by Jodi Taylor
Except that it wasn’t. It wasn’t Shakespeare, I mean. This Ghost was a good half a head shorter than the previous version, and bore a startling resemblance to Mr Markham.
‘Shit,’ said Lingoss, which pretty much summed it all up. ‘What is he doing?’
Why does everyone always think I know what’s going on?
I could feel Dr Bairstow’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I refused to look around, concentrating instead on formulating plans to spend the rest of my life in this century.
Back on the stage, Hamlet has killed Polonius in front of his mother and, even more emotional than usual – which is saying a lot – is trying to show her the Ghost, terrifying her even further. She flees around the stage, as Hamlet, increasingly desperate and increasingly mad, tries to seize her hands and force her to confront a spectre she cannot believe exists.
All this was happening at the front of the stage. So far, the Ghost had wisely stayed well back, a silent and motionless figure. For some reason, the effect was far more sinister than if he had gallivanted around the stage waving his arms and wailing. Which, I admit, had been my second fear. My first fear, of course, being what Dr Bairstow was going to say when all this was over. However, back to the plot.
The Ghost was about to speak.
I held my breath.
In a voice resonating with sadness and despair, he spoke.
‘Do not forget. This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But look, amazement on thy mother sits.’
As well it might since the young lad playing the queen had suddenly found himself being addressed by a complete stranger.
‘O step between her and her fighting soul.
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.
Speak to her, Hamlet.’
To no avail. Gertrude cannot see the Ghost. After a final moment of silent anguish, conveyed, according to the Markham School of Acting, by him clutching at his bosom with both hands, the Ghost drifts away, never, thank God, to be seen again.
A polite round of applause accompanied his exit.
I realised I’d been holding my breath.
‘Hey, Max.’
Don’t ever tell Peterson I’d completely forgotten about him.
‘Tim? Where are you? What’s happening?’
You’re supposed to say ‘Report’. It doesn’t always happen.
‘Bit of a full-scale war here. I’m pulling everyone out.’
I could hear a woman shrieking.
I asked who that was, because he does have a tendency to get himself involved with difficult women.
‘Now we know why the original passenger was so keen to get to the New World, Max. His wife and seventeen children have just turned up. She’s hanging around his neck like a dead albatross. The kids are screaming. He’s alternately trying to pretend he’s never seen any of them before and shouting at the crew to cast off. The crew are laughing their heads off. It’s all happening. Hang on, she’s wants me to … No, I will not hold the baby. No. Let go of me. Get off. For God’s sake, madam, will you kindly desist. Thank you. Max, stop laughing.’
‘It’s good training for when you’re married.’
‘I should live that long. Look out, Atherton, she’s heading your way. Watch out for that baby. It’s leaking at both ends. Sorry Max – have to go. Speak to you later.’
It was all right for Peterson. He only had an angry, ship’s crew, two uncontrollable academics, Psycho Psykes, and an enraged wife and her seventeen children to contend with. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Dr Bairstow was glaring balefully at the back of my head.
‘Dr Maxwell.’
‘Oh, hello, sir,’ I said cheerfully, grasping the bull by his horns. ‘Everything all right up there?’
‘We are all present and correct, yes.’
‘Jolly good,’ I said, ignoring the implication that my team wasn’t, and moved slightly to my left to get a better shot of Hamlet ranting about something to someone.
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘I don’t think so sir. Everything seems to be under control here.’
‘We shall speak later,’ he promised and closed his link.
The play cruised smoothly on – which was more than I was doing – the final scene especially providing a body count high enough to compare favourably with that of a modern day blockbuster. The final tally:
The Queen – poisoned by the king, her husband.
Ophelia – drowned.
Polonius – stabbed through the arras by Hamlet.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – both beheaded by the English.
Laertes – stabbed and poisoned by Hamlet.
Claudius – stabbed and poisoned by Hamlet.
And Hamlet himself – goes mad and then, continuing the established theme – stabbed and poisoned by Laertes.
A dark day for Denmark.
I was on the verge of calling Peterson. His silence was either a very good thing or a very bad thing – but if he needed assistance he would call me. Or so I told myself.
The players took their bows with Markham, obviously aware that the sands of his life were running out, trying to stand at the back and look inconspicuous – something that was never going to happen in any century.
And then it was time to go.
I turned away from the stage and, not without misgivings, opened my com. ‘Tim, what’s happening?
‘All present and correct. Well, mostly correct. A few bumps and bruises.’
‘You’ve been fighting?’
‘Only a little. Most of the damage was done when Keller tripped over a coil of rope and brought a couple of sailors down with him. They were at some pains to point out they weren’t those sort of boys and we had to run for it.’
‘Bloody hell, where are you now?’
‘In the Tabard. We gave up on Shakespeare. Some days you can have too much drama. We’ve pooled our pennies instead, and there’s a lake of ale on the table in front of us. What’s happening with you?’
