What Could Possibly Go Wrong (The Chronicles of St Mary's Book 6)

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘I was once a trainee myself. I too, on many occasions, have shrugged my shoulders and said, “They’re not my rules – why should I care?” but the point I am making is that whatever you have done or will do in the future, I, or my colleagues, are already guilty of something similar. You will understand, therefore, that I know of what I speak when it comes to rule breaking. The voice you are listening to is the voice of experience. Yes, my job is to train you up. It is also to try, as best I can, to ensure you don’t make mistakes that have already been made.’

  I pointed to the screen. ‘Eight people died that day. That’s more people than there are in this room right now. Part of your training consists of understanding the concept of cause and effect. I invite you to spend some time contemplating what could have been the effect of yesterday’s … cause.’

  I stopped speaking and waited, wondering what would happen next. The silence lengthened. I looked at the seating layout.

  Sykes and Lingoss on one side.

  Atherton in the middle – the peacemaker. The buffer zone.

  Hoyle and North on the other side.

  This was going to be interesting. What would they say and who would say it?

  Sykes stood up. ‘As mission controller, I want to apologise, Dr Maxwell. We didn’t mean any harm, but that’s not the point. Harm was done. I think a lesson has been learned. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No,’ said Lingoss. ‘The fault is all mine.’ She looked very white. ‘I didn’t stop to think it through. I should accept all the blame. Mine was the idea to bring her inside the pod. Sykes, quite rightly, was reluctant, as was Mr Evans. I hope he won’t be punished for my fault. But I didn’t mean to bring her back. I didn’t realise we would jump so quickly.’

  I said quietly, ‘You should always be prepared for a quick getaway. Serious injuries, tidal waves, volcanic eruptions …’

  ‘Yes, I realise that now. I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘We should have told you,’ said Atherton. ‘No, that’s wrong. We shouldn’t have done it in the first place. I’m sorry, too.’

  There was a long, long pause. I let it linger.

  Eventually, North stood up. ‘I regret that the offence occurred.’ They all looked at her. She swallowed. ‘Should there be any unfortunate repercussions, I shall, obviously, be willing to bear my share.’

  Well, that was masterly. Almost an apology but not quite. Just enough to make it clear she didn’t want to be involved but is solid with her colleagues. You have to admire someone who always says and does the right thing. You have to. I don’t.

  Unfortunately, that was as far as we got. Mr Hoyle was quite adamant. ‘It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want to be involved,’ thus effortlessly rendering himself absolutely correct and completely unlikeable. It didn’t seem to bother him at all. Even after all this time, our Mr Hoyle was still an unknown quantity.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day, I was sitting in my office, trying to work up some enthusiasm. I felt weary and it wasn’t like me to be so knocked out by one assignment, even if we had had a bit of drama afterwards. For the first time, I wondered if Dr Bairstow had been right. His one fear had been that taking trainees on jumps this early in their career might be risky and how right he’d been. On the other hand, we’d brushed through things reasonably well. The timeline was intact. St Mary’s was intact. Dr Bairstow had stayed his hand and I’d had an opportunity to teach them a valuable lesson.

  Mrs Shaw, bless her, had taken one look, gently placed a mug of tea in front of me, and left the room. It was just me now, listening to the ticking clock, and wondering whether I should admit I had been wrong and look at revising my training programme.

  The door opened. I made myself look up. It was Leon.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, so pleased to see him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m on a break and thought I’d pop in,’ he said, picking up my mug, taking a sip, grimacing, and handing it back to me. ‘Is there any tea in all that sugar?’

  ‘I need the energy.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I think you should consult Dr Foster.’

  ‘I think she has enough on her plate at the moment.’

  ‘True, but promise me you will go and talk to her.’

  ‘I’m not ill.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Just a bit tired.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Stop being so considerate and reasonable. You know how it pisses me off when you say and do exactly the right thing.’

  He laughed. ‘Why are you sitting here all by yourself?’

  ‘I’m waiting to see what happens after yesterday. I had to walk that fine line between putting the fear of God into them and not terrifying them to the extent they hand in their notice.’

  ‘How do you think you did?’

  ‘Not sure.’ I sipped my tea and said jokingly, ‘You didn’t happen to see any of them lurking in the corridor on your way here, did you?’

  He stopped laughing.

  I sighed. ‘Oh God, no. Really? Who?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Max. All of them. They seemed to be plucking up courage.’

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  There was a knock at the door and he stood up. ‘I’ll stay if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. If I have to murder any of them and conceal the bodies afterwards, you’ll need plausible deniability. But thanks anyway.’

  He crossed to the door. ‘Talk to Helen.’

  I nodded.

  He held open the door. ‘Come in, please.’

  They filed into the room. He gave me one last smile and closed the door behind him.

  I crossed to my briefing table so we could all sit together. They made a big business of sitting down and shuffling their chairs around. I let them take as long as they liked, determined not to speak first. Finally, silence fell. We all looked at each other. I wondered who would speak.

  Predictably, it was Atherton. The peacemaker.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  He shifted in his chair.

