by Jodi Taylor
‘As Ian Guthrie,’ I said gently.
He locked the gun away, taking his time about it. When he turned back, his face was perfectly normal, if a little grim.
He said, ‘Max …’
‘She can’t stay here at St Mary’s, Ian. It would be cruel to try and make her.’
‘I know,’ he said, heavily. He smiled bitterly. ‘I think I had hoped for something of what you and Leon have but it doesn’t look as if this particular story will have a happy ending.’
He straightened his shoulders. ‘It looks as if we might have some decisions to make, doesn’t it?’
‘Something for you both to think about,’ I said, ‘but have Christmas first. New year – new beginnings.’
He nodded. ‘Sound advice. And from an historian. Who’d have thought?’
I grinned at him. ‘You already know what you’re going to do, don’t you?’
‘I do, yes.’ His rare smile lit up his face. ‘You know what?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I think I shall miss you most of all, Scarecrow.’
Right, that was settled for the time being. Only several more problems to go.
‘Very Christmassy,’ said Helen, staring at our red noses. The standard of wit in Sick Bay is not high but this probably wasn’t a good time to mention that.
She indicated Markham. ‘What have you done to him this time?’
Silently, Peterson handed over the can.
She took it, read the label, and rolled her eyes.
‘How long’s he been like this?’
‘Only today, really,’ said Peterson. ‘And we dunked him in the Nile as soon as we discovered what we’d … what had happened. So he’s nice and clean, at least.’
‘Just to be clear, you’ve added immersion in a parasite-riddled, leech-infested open sewer to his original symptoms?’
Put like that, it didn’t sound good.
She glared impartially at the two of us. ‘Two days’ observation for both of you. Don’t even think of trying to get out of it.’
We watched her wheel away a still chattering Markham, presumably to have his symptoms alleviated but you never knew with her.
‘She’s pleased to see me,’ confided Peterson.
‘How on earth can you tell?’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘Will you be telling her I was the one who poisoned Markham?’
‘Not unless she turns ugly for some reason and I have to save myself.’
‘You’re a true friend, Tim.’
Grey, Bashford, Gallaccio, and Cox were waiting for me.
‘We’ve warmed the bed for you,’ said Bashford.
Grey said nothing, staring anxiously at me.
I put her out of her misery. ‘It’s OK. Problem solved. Gun recovered and returned.’
The collective sigh of relief nearly blew me off my feet.
‘Thank you,’ said Grey. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘What happens now?’ said Bashford.
‘I’ll go and see Dr Bairstow as soon as I can,’ she said.
‘I’d have a word with Major Guthrie first,’ I said.
She paled. ‘How much trouble am I in?’
‘Not anything like as much as me, so stop worrying.’
‘Max …’
I remembered I was supposed to be head of the History Department and drew myself up. I’d like to think I loomed. I certainly gave looming my best shot.
‘Listen to me, you lot. It’s all sorted now, but if any of you ever, ever do anything like this again, I will kill you all. One by one. Slowly. And painfully. And I will get away with it because there are thousands of years of History out there, and I know exactly where to bury the bodies. And what to say to Dr Bairstow afterwards. Now, go away and give me a moment’s peace, please.’
They clattered out, leaving me alone in the ward. I was too strung up to get into bed, so I showered, washed the dust of Egypt out of my hair, put some cream on my nose, and sat in the window seat, looking out over the white gardens. Dusk was falling and the uncurtained windows were making pretty patterns of light on the snow. Someone had built an enormous snowman on the South Lawn. I’m almost certain the carrot is supposed to go on the face.
In the distance, I could see Atherton and Sykes trudging off through the snow. God knows what they were up to, but if it was anything illegal someone would be in to complain about it soon enough.
I heard the door open and close. Silence. I knew it was Leon. I sighed and struggled to marshal the words to explain what I’d done. How important it had been to get the gun back. How the fact that I’d given away my wedding ring didn’t mean I didn’t value it.
He came to sit opposite me in the window seat. ‘Move your knees.’
I moved my knees and we sat together.
He picked up my hand and looked at the white line on my finger. ‘Did you lose it?’
I shook my head. ‘Worse. I gave it away.’
‘Well,’ he said comfortably, ‘I expect it was for a good reason.’
I nodded. ‘It was, but that doesn’t mean I was happy to do it.’
‘Why not? I thought to an historian, the preservation of the timeline was paramount.’
‘It is, but these days I have other priorities as well.’
‘Such as?’
‘You. The two of us. Soon to be the three of us. I want you to know I didn’t let it go lightly. I’m not sure how much I can say at the moment. How much I should say. I need to talk to Dr Bairstow, but I’m sorry Leon. I am really sorry.’
To my amazement, I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
He squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying. Pregnancy makes my eyes run.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I had stupidly forgotten that. Mention it to Dr Foster at your next ante-natal session.’
