by Jodi Taylor
Peterson beamed at Dr Bairstow. Who turned his attention to me.
‘And you Dr Maxwell?’
‘I recorded the entire production sir,’ I said firmly, feeling that not enough attention was being paid to the one person who had fulfilled her part of the assignment. ‘All bladder-straining four hours of it, together with footage of the audience, paying particular attention to the galleries.’
I placed my and Lingoss’s recorders on the desk in front of him and stepped back, oozing virtuousness and eagerness to please. Both Peterson and Markham refused to catch my eye.
He turned his beaky nose towards Markham.
‘So, Mr Markham, it would seem that when I eventually take a moment from assisting my colleagues in the execution of their duties at the street market and request an update on the assignment, I find that, for some reason, William Shakespeare is engulfed in flames and that you have appropriated his role for yourself.’
I thought he was slightly overstating events but refrained from saying so. Markham could usually look after himself.
‘Well, Mr Markham?’
‘It all happened so suddenly, sir. One minute the Ghost is denouncing his brother and his queen and exhorting Hamlet to seek revenge and the next minute he’s a raging inferno.’
Another one slightly overstating events. I stood back to let the two of them tough it out.
‘William Shakespeare was on fire?’
‘Not all of him, sir. Only his clothes.’
‘And you extinguished the flames and possibly saved his life.’
‘I did, sir,’ he said, casually moving his burns to an even more prominent position and wincing with bravely concealed pain.
‘You interfered with History. Are you aware of our Standing Orders?’
‘Very much so, sir. Major Guthrie quotes them at me on a regular basis, but I didn’t interfere, sir. We have no reports of William Shakespeare being injured or disfigured in a fire. In fact, he lives for many years and goes on to write even more plays. You could say sir, that it was necessary for me to interfere so that History wasn’t changed.’
He had a point. History is like a living organism and it will always protect itself. If it thinks, even for one moment, that someone or something is about to alter events that have already taken place, then the offending virus – or historian as we prefer to be known – is wiped out without a second thought. The fact that our Mr Markham still lived and breathed was evidence that – just for once – he was completely blameless.
Dr Bairstow shifted in his chair. ‘To use a word in keeping with the situation – what exactly was your role in all of this?’
Markham assumed his hurt expression – the one resembling an abandoned puppy in a snowstorm. ‘Well, sir, if you mean did I actually set Shakespeare on fire then no, I didn’t. The part I played – to continue your brilliant example, sir,’ he said, slathering on the butter, ‘consisted simply of acting to assess the situation, identifying the appropriate measures to be taken, staging the Stop, Drop and Roll programme, and assisting the stricken Shakespeare to exit to an area under the stage so that I could perform any further assistance.’
‘Which consisted of appropriating the role of Ghost.’
Markham beamed again and nodded.
‘But what of the understudy? How in God’s name did you ever induce him to allow you to do such a thing?’
‘I… um … I offered him something in exchange.’
My mind boggled. I couldn’t, offhand, think of anything Markham could have had that the understudy would have wanted. We’re not allowed to take anything with us. And then – of course – my chocolate. He’d bartered my bar of chocolate. The one hidden in my cloak. True, by that point it might have been a little battered and melted, but even so … I took a moment to imagine the impact of a brick-sized bar of fruit and nut on someone who’d never in their life tasted anything like it. The Ghost was not a major role. Only half a dozen lines – in exchange for a giant slab of the stuff? Of course he’d allowed it.
‘What could you possibly possess that would induce him to do such a thing?’
I stiffened. While taking my own lunch was perfectly acceptable, a great block of as yet undiscovered chocolate was almost certainly not. What would Markham say?
I needn’t have worried.
Contriving to look even more abandoned than ever, Markham smiled reassuringly. ‘The object concerned was completely biodegradable sir. Nothing to worry about at all.’
‘Astonishingly, this blithe assurance does nothing to lessen my anxiety.’
