An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  The old man said, ‘Now then, lass, we don’t want any fuss, do we? Into the pod with you.’

  I nodded because I certainly didn’t want any fuss. Far from it. I was certain that, sooner or later, they would make some mistake I could twist to my advantage, but for that I had to be alive, because if you’re alive then anything is possible. It’s being dead that limits your choices.

  I raised my hands and walked slowly into the pod. Where my heart sank.

  What a state. Yes, I know from experience that they can get a bit ripe, but the smell in this one was … I can’t think of a word, so let’s go with ‘exceptional’.

  I stopped dead, saying, ‘Bloody hell,’ and got a not very gentle poke in the back. I picked my way carefully around the torn floor covering, unable to believe what I was seeing. Half the locker doors were hanging off. Most of the ceiling panels were held on with duct tape. Acres of duct tape. There were two seats but the one on the left was broken and the one on the right didn’t look too sturdy either. Leon and Dieter would have done their respective nuts and I wouldn’t have blamed them in the slightest.

  The young lad spoke, his voice still jumping with excitement and nerves. I wondered if this was his first important assignment.

  ‘Sit down. In the corner. Hands on your head. Don’t even think about it.’

  I didn’t even think about it. He was a young boy with a gun as big as he was and panting for an excuse to use it. I went and stood in the corner, kicked over an ammo box and sat on it. I had no choice. I didn’t want him firing his blaster in here. He’d take out half the pod. I did as I was told and waited for an opportunity. There would be one. There always was.

  But not this time, it would seem. The old man pulled out a small handgun and handed it to the lad who reluctantly handed over his blaster. The old man powered it down and stood it in a locker – I think to the relief of both of us.

  Not that I was any better off. The handgun wobbled just as violently as the blaster had done. I sat very still. Partly so as not to set him off and partly so I could use the time to have a look around me.

  As I said, the pod was in a terrible state. Untaped wires hung from the ceiling. The console was dark in places and such lights as were on were flashing red warnings. The screen was cracked and blank. The interior was dim because only one of the ceiling lights was working. I didn’t even want to see the bathroom. I could feel my bladder shrivelling to the size of a grain of sand just thinking about it.

  I was amazed at how calm I was. There was an air of unreality about the whole thing. The seconds were ticking by and taking my options with them. I think I didn’t believe this was happening. Surely some chance would materialise. Someone would come and save me. Although they’d better get a move on. I could hear the clatter of falling bricks on the roof. We could find ourselves buried under tons of burning masonry any minute now.

  The old man appeared to be consulting a piece of paper, pressing buttons and bringing up crackly displays. There was a muttered consultation during which the gun continued to point my way. Finally, they appeared satisfied.

  The old man sat at the console, the other continued to watch me – just waiting for an opportunity. Were we going to jump? What was happening? Another burst of stones falling on the roof reminded us all that whatever we were going to do, we should get on with it.

  ‘Safety,’ said the old man.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just do it, lad.’

  Reluctantly, he snicked on the safety and it was just as well he did because it was the roughest trip I’ve ever experienced. I swear I felt the pod jump, which really shouldn’t happen. I moved, my stomach stayed put – or possibly the other way around – something crackled on the console and then we landed with a bone-jarring thud that even Peterson would be ashamed of.

  I sprawled on the floor wondering if I was dead.

  ‘Get up.’

  I said, ‘Forget it,’ into the floor and waited either to die or for my stomach to catch up. Whichever happened first. I really didn’t care.

  ‘I said, “Get up.”.’

  I opened one eye. Perhaps it was all a horrible dream. Nope. He was still there. The gun was still there. And I was still here. Wherever ‘here’ was.

  I lay unmoving, trying to think. I was somewhere that wasn’t Persepolis. I was alone. I was at the mercy of two men who, given their ages and the state of their pod, were not in the vanguard of Ronan’s shock troops. I remembered his final words. ‘Take her away somewhere and kill her.’

  ‘Give her a minute,’ said the old man. ‘It knocks you back a bit if you’re not used to it.’

  The young lad laughed. ‘Won’t matter in two minutes, will it?’

  I definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Come on, lass. Up you get.’

  I made a big business of getting unsteadily to my feet, resting my hand on a locker door for support. I think I had some crazy idea about whipping it open and using it as a shield, then going on to overpower the two of them, and hi-jacking the pod back to Persepolis.

  Yes, I know, but my options were getting fewer by the moment. For God’s sake, Maxwell, think of something. What did I have to work with? A clapped-out old pod. Two very definitely second-string soldiers. An unknown time and location. And the life expectancy of a politician in a truth-telling contest. He pointed the wavering gun at me. The safety was off again. I had only seconds left.

  And then the god of historians, traditionally absent on occasions like this, had a brilliant idea.

  I straightened up, sighed theatrically, and said woodenly, ‘No. No. No.’

  He took a two-handed grip on the gun and set his mouth in what he probably thought was a sneer. ‘It’s no use you pleading.’

  ‘I’m not pleading, you idiot. I’m advising.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’re doing it all wrong, aren’t you?’ Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

  ‘I’m the one with the gun. I’ll do it any way I please.’

