by Jodi Taylor
Dr Bairstow sighed, hung his stick off the arm of his chair and, taking advantage of another Cutter dialogue with his ear, said quietly, ‘Please reassure me that there will be absolutely no risk to Mr Cutter. I don’t think either of you quite appreciate the difficulties involved in persuading a dead person to sign a contract. Quite apart from the practical issues, which are complex and wide-ranging, such documents are extraordinarily difficult to uphold in a court of law. You will, therefore, oblige me by not killing Mr Cutter until the ink is well and truly dry.
Peterson and I nodded solemnly. ‘Understood, sir.’
Surprisingly, he seemed satisfied by this and turned his attention to me. ‘In your haste to leave my office this morning, Dr Maxwell, you forgot this.’
He handed me the manuscript I’d deliberately left lying on his desk. Damn and blast!
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I thought you might be concerned you had lost it,’ he said, settling back comfortably.
What can you say?
Several St Mary’s personnel, all dressed as brutalised slave labour – i.e. wearing their normal St Mary’s gear – were rushing around with their arms full of wood, stoking the fires. Smoke, flames and crackling sparks curled into the air. The heat was extraordinary and the addition of any sort of liquid seemed superfluous. Surely the flames alone would be sufficient to shatter the stone.
Apart from all that, the day was lovely. A warm sun shone in a clear blue sky. Mr Stone, obviously under the same starter’s orders as the rest of us, had ensured the grounds looked immaculate. If it wasn’t for the St Mary’s personnel, the scene would be idyllic.
Given recent events I was quite happy just to sit in the sunshine and watch other people work, but I had forgotten the short attention span of the entertainment industry.
‘So,’ said Calvin Cutter, apparently not addressing his ear this time, ‘this is rather slow. What’s supposed to happening here?’
‘Well,’ said Peterson leaning forwards and, remembering his audience, kept the explanation short, sharp and spectacular, using sugar cubes and milk to demonstrate.
Dr Bairstow gazed on in benign approval.
Peterson paused.
Mr Cutter did not. ‘And?’
‘And then we shall see what we shall see.’
Calvin Cutter looked at us. ‘Don’t you know what will happen?’
‘Nope,’ said Peterson happily.
Dr Bairstow coughed gently. ‘We tend to find that the element of uncertainty only adds to the excitement of the proceedings,’ which came as a complete surprise to Peterson and me who had, on many occasions, been given to understand – quite strongly sometimes – that the element of uncertainty did not feature prominently on his happy list.
‘So, you’ve no idea how this will turn out?’
‘None at all. Would you like some tea?’
‘No,’ he said shortly, which I thought was rather rude even for a member of the entertainment industry.
Dr Bairstow stood.
‘Are you leaving us, sir?’ I said, trying not to sound too relieved.
‘Alas,’ he said, ‘Although I have not yet had the opportunity to explore the more remote areas of my in-tray, I am certain that whatever is lurking there will be less explosive than remaining here. Please bear in mind my earlier comments on the difficulties of implementing contracts of dubious provenance, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Of course, sir,’ I said gravely.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Cutter. I’m sure I shall be seeing you later this afternoon. Probably.’
He limped away.
We sat some more.
‘This is rather slow,’ said Mr Cutter again, shifting impatiently. ‘At this rate, it would have been quicker for them just to have waited for glacial erosion, don’t you think?’
Beside me, Peterson twitched. I suspected he was desperate to get stuck in with the rest of the History Department, but as Markham had pointed out, he was DD now. Rank doth not always have its privileges. I, on the other hand, older than I would like to be both in years and experience, was staying well out of it. There was every possibility there would be tears before bedtime and I was determined none of them would be mine.
Clutching a megaphone, Professor Rapson began to mount an ancient pair of stepladders which swayed somewhat precariously.
‘Andrew, you old fool, come down at once,’ shouted Dr Dowson – albeit from a safe distance. He had dressed for every meteorological contingency imaginable in bright yellow wet-weather gear, green wellies, trousers tied below the knee with string, a hard hat surmounted by a sou’wester, and he was carrying a Roman shield in one hand and a gas mask in the other.
