Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  It wasn’t completely Mr Khalife’s fault, but the results were pretty spectacular, just the same.

  We were waiting with the crowd. Wolfe and I stood together, with Mr Khalife in his favourite position just behind Wolfe’s shoulder, when there was a commotion. No one spoke – obviously the silence was sacred and could not be broken without angering the god – but suddenly people were jumping aside. Children were grabbed and hoisted off the ground. Something was wrong. I tweaked Wolfe’s jellabiya, just to alert him to something happening and then the crowd parted in front of us and I finally saw what everyone was trying to get away from.

  A snake. And a big one, too, with a lighter underbelly and darker mottling along its back. Some sort of cobra, unless I was mistaken, and sadly I didn’t think I was, because a good historian reads up on the local flora and fauna before setting out on an illegal operation accompanied only by a cheese-munching teenager and two of the most untrustworthy men in London.

  I had no idea how the snake had suddenly found itself among this crowd of people. I suspected its normal habitat was in the lush green area alongside the Nile and it had perhaps been brought here accidentally in a basket of green stuff. Its only idea was to get as far away as it could as quickly as it could, but there were legs and feet everywhere and it wasn’t happy. Head up, it was hissing loudly and rhythmically. A bit like one of Lingoss’s steam inventions.

  People were scuttling away, still preserving the sacred silence, and the snake suddenly found itself in a wide, empty space, which cobras hate. It put its head down and moved. Fast. Straight towards us. I’m always amazed at how rapidly snakes can shift. I think this one just wanted off the hot stones, which was understandable, and into the cool, damp shadows as soon as possible.

  I’m not sure if Wolfe, still watching the priests accept the offerings, was even aware of the snake, but Khalife was. In his defence, his actions were probably instinctive. He stiff-armed Mr Wolfe aside and interposed his body between him and the snake. Which didn’t pause for a moment.

  Neither did Khalife. Groping in the recesses of his robe he pulled out the gun I’d been pretty sure he hadn’t surrendered. A small, short-barrelled, stocky affair.

  I cursed and moved but I was centuries too late.

  Three or four loud shots reverberated off the buildings. The snake disintegrated, splashing snake goo all over everyone’s pristine robes. Especially mine. People screamed – not at the snake but at the noise. They would never have heard anything like it. I was willing to bet at least half of them thought their god was suddenly among them and they were terrified.

  If it had just been the people who were terrified then it might not have been too bad. I wondered how many of them would even make the connection between the short stick-affair in Khalife’s hand and the shattered snake. Perhaps not many. However, it wasn’t the people we had to worry about because if they were terrified, the animals were doubly so.

  The donkeys weren’t too bad. In a crisis, donkeys tend to close their eyes and stand still. They’re the technicians of the animal world. Horses tend to be a bit more skittish. A couple of them were snorting, rearing and plunging and as I looked, one tore free from his handler and, tail kinked up over his back, was off and heading for the far horizon. He had no idea where he was going – all his attention was on getting away. Horses are probably the historians of the animal world. Of course, once one goes, they’re all off. Half the time they’ll come back when they’re hungry. Just like historians.

  In a moment they were all dragging their handlers through the crowds, knocking people down as they went. Shouts and screams marked their progress, all attempts to maintain the sacred silence forgotten. Their handlers, rather than be dragged along, let go before they incurred serious injury, and their horses bolted.

  It wasn’t the horses that were the main problem, though. It was the camels. Yes, I know, not an animal noted for light-hearted frivolity. And I know they have the reputation for being nasty-tempered buggers who will bear a grudge until the end of time – a bit like the Time Police, now I come to think of it.

  I’d never actually seen a camel stampede before so the day wasn’t completely wasted, and as an historian it’s my job to pay attention to whatever is in front of me – unless it’s Peterson, of course, when I just watch his mouth open and close . . . open and close . . . until someone wakes me up.