  The others murmured their good mornings.

  I nodded.

  We were just using words to fill up the empty space while we worked our way towards the important stuff. I was determined not to speak. Never make it easy for people to do something you don’t want them to do.

  The silence dragged on.

  Eventually, Lingoss stirred. ‘Actually, Dr Maxwell, it’s me that wanted to speak to you. The rest of them are just here for – support.’

  Well, now they had achieved a team spirit. Bloody typical.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. About the consequences …’ she stopped.

  I waited.

  Nothing happened, so I said, ‘Yes?’ in what I was convinced was an encouraging tone.

  ‘Well, I …’

  I smiled. ‘Surely I brought you up better than this, Miss Lingoss. Start at the beginning. Begin by stating the purpose of the interview. Detail the issues to be discussed. Propose your solutions and make your recommendations.’

  ‘Very well. Ma’am, with enormous regret, I’d like to leave the course. I don’t think it’s right for me.’

  ‘Is this because of yesterday?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  Of course it was because of yesterday, and the sooner she admitted that to herself, the better. I must admit, I was a little surprised she was deceiving herself like this. I would have thought that of all of them, Lingoss was the realist. Yes, she’d made a mistake, but she’d owned up and acknowledged her fault. As far as I was concerned, the incident was closed.

  She took a huge breath. ‘To tell you the truth, ma’am, I … I … The work is not as interesting as I thought it would be.’

  What?

  What?

  Like Tarzan swinging through the jungle, I veered from sympathy to outrage.

  Not interesting?

  N
ot interesting?

  What?

  Some of this must have shown on my face, because, ever so slightly, they were all leaning away from me.

  I made a huge effort for calm.

  ‘Not … interesting?’

  ‘No, no, that’s not right. I expressed myself badly. I should have said …’ she stopped.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Connie,’ said Sykes, exasperated, and I made a note to remember to tell Peterson he’d been right about that.

  ‘Well,’ I said, swallowing hard and doing my best to present an appearance of reason and concern, ‘perhaps we could discuss the reasons you want to leave St Mary’s and …’

  ‘Oh no,’ she interrupted, ‘I don’t want to leave.’

  Reason and concern flew out of the window. ‘Yes you do. You just said …’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did. You said …’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to be an historian any longer. Because …’

  ‘The work isn’t interesting enough. Yes, you said. Although frankly, Miss Lingoss, it’s probably better you do leave. I should tell you now, things are unlikely ever to be more interesting than yesterday.’

  ‘You’re making a complete dog’s breakfast of this, Connie,’ said Sykes. She turned to me. ‘This is why we came, ma’am. She’s pants at this sort of thing.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she began indignantly, and at the same time, Atherton started to speak.

  ‘Everyone shut up,’ I said. ‘You.’ I turned to Lingoss. ‘Clarify.’

  She gripped the table. ‘I don’t want to leave St Mary’s. I really like it here. But I don’t think I want to be an historian. I’ve been talking to Professor Rapson and … I want … with your permission, ma’am, I’d like to transfer to R&D.’

  I was speechless. Yes, it does happen.

  Atherton hastily got to his feet. ‘We’ll leave you to discuss this.’ They disappeared. Actually, they couldn’t get out fast enough.

  I struggled to take this in. I’d heard the bit about not wanting to be an historian first and it was only a few fury-filled moments later that the other sentence had turned up. I was still struggling to reconcile the two and not climb over the desk and wallop her with my lamp when she spoke again.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  I found a voice. ‘You want to transfer?’

  ‘If possible.’

  I found another voice. ‘To R&D?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to transfer to R&D?’

  Because sometimes I have to have things made easy for me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why on earth would you want to join that bunch of unpredictable, dangerous, reckless, unsafe, anti-social misfits …?’

  I trailed away. I’d answered my own question. Of course. Where else would she want to be? Unconventional and independent, she was made for R&D. And she could keep the Mohican.

  This was a huge blow. So huge that I had no idea what to say to her. I knew she’d disobeyed instructions during the Valley of the Kings assignment. I knew she wasn’t guiltless in the matter of Mary the Mammoth. I knew she’d probably been the instigator of the Let’s Bomb the Rat disaster, all of which, as far as I was concerned, made her ideal historian material.

  I didn’t make the mistake of saying, ‘Are you sure?’ or attempting to change her mind. She was tough. She’d looked after herself all her life. She knew what she wanted. And she knew what she didn’t want, as well.

  I said slowly, ‘I’m very sorry you don’t feel the History Department is right for you, Miss Lingoss. I’m not aware of any problems you may be experiencing. Your exam results are excellent. Your practical work is of an extremely high quality. You seem quite at home at St Mary’s.’

  This was a bit of an understatement. She’d taken to St Mary’s like a duck to water. With the possible exception of Sykes, I would have said she fitted in here better than anyone did. She was popular. The techies and Security people liked her enough to take instructions from her. She had a real future in the History Department.

  ‘Have you spoken to Professor Rapson?’

