Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  Was he buggery.

  ‘Regarding your subsequent actions in Caernarfon …’

  He’d know it all, of course. The riot, the wrong inn, us being up to our withers in fish, the failure to achieve our objective … I sighed. I would have given a lot to have been able to report on Edward’s presentation of his son. It was all very well the Boss generously letting me live but, at the end of the day, we’d failed.

  ‘I understand your despondency, Miss Maxwell, but in presenting my report to Thirsk, I was able to point out that the failure of our last jump could be ascribed in no small measure to Mr Halcombe’s unfamiliarity with protocols and procedures. They have, to some extent, accepted this and we have worked together to ensure such misunderstandings do not occur again.’

  My head began to ache. I said gloomily, ‘I wanted to go to the castle, sir, but we had injuries. Dottle had a head wound and it seemed sensible to get them all back as soon as possible.’

  There was a pause while we both contemplated my unexpected use of the ‘s’ word and then I sighed.

  ‘It wasn’t the slickest rescue in the history of St Mary’s, sir. What with the street fight. And the battering ram. And the giant woman. And the fish. And Miss Lingoss’ hair …’

  ‘To say nothing of Miss Sykes’s bush,’ he said.

  Silence fell while I wondered if perhaps I was hearing things. I stared up at him. Not a muscle moved. There was not a flicker of expression on his face.

  You can never go wrong by saying, ‘yes sir,’ so I said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  He nodded and limped from the room.

  After he’d gone, Helen wandered in muttering to herself, sat in the window seat, and lit a cigarette. Having unexpectedly survived Dr Bairstow, I got cocky. I’d been dying to talk to her, and here was the opportunity.

  Last Christmas we’d had a bit of an unofficial crisis and the three of us, Markham, Peterson and I had had to shoot off to Ancient Egypt. As you do. We’d ended up having to dunk Markham in the Nile. For his own good, of course, but that was when Peterson had mentioned his Special Question. The one he was going to ask Helen.

  Once, I’d have scoffed at the thought, but now Leon and I were married. Was it possible – was it actually possible – that he and I were setting such a wonderful example of marital bliss that others might be contemplating the same thing?

  Well, anything’s possible. The law of averages says that somewhere in the world there must be a competent politician, an honest banker, an England footballer who knows what to do with the ball inside the penalty box – that last one comes from Leon; don’t ask me what he’s talking about – and now meet Farrell and Maxwell, the poster children for marital stability.

  I thrust this and other scary thoughts to the back of my mind and said, ‘Has Peterson said anything to you?’

  ‘He says lots of things to me. Some days you just can’t shut him up.’

  ‘No, I mean about – anything?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well I wondered – he said something once and I thought …’ I tailed away, afraid of saying too much.

  She threw her cigarette end out of the window. Someone shouted a protest.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bashford. You’re standing up to your knees in discarded dog ends. Where did you think they came from? Did you think they sprang up from the ground like serpents’ teeth? Idiot!’

  She shut the window with a bang and said shortly, ‘No, he hasn’t said anything. And in his position at the moment, he’s not likely to, is he?’

  So she knew what I was on about.

  I risked life and limb. ‘Well, you could always talk to him.’

  I didn’t think she’d attack a patient – you know, Hippocratic Oath and all that – but I wasn’t 100 per cent certain so I gripped the bedclothes and got ready to move quickly should I have to.

  To my enormous surprise, she said quietly, ‘No. I couldn’t do that to him. It would injure his pride and at this moment that’s all he has left. I can’t take that away from him.’ She looked at me. ‘Can I?’

  I shook my head. She was right.

  She smiled. ‘He’s an idiot, of course, but I understand.’

  So did I. I think.

  She leaned her head against the window and we both sat in silence until Hunter came in to tell her that Professor Rapson had scalded himself making toast and could she come at once please.

  I was discharged that evening. I picked up my bag, headed for the stairs and freedom, and then stopped. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the place was deserted. I turned back and walked down the corridor to the isolation room.

  It’s a big four-bed room with a large viewing aperture – or window, as those of us who aren’t Mr Strong call it. I stood and looked through into the ward.

  Halcombe lay on the bed, reading a newspaper. He was dressed in St Mary’s sweats and looked a complete pillock. Or if you want to push a bad joke even further – pollock.

  I stood very still, but we all have a sense that tells us when we’re being watched.

  He looked up and for what seemed like a very long time, we just stared at each other. Neither of us moved and then, at the optimum moment, just as I was considering walking away, he gave a small, smug smile, and returned to his newspaper.

  I turned and left, the memory of that smile burning a hole in my mind.

  I clattered down the stairs, reviewing my ‘Awkward Interviews’ list. So far – so good. I’d survived both Drs Bairstow and Foster. Now for the most difficult of them all.

  I knew Leon had returned from Thirsk because he’d been to visit me. We’d been very polite to each other because we both knew we needed privacy for our next conversation. He’d enquired after my welfare. I’d enquired after his and then we sat in silence, not because we had nothing to say to each other, but because we had too much.

  Using the back stairs, I made my way to our room. Once there, I showered and changed and sat quietly, waiting for Leon. Who had some explaining to do.

