Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  The horses didn’t like it either. Tired they might be but they knew that mist did not bode well. Ellis’s horse snorted and plunged. Mine was trying to walk backwards.

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine,’ but horses are considerably more intelligent than people and they knew very well everything was not fine. Ellis’s horse reared again.

  ‘Get down, Max,’ he said. ‘They’re not happy and it’s not far now. We can’t risk either of us being injured.’

  He was right. I scrambled down and no sooner had I done so than my horse ripped the reins from my fingers and they both thundered off into the woods. Away from the mist. And much good it would do them.

  We stood and stared at the billowing misty silence. And beyond that – nothingness. There just simply wasn’t anything there. Not blackness or whiteness or fog or anything. Just a deep, endless nothingness. An absence of anything. I’d once experienced something very similar and it hadn’t been pleasant then. It was even less so now.

  I felt my stomach turn over. Ellis was gripping my arm. Hard. I hadn’t really given much thought as to how it would happen. My mind had been completely taken up with thoughts of Mary Tudor and her letter. I know we’d blithely talked about the universe rolling up – as if it was an old carpet no one wanted any longer – and disappearing. We’d talked about bubble universes which presumably would just pop out of existence, but it dawned on me now, with a rather sick feeling to my stomach, that I hadn’t really thought how it would happen.

  The mist was creeping closer. It wasn’t fast but it was inexor­able. No power on earth could stop it. No barrier could even slow it down. It simply enveloped everything in its path. Slow, silent and unstoppable. I couldn’t drag my eyes away. There was something hypnotic about it. My legs felt heavy and useless. I think that, left to myself, I’d have just stood and watched it bear down on me.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ellis, and his voice had that dead quality you get in an acoustic room. ‘We have to move.’

  We did move. We were faster than the mist but we couldn’t go on forever. We were already tired. We’d been blown up in London. We’d walked seven miles. We’d interfered with History. And then we’d part-walked and part-ridden most of those same seven miles back again. And some of us weren’t as young as we used to be.

  Ellis led the way. I fixed my eyes on his back and ran, slipping, sliding, occasionally tripping over some hidden obstacle but never stopping. My lungs began to burn. My heart was pounding fit to burst and that wasn’t because of the exertion. I didn’t dare look behind me.

  For God’s sake – how much further?

  I glanced from side to side as I ran. White mist was everywhere around us but whether this was post-rain mist or end-of-the-world mist I couldn’t tell and I certainly wasn’t going to take the time to investigate.

  Ahead of me, I could hear Ellis’s proximity meter blipping away.

  ‘Half a mile,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Probably less,’ and, indeed, I thought I could see the chimneys of Hunsdon, dark against the mist.

  That was a nasty moment. We had assumed the mist was behind us but suppose it was all around us instead. Suppose everything centred on us. Suppose – my heart and legs both failed me here – suppose the pod had already gone. Swallowed up into nothingness. Suppose there was nothing to do but wait at the centre of an ever-contracting world. Accept our fate. We’d saved the timeline – I hoped – and our reward was annihilation.

  I spared a thought for Clerk and the others. Had they made it out? Or were they also trapped in another contracting bubble awaiting their own fate?

  Ellis slowed and stopped. I just avoided running into him. He was looking back over my shoulder so I did the same.

  Shit. It was going to be bloody close. Too bloody close. We weren’t going to make it.

  I honestly thought we’d get away in time. We always did. We’re St Mary’s. Well, one of us was. I think I even thought a grateful History would smooth our way a little and I’d been wrong about everything.

  No, I hadn’t. History hadn’t abandoned us. History had caused me to trip over the rabbit. And yes, History had put those men in our path, but more importantly, had put their horses in our path. Literally. My forehead still throbbed from the impact. The horses had bought us the extra minutes we needed and we’d been given those extra minutes for a reason, I was convinced of it.

  The bleeper was bleeping like a mad thing so we knew we weren’t far away.

  The humming noise had increased. I could hear it over my own heavy breathing. White tendrils of mist curled silently among the trees.

  ‘There,’ I said suddenly, pointing.

  We ran. I could see the mist creeping along the ground everywhere. What would happen when it touched me? Would I lose my feet? Would I have to drag myself to the pod on bleeding stumps? Where do I get these thoughts from?

  I had only enough breath to pant, ‘Door,’ and we crashed into the pod, which was a festival of flashing red lights. The computer was shouting, ‘Warning. Warning. Warning.’ Presumably in case we’d failed to notice anything amiss.

  I shouted, ‘Shut up. Shut up.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ellis, panting. ‘Shouting at a machine. Always a sign of advanced intelligence.’

  I got the door closed and hit the mute control.

  In the silence I could hear a faint buzzing. I stared wildly round. Was it in here with us? Where was it?

  ‘It’s in there,’ said Ellis, pressing his ear against the door to our tiny toilet.

  ‘Keep that door shut.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  As if that would make any difference.

  Was it my imagination or was the door beginning to waver? I remembered Commander Hay’s face. No time to stop and think. I thanked my forethought in having the return coordinates laid in ready.

  ‘Computer – emergency extraction.’

  The world went black.

