by Jodi Taylor
‘Of course not,’ I said, indignantly, when a more accurate answer would have been yes.
Along with self-defence, running, and target practice, we’re supposed to log a certain number of side-saddle hours every month. I’d let mine lapse for a number of reasons. I didn’t like riding side-saddle, I didn’t have the time to get out much these days, and, most importantly, I was a Head of Department – the rules didn’t apply to me. They hadn’t applied much when I wasn’t a Head of Department, and they applied even less now.
Peterson collected me and we made our way slowly downstairs, narrowly avoiding being mown down by a couple of trainees who were late for lunch.
‘I can remember the day,’ said Peterson grumpily, ‘when we were the fastest things in this building.’
I laughed but it was true. Age had crept up on us when we weren’t looking. On paper we weren’t that old, but do a month in a different time here, three weeks there, nine months somewhere else, and it all mounts up. I’d worked it out once and I was actually about three years older than my official age. And those three years were taking their toll.
Thankfully, we lived long enough to finish lunch and afterwards, it being Friday, Peterson disappeared to supervise his trainees’ weekly examinations. Most of the technical and security sections disappeared to kick the living daylights out of each other on the football pitch and I wandered off to the stables, wondering what on earth Mr Strong, our caretaker, could possibly want to see me about. He wasn’t there, so I whiled away a few minutes talking to my old adversary, Turk. I’d done my side-saddle training on him and he’d done his best to maim me in return. He was semi-retired now, his head lean and bony with a lot of white hairs showing. I tossed him a carrot or two and he must have mellowed with age because he graciously didn’t try to rip off my arm. I rested my elbows on the fence, feeling the sun on my back. It was a warm, sleepy afternoon and Turk was standing, slack-jawed, ears drooping when I heard something behind me.
He flung up his head and snorted a warning but it was too late. Something soft and smelly covered my mouth and nose. I tried to struggle but none of my body would do as it was told. I was vaguely conscious of being lugged round the corner. Someone said, ‘Door,’ and I was flung, not gently, inside.
I lay face down on the worst-smelling floor ever and tried to work out what was going on. I was in a pod. I knew that with my eyes shut. The smell was unmistakeable – and bad. In fact, the smell was terrible. Musty and rank, with top notes of sour person and really, really bad breath.
While I got to grips with this, the world went white. We’d jumped.
The supposed message from Mr Strong had been a trap. Even I’d worked that one out. I lay very still, eyes closed, waiting for some clues as to what was happening here.
A long-unheard voice said, ‘You’re not fooling anyone, Maxwell. Open your eyes.’
So I did.
Clive Ronan.
I hadn’t seen him for some time. Once, he’d been the focus of practically my every waking thought and now I’d nearly forgotten about him. How stupid am I?
I said, ‘Oh, there you are. How have you been?’ and rolled over.
He said sharply, ‘Steady. No sudden moves. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.’
Oh God, that didn’t sound good. I sat up slowly, hoping I would throw up. It could only improve the smell.
I looked around his pod first. It was the stolen Number Nine right enough, and like me it had seen better days. The flooring was filthy and stank. The locker doors were dull and dented and two were missing altogether. Some ceiling panels were gone and bunches of wires hung down. Everything was dirty and greasy.
Just like Ronan himself. He looked unkempt and malnourished. I don’t know where he’d been since I last saw him. I suspected he’d been jumping around History, stealing what he could and then getting out quickly before being hanged for thieving, burned as a witch, or shot for spying. The glamorous world of time travel.
I’d encountered him on several occasions in the past: Alexandria, the court of Mary Stuart, the Cretaceous period, even in the future, and every single time he’d come off worst. But on every occasion I’d had St Mary’s with me in one form or another. This time I was alone and no one even knew I was here. This time I was in real trouble.
Looking at him closely, I could see he was ill. In addition to his puckered burns and melted ear, his skin was bad. Clumps of his hair had fallen out and I could see scabby scalp underneath. His hands trembled and his eyes shifted constantly. He coughed occasionally and more gusts of bad breath wafted around the enclosed space. He and his pod were dying hard.
