by Jodi Taylor
Roberts said, ‘I’m being evacuated out of the building. I’ve told them you’d gone for lunch. No one’s looking for you.’
Yet.
‘I’m nearly at the car,’ he said. ‘I can see Sands.’
Markham said, ‘When you get there, stay there. No matter what you see or hear.’
‘Copy that. Did you get it?’
‘Course we did,’ he said, cheerfully, ignoring the screeching alarms, the running people spilling out through the gates, the confusion, the chaos …
I was familiar with this procedure. The alarms go off. People know it’s only a fire drill or a bomb scare or something. Section heads have to cattle prod everyone out of the door because they’re all shouting, ‘I’ll just finish this spreadsheet.’ Or ‘Are you kidding, I’ve waited all morning for access to this database,’ or ‘Wait, I need to go back for my shopping/handbag/shoes/whatever.’ No one knows what’s going on. The fire marshal is tearing her hair out trying to get everyone to congregate at the official assembly point AWAY from the building, people! The security people are trying to get in to see why the alarms have gone off. The fire brigade turns up, fruitlessly looking for someone who knows what’s happening. Librarians have stopped to gather important documents. Members of the public try to drift away, not realising they need to be accounted for and the whole thing is just chaos.
We’re St Mary’s. We can do chaos.
We slipped quietly through the milling crowds, through the ornate gates and into the car park. We walked very slowly, stopping every now and then to have a good gawk at what was happening, because that was what everyone else was doing.
A car pulled up beside us and I very nearly had a heart attack, but it was Sands. Very pale, but quite calm. Roberts was with him. We climbed in, Markham very carefully not impaling his important bits on an even more important historical relic.
Sands drove very slowly through the crowds. No one spoke. People had milled out into the road outside. Pupils from the nearby school, for whom it was also lunchtime, had stubbed out their cigarettes and come to see what was happening. Council staff, streaming down the High Street had become embroiled in the confusion. If we had planned it, we could not have done better.
We drove slowly towards the roundabout just as a couple of police cars flashed past, lights on, and sirens blaring.
‘Just keep going,’ said Markham. ‘If we’re stopped, I’ll throw the sword out of the window and we’ll come back for it later.’
‘No, we bloody won’t,’ I said, outraged. ‘That thing’s priceless and I’m not having you flinging it willy-nilly into ditches.’
We turned left at the roundabout and set off out of Northallerton. I twisted around and looked back over my shoulder. I very much doubted I would ever see the place again.
‘Right,’ said Peterson, unfolding his map. ‘Head south if you please, Mr Sands.’
Now to the problem we hadn’t really discussed because, quite honestly, we never thought we’d get this far.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Sands, as we skirted Leeds. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem. They’ll never think to look in the cave. Why would they? They’ll just assume some collector’s stolen it and it’s in a private collection somewhere.’
‘Not as soon as they see it was us, they won’t. They’ll go straight to the cave.’
‘No,’ I said, heavily. ‘We tell them we sold it on.’
‘What?’
For an historian to steal a priceless artefact is bad enough. There are no words to describe one who would do it for money.
I took a deep breath. ‘We tell them we were approached by someone whose identity we can’t possibly divulge, and they offered us a huge sum of money to steal the sword, and it’s already out of the country by now, and there’s nothing they can do about it.’
The car was full of a stunned silence.
‘What’s the problem?’ I said.
‘Actually,’ said Peterson, ‘it’s a very good idea. But what happened to the money?’
‘They’ll never know and we’re not saying.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Sands.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ said Markham.
I fell asleep in the car, which given my habitual insomnia was surprising, but the warmth, the silence, the hum of the tyres – I was out like a light.
I woke up as we slowed to exit the motorway and turn right for Herefordshire.
‘Not long now,’ said Roberts, passing me some water.
No one replied.
‘Has anyone tried to contact us?’ I said.
‘We’ve switched our phones off.’
So far, the weather had been with us, dry and clear, but as we neared our destination, I could see wisps of something sitting in low-lying areas and occasionally trailing across the road.
‘Bugger,’ said Roberts. ‘Fog.’
‘All to the good, said Peterson. No one will see us.’
‘True, but it’s going to slow us down.’
The fog thickened. Sands switched on the fog lights. We slowed down.
‘Told you,’ said Roberts. ‘We wouldn’t have had this problem with a pod.’
‘Turn left here,’ said Markham, flapping the map around and nearly taking my eye out.
‘I thought men were supposed to be able to fold those things. It’s the universe’s compensation for not being able to do anything else properly.’
I was instructed to do it my bloody self.
‘This,’ said Sands, ‘is as close as I care to get. We’re just outside the quarantine zone. There’s a B&B over the road so with luck, everyone will think the car belongs to their guests.’
Markham flourished the map again. ‘We cut across country here. Emerging …’ He stabbed the map with his finger, ‘… Here.’
No one moved.
‘It’s still not too late to turn back,’ said Sands.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said, opening the car door. ‘The moment we decided to do this, it was too late.’