  15

  We landed with a crash that threw us both to the floor. I decided that with the sort of day I was having, it was probably wisest to stay put. We both did.

  Ellis groaned. ‘I have to say, Max – and no offence – but the Time Police do it better.’

  I wiped blood off my nose. He might have a point but I was so happy to be in one piece I couldn’t be bothered to argue.

  I heaved myself to my feet and inspected our impressive array of flashing red lights. There was some damage to a few minor systems but the structure appeared to be intact so I reckoned I could ignore most of it.

  I reached down and offered Ellis a hand up. ‘All right?’

  He was carrying out a limb check. ‘Everything seems to be here but I am not having a good day.’

  ‘This is a St Mary’s pod,’ I said. ‘Therefore, St Mary’s terms and conditions apply.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you still alive?’

  He patted himself. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then according to St Mary’s, it’s a good day.’

  ‘St Mary’s can piss off,’ he said, rubbing his elbow.

  Bloody ingratitude.

  We decontaminated, I got the door open and we exited the pod. Very carefully. I’m sure they were expecting us and therefore we wouldn’t die in a hail of fire as we emerged but nevertheless . . .

  We were back at TPHQ and the first thing I saw was the clean-up squad waiting for us. Why were they back already? I blinked. Why were they here and not instigating riot and rebellion across the land? Bollocks. Typical Time Police. Obviously if you want a good riot you stick with St Mary’s.

  ‘What happened?’ I said in alarm. ‘What went wrong?’

  They ignored me, addressing their remarks to the important member of the team. Everything had gone well, they said to Ellis. No need to panic, they said to me. Queen Mary was safely on the throne. The main conspirators
had been identified, had their ears whispered in, been threatened, been bribed, been intimidated, whatever it took. It hadn’t been that difficult, they said.

  ‘Did everyone get back safely?’ asked Ellis.

  A mech nodded. ‘You’re the last. And just in time by the looks of it.’

  I turned to look at the pod.

  Oh shit.

  The back right-hand corner seemed to have borne the brunt. The outer casing there was black and bubbled. As if it had been burned. Or incinerated. Or melted. I reached out and touched it. Hard and cold. I had no idea what Leon was going to say but the structure itself appeared intact so, with luck, he’d only complain for a week or so.

  Ellis was still looking down at himself.

  ‘Ah,’ said a mech, wandering past. ‘Wet, muddy and bloody. You’ve been out with St Mary’s, haven’t you?’

  I turned. ‘Speaking of which . . . ?’

  ‘Safely returned. They decontaminated, had a quick check-up and a hot meal and then we dropped them off at St Mary’s. Maxwell, you’re to meet them there when you’ve finished here. Oh, and Commander Hay wants to see you and your reports as soon as possible.’

  Everyone was really interested in the mist and the disappearing world.

  There was a polite interest in my stellar work with Mary Tudor but it was the vanishing universe everyone wanted to hear about. I was writing reports about it for two days.

  The original timeline was reasserting itself, Ellis assured me. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but hadn’t everything gone well and thanks for the help, Max. Couldn’t have done it without you.

  I still couldn’t quite believe what I’d done. And God knows what Dr Bairstow was going to say.

  I wanted to get back to St Mary’s as quickly as possible. Firstly, to catch up with Clerk and the others and, secondly, to report to Dr Bairstow, because I wasn’t too sure how he was going to react to our efforts to restore the timeline. And to see Leon, of course. And to have a decent cup of tea. Several decent cups of tea. And to see what the History Department had been up to in my absence. And to see if Lingoss and Peterson were inching their way towards an understanding. And to see how Hunter was. And to check up on the loonies in R&D. And a million other things as well.

  The Time Police, though, had other ideas. Bloody Time Police and their bureaucracy. On the upside, their decontamination procedures were so good that, despite all that Tudor water, I didn’t have to spend any time in their medical centre.

  ‘This isn’t St Mary’s,’ said Ellis. ‘We move straight on to the next assignment. We don’t spend all our time lolling around and eating grapes.’

  I saw Commander Hay alone, so it was safe to talk.

  ‘Mr Clerk and his team were returned to St Mary’s nearly three days ago now, Max. There were no casualties. They were dropped off at the usual place. I understand Mr Clerk was somewhat apprehensive of Dr Bairstow’s reaction and felt matters would proceed more smoothly if . . .’

  ‘If the Time Police weren’t actually on the premises.’

  She smiled. ‘Something like that. I understand you have been able to offer some useful insights into unstable bubble universes.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say so, ma’am. Although I should point out I was nearly blind with terror at the end.’

  ‘You are comparatively uninjured, however.’

  I agreed that I was comparatively uninjured. ‘Will this have affected our plans at all, Commander?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s been a slight – a very slight – delay. Nothing more.’ She paused. ‘I think Matthew’s role in all this is quite interesting, don’t you?’

  I tried to downplay Matthew’s quite interesting role in all this. ‘Mm? No, not really, ma’am.’

  I could see she wanted to talk about Matthew and I didn’t, so I distracted her by requesting permission to jump back to St Mary’s to return Number Five to its rightful owners, check on Clerk and his team’s story, and to report to Dr Bairstow in case they had any more 16th-century assignments planned. I told her it seemed sensible for St Mary’s to avoid that period until things had settled down a little.