This was not a comforting thought. I’d been snatched by a dying madman who hated me and had nothing to lose. The good news was that he didn’t want to shoot me. The bad news was that he would have something much worse planned for the afternoon.
I stood up slowly and sat in the second chair. His gun wobbled away. I wished he’d point it somewhere else. It would be just my luck to be shot by accident. I leaned forward to look out of the screen, casually putting my hands on the console, which was greasy and unpleasant. A number of lights were on that shouldn’t have been. And vice versa.
‘I’ll tell you once. Put your hands in your pockets. I won’t tell you again. I’ll just shoot you.’
I believed him. He wasn’t one for empty threats. Usually, when he pointed a gun at you, you were dead five seconds later. He must be in a good mood today. I put my hands in my pockets and looked around me.
‘You’ve let things go a bit, haven’t you?’
‘You can shut up, too.’
‘Where are we?’ I asked so he wouldn’t know I’d already clocked the coordinates and was having a quiet panic.
He raised his gun again, but even without my glimpse of the coordinates, I knew that unmistakeable light outside. I was back in the Cretaceous. Again. Did I have a season ticket? Was it some sort of curse?
He was switching things off – or on. His pod was in such a state that it was hard to tell. We don’t keep armies of techies around because we like the colour orange. Pods need regular attention. They need frequent re-aligning or they start to drift. I had a brief hope we were in the wrong place and he was going to try again, but it was misplaced.
He finished with the console and gave me his full attention.
‘Well,’ I said, affably, because the longer I was talking in here, the less I was dying out there. ‘Here we are again.’
‘Did you kill Isabella Barclay?’
Whatever I’d expected, it hadn’t been that. But there was no point in denying it. We both knew the truth. He just wanted me to say it.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
I had nothing to lose.
‘She was an evil bitch. She was a traitor. She stood by while you tortured and killed to get what you wanted. And she left four men to die in the Cretaceous.’
‘And now, I’m going to do the same to you. Get up.’
‘No.’
‘I shan’t tell you again.’
‘I shan’t listen again.’
‘Get up, Maxwell. You’re going to pay. For everything you’ve done. And for the murder of Isabella Barclay. You’re going to pay in full. Get up and move to the door.’
‘No.’
‘Walk to the door.’
‘No.’
He flourished the gun again, but I was beginning to wonder. The pod was empty. The lockers were empty. I wondered if the gun was empty too.
He caught my thought. ‘It’s loaded. Don’t kid yourself. Go and stand by the door.’
‘No.’
I mean, what could he do? Shoot me twice?
‘I’ll shoot you and drag you out by your hair.’
I shrugged my shoulders, leaned back, and folded my arms. If I was going to die then I might as well make it as difficult as possible for him. He kept threatening, but he still hadn’t shot me. And I definitely wasn’t going out there.
‘If I s
hoot you in the knee you’ll die out there. In agony. Either from the gunshot wound or worse. Walk out unscathed and you might survive a few hours. I know you, Maxwell. You’ll take every chance you can get to live a little longer. So, on your feet.’
The door jerked open. I hadn’t realised how cold and dark his pod was until the bright sunshine flooded in. The familiar, never-to-be-forgotten Cretaceous stink overcame even Ronan’s rancid smell. Wet foliage, wet earth, wet shit and sulphur, all borne on a thick, muggy heat. I felt every pore open.
I stood slowly, trying to think. He stood with me and retreated behind his chair to maintain the distance. I had to get him outside with me. If he stayed inside then I was lost.
Major Guthrie’s voice drifted down the years.
Always do the unexpected.
What did Ronan expect me to do?
He expected me to move slowly. To take as much time as possible. To put up some sort of struggle. To make a grab for the gun … The last thing he would expect me to do was go outside voluntarily. And the door moved so slowly …
I took one very reluctant step towards the door and then stopped.
