by Jodi Taylor
Edward looked tired and had even less hair than before, but he certainly hadn’t been idle. He’d assembled an excellent team. Guthrie was a good man. Steady as a rock and slightly less chatty. We often took a glass together on a Friday night. Just the one, usually, because that wasn’t a road I wanted to go down again.
More people turned up – admin staff, wardrobe staff, eccentrics destined either for R&D or a stint of community care – not that there was much difference between either. The food was good – Theresa Mack saw to that. Looking at her and several others – I wasn’t the only one who had some healing to do.
Time passed before I knew it. I was rushed off my feet most of the time but I wasn’t unhappy and then . . . one day . . . one day . . . One day I picked up the phone and Edward said, ‘Leon – I thought you might like to know. She’s here.’
I don’t know how he could possibly know. I’d said almost nothing about the Cretaceous assignment. I’d done a quick report about rendering assistance to an historian in difficulties – no one ever followed up on it and I think I assumed no one had even read it.
More out of curiosity than hope, I stepped outside and walked around the building. I stared across the South Lawn, and there she was. Marching up the drive as if she intended to storm the place single-handedly. Which, I suppose, is exactly what did happen.
I stood for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, and then raced back, through the hangar and down the Long Corridor, searching for and discarding various opening lines.
‘Nice to see you again.’ Cool, but pleasant. And definitely not giving the impression my whole life hung on this moment.
Or, ‘What took you so long?’ No, that sounded too judgemental.
Or, ‘Haven’t we met before?’ No, that made me sound like Markham, trying out his chat-up lines on the new nurse.
Actually, I moved so quickly I got to the Great Hall before her. Mr Strong was still signing her in when I arrived and I couldn’t stand around like a dummy so I walked slowly around the gallery, trying to time things so I’d be going down the stairs as she was coming up.
That didn’t work at all. Mrs De Winter was introducing her to everyone in sight so I had to go around again. And then she was with Professor Rapson and he invited her into R&D and I thought we’d lost her for good and so I had to go around for a third time. And then I thought I’d misjudged my timing so I had to break into a trot. And then I realised I was going to be too early and miss her so I had to stop and pretend to read a notice board. It was at this point that people were beginning to emerge from their offices for the sole purpose of giving me strange looks. Mrs Enderby in particular has a wonderful repertoire of stares.
Eventually, with much casual stopping and starting on my part, I contrived to be at the top of the stairs as she was at the bottom. Frowning heavily, as befitted an important person with weighty technical issues on his mind, I set off, and we met on the half-landing and once again, even though I was expecting it this time, my world went sideways.
For a moment she looked quite blank which was a little disconcerting and then I realised she didn’t know me. And she was so young. I realised, with a shock that I hoped didn’t show, that although I’d met her, she hadn’t yet met me.
She was staring at me. I wondered if she too was suffering a case of love at first sight.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I was thinking about the Crimea.’
Well, that wasn’t disconcerting at all, was it, but at least it was an excuse to smile at her. ‘You should fit right in here.’
Mrs De Winter introduced us.
She said something. I said something.
Her red hair was catching the light from the lantern roof above our heads. It was one of the few times I ever saw her with short hair. I don’t know if she’d put that product stuff on it or whether it was natural, but it stuck out from her head in spiky clumps. Rather in the manner that would be made unfashionable by Markham in years to come, whenever he was undergoing treatment to rid himself of all the species he was currently offering five-star accommodation to.
And just as I was before – I was lost. She smiled up at me with those great golden eyes. Her hand was cold. She rarely has warm hands. And don’t get me started on where she puts her feet.
I know I said something inane about people calling me Chief. I don’t remember letting go of her hand but I expect Mrs De Winter extricated her safely.
And now she was at St Mary’s as well. I saw her every day. Not always to speak to – sometimes it was just passing her on the stairs, or catching the echo of her voice from the Library or Wardrobe, but it was enough for me. It took us a long time – I was cautious and she was wary – but eventually we got things together and the sun came out in my world again. A fairy-tale ending.
Until we went to Troy.
I still can’t talk about that.
And then she died. The shock nearly stopped my heart. I couldn’t believe it. That wasn’t how fairy tales were supposed to go. She didn’t even die on assignment. I think I could have accepted that. She died in her own office. A stupid, useless accident that tore the heart out of me. The past came roaring back and I knew I couldn’t do that again. I left St Mary’s.
It wasn’t easy. Both Edward and Guthrie did everything they could to dissuade me but I just couldn’t bear it. Every time I looked up to see a door closing, it was as if she had just left the room. I was convinced if I listened hard enough I would hear her voice. Or feel her touch. Every moment was painful to me. As if every nerve ending was exposed. Even my skin felt raw. I just couldn’t do it so I left.
I didn’t go far – just down to Rushford. I started a small business repairing small household items and electronics. I kept it small so I didn’t have to concentrate too hard. Just enough to keep body and what was left of my soul together. I think it’s fair to say that, physically, I let myself go a little. I know some people thought I was a bit weird, but as long as I could repair their kettle or their laptop and not charge them very much, they weren’t too bothered.
