Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  Well, I thought we’d seen the last of him, although I suspected Dr Bairstow had had other thoughts. Now – now that it was too late – I remembered he’d once warned me about his possible successor. Had he been sacked? Was Halcombe now in charge? And then I remembered that Hawking was empty and that St Mary’s was deserted. If he was in charge, he was presiding over nothing.

  On the other hand, he did appear to have brought his own army. Had St Mary’s all been arrested and bundled off to some maximum-security unit somewhere?

  ‘Oh,’ I said, because I can’t help myself. ‘You’re back. How nice. And you’ve brought some of your little friends with you.’

  He regarded me without any particular joy. ‘Mrs Farrell.’

  I sighed and surpassed him in joylessness. ‘Malcolm Halcombe.’

  I don’t know why I bothered. There was a huge hole where his sense of humour should be.

  He waited for me to ask what was going on and I refused to give him the satisfaction. ‘Bit foggy today, don’t you think?’

  He said heavily, ‘Where are they?’

  Well, wasn’t that interesting? Wherever St Mary’s was, he hadn’t had anything to do with their disappearance. I emphasised my own ignorance. ‘Who?’

  That wasn’t a good move. I got a gun in my face. ‘Answer the question.’

  I fell back on the old favourite. ‘I take my instructions from Dr Bairstow.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  No, he wasn’t. None of them were. But at least they weren’t all dead in the basement. Halcombe didn’t know where they were either, but I had the advantage over him because I could hazard a very good guess.

  We have a remote site. Its location in time and space is a closely guarded secret. Leon and Dr Bairstow set it up years ago. It’s a refuge. A safe haven. A place for our pods and archives. The pods for obvious reasons, because you don’t want any of those falling into the hands of the wrong people, and the archives because they are a record of events as they actually happened. Before History could be rewritten by the winners. Or by those idiots who want to portray events in a more . . . contemporary . . . light. Or by religions trying to airbrush some of their less compassionate actions. Or leaders whose stupendous military triumph turns out to be not so stupendous after all. Or a politician who says or does something stupid.

  You’d be amazed at the number of people who want to rewrite History. Sometimes their reasons for doing so are quite benevolent. Or so they tell themselves. Sometimes they mean well. But you can’t do it. It doesn’t matter why you want to do it – you can’t. You shouldn’t. Because once you start messing about with it, the actual truth becomes distorted, then blurred and then finally lost altogether, which is why our job is to record and document major historical events in contemporary time and file the results in our archive. Dr Bairstow once said our archive was our heart and he was correct. So, he and Leon had established the remote site. A place of refuge for St Mary’s while they avoid whoever thinks tampering with History is a good idea. A place to wait until everyone comes to their senses.

  I was pretty certain that was where they were now. And it was no use asking me where and when the remote site was because I didn’t know. Dr Bairstow obviously knew, and so did Leon. Major Guthrie would have known, so Markham would now know. And that was probably it. I wasn’t even sure whether Peterson as Deputy Director would know. He wasn’t here, so he probably did.

  ‘Actually,’ said Halcombe, bringing me back to the present crisis. He was standing in Dr Bairstow’s old place on the half-landing – obviously he’d been picking up tips from the master himself – ‘I’m very glad to see you. I have some questions for you.’

  I shrugged. ‘Ask away. I don’t work here any longer so I’ve no idea what’s been happening recently. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you can’t; only an idiot would entrust you with important information. But I do think you might be instrumental in helping me get the answers I require.’

  I gave him my best I doubt that look, but inside I was suddenly very, very afraid.

  And for good reason. They were marching Tim Peterson down the stairs. Closely followed by North, Clerk and Bashford. But no Evans. Where was Evans?

  Halcombe must have read my thoughts. ‘I’m afraid Mr Evans isn’t very well at the moment. He’s having a – what shall I call it? – a lie down.’

  I knew exactly what he meant. Evans was stocky and pugnacious and the nearest thing we had to a tank. I could only imagine what it had taken to put him down. And the others weren’t in much better condition.

  They all looked exhausted. Peterson in particular looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. As he stood alongside Halcombe under the roof lantern, I could make out faint bruising high on one cheekbone and around one eye.

  He grinned at me and it was a very creditable effort.

  ‘What ho, Max.’

  I laughed and that was a very creditable effort as well. ‘Don’t let Markham hear you say that.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, I just popped in as I was passing. You?’

  ‘Keeping an eye on things. As you do.’

  I turned to the others. ‘Mr Clerk, I believe congratulations are in order. Good work with Wyatt’s Rebellion.’

  ‘And you too, Max. You found her then? What was she like?’

  ‘More amenable and less religious than I expected.’

  ‘Ah, well. Give her time.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Halcombe interrupted our pleasantries to repeat himself. ‘I’m very pleased to see you this morning, Mrs Farrell,’ and we all blinked at the unlikeliness of that statement. ‘I believe you may be instrumental in getting me what I want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m quite ready to divulge my objective just yet.’

