by Jodi Taylor
We both paused to contemplate this all-too-likely scenario.
‘Suppose you came at me armed with my own paper knife and full of homicidal intentions.’
I picked up his paper knife and mimed coming at him full of homicidal intentions.
‘I simply dash of a note –’ he unscrewed his fountain pen and mimed dashing off a quick note.
‘But, sir,’ I said, hovering menacingly with his paper knife and keen to point out the obvious flaw. ‘With respect, by the time you’ve written the note, I’ve cut out your liver.’
‘I just need a stamp,’ he said imperturbably, opened his top drawer and pulled out the biggest handgun I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’ve seen a few. He levelled it at my face. The barrel was the size of the late and very unlamented Channel Tunnel and there was no discernible safety catch.
I put down the paper knife and sat down slowly.
He replaced the gun, closed the drawer, and my heart started up again.
‘Obviously, there are situations which call for a more immediate solution but, in general, if I wish to summon our colleagues in the Time Police, I simply write them a letter, clearly stating the circumstances and detailing the coordinates at which I wish them to present themselves.’
He sat back in his chair, apparently oblivious to the actually quite massive flaws in this scheme.
‘But surely, sir, by the time you’ve finished your written request for assistance and it has arrived at its destination, whatever crisis is occurring has resolved itself. One way or the other. And how on earth do they get the letter in the first place? They’re well away in the future. Do they turn up and sort out our great-great grandchildren?’
‘It’s …’ he paused, obviously rummaging for another phrase, found nothing appropriate, and continued with distaste, ‘… time travel, Dr Maxwell. By enclosing the appropriate coordinates, I can ensure they present themselves where and whenever I require them to be. I post the letter – well, I believe Mrs Partridge arranges that, but the letter is posted somehow, to be delivered to a discreetly coded PO Box in London.’
‘London?’
‘Well, the US has ruled itself out, of course, and I don’t have to tell you why Moscow or Beijing could not even be considered.’
‘So it sits in a post office box in London for years and years?’
‘Of course not, Dr Maxwell. The Time Police have instituted a twice-weekly collection. A young person appears, opens the box, records the contents and returns to Commander Hay who despatches her people accordingly.’
I stared at him. I’m certain my mouth was open. Just for once, however, no sound was coming out.
Weirdly, it made sense. How else could you contact someone in the future? Anything electronic would have to go through satellites that hadn’t been launched yet. Or even designed and built. Computer data can be lost, hacked or corrupted. So, if you have a threat of some kind, you simply send off the details and the Time Police turn up where and whenever and render whatever assistance has been requested. Or make the situation considerably worse, of course. It could go either way and frequently does.
He was following my train of thought. ‘It’s a remarkably simple and efficient system. So much so that Director Pinkerton, whom I’m sure you remember, once told me that the Time Police responded so rapidly that she actually had no time to write anything more than “Dear Sir or Madam” before they crashed through her door demanding to know whom she wanted them to shoot. Things calmed down eventually and the situation was successfully resolved. I do believe, however, that in the spirit of scientific curiosity for which she is so renowned, she pretended to forget to complete the request for assistance, in order to see what would happen.’
He paused. Being a showman again.
I obliged. ‘So what did happen, sir?’
‘Three of them crashed back through her only very recently repaired door and made a strong – a very strong – suggestion that she complete her written request without further delay. Closing the circle, Dr Maxwell. Just because, sometimes, effect comes before cause, does not mean we should neglect the basic rules.’
‘No indeed sir,’ I murmured from my weakened position as one who neglects the basic rules on a daily basis.
I worked on the fine details for the rest of the day and most of the evening and was roused only by Leon calling me up and enquiring whether I’d left him. I told him yes, I’d found myself a man who could move faster than a three-toed sloth and was better looking as well’, shut everything down and shot off to meet him for something to eat.
He was very quiet when I eventually climbed into bed that night and snuggled up to him.
He moved away fractionally, saying, ‘Max, we talked about this. You know I can’t …’
‘I do,’ I said, fighting down pity and panic and anger and God knows what else. ‘But as far as I know your injuries don’t exempt you from all other husbandly duties – bringing tea when required, knowing where my boots are, providing a safe and warm environment to put my feet at night, and putting your arm around me when I’ve had a long day.’
There was a short silence which I pretended to ignore and then he said, ‘Have you had a long day?’ and put his arm around me.
I sighed and snuggled. ‘Endless.’
I gave him a moment to relax and then found a safe and warm environment to put my feet. There was a small yelp in the darkness and I smiled to myself. Revenge might be a dish best served cold but so are feet in the middle of the night.
Of course, convincing Dr Bairstow was the easy bit.
‘No,’ said Leon when I mentioned my wonderful scheme to him in the privacy of our own room the next day.
‘But …’
‘Out of the question.’
‘But …’
‘No.’
And now I had a problem. Strictly speaking I didn’t need his permission for this assignment. As Chief Technical Officer, he had no authority over me, the Chief Operations Officer. As my husband – well, he still didn’t have any authority over me and, had things been normal, I would loudly and cheerfully have pointed this out to him, but things weren’t normal. Not even close. Now was not the moment to remind him that this was something else over which he had no control. In typical fashion, of course, we’d never discussed the elephant in the room – just papered over the cracks and carried on as usual, because that always works, doesn’t it?
