Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  Lingoss was first through the door. Today’s hair madness was green, shading through turquoise to blue. It really was a work of art. I was so lost in admiration, I missed Sykes’ appearance, but no one could miss Bashford.

  I’ve always said – when he does something, he puts his whole heart and soul into it. I was no longer surprised people had fainted. I was only surprised the whole town of Rushford hadn’t fled in panic.

  He wore a long black dress and his grey wig sat askew. So far so relatively normal. It was the bit in between them that had caused the panic.

  He’d covered his face in a thick white paste, which was now beginning to crack and flake away. The effect was horrifying – as if his face was falling off. His eyes were surrounded by deep-purple eye shadow. I guessed the car journey had made his eyes water, and the shadow had run down his cheeks, leaving huge purple streaks. His lipstick sat alongside his mouth and ran off to one ear.

  We contemplated each other in complete silence.

  I turned to the sergeant. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

  ‘Mr Bashford,’ cried Professor Rapson, apparently overjoyed to see him.

  ‘Hello, Professor,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Max.’

  I turned to the sergeant and demanded to know why they weren’t manacled to a wall.

  ‘We needed the manacles for real criminals.’

  ‘I could provide you with a set. No charge.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, madam, but we would prefer it if you would just take them away.’

  I said pleadingly, ‘Are you sure they’re not under arrest?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘How long a list would you like?’

  ‘Please just take them away.’

  ‘But – shouldn’t they suffer a little first?’

  ‘Well, they drank canteen tea. Would that do?’

  ‘Don’t you have telephone directories?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s all electronic these days, madam. You can try clubbing people with a database, but it does turn out to be a bit of a waste of time.’

  ‘We’ve got Yellow Pages by the tonne. I could let you have some of ours.’

  ‘Won’t you need them yourself?’

  I eyed the miscreants. ‘Of course. What was I thinking?’

  ‘It’s great here,’ said Lingoss, beaming at me. ‘They let us look at the cells.’

  I stared reproachfully at the sergeant. ‘And you didn’t think to lock them in and lose the key?’

  ‘We’ve already lost the key. Years ago. We generally ask people to embrace the more abstract concepts of imprisonment by envisaging the lockedness of the door and promising not to try to escape. Why are you still here?’

  ‘I’m trying to assist in your clear-up rate. Believe me, no one would have any objections to you fitting up these three for every crime that’s taken place over the last five – no, make that ten – years, and sending them down for life. This is a career-altering opportunity that might never come your way again. I urge you to seize it.’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, madam, I’d prefer it if you just took them away and drowned them.

  I sagged. ‘Where’s their car?’

  ‘Around the back.’ She pulled out the keys and looked at us. Bashford in diseased-zombie mode. Lingoss disrupting electronic signals with her hair. Sykes beaming angelically at the world in general. Professor Rapson apparently committing the instructions for safely crossing the road to memory – and me, neat, well dressed, mature, responsible.

  I held out my hand.

  She gave the keys to Bashford.

  Clear case of police brutality.

  We split up as soon as we entered St Mary’s. The zombie and his entourage melted away in one direction and Professor Rapson and I were just signing back in again when our luck ran out. We walked slap into Halcombe, who clearly practised ‘Management by Walking Around And Sticking His Nose Into Things Dr Bairstow Would Have Quietly Overlooked’.

  ‘You ...’

  He always pretended he couldn’t remember my name.

  ‘What are you doing? Have you been outside without permission?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked pleased to have caught me out in a lie. Behind him, I could see Bashford, Lingoss, and Sykes slipping quietly into the Hall.

  ‘Allow me to offer you an opportunity to reconsider your answer.’

  ‘OK.’

  I stood, apparently lost in deep thought. And stood. And stood.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Reconsidering my answer as instructed.’ I frowned heavily and stared at the ceiling.

  A small crowd began to gather. Bashford was hastily wiping his face.

  ‘Have you been outside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you lied.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘You said you hadn’t been outside.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  Seriously, I could do this all day. He really was an idiot. Even I would be the first person to say never argue with me. Dr Bairstow would have nipped this in the bud, been sarcastic at me, and sent me on my way. Perhaps Halcombe was so accustomed to Dottle’s uncritical admiration that he had no idea how to handle real people. Really, I was doing him a favour.

  ‘I asked you if you’d been outside and you said no.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  I thought he was going to burst. Out of consideration for Mr Strong who would be the one picking the Halcombe spleen out of the light fittings, I said, ‘You asked me if I had been outside without permission and I said no.’

  ‘And then you said yes.’

  ‘Because you changed the question.’

  ‘The question was about you being outside. Which you have admitted.’

  ‘The answer was correct. It was the question that was wrong.’

  I think he was unable to speak for a moment.

  ‘You asked me if I’d been outside without permission and I said no because I did.’

  ‘Go outside?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously, but I did.’

  ‘What?’

  Professor Rapson helpfully intervened. ‘She did.’

  He swelled. ‘Did what?’