  I rolled my eyes. Something I would never have dared to do with Dr Bairstow. ‘Another example of muddled thinking, Halcombe. If you don’t tell me what you want, then you can hardly complain if I am unable to assist, can you?’

  ‘Actually, I had intended your role to have more of a passive nature. Until Dr Peterson tells me what I want to know, of course.’

  Shit. I didn’t like the sound of that. Obviously, he wanted to know where St Mary’s was. I wondered if he was aware of the existence of our remote site. Something inside me said yes, he was. Not that it would do him any good. He could ask me until the cows came home but I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know. The information was above my pay grade, so to speak.

  He descended the stairs slowly so I’d have time to experience the fear and apprehension he thought he engendered, whereas the reality was that, despite my predicament, I was hard put not to laugh. Until I looked past him to Peterson, who suddenly had that blank, expressionless look that indicated he was very worried indeed – and if Tim was worried, then so was I.

  Halcombe stood in front of me. Two soldiers took up positions on either side. I’m not sure what they thought I was going to do.

  ‘So, Mrs Farrell, St Mary’s seems to have disappeared.’

  I looked around. ‘Have they?’

  ‘A great shame. I had an important assignment for them.’

  ‘They don’t take their instructions from you, Halcombe.’

  ‘They will now that I have you.’

  ‘They take their instructions from Dr Bairstow. We all do.’

  ‘Not any more, you don’t. I am now in command at St Mary’s.’

  I stared around at the empty building. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

  A soldier stepped up. He wore the rank of major. He raised his gun. Halcombe put his hand on his arm. ‘Not just at the moment, Major. Let’s give her a chance, shall we?’

  I shrugged. ‘You can call yourself Titania, Queen of the Fairies, for all I car
e. It looks as if there is no St Mary’s here to command. It’s all gone. Nothing left.’

  ‘I think we both know that’s not true any longer, don’t we?’

  I went suddenly cold, because he was talking about Number Five, squatting, battered, on its plinth in Hawking. Suddenly, thanks to me, Halcombe had acquired a pod. And now I would have to be very, very careful.

  I shook my head. ‘No. Sorry. Not with you.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Really.’

  ‘Allow me to enlighten you.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ll just take myself off.’

  I’d made a huge mistake coming back to St Mary’s. I couldn’t be in a worse place at a worse time. I had to get the pod out of here as quickly as possible. I didn’t dare look at Peterson and the others. As calmly as I could I said, ‘I told you, Halcombe, I don’t work for you. I’m under no obligation to you. I don’t actually work for St Mary’s any longer, as everyone here can attest. I don’t know what you want but I’m unable to give it to you.’

  I turned to go. I’d actually taken two or three steps when he said, ‘But now, thanks to you, we have a pod.’

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Bloody, bloody bollocking hell. I said calmly, ‘I’m sorry – were you talking to me?’

  ‘You came here in a pod, I believe, thus providing the final ingredient. I had historians but no pod but now, thanks to you, I have both. You just couldn’t stay away, could you? I knew if I waited long enough you would turn up. And here you are. I have historians, I have a pod. And now I have you.’

  He paused so I could fully appreciate the trouble we were in. And we were. I didn’t dare look at Peterson. I stared down at the floor, keeping my face as expressionless as I could, and tried to think.

  Yes, I’d been stupid to come back here. But, to be fair, I hadn’t known that at the time. Dr Bairstow had obviously gone to a great deal of effort to clear St Mary’s out of harm’s way and I’d gone and landed them straight back in it again. It was small consolation that Halcombe would have had Number Five anyway if Clerk and the others had returned to St Mary’s in the normal manner. He’d still have been waiting for them. That must be why Peterson was still here – to give them the coordinates for the remote site so they could all jump there together. So, Peterson did know the location. But Halcombe had turned up before Clerk and the others. The Time Police had dropped them off and jumped away because they never hang around and Clerk’s team had walked straight into trouble. And now I was here. With a pod. Bringing even more trouble. I was suddenly very, very afraid for Peterson.

  I started walking towards the doors. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  ‘Turn around, Mrs Farrell.’

  Reluctantly I turned. Peterson and North each had a gun to their heads. Clerk and Bashford had been pushed against a wall.

  ‘Well, Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘Well, what, Halcombe?’

  ‘Which of your friends would you like me to begin with?’

  There was a cold lump in my stomach. The only thing I could do for them was to convince Halcombe they were unimportant. That whatever he threatened them with meant nothing to me. Somehow, I managed to shrug. ‘I don’t care. Whichever you like. As long as it’s not me.’

  I started walking again. It was a long way to the door. I was never going to make it.

  I heard a shout behind me and the sounds of a scuffle. When I turned back, Peterson was struggling with three of the guards. Two of them pinned his arms – the other reversed his gun and struck him in the face. They let him fall to the ground.

  ‘As you can see, I mean business,’ said Halcombe, calmly. ‘One down. Who will be next, I wonder?’

  I considered. What would happen if I forced him to kill us all? He’d have no hostages left, but then he’d just ship the pod off to somewhere. They’d strip it down and reverse-engineer it. I’d no idea how easy that would be or how long it would take but that wasn’t the point. We’d all still be dead.

