of the week but the evidence is against me.’

‘Never mind,’ I said, beginning to put my stuff away. ‘Don’t you think he looks tons better these days? Putting on weight and no more fleas or lice.’

‘That’s probably because they’ve all migrated to Markham.’

Our Mr Markham is generally reckoned to be a five-star hotel for wildlife.

Leon frowned at the door. ‘Speaking of no more lice, Max, your son needs a haircut. You’d better have a word.’

I looked up from packing my gear away. ‘Me? Why me?’

‘You’re his mother.’

‘And you’re his father. Surely this is part of the father/son talk.’

‘Nope. I only agreed to do the when a daddy technician loves a mummy historian bit.’

‘What?’

‘You know. The bit about special cuddling.’

‘What?’

‘You agreed.’

‘When?’ A thought occurred. ‘Was I drunk?’

‘Oh God, yes. You’d have agreed to anything.’

I moved subtly into fighting stance. ‘And apparently I did.’

He grinned and glanced at his watch. ‘Oh, is that the time? Must crack on. Pods don’t repair themselves, you know.’

‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘but come the glorious day . . .’

He just laughed and disappeared.

I had a bit of a think about the haircut thing. We all have long hair here – even the blokes have a kind of historian shag. I once told Markham he looked like a tousled Shih Tzu and he sulked for days. We all have various ways of keeping it under control – except for Miss Lingoss who embraces the whole my hair expresses who I am thing with enthusiasm.

I met her on the way to my office. Today’s hair was black and dramatic.

I stared thoughtfully.

‘Max? Are you all right? Are you in pain?’

‘Actually, far from it. Do you do it yourself?’

‘Do I do what myself?’

‘Your hair.’

‘Yep. Always have.’

‘Do you cut it yourself as well?’

‘Of course. I had to in college – no money. I used to do my friends’ as well.’

‘Did they pay you?’

‘In drink, mostly.’

‘Before or after?’

She grinned. ‘Both. And sometimes during.’

‘Would you do Matthew’s?’

‘If he’ll let me.’

I said thoughtfully, ‘Leave that to me.’

We were returning to our room after lunch. Matthew waited patiently as I inched my way along at glacial speed, prior to him shooting off to R&D for a fun-filled and, above all, very messy afternoon. There would never be a better opportunity.

I moved to attack position. ‘Congrats on winding up the Time Police, by the way.’

He looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

‘The hair. You’re really getting Captain Ellis into a lot of trouble. Well done. Are you working to bring them down from the inside?’

He said nothing, waiting for me to finish negotiating a corner and then said, ‘Don’t want it cut.’

‘Oh no. Absolutely not. Although be warned – Dr Bairstow will be telling you to put it up or in a plait like the rest of us girls.’

‘Uncle Peterson has lots of hair. And Uncle Bashford.’

‘Seriously? You’re modelling your look on those two? One of them is in love with a gender-neutral chicken.’

He snorted.

‘Do you want me to tell Dr Bairstow you refuse? Quote your human rights or something?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, it’s the same rules for you as for the rest of us, then. Up or off.’ And I carried on to our room. He followed me in, all ready for a major sulk. I could practically hear his brain working.

I seated myself on the sofa and rummaged through the pile of files on the coffee table, eventually pulling out one of Lingoss’s. ‘Can you take this back to R&D when you go, please,’ and waited for him to make the connection.

He stared at it for a while and then said suddenly, ‘Auntie Lingoss could do it.’

‘Do what?’ I said absently, already opening a book that was, apparently, utterly engrossing.

‘Cut it.’

‘Cut what?’ I said, vaguely.

‘My hair,’ he said impatiently. ‘It would be good.’

I didn’t even bother looking up. ‘You’re not having a Mohican.’

‘Aww. Could I . . . ?’

‘You’re not dyeing it blue.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I say so.’

‘You never let me have any fun.’

‘That’s very true. Well spotted.’

‘Why won’t you let me have any fun?’

‘I’m your mother. I’m not allowed to. It’s in the job description. And you have to do as you’re told.’

‘No, I don’t. I’m your son. It’s in the . . .’ he fumbled for the words, ‘. . . job depiction.’

Well, isn’t he a quick learner? I made it easy for him.

‘You will not, under any circumstances, ask Miss Lingoss to cut your hair. I shall telephone her as soon as I’ve finished reading this chapter to make sure she understands.’

He glared at me. ‘You’re horrible.’

I beamed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Wait till I’m eighteen.’

‘When you’re eighteen you can have an orange and yellow flat top if you want. Until then you do as you’re told.’

‘I’ll be eighteen soon . . .’

‘Really? You know how old you are now?’

He threw me a crafty glance. ‘No. But neither do you. No one knows how old I am.’

I played dirty. ‘Well, by my reckoning you’re only about two years old so you’ve got quite a way to go until you’re eighteen. You could still be doing as I tell you when you’re thirty.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he shouted.

‘So, when will you be eighteen?’

‘Today,’ he shouted and stamped out, slamming the door behind him in the traditional teenage manner.

I opened my com. ‘Miss Lingoss?’

‘What ho, Max.’

‘He’s on his way. Not a lot off, since he’s a haircut virgin and we don’t want him catching cold. Just tidy him up a bit.’

‘You want me to take off just enough to piss off Captain Ellis.’

‘That’s the ticket.’

‘Max, you’re evil.’

‘I’m a mother. It’s enough to bring out the worst in anyone.’

The seven days of his visit went by all too quickly. Matthew seemed to have enjoyed himself but he obviously had no problems returning to Time Police HQ. I told myself it was good that he was so happy there. And safe. Safe was important. While Ronan was at large we couldn’t risk having him here.

Ignoring the Farrell family habit of not talking about the important stuff, I casually asked him if he’d enjoyed his visit.

He nodded.

‘And you’d like to come again? Soon?’

He nodded again.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say something about the picture he’d drawn, but I didn’t. Yes, he wasn’t the chattiest kid in the world, but even so . . . No. Safer for everyone to say nothing.

So, I said nothing.



2

A few days after he’d gone, I had my old casts off and my walking casts on and could say goodbye to the wheelchair. It took a while to get used to walking again, but I was soon inching my way around the building with all the speed and stylish panache of continental drift.

Leon took the opportunity to recycle all the jokes I’d made about him over the last months, although, as I pointed out, they weren’t funny the second time around.

I spent a lot of time in our room, working on my private project. Data stacks and files covered every horizontal surface until, one day, I reached the point where I couldn’t go any further. I’d been putting it off for days but the time had come. I needed to have a chat with Mrs Partridge.

I hobbled around the gallery. I knew there was no point in complaining because I was lucky to be mobile at all, but I’ve always moved quickly and it irked me no end not to be trotting around the building at my usual speed. The only good thing about the whole situation was that I was still considerably underweight – sorry, I just want to savour those unfamiliar words again, considerably underweight – after my spell in the 14th century, and at least being light made movement much less tiring.

Regaining weight isn’t easy. You’re not allowed to pile it on any old how, you know. For some reason that completely escapes me, you can’t just scarf your way indiscriminately through plates of sausages and chocolate until you hit your target. You have to eat sensibly. I’d pointed out to Dr Stone that the medical profession was always coming up with new reasons for people not to scarf down chocolate and saus