  ‘Look,’ I said kindly. ‘I’m not saying don’t shoot me. I’m just saying don’t shoot me in here.’

  He grasped his gun even more tightly, which only doubled the trembling. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, firstly, because it’s likely the bullet will go straight through me and hit something much more important and then you’ll be stuck here forever. And secondly, kill me in here and you’ll have to cart the body outside yourself and believe me, I’m no lightweight. And I’m betting at least one of you has a bad back.’

  The old man turned from the console and twinkled at me. ‘You got that right. Listen to the girl, lad. She’s done this before.’

  ‘You bet I have,’ I said, willing to exploit this sudden friendliness.

  ‘Yeah, he said you were a slippery bitch. Warned us not to give you even an inch. Let’s stop messing about, shall we?’

  He peered at the console, confirming my suspicions that they didn’t have a clue what they were doing. It’s bloody typical, isn’t it? We historians spend bloody years learning about the timeline, temporal and spatial coordinates, pod procedures and God knows what and these guys are bucketing around the place with the instructions scribbled on the back of a bloody envelope.

  ‘The green one,’ I said helpfully.

  ‘Got it. Much obliged.’

  The door opened. I saw woodland. Summer green leaves rustled gently. There was a smell of leaf mould and sunshine.

  I felt a tiny surge of optimism. All right, I wasn’t dead yet. And trees were good. Trees could be hidden behind while I tried to get away. I thought I could see a faint path leading away. Paths could be followed – tracked back to their beginning or onto their end. Once outside I could make a run for it. Get away. Stay alive. And while you’re alive anything is possible.

  As if he read my mind, the older man shook his head. ‘Not a chance, love. Off you go now. Ten paces and then stand still.’

  Whatever the status of the youngster was, this
man was a professional. Ten paces away was too far away to jump them. And not far enough for the young lad to miss. And nowhere near a useful tree either.

  I walked slowly towards the door and out into the inappropriately cheerful sunshine. Birds twittered on, the way they do. Insensitive bastards. As I passed through the door, I turned back.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ said the boy, gun wobbling even more wildly than ever. He was going to shoot himself in the foot any moment now.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, quietly. ‘Just a friendly warning. Don’t go back.’

  They both stared at me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You heard what he said. “Just kill her and dump her. Don’t tell me where. I don’t want to know. Don’t tell anyone.”.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Why do you think he doesn’t want to know?’

  ‘You’re not important enough?’

  ‘Maybe. But my guess is that he doesn’t want to know because he knows that one day the Time Police will catch up with him. They can do what they please to him but he can’t tell them what he doesn’t know, can he?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what do you think he’ll do to the only two people on the planet who do know what happened to me? He’s not going to want you cutting a deal with the Time Police behind his back, is he? So – just a friendly word of advice. Don’t go back. You’ve got a pod. Not a particularly brilliant one by the looks of it – I’d be surprised if you had enough power for the return jump. And don’t tell me that’s not a coincidence.’

  Maybe I was getting through. They both turned and looked at the red-light display that was the console.

  ‘Choose somewhere quiet and peaceful. I’m thinking somewhere rural. Maybe England in the 1920s. The Great War is over and the country’s flooded with undocumented men. Do you have any skills?’

  The old man drew himself up. ‘Soldier.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. What about you?’

  The boy shrugged. Once again, the gun went everywhere. I could see the old man trying not to wince. Or duck.

  ‘I’m good with my hands.’

  ‘Well, that’s brilliant. Get yourself a job in a garage working on these new-fangled motor cars. You’ll be a millionaire by the time you’re thirty.’

  I wondered if I was getting through to either of them. ‘Just promise me you won’t go back, guys.’

  There was complete silence. Apart from the bloody birds, of course. We all looked at each other. No one said a word.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ve done my best to save your lives and now I’m going to ask you to do me a favour in return. I don’t want to be shot in the back. I’m not going to give you any trouble. I’ll walk out of the door, but please – just tell me when, so I can turn around and face you.’ I looked at the old soldier. ‘Being shot in the back is not good. Even a firing squad looks you in the face.’

  I waited, but there was no response from either of them.

  I smiled. ‘Thanks, guys. Take care.’

  Without waiting for a reply, I set off across the clearing, completely forgetting to count my steps because I’m an idiot. I walked very slowly, not making any sudden moves. I just put one foot in front of the other, every step taking me further away. Had I read them right? Was I going to get away with this?

  ‘Hey.’

  It would seem not. I was going to die in this sunny clearing on this sunny day.

  I let my breath out slowly, turned, squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and tried to hold a picture of Leon and Matthew in my mind. I wanted my last thoughts to be of them. I stood still and waited for the bullet. They were both standing in the doorway. The old man had his hand on the boy’s arm, pointing the gun downwards.

  ‘Thirteen ninety-nine,’ he said quietly. ‘Well, that’s what we were aiming for.’

  It took me a moment or two to grasp the implications of what he was saying and then I had to swallow before I could say, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And you’re probably not that far from home.’

  I said again, ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Please, promise me you won’t go back to Ronan, guys. He’s going to kill you.’