‘Your groundless anxiety, sir.’ He beamed in what he probably thought was a comforting manner.
‘So you are telling me that the Ghost’s unearthly utterances from beneath the stage and his final but very public appearance in Act Three – all that was you?’
I could see Markham considering possible answers, rejecting them all and settling for the uninflammatory truth.
‘If you mean my inspired recreation of a restless soul in torment, unable to rest in peace, languishing in the depths of anguish and despair, and desperate to convey his message from beyond the grave then yes, all that was me, sir.’
Dr Bairstow began to align the files on his desk. Never a good sign.
‘I find myself quite bewildered, Mr Markham. It would seem that, thanks to your admittedly timely intervention, while the damage to his clothing was fairly major, the damage to Shakespeare himself was so minor as to be non-existent. I am anxious, therefore, to learn the compelling reasons for your subsequent appropriation of the role of the Ghost, which thereby deprived the audience – and me – of the pleasure of watching the greatest playwright the world has ever known perform his own lines.’
Wow. He was really annoyed. All the signs were there. Long sentences. Polysyllabic words. Faultless grammar. Perfect punctuation. Dr Bairstow was – not to put too fine a point on it – right royally pissed at Markham.
Who shifted his feet, uneasily. ‘Well, it wasn’t so much the fire that did the damage, sir. The thing is, I might have dropped him.’
The files were now aligned with ominously millimetric precision. ‘You dropped Shakespeare?’
‘Only slightly, sir.’
‘Do you mean you only dropped part of him, or that you dropped all of him, but not from a great height?’
‘Both, sir. There was a step which, in the agitation of the moment, I didn’t notice, and he went down with a bit of a crash.’
Running out of files, Dr Bairstow gripped the edge of his desk. ‘You knocked Shakespeare unconscious? And do not say “Not all of him.”‘
Obviously not feeling able to comply, Markham said nothing.
‘Answer me.’
‘Well, I didn’t, sir. Knock all of him unconscious, I mean. He was just a bit wobbly and the bit was coming up where he’s supposed to intone, “Swear,” in horrid tones from underneath the stage, and even after an interval to recover, he really was all over the place, so acting in a prompt and timely manner, I did it. And no one noticed. And the show must go on, sir,’ he added, laying on the jam as well as the butter. ‘And then he threw up. All over himself, sir, and you have to admit it would have been a bit of a disaster if he’d done that on the stage. I’m not sure they’d invented ectoplasm in the 1600s.’
‘Charles Richet, 1905,’ murmured Peterson, electing to join the conversation just in time to make things worse.
Everyone, even Dr Bairstow, turned to stare at him.
‘What?’ Peterson demanded, defensively. ‘Helen was researching anaphylaxis and his name came up.’
I’m not sure if he was attempting to deflect Dr Bairstow’s wrath or not. Whichever it was, it didn’t work. Charles Richet was dismissed as irrelevant in the scheme of things. Just as Dr Bairstow leaned over his desk for the kill, however, Markham pulled out his recorder, gently placed it on the desk and stepped back.
It’s not often you see Dr Bairstow struggle. I could sympathise. Anyone who deals with Markham
would be familiar with this situation. Wearing his Director hat, the Boss would want to know what Markham thought he was doing with a recorder. Wearing his historian hat, he would want to know if there was anything interesting on it.
He pulled himself together.
‘What is that?’
‘It’s a recorder, sir. You know, the History Department use them.’
Once again, the beaky nose turned his way and we waited for him to be blasted from the face of the earth. Apparently unaware he had only seconds left in this world, Markham innocently picked up the recorder and began to fiddle with it, talking all the while.
‘I don’t know what I’ve got, of course. It was dark under the stage, and even when I’d got him out and around the back, he was still a bit bleary and in no state to continue, so I took advantage of the opportunity to fulfil a lifelong ambition and ensure that the show did go on.’