  No one could have slept through this. I’ve never seen such destruction. Not even when Professor Rapson attempted to reproduce Leonardo’s multi-cannon affair and managed to demolish not only the bin store, but also Mr Strong’s bicycle, which was leaning against it at the time, and Bashford’s beloved Ford Prefect, also resting against it, while it recovered from a massive emissions test failure. I mean the failure was massive, not the emissions – although they were as well.

  I’m not tall and from my comparatively low vantage point, there were camel legs everywhere. Suddenly each camel had considerably more than just four legs and every single one of them operated entirely independently of the other three. My world was suddenly full of horny knees and windmilling legs as they struggled to get their giant feet off the ground.

  They don’t look where they’re going, either. People here might be unfamiliar with the hazards of rapidly perambulating Camelus dromedarius and their poor sense of direction, but they scattered anyway. You really wouldn’t think such an ungainly animal could move so fast. Or do so much damage.

  Stalls and tables never stood a chance, crashing to the ground to the sound of shattering pots and angry cries. Carefully assembled offerings were scattered in panic and trampled underfoot as people did what they always do in a crisis. They screamed and ran.

  I myself was transfixed. I had no idea camels had such enormous feet. They’re like hairy dinner plates with toenails.

  It seemed as if every dog in the city was barking furiously and was either running in to snap at the camels’ heels or indulging in a spot of canine opportunism, grabbing everything edible within reach and making off with it, dodging the giant feet coming down around them like pile-drivers.

  Squawking chickens achieved powers of flight they hadn’t known they possessed, massively evacuating their bowels to help them reach escape velocity.

  Three camels raced past me, their tethers swinging. I caught a confused glimpse of pendulous lips and disdainful nostrils and then I was enveloped in a choking cloud of gritty dust. My eyes stung. The smell of camel was shutting down my sinuses. Something hard caught me a massive wallop and I flew through the air to land with a crash on the only area of the square not covered in soft sand. On the other hand, there wasn’t a layer of even softer panicking-animal excrement either, so it could have been worse, I suppose.

  I picked myself up before something four-legged ran over the top of me or something two-legged beaked me to death. Don’t tell him I said so, but Markham’s view of the entire animal kingdom as malevolent beasts all hell-bent on the destruction of mankind by lunchtime might not be so far out after all.

  I looked around to see the last three or four camel bottoms disappearing out of sight, closely pursued by a group of shouting men I assumed were their owners. Personally, I’d have let them go and taken myself off for a stiff drink. I suspected we might have delayed the re-introduction of camels to this area by several hundred years.

  I rotated my shoulder to check it was still working and adjusted my dress. I really should find the causes of all this trouble and remove them from the vicinity with all speed.

  The ceremony was ruined. Stalls and tables were little more than matchwood, the goods displayed upon them scattered over a wide area. Metalwork was dented and misshapen. Bolts of linen had been unravelled and dragged through the shit. Flowers had been crushed. There was even the traditional one sandal. People were emerging from doorways or picking themselves up. The temple guards reappeared and tried to look as if they hadn’t been the first to leg it to
safety.

  Slowly and cautiously, the priests came back. A lot of them. And they weren’t happy. Not happy at all. The guards straightened their headdresses and began to look about them for someone to blame.

  Time to go.

  Khalife had Mr Wolfe against a mud-brick wall and was standing in front of him, gun drawn, looking for trouble.

  Definitely time to go.

  ‘Well,’ I said conversationally as I approached. ‘I never thought I’d meet anyone who could cause more inadvertent destruction than the last outfit I worked for, but I have. Congratulations. Neither of you has a Markham or a Bashford in your ancestry, do you? Please give me the gun, Mr Khalife.’

  He was looking over my shoulder. ‘We may need to defend ourselves.’

  ‘Mr Khalife, you have already ruined an important ritual, caused massive damage and lightly injured most of the population, and all you did was shoot a snake. Imagine the carnage if you shoot a guard. Give me the gun.’

  ‘But how will we get away?’

  ‘Successfully. Believe me, I was doing this before you were born.’

  I held out my hand. He glanced at Mr Wolfe, who nodded. Reluctantly, he handed it over to me.

