by RR Haywood
‘Are you hung over?’ Ben asks, giving her a suspicious look.
‘Nope, not at all. You?’
‘God, yes. I feel like shit. Why aren’t you?’
‘Cos I’m special. Get dressed and come for breakfast . . . Unless you want sex now.’
‘What?’
‘Sex.’
‘Sex?’
‘Yes, sex. Would you like sex?’
Ben blinks and stares. His head hurts, his body hurts, he feels dehydrated, lethargic and slow-witted. ‘Yeah, sure . . .’
At the other end of the bunker, Doctor Watson walks into the main room, crossing towards the big table laden with food and the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. ‘Morning . . .’
‘Morning,’ Miri replies curtly, looking up from the table.
‘Good night?’ he asks.
‘Interesting to say the least,’ she replies. ‘Time has changed.’
‘Changed? Changed how?’
‘Something in Roman times.’
‘Oh,’ Doctor Watson says mildly, pouring a cup of coffee. That he doesn’t feel an instant strong reaction to such news shows his absolute detachment to the former world he inhabited. ‘Bad change?’
‘No idea. Needs research.’
‘Indeed. Yes. Well, just say if I can help . . . Have you got a minute?’ he asks, easing down into chair as she watches him expectantly. ‘It’s about Ria.’
‘What about her?’
‘I’ll have to bring her round today.’
‘Do it.’
‘She’ll need help.’
‘Help?’
‘Psychological help. From someone that specialises in trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder. Without that she will be a significant suicide risk the minute she comes round. The sheer guilt she will face is . . .’
‘Are you trained?’
‘God no. I’m a medical doctor and a poor one at that.’
‘Now is not a good time.’
‘Miri, the poor girl was abandoned by her father, first as a child . . .’
‘I am aware of Miss Cavendish’s history, Doctor Watson.’
‘Great, then I am sure you agree she needs therapy from an expert.’
‘Get a book. Learn it.’
‘Good god no. I am a medical doctor and a recovering alcoholic . . . I am the last person to administer therapy. Safa would be better at it than I would.’
‘Give the book to Safa then.’
‘Miri, not everything can be dealt with like that. Ria is here against her will. You owe it to her to do the very best you can . . .’
‘Whole world to save.’
‘And you’re a hero and when we get medals I shall give you one.’
Miri stares devoid of expression while detecting the good doctor has a stubborn streak, which is about to reveal itself.
‘Fine,’ she says decisively.
‘Pardon?’ he asks.
‘Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Roland compiled a list of experts previously. Have a look at that. If not, I am sure we can pop back and ask Freud to help us out.’
‘Right,’ the doctor says, almost feeling a little dejected at not being able to use some of the points he had ready. ‘Were you joking about Freud?’
‘We’re not extracting Sigmund Freud,’ Miri says bluntly.
‘No, of course. I was just checking you were joking . . . which you obviously were . . . Ah, Tango Two! A pleasant morning to you . . . Oh dear, whatever is that glare for?’
‘Emily. My name is Emily.’
‘Yes of course. It was just a joke . . . Er . . . Morning Harry.’
‘Aye.’
Miri and the doctor watch as Harry nods curtly, then hesitates at seeing Emily ahead of him at the main table.
‘Coffee, Harry?’ Emily asks, turning round to offer him a forced cheery smile.
‘Er . . .’ he says, slowing down.
‘Or do you only like coffee when you’re drunk?’
‘Ach . . .’ Harry says deeply as Miri rolls her eyes.
‘Eggs?’ Emily asks him. ‘Fruit?’
‘Miss . . .’
‘EMILY.’
‘Emily . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nowt,’ he says quickly.
‘Morning,’ Safa says, walking into the room while fanning her face with a hand. ‘Is that coffee?’ she asks, taking the mug in Emily’s hand. ‘Cheers. Morning, doc. You missed an awesome night. We got in a fight with some Yanks. Nice blokes actually. Fuck me it’s hot in here . . .’
‘Why are you so red?’ Emily asks, watching Safa busy herself at the breakfast table.
‘Just had sex.’
‘What did she say?’ the doctor asks, blinking in disbelief.
