Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  She looked at me directly. ‘May I be blunt?’

  I don’t know why she asked – I’d never known her be anything else.

  I nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t know if you know, but on our last assignment – you know, the steam-pump jump . . .’

  ‘The one where you fell in the moat?’

  ‘And Dr Peterson saved me. Yes, that one.’

  That wasn’t quite how I’d heard it but never mind.

  ‘Well,’ she continued. ‘The thing is, Max, that . . . well . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t mean to pry and I’m not going to ask, but . . . well . . . I don’t want to be the consolation prize.’

  I must have looked blank.

  ‘I mean I don’t want to be the one Peterson settles for because he can’t get you.’

  Ah. In all my careful plans, that was the one thing I hadn’t considered. That she was holding back because she thought . . . well, never mind.

  I took a long time to consider my response, eventually saying, ‘I remember him when he was with Helen. When she was still alive. These days, on the surface, he looks fine – but he’s not. Inside, he’s dying. If you can make him happy again then I swear I will move heaven and earth to help you.’

  I picked up a pen and moved it three inches to the right. ‘But if you’re not serious about this, or if you hurt him, or if you mess him around, then I will gut you like a fish and tie your innards in a bow around your neck. Just so we’re both clear on that.’

  ‘I’m clear.’

  ‘So – do I need to start practising my knots?’

  ‘Not on my account. Do I have . . . ?’ She stopped.

  ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  ‘No, but I need your goodwill. He listens to you, Max. He relies on you. He’s closer to you than to anyone. You could scupper my chances with a word. If you wanted to.’

  ‘I could, but I won’t. Not if you make him happy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m going to give it a bloody good try.’

  ‘Has he said anything about her – you know – Dottle?’

  ‘No. Not a thing. I knew she wasn’t right for him even before . . . you know. I mean, she was so wet. Or so we thought. And given his reputation for being attracted to difficult women . . . I couldn’t think what he saw in her. Honestly, I don’t know how I kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘Well,’ I said mildly, ‘she did turn out to be quite difficult.’

  ‘And now she’s dead,’ she said briskly. ‘Problem solved.’

  ‘Not for Peterson.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ she said, and left the room.

  After she’d gone, I sat quietly for a while. Then I sat up straight and wiped my eyes and blew my nose. Then I thought I’d better get on with my day. Then Mrs Partridge called me up and said Dr Bairstow wanted to see me. It would seem my few days were up and he’d finished his deliberations.

  I was with him for four hours. I can’t divulge what was said but, as our discussion progressed, it became very apparent he hadn’t wasted his time. More from things he didn’t say than things he did, I began to suspect mine was only one part of a larger scheme. I had a sudden picture of him sitting, motionless, at the centre of an enormous and elaborate web whose strands reached out in directions and distances known only to him. I didn’t ask because he wouldn’t have told me and I had enough on as it was.

  As I left, Peterson and Leon filed in. Leon had the pod files under one arm, and as I stepped aside to let them in, Markham came in as well with his scratchpad ready.

  They closed the door behind them and I went off for a well-earned mug of tea and a bit of a think.

  Dr Bairstow made the announcement a couple of days later, during one of his fortunately infrequent all-staff meetings.

  The first item on the agenda was the ethnicity forms and our failure to realise the importance of them.

  Every couple of years, Thirsk bombard us with a mountain of forms variously requesting details of age/ethnicity/religion and so on. Dr Bairstow calls an all-staff briefing and silently hands out the forms. Most people regard them as an exercise in creative writing and, two days later, equally silently, he collects them back up again and bundles them off to Thirsk. I’ve no idea how they’re received there, but I do know that one year, Bashford stated his colour was green and he’d been born on Olympus Mons, lower left-hand quadrant adjacent to the lava tube on the right.