St Mary’s didn’t completely abandon me. Edward stayed in touch and Guthrie and Dieter came by occasionally.
And Max’s friend, Isabella.
I can’t talk about that, either. There was no excuse for me but sometimes . . . if I closed my eyes . . . I could pretend . . . There is nothing I can say in my own defence, but it eased the pain a little and kept some of my blacker thoughts at bay. And it meant I didn’t have to be alone at night with my memories.
And then she came back. Max, I mean, which would have been a moment of earth-shattering joy if I hadn’t mistaken her for Isabella Barclay. I’m still not sure how I survived that. I suspect if Max hadn’t found herself in the wrong universe and with a huge hole in her chest then I wouldn’t have. As it was, she very nearly did for me with a blue plastic dustpan and brush but I deserved it.
Obviously, after that, I had quite a lot of ground to make up, but as Max said afterwards, fortunately for me, the Time Police turned up and tried to kill us both, and by the time we’d managed to escape, she’d calmed down a little. Enough to let me live, anyway. We decided to seize our second chance and take things very slowly so as not to repeat any of our previous mistakes. Thirty seconds later she was in my arms and we’d broken some furniture.
And that was it for me. I’ve never been the same since. Although it hasn’t always been easy. Even aside from operational catastrophes, there have been the usual marital issues. Apparently, I don’t always put my boots away and watching football is not a sign of intelligence. On the other hand, the things she can do to a tube of toothpaste don’t bear close investigation. And she snores. Really snores. And she leaves the toilet seat down.
It’s been a bit of a roller coaster for both of us and I suspect it’s not over yet because I’m married to a woman who hurls herself up and down the timeline with no regard for her own saf
ety and sometimes precious little regard for other people’s, either. She propels herself from one hazardous situation to the next. I frequently use the term ‘death wish’, having had some experience of that myself. I do know she makes real efforts to rein herself in – especially now we have our son, Matthew – and I know that Dr Stone – who is far from the idiot he’d like us to believe he is – has a quiet word with her occasionally over a cup of cocoa, but the sad truth is, I don’t think she can help it. She’s not even aware of it. If asked – and he did ask me once – I’d say it was the result of her upbringing. This self-destructive behaviour, I mean. Her father was an evil bastard and this is the way that she deals with what happened to her.
I’ve watched her come back off assignment with some terrible injuries and she seems to shrug it all off with a laugh and a careless joke and get straight back in the pod for more. It worries me. No, actually it terrifies me, but what can I do? Max often says there’s always a price to pay for everything and I think this is mine. If it is, I’m willing to pay it, so I can’t complain.
Once, when we were fleeing for our lives from the Time Police, when she was sick and exhausted, she did talk a little of her childhood. Not much, but enough to make me wish for a chance to meet this father of hers one day.
And then, one day, I got my wish.
Dieter and I were in Hawking Hangar, staring at the sad wreckage that had been Number Eight before the History Department had got their hands on it. We began by documenting the damage.
‘The toilet’s knackered,’ I said, trying not to sigh because, according to Max, that’s very annoying.
‘And two of the cupholders,’ he said, using his pen to poke something that fell to the floor with a clatter.
‘There are only two cupholders in this pod. We should congratulate them on their one hundred per cent score.’
‘I’m not too sure about this stain,’ said Dieter, gloomily, peering at something dubious on the wall.
‘We’ll get Mr Lindstrom to deal with that.’
‘What is that terrible smell?’
‘That’ll be Bashford. He’s on medication.’
‘It’s terrible. What is that English word I want? Begins with “P”?’
‘Pungent?’
‘Pongy. Yes, that’s it. Pongy. And the door control’s shorted out. Again.’
I felt a sigh was justified. ‘I’ve fixed it twice already this year and it’s only June.’
Dieter sighed too. You hear a lot of sighing from the Technical Section. ‘Why do we do this? There’s an entire Space Programme out there crying out for technicians like us.’
‘That’s because they eat technicians over there.’
‘Do they?’
‘That’s what Dr Bairstow said last time I mentioned it.’
He sighed again. ‘I’ll make a start.’
‘Thank you. And I’ll . . .’ I stared around, trying to prioritise.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Wander off somewhere and think about my life choices, perhaps. Do you ever think about an office job?’
‘Actually,’ he said, clutching the sad remains of a cupholder in one massive fist, ‘I always wanted to be a florist.’
I nodded. ‘Sensible choice. I’ve heard it pays well.’
‘Better than this, certainly.’
‘Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?’
He spun around. ‘There’s an elephant?’
His English is so good I sometimes forget he isn’t. ‘No, no. It’s just an expression. I’m talking about the scorch marks all over the console.’
He nodded. ‘They’ve blown the entire secondary board. How could that even happen? Where did they say they’d been?’