‘We need to stick together,’ said Peterson, as we unpacked our boots, sprayed them yet again with our antibacterial stuff, and then gave them a good squirt of strong disinfectant just to be on the safe side. Sands sprayed the car tyres as well.
I looked around us.
The world was white.
I’d forgotten the smell. Wet leaves and earth. The distant smell of smoke. The muggy warmth. I looked again at the beads of moisture on my sleeve and for a second I was back in the 6th century as the Red Dragon snapped in the wind. I wondered if it was always like this in this area. As if, somehow, it had never escaped its own history and stood always, one foot in the here and now and one in the past. If I closed my eyes and listened, I could hear the movement of people all those long centuries ago. Hear their panting breath, the creak of the handcart. Or possibly it was just the wind in the trees.
Except there was no wind today. The world was close and still. We were the only things moving.
To begin with.
At least we didn’t have to go all the way to the top this time. Arthur’s Cave was on the hillside to the south east and the path was clearly marked.
We picked our way carefully, our footsteps quite silent in the fallen leaves and muffled by the fog.
Behind us, something moved.
I stood still and stared into the white depths.
‘Deer,’ said Roberts and why he was whispering was anyone’s guess.
Then, another movement. Slightly closer, this time.
We stared around us. I could hear the gentle pattering of water on leaves. And, if I listened very hard and used my overheated imagination … I could hear … breathing …
I tried hard not to think of tales of the Wild Woods. When things moved among the trees. When things stalked unwary travellers and led them astray.
Somewhere, a dog barked and another answered. The spell was broken. People walk their dogs in all weathers.
One of us laughed nervously and we picked up the pace.
I stumbled.
Markham took my arm. ‘For God’s sake, Max, be careful.’
‘I’m fine. I had no idea you were such a wuss.’
‘I just don’t want to have to explain to Chief Farrell why you gave birth halfway up a Welsh hillside.’
‘Are you scared of Leon?’
‘More scared of him than I am of you.’
‘Months to go yet. Stop panicking.’
A cool breeze dried the sweat on my face. The fog began to break into tendrils, which drifted, ghost-like across the path. I could see the wavering outline of trees, appearing and then disappearing again. I was conscious of an air of unreality. In this fog, nothing seemed real. Had I, in fact, woken up? Was I sleepwalking? Perhaps I was just tired.
Then, suddenly, we were there – the twin entrances just ahead of us. Two dark holes in the fog.
Not much had changed. Ferns and flowers still grew from the rocks, watered by the moisture running down them. The entrance seemed smaller somehow – fallen leaves and soil had built up over the centuries and we had to climb to get near. The trees seemed closer. Behind us, something moved in the undergrowth. We spun around, staying close together. I peered into the shifting fog, trying to make out shapes. A woman appearing along the path with two Labradors at her heels would have been a very reassuring sight, but there was nothing and no one.
We approached in silence, standing at the entrance to the cave, wondering what on earth to do next. Water dripped somewhere, otherwise the world was completely still. Did time actually pass here?
I don’t know what made me do it. I turned slowly and got the shock of my life.
He stood behind us.
He hadn’t changed. Not one bit. He still looked exactly as he had the last time we saw him. When Arthur handed him the sword. He was still wild-haired and dirty. Still with the tangled beard. Still wearing the same robe. Still with the same forbidding expression.
I dragged my eyes away and pulled at Peterson’s arm.
‘What?’
I looked back and he was gone.
‘He was here.’
They turned. ‘Who was?’
‘The old man. He was here. Standing on the path just there.’
The path was empty.
We looked around – as much as we could in this strange white mist.
‘Well, he’s not here now.’
We turned back to the cave and there he was again. Standing between the twin entrances. Like the doorways to heaven and hell.
Roberts drew in his breath with sharp hiss.
No one moved.
We stood looking at each other for a very long time. I was conscious of a definite reluctance to get any closer. There was danger here. None of this was for us. We shouldn’t be here.
Markham, who, thank the god of historians, had had the sense to pull the sword out of his trousers before attempting the long trek, handed the sword over to Peterson, who passed it to me.
I seriously thought about passing it to Roberts – he was the local boy after all – but I was head of the History Department. This was my responsibility and this was what I was paid for.
The old man’s eye’s followed the sword’s every move.
He didn’t move. Could he move? I don’t know what put that thought into my head.
I took one small pace forwards, and when I survived that, another. Then another.
By now, I was only an arm’s length away.
I offered up the sword.
His eyes were dark and deep. I couldn’t look away.
He took it in silence.
We looked at each other. I could not have spoken to save my life. My throat had closed and I could barely breathe. Things receded. Bloody hell, surely I wasn’t going to faint. Not now …
I felt myself sway. The fog swirled closer. Someone grasped my arm, steadying me. My head cleared. When I looked up, the old man was gone.
‘Where did he go?’
Roberts turned around. ‘Back into the cave, presumably. Anyone want to go in to look?’
There was no reply. No one moved. I personally wouldn’t have gone in there to save my life. I remembered that no one had entered the cave when the sword was first presented. Not allowed in then – not allowed in now.
