Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘But Dr Bairstow could have contacted me.’

  Dr Bairstow has a system for contacting the Time Police. I’ll tell you but everyone has to promise not to scoff. He writes to them, giving details of the assistance required, when and where. He actually writes them a letter. Mrs Partridge posts it. It sits in a postbox in London and, apparently, some young sapling jumps back from the future, assimilates the contents and reports back. The Time Police then present themselves wherever and whenever requested and make a troubled situation even worse.

  ‘His back was to the wall, Max. I think he felt that wasn’t a good idea at this stage.’

  I knew I’d been right not to involve the Time Police.

  ‘And, of course, it’s never a good idea to put all one’s eggs in one basket. I think he rather relied on you being . . . apart . . . as it were.’

  I nodded. That was very true.

  ‘I imagine you were quite astonished to find St Mary’s gone.’

  I helped myself to another sandwich. ‘Astonishment hardly begins to cover it. I barely had time to draw breath before Halcombe ambushed me. But never mind that. Did they evacuate? Did they all get away safely?’

  ‘They did, but only by the skin of their teeth.’

  I nodded. This was going to be easy. I was getting all the information I needed. She could tell me where they were; I could fire up the pod. With luck, I could be talking to Dr Bairstow in half an hour.

  ‘So where did they go?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Max. I can’t tell you.’

  I opened my mouth to argue but she forestalled me. ‘I don’t know where they’ve gone.’

  Oh. Well, I had no reason to doubt her but that chucked the cat into the works. Or a spanner among the pigeons. One of the two. I was very tired.

  I frowned. ‘I find it very hard to believe Halcombe is the one in charge, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I agree. More tea? He’s so obviously being used, isn’t he? He’s certainly taking instructions from someone else.’

  ‘Someone who’s not going to be very happy he let me and a pod slip through his fingers.’

  ‘Very probably.’

  I thought some more. ‘It’s Peterson that’s been bearing the brunt of all this, isn’t it? At least until Clerk’s team turned up. And as time goes on, Halcombe isn’t going to be a happy man at all.’

  ‘I fear that is correct but not for a little while. You – and he – have a few days’ grace before they start to worry about your non-reappearance. That was a good thought, Max. They won’t hurt Peterson or any of the others during this period. But I think we should be aware, as the days pass and there’s no sign of any of you, not knowing what has happened to you will render them helpless and frustrated. And we know who they’ll take it out on.’

  ‘But I have a little while.’

  ‘Yes – you have a breathing space.’

  ‘A very small one. And I don’t think I’ve fooled Captain Ellis at all.’

  ‘Yes – tell me what happened there.’

  I told her what had happened after we landed in Jerusalem, ending with a slightly despairing, ‘If only I hadn’t come back.’

  ‘Well, you did,’ she said firmly. ‘You returned to St Mary’s to report to Dr Bairstow. Which, from your point of view, was absolutely the right thing to do. You weren’t to know what was happening here. It all happened so quickly, Max, but no one has died and not only was a huge Triple-S violation avoided, but you’ve got the pod away from them. Which was the priority. If you hadn’t then they would certainly have taken it and all of you away. They would have got inside sooner or later. Certainly, none of you would ever have been seen again. And if they had managed to open the pod, who knows what secrets would have been revealed. As it is, Max, none of that has happened.’

  She was right – it was hard to see what else I could have done but even so . . .

  ‘So,’ she said, pushing the last sandwich towards me. ‘What is your next move?’

  I sighed. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘One thing, Max – whatever you decide, you can’t do it alone. You’re tired and injured and there’s only one of you.’

  I shook my head. ‘There isn’t anyone else.’

  She leaned forwards and topped up my tea again. ‘Isn’t there?’

  OK, time for a little backstory. You might want to put the kettle on.

  A while ago I did something very wrong. Even more wrong than usual. I put together a small team of historians – and Markham as well, because you can’t keep him out of anything – and for reasons which seemed very good at the time – and still do – we stole a sword from Thirsk. We drove to their Northallerton campus, lied like stink to everyone, and stole the sword. Obviously, they knew it was us because we hadn’t tried to cover our tracks in any way, and Dr Bairstow was waiting for us when we got back.

  Several bad things arose from this – the most serious being the imposition of Halcombe and his then-assistant, Miss Dottle – but, in support of our actions, two of my historians, David Sands and Gareth Roberts, both gave in their resignation. David Sands was now a successful writer – well, he was shacked up with Rosie Lee so if anyone deserved a little good in his life it was him – and Gareth had returned to Wales and now taught at the University of ­Ceredigion. I still had the occasional email from them and Rosie Lee kept me up to date as well.

  The point of all this being that somewhere out there were two historians. Two people I could call upon for assistance. If they were in a position to render assistance. But, even if not, I should still warn them that unwelcome attention might soon be heading their way.

  I stood up, not without some difficulty; I must have looked like one of those jointed rulers trying to unfold.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I wondered if I might use your telephone?’

  ‘You may,’ she said, ‘but only after a hot bath and something more to eat.’

  ‘But I need to contact Sands and Roberts.’