‘Only a quick one, Ben’s hung over . . . Whatever. You two okay?’ Safa asks, shooting a glance from Harry to Emily.
‘Going for a smoke,’ Harry says, rushing towards the door.
‘Wrong door,’ Safa calls out.
‘Aye,’ Harry says, about-turning to rush towards the other door.
‘Morning,’ Ben says, pushing into the room and the frozen atmosphere. ‘Er . . .’ He hesitates, frowning and looking round.
‘Morning, Ben!’ the doctor calls out. ‘Apparently you just had sex . . .’
‘Safa,’ he groans.
‘What? They asked so I said,’ she says.
‘Sergeant,’ Miri calls before Harry gets to the door. ‘Briefing.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, about-turning again.
‘Get food and sit down,’ Miri orders everyone. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘Are we fit to work today?’ Ben asks, joining the others at the food table. ‘Bit of a heavy night . . . Where’s Malc and Kon?’
‘I’ll get them,’ Safa says, moving over to push the door open with her foot. ‘GET UP YOU LAZY SHITS . . .’
‘Safa shush,’ Ben urges. ‘Ria’s down there . . .’
‘Sorry,’ Safa replies with a wince. ‘Forgot . . .’
‘We’re up, we’re up,’ Konrad says quietly, waving a hand at Safa as he walks up the corridor. ‘Is the doc in there?’
‘Yeah. You two look like shit,’ Safa says.
‘Head hurts,’ Malcolm mumbles.
‘Everything hurts,’ Konrad adds.
‘Self-inflicted, no sympathy,’ the doctor says brightly, pulling a face at the state of the two men walking in. Bleary red eyes, hair tussled, skin pale and bruised from the fight.
Miri taps the end of her pen on the notepad in front of her with a show of impatience as the others take their seats round the big table, placing mugs of coffee and bowls of food down in front of them, apart from Malcolm, who turns a shade of green at the sight of food and looks away for a few seconds.
‘Do not vomit in here,’ Miri orders, pointing her pen at him. ‘To business. The timeline has changed . . .’
‘Yolk,’ Emily says, holding the small yellow portion of her boiled egg out for Harry.
‘Ta,’ Harry says, reaching out to take it at the very second Emily remembers she is upset with him.
‘Oh, you want my eggs now . . .’
‘What the fuck,’ Safa sputters, covering her mouth to prevent the fruit coming out.
‘Briefing,’ Miri snaps.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Harry says dutifully, trying to take the yolk from Emily that she grips too hard, making it squish apart.
‘The timeline has changed,’ Miri says again. ‘Early enquiries indicate a change to the Roman era in or around the time of Hadrian’s Wall in . . . Give him the damn yolk,’ she snaps at the squabble going on.
‘He doesn’t deserve the damn yolk,’ Emily retorts.
‘We. Are. Briefing,’ Miri states, her voice dropping to a dangerous level.
‘Yeah,’ Safa says, tutting at the others. ‘Briefing . . . fuck’s sake. Carry on, Miri.’
‘Get off!’ Emily yelps, slapping at Harry’s hand reaching
for the last egg in her bowl.
‘You only eat two,’ Harry says.
‘I want three today.’
A slam of a hand makes everyone jump as Miri brings order back to her breakfast briefing. ‘The timeline has changed and appears to have originated in—’ She cuts off as Malcolm suddenly heaves, covers his mouth and lurches from the table to run for the door. ‘Jesus wept,’ Miri mutters darkly.
‘I am so sorry,’ Malcolm says weakly, pushing back into the room. ‘I just puked on that dead Nazi . . . He really smells, by the way.’
‘Fine,’ Miri snaps. ‘Briefing is over.’
‘That was quick,’ Safa says. ‘So what we doing then?’
‘Get kitted. We’re deploying to London twenty-one eleven in thirty minutes.’ Miri stands up. ‘And we will not let personal situations interfere with our work. Clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harry says.
‘I’m fine. I don’t care,’ Emily scoffs. ‘I’m a professional.’
‘I am pleased to hear that, Tango Two,’ Miri says, striding out.
‘MY BLOODY NAME IS EMILY . . .’
