by Jodi Taylor
And it was a brilliant idea. An absolutely bloody marvellously brilliant idea.
I spent a few minutes running through it in my mind, forming answers to his inevitable objections, and then I kicked him awake.
‘Wake up!’
‘What? What’s happening?’
‘I’ve had a brilliant idea.’
‘I’m not opening the door. Go back to sleep.’
‘Open your eyes. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’
‘There is nothing you can do to me that will change my mind.’
I leaned over him.
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘Seriously? Do you even know the meaning of the word inappropriate?’
‘Sit up, listen, and marvel.’
‘What is wrong with you? You can’t sleep so no one else can either?’
‘You’re right, I’m being inconsiderate. Go back to sleep. I don’t need you. I can do it by myself.’
Five, four, three, two, one and …
He sat up. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
I went to step over him, he seized my ankle, yanked, and down I went. He caught me and suddenly I was very close to him. I wasn’t sure what to do.
‘Now who’s being inappropriate? You can’t change my mind with sex, you know.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘No. You need to conserve your strength for my brilliant idea.’
He sighed. ‘You’ve had a brilliant idea?’
‘That’s what I keep saying. Will you listen?’
‘Obviously sleep is something that never happens when you’re around.’
‘No, listen. You said we can’t open the door because somehow they can pick up my tag?’
He nodded.
‘So, it’s easy. Open the door and throw me out.’
He pulled up his blanket and closed his eyes.
‘I don’t deserve any of this.’
‘Well, I put it that way for dramatic effect, but what I mean is, you drop me off … somewhere –’ I needed to gloss over this bit, ‘– and then you use the opportunity to nip off to St Mary’s. You can find out what’s going on, stock up on food and drink, empty the loo, recharge the cells, whatever, all of which you can do because they won’t know where you are. Because I’ll be elsewhere, distracting them. Then you come and collect me again and off we go. We’ll have a nice clean pod with lots to eat. We’ll even be able to use the bog without getting cholera. Where’s the downside?’
‘And what are you doing in the meantime?’
‘Nothing. That’s the beauty of my brilliant idea. You can take as long as you like, replenish supplies, have a beer, have a good gossip with everyone … You can take days and still come back and pick me up less than thirty minutes after you left. It’s not brilliant – it’s genius.’
‘Thirty minutes may be long enough for them to find you – alone, defenceless, and in your pyjamas. Forget it.’
‘No. Listen, will you? You have to drop me somewhere they can’t reach me. Some place where it’s too dangerous for them to pursue me.’
‘Such as?’
I took a deep breath.
‘Pompeii.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘OK. I can be reasonable. I’m not specifically wedded to Pompeii. Krakatoa will do.’
‘Can I refer you to my previous response?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘You’re obviously tired and emotional. I’m going to sit over there for fifteen minutes. You think about things. Work your way through all the “Oh my God, you’re not doing that” nonsense – sweet, but not very helpful – and then consider, calmly, the strengths of my brilliant idea.’
‘But …’
‘Not listening. Fifteen minutes.’
‘Will you …?’
‘Still not listening.’
‘Max …’
‘Don’t make me start la-la-la-ing.’
‘I’m going to smack your silly head in a minute.’
‘Yes, typical techie solution. If in doubt – give it a clout. You think. I’m going over there to wait for your enlightenment.’
His enlightenment took about thirty seconds. Just the time it took him to struggle out of his blankets and sit up.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’
When you have a difficult thing to say, the secret is to hit it headlong and give it a good kicking.
‘The bit you won’t like.’
‘Yes, I thought there would be a bit I wouldn’t like. Am I right in saying this relates to the tag?’
He wasn’t stupid.
‘Yes.’
‘I think you need to tell me the whole thing.’
‘All right. But don’t start shouting until I finish. Promise.’
‘I don’t shout.’
‘Well, don’t start now. Here goes.’
I drew a deep breath and choosing my words carefully, gave him the whole thing.
‘We split up. You drop me off in Pompeii. Or Krakatoa. Or Santorini – although we don’t have a specific date for Santorini and so –’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘You jump back to St Mary’s, load up the pod with supplies, and jump straight back to Pompeii, with luck, only about thirty minutes after you left. I know it’s a narrow margin, but I’m sure someone as clever as you can manage that.’
This blatant flattery left him unmoved.
‘I know you don’t like it, but it’s got to be somewhere dangerous. Somewhere they would have the same problems moving around as me. It cancels out their advantages. I thought I’d hole up in an abandoned house or shop and just keep my head down until you can pick me up. There will be ash and pumice and God knows what dropping from the sky. They’ll have to take cover just like everyone else. Once I’ve established my presence, you nip in and pick me up. Yes, they’ll lose my signal then, but we’ll be in the middle of a volcanic eruption, for crying out loud. They won’t be surprised.’