  I had to start using my brain. The first priority was to get the pod away from Halcombe. The second priority was to rescue the hostages. The third priority was to get these bastards out of St Mary’s.

  ‘What exactly do you want, Halcombe?’

  ‘I want you to open the pod for me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Lay in some coordinates.’

  ‘What coordinates?’

  ‘That’s not necessary for you to know.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody silly. Of course I need to know. No historian in their right mind would programme in unverified coordinates. The wrong sequence at the wrong time and the whole pod could be blown to kingdom come.’

  It couldn’t, actually. Programme in the wrong sequence at the wrong time and the computer would just sigh heavily and request assistance from the nearest technician. But it was enough to make him hesitate.

  I folded my arms.

  On the floor, Peterson stirred. North pulled herself free of her captors and went to kneel at his side.

  Halcombe appeared to come to some sort of decision and took out his wallet. For one mad moment I thought he was going to give me some money. Alas. He rifled through the contents and finally pulled out a piece of paper folded very small which he passed to me.

  Curious, I took it from him and unfolded it. I recognised the arrangement immediately. Temporal and spatial coordinates.

  I frowned. There was nothing there I recognised. The configur­ation was completely unknown to me. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your next assignment.’

  ‘What assignment?’

  ‘The one I am instructing you to carry out.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or the condition of some of your colleagues will take a sudden turn for the worse.’

  Pillock. ‘What are these coordinates?’

  ‘Your destination.’

  Dear God, it was like getting blood from a stone. At that moment I was granted an insight of how truly irritating I can be. Keep plugging away, Maxwell.

  ‘What destination?’

  He hesitated but only because he was spinning out the moment. He really, really wanted to tell me. I could see it in his face. I began to have a very bad feeling about this.

  I said again, ‘What destination, Halcombe?’

  Now he was openly smiling. ‘Jerusalem. 33AD.’

  17

  Believe it or not, we do have rules at St Mary’s. And yes, I’ve broken a few of them in my time. For instance, only a few days ago I’d re-routed History. But there’s one thing we won’t do. As Dr Bairstow puts it, ‘We’re not in the business of propping up faltering belief systems. Or any belief systems.’

  Most of us at St Mary’s are godless heathens. Given some of the things we’ve seen, it’s hard to believe in any sort of benign intelligence presiding over human affairs. Especially when you see what’s been done in the name of some of those benign intelligences. Most of us have chosen to place our fate in the hands of the universe – or the Technical Section, to give it its mortal manifestation – rather than any specific deity. In a crisis, I myself tend to call on the notoriously unreliable god of historians, and then sort everything out for myself because it’s easier and quicker that way.

  Of course, occasionally, some idiot will say, ‘Oh, why don’t you go back to Bethlehem or witness the Sermon on the Mount? Imagine,’ they say with enthusiasm, ‘if you could prove the Crucifixion actually happened. Wouldn’t that be amazing?’

  Well, no, is the simple answer to that one.

  If you stop and think about things – which would do the most damage? Proving the Crucifixion did happen? Or that it didn’t?

  And it’s not just Christianity. We’re equal-opportunity spoilsports. We have specially designated Sites of Special Signi
ficance. They’re marked on our version of the Time Map – Triple-Ss. In red, just to make the point. We’re not allowed to visit any of them.

  Not Mecca. Nor Bethlehem. Nor Medina, nor Benares, nor Bodh Gaya. We don’t go anywhere near any of them. And Jerusalem is very dodgy. There isn’t much of its History that hasn’t got a thumping great red Triple-S stamped across it. By forbidding access to these sites, we protected ourselves from those who wanted information too perilous to know. Religion is dangerous enough. Imagine if you could definitively prove the existence of a God – but it wasn’t your God. We’d all be dead by next Tuesday.

  ‘It’s forbidden,’ was always our excuse and our answer: ‘We can’t go there.’ Until now, it would seem.

  I myself always think God’s a bit like the Loch Ness monster. An exciting and mysterious concept which would be too wonderful for words if it were true and too disappointing for words if not. Far better not to know, but to believe. To have faith. After all, isn’t having faith what religion is supposed to be all about?

  From the look on Halcombe’s face, however – no. To him, religion was about something much more important. I suspected money. Or power. Or both. I shrugged my shoulders. I’m a godless heathen. What would I know?

  I handed back the piece of paper. ‘The date of the Crucifixion is unverified. Jumping to these coordinates would be a waste of time.’

  He handed it back to me. ‘Current research has narrowed it down to two dates. This one is the most likely.’

  I handed it back. ‘Too much uncertainty.’

  ‘Not at all. Recent geological studies have managed to pinpoint the date of the earthquake that occurred at the time. There is a very good chance these coordinates will put you right at the centre of events.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t do this. I won’t do this. The implications are massive.’

  ‘Yes, you will. You will do exactly as you’re instructed, Mrs Farrell. Rather a novel experience for you, I think. You will do as I say in this matter. I command St Mary’s now and, from this moment, this unit will begin to earn its keep.’