Fifteen
Berlin, Friday 2 February 1945
It’s the noise of it. One thousand bombers accompanied by nearly six hundred fighters in the sky over Berlin. To see them is one thing, but to hear them is something else.
Hundreds of black shapes flying in strict formation overhead. American bombers: big, broad and distinct with smaller fighters zooming between them.
The Luftwaffe send what they have and the anti-aircraft guns fire with deep booming explosions and air-raid sirens still warble as the city fills with panic, but it’s the noise that holds the five men still. The sound of the bombers, the lighter pitch of the fighters and the machine guns rattling out, the explosive AA fire and the bombs raining down that detonate and shake the ground as people run screaming for cover.
Berlin was evacuated early in the war, but the children crept back in to be with their mothers and it’s those mothers now running the city. They operate the AA guns and the fire hoses to douse the flames. They are the search-and-rescue parties and they work in the factories making munitions or processing the food. They are the doctors and nurses. The gravediggers and cloth makers. The builders, the foragers, the backbone of a city from which all the men have been taken to fight.
Now the numbers in Berlin swell as millions flee the advancing Red Army and the carnage brought in brutal vengeance for the German invasion of Russia. Now the city infrastructure is the target of the Allies, who increasingly blur the justification for the targets they bomb, but then this is war and all is fair.
Within the chaos of that air raid, five men stand huddled together under the jutting curve of Arch 451. A disused storage shed fitted with a weathered but solid door behind which a green portal shimmers hidden from view. The portal they came through before stepping out to stare up in awe.
‘DON’T STAND THERE,’ a frantic man in the crowd calls out in German as he rushes past, pointing at the archway above their heads. His warning is obvious. The bombers are aiming for the railway lines running through the city, so to stand under the arch of a main track means several hundred tonnes of rubble coming down if a bomb hits. The five don’t move because they know Arch 451 survives this bombing raid. In fact, Arch 451 survives all the bombing raids throughout the whole war and is still standing in 2062.
They know Arch 451 is safe in the same way they know which buildings located in Bundesstraβe 2 are bombed and which remain intact.
‘Arch four five one is located at the end of the street,’ Kate told the five agents in her office two days ago. ‘It’s got a door too and what with the allies bombing all the railway lines we figured it would be safe to use. It actually became a bit of a thing for Berliners. Like a lucky charm thing . . .’ She stopped to look round at the agents gathered in her office, lingering with her eyes on Alpha.
‘I say, are you okay, my dear?’ Bravo asked, bringing her back to reality with a rush of colour spreading through her cheeks.
‘Um, yes, er . . . completely lost my train of thought then, haha! Oh gosh, I am embarrassing myself, aren’t I . . . ?’
‘It’s fine,’ Alpha said. ‘What’s the name of the street?’
‘I can’t read German but, er, Rodney and I have been calling it Bunder Street.’
‘Bundesstraβe 2,’ Alpha said, reading the name from a map on a tablet on her desk.
‘Oh wow, do you read German?’ she asked, staring at him again.
‘We all do,’ he replied, studying the map for a minute before looking up at her. ‘Kate?’
‘That is so hot,’ she whispered to herself, then winced at realising it came out loud. ‘Rushing on! So Arch four five one on Bunder Street is the entry point . . .’
Now, two days later, the five agents stare out from underneath Arch 451 and view Bundesstraβe 2 ahead of them. A wide road lined with high-fronted grand buildings. Gothic in style and once a grand, affluent typically German city street filled with offices, apartments and stores.
‘Bunder Street,’ Bravo quips, looking at Alpha. ‘She’s a nice girl,’ he adds in fluent German.
‘Lovely,’ Charlie says in German.
‘Very nice,’ Echo says, also in German.
‘Very pretty,’ Delta says, also in German as all four stare at Alpha.
‘Single too from what I hear,’ Bravo says.
‘Enough,’ Alpha says, sharing the joke with a discreet smile. ‘Bravo with me, you three stagger out behind us. German only from this point on.’
They step out in carefully chosen clothes that are slightly too big, to give the appearance of weight-loss to match that of the starving populace. They haven’t shaved for two days either to aid that haggard, tired look.
Alpha and Bravo slow their pace as they near the target building while Charlie, Delta and Echo work to keep the specified distance.
