Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  I looked at the envelope but left them where they were. Even genuine documents lose their credibility if covered in greasy fingerprints.

  Markham continued. ‘Will we need to produce details of the prisoner’s ultimate destination?’

  ‘No. Once you have signed for the prisoner then the original establishment relinquishes all responsibility. With an official prisoner it is sometimes in everyone’s best interests that the final destination remains unknown.’

  ‘Are you able to talk us through it? What can we expect?’

  She took a healthy swig of her post-lunch margarita.

  ‘I think our plans must, of necessity, be very loose. None of us has the faintest idea how things will go down, so specific instructions are just a waste of time, don’t you think?’

  The words ‘wing it’ were not spoken but made their presence felt nevertheless.

  Her plan had two parts. Lady Amelia and Pennyroyal would handle the London end and Mrs Brown. They had the entrée, they knew the lie of the land, they fitted in; common sense dictated they handle that part of the mission. Which left me and Markham to deal with Dr Bairstow.

  ‘At least he isn’t in a secure military prison,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘The Red House, although not without its own security, is a considerably easier proposition than, say, the Tower of London.’

  I did not look at Markham.

  ‘You and Markham would be members of the armed forces,’ she continued, prompting a battle between the two of us over who would be the ranking officer.

  ‘Well, me, obviously,’ said Markham, ‘given that I was actually in the army. I look the part. Let’s face it – you’re just a hot mess.’

  ‘You could have stopped after hot.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘It should be me,’ I said. ‘In these days of positive gender . . .’

  ‘Don’t give me that cr—’

  I played my winning card. ‘And if it all goes horribly wrong, then I’ll distract them and buy you the time to get Dr Bairstow safely away. Which you’re much more likely to achieve than me. That’s more important than who has the higher rank.’

  He scowled. ‘Well, all right then, but don’t think I’m happy about it.’

  We spread a clean cloth carefully over the table and familiarised ourselves with the paperwork.

  ‘This is top-quality stuff,’ said Markham, admiringly, feeling the paper between finger and thumb because, according to him, forgery is easy – it’s getting the correct paper on which to forge your forgery that’s the difficult part. ‘This feels just like the real thing.’

  ‘That’s because it is the real thing,’ said Pennyroyal from the other end of the kitchen. ‘As we told you. Kindly keep it out of the apple sauce.’

  We read it all through very carefully.

  There were copies of the request to move the prisoner, the movement order itself to transport the prisoner Bairstow from the Red House to ‘an alternative destination’, together with our personal authority to do so, our IDs, vehicle details and registration number. Everything was signed, stamped, and, as Lady Amelia informed us, in perfect order.

  ‘Because we have already submitted our paperwork and obtained the relevant permits, they should have the prisoner ready and waiting for you. Once you have proved your identity, there will be a simple handover and you can be on your way. You could be in and out in twenty minutes.’

  ‘And if something goes wrong?’

  ‘Well, if they don’t like the look of you then you’ll be arrested as soon as you come through the front door. Or if your docu­ments don’t pass muster. Or if you say or do something to arouse their suspicions. In any or all of those cases they’ll arrest you. Or just shoot you on the spot,’ she said jovially. ‘However, please remember your paperwork is genuine. You will be presenting genuine documents signed by a genuine member of the government – Dr Bairstow’s friend Mr Black. Who has rather stuck his neck out on this one, don’t you think? But going back to your question – it’s only the two of you who won’t be. Genuine, I mean.’

  ‘Will they question us?’

  ‘Before they shoot you?’

  ‘No – on our arrival. Before they hand over the prisoner.’

  ‘Probably. You’ll need a brief backstory. Any questions you can’t answer, simply invoke the Official Secrets Act, clam up and say nothing. My advice is to keep the talking to a minimum and don’t allow yourself to be drawn into conversation with anyone. Get in – take delivery of the prisoner – and get straight back out again.’

  I asked if there would be any other on-site checks. ‘I remember from my previous visit there’s a checkpoint in the drive. And on the front desk, too.’

  ‘You won’t be going in the front door. There’s a discreet door around the back, which is where the more sensitive patients are taken in and out. You’ll have to show your ID as you come in through the gates but remember they’ll be expecting you. That’s the whole point of submitting all the paperwork in advance. Theoretically, any problems should have been ironed out long before you turn up.’

  ‘And if there are any problems?’

  ‘Mr Black, as the official signatory, will handle any difficulties that might arise. Your job is at the unskilled end of the spectrum.’

  ‘Nothing new there, then.’

  ‘Getting yourself into the Red House shouldn’t present any problems. I do advise spending some time on your exit strategy – just on the off-chance things don’t run quite as smoothly as we would like.’

  ‘And while we’re at the Red House, you’ll be getting Mrs Brown out?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll be in London where, I suspect, we will be more at home than you.’

  In other words, they got the civilised end of the assignment while we were responsible for the less subtle part.

  ‘Markham and Maxwell,’ I said gloomily. ‘The blunt instruments of bounty hunters.’

  ‘Recovery agents,’ said Lady Amelia gently.