I looked up at the cloudless sky and shook my head. It was probably best not to ask.
With an eldritch shriek, the professor activated his megaphone.
‘STAND BACK, OCCY. I’M NOT QUITE SURE HOW THIS IS GOING TO TURN OUT.’
Thirty people reeled backwards clutching their ears.
‘SORRY … sorry,’ he said, adjusting the volume. ‘Can you hear me now, Occy?’
‘Of course, I can hear you, Andrew. They can hear you in Madagascar. And I am already standing well back. Do you take me for a complete idiot?’ Wisely not pausing for a reply, he hastened on. ‘And come down from that ridiculous contraption. I fail to see how you will be able to assimilate the results of this preposterous episode accurately if you’ve broken your neck.’
‘No need for concern, Occy,’ boomed Professor Rapson, startling birds from the trees for a radius of two miles. Except the swans, of course. ‘I have everything completely under control.’
That he wasn’t instantly blasted from his perch only goes to show how very much not up to the job the god of historians is.
The megaphone gave another appalling screech.
‘Remember everyone – you are Carthaginian troops on your way to attack Rome. You will also be at risk from avalanches, unpredictable war elephants and possibly the local tribespeople as well. Try to factor that in.’
A small group of people standing nearby obediently lay on the ground – avalanche victims presumably. Several more ran screaming from the scene – ‘Exit pursued by an elephant,’ murmured Peterson. Sykes, meanwhile, was dealing with imaginary local tribespeople by shaking her fist and shouting, ‘Shoo. Shoo. Go home you naughty tribespeople and trouble us no more.’
I resolved to have a word with her later.
‘Last loads everyone,’ boomed the professor as the final armfuls were dumped on the fires. The flames roared even higher. People retired to a safe distance. That’s a St Mary’s safe distance, obviously, not some girlie safe distance dreamed up by the HSE to drain all the excitement out of life.
‘We shall dowse all the rocks simultaneously,’ the professor continued, ‘so we can ensure they’ve all received the same amount of heat for the same amount of time. Dowsers – stand ready.’
Four people stepped up, suited and booted in fireproof suits. Well what did you think? We’re not complete idiots, you know. A plastic dustbin full of murky-looking fluids and a stirrup pump stood close to each, by now almost incandescent, rock.
‘On my mark,’ boomed the professor.
‘What’s going on?’ said Mr Cutter, cutting Justin off in mid-flow. ‘Is this it at last?’
Everyone stood very still. The only sounds were the crackling flames and the occasional snap of burning wood.
‘Mark.’
Each figure immediately began to pump like a madman and a small river of miscellaneous fluids simultaneously engulfed each rock.
Which, as Peterson said later, might have been a bit of a mistake.
In my ignorance, I thought the rocks would just crack. I thought that Hannibal’s men would chuck a gallon or so of vinegar at the obstructive hot rock, then give it a bit of a poke with a sharp implement, that the rock would fall apart, and then everyone would continue on their merry way to bring down Rome. What do I know?
Many, many t
hings happened all at once.
Four vast plumes of steam boiled and hissed into the air to a considerable height, merging into one colossal mushroom shape of doom. The smell was appalling, catching at the back of my throat and making my eyes stream. With a massive crack that hurt my ears, all four rocks exploded simultaneously.
Something zipped past my ear. And then something else clattered onto the table. Something else thudded to the ground beside my chair.
‘Everyone down,’ yelled Peterson.
He grabbed Calvin Cutter and dragged him down under the table.
I’m an historian. I was already there.
‘What was that?’ said a somewhat muffled voice. We rolled him onto his back so he could breathe.
‘Shrapnel,’ said Peterson shortly, and it was.
Great lumps of flaming rock were flying everywhere. I heard shattering glass somewhere in the distance.
‘What the hell…?’ said Mr Cutter, trying to get up. We pulled him back down again.
The fumes were appalling. I could feel my eyes running and the back of my throat felt raw. It hurt to swallow. We rolled Mr Cutter back onto his face again so he could inhale dirt rather than foetid vapours.