‘Shakespeare set fire to himself and Markham made his stage debut.’
He whistled. ‘OK, you win. Much more disastrous than a couple of bloody noses and a crushed codpiece. How about Dr Bairstow?’
‘Up in the gallery.’
‘Isn’t there a song about that?’
‘How much beer have you actually had?’
‘Hardly any at all,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘So what are you up to, then?’
‘I, along with Miss Lingoss, whose behaviour has been exemplary, I might add…’ We both paused to savour this unaccustomed phrase, ‘…have been concentrating on the real assignment. Which is more than can be said for the rest of this bloody unit.’
I closed the link. All right, harsh words, but what would you have said?
It took us over an hour to get out of the theatre. No one seemed in any hurry to leave. There was food, drink and company. Why would anyone want to be anywhere else? The actors jumped down off the stage and mingled with the crowd, slapping backs and cadging drinks. I looked for Shakespeare. A brief glimpse, even at this late stage, might go a long way towards placating Dr Bairstow, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Sometimes I think the god of historians’ job description needs upgrading. Along with the actual god of historians.
Markham, grinning like an idiot, pushed his way through the crowd, pausing only to extricate himself from a not so young but very affectionate lady, who seemed to think physical contact of any kind constituted some sort of binding contract. We watched his struggles without sympathy and ignored his pathetic appeals for help.
Eventually, he emerged beside me, restored to what, for him, passed as normal, and bubbling with excitement. He passed me the sorry remains of my cloak.
‘Max, did you see me?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Did you see me?’
‘When?’
‘I was on stage. I was the Ghost. Did you see me?�
��
‘You were the Ghost?’
‘Yes. Did you see me?’
‘No, sorry. Must have missed that bit.’
‘What?’
‘Problem with my recorder. Maybe Lingoss got you.’
He turned to Lingoss. ‘Did you get me?’
Lingoss was shouldering her pack. ‘Get what?’
‘Me. On stage. I was the Ghost. I saved the day.’
‘When?’
‘Just now,’ he said, hopping up and down with frustration. ‘I was the Ghost. In the play. The one you’ve just seen. Today.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. My feet were killing me. These cobbles are murder to stand on for so long. I took a break and sat down. Must have missed it. Try Max.’
He turned back to me. ‘You must have seen me.’
‘What are you talking about? I’m seeing you now.’
‘No, not now. Then.’
‘When?’
‘When I was on the stage.’
‘What stage?’
We could probably have gone on like this all day, but at this point, he realised we were winding him up.
‘You’re right,’ he said, casually, taking his pack from Lingoss. ‘No big deal.’
Turning away, and the very picture of guilty furtiveness – although to be fair, that is his normal expression a lot of the time – he slipped something into his pack.
‘What was that?’ I said, because we’re not allowed to pick up souvenirs and he knew it.
‘Nothing,’ he said nonchalantly, thus confirming my worst fears. ‘Shall we go? Don’t want to be late at the rendezvous point.’
I held out my hand. ‘Give it to me.’
‘What?’ he said, grinning and getting his own back.
‘The thing you just slipped into your pack.’
‘What pack?’
‘The one that will be referred to as Exhibit A when I’m being tried for your murder.’
He grinned and pulled out a recorder, waggling his eyebrows at us.
We stared at it, oblivious of the people pushing past us on their way out.
I said hoarsely, ‘What did you get?’
‘No idea. Exciting, isn’t it?’
I nodded at the recorder. ‘Put that away. Very carefully. Miss Lingoss?’
‘Yes, Max.’
‘Your duty is clear. Should anything happen to Mr Markham between here and St Mary’s, your one and only function is to save that recorder at all costs.’
‘Hey,’ protested Markham.
‘Understood,’ said Lingoss.
The first person I saw outside was Peterson, unscathed and unperturbed. Beside him, Miss Sykes peered about her with bright-eyed curiosity. Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson stood nearby with Atherton and Evans stationed one on each side, ready to head them off at the pass should they stray, or intercede should they come to blows. Every single one of them looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. And all of them reeked of rum.
Peterson patted the pouch holding his recorder. ‘We’ve got some really good stuff here. You?’
This casual reference to my recording marathon did not endear him to me in any way.
‘Meh,’ I said. ‘Just the usual stuff. Shakespeare, Burbage, deathless prose – same old, same old.’
He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, Dr Bairstow hove into view, his team trailing behind him, with Major Guthrie bringing up the rear and a definite contender in the Best Black Eye of the Year competition.
The curfew wasn’t until nine o’clock but the sun had long since disappeared. I flung my scorched and burned cloak around my shoulders, ignored Mrs Enderby’s reproachful stare, performed a quick head count and ordered everyone back to the pod.