  ‘Only to ask if he would have me. There was no point in pursuing the matter if he wouldn’t.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Oh, he seemed quite excited. Then he said “Quomodo cogis comas tuas sic videri?” but I got the gist. Then he asked me if I knew anything about linothorax. Then he asked me if I happened to have a crochet hook on me. Then he asked if you knew about me wanting to transfer out and then he said I had to check with you first. So I am.’

  Well that was good of him. Just wait until I got my hands on that staff-stealing, people-poaching, trainee-tempting, devious old … I pulled myself together.

  ‘I will discuss this with Professor Rapson and either or both of us will speak to you tomorrow, Miss Lingoss. In the meantime, please do not discuss this with anyone else other than your colleagues.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Seriously? You want Dr Bairstow to hear this from someone other than you or me?’

  ‘Oh. No.’

  After she’d gone, I sat in a state of mild shock for about half an hour, turning things over in my mind. Good points emerged. Professor Rapson would owe me for the rest of his life. I’d see to that. I’d have a half-trained historian in R&D on whom I could call if necessary. She wasn’t actually leaving St Mary’s. She could have her Mohican back. She was prime R&D material. I was beginning to talk myself around and then Mrs Shaw came rushing in and turned on the screen.

  ‘Look, Max. Such excitement. You won’t believe what’s happened.’

  And there she was. A still picture of Mary the Mammoth, standing in a small wooden shelter, surrounded by some half dozen hugely smiling people. Christmas had not only come early for the Pleistocene Park, but was never going to go away again. Ever. There was our tiny mammoth. For whom Christmas had also come. For some reason, I’d never given a thought to the publicity.

  I became aware of the newsreader’s voice ‘… a stunning scientific discovery in Siberia’s Pleistocene Park. Reports are coming in that, unbelievably, what looks like a live baby mammoth has been found wandering just outside the station. Scientists say she’s in remarkably good condition and cannot have been separated from her mother for any great length of time. At present, she is being cared for at the facility, while expeditions are mounted to locate at least her mother and with luck, the rest of her herd. Tonight, experts from all around the world are heading to the Siberian tundra where this astonishing discovery has been made. Over now to our science correspondent for more details …’

  I sighed. Maybe the day hadn’t been such a dead loss after all.

  Chapter Ten

  On to our next assignment.

  I’d chosen Herodotus because – well, who could pass up the chance to meet the first historian, the Father of History. Or the Father of Lies, as he was also known. All right, some of his stuff was a bit far-fetched, but the important thing to remember is that he was the first person ever to try to account for historical events in a realistic way and not put everything down to godly intervention. He traced the causes of wars, marriages, deaths, and painstakingly wrote everything down in his Histories.

  He’s been criticised because he wrote down everything, believable or not, and possibly embellished things slightly along the way, as well. For some time, he was considered the world’s first tabloid journalist – or so the world thought, until back in the 20th century, it was discovered that what had always been regarded as a particularly imaginative bit of reporting, concerning giant Persian ants who dug up gold dust as they excavated their burrows was true after all. Someone discovered there were actually marmosets that did that, and the word for marmoset is very similar to that for ant, so it turned out the old boy probably knew what he was talking about after all.

  Anyway, after his travels, he settled in Thurii, a Greek colony on the Tarentine Gulf, and sat down to pull together his Histories
and that was where we were off to. To catch a glimpse of the great Herodotus himself. I pictured him, sitting alone in the dappled shade of a pine tree, wearing a pristine white robe, with snowy beard and hair, meticulously recording his findings. Or possibly sitting in the agora, surrounded by admiring acolytes, giving a public reading of his works.

  Either way, a quiet assignment. No weather or geographical catastrophes were involved. Scorpions and snakes aside, the wildlife was comparatively harmless. The town was not in the middle of any sort of political upheaval. Everything should be fine.

  The aim of this assignment was to meet and interact with contemporaries and I gave it to North, to see what she would make of it. I thought there might be some gender-based protests from Atherton or Hoyle, but Atherton was too good-natured and Hoyle, as usual, had nothing to say. Whether his enforced years in America had taught him to keep his mouth shut and his head down, I don’t know. I do know that here at St Mary’s, where the concepts of mouths shut and heads down (unless Professor Rapson was in the vicinity of course) were virtually unknown, he stood out like a small golden nugget of truth in an assembly of politicians, bankers, and estate agents.

  We assembled for her briefing.

  She started with the life and travels of Herodotus, then went on to describe the town of Thurii, its history and layout.

  We were going as a party of travellers who were just passing through on our way from A to B. There would be six of us. The four trainees, Markham, and me. Three men and three women.

  ‘Please remember,’ she said, ‘Greek women rarely appeared in public. Upper-class Greek women, that is. Economic circumstances sometimes forced other women to be on the streets. For one purpose or another.’

  Her tone left no doubt as to which class she belonged. I suspected her family might be one of those who claimed their ancestors had come over with the Conqueror. If mine had been there as well, then the females had probably offered services of a horizontal nature, while the men sold dodgy three-legged horses with low mileage.

  I stood up. I had a point to make. Not that I was going to let any of them out of my sight even for a second, but a warning was still in order.