The three behind see the reason for the slowdown. A unit of uniformed German soldiers running down the street. Old men and young boys pressed to serve their country. The rifles they carry seem too heavy for them and to the last they glance up at the sky made darker by the shadows of the warplanes and smoke billowing up from the bombs and fires.
The five adopt panicked expressions and flounder in the chaos. Echo staggers away. Delta runs a few metres in another direction. Charlie stands slack-jawed and stunned as he stares at the sky.
‘DON’T STAND THERE GAWPING, YOU FOOL,’ a hoarse voice screams as someone runs past. Charlie blinks and looks round to see the heavy-jowled face of an old German soldier. The man must be late fifties, maybe sixty. His nose streaked with red veins. His whiskers grey and wild. His eyes sunken and bloodshot. ‘GET TO COVER . . .’
‘Ja . . . ja . . .’ Charlie gibbers as the unit runs past. Alpha and Bravo both turn to watch the interaction, their hands reaching for the pistols in the deep pockets of their overcoats. The officer of the unit of old men and boys slows his run and looks hard at Charlie. One arm missing and the empty sleeve tucked into his belt, but the free hand clutches a Luger pistol. A scar on his cheek and hard blue eyes that flicker from Charlie to Echo then to Delta. This man is switched on. He was on the front line. He commanded units of men in action and the loss of an arm has not dulled his senses. A suspicious look begins to form on his battle-hardened features.
‘So loud,’ Charlie says weakly, pretending to be terrified. ‘It’s so loud . . .’
‘HALT,’ the officer barks the order, bringing his men to a stop. They turn to look at their commanding officer with confusion. ‘Papers,’ the officer says, waving his Luger at Charlie. ‘Watch them,’ he adds, swinging the pistol towards Delta then Echo.
‘It’s so loud,’ Charlie says again, as if he is so shell-shocked at the bombing raid underway his mind cannot process what is happening.
‘Papers . . . NOW!’ the officer roars, aiming at Charlie, his suspicions growing as he finally spots Alpha and Bravo. ‘COVER THOSE TWO . . .�
�
An escalation from a chance interaction to a confrontation that can now only end one way. Alpha and Bravo look confused and alarmed as Delta and Echo watch the rifles being brought to aim while inside their pockets they start to apply the first bites of pressure on the triggers.
People stream past. Mothers and children crying out loud. Old men and women stunned to the core. A young girl carrying a baby. Blackened faces from smoke and filth. Explosions all around them.
Several hundred feet in the sky above them the US fighter flips and rolls down between the formation of bombers. The G force presses the pilot back into his seat as he dives the aircraft towards the ground. A hatred for the enemy shows in his eyes. His two brothers killed by the Nazi war machine, but this is war and all is fair so he aims for the wide street and increases the pressure on the trigger that feeds to the six wing-mounted heavy machine guns.
He pitches side to side, creating a swinging yawing target for the AA flak coming back. Details of the lives of those below start to show. The buildings reduced to rubble from previous bombing raids. The smoke and fire billowing up from fresh explosions. The vehicles, ambulances and fire trucks careering through the packed streets full of people. Old men and women. Mothers with children. All of them German and responsible for the death of his brothers. He presses to fire and brings the six machine guns to life to strafe the street in a roaring overhead pass and such is his speed he does not see the one-armed battle-hardened German officer obliterated by the large rounds shredding through his body and making his unit of boys and old men scatter screaming to find cover.
The fighter lifts to join the fight above. Alpha and Bravo step out into the street to stare in wonder at the aircraft as Charlie, Echo and Delta spin round to see the soldiers fleeing in all directions. A thing seen. A thing witnessed, and the fighter almost makes it back to the sky above before the AA round blows the canopy apart and sends it spinning to crash into the buildings below where it ignites a fresh ball of flame to scorch the sky.
The five press on. To be here is a thing indeed but this is not the first war for any of them and they have work to do.
The building is unmarked, save for a dust-covered brass plaque on the heavy wooden door. The front door was once guarded and secure but it’s too late in the war to worry about such things now. Alpha and Bravo go in first. Alpha leading the way into the dark interior and the dust particles falling from the tremors running through the ground and walls.