He motioned me on with the barrel. I pretended to stumble. Thinking I was about to make a grab for the gun he drew back, increasing the distance between us. While his weight was still on his back foot, I ran straight out of the door, skidded in the mud, turned left, and raced around the corner of the pod.
Without stopping to think – typical historian behaviour – I sprinted around the pod, appearing from the other direction just as the door was slowly jerking itself closed.
Praying the sensors still worked, I stuck my hand in the gap and the door stopped moving.
Keeping my hand on the half-open door, I flattened myself against the side of the pod and waited, panting slightly, feeling the sweat rolling down my back.
The pod couldn’t jump with the door open. And the door couldn’t close with my hand there.
His voice sounded very close. ‘Move away or I’ll fire.’
No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t risk damaging the door. I was the one supposed to end my days here – not him. And I still reckoned the gun was empty.
I was actually in quite a strong position. To shift me he was going to have to venture some part of his body outside the door. Either gun first, which I could grab or –
He took a leaf out of my book, moving with a swiftness I would not have expected in one so physically frail.
Suddenly, he was in my face – gun levelled.
‘Step away from the door.’
And that was his mistake. He left me with nothing to lose.
If someone has a gun then you either want to be ten miles away or right up close. And I was right up close. I didn’t make the mistake of going for him. I went for the weapon. I got both hands on the gun and concentrated on keeping it pointed at the ground.
And he still hadn’t shot me. The gun must be empty.
We staggered across the clearing, both gripping the gun for dear life, slipping in the wet mud and, as we rolled on the ground, the bloody thing went off after all!
There was a one-third chance the bullet would miss both of us, a one-third chance it would hit him, and a one-third chance it would hit me. I lay suddenly still, eyes squeezed tight shut, gasping with exertion and fear, waiting for the pain, the blood, the knowledge of imminent death.
Nothing happened.
I opened my eyes.
Still nothing.
I rolled away, got to my feet, and patted myself down, still not quite believing I was undamaged.
Maybe I wasn’t destined to die in the Cretaceous after all.
Oh yes I was.
Ronan pushed himself up, half sitting, half kneeling, blood spreading a bright, wet patch on his stomach. The hand holding the gun was unsteady and his face twisted in pain and hatred. That was a fatal wound. He really was dying now. He had nothing to lose. I was less than ten feet away. He couldn’t miss. He lifted a trembling arm and pointed the gun at me. The wandering muzzle was doing figures of eight in the air but, at that range, he couldn’t possibly miss me. And he hated me. I took a deep breath and waited for the end.
‘Just one … bullet … left. Let’s make it … count.’
My world contracted. There was just me. And the gun. The only thing I could hear was my thudding heart. The only thing I could see was his gun. I braced myself. The moment went on and on, and then, just when I couldn’t bear it any longer and was about to hurl myself at him in desperation, he shifted his aim a foot to the right and fired, straight-armed, through the open door, directly into the pod.
The bullet thunked into the console. Hard on that sound, I heard a crack, saw a flash, heard another crack, and a cloud of black smoke billowed up from the console. The trip box flashed in response and went bang. Inside the pod, everything went dark. I could smell the burning-fish smell of shorted electrics.
He sagged to the ground, laughing up at the sky. Because he’d won. He was dying but he’d still managed to take me with him. He would be dead in minutes, but I was stranded here. Alone. With no hope of rescue. His was the final victory.
Something moved among the trees.
Oh God, I’d forgotten where I was. That the real peril here was not Clive Ronan.
On my original assignment here, some years ago, I’d had it drummed into me. Never, ever, ever go outside alone. Never, ever, ever go outside unarmed. And if you injure yourself and there’s blood, get back to the pod as quickly as possible because otherwise you’re as good as dead.