  I should say now that, as far as I know, Olympus Mons remained his official place of birth for quite some time until a little while ago when he applied for a passport and the authorities swooped for their revenge. He was released from custody after less than a day, though not because he’d cooperated in any way – indeed, the silly sod hadn’t helped his cause at all, insisting on speaking to everyone in what he called Martian but was actually Latin. A fact discovered only when an ancient academic accidentally wandered past. He was lost and looking for the bar. Recognising the lingo, he enthusiastically joined in. Personally, I’d have arrested the pair of them but they were released without charge.

  Bashford was returned to us with a written warning on his record, an inconvenience soon forgotten in the joy of being reunited with a jubilant Angus. And Miss Sykes, of course.

  After the ethnicity forms there was the usual stuff.

  Dr Bairstow cleared his throat. ‘Subsequent to last week’s fire drill, may I congratulate those who, on hearing the alarm, had the intelligence to vacate the premises. I would, however, like to invite some of you to reconsider your assembly point. I cannot feel that your habit of congregating in the area adjacent to the oil tanks “because it’s out of the rain, sir,” enhances anyone’s chances of survival during a major conflagration, although it is, of course, entirely your choice and, as always, I hesitate to interfere.’

  He paused so we could appreciate his non-interference and then continued with the big finish.

  ‘With effect from the day after tomorrow, Dr Maxwell is to be seconded to the Time Police. To assist them in their hunt for Clive Ronan. I am sure we all wish her well.’

  An astonished murmur ran around the room. I folded my arms and stared at my feet, refusing to catch anyone’s eye. The briefing concluded and we dispersed.

  Back in my office, Rosie Lee was furious. ‘Who will make my tea?’

  I shook my head. ‘No idea. I suspect you’ll be dead of tea deprivation ten minutes after I’ve left. Don’t forget to leave your desk tidy for your successor.’

  The entire History Department crashed en masse through the door and talked at me for nearly thirty minutes. I smiled and, other than confirming Peterson as my legitimate heir, said as little as possible. North glared at me. She’d been after my job since the day she walked through the door. Sykes was nearly in tears and, apparently, even Angus would miss me.

  I chivvied them all out and went off to find Leon who was waiting for me in Hawking. We walked around the lake because, since my discovery that our room had been bugged, we’d taken to talking about important stuff outside. In vain did Markham protest he’d swept our room three times and it was cleaner than clean – we just felt safer that way. And Dr Bairstow had decreed that, until this matter was settled one way or another, there were to be no written or electronic communications. Everything was to be face to face and in real time.

  Leon and I talked together for two circuits of the lake. Or about forty-five minutes. Neither of us was very happy, but what can you do?

  I spent the rest of the day closing things down in my office and packing. I wanted to take all my treasured possessions with me – my Trojan Horse, my red snake and so on – but apparently, people join the Time Police with nothing but the clothes they stand up in and a toothbrush. All right, slight exaggeration but not much.

  ‘It’s like the French Foreign Legion,’ I said.

>   Leon stared at me. ‘What?’

  ‘You know – people have a crisis and join the Legion to forget.’

  ‘The Time Police are nothing like the French Foreign Legion,’ he said. ‘And since when have you ever had to go abroad to forget something? I’ve been waiting for your signed copy of the pod schedule for a week now.’

  ‘Talk to Peterson about it,’ I said, waving my hand vaguely. ‘He’s got the History Department now.’

  ‘Poor sod.’

  In the end I had to narrow my packing down to what I could stuff into my sports bag. Which wasn’t much. And like me, the bag had seen better days.

  I asked Leon whether he thought I should close down my bank account.

  He took me gently by the wrist and once again we were outside.

  ‘Max, you’re making it sound as if you’re not planning to come back.’

  ‘Well, obviously I am, but you know what we say – hope for the best and plan for the worst.’

  ‘No, you say that. I say . . .’ he stopped and looked away.

  I put my arms around him. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Leon. I know what you say. But we’ll get him. Between us, we’ll get him. And then I’ll be back. And I’ll be bringing Matthew with me. Everything’s going to be absolutely fine.’