  I didn’t wait any longer. I turned and walked slowly down the path. My back felt very exposed. The old man seemed to be well disposed towards me, but it was the young lad who had the gun. At any moment, I expected to hear a shot. Feel the impact between my shoulder blades. Or maybe in the back of the head. In which case, I probably wouldn’t feel anything at all.

  With every step, I kept thinking, I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here. Until eventually, the path meandered away to the right and I was out of their sight.

  I felt a sudden wind and knew they’d jumped away. And I was still alive. I was still alive.

  My legs gave way. I collapsed in an untidy little heap at the side of the path and threw up. I was still alive.

  I sat up, wiped my mouth on a woodland plant, and tried to think clearly. I looked at the trees around me and said, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet, Maxwell,’ and giggled hysterically for longer than the feeble joke warranted before finally pulling myself together.

  Right – what did I know? I was in 1399ish. I didn’t know where, but that shouldn’t be a problem. People might not know in which year they were living – many people reckoned the years by the current king’s reign. They would say, ‘In the second year of the third Edward’s reign.’ Or, ‘In the seventh year of the second Richard.’ – but they usually knew where they lived. They could tell me where I was. If I was in England or Europe, I had a chance. Any of the Scandinavian countries wouldn’t be too bad. The Americas were an unknown quantity and if I was in the Middle or Far East then I was doomed. I’d never survive there.

  And I was never going to be rescued. My tags had been neutralised – and people would think I’d died in the fires of Persepolis anyway. There was no hope of rescue for me, but I was still alive. For the time being, anyway.

  I rested my back against a convenient tree trunk and had a bit of a think. They wouldn’t go back. They’d disobeyed Ronan’s instructions – they wouldn’t dare go back. They’d find somewhere, settle down and build new lives for themselves. Thanks to me. I’d saved their lives. Partly because I’m a nice person – no, really – but mainly because that meant that out there somewhere were two people who knew when and where I was. St Mary’s wouldn’t let it go. Whatever had happened at Persepolis – and not knowing was tearing me apart – Dr Bairstow would initiate a ferocious search for me, and Leon would tear the timeline apart. For a moment, I felt quite optimistic – and then I remembered again that I had no tags and they had no way of tracing me. And Leon was ill. And Dr Bairstow had a great deal on his plate at the moment. And his priorities would depend on whatever was happening back at Persepolis. I might not be the only person missing. And they would look for me there. If they had the chance to look for me at all. And Ronan had neatly side-stepped our trap. In fact, he hadn’t even bothered to show up for it. And I’d been delegated to a pair of second-rate soldiers: a has-been and a raw boy. What a cock-up. What a bloody awful cock-up. I sat in the shade of a giant beech tree and faced the fact that no one was ever going to find me. I was never going home again.

  I couldn’t sit there forever. I wanted to – but I couldn’t sit there forever. I had two choices. I could give up, bury myself in last year’s crisp golden leaves, close my eyes and wait to die, or I could follow the path to whatever fate awaited me. And then die. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and tried to think. What did I know so far?

  I was in 1399 – always supposing the old bloke hadn’t been lying. And I wasn’t far from home. His home or my home?

  I sighed, heaved myself to my feet, and did my best to look presentable. I smoothed back my hair, wrapped my suddenly much too bright and very conspicuously foreign stole around my head and shoulders, shook the worst of the creases from my tunic and set off along the path. The wood was very quiet. A bird sang s
omewhere, faint and far off, but the air was heavy and warm. The only thing moving here was me.

  I emerged from the woods into cooler, fresher air. I judged it to be late afternoon. The trees were covered in leaves but the colours were still fresh and green. Nothing had that tired, dry look of the end of August. So, late afternoon on a day in late spring or early summer. In 1399.

  That was when. What about where?

  I stood in the shade of a straggly, moss-covered hawthorn and looked around.

  I was on a slight rise, looking down at a small village spread before me. A medieval village. It looked English. European certainly.

  I saw a winding, rutted track that was the main road, bordered by small cottages, most thatched but a few tiled. The majority had long back gardens which seemed to be divided up into orchards, livestock pens and cultivated areas.

  At the top of village, about a hundred yards straight in front of me stood the village church. Short, squat with its familiar Norman tower.

  My heart soared, because if it’s one thing that doesn’t change very much over the centuries it’s the village church, and I recognised this one at once. Yes, there were some ramshackle wooden buildings attached to one side and there were no ghastly Victorian headstones with cherubs or weeping angels. Yews encircled the churchyard instead of the horse chestnuts I remembered but, otherwise, it was amazingly unchanged.

  The old man had said I wasn’t far from home and he’d been right, but I’d had no idea how close.

  I craned my neck, following the main street, no more than a deep track, really, down the slight hill and across the familiar stream at the bottom. There was no bridge – not yet, anyway – but a series of flat, white stones denoted the ford and there, on the other side, silhouetted against the woods, presiding over carp ponds and a dovecote and a poultry house and a water mill and several barns and all the other necessary accoutrements essential to a comfortable 14th-century life – there stood St Mary’s.

  Not my St Mary’s. Or even the St Mary’s before that. This was the medieval St Mary’s and it was amazing.