  She blinked – possibly at my use of the word ‘sensible’ – and hesitated, but it was a perfectly reasonable request. And I’d laboured day and night for them for weeks with no time off. And it was reasonable to want to see my husband again. She had no reason to say no and she didn’t. I was granted three days’ leave. I thanked her politely and went off to make preparations.

  Given the state of Number Five, I was expecting all sorts of grief from the Technical Section, who tend to take this sort of thing personally. I don’t know why – the outer casing is only cosmetic – a bit of duct tape and some string and it would be fine. It would be interesting to see whether Leon’s pleasure at seeing me was greater or lesser than his dismay at the damage to one of his beloved pods. Anyway, I was braced for criticism and condemnation when I opened the door – and there was no one there.

  There was nothing anywhere. I don’t mean the rather nasty Nothing of the 16th century, but the nothing of no Leon, no techies, no pods, no nothing. Just a vast, empty, echoing hangar with a couple of broken packing cases in one corner and a flatbed with a stack of empty archive boxes in another. Leon’s office was empty. As was IT. And not just empty of people. Empty of everything. Just four walls, a ceiling and a floor. I could see marks on the wall where various bits of equipment had once been. Even the traditional calendar of cute kittens doing various cute things was gone.

  All of Hawking was empty, which was puzzling because even if everyone was out on a Big Job, there would be some techies here. And Polly Perkins’ IT staff should be either staring at incomprehensible screens or shouting at people for getting toast crumbs lodged in their keyboards.

  The blast doors were up so they hadn’t all blown themselves out of existence and there were no scorch marks on the walls so there hadn’t been a fire. This was weird.

  I left the hangar and set off down the Long Corridor for the Great Hall.

  The silence should have warned me, but I was passing the time rehearsing my arguments and explanations to Dr Bairstow, intending to finish with a triumphant, ‘So you see, sir, hardly anything for you to worry about after all.’

  The Hall was empty. Gone were the tables piled high with files. And the scribble-covered whiteboards. There were no scrappy bits of paper pinned to the walls with people’s passwords scrawled on them. No historians arguing, or waving their arms around, or building data stacks, or scarfing biscuits and tea on an industrial scale. The silence was deafening.

  The dining room was empty. No one was troughing through their second plate of shepherds’ pie.

  Wardrobe was empty. No chatter. No half-completed costumes hanging around the room. No whirr of sewing machines.

  I stood in the empty Hall, looking about me, confused and bewildered.

  St Mary’s had gone.

  I couldn’t take it in. I’d been at St Mary’s for almost all of my working life. It’s my home. No matter how badly things have gone – and sometimes it’s been quite spectacular – St Mary’s had always been there waiting for me.

  For some reason – and don’t ask me why – I was reminded of Bashford telling me that after uni he’d been quite reluctant to leave the parental nest.

  ‘I was on to a good thing, Max. Board and lodging at a very affordable rate. My laundry done every Wednesday. As far as I was concerned, I was there forever. My parents dropped tons of hints and I ignored them all. Then one day I came back from holiday. I’d been to Marbella. This was in the days when you could, of course. I staggered in through the front door, heavily tanned and even more heavily hungover, clutching my duty frees and my straw donkey, and my dad said, “Don’t bother unpacking, son. We’ve sold the house. Me and your mum have bought a bungalow in Skegness.”’


  I’d laughed when he told me the story, but now I knew exactly how he’d felt.

  In the interests of giving everyone the complete picture, I’ve spent some time describing all the many things that weren’t there. Time to move on to what actually was there.

  There were six very large men pointing very large weapons at me.

  They certainly weren’t Time Police. Having spent some time with them, I reckoned I could pick one out from ten miles away. In the dark. With my eyes shut. I didn’t know who this lot were, but they weren’t Time Police.

  I said, ‘Good morning,’ quite politely, because Markham always insists on standards being maintained.

  No one returned my cheery greeting.

  ‘Well,’ I said, backing away. ‘I’m obviously in the wrong place. Sorry to have troubled you. I’ll be off now.’

  There were two more behind me. Bollocks.

  I turned back again.

  ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you’ve grasped my intransigence so quickly.’

  I looked around, trying to think. My first thought was that these were Ronan’s men, but my second thought told me they probably weren’t. They wore official badges and insignia and looked quite a considerable step up from the sort of people he usually had working for him.

  They were military. Shit – this wasn’t good.

  I tumbled to the truth at the same time as he appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Malcolm Bloody Halcombe.

  Bloody, bloody bollocking hell. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

  16

  Time for a quick word of explanation, I think.

  Mr Halcombe – or the idiot Halcombe as he was usually known – had been Thirsk’s representative at St Mary’s. St Mary’s had had a spot of trouble with which I was not unconnected and, in retaliation, Thirsk had foisted him on us in what he, Halcombe, fondly imagined was a supervisory category. We’d packed him off to a leprosy clinic – you honestly don’t want to get on the wrong side of us – and then Dr Bairstow had very publicly sacked him and we’d thought we’d seen the last of him.