The white mist swirled. Water dripped. We stood at the entrance to another world … To linger would not be wise.
We ran. Well, as best as one pregnant woman, one man with a weak arm, one man with a bionic foot, a perky-eared security guard, and a beardless Welshman can run.
The drive back to St Mary’s was accomplished in silence.
We were met by Major Guthrie who arrested us.
Chapter Ten
The gates were already open as we approached. We did not make the mistake of assuming this was a welcoming gesture.
We crawled slowly up the drive, listening to the loose stones bouncing off the bottom of the car, and pulled into the car park. Roberts switched off the engine and we sat in the sudden silence.
‘Now what?’ said Sands.
The question was answered for us.
Major Guthrie appeared and he wasn’t alone. Evans, Cox, Gallaccio, and Keller were with him. None of them looked very friendly.
On the plus side, there was no sign of the police.
‘Come on,’ said Peterson. ‘I’d rather go to him than have him come to us.’
We set off across the car park to where a bleak-faced Guthrie was waiting.
We stood before him in silence.
Finally, he said, ‘You are all under arrest.’
We nodded.
‘My first choice was to march you all through the building in handcuffs, but I have been instructed to tell you that if you give me a promise of good behaviour, then you will be spared that particular humiliation.’
I said, ‘I agree.’
‘What about the rest of you?’
‘Max speaks for us all,’ said Peterson quietly.
Never had Dr Bairstow’s office seemed so far away.
We were walked through the building.
Through Hawking, where expressionless techies watched us go by. I couldn’t see Leon anywhere.
Down the long corridor, passing from patches of bright light to deepest shade, it struck me suddenly that my whole life had been like that.
Past the kitchen, where Mrs Mack and her team clustered in the doorway as we passed.
Past Wardrobe, where people stuck their heads out of doors as we approached.
Through the Great Hall, where silent historians were lined up to watch us. Clerk and Prentiss stood together, saying nothing. Sykes looked distressed. I guessed she’d been yelling at someone, but whether she was for or against us was anyone’s guess. Atherton sat quietly at his data stack, his face giving nothing away. North straightened up, folded her arms, and glared at us. We climbed the stairs, our footsteps sounding very loud in the unaccustomed quiet. Nobody said a word.
We walked past R&D where a troubled-looking Professor Rapson opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again. Someone plucked at his sleeve, Dr Dowson was my guess – and he turned away.
Past what wasn’t going to be my office for very much longer.
Past Peterson’s – ditto – and, finally, to our destination. Dr Bairstow’s office. Major Guthrie tapped once and went in.
We were made to wait.
We lined up in Mrs Partridge’s office, waiting to go in. No one spoke. I could faintly hear voices in his office. Mrs Partridge busied herself at her desk and ignored us.
I looked at us all – exhausted, muddy, thirsty, shocked – and made my voice as firm as I could.
‘We expected this. We went into it with our eyes open. There’s no choice now but to accept whatever comes our way.’
They nodded.
The door opened. Major Guthrie jerked his head, indicating we should enter.
We entered carefully and he closed the door behind him on his way out. I could feel my heart knocking
against my ribs. It was evening by now, and the curtains were pulled across the window. The overhead light seemed dazzling. I trod across the familiar faded carpet and stood in front of his desk. His old clock ticked away in the corner as we waited for him to end our time at St Mary’s.
It seemed an age before he spoke. ‘Explain your actions.’
I gave it to him briefly, not bothering with excuses or justifications, taking full responsibility for my team’s actions.
When I’d finished, he said nothing, his face expressionless, gazing at each of us in turn. I swallowed hard and forced myself to stare back again.
Roberts was visibly shaking. Nerves. Emotion. Fear. The effort of keeping it all inside. I don’t know.
‘I understand you regard yourselves as a team. Very well. I shall deal with you as such.’
Roberts stepped forwards. ‘You should blame me, sir.
‘I do blame you, Mr Roberts. I blame all of you.’
‘It was my fault. It was my idea. I made them do it.’
‘I recognise your attempt to save your colleagues, Mr Roberts, but it should be said that St Mary’s can well do without senior officers who allow themselves to be so easily persuaded to show such poor judgement.’
‘It wasn’t poor judgement,’ he said hotly. ‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘You stole a priceless artefact and …’
‘It wasn’t stealing. It didn’t belong to Thirsk.’
‘No, it belonged to the owners of the cave, who happily loaned it to Thirsk for investigation and verification. Has it not crossed your mind that you have caused the university considerable embarrassment? What can they tell the owners who entrusted it to them?’
‘They’re not the owners. The sword belongs to the people to whom it was given.’
‘Who are long dead.’
‘Then it belongs to their descendants. Just because a person’s dead doesn’t mean their possessions automatically go to Thirsk for them to pick over like vultures over a carcass. I’m surprised at you, sir. You’ve always said that whatever we discover remains the property of the country in which it was discovered. You’ve always insisted upon it. What’s so different about this? Is it the money? How much did Thirsk pay you to …?’
At this point, both Peterson and Sands said, ‘Shut up.’
