The Very First Damned Thing

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Science Fiction

Synopsis

A Chronicles of St Mary's short story that is sure to entertain. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor. Ever wondered how it all began? It's two years since the final victory at the Battersea Barricades. The fighting might be finished, but for Dr Bairstow, just now setting up St Mary's, the struggle is only beginning. How will he assemble his team? From where will his funding come? How can he overcome the massed ranks of the Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings? How do stolen furniture, a practical demonstration at the Stirrup Charge at Waterloo, students' alcohol-ridden urine, a widowed urban guerrilla, a young man wearing exciting knitwear, and four naked security guards all combine to become the St Mary's of the future? 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: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 76

Sample

One of the most important events in the history of mankind – after the discovery of fire, the development of the wheel, and the invention of chocolate, of course – occurred in London on an overcast chilly rainy afternoon, and it is entirely typical that it should have been witnessed only by two bedraggled pigeons and a scrawny cat.

The cat, slinking his way across that almost unheard of London phenomenon, a half-empty car park, paused and considered the sudden appearance of a small stone shack in the back right-hand corner. Since cats possess intelligence far superior to that of the human race, he found nothing untoward in this occurrence, picked up the pace, and vanished out of the car park and out of this story.

The pigeons, it can be assumed, considered their options and then continued with their own plans for the afternoon.

For long minutes, nothing happened and then, almost on the stroke of three forty-five, a tall gentleman, clad in a long dark overcoat and well muffled against the cold, stepped out of the hut. For a moment, he stared about him, his expression bearing a more than passing resemblance to a middle-aged vulture waiting impatiently for the soul of an imminent corpse to get a move on and start heading towards the light. His disapproval deepened further as the rain increased and he opened his umbrella with something of a snap.

Nearly two years after the final victory at the Battersea Barricades, London was still a drab and dreary place. Damaged buildings glistened wetly in the drizzle. There was no colour. Many shop windows were empty. Cannibalised vehicles lined the pavements. Everything was broken down or worn out or just plain old and that included the people. In the aftermath of any major conflict, the younger generation are usually conspicuous by their absence.

The gentleman, leaning rather heavily on his walking stick, gingerly picked his way across the remains of the scaffolded Chelsea Bridge, contemplated for a moment the miraculously unscathed outline of Battersea Power Station, and descended a flight of steps to the cluster of inconspicuous buildings huddled between that and the bridge itself. Passing a newsagents, he paused to contemplate the headline, ‘Where did all the money go?’ compressed his lips, and approached an anonymous, shabby grey building amply decorated with pigeon product. The modest sign over the door read ‘Britannic Enterprises’. Just as he opened the front door, a nearby clock began to strike four. The gentleman allowed himself the satisfied nod of the habitually punctual.

In his tiny office to the left of the door, a grizzled, grey-haired man looked up, an expression of welcome on his face.

‘Dr Bairstow, sir. Nice to see you back again.’

‘Glad to be back, Mr Strong. I believe I have another appointment with the panel in Room 29 at four this afternoon.’

‘You do indeed, sir. If you care to place your feet in the marked area … That’s it, sir … And look up, please …’

The biometric needs of the security system having been taken care of, Dr Bairstow consented to be wanded, while agreeing that yes indeed, it was very chilly out, but that was only to be expected at this time of year.

‘There we are, sir, all done. I’ll get the major to take you up.’ He pressed a hidden buzzer and another door further down the shabby corridor instantly opened and a tall man with dark blond hair stepped out. Since Mr Strong had already vanished back into his cubbyhole and no actual conversation had been exchanged, Dr Bairstow concluded that the major had been watching proceedings via the discreetly concealed but always present CCTV cameras. Very shabby the building might be, but the security was top of the range.

‘Dr Bairstow?’

‘Major Guthrie, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir. This way please.’

‘This way’ proved to be along a dusty corridor to an old-fashioned open cage lift at the end. Clashing the doors open, the major ushered his guest inside and pulled the doors to behind them. Ignoring the old-fashioned push buttons in front of him, none of which would have taken him to his destination, he said quietly, ‘Second floor. Room 29. Authority Guthrie, bravo echo two.’

The lift purred surprisingly smoothly upwards.

Emerging, the two men turned left. Room 29 was at the end.

Major Guthrie tapped at the door and opened it, announcing, ‘Dr Bairstow.’

The three people sitting behind an empty desk rose politely to their feet. In keeping with the office, which had surely not been decorated since the relief of Mafeking, they too wore grey. Grey suits, white shirts. The men wore plain grey ties – the woman a scarlet scarf twisted around her neck. Other than a set of military prints depicting scenes from Waterloo, this was the only splash of colour in the room.

Greetings were exchanged, the major left the room, and everyone sat down. There was a long pause. Dr Bairstow waited impassively.

The man sitting on the left, who had been introduced on previous occasions as Mr Black, began. ‘Well, Dr Bairstow, our experts have finally finished reading your proposals. Based on what you have given us so far, they say that what you propose could be done. The full details of how it could be done, of course, are the parts you have chosen to withhold.’

He waited politely, but so did his guest. Eventually, when it was clear Dr Bairstow was not going to speak, he continued. ‘However, since you have made it perfectly clear that nothing in History can be altered or removed, I have to ask you again: what is the point of–’ he coughed and said with some embarrassment, ‘–time travel?’

Dr Bairstow frowned. ‘You might find it easier to think in terms of an organisation that investigates major historical events in contemporary time, rather than actually undertaking–’ his face wrinkled in distaste, ‘–what you refer to as time travel.’

‘Does it actually matter what we call it?’

‘We have been over this several times already,’ interrupted his colleague – the one sitting on the right, and known as Mr Brown, ‘I think that what Dr Bairstow is saying – without actually being so presumptuous as to put words int. . .