I sniffed, appreciating his efforts to comfort me. ‘I haven’t got over the last one yet. Helen and I watched a short film about childbirth and it was so gruesome we had to turn it off. She had a stiff drink, I had a cup of tea, and we swore we’d never have sex again.’
‘You’ve had sex with Helen Foster?’
I managed a chuckle. ‘Not recently.’
‘That’s better. Aren’t you going to open your Christmas present?’
‘I have a Christmas present?’
‘An early one.’ He grubbed around in his pocket, pulling out a huge red and gold striped rugby sock, which he dangled in front of me.
‘Thank you, I said, wondering why, out of the two of us, I was always the one who was reckoned to be slightly odd. ‘Am I supposed to wear it?’
‘It’s your Christmas stocking.’
‘It’s an old rugby sock.’
‘Not today it isn’t. Here. Merry Christmas. Sorry I didn’t have time for tangerines or nuts.’
I took the sock. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I regarded the sock.
‘Get a move on,’ he said, grinning.
‘What?’
‘Open your present.’
The sock wasn’t as empty as I thought. There was something in the toe. I rummaged around, pulling out a small box, which, according to the picture on the front, should be full of paperclips. If he’d been an historian, I would have suspected a surfeit of Christmas punch. Or possible concussion.
‘Well, go on. Open it.’
‘Now?’
‘I don’t think there will ever be a better time. I’m sorry it’s not wrapped, but I didn’t think you’d mind.’
I opened the box carefully and stared.
‘Well? Don’t you like it?’
Nestling on a bed of cotton wool was a wedding ring. My wedding ring.
I’m not often stuck for words but on this occasion, I just sat and stared, too afraid even to reach out and take it. Eventually, I dragged my eyes away to his face.
‘How did you know?’
‘Because I’m the dog’s bollocks,’ h
e said modestly. ‘Observing the big white mark on your finger, your guilty expression, and remembering Bashford and Grey’s recent jump, I leaped, gazelle-like, to the correct conclusion. Easy for a man of my talents.’
‘You mean you checked your pod logs.’
‘And that as well.’
‘You went back for it?’
‘I did. I simply retraced your jump and followed you following them. I made your stallholder an offer he couldn’t refuse and retrieved your ring.’
Wild thoughts ran through my mind. What had he done? Had we substituted the problem of the gun for something even worse? What had we left behind now?
‘Oh my God. Leon, what did you offer him?’
He smirked. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper.’
The afternoon began to take on a slightly surreal quality. ‘What?’
He repeated it patiently. ‘Three rolls of toilet paper. You know – “Property of St Mary’s” stamped on each sheet. Although God knows why. It’s not as if anyone has ever queried ownership. Either before or after use. I don’t know why on earth you didn’t think of it. A clear demonstration of the superiority of the technical mind I think even you must admit. Anyway, he was delighted. When I left, he was pulling off the individual sheets, one by one, to the huge admiration of those around him.’
Toilet rolls – enough of a novelty to be valuable and attractive and very biodegradable.
‘Leon, you are …’ I stopped, unable to go on.
‘Yes? Don’t stop there.’
I shook my head.
‘You’re not going to cry again, are you?’
I shook my head.
‘Give me your hand.’
I stretched out my hand.
He slid it on to my finger. ‘Max, I give you this ring – again – because I love you. You are all the world to me and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.’
‘Leon, I take this ring – again – because I love you and …’
I couldn’t go on. More pregnancy tears.
He cleared his own throat, dropped a kiss in my hair, and put his arm around me.
I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad. Dr Bairstow would frown at me but I’d survive that. Elspeth Grey and Ian Guthrie would work something out. With luck, Helen would never know it was me who had inadvertently poisoned Markham.
And it was Christmas. It was snowing. St Mary’s smelled of good food. All my historians were home safe and sound, and I was here with Leon.
Sometimes – every now and then – there are moments of stillness. When nothing moves. When there is a sudden realisation of absolute happiness. A small, still moment to be remembered and cherished.
I burrowed deeper into his arms, enjoying his solid warmth. ‘So, apart from all that, how was your day?’
‘Well, someone hooked up the security monitors to every set of fairy lights in the northern hemisphere and rigged the whole lot to blow the main fuse and set off the fire alarms …’
I tutted at such misbehaviour.
‘Someone else shoved half a ton of wet linen into a locker in my pod and it stinks to high heaven.’
I chirped sympathetically.
‘My pod is filthy and reeks of people who haven’t showered for a very long time.’
I indicated my astonishment.
‘And some bugger’s pinched my last can of WD40, but other than that …’
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from everyone at St Mary’s
Jodi Taylor
For more information about Jodi Taylor
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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN 9781786151605
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2015
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