‘We should get him out of here,’ I said, becoming aware of a nasty headache beginning to throb above my eyes.
I peered around. Some people were running away – some had done as we had and taken refuge under the tables as rocks and burning wood rained down upon us. I swear my ears were still ringing.
‘It’s like the K-T extinction event,’ said Peterson.
‘The what?’ said Cutter, coming up for what he mistakenly thought was fresh air.
‘You know – the end of the dinosaurs. We could be looking at a nuclear winter by tea-time and extinction by lunchtime tomorrow.’
I should be so lucky. If anything happened to Calvin Cutter, as far as Dr Bairstow was concerned, extinction would be the least of my problems.
There was another clatter of stones on the table top over our head and we all huddled back down together. Suddenly, Dr Dowson’s bizarre get-up made a great deal of sense.
Speaking of whom … I rolled over. ‘Professor, are you all right?’
His voice came from not too far away. ‘Yes, yes, Max, I’m perfectly all right. Thank you for asking.’
‘Should it have done that?’
‘Not really. I think perhaps the rocks may have been defective. I must say, Max, this sort of thing does make you doubt Pliny. I mean, I don’t know a lot about elephants but I’m sure they would have found this sort of thing most upsetting. I find it hard to believe they wouldn’t have turned tail and fled, don’t you?’
‘What is he talking about?’ demanded Calvin Cutter.
‘I feel sick,’ said someone nearby.
Yes, we needed to get out of here. I needed to get everyone evacuated back inside St Mary’s. Which would make a change. It’s usually the other way around. The smell was terrible. We were going to have the Parish Council around again.
Everything was still enveloped in steam.
In the distance, I could hear hoofbeats as the horses galloped past on their way to safety. Asia presumably.
‘There go the dinosaurs,’ announced Peterson, whom I began to suspect was not taking this seriously at all. ‘It’ll be the mammals next. I’d keep my head down if I were you, Mr Cutter.’
Cutter, the silly ass, had somehow acquired David Sands’ manuscript and was using it to protect his head as he peered over the table top trying to see what was going on. Peterson yanked him back to safety, but undeterred, he produced a small palm device and began bashing away at it, generating his own heat haze of excitement.
‘Justin, Justin, you won’t believe what’s happening to me. How do you spell ricochet? … What? … You’ll have to speak up – I’m under some sort of bombardment here … Yes, you heard me. I tell you Justin, these people are bat-crap crazy.’
I was about to refute this statement – and with some indignation, too – when all the security alarms went off. The formerly peaceful sunny afternoon was rent again with klaxons and bells. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help.
And here came the cavalry, headed by Markham himself, pre-empting Dr Stone’s permission to return to work. For all his talk of none of this being anything to do with them, the entire Security Section was already togged out in fire-fighting gear. Some had extinguishers, others those flat paddles with which they attempted to beat out the flaming grass.
A small group of them broke away to try to round up the horses before they caused chaos – well, further chaos – by escaping to the village. Or trying to get into the main building. Or in the case of the big, dirty brown beast known as Turk, chasing, catching and eating Markham, against whom he had a long-standing grudge.
Peterson grinned at me. ‘So much more enjoyable when I know none of this is my fault.’
I shot him a reproachful glance. Water off a duck’s back.
My com bleeped and Rosie Lee said, ‘You still alive out there?’
I was touched that she would ask and said so.
‘I was concerned something had happened to you,’ she said. ‘because you haven’t yet signed my timesheet this week. And I wanted to tell you a bloody great meteorite just came through the window and landed in your in-tray.’
‘Good job I wasn’t working at my desk.’
‘You’re never working at your desk.’
I ignored that. ‘Is there much damage?’
‘The entire top layer is toast.’
‘Really? Because right at the very bottom there’s a request for pod stats over the last two years. Could that be toast too?’
‘I’m under my desk at the moment, trying to find something in my bottom drawer.’
‘What could be more important than this, for God’s sake?’
‘Clean underwear.’
‘You’re not wearing clean underwear?’
‘Not any longer.’
‘Listen – lose the pod stats and I’ll do my best on behalf of your beloved’s manuscript.’