  He came in about an hour later, still wearing his orange jumpsuit and looking tired and dirty. I left him to have a shower in peace. I even got him a beer out of the chiller, because I’m a good wife and he’s lucky to have me.

  He settled himself in the other chair, cracked the beer, and we looked at each other.

  The silence went on and on. This was ridiculous. If one of us didn’t make a move soon, then this kid was going to be saddled with parents who never spoke to one another. I decided I would let him speak first and then we would discuss things quietly and rationally.

  Finally, he said, ‘You just couldn’t stay out of a pod, could you?’

  Quiet and rational flew straight out of the window and headed south for the winter. The words were out before I could stop them.

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t been stupid enough to put a non-historian override on our pods, I wouldn’t have had to, would I?’

  ‘I was instructed to do so.’

  I felt my temper beginning to rise. ‘By that idiot Halcombe? What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking of obeying instructions. An unfamiliar concept for you, I’ll grant, but one the rest of us mastered some time ago.’

  I snapped, ‘Yes, well your slavish adherence to the rules nearly got a couple of historians and a civilian killed last week. I hope you’re proud.’

  He regarded me stonily.

  ‘More or less proud than someone whose flagrant disregard for the rules brought disgrace on this unit, ruined careers, and was responsible for inflicting Thirsk on us in the first place? Tell me Max – more or less proud?’

  There. It was out. The first time he’d levelled direct criticism. We’d papered over the cracks and now not only had those cracks reappeared, but the wall had fallen down and was about to bring the house down with it.

  Lemming like, I hurled myself off the cliff. ‘I’m a little surprised at the current levels of hypocrisy ricocheting around this room. From you of all people. I don’t remember
all this criticism when I stole your pod and yanked Bashford and Grey out of Colchester. I don’t remember Dr Bairstow complaining then. Or Guthrie. Or you. It was all, “Oh well done, Max. Good job, Max.”’

  He started to speak and I cut across him.

  ‘I hear a lot of talk about whether stealing the sword was doing the right thing for the wrong reason, or vice versa, but the fact is we did the right thing for the right reason. Don’t you understand? Roberts’ community was dying. Because of something we did. Did you expect us to stand by and do nothing? Or should we just have stood back, recorded, and documented as we always do? Yes, we interfered, but we’d already done that when we passed on the location of the sword. And Dr Bairstow interfered when he passed that information to Thirsk. And Thirsk interfered when they stole the sword. They’re the guilty party because it wasn’t theirs to take. It was a gift to the people of Caer Guorthigirn. It wasn’t us who stole the sword. We’re the ones who put it back.’

  In any argument, it’s always vitally important to have the last word. I turned on my heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind me with such force that I heard plaster drop somewhere. For some reason, the sound made me even more furious, which I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Leon and I don’t have many rows. There’s been the odd tiff concerning squeezing toothpaste tubes – squeezing from the bottom is a sure sign of a sick mind, believe me. Or over who snores the loudest – it’s me, but a polite spouse wouldn’t mention that. But now I needed to get away before guilt, righteous indignation, disappointment and more guilt all collided in one lethal explosion and I did him a serious injury.

  A quick tip. If you’re going to storm out then it’s a good idea to make sure you have somewhere to storm to. I was halfway down the stairs before I realised it was late at night and I’d left my bed behind, which only added to my resentment. I’d done nothing wrong. I actually hadn’t done anything wrong. On the contrary, I’d saved St Mary’s staff from the consequences of Leon’s folly and now I was the one without a place to lay my head. I made a mental note to be much more strategic about this sort of thing in the future.

  I strode through the Hall, some sort of autopilot taking me to the Archive, I suppose. I could at least get a couple of hour’s work done and after that, maybe, curl up in one of the armchairs in the Library.

  I was halfway across the room before I realised I hadn’t switched on the lights. The stairs and the Hall were dimly lit and people were always working in the kitchen, but the Library should have been dark and it wasn’t.

  I stopped, turning my head to locate the source of the light. There – in the far corner. Someone had left an active data stack.

  I frowned. That shouldn’t happen. For those of us absent-minded enough to forget to exit the system properly after we’d finished – which was most of us – there was an automatic shutdown after an hour.

  I pulled out a chair, meaning to shut the thing down properly so that whomever it belonged to wouldn’t lose their work, but I couldn’t find the login, which was odd. There was nothing to identify the user.

  Rotating the stack, I looked for a clue, but there was nothing. I looked over my shoulder. I shouldn’t be doing this. Access to anything other than the basic admin systems was forbidden to me, so, of course, I had a good look. I made myself comfortable and started at the top. I just skimmed the first part, and then thought, shit! I went back to the beginning and, with my heart thumping, read everything very slowly. I found a sheet of paper and a pen and made a few notes, including coordinates.