He said nothing, so I carried on. ‘We go somewhere quiet – anywhere will do so long as we don’t open the door – and you remove the tag. I’m sure that won’t be difficult. It’s only just under the skin.’
‘I’d feel happier if Helen did it at St Mary’s.’
‘We can’t go there. As soon as you open the door, they’ll know I’m not in Pompeii any longer. And they find us so quickly, Leon. Every time we open the door.’
He shook his head, but I was right.
‘We then jump back to Pompeii and chuck the tag into a heap of molten lava or whatever. As far as they’re concerned, I never left and I died there under the ash, or fried in a pyroclastic flow, and then we’re both free because there’s no reason for them to chase you. And they won’t be able to find you, anyway. We can probably go back to Rushford after a few months.’
I sat back and beamed at him, not sure whether I’d get a round of applause for being so brilliant or a clip round the side of the head for being so stupid.
‘I am not leaving you in the middle of a volcanic eruption.’
‘You have to. It has to be somewhere I could legitimately die and no one would be surprised. And where they wouldn’t expect to find a body. And conditions would be too hazardous for them to investigate properly. And when they never find any further trace of my tag then it will be obvious that I’m dead.’
‘And you think they’ll believe I went off and left you there? Come on!’
‘Well, all the evidence will point to just that. I’m dodging pyroclastic flows and you’re not around. They’ll either think I tried to be too clever and the volcano ate me or you got fed up and dumped me. What could be more believable?’
‘I’m not even going to bother answering that.’
Suddenly serious, I said, ‘Leon. Do we have a choice? Look around us. There’s condensation running down the walls and that’s not good. Never mind what it will do to the pod, our clothes are damp. Our bedding is damp. We had to leave a lot of gear on Skax
os. Our food is running out. And the water. And the power. These people are relentless. They will catch us one day. And that might be the best thing that could happen to us, because, one day, the safety protocols will fail and this pod will dump us at the bottom of the sea. Or in the path of an avalanche. Or one day it just won’t move at all. Then what do we do? Sit in a wet box until we die? Or make a dash for it and hope to outrun them? We haven’t been very successful at that, so far. I know you don’t like it, but you need to think about it. There’s no point in doing it the other way around, with me going to St Mary’s instead of you. This is something only I can do. You know that.’
‘Setting all that aside for one moment, I don’t even know how to remove a tag.’
‘It’s only just underneath the skin. I could probably do it myself. Except I’d have to do it one-handed, but I could probably manage.’
‘Why not remove the tag first and throw it into Vesuvius?’
‘I think they’d suspect something if it’s too easy. They must see me desperately trying to escape from Pompeii. Their instruments will lose me for a while and then, suddenly, a brief flicker – and I’m gone for ever.’
His face changed for a moment.
I put my hand on his arm.
‘Sorry.’
He nodded. ‘I’m not a surgeon.’
‘You don’t have to be. You’re an engineer. That’s almost the same thing.’
‘Your ignorance is frightening.’
I was suddenly very tired.
‘Leon. Do we actually have a choice?’
He sighed. ‘You look dreadful. Go and lie down.’
‘And you, too.’
‘What?’
‘This is ridiculous. One of us is always exhausted while the other one is unconscious in the corner. You say we’re safe with the door closed. So let’s both get some sleep. And if they do turn up and catch us while we’re both asleep, then at least you’re spared having to hack through my arm with a rusty bread-knife.’
I spread the blankets out on the floor. ‘Come on.’
I lay down, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lay down beside me. About two feet away.
I woke in the night. The pod was dark and silent. He had curled himself around me, one arm protectively over my shoulders. I could hear him breathing.
I woke again and I was lying in the crook of his arm, warm and safe.
I woke again and he was resting his head on mine. I could feel his breath in my hair.
I woke again and he was in the tiny shower.
Singing.
* * *
It’s true what they say – things do look better after a good night’s sleep.
After breakfast, we sat and talked over the plan – every aspect of it, because there would never be a second chance. We had to get it right first time. Our lives depended upon it.
Leon’s plan was to land at St Mary’s and talk to Dieter, now in charge of the Technical section. While his pod was being serviced, he’d somehow sneak a word with Dr Bairstow and load up with supplies. Whether the Time Police would have left a presence at St Mary’s, we had no way of knowing but he didn’t seem overly concerned about that, because, I suspected, he was keeping all his concern for my part of the plan.
In vain did I argue that the eruption was necessary to cancel out any advantages they might have in terms of numbers and equipment. When you’re fighting for your life in a pyroclastic flow, sonic weapons are about as much use as the junior party in a coalition government. In fact, I argued, as an historian, I’d have considerable advantages over the Time Police. I was commanded to state at least one. Not important right now, I said.
He sighed.