  ‘Have permission. She accompanied me to Rushford.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  He became vague. ‘Colorado beetle, I seem to remember. And manacles. And electronic databases. Oh, and how to cross the road. I must say, Max, the instructions seemed very complicated. I’m sure it was much simpler in my day. Whatever happened to “At the kerb, halt. Look left. Look right. Look left again. If all is clear, then cross the road?”’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think its adherents might have died out quite quickly because in this country, Professor, we drive on the left, so it’s look right, look left, etc.’

  ‘Really?’ He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Well, that accounts for a lot, I suppose.’

  Halcombe refused to be diverted. ‘And Miss Maxwell’s purpose in this sudden acquisition of knowledge?’

  Miss Lingoss stepped forward.

  ‘Professor Rapson doesn’t usually go out on his own, and I was engaged in important scientific research this afternoon, so Miss Maxwell kindly agreed to accompany him on his quest. Thank you Miss Maxwell, I hope the task was not too onerous.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Lingoss.’

  We began to walk away into the Hall and that did it.

  ‘You do not walk away from me.’ His voice cracked like a whip around the Hall and people froze. If this were a Western, tumbleweed would roll slowly down the Great Hall and someone would be whistling a haunting melody.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Dr Bairstow was limping slowly down the stairs. ‘Is there some difficulty here?’

  ‘I find Miss Maxwell is in breach of regulations. Again.’

  ‘Very reprehensible. Well, Miss Maxwell, which particular tranche of regulations have you steam
rollered this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I’ve accompanied Professor Rapson into Rushford according to custom and practice, and he accompanied me in accordance with one of the confusingly numerous regulations recently imposed. I am actually quite bewildered as to where the fault lies and Mr Halcombe is about to explain it to me.’

  He never got the chance. Dr Bairstow effortlessly rose above us all.

  ‘Your only fault, Miss Maxwell, lies in not returning to your place of work immediately on your return from this excursion. St Mary’s does not pay you to waste your time hanging about.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Bairstow.’

  ‘Miss Lingoss, kindly escort Professor Rapson back to R&D where he can immediately use his recently acquired information for the benefit of St Mary’s. Andrew, my dear fellow, you look as if you would enjoy a cup of tea. Mr Bashford, wash your face. Miss Sykes, I’m not sure what you are doing, but past experience leads me to believe I shall not approve, so desist immediately. As for the rest of you ...’

  But they’d scattered.

  And that, folks, is how you command St Mary’s.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Having stupidly brought myself to the idiot Halcombe’s attention, I proceeded to make things considerably worse.

  Slinking back to my bunker with a certain lack of enthusiasm, I addressed the mouldering heap that was my in-tray.

  First up was a note from the idiot himself, instructing me to check whether we had sufficient supplies of what he referred to as Effluent Sanitiser, and the real world call Turd Tumbler, for the next few assignments and, if necessary, to order more. I could see how he’d made the connection between me and turds, but this definitely wasn’t an historian area of expertise. This was a deliberate insult.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  Actually, at this point it occurs to me that a word of explanation might be helpful.

  We have pods and in the pods are toilets. They rarely work properly and we will all go down with cholera one day but, until then, we soldier on, limiting the risk by scarfing our way through compo rations because these are well known to have an inhibiting effect on normal bowel movements. With the help of practice and meditation, I’ve managed to get my visits down to two a year, which is impressive, as I think everyone unconnected with the medical profession will agree.

  Anyway, disposal is always a difficulty because of the chemicals and such, especially since we used formaldehyde. So Professor Rapson had directed his powerful intellect at the problem and come up with a cocktail of chemicals and enzymes that, believe it or not, breaks everything down, dries it out and leaves us with a kind of sludgy powder. We use the blue formula for flushing, pink for reducing the waste down, and green for neutralising gas and smells. Occasionally the toilet blows up and believe me, it’s a real rainbow in there sometimes.

  What happens to the sludge afterwards is completely beyond my ken, but the point is that we mix this coloured stuff with our brown stuff, agitate it occasionally (hence the expression Turd Tumbler) and hey presto – barring mass outbreaks of dysentery – problem nearly solved. Now the Halcombe idiot thought he’d have a laugh at my expense. Well, two can play at that game.

  I fired up my data table and began my report.

  Sir,

  In accordance with your instructions I have conducted extensive investigations to ascertain the quantities of Effluent Sanitiser/Turd Tumbler required over the next six months and beg leave to present my findings.

  For the purposes of this report I have assumed the following:

  • The length of a standard turd (let turd equal ‘t’) is five inches, excluding the taper.

  • The average length of assignment is five days.

  • The average number of historians is four.

  Therefore, a throughput of one t per person per day would total 20t.

  At this point, however, it should be noted that throughput figures will often be skewed by the well-known inhibiting effect of compo rations, which should be offset by:

  • The bowel-loosening effects of bad water

  • The inadvertent ingestion of poisonous substances

  • Sheer terror as another assignment begins the long slide south.