The Cretaceous Period was home to the world’s greatest and most fearsome predators. From the great Tyrannosaurus Rex who hunts alone, to the smaller Velociraptors who hunt in packs, they’re all deadly. Years ago, I’d watched my partner, Sussman, being ripped apart by a pack of Deinonychus. And they hadn’t waited until he was dead before feeding.
A shadow flickered on the other side of the clearing. Then another. Things were gathering. Attracted by the blood.
I looked down at Ronan. Still alive. For a moment, I considered dragging him back to the pod.
I heard a sound behind me.
Instinct kicked in.
I left him. I left him there to die alone.
They were closer than I thought. As I sprinted towards the pod, two erupted from the trees to my left. Another one from the right. The classic pincer attack.
I heard Ronan scream something.
I had forgotten how fast they moved. And how agile they were. Because, just as I was running towards the pod, and only feet away from safety, another came over the roof of the pod, straight over my head, landing just behind me.
I don’t think it saw me initially. All its attention was on Clive Ronan. And then it did, swerving and slipping in the mud and coming straight at me.
I swear I flew into that pod. I don’t even remember my feet touching the ground, expecting at any moment to feel the sharp claws digging into my back as they brought me down, its hot breath in my face as they tore at my flesh, ripped out my guts …
I slapped the manual switch as I hurtled through the door, praying battery power was one of the few things still working in this fatally damaged pod.
It was. The door jerked, stopped and jerked again.
Screaming was not the right word to describe the sounds coming from Clive Ronan. Three shapes were closing in.
But there had been four. Where was the fourth?
As if in answer, just as the door was about to close a big, blunt head suddenly thrust itself into the closing gap between door and jamb.
Deinonychus.
Shit.
The shock made me jump backwards. The door stopped moving. I could hear its breath panting out through red-rimmed nostrils. One cold predator eye fixed on me and, displaying dismaying intelligence, the head wriggled and pushed, seeking to force the door open again. A large, three-fingered clawed hand appeared, scrabbling at the doorframe.
We consistently underestimate the intelligence
of everything that isn’t human. Either accidentally, or because maybe it had watched me, this thing had worked out how to get through the door. There was no point in me vainly slapping the switch. The sensors wouldn’t allow the door to close. Five minutes ago, I’d been grateful for that. And I couldn’t override the safety protocols. This pod wasn’t programmed with my authorisation.
It wasn’t well enough coordinated to get head and hands working together – yet. My best course of action was to persuade it to remove its head and somehow get that door closed.
I flung open the locker doors, frantically looking for something – anything at all – that I could use as a weapon.
The first locker was empty. The second contained only empty boxes and an old blanket. Oh God, there must be something …
The third, however … the third contained the fire extinguisher. I could tell by its weight that it was empty, but never mind. I’d once belted Jack the Ripper with one of these and it hadn’t done him any good at all. I couldn’t see the fire axe, but this would do.
I heaved it up and turned to the door. Standing to one side so it couldn’t see me, I clubbed its hand. You couldn’t call it a foot. Or even a forelimb. It definitely looked like, and was being used as, a hand.
Concentrate, Maxwell.
I clubbed again and then lowered the extinguisher and caught its snout on the upswing. Unfortunately, far from this deterring it in any way, it uttered a shriek of pain and redoubled its efforts to get the door open.
There was no help for it. Standing at an angle, I just couldn’t do enough damage. I moved in front of the door.
It had tilted its head to one side, furiously wriggling and twisting, trying to widen the gap. A deep, low, bubbling snarl awoke age-old instincts and filled me with the same overwhelming need to scuttle for cover that my own mammalian ancestors would have had. It stood as tall as me and we were eye to eye. It could see me. I’d been identified as its prey and like a shark it wouldn’t go away until it had me.
I changed the angle of the extinguisher and instead of swinging at its snout, I jabbed instead.
It really didn’t like that, roaring angrily. Maybe it had some sort of scent receptors in its nose that rendered it extra sensitive. I don’t know. I just knew I had to finish this soon. I jabbed repeatedly, sweat running down my face. I was screaming words in time with the blows.