I challenged him to come up with a better plan. He sighed again. I didn’t push it. Instead, I made us both a cup of tea, partly because I felt we deserved a mug to fortify us against our coming ordeals, but mostly to put off the actual moment when we would have to part.
Taking refuge in practicalities, he busied himself drawing up a servicing schedule.
I made up a shopping list of supplies and medical stuff, including industrial strength painkillers. Understandably, he would want to be in and out as quickly as possible, but, as I kept pointing out, that was the beauty of the plan. He could spend days at St Mary’s – weeks, even – and so long as he could jump back to Pompeii around an hour or so after he left me there, it didn’t matter.
‘The plan can’t fail,’ I said, ignoring such minor inconveniences as an unreliable pod, an erupting volcano, the omnipresent Time Police, a dying city, and a panicking population. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
He slowly folded his lists and put them carefully away.
I shut the last locker door and there was no reason why we shouldn’t get on with it. No reason at all.
So we didn’t. We sat on the floor and looked at each other.
I should speak. I hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t said anything either, but there was a very real chance that one or both of us wouldn’t get through this. His pod could whirl him off to some place there was no coming back from. I could find myself buried under the contents of Vesuvius. He could be caught at St Mary’s. I could be caught at Pompeii. This might be the last opportunity we would ever have to speak together and if it was one thing I had learned over the last year, it was never to let an opportunity pass. It might never come again.
We turned down the lights and heating to conserve power, wrapped ourselves in blankets and we talked. We were a little hesitant at first, but there was safety in the semi-darkness. A feeling of intimacy and understanding. After a while, the words came more easily. We talked a little of our lives before St Mary’s, but not a great deal, because those weren’t happy times for either of us. We talked of St Mary’s – of shared experiences, each bittersweet word recalling old memories and half-forgotten jokes.
I said, ‘Do you remember the day Roberts and Markham tried to get a horse upstairs?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. They got old Turk up onto the gallery and they couldn’t get him down again. Apparently, horses can’t go downstairs.’
‘I can’t remember why they did it.’
‘They’d heard that Caligula slept with his horse and wanted to give it a try.’
‘And Dr Bairstow turned up and told them to call the vet and tell him to be sure to bring his humane killer.’
‘And no one knew whether it was for the horse or for them.’
I laughed. ‘And there was a huge argument over whether Caligula did actually sleep with his horse or his sister. Or whether that was Nero. Or Catherine the Great. And everyone was so busy shouting that they never noticed Turk wander off and they eventually caught up with him outside the kitchens, where Jenny Fields was giving him apples and Mrs Mack had made a halter out of tea towels.’
‘So,’ he said, ‘can horses can walk downstairs?’
‘No one saw him do it so we still don’t know. It’s very possible he took himself down in the heavy goods lift.’
We both smiled at the memory.
‘Do you remember when John Calvin called you the devil’s strumpet and tried to have you run out of town?’
‘No,’ I said, regretfully, ‘that didn’t happen to me, but Isaac Newton did once try to have me indicted for stealing his mirror. And it was my bloody mirror in the first place. Do you remember Professor Rapson assembling a Roman tortoise and they all fell into the lake?’
He laughed. ‘We didn’t have that, but I do remember his efforts to invent his own embalming fluid – he never said why and no one dared ask – and he had about twenty sheep’s heads hanging from the trees like wind chimes. The gardens looked like something from a Tim Burton movie. Every dog in the neighbourhood was going demented trying to climb the trees to get to them.’
‘Do you remember Alexandria?’
‘Yes. And Mary Stuart?’
‘Yes.’
Silence. I can’t remember which of us said it.
‘Do you remembe
r Troy?’
I looked down at my hands. We should talk about Troy and Helios. We must talk about Troy and Helios. But what to say? I didn’t want to lie to him, but no matter how much I tried to avoid it, I wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that when the other Leon died, we were not together.
He said nothing, just sitting in the dark, waiting for me to speak.
In the end, I said, ‘At Troy – just as we were pulling out, Leon wanted to take a young boy with us. Helios. To take him to a place of safety. I refused. I made him take Helios back outside and leave him to face whatever would happen to him there.’
In my mind, I saw it all again. Helios, terrified, clamped to Leon, and refusing to let go. Leon, his blue eyes bright with desperation for Helios and then cold with contempt for me. A silent pod. Just the sound of his heavy breathing. I pulled a gun on him and I would have used it. He went ahead and saved Helios anyway. Behind my back. We never spoke again. Then he died.
It tumbled out in a rush of badly chosen words and jerky sentences and when I had finished, I shut up because I was afraid of what would come next. There was no good way out of this. Would he condemn my actions? I would understand if he did because I condemned my actions. Or would he tell me the same thing had happened in this world and once again, I would have to make a choice about what to do. What to say.
I tried to take a breath, but it came out as a deep, shuddering sigh. ‘I went to see Helios. Joe Nelson, I should say. I told him