  When I’d finished, I tried to go back again for a second reading but it wouldn’t let me, and, as I tried to force it, with no warning at all, the data stack collapsed into a meaningless jumble and then disappeared altogether. I was back in the dark.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  I sat back in my chair, folded my arms, sank my chin on my chest, and had a bit of a think.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I met Peterson and Markham at breakfast the next morning. We sat at our usual table. Looking across the room, I could see a blushing but delighted Dottle sitting at the historians’ table, wearing her bruises like a badge of honour. It was always possible that if we strolled over we would be asked to join them, but there had been no word of reinstatement. Or, to be fair, of dismissal either. We were in a kind of no man’s land. So we stayed apart, taking a perverse pride in maintaining our isolation. Which suited me, because I had a Secret and a Plan.

  ‘Need to talk to the pair of you,’ I said, spreading a thick layer of chunky marmalade on my even more thickly buttered toast.

  ‘You are talking to the pair of us, said Markham logically. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Something happened last night.’

  ‘Yeah, we heard,’ said Peterson. ‘I was just dropping off when someone apparently detonated a bomb further down the corridor. I thought the ceiling was coming down again. You and Leon have a row?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ I said, suddenly realising I hadn’t thought of Leon once throughout my very long and busy night. ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

  Neither of them groaned, which I appreciated. Pouring myself another cup of tea and making sure no one could overhear, I pulled out my piece of paper. ‘King John.’

  Markham nodded. ‘Brother of the more famous Richard. Robin Hood. Magna Carta’

  ‘That’s the one, but you missed something out. He’s the king who lost something in The Wash.’

  ‘What – you mean – like a sock?’

  ‘No,’ I said, carefully, and talked them through my idea.

  At the end, they sat in silence, thinking.

  ‘But whose was the data stack?’ persisted Markham. ‘There must have been a user ID. You can’t build a stack without one.’

  ‘Blank,’ I said, although I had a very good idea. Only three people possessed the technical expertise to build a stack without an ID and I was pretty sure it wasn’t Dieter or Polly Perkins, the head of IT. Which just left …

  We’d had a row. I’d stormed out. Straight down to the only other place I could currently call mine, to find an open data stack almost as if it was meant for me to find. Was I being manipulated? Or was I just kidding myself?

  ‘What’s Dr Bairstow going to say about all this?’ said Markham.

  Peterson poured himself another cup of tea. ‘I suspect he’ll either be so incensed at our actions that we’ll be decapitated on the spot or he’ll forgive us instantly. I don’t think there’ll be any middle ground.’

  We all nodded. Make or break time. An opportunity for triumph. Or disaster so complete there would be no coming back from it.

  ‘Well, I’m in,’ said Markham. ‘I’m not spending the rest of my life scraping everyone else’s hairy slime out from under my fingernails.’

  I put down my suddenly unwanted toast.

  ‘Me too,’ said Peterson. ‘We can’t go on like this. We need either to make things better or make them so bad they chuck us out. Either way we’ll know where we stand. Let’s do this. Agreed?’

  ‘I’ll put together a proper briefing,’ I said. ‘Can you both get away this afternoon?’

  ‘Probably, said Peterson.

  ‘What about you?’ I looked at Markham.

  ‘I’m cleaning out the grease traps,’ he said. ‘Trust me, no one will come anywhere near me for weeks.’

  ‘Good. Tim, can you ask around – discreetly, of course – just in case this was a legitimate piece of work and someone, somehow, just forgot to shut it down.’

  He nodded. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, feeling my heart lift with the familiar surge of excitement. God, I’d missed this. ‘Everything exactly as normal and then meet in my room at 14:30.’

  They grinned at me. I grinned back.

  I pottered through my morning. It was perhaps fortunate that I worked alone. I was pretty sure my attempts to look normal would have demonstrated a crying need for psychiatric assistance. I took what I ne
eded from the Library shelves, went back to my own desk, and got stuck in. I made up a proper mission folder and worked as if it were a legitimate jump.

  After an hour or so, I had to scoot off for yet another bladder break, and when I got back, Dottle was waiting for me.

  I stiffened, trying to see past her to my desk. Had I left anything incriminating hanging around? No. The King John material seemed to be covered by my Rushford Agricultural Show folder.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Will you say thank you to the others for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But why don’t you tell them yourself?’

  She looked down. ‘I don’t like to … I mean …’

  ‘They would appreciate it,’ I said.

  She blushed again.

  ‘I saw you sitting at the historians’ table at breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, people have been … very kind.’

  ‘People usually are,’ I said.

  There was a silence as, not for the first time I guessed, she compared St Mary’s behaviour with that of the idiot Halcombe. I looked at her. She wasn’t the same person as last week. She would always be shy and quiet, but these days there was a new confidence about her. She held herself differently. I suspected that when Halcombe was eventually released from Helen’s enthusiastic anti-leprosy regime, he would find his world had changed. I was certain hers had.

  ‘Well,’ she said, suffering the usual shy person’s difficulty in extricating herself from any situation, ‘again, thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, trying not to twitch with impatience, because this was important to her. ‘Can I ask, what are your plans for the future?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but I do intend to look for something different.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘and please don’t faint with terror or anything, but you could do worse than make an appointment with Dr Bairstow and ask for his advice.’

  She blinked, but I was sure I was right. ‘He’s not a monster and he’s certainly not a bully. If he can’t help he’ll certainly point you in the direction of someone who can.’ Kalinda Black, our liaison officer at Thirsk, was my bet.