  The Time Police sent a pod for me. Markham said it was because they didn’t trust me to get there on my own, but I suspected they had stringent security at TPHQ and any pod attempting an un-authorised landing would probably be vaporised on the spot. Together with its occupants.

  Leon walked me down to Hawking. We didn’t say anything. It had all been said the night before. Dr Bairstow, Peterson and Markham stood at the far end. The gantry was empty. Only Dieter and Mr Lindstrom were around, standing outside Number Five and ticking things off a checklist. Our footsteps echoed loudly in the concrete cavern.

  Dr Bairstow turned. ‘Ready, Max?’

  I nodded.

  He said quietly, ‘I will clear the way for you, Max. I promise.’

  I nodded again, not trusting to my voice.

  ‘Good luck.’

  It was only as I shook hands with him that the full impact of what I was doing hit me. That was the moment when I wondered what the hell I thought I was playing at. A dark, unknowable future gaped at my feet and I stood on the brink. I closed my eyes for a moment, fighting off combined vertigo and panic. Everything swayed around me and I think that, at that moment, if anyone, anyone at all, had said, ‘I really don’t think this is a very good idea, Max,’ then I would have agreed with them and suggested we all go back to the main building for breakfast.

  They didn’t, however, so I didn’t either, and the feeling passed.

  Leon heaved one of the sliding doors open. It screeched in its metal runners. We stepped outside. It was a cold, raw day. A thick early morning mist hung heavy in the air.

  They were already waiting for me. This was it. Half of me thought – so soon? And the other half was glad there would be no hanging around.

  I walked with Leon to the Time Police pod. The ramp came down as we approached and an officer stepped out. I’d hoped for Matthew Ellis – a familiar face to make this a little easier, but I didn’t know this one. Silently, he took my bag from me and, displaying an enormous amount of tact for the Time Police, disappeared inside, leaving me alone with Leon.

  Leon took my ice-cold hand and held it between his own. Despite the dawn chill, his hands were very warm. My heart was thumping away but I’d come too far to back down now. Besides, I’d never live it down.

  ‘Well,’ I said, lightly. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Yes. Gainful employment at last. Who’d have thought?’ His grip tightened. ‘Max . . .’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ll take care, I promise you.’

  ‘I was going to ask you if you’d got everything but, yes, the taking care thing is good as well.’

  ‘You too, Leon. I don’t want to do the whole heroic return thing to find St Mary’s in flames.’

  ‘I think you’ll find St Mary’s is only ever in flames when you’re around.’

  ‘Hurtful but true.’

  ‘Look after yourself.’

  I really didn’t want to do this. How do I get myself into these situations?

  ‘And you, Leon. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘You’d better. Give my love to Matthew.’

  I nodded. Someone coughed nearby and I looked round. The officer was back and holding my bag. Silently he unzipped it and displayed the contents. There were one or two personal items but I suspected it was the enormous plastic bag containing my own body­weight in tea bags that was causing the problem. Tea was taxed out of existence in their time. Everyone glared at me. I think they suspected me of attempting to undermine the Time Police Culture of Evil by using tea bags as bribes, currency, rewards and so on. And for hot beverages, of course.

  It would appear my bag hadn’t made it through customs.

  ‘You won’t need any of this,’ he said and held it out to Leon, who took it with a look that indicated he’d always known I’d be in trouble but hadn’t realised it would be quite this soon.

  And then, suddenly, the moment arrived.

  I took a breath. ‘I’d better be off.’

  He kissed my hand and then my cheek. ‘Good luck, Max.’

  I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

  He stepped back and I entered their pod. The ramp came up behind me.

  I turned my back on St Mary’s and faced my future.

  A quiet voice said, ‘Commence jump procedures.’

  ‘Commencing now.’

  The world flickered – and that was it.

  I couldn’t help feeling smug. Typical Time Police – all mouth and no trousers. St Mary’s does it much better.