  Lady Amelia had acquired the appropriate military police outfits. We didn’t ask how. Markham said they looked amazingly genuine and I couldn’t help wondering if she’d just marched into a barracks somewhere and stolen a couple of uniforms. Not as unlikely as it sounds. Can I just say again how much easier life is when you don’t play by other people’s rules?

  We unpacked them carefully and I kept the plastic bag away from Markham because according to the warning label, it wasn’t a toy.

  ‘Redcaps,’ said Markham, feelingly. Obviously this was not his first encounter with the military police.

  ‘Problem?’ I said, wondering if he was still on someone’s wanted list from his army days.

  ‘They’re a bunch of evil, Satan-worshipping, psychotic bastards in uniform so no, not really.’

  I tried on my peaked cap. The red clashed horribly with my hair. ‘Not known for their nurturing qualities, then? They don’t ask you how you’re feeling today?’

  ‘Only after they’ve belted you with their batons half a dozen times. Sometimes then they ask you how you’re feeling.’

  I spent the afternoon having my uniform tailored to fit. By Pennyroyal. I don’t know why I was astonished.

  ‘An inch off the cuffs and another inch off the hem,’ he said. ‘Nothing fancy.’ And he was right. Trust me, military uniforms aren’t fitted half as stylishly or flatteringly as films and TV would have us believe. And then I wore it for a couple of days so it looked as if we belonged together. Markham did the same. He was a sergeant and I was a major.

  ‘You’re too old to be a captain,’ said Pennyroyal, apparently under the impression he was complimenting me. ‘They’d wonder why you never achieved your majority. You’re just the right age for a major. And he . . .’ he nodded at Markham, ‘is your experienced and trustworthy SNCO.’

  ‘Make sure you appreciate him,’ said Markh
am, still admiring himself in the mirror. I made a note not to tell him he looked like a stunted robin. ‘Sergeant, eh? Must remember to tell Major Guthrie when I see him next.’

  ‘If you ever see him again,’ I said, still not convinced this operation wasn’t all going to end in tears. This wasn’t an historian entangling herself in History with a knowledge, however vague, of who everyone was, what their motives were and how everything was going to turn out. This was all contemporary stuff and I hadn’t got a clue how it would go down. Badly, probably. Unexpectedly, certainly.

  The plan was simple. Pennyroyal would drop us off in his pod. We would collect the perfectly legitimate hired car, attach the military number plates and drive to the Red House.

  Once there, we would wave our papers to gain access – I was able to brief Markham on security measures as they had been a few years ago, during my extremely fleeting visit. I didn’t tell Smallhope and Pennyroyal how that had ended. Markham knew, but said nothing, contenting himself with making little swimming gestures to remind me of the unhappy combination of me, the lake and Leon’s car.

  We’d take the back entrance, flourish our immaculate paperwork, pick up our prisoner and drive away. What could possibly go wrong?

  ‘Have you any thoughts how you’ll play things?’ said Lady Amelia, striding into the room as we were packing everything away. ‘What’s your backstory?’

  ‘I shall be the professional woman,’ I said. ‘Brusque, polite but slightly impatient, and continually on the watch for gender discrimination. That always makes people nervous.’

  ‘I shan’t say anything at all,’ said Markham. ‘I shall finger my weapon and look for an excuse to shoot someone.’

  ‘Does Dr Bairstow know about this?’ I said. ‘Will he be expecting us?’

  She hesitated. ‘I think assuming he doesn’t know about any of this will be your wisest course of action. You’ll need to sign for him,’ she continued. ‘From that moment onwards, the prisoner will be your responsibility.’

  ‘Won’t they query such a small escort?’ I said.

  ‘I’m five foot six,’ said the escort indignantly.

  ‘I mean – there’s only one of you.’

  ‘You only ever need one of me,’ Markham said smugly.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell them,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘Once you’ve signed for Dr Bairstow do not hang around.’

  ‘Will he be restrained in any way?’

  ‘I don’t know but take handcuffs or zips just in case. Be prepared to have to return their own restraints before you leave. You know how cheap government establishments can be.’

  We nodded. We knew.

  We practised. We had a slight idea of the layout and what would be where. We chalked outlines out in the yard, shunting nosey chickens out of the way. Markham tried holding a chicken’s beak to the line because he said it hypnotises them, only it didn’t and he was badly pecked by an indignant Scots Dumpy. And then its friend turned up and had a go at him, too.

  My job was to secure the handover. Markham’s would be to protect me, the prisoner, and secure our exit. If we got into any difficulties then I would create a distraction and drop off Markham’s radar of responsibility. His priority would be to get Dr Bairstow out safely. If he had to leave me behind then so be it.

  He said he’d come back for me, I told him he’d better not. ‘If you’ve got Dr Bairstow then get out of there as quickly as you can. I won’t come to any harm in just the few hours it will take for them to think about what to do with me. If they shoot me then I’m already in a medical facility. Do not jeopardise everything by coming back for me.’

  Markham nodded because I was talking sense. As he said – who’d have thought?