‘Max! Bad news! The pod stats have just gone up in flames! All two years’ worth!’
That’s my girl.
I was impressed our Mr Cutter hadn’t run a mile. Now, however, Peterson finally allowed him to emerge from under the table.
We waved our arms to dispel the foetid vapours. For all the good it did. Professor Rapson trotted over, a scarf tied around his nose and mouth. ‘Everything all right here, Max?’
‘Yes,’ I said, turning slowly to get the full effect. It looked as if a small war had occurred. The whole area was covered in pieces of rock, burning wood and overturned furniture. Some areas of grass were still on fire. A pall of evil-smelling smoke hung over everything.
Peterson was surveying the remains of the ex-rocks. ‘They certainly went up with a bang, Professor. Was that intentional?’
Professor Rapson pulled me aside and whispered, ‘Actually, Max, for your ears only, I might have cheated a little.’
‘What?’
‘Well, Miss Lee said you said I had to make it good, so I added a little something extra.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said quickly. ‘And Dr Peterson doesn’t need to know at all.’
He nodded. ‘Understood.’
I just had time to give thanks that however half-arsed a job the god of historians had done today, at least Dr Bairstow hadn’t been around to witness it, when my com beeped and Dr Bairstow’s voice said, ‘My office, Dr Maxwell, at your earliest convenience, please, when I look forward to hearing your explanation as to why the History Department has just tried to kill us all.’
‘Shit,’ said Peterson – management’s invariable response to a crisis. Second only to looking around for someone else to blame, of course.
It dawned on me that Calvin Cutter had been quiet for a very long time which might have been because when I looked round, he wasn’t there. I panicked. Surely he hadn’t incurred some injury. Nothing t
hat would render him unable or unfit to sign a contract anyway. It would be just my luck if he croaked before signing something vital to our future financial stability.
And, my other responsibility – David Sands’ manuscript – what had become of that? I sighed. This wasn’t turning out to be one of my better days. And then things got even worse, because Calvin Cutter had retired back under the table and was gazing at the manuscript, apparently lost to everything going on around him.
He sat, silent and still, staring at something probably only film producers could see. I was concerned he might be having some sort of neural event, although there was always the possibility this was a perfectly normal state for those in the entertainment industry. I told myself it might be some form of sleep-sitting to which he and his colleagues might be prone, and that waking him could cause more problems than it solved. At least he’d stopped talking, which, as far as I was concerned, was a huge improvement on before. Peterson and I stood quietly as St Mary’s whirled past us in the traditional aftermath of one of the professor’s forays into Practical History and waited for events to unfold.
And unfold they did.
Returning to the real world, Mr Cutter thumped his ear again. ‘Justin, give me Marj … What do you mean in labour? Labour is something you do – not go into … What? No never mind. I’ll do it myself.’
He addressed himself to his ear again. ‘Call Marj … Marj? Where are you?… Why don’t I know you’re not in the office today? … What? But you had it last week … Yes, you did. I distinctly remember giving you time off to go to the hospital … Well, how many check-ups does one foetus need? You should nip this sort of thing in the bud, you know. This constant attention-seeking does not bode well for the future … Anyway, enough of that. I need you to draw up contracts for … What? … What? Who are you? … No, you’re not her sister. She doesn’t have a sister. I had her vetted very carefully for potentially demanding family members and close personal relationships. The word sociopath is not the stigma people think … What sort of sister? … Oh … Well, now I come to think of it, how did she manage to get herself pregnant in the first place? Put her on … Put her back on … Marj, as soon as you can – this afternoon will be fine if you’re busy now, I want you to draft … I don’t understand. Why can’t you? … Well, how long do you think it will take? … Why don’t you know? Are you even married? … Three years? You never mentioned it … No, you didn’t. Who are you married to? … Never heard of him … What our SAS? Well, yes, obviously, I’ve heard of them. They’re in all those films about storming embassies and … Hello … Hello … Who the hell are you? … Oh … Right … OK … Sorry …Yes … There’s no need for … Yes … Right … Sorry.’