  4

  The landing at TPHQ was much more impressive. We landed so smoothly and gently that at first, I didn’t realise we’d arrived at all. It was only when they started shutting things down and the officer said, ‘This way, please,’ that I realised we were actually here. All right, the Time Police do that better, but I rather missed Peterson and his bouncing-bomb landings.

  I shouldered my bag and followed the officer down the ramp. We don’t have ramps on our pods – not only does it reveal too much of the interior but it makes it difficult to fight off curious dinosaurs, mammoths, pitchfork-wielding villagers and so on.

  I paused at the bottom and looked around. I was in the bowels of TPHQ, buried beneath the iconic Battersea Power Station. Given the size of the space in which I stood, I might even be under the River Thames itself. Probably best not to think about that.

  Captain Farenden, Commander Hay’s adjutant, was waiting for me.

  ‘Max, welcome to Time Police HQ. Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  An awkward silence fell.

  ‘Big pods,’ I said, gesturing around. ‘With ramps.’

  ‘We usually need to get as many feet on the ground as quickly as we can, to say nothing of plant and material. This is the best way of dispersing our forces.’

  ‘Oh, right. You feel that a helicopter hovering over 15th-century Florence isn’t going to attract any attention at all?’

  He grinned. ‘Where do you think Leonardo got the idea from?’

  This equivalent of Hawking Hangar was massive. I don’t want to worry anyone, but if anything ever goes wrong, then half London will disappear in a flash and a bang and a gigantic puff of smoke. Along with most of the southern counties. If you want to be a safe distance away when the inevitable happens, may I suggest Reykjavik?

  I’d been here before, of course. On several occasions and for various reasons. Sometimes conscious – sometimes not. This was the first chance I’d had to get a really good look around.

  On the far wal
l, two swing doors led to their really excellent medical facilities. Another door in another wall opened into their stores and repair areas. The technicians – no, sorry, the Time Police call them mechs – had an office at the far end. Unlike St Mary’s, everything was bright and gleaming and modern. And functioning properly. I doubt they even knew duct tape existed.

  I don’t know what material they’d used in the construction, but this was no echoing concrete cavern. Voices were subdued and easily absorbed by very effective soundproofing. There wasn’t even a tinny little radio belting out popular tunes of the day. Music was probably a little too frivolous for the Time Police.

  I thought I might be taken to see Commander Hay immediately, but apparently there was a great deal to do first. I suspected the delay was also to reinforce my new position as lowest of the low.

  To begin with, I had to have a medical to prove I was fit for purpose. I think we all felt a bit dubious about that, but I scraped through somehow. I’d brought a message from Dr Stone saying this was as good as I was ever likely to get and welcome to his world.

  They had several doctors at TPHQ – apparently their casualty rate was even higher than ours – and I had the unnervingly silent one who’d treated Leon. We gazed at each other and then he sighed heavily, bleeped some sort of electronic device and I was officially A3.

  I protested. Back at St Mary’s, I was A1. He shook his head and said I was with the Time Police now and they had higher standards. I enquired when we were likely to see any evidence of that.

  ‘Underweight and puny,’ he said, typing something into his machine.

  ‘I’m so sorry I don’t fit into the narrow band of weight the medical profession has deemed acceptable for women today. Should we wait a week or so for that to change?’

  ‘I don’t think you realise the medical profession – as you so disparagingly refer to it – has only your wellbeing at heart.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think anyone realises that, do they?’

  His finger hovered menacingly over A4 so I took the hint and left.

  Only one step from physical decrepitude I might be – according to their medical team, anyway – but apparently, I did have some sort of status because I wasn’t shoved into a dormitory with the other lower life forms but found myself in the same guest suite in which Matthew and I had stayed before. I tried to feel this was because they valued me as an asset, rather than regarding me as some troublemaker from St Mary’s who had to be kept separate to avoid contaminating the others.