He was still casually fiddling with the recorder. He could drop it at any moment. I was nearly having a heart attack and I’m pretty sure even Dr Bairstow was holding his breath. ‘I’ve always wanted to go on the stage sir, and after my performance today, I reckon my agent is going to need some publicity shots, so I thought I’d take a quick selfie.’
I waited for Dr Bairstow to demand to know who had bastardised the English language to the extent that ‘selfie’ was even a word.
He did not. He took a deep breath and held out his hand for the recorder.
Markham smiled sunnily at him and handed it over.
He hadn’t been able to record but there was a series of still images, most of which were either too dark or were obviously of his elbow. At least, I hoped it was his elbow. Some of Markham’s outlying areas can be a little unruly and sometimes you don’t know quite which bit of him you’re dealing with.
But there, towards the end, were three images.
The first showed a man sitting down, head resting back against a wall, eyes closed. He might have been unconscious or just resting his eyes. The light hadn’t been good, but we could make out a long chin, receding hair, the distinctively high forehead, and a thin nose.
‘That’s just after I got him off the stage,’ said Markham. ‘He was in shock, I think. I just sat him down and waited for someone to come and check him over. Someone called to us and Shakespeare said he was OK. Although not in quite those words. Anyway, he obviously wanted to watch the play and see how it was going, so I helped him up. I was OK, but he was a bit taller than me and I think he forgot to crouch. He banged his head on something, staggered a bit, fell down a step and banged his head again.
‘I shouted as loudly as I dared, but no one came. He wasn’t out cold, but he certainly wasn’t functioning properly, so I took a chance.’ He flicked to the next image. A long pale face stared in bemusement, while Markham, arm around his shoulders, beamed up at the camera. Given the circumstances, a remarkably clear image.
It was the third image, however, that was the money shot.
A full face, looking directly at us, slightly smiling. And it was him. Definitely, recognisably, undeniably Shakespeare.
Markham said nothing because there wasn’t anything anyone could say. Not even Dr Bairstow.
To sum up, not only had we great footage of 17th-century London Bridge, of Southwark, the Tabard, the docks, a Tudor ship, the market, the Globe and its audience, their production of Hamlet, the man himself playing one of his own parts, we had the definitive identifying image of William Shakespeare. Bloody hell, we’re good. We’re St Mary’s and we really are the dog’s bollocks.
I was willing to bet Dr Bairstow was in agreement, although he would almost certainly drop down dead rather than admit it. He and Markham were old adversaries, however, and there was an established procedure to work through. They stared at each other across his desk and prepared to enjoy themselves.
‘If I thought for one moment, Mr Markham, that it would get you out of my unit, I would sign you up for Equity myself.’
‘That’s extremely generous of you, sir, but I couldn’t possibly leave St Mary’s to lurch along without me.’
‘And yet I believe we would survive.’
And now he was an injured abandoned puppy in a snowstorm. ‘Without me, sir?’
‘Even without you, Mr Markham. I am certain I could not live with myself should St Mary’s turn out to be an insurmountable obstacle to your glittering career on stage and screen.’
‘Well, thank you, sir. I have to say I couldn’t have done any of it without you, as indeed I shall say in my Oscar acceptance speech.’
‘I applaud your loyalty.’
‘I’m not one to forget my humble beginnings, sir.’
‘I am gratified to hear it and greatly look forward to viewing the imprint of your body in the famous Hollywood Walk of Fame.’
‘I think you’ll find, sir, it’s only hand and footprints. Not a whole body cast.’
‘That is unfortunate. Frequent practice does, however, enable me to live with such disappointments. Please do not allow me to detain you, Mr Markham. I wouldn’t want to get between you and the silver screen.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
‘Not at all. Before you leave us for fame and fortune, however, I believe Major Guthrie wants a quick word about your communication protocols.’
‘My what sir?’
I believe he wishes to focus on your explanation of that well-known Shakespearian phrase “Okey dokey”.’
‘Ah. I can explain…‘
The door opened and Major Guthrie appeared. The small pack of frozen peas he was clutching to a very large black eye was in no way obscuring the awfulness of his frown.