  ‘They’ve been perfectly safe up until now. There is no reason they won’t continue to be so for a few hours longer. You can use your time in the bath to think through the facts, marshal your arguments and come up with a plan.’

  She was perfectly right. I could make a series of dramatic telephone calls and confuse everyone, or I could take a few hours and do the job properly.

  ‘This way,’ she said.

  It was as I was halfway up the stairs – and making very heavy weather of them – that I had a sudden thought. ‘Did Mrs Partridge go with them?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why would she not?’

  For some reason I suddenly felt much happier.

  22

  A hot bath, a plate of egg and chips – with second helpings – and two cups of tea later, I could have conquered the world. Albeit very, very slowly and stiffly. Grint’s spray was wearing off. I reckoned it was going to be a day or so before I could limbo dance again.

  I put on my jacket and walked to the front door.

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I need to keep moving and it’s not far. And he’ll probably give me a lift back, so please don’t worry.’

  ‘I can drive you myself.’

  ‘Exercise,’ I said. ‘I have to keep moving.’

  She sighed. ‘As you wish.’

  Of course, I was regretting it before I’d gone more than twenty yards down the road. Fortunately, there wasn’t far to go. David Sands and Rosie Lee live in a little house down by the river. There is a short row of modern houses built on the site of a demolished warehouse. The front gardens are so tiny that the front doors open almost on to the street.

  Once before, when St Mary’s was under threat, Rosie Lee had elected to leave. She’d taken a lot of stick for it which, typically, she never mentioned. This time, howe
ver, according to Mrs De Winter, she hadn’t been offered the choice. Ignoring all her protestations, Dr Bairstow had made things easy by having her escorted to the gates. Exactly who had undertaken this task and the extent of their injuries remained unclear.

  I paused outside and looked around but the street was empty. Of course it was. No one was following me.

  I knocked and waited.

  A light went on in the hall and I could see a dark figure approaching. Someone pulled the door open and there stood David Sands. Tall, handsome, and looking exactly as he had the day he’d escorted a tearful and furious Roberts out of St Mary’s.

  I said, ‘Knock, knock.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Someone who needs help.’

  We looked at each other for a moment and then he stepped out and enveloped me in an enormous hug. All my bruises started up again and I couldn’t give a toss. I hugged back.

  He said, ‘Hey,’ into my hair.

  I said, ‘David.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The house was tiny, warm and colourful. The downstairs was open plan and I could see straight through to Rosie Lee, stirring something at the cooker.

  Her son, Benjamin, was at the table, doing his homework by the looks of it. It was a peaceful domestic scene – something I’d probably never experience – and I felt a sudden surge of guilt at bringing trouble to their home. I blinked hard and swallowed down a lump because this was Rosie Lee and you should never show fear.

  ‘Max.’ And then she scowled horribly. ‘What did they do?’

  I remembered she had no love for the Time Police. A more than normally intelligence-impaired officer had once attempted to investigate her bosom area. A large number of people had nearly died.

  She dropped the spoon and came over. I braced myself.

  ‘Max, you look like sh— dreadful. David, don’t keep her standing there. Sit down, for heaven’s sake.’

  I was chivvied into an armchair.

  ‘Whatever are you doing here? We thought you were in . . .’ She paused. ‘. . . London.’

  I glanced at Benjamin. Sands took the hint.

  ‘OK, Benjy, forget the homework for a few minutes. Do you want to go upstairs and watch TV?’

  He didn’t need to be asked twice. I could hear him clattering up the stairs. Somewhere a door opened and closed.

  ‘So,’ said Sands. ‘What’s up, Max?’ I told him.

  At some point a glass of something very acceptable turned up and was refilled twice. At the end, I sat back, exhausted, and put down my empty glass.

  They looked at each other. ‘What do you want from us, Max?’

  ‘I don’t know. Initially I want you and Gareth back.’

  ‘Is there any danger?’ asked Rosie bluntly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said again. ‘I honestly have no idea what’s going on. I’m winging it from one moment to the next. I have no idea if, as past historians, either you or Gareth are in any danger but to me it just makes good sense to have us all together in one place.’

  ‘What about Benjy?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know, but after what happened today I’m not inclined to take any chances. David, if you want to stay with Rosie and Benjy then I’ll completely understand and I’ll go away at once. Or after another glass of whatever that was, because it’s really good stuff. If you do want to be involved, then I would say, Rosie, that maybe you and Benjy might want to go away for a few days. I’m sure you’d be quite safe here, but I’m not in the mood to take any chances.’

  Sands topped up my glass again. ‘Can you give us a minute, Max?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, glugging away and they, too, disappeared upstairs.

  Their house was very warm and cosy. If I closed my eyes I could easily imagine them sitting here in the evenings. Rosie, after avoiding a hard day at St Mary’s and David working on his latest book. Benjamin would be doing his homework or watching the TV. It was a comforting picture and I was halfway to dropping off when Sands reappeared. He had his coat on and was carrying a sports bag with him. I could have cried. But only because I was very tired.

