Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  They nodded.

  We sat quietly while armed guards surrounded the teapot and then, when we reckoned everything had settled down a little, I raised the hatch and slowly peered outside. ‘Good afternoon. I’m here to see Director Pinkerton. I do have an appointment.’

  We were at St Mary’s, but not my St Mary’s. A future version. I’d been here before and I was here now because they owed me. We’d landed on what used to be the South Lawn and now was just pastureland. Wild flowers grew everywhere. I rather liked it. The gardens were much less extensive than I was used to, but the building itself was considerably larger.

  A familiar figure approached. She was wearing her orange jumpsuit. Before being appointed director, she’d been the unit’s Chief Technical Officer and I guessed she hadn’t completely given that up.

  She put her hands on her hips and stared up at me. ‘Max, welcome.’

  Why is no one ever pleased to see me?

  ‘What ho,’ I said cheerily, because it would have annoyed Markham, had he been here. ‘Can I introduce my travelling companions? This is Adrian and this is Mikey.’

  Their heads popped up alongside mine. Rather like meerkats, as Pinkie said later, but less cute. Adrian and Mikey smiled and waved. No one smiled and waved back.

  We climbed down slowly, Mikey very carefully securing the hatch behind her. They weren’t as irresponsible as they looked. We were taken around the front of the building and in through the main doors. Wisely, Pinkie had decided she didn’t want either of these two having a good look at Hawking and its contents.

  ‘We could do with recharging our batteries if that’s possible,’ said Adrian. ‘We have solar chargers, but direct power is quicker and easier.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you use an Edmondson connection or a Parissa fitting?’

  ‘Neither,’ he said, ruthlessly reducing technician mystique to something understandable by small dogs and historians. ‘Bog standard caravan plug. Have you got one of those?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find something somewhere,’ she said gravely and two technicians peeled off to rifle their stores for something that probably hadn’t been used for some considerable time. Not at St Mary’s anyway.

  Mikey and Adrian might be unknown quantities but I was an honoured guest. Pinkie took us to her office. In Dr Bairstow’s time it had been full of books and ancient prints. In Pinkie’s it was full of engineering diagrams.

  Our escort was dismissed and we were alone.

  She hadn’t changed since the last time I’d seen her, which hadn’t been that long ago. We’d gone off together one Christmas and done something that was outrageous even by St Mary’s standards, and which I can’t tell you about even a little bit because the only reason the Time Police allowed us to live afterwards was because we signed an incredible number of documents promising to take the secret to our grave. And beyond the grave, as well, according to Clause 18(b).

  Her air of pugnacious belligerence was somewhat muted these days, although I suspected it wasn’t far away and could easily be resumed should she find it necessary. She had a square face and sandy hair which she was still wearing in a thick braid over one shoulder.

  I made formal introductions.

  ‘Wow! Director Pinkerton! Awesome!’ They beamed at her and she thawed a little. It’s hard not to respond to blatant hero worship. Even Dr Bairstow had succumbed, after all.

  Pinkie turned to me. ‘Are these the ones all the fuss has been about?’

  ‘I expect so,’ I said, since Adrian and Mikey were too busy staring around to reply.

  I know we’re supposed to treat teenagers like proper people, but they don’t always make it easy. They were wandering around her office, examining diagrams and plans. ‘Wow! This is so cool.’

  I wasn’t sure I should let them – contaminating the timeline and all that – but on the other hand, it kept them out of mischief for a few minutes so I left them to get on with it.

  ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you, Director?’

  ‘Well, I think most of us were rather hoping you’d come for a shower and change of clothes, but yes. They’re crated up and ready.’

  ‘That’s great, thank you.’ I paused. ‘Although a shower would be nice.’ I poked Mikey, staring in awe at a diagram of an exploded pod. I mean the diagram was exploded – not the pod. For the time being, anyway.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, a shower.’ She focussed on a bemused Director Pinkerton. ‘Do you have any cheese?’

  I don’t think she quite knew how to respond to that. ‘Not on me, no.’

  ‘A nice shower,’ I said brightly to Mikey, ‘and our clothes laundered while the pod is loaded.’

  ‘A nice shower and our clothes laundered and then we load the pod,’ said Adrian firmly, obviously not prepared to have just anyone accessing his beloved teapot.

  Dr Pinkerton nodded gravely. ‘I think that can be arranged.’

  ‘Who have you got for us?’

  ‘Hillary and Donald.’

  ‘A breeding pair? Excellent.’

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘You’ll get them back,’ I soothed. ‘They’re worth far too much for anything to happen to them. Which is more than can be said for these two and me. Out of all of us, Hillary and Donald are the most likely to emerge unscathed.’

  ‘Do you have time to eat?’

  Adrian and Mikey, who always had time to eat, gazed at me imploringly.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But first – a shower.’

  They laundered our clothes for us which was pretty good of them. I should imagine there was some muttering over my TP uniform, but I got it back and in considerably better condition than when I’d taken it off. I know the Time Police have self-cleaning clothes but even they hadn’t been able to cope with life on the run. In a teapot. With teenagers.