  We went through it over and over again. What to do if I stood there. Or over there. Or if they tried to split us up for some reason. We needed to be aware of each other’s position at all times so we choreographed it – like a dance. The most important thing, said Markham, was to look as if we’d done this hundreds of times before and were completely accustomed to working with each other. Which was nearly true.

  We practised with him standing on my right, my left, behind me, in front of me, over in the corner, standing on the ceiling. We practised for three guards accompanying Dr Bairstow. Then for five. Then for a whole gang of them.

  We talked about the Red House staff we were likely to encounter and how to address them. The security staff were all on eighteen-month postings and it seemed most unlikely anyone there would recognise me from my previous visit.

  We talked about whether they would bring him to us – the most likely scenario, Markham and Pennyroyal thought – or whether they would take us to him. In which case, if anything went wrong then we were a long way from the door.

  ‘Straight out of the window,’ was Markham’s advice. There were only two storeys in that part of the facility so if we landed on grass, we’d probably be fine. Should I have to jump into the car park I was instructed not to land on my head. If we were in the basement and something went horribly wrong, I was to treat it as a fire and make my way calmly to the nearest exit. And to be sure I had noted said exits on the way in.

  We looked at images of the exterior of the building – the car park, the gardens, likely cover, blind spots, areas where we’d be completely exposed, other areas where we could expect some cover.

  ‘I’ll pull up outside the door,’ I said. ‘The sign says no parking, but I don’t think I’ll be the sort of person who would take any notice of that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ve never been the sort of person who takes any notice of anything,’ said Markham. ‘It’s only because you can’t actually park a car that you don’t hold the world record for parking tickets.’

  There was another brisk discussion, the end result being that to allay any fears, he, Markham, would be doing the driving. It had been unanimous. No discussion. I’d had to agree.

  In another part of the house Lady Amelia and Pennyroyal were going through exactly the same preparations for rescuing Mrs Brown. Both operations had to take place simultaneously so there would be no chance for anyone to warn anyone else, should everything go tits up.

  It was Pennyroyal who finally called a halt, saying there was such a thing as overpreparation. It was all very well to try to anticipate every contingency, but in his opinion, something always happened completely out of the blue and all the prepar­ation in the world couldn’t cover everything. Improvisation was often the only way to go.

  We spent the night before having a quiet dinner. I’d noticed the two of them never socialised in the local area if they could help it. If they wanted a night out, they went to London. The nearest village was about four miles away and as far as the world knew, only the Faradays lived and farmed here, and the Faradays themselves were very handsomely paid to maintain that myth. I wondered if the local people were even aware of Smallhope and Pennyroyal’s existence.

  Anyway, we dined at home. Beef and chianti lasagne followed by orange sorbet. Pennyroyal served wine but none of us had more than one glass.

  I had an early night, leaving the three of them sitting around the table. I’d deliberately kept myself concentrating solely on the operation and its mechanics. At no point had I allowed myself to think of Dr Bairstow. Of the possibility of getting him back and what that would mean. I couldn’t afford that luxury. Get through this. Get him back. And then think about it.

  I stood in my room, looked at my major’s uniform hanging in the wardrobe, the red cap on the shelf and my shiny shoes neatly lined up on the rack. I opened my briefcase, checked over the documents one last time, tried not to think about where I could be this time tomorrow, had a long, slow bath, picked up a book, read three paragraphs and fell fast asleep.

  Pennyroyal dropped us off in his pod. The hired car with its fake military plates was exactly where it should be. The journ
ey was a bit of a blur for me. I sat in the back of the car and ran through everything. Moment by moment. Action by action. What to do if this happened. What to do if that happened. What to do if everything went pear-shaped and we had to run for it.

  Markham drove quietly and well within the speed limits, mirror, signalling and manoeuvring as carefully as if he was taking his driving test. Fields and signposts zipped past.

  We drove for about an hour and a half, avoiding motorways and big towns. The car was quite comfortable and showed no signs of the digestive troubles that so often afflicted Bashford’s Chariot of (sometimes literally) Fire.

  I sat in the back because, as I told Markham, I was the officer, my briefcase on the seat beside me. Neither of us said very much. I was concentrating on not panicking.

  As we drew closer, I began to recognise familiar landmarks. Pubs, mostly, because St Mary’s was only about twelve miles away in that direction. Markham slowed as the lanes narrowed. The Red House was out in the middle of nowhere, as befitted its need for discretion and privacy, because no one is ever reassured by discovering half the government is in desperate need of psychiatric assistance and the other half is already getting it.

  We were in late summer and the farmers hadn’t yet trimmed the hedges. The occasional branch whipped at the windows. The grass verges were overgrown and thick with unseen hazards. I knew from experience that a combination of concealed objects in grass verges and a determined driver could do a great deal of damage to an unsuspecting car.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Markham, and I turned my thoughts from the past to the now.

  He slowed. I smoothed my hair, settled my hat on my head and squared my shoulders. He indicated left, easing the car through the gates.

  The security check was just inside the main gate. A guard stepped out and waved us to a halt. One walked around the car, checking the registration plate against his list.

  Markham opened his window to show the second guard his ID. I simply held mine to the closed window because I was a major and making things easy for people wasn’t part of my remit.