‘Do come in,’ said Dr Bairstow affably. ‘Mr Markham is ready for his close-up now, Mr DeMille.’
MY NAME IS MARKHAM
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Some stories are a joy to write. They just fall out of my pen. What Could Possibly Go Wrong? was one – apart from losing the twenty-thousand words relating to the princes in the Tower, which I still can’t find – The Nothing Girl was another, and so was ‘My Name is Markham’.
It’s the first story I’ve ever written as a man – if you know what I mean – and I did have a few doubts. Jane Austen never wrote a scene in which a woman wasn’t present because she didn’t know how men spoke to each other when they were alone and I’ve always thought I couldn’t do better than to follow her example.
However, the usual phrases and images were clogging up my brain so I thought I’d give the first few paragraphs a go and see what happened.
I couldn’t stop – yes, I know, that’s a phrase usually only applied to eating chocolate or staring at Matt Damon – but the story practically wrote itself. Although it is actually quite hard to write about sodden, smoky England when you’re sitting downwind of two whirling electric fans because it’s over forty degrees outside. There were times when I quite envied our hero as he splashed through the cool, damp Somerset countryside.
The one thing about this story is that it goes to show that authors know nothing, because I had killed off Markham in the original version of Just One Damned Thing. In that story, Max rescued him from the Cretaceous, along with a very young boy named Matthew Ellis, who was originally one of Ronan’s men, left behind in the panic because he’d been blinded in the explosion.
He and Markham were in Sick Bay when Ronan attacked St Mary’s, full of plans for revenge and retribution, and Markham died bravely, vainly trying to protect young Ellis.
I can’t remember now why I didn’t stick with that – I think the story was just so long that the scene was cut and Markham was reprieved.
Not for long, though. He’s shot at the end of the book and I was going to leave him bleeding into the sand. However – and I really don’t know what this says about me – I had a sudden picture of him sitting naked at a table wearing nothing but a large wound dressing and playing cards with Nurse Hunter, who had herself barely appeared so far.
In one second he was
transformed from expendable character to one of the major players, complete with girlfriends, backstory and a clear path ahead of him. He’s been one of my favourite characters ever since.
He was comparatively cooperative for this story and I could hear his little voice chirping away in my head. (My publisher says I’m not to mention the voices in my head because it makes people nervous and considerably hampers their – my publisher’s – efforts to pass me off as a reasonably normal human being, so please don’t tell anyone.) Anyway, I thought he was quite engaging as he chatted on about everything under the sun while still managing to get the job done and I hope you do too.
MY NAME IS MARKHAM
My name is Markham and I am a recovering security guard.
Maxwell told me to write this report. Actually, what happened was that I visited her in her office after our last assignment and she took exception to me criticising a phrase or two of her report, and the next thing I knew her scratchpad flew across the room and hit me squarely on the back of the head and she said if I thought I could do it any better then I should write the bloody thing myself.
So I have.
It was, believe it or not, the day of The First St Mary’s Annual Children’s Christmas Party. We were doing it for charity. Well, actually we were doing it because Dr Bairstow had told us to. I don’t know who’d told him to do it. We were all contributing something.
Professor Rapson, Head of R&D, had put together a recipe for artificial snow, which had set fire to his workbench, and the smell of burning rubber was enough to blow your socks off. Dr Bairstow had forbidden any further research in this area.
In the kitchens, Mrs Mack was up to her armpits in jelly and sausages and cupcakes. Not all in the same mixing bowl, obviously.
Mrs Enderby from Wardrobe was making costumes for us all. I was supposed to be one of Santa’s Little Helpers, but Evans and I were going to be a reindeer. We’d manufactured a costume out of old blankets. We had a battery-driven nose and I had a couple of handfuls of black olives to drop behind us for authentic reindeer poo. Kids love that sort of thing. We were expecting to be the hit of the afternoon.