  We also tucked into fried chicken, chips and salad – no one ate the salad – and a satisfying number of cups of tea.

  I felt a hundred times better as we headed towards the pod. Two large crates awaited us, each covered by a tarpaulin.

  ‘It keeps them quiet,’ said Pinkie. ‘They think it’s night.’

  Actually, according to my internal clock, it was about two o’clock in the morning, but time is relative.

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘So how many dodos do you have now?’ I asked, hoping to change the subject. I really didn’t want her telling me how risky this whole business was. I knew how risky this whole business was. No one knew better. And we hadn’t even got started yet.

  ‘Nearly one hundred,’ she said, wearily. ‘Yes, they have the infant-nurturing skills of Herod the Great, but that’s offset by their extraordinary fertility. We lose a lot of eggs – mostly they get trampled – but a significant number survive long enough to hatch. We have so many now that we’ve actually put together a plan to return a group of them back into the wild.’

  ‘Not to the 17th century,’ I said, alarmed.

  ‘Oh, no. Contemporary time. I think it’s scheduled for next Thursday. We release them at, say, nine o’clock in the morning, an eminent ornithologist on an expedition from the University of Thirsk makes the discovery of a lifetime at, say, eleven-thirty, and the whole shebang is on the six o’clock news that night, complete with pictures of cute dodos and an incoherent ornithologist. Apparently, there’s been an unknown colony in that remote location all this time.’

  ‘And no one ever noticed?’ I said in disbelief.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Will they be safe, do you think?’

  ‘Well, let’s hope everyone is a little wiser the second time around and the only shooting is done with long-range cameras.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. What do they eat, by the way?’

  ‘Everything. You will want to be careful what you leave within beaking range. Hillary, they tell me
, is particularly fond of hard-boiled eggs.’

  ‘Isn’t that like some form of cannibalism for them?’

  She nodded. ‘Eating one’s young.’

  ‘Eating one’s young is a hugely underestimated weapon in the parental arsenal.’

  We broke off to watch the two rather large crates being manhandled towards an aperture not designed for such an object.

  I turned to Mikey. ‘Are we going to be able to get them in?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And it’ll be much easier getting them back out again.’

  I doubted that but she seemed confident enough so I let it go.

  I thanked Pinkie, who told me for God’s sake to take care, Max.

  We climbed aboard, they detached the umbilicals, and off we went again.

  As I had suspected, getting the crates out again wasn’t the plain sailing Mikey had reckoned, but no one dropped a dodo, no one fell off the ladder and no one put their back out. We stood, hot and panting, in the intersection between the alleyways which now constituted our head office.

  ‘You’d better be ready to shoot off,’ I said. ‘Just in case.’

  Adrian set his foot on the bottom rung and then turned to me. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Max?’

  ‘I’ll be absolutely fine,’ I assured him. ‘Give it five minutes and then off you go,’ and I set off for my second visit to a sex club.

  The front was shut up. Even the bouncers had disappeared so I went around the back. The sign said Ring for Deliveries so I did. Mr Khalife himself opened the door. Considering the hours they must keep here, I wondered if he’d even been to bed.

  ‘Delivery for Mr Wolfe,’ I said, cheerfully.

  He stared at me. I wondered if he’d ever expected to see me again.

  ‘Got a flatbed?’

  They did. They had a flatbed. A very smart affair, remotely operated, that could cope with steps and sharp corners. Perhaps they used it to manoeuvre drunken patrons discreetly out of the door and into a taxi. He clicked his fingers and two men followed us down the road, around the corner, down the alleyway and into the little space that we were now calling our own. The teapot had disappeared and just the two tarpaulin-covered crates remained.

  He twitched aside the canvas. Hillary – or Donald – stared sleepily back again. He did the same with the other crate and Donald – or Hillary – grockled a protest. Khalife’s face was expressionless. If he’d been expecting or hoping I would fail, I couldn’t see it.

  He clicked his fingers again. I didn’t even have to load the crates myself. So far, being a member of the criminal classes was working out quite well for me. The two blokes loaded the dodos and we all set off back to the sex club.

  How many books have you read that include the words dodos and sex club in the same sentence?

  He motioned the men to take them inside, barking at them in a language I didn’t understand when they banged the flatbed against the wall.

  This house was much bigger than it had looked from the outside, being narrow but deep. There were rooms and corridors in all directions. The old servants’ quarters, I guessed. And they had a goods lift. I tried not to think about some of the things that might have been transported in it.

  Obviously, plebeian crates and the peasants escorting them were never going to make it all the way to Mr Wolfe’s office. We finally came to rest in a small bare room at the end of a long corridor. At a word from Mr Khalife, the two men disappeared. We awaited Mr Wolfe in silence.

  He made us wait, but not too long. The door opened and in he came. He wore a lighter grey suit which made his skin look darker than ever. I had no idea what time of day it was. There was light outside but that was the extent of my knowledge. I also knew that despite the quick wash and brush up at Pinkie’s St Mary’s, I was looking tired and scruffy.