Dr Stone had said it was a natural result of his injuries and would probably right itself over time. Probably. And to be patient. And neither of us was to stress about it, so we’d dodged the stress by dodging the issue. And now I found myself having to defy a husband who was already considering himself less than he had been.
I said carefully, ‘Leon …’
‘Oh, I know,’ he said angrily. ‘You’ll go anyway.’
He flicked on the TV. Tiny figures chased a ball back and forth.
I sat beside him and said, ‘Are you telling me not to go?’
‘Waste of time. You’d go anyway.’
‘Not necessarily.’
He turned to look at me.
‘It’s simple, Leon. If you ask me not to do it then I won’t. All you have to do is ask.’
There was a long silence and then he said, ‘You know I’m not going to do that.’
‘Look,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady because tears wouldn’t help at all. ‘You’ve done your bit. You ran him down and you cornered him and he was so desperate he blew us all up. Including himself. Now it’s my turn. He’s out there somewhere – intent on revenge. We’re presenting him with an opportunity that’s too good for him to miss. And there will be very little risk for me. I won’t even be here. I’ll be completely out of trouble.’
‘At Persepolis?’
‘The city won’t be under attack. The population will have a chance to get out safely.’
‘Max …’
‘I know, sweetheart, but if this comes off then we get our lives back. We get Matthew
back.’
‘It should be me.’
‘Yes, it should and, after you’ve recovered, it will be you. But at the moment, it has to be me.’
He said bitterly, ‘I can’t do anything,’ and we both knew what he meant.
‘Well no, you were in an explosion that blew you back eight hundred years and two thousand miles, Leon.’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said carefully.
‘You haven’t said anything …’
‘You know what Dr Stone said. It’s a natural result of your injuries and not to stress about it. So I’m not stressing about it.’
I was treading on such thin ice here. Picking a careful path between not seeming to place too much importance on what he saw as his failure, while not giving the impression I didn’t care. Because I did care. The physical side of our relationship was important to both of us.
He couldn’t look at me. ‘You’ve never said anything. I wondered – don’t you … want me?’
‘Of course I want you, Leon. Shagging you is my favourite thing. After chocolate, of course. And sausages. And my first cup of tea in the morning. And a good book. And anything with Stephen Hawking in it. And a long hot bath ...’
‘So according to you, almost everything is more exciting than me?’
‘No, of course not. Don’t get yourself in a tizzy. There’s loads of things more boring than you. For instance, you’re streets ahead of broccoli.’
‘Everything is streets ahead of broccoli. And I’ve never seen you eat green food in your life.’
‘Mint choc-chip ice cream?’
It was a joke too far. He pulled his hand away.
‘This isn’t a joke to me, Max. I’m trying to tell you that … that …’
I hit his arm.
‘What? Ow. Why are you hitting me?’
‘Because you’re so bloody stupid, Leon.’
He opened his mouth but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. Always get your licks in first.
‘How long have we been married? A bloody long time now and in all that time you’ve stood by me as I’ve let you down, disappointed you, got you into trouble, got myself into trouble, worried you sick, been kidnapped … You name it, I’ve done it, and you’ve always been there for me. You’ve been polite enough not to mention my expanding waistline, my grey streaks and my short-sightedness. You’ve been the rock on which I’ve built my life. You’ve never wavered. Not once. And here you are thinking I don’t want you any longer just because you can’t give me what you think I want. I know you well enough to know that, whatever happened, you would stand by me. To the end and beyond. And I’m upset – no, actually I’m not upset – I’m absolutely bloody lividly furiously ragingly angry that you think I wouldn’t do the same for you. How shallow do you think I am, Leon Farrell?’
Silence in the room. On the TV, the commentator bemoaned yet another England catastrophe in the penalty box.
We sat, side by side, staring at the screen.
After a minute, he reached across and took my hand.
After a minute, I rested my head on his shoulder.
After a minute, he put his arm around me.
After a minute, I curled up on his lap.
After a minute, he pulled the throw over us both.
After a minute, I switched off the TV.
After a minute, he kissed the top of my head and we both fell asleep.
Whatever miracles Dr Bairstow, Mrs Partridge and His Majesty’s Royal Mail performed, Captain Ellis turned up the next day.
He, Markham, Peterson, Dr Bairstow, Leon – in a technical capacity – and I discussed the plan. There were a few amendments but not many because basically it was simple. We were setting a trap for him to walk into.
Leon was very quiet. He’d said everything he had to say the night before. He took notes, offered up advice or suggestions where needed, and promised to have the pods ready whenever they would be required.
I left him talking schedules with Peterson and Dr Bairstow and walked Captain Ellis outside and back to his pod. We took the long way round because it was a nice day and because we needed to talk secrets.
We wandered out of the front door, around the side of the building and through the car park.
He pointed to some recent gouges in the side of the building and some bare patches showing through the Virginia creeper. ‘There’s been some damage here. What happened? Not Ronan again?’