  Given all of the above, and assuming a standard two-pod formation, we find ourselves with the following simple equation:

  Let Turd Tumbler = y

  Let days of assignment = d

  Let number of historians = h

  Let loosening effects of bad water = bw

  Let loosening effect of poison = p

  Let loosening effect of sheer terror = st

  Let inhibiting effect of rations = r

  Therefore, y = d x h x (bw+p+st-r)

  Please be aware this calculation can be somewhat distorted by the gender make-up of the historians involved. Female historians tend to produce fewer and lighter t’s, but urinate more frequently (let urine = u). Male historians however, while frequently exceeding their daily quota of t’s, offset this by availing themselves of more informal facilities in the form of trees, rocks, and other historians for the purposes of u.

  Should they be required, background notes can be attached, together with sketches of standard turd types – the sausage, the splodge, and the Mr Whippy.

  Actual samples can happily be supplied upon written request.

  You will be aware, however, that since I no longer have access to mission schedules or staff and pod rotas, it is impossible for me to provide you with any meaningful information and the above exercise has simply wasted both our time.

  Assuring you of similar attention to detail on all your future requests.

  I signed my name and every conceivable letter of the alphabet to which I was entitled, including BSc for my Bronze Swimming Certificate, copied in Dr Bairstow, not so much because he would enjoy the joke – the ‘e’ word was not part of his emotional repertoire – but he would appreciate it, and sent it off.

  I paid for it, of course.

  I was in the bar that night, with Peterson and Markham. Leon was at the other end of the room, quietly going over something with Dieter.

  Ignoring me completely, Halcombe stalked to the techie table and flung down my memo.

  ‘Please advise your wife she is here on sufferance only and as such, there are certain levels of behaviour to which she is expected to conform.’

  Everything went very quiet. Heads swivelled to Leon.

  I pulled out a hairpin and prepared to sally forth, but Peterson put his hand on my arm.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Leon rotated his data stack again and only when he had it arranged to his satisfaction did he slowly look up.

  Everyone waited for him to say something.

  He said nothing. He did nothing. He simply sat very still and stared up at Halcombe.

  I could see he was angry. Whether with me for putting him in this position or with Halcombe for being such a pillock remained to be seen. His blue eyes were suddenly very chilly and he held Halcombe’s gaze without blinking.

  I think, at this point, it began to dawn on the idiot Halcombe that he’d seriously underestimated Leon. Many do. A while ago, he led the revolt against the Time Police, travelling up and down the timeline to engage them. He fought long and hard and has the scars to prove it. Just because he doesn’t make anything like as much noise as the rest of us doesn’t mean he’s timid. Just quiet.

  The silence went on. Still he sat, unmoving, still staring up at Halcombe, who stared back. The silence lengthened. Who would blink first?

  It was Halcombe. Obviously. I’d never bet against Leon, no matter how much he’d annoyed me recently.

  Halcombe took a small step back and it broke the spell. Someone laughed.

  Dieter had picked up the memo and scanned it. Grinning, he passed it around. I think it began to dawn on Halcombe that he’d made a tactical error. He threw us a look calculated to show everyone he was leaving of his own free will and not in any way because he’
d been intimidated, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  Have I said how proud I am of my husband?

  All quite amusing. So far, the idiot Halcombe hadn’t done a lot of damage, and his entertainment value was rising every day. Then it stopped being funny, because even an idiot can do an awful lot of harm.

  He got his own back a couple of days later, announcing that either he, Miss Dottle, or both, would henceforth be present on every jump. To monitor and advise. And to prevent the south-sliding referred to in my ill-judged memo. I had a bit of a curse over that, but not as much, I suspected, as the History Department.

  ‘Where’s Dr Bairstow in all this?’ enquired Markham, reading through the all-staff memo again.

  ‘Thirsk,’ said Peterson.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘When did he go?’

  ‘First thing this morning.’

  ‘Has he been sacked?’ I asked, a sudden fear clutching at me, because Dr Bairstow leaving would be the end of everything. My own guess was that most of St Mary’s would be out of the door with him. Especially if the idiot Halcombe became director.

  ‘I don’t think so. Something’s going on. He took Major Guthrie and Chief Farrell with him.’

  It was a nasty shock to realise Leon hadn’t said anything to me. A very nasty shock, indeed. Was it because of my memo?

  Markham stared at Peterson. ‘He took all our senior officers with him when he knows we have assignments pending? And that the idiot Halcombe would be in charge?’

  He shrugged. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘How long will they be gone for?’

  He shrugged again.

  I frowned. Our senior officers were at Thirsk. All of them. Something was definitely going on.

  I got my news from Dr Dowson these days. He would bring me a mug of tea in the afternoon and sit on my desk, short legs swinging, dishing the dirt on what was happening around me.

  There were two assignments pending, apparently. One was to 15th-century Venice, but the first was to Caernarfon, to witness that wily old fox, Edward I, presenting the people of Wales with the future Edward II, their first Prince of Wales.

  Kings and queens move in and out of fashion but Edward II has never been popular. Son of the mighty Hammer of the Scots, his main claims to fame are losing to Scotland at Bannockburn, and annoying his wife to such an extent that she and her lover, Roger Mortimer, led a successful rebellion and deposed him.