  I stuffed it away. ‘Thank you. Right. Mr Khalife, you will go first. Mr Wolfe in the middle. I’ll watch our backs. Yes, Mr Khalife, I know, but it will look strange to see a woman leading two men and we really don’t want to draw attention to ourselves right at this moment. The pod isn’t far. Along the wall here, turn right and just keep going. Now, if you please.’

  I bundled them out of the square and into the quieter but still animal product-littered streets, intent on getting them back to the teapot as soon as possible. The town was in an uproar. The priests were outraged at the heresy and screaming at the guards. The guards were looking around for someone to blame. Amun-Ra himself probably wasn’t that happy either and, just to add to my problems, the Time Police were out there somewhere, almost all of them ignorant of my wonderful plan and searching for us just as hard as they could, eager to get their hands on us and our pod.

  As, I hoped, was Clive Ronan. Because if Atticus Wolfe wasn’t in the process of selling us to the highest bidder then he wasn’t the charming, amoral, vicious, opportunist thug I took him for. Because that’s what Wolfe did – he bought and sold things. Including people. Especially people. And if Clive Ronan was unable to ensure that, by fair means or foul, he was the highest bidder then he wasn’t the ruthless, murdering bastard I took him for, either.

  The only question was when.

  I rather thought we’d be safe for this jump. Wolfe had been unaware of this destination. Even if he was already in contact with Clive Ronan there was nothing he could have told him. I rather suspected that the reason for Wolfe’s presence today was not so much his desire to forge a good working relationship, nor his greed for gold, but the need to check out his merchandise prior to putting us on the market. I was almost certain he’d been approached, either directly or indirectly, by Clive Ronan who, I hoped, would be completely unable to pass up the opportunity of acquiring a pod with such interesting design features, and possibly me along with it. He would make Mr Wolfe an offer he could not refuse. I couldn’t help wondering what sort of price Wolfe would get for us. And, hard on that thought, how long he’d be allowed to enjoy it. Or even whether Wolfe wasn’t the king of double-cross and would do for Ronan without me having to lift a finger.

  Life’s quite interesting sometimes, don’t you think?

  I had every confidence that somehow, Clive Ronan knew what I’d done. He would know I’d had a screaming row with Commander Hay. He would know I’d stolen the pod, rescued Adrian and Mikey, and that the three of us had gone on the run with no thought for the long-term consequences. All that was so like me. The need for a sanctuary would soon drive us to someone like Atticus Wolfe. A man who dealt in commodities.

  And Wolfe knew who I was. Right from the very beginning he’d known who I was. Right from the moment Khalife had addressed me as Dr Maxwell when I’d deliberately only introduced myself as Maxwell. They’d been expecting me. I didn’t know how he was linked to Ronan – that wasn’t my concern because the Time Police would be all over that – but he was and, with an enormous amount of luck, he and Wolfe would be each other’s downfall.

  That was how I’d sold my plan to the Time Police. This would give them both Clive Ronan and Atticus Wolfe. People they’d been itching to get their hands on for a very long time. And then the civil authorities could dismantle Wolfe’s empire, Adrian and Mikey could enjoy a more conventional lifestyle – because that was the price I’d demanded – and I could take Matthew home. Everyone would be a winner. I’m such a bloody genius.

  Well, I would be if I lived long enough.

  I’d discussed this thoroughly with Adrian and Mikey, who, after all, were taking an even bigger risk than me. We’d sat down at St Mary’s, before I even left for the Time Police, to thrash out the details. Despite me telling them their capture by the Time Police might not be pleasant, they’d been unsurprisingly gung-ho about the whole thing.

  ‘The only thing is,’ said Adrian, ‘will Wolfe actually be willing to part with the pod? Surely he’ll want to hang on to it.’

  Mikey shook her head. ‘We’re more trouble than we’re worth. He’ll see that very quickly.’

  ‘Plus,’ I said, ‘he’ll get a good price for it.’