‘Shrapnel. We blew up a couple of rocks.’
He looked around in alarm. ‘You’re not doing it again today, are you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Come to your senses?’
‘Run out of rocks.’
We turned into the sunken rock garden where it was warm, still and private.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
He nodded. ‘I don’t think it’s a bad idea. And it’s simple. Either he’ll turn up for the crown or he won’t. It’s black or white.’
‘Leon will shut down Hawking – you’ll have the place to yourselves.’
‘If he turns up then we’ll have him. We’ll wait until he’s out of his pod, hit it with an EMP and grab him.’
‘Alive?’
‘I don’t think anyone much cares but yes, if we can. And anyone with him of course.’ He turned to me. ‘If he shows up.’
That was my fear. That he wouldn’t show. I tried to put on a brave face. ‘He will, I’m sure. If ever anyone turns up in the wrong place and at the wrong time it’s him.’
‘Max, I don’t know ...’
‘Well, if the Time Police had managed to catch him then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?’
All my frustration and worry and disappointment – everything I hadn’t realised I’d been bottling up came boiling to the surface.
‘I mean why? Why does he always escape? How does he manage to get away? Every bloody time. He’s in some ratty pod that barely functions and you … we … still can’t catch him? Anyone accompanying him has a life expectancy of about four seconds and yet every time – every bloody time … he outmanoeuvres and out-thinks us. How? As the Time Police, you have every resource known to man, a budget of billions, licence to do as you please, and you still can’t catch him. Why can’t you catch him?’
I stopped, quite aghast at my outburst. I hadn’t meant to say any of that.
He took it quite well, really, in that he didn’t shoot me.
I could see him bite back what he’d been going to say, take a deep breath and make an effort to answer calmly.
‘I don’t know, Max. I’m as frustrated as you are, but shouting doesn’t help.’
I nodded, staring at my feet. He was right and now, not only was I still angry and frustrated, now I felt guilty as well.
‘We have to get him, Matthew. We’re hamstrung here until we do, and sooner or later someone high up is going to decide we’re not worth the effort and expense and that’ll be the end of us.’
‘Well, let’s hope it never comes to that.’ He sighed. ‘I will take this idea of yours to my boss and talk her into it. And you never know – it might work.’
‘It will work,’ I said stoutly. ‘Just make sure you get him this time.’
‘We’ll give it our best shot,’ he said. ‘You know we will. Now I must go. I’ll talk to you soon, I promise.’
I nodded. OK. ‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
He disappeared in the direction of his pod.
I turned away, meaning to take a stroll around the water garden and calm down a little. Fat chance. Because, as if I didn’t have enough to think about already, yet another disaster was, even at this moment, hurtling towards St Mary’s. As I rounded the first corner, there was Dottle, draped over a bench like a pre-Raphaelite painting and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Wrapped up as I was in my own problems, even I could see something was wrong here.
I stood he
lplessly. ‘Lisa, whatever is the matter?’
There was a lot of snorting and sniffing and nose wiping – like me she’s not a pretty crier, but the gist of it was that the idiot Halcombe was coming back. My heart sank. This was the last thing we needed.
‘Oh, shit. When?’
She was vague as to the details and there was even more snorting and sniffing and nose wiping.
I plonked myself alongside her. This was not good news. We had Dottle well trained. Yes, she sat in on our briefings, but other than that she didn’t trouble us and we didn’t trouble her. The idiot Halcombe was another kettle of fish entirely.
On the other hand, maybe he’d learned his lesson, namely – don’t mess with St Mary’s or you’ll spend a year being treated for the leprosy you don’t have. Perhaps, once he was back, we could persuade him he’d picked up some kind of flesh-eating bacteria from someone – Markham seemed a safe bet – and pack him off for another six months of painful injections.
I said some of this to her and she gave a snot-filled snort which I chose to believe was a laugh, blew her nose and said, ‘I’m sure you’re right, but now that he’s coming back to St Mary’s I’m worried he’s going to want his job back again.’
The idiot Halcombe – or Mister Halcombe as he inexplicably insisted on being called – was the result of our naughtiness a year or so ago, when Thirsk had finally made good their threat and installed a permanent presence here to keep an eye on us. Miss Dottle had been his slightly oppressed assistant. He’d muscled his way onto the Caernarfon assignment and it had all gone horribly wrong. Nothing too unusual there, but the bastard had pushed off and left them in trouble. He’d ordered a withdrawal and returned to the safety of St Mary’s leaving half the team behind, including his own Miss Dottle, and I’d had to go and get them. There had been a street riot and enormous quantities of pollocks. Yes, I know, the plural of pollock is pollock but the jokes are better if you say pollocks. Especially in the History Department where sophisticated humour and an elegant play on words don’t ever happen.
Anyway, we’re St Mary’s and he’d contravened one of our most important rules – we never leave our people behind – so we’d had to get rid of him as soon as possible, and given that there was a ten trillion to one chance he’d managed to contract leprosy, we sent him off to the leprosy clinic with instructions for them not to bother sending him back.