Dr Bairstow said very little as we made our way back through the darkening streets. Southwark was, if anything, even livelier in the evening than during the day. Shouts and laughter could be heard through open doors and windows. Some torches and lanterns were being lit, but most streets and narrow alleyways were in deep shadow, and they really weren’t places where we wanted to be.
Snatches of conversation drifted back to me.
‘It’s a kind of a cross between a clove and hitch. I shall call it the clit.’
‘Couldn’t think of anything else to do than shove it down the front of my trousers…’
‘And then Mrs Mack fetched him an almighty wallop…’
‘Scurvy, of course, which is why Americans refer to us as Limeys. Interesting isn’t it that in these times one could journey to and from America far more easily than in our time today…’
I stood at the bottom of the ramp and counted them all into the pod, congratulated myself on not having lost anyone, and ruthlessly pulled rank to be first into the toilet. The bloody play was four hours long, for crying out loud, and while everyone else might have been happy to splash against the wall, I wasn’t. Lingoss, herself obviously not a happy wall-splasher either, was hard on my heels.
I gave the word, the world went white, and still Dr Bairstow said nothing.
We landed with barely a bump. I made everyone stand still for decontamination, watching carefully as the cold blue light played over us all. Everyone was still babbling away about their own afternoon. The only person saying nothing was Dr Bairstow. It was very unnerving.
The ramp came down. Leon entered, smiled for me alone, bent over the console, and began to shut things down.
I don’t know why I thought we might get away with it. We never had before. Just as he was leaving TB2, Dr Bairstow turned and spoke at last.
‘As soon as you have finished in Sick Bay, Doctors Maxwell, Peterson, and Mr Markham, please report to me in my office.’
I sighed.
We crept into Sick Bay and tried to hang around at the back of the queue – there were many people to process and I think our plan was to get lost in the crowd – but Helen Foster hoicked us to the head of the queue, threw us through the scanner and pronounced us fit for purpose. Well, no less fit for purpose than we were before, she said, and to get out of here now because she was very busy and had better things to do than hospitalise Markham for a couple of really very minor burns so stop waving them around Markham because no one was interested, and there was no point in Peterson hanging about because she was far too busy to talk to him at the moment, and why was Maxwell still here?
We know when we’re not wanted.
We trailed to Dr Bairstow’s office, hoping for divine intervention on the way, but we’d obviously used up our quota for the day, arriving at his door completely unengulfed by catastrophe. As Markham said gloomily, for a bunch of people overtaken by disaster far more often than was good for them, where was a good crisis when you needed one?
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I don’t know why I’m standing around like a criminal. While everyone around me was stowing away on ships or brawling in the market or bursting into flames, I was the one who continued with the mission.’
‘That’s a very good point, Max,’ said Peterson. ‘And I saved the New World from Professor Rapson.’
‘Another good point. Lead with that.’
We both looked at Markham. ‘I’m the The Man Who Saved Shakespeare,’ he said, and we could hear the capital letters.
‘Leave this to me,’ I said, and they indicated their enthusiastic willingness to do that very thing.
We waited quietly until the Boss turned up, fresh and smart in clean clothes while we were still in our tatty Tudor gear. We followed him into his office, Markham taking care to display his burns prominently.
There’s an accepted routine for this sort of thing. Dr Bairstow sits in silent majesty and the offenders – that’s almost always the three of us, me, Peterson and Markham with a varying supporting cast – issue the standard blanket denial, offer up an unconvincing explanation, attempt to justify our actions, accept our reprimand, and hasten to the bar to nurse our wounds and our pride and have a well-deserved drink.
But maybe not today.
‘Why is it that after every assignment I look up to see you three standing in front of me?’ Which since he’d particularly requested the pleasure of our company seemed a little unfair.
We indicated our own mystification.
‘So,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure you will correct me if I go astray, Professor Rapson inadvisedly boards a boat…’
‘Ship,’ murmured Peterson.
‘…bound for the New World. An altercation ensues and your solution, Dr Peterson, is to ply everyone present with cheap rum, which delays the sailing sufficiently to give the original passenger’s wife and family time to intercept the boat…’
‘Ship.’
‘…remove said passenger and restore him to the bosom of his apparently enormous family.’
‘His enormous grateful family, sir.’
‘I gather that under the mellowing influence of a great deal of alcohol, moves to keelhaul Professor Rapson were circumvented.’
‘I think they were more of a threat than a promise and…’
‘Where was Miss Sykes during all this? And don’t tell me she wasn’t there?’
‘Miss Sykes heroically undertook to induce the second mate to release the professor.’
‘He was in the brig?’
‘Not as such, sir. He was actually sitting on a coil of rope demonstrating the er … the um … his new knot to an admiring crowd.’
‘And Mr Keller? What was the Security Section’s role in this?’
‘Mr Keller suffered a slight loss of balance – no sea legs, sir – inadvertently falling on a couple of seamen. It was later agreed that his actions had been misinterpreted and there was general mirth and merriment over the misunderstanding.’