  ‘If Ronan actually holds up his end of the deal.’

  ‘Not our problem,’ I said. ‘And it’s a good deal for Atticus Wolfe. I suspect his plan will be to shelter Ronan and take a cut of everything.’

  ‘I can’t see Clive Ronan sharing. Not in the long term.’

  ‘Neither can I but it doesn’t matter. Wolfe is bait for Ronan. Our job is to manufacture the perfect moment and then the Time Police will have both of them. And, if the gods are on our side, we’ll survive to see it.’

  Adrian and Mikey grinned at each other. ‘Cool.’

  So now, here I was, ushering two amateur time travellers back to the comparative safety of our teapot-shaped pod. Before the temple guards decided we were worth investigating. Or we were trampled by a runaway camel. Or another snake turned up. Or a scorpion. I mean, the list just went on and on. Besides, I was gasping for a cup of tea.

  Rather contrary to expectations, the teapot was exactly where we’d left it. Mikey must have been watching the screen because she raised the hatch as we approached and dropped down the ladder, enquiring, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean?’

  ‘I heard the gunshot from here. Who did you shoot?’

  ‘Mr Khalife will be delighted to answer all your questions. After you, gentlemen.’

  He turned to me. ‘Give me back my gun.’

  ‘At the end of the assignment, Mr Khalife. Once we’re home you may shoot whomever you please. Excluding me and Mikey, of course.’

  ‘Disappointing,’ was all he said as he climbed the ladder.

  Mikey had the kettle on and we settled down for the traditional autopsy and allocation of blame.

  Mr Wolfe appeared puzzled by our little ways. ‘Should we not be thinking of returning home, Dr Maxwell?’

  I grinned. ‘A true historian never goes back looking anything other than cool, calm, collected and completely on top of things. A cup of tea usually does the trick.’

  ‘Even after a camel stampede?’

  I managed to look superior. ‘Call that a stampede? I was in the Cretaceous once and not only did hundreds of dinosaurs run straight over the top of us but they knocked the pod off a cliff as well.’

  He blinked. ‘You’ve been to the Cretaceous period?’

  ‘Many times,’ I said, loftily. And then, in the interests of accuracy, ‘Well, five times, actually.’

  ‘And me,’ said Mikey sunnily. ‘Loads of times. It’s good fun.’
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  He was regarding us in astonishment. ‘You’ve seen dinosaurs?’

  Ah, the magic of dinosaurs. And now I had to tread carefully. I’d planted the seed, now I had to lure him in . . . Is that a mixed metaphor? I never really paid a lot of attention at school.

  I shrugged. ‘A few. Some of them from a safe distance. Some of them rather too close for comfort. Some of them actually from underneath. And I once stared down a T-rex.’

  They stared at me.

  I waved it aside with becoming modesty. ‘It wasn’t fully grown.’

  Mr Khalife spoke again. ‘I require my gun, if you please.’

  We were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mikey was young enough to put her legs in any position she pleased and both Khalife and Wolfe had lowered themselves with an ease that irritated me. My bloody knees were killing me and one foot had gone to sleep. I let an edge creep into my voice.

  ‘Did I not explain how important it was to do no harm? The implications it could have for the future? For your future?’

  He wasn’t listening. ‘Give me back my gun.’

  I snapped, ‘I told you – when we’re safely home. You have no idea how much damage a bullet could do in here. Unless you want to remain in this time and place forever, of course.’

  We glared at each other. You might say there was a bit of an atmosphere.

  I took a deep breath and then turned to Mr Wolfe. ‘Look, I don’t think this is going to work. I think the time has come to admit we’re not right for each other. We’ll drop you off. You hand back Adrian – and I suspect your people will be only too pleased to see the back of him – and we both walk away. No harm done.’

  Mr Wolfe said slowly, ‘I don’t think so.’

  I shrugged. ‘I do.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell, I have complete faith in you and your equipment.’

  ‘Do you? I rather got the impression there hadn’t been enough gold around to pique your interest.’