  He greeted me courteously. ‘Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Mr Wolfe.’

  He stared at the crates. ‘And here we have . . . ?’

  Here we go.

  ‘As discussed, something specific. In fact, I’ve exceeded the brief. Not one but two unique specimens. Two members of an extinct species that could not possibly have originated from anywhere except their own time. Please regard them as a gift to you, a demonstration of good faith and an example of things to come.’

  ‘May I see, please.’

  Mr Khalife carefully removed the tarpaulins. Donald and Hillary gazed incuriously at Mr Wolfe, who stared impassively back again.

  ‘Dodos,’ I said. ‘Raphus cucullatus. Extinct since the 17th century. You now possess the only two specimens in existence. At this moment in time.’

  He peered at them. I hoped to God he hadn’t expected Tutankhamun’s death mask. With Tutankhamun still wearing it.

  ‘Male and female,’ I said, to break the silence.

  He straightened up. ‘Remarkable. Quite remarkable. And these two – how much would you say they were worth?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ I said, not having a clue.

  ‘But a considerable sum, you would think.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. The sort of money anyone would pay for the last two of their kind.’

  He nodded to Mr Khalife, who took a small gun from his pocket, pointed it at the nearest bird – and fired.

  The shot sounded enormously loud in the small space. I jumped out of my skin and then stared, appalled, at the bloody bundle of feathers that had once been a dodo.

  I opened my mouth to demand to know what the hell he thought he was playing at but, fortunately, before I could make matters worse, my brain kicked in. Because, unknowingly, he’d done me a favour. Brought me up short. Now, I realised just how dangerous this man was. How violent. How unpredictable. Of course, he was. He was the ruthless head of a large criminal organisation and I’d fallen victim to his charm. I’d been seduced by the civilised surroundings and the good suit. I’d forgotten who and what I was dealing with. And a dodo had had to die to remind me.

  This man was a cold-blooded criminal. A brutal thug who had clawed his way to the top in a brutal world. His hands would not be clean. I’d fallen for the charm, just as he’d intended me to. This . . . establishment of his was just the acceptable face of his activities. He was a trafficker. For every well-turned-out woman present last night there would be hundreds more held against their will and forced to work in a dark and degraded world. This man dealt in death and terror and violence and, just because he was good-looking and intelligent and charming, I’d very nearly forgotten who he was, who I was, and why I was here. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  I did manage to remain calm. But only just.

  ‘You seem upset, Dr Maxwell.’

  Somehow, I kept my voice steady. I shrugged. ‘I don’t like waste.’

  ‘But now I have more than doubled the value of the remaining bird.’

  I let my anger show. ‘They were a breeding pair. You could have charged a fortune for every egg. They would literally have been the dodos that laid the golden eggs.’

  ‘But then others would have their own dodos. They might set up their own breeding programmes. Mine would no longer be exclusive. And I must always have exclusivity.’

  I would not give in. ‘A problem easily solved by only selling the males.’

  ‘But a cross-species manipulation with, for example, turkey DNA . . .’

  I brought out the phial. ‘Dodo contraception. If you had given me time to explain.’

  Silence. Here we go . . . Now the fun would start.

  He said very softly, ‘You will get me another.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That was not a request.’

  Mr Khalife was behind me. With his gun. I said quietly, ‘But that was a refusal.’

  ‘I do hope we’re not going to fall out so soon in our relationship.’

 
‘What we do is not without risk and I am reluctant to take that risk if you’re going to shoot everything we bring back.’

  ‘My problem, Dr Maxwell, is that I am not completely convinced these are what you claim them to be.’

  ‘I don’t understand. They are – were – a pair of dodos.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt – it’s their point of origin I dispute.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘How do I know these are what you claim them to be?’

  I stared. I heard my voice say, ‘What do you think they are – camels?’ And now I needed to tread very carefully indeed.

  He said thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps I should make the next choice.’

  ‘What next choice?’

  ‘My choice. I will decide what you will bring back for me.’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly.

  Mr Khalife stiffened. I’d gone too far. I wondered if anyone had ever said no to Mr Wolfe before.

  Mr Wolfe made a slight gesture in his direction, turned to me and said, ‘No?’

  ‘This is ridiculous. I moved heaven and earth to obtain those specimens for you and not only did you shoot fifty per cent of them but now you’re saying you don’t believe they’re genuine. This is a business arrangement and as such requires a degree of trust from both parties.’

  Mr Khalife said softly, ‘I could shoot you where you stand.’

  I sighed. ‘You’d have to join the queue.’

  More silence fell. I moved my position slightly so I didn’t have to look at the dead dodo. The other one – his mate – was shifting its weight from foot to foot in agitation and making soft grockles of distress. I picked up the tarpaulin and threw it over the cage. The grockling ceased.

  Mr Khalife was between me and the door. No one had come to investigate the shot. I was well and truly up the River of Excrement and my canoe had no visible means of propulsion.

  OK. Time to make things worse. I said, ‘I propose a practical demonstration.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘I’m offering to take you on a jump. To prove we are who we say we are. Are you up for it?’