I flipped my clipboard to check. ‘Edwardian tea party.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a gift.’
I shook mine. ‘It’s a curse.’
‘Quick cup of tea and then we’ll get cracking?’
‘Good idea.’
We were just exiting Number Eight when Dr Bairstow turned up. He doesn’t come down to Hawking very often. Dieter muttered something and disappeared to the other end of the hangar.
Edward didn’t waste any time. ‘We have a problem.’
I wasn’t too worried. St Mary’s having a problem is our default state.
‘And that problem is?’
‘Max’s father is here.’
I must have stared at him. ‘John Maxwell?’
I don’t know how many fathers I thought she had.
He nodded.
I looked over my shoulder but we were alone. ‘Are you quite sure it’s him?’
‘Oh yes. There can be no doubt.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I want you to stay calm. It will be you and me who have to sort this out. I want to keep Max out of it as much as possible.’
‘I’m calm.’
He said quietly, ‘He wants to see Matthew.’
I forced down the fear and said slowly, ‘For what reason?’
‘To assure himself of Matthew’s well-being. Not only is he citing Max’s turbulent childhood, her behavioural problems and her instability, he’s querying the strange nature of St Mary’s. According to him, this is not the sort of place in which he wants his grandson to grow up, and Max is not a fit mother.’
It was very important that I stay calm. ‘What about me?’
‘He didn’t mention you.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Is this a genuine concern, do you think? Or is he just out to make trouble? Does he want money?’
‘No, as far as I can see it is not money he’s after. You may not have heard of him, but he’s John Maxwell, the famous surgeon. Very big in his field. Surgeon in chief at a big hospital in the north of England. He sits on various charities and committees including the local social services and police committees. He’s a person of power and influence and, worryingly, he has the ear of some very important people.’
I said carefully, ‘From the very little that Max has told me, this . . . concern he is manifesting over Matthew is unlikely to be genuine.’
‘I quite agree. But, if you think about it, Leon, we still have a problem.’
I stood still while the implications sank in. Edward was right. We did have a problem. We had a very big problem.
The thing is, Matthew’s birth certificate clearly states he was born around eighteen months ago, but he was stolen from us as a baby and we didn’t get him back until he was a young boy. Because of this and the brutal treatment he endured, it’s hard to estimate his true age, but it’s definitely more than eighteen months, which could be very difficult to explain away. The last thing we could afford is any sort of official enquiry. And I suspected that simply refusing to cooperate wouldn’t do any good at all. The influential John Maxwell, pillar of his community, would turn up with a stream of police and social workers – all of them expecting to see an infant – and then the fun would really start. We’d have no protection. One of the conditions of our contract with the government is that under no circumstances do we ever call attention to what we do here. Such as producing an anomalous child some ten years older than he should be. We could have a very serious situation on our hands.
‘Can’t we just say he’s not here? Because he isn’t. Not at this moment.’
Edward shook his head. ‘Where do we tell him he is? Or where he’s been? It’s not an acceptable excuse, Leon, and certainly not in the long run. And even if we could account for the discrepancy in his age – which we can’t – even the most superficial medical examination will reveal clear signs of abuse in his earlier years.’
All true. Malnutrition, broken bones, burns, scars. The list is heartbreakingly long. And impossible to account for.
I said slowly, working things out, ‘H
ow could John Maxwell know about Matthew? Not only does Max have no contact of any kind with her former life or anyone in it, she’s supposed to be dead. How could he know she’s here? We’re not on any official records. We’re exempt from the census. We’re not on the electoral roll. All our activities are masked by Thirsk.’
‘I suspect he was pointed in the right direction by someone we both know; after that, all he had to do was to rummage through the records at Somerset House.’
I was trying to think. ‘It would seem that Max’s father, knowingly or otherwise, has precipitated quite a crisis.’
‘Something that obviously runs in the family.’
I ignored that plainly inaccurate statement. ‘She’s not actually his real daughter. His daughter died. She’s another John Maxwell’s daughter. Suppose her DNA doesn’t quite match up? Yet another area that won’t stand up to close investigation.’
‘Yes,’ he said mildly. ‘We do have a lot to hide, don’t we?’
‘If I thought it would help,’ I said, ‘I’d grab her now and get her out of here right this moment, but it won’t.’
‘No. He’ll keep coming back. Ronan will see to that. And every time we don’t produce either Max or Matthew we’re storing up trouble for ourselves. We need to nip this situation in the bud. Preferably without having to . . . um . . . off John Maxwell and . . . er . . . conceal the stiff.’
I stared at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Did I get that expression wrong? Only I do feel it’s important to be current with modern terminology, don’t you?’
I’m almost certain he’s where Max gets it from.
‘Sir, I should tell you there are no circumstances under which I would permit Max’s father – or anyone – to take Matthew away. And on what grounds could he? Matthew has two living parents, both working and providing a stable environment. He’s receiving an excellent, if unconventional, education which yes, I know we can’t tell anyone about but . . .’