  ‘What about . . . ?’ I looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘They’re packing. I’m going to call them a taxi. They’re going away for a couple of days. Don’t know what we’re going to say to his school. Take your kids out of classes during term time these days and they tend to put you against a wall and shoot you.’

  ‘Dr Bairstow will sort it out,’ I said with a confidence I wish I actually possessed. ‘Do you have a number for Mr Roberts?’

  He pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial. ‘Gareth? . . . Yeah, fine. Listen, mate, can you get away for a couple of days? . . . No, I want you to think of it more as a walk down Memory Lane . . . Oh yeah . . . dead trouble. This is serious . . . Well, we knew it would happen one day and if you want to give it a miss I wouldn’t blame you . . . Yeah, OK. See you tomorrow. I’ll text you the address. Yeah. See you, mate.’

  He turned to me and grinned his wicked grin. ‘Done.’

  We saw Rosie and Benjamin off in their taxi and then he locked up and we headed back to Mrs De Winter’s. It was getting dark as we drove through Rushford. Lights were on in the windows but the curtains not yet drawn. I could see bright little snapshots of people’s lives.

  Mrs De Winter had the door open for us. ‘Come in, come in. Mr Sands, how very pleasant to see you again. Have you eaten?’

  Roberts turned up the next morning. Just in time for breakfast. He’d bulked out and his voice wasn’t anywhere near as squeaky as I remembered. And he’d grown a beard. At last.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Sands, leaping to his feet. ‘There’s something living on your face. Keep back, Mrs De Winter. I think I can save us all.’

  Gareth dropped his bag on the floor and we looked at each other. ‘Max.’

  I was not going to cry. ‘Gareth, it’s very good to see you again.’

  I had another hug. ‘Missed you, Max.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Releasing me, he turned to Sands. ‘Sands, you old bugger.’ They looked at each other for a moment and then Roberts punched him on the arm and Sands returned the favour. British manhood at its demonstrative best.

  We talked for a while. Nothing important – just catching up. Sands, as I think I’ve already said, was well on his way to becoming a well-known author with his bestselling novel on time travel. Which might soon be made into a film.

  Mr Roberts showed us a picture of his young lady.

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ said Mrs De Winter and I nodded.

  ‘Shame there wasn’t room for her guide dog in the photo,’ said Sands, and I realised how much I’d missed them both.

  Eventually, when there was no putting it off any longer – we got down to business.

  I hadn’t wasted my time in the bath. I stood on the hearthrug – a bit creaky, but functioning – outlined my plan and then sat down again so the storm of protest could go over my head.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Sands.

  ‘No, I will,’ said Roberts. ‘I’m the one with the beard.’

  Now for the really difficult bit. ‘It’s very kind of you both to offer, but physically, I don’t think either of you will be able to do it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll admit they’ve probably only just invented doors in Wales,’ said Sands, ‘so that rules out young Roberts here, but I’m perfectly familiar with their operation.’

  ‘I’m not going through any doors.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never get through the windows because they’re either locked or thirty feet in the air. And St Mary’s has a pretty good security system, Max. And Hawking will be under close guard. The front doors are the only way to go.’

  ‘St Mary’s has a huge hole in its security system,’ I said, recent memories coming to the
fore. ‘Clive Ronan lived on our roof for a time and no one even noticed.’

  I’d had a bit of a think about this in the bath. Would Dottle have told Halcombe about the roof? My guess was no. Firstly, knowledge is power and you don’t give either away. Secondly, she hadn’t been working for Halcombe. She’d never worked for Halcombe. She’d used him. So, my guess was no. Actually, that’s not accurate. My hope was no.

  Sands sat up. ‘Even so, you’ll never actually get up there without anyone noticing.’

  ‘I’ve got a pod.’

  ‘All right, you land on the roof. How are you going to get inside? There’s no access from outside.’

  Oh yes, there was. Time rolled back. As clear as anything I heard Matthew’s piping voice.

  ‘You have good chimneys here.’

  And he’d said it not just once, but on several occasions. Right out of the blue. ‘You have good chimneys here.’ And then carried on with what he was doing.

  And I myself had been instrumental in burning down the medieval St Mary’s which led to the remodelling of the Great Hall with – wait for it – a whopping great chimney. I even remembered thinking Matthew himself would have approved.

  I braced myself. ‘I’m going down the chimney.’

  There was a babble of protest, which I’d anticipated, so I remained quietly sitting and let it all go over my head again.

  ‘Look,’ I said when everyone had run out of things to say. ‘It’s a good chimney but you’re both too big and heavy. I’m not. Thanks to the 14th century there’s a lot less of me than there used to be. I land on the roof, nip down the chimney, find Peterson, have a chat, and then get back out again.’

  ‘Do you even know where Peterson is being held?’

  ‘No. If he’s in the cellars then I’m in trouble because the entrance is at the same end of the building as Hawking, where I suspect most of them will be congregated waiting for me to come back. But if, as I hope, he’s in his own room, then it’s just out of the fireplace, up the stairs, out of the window, across the flat roof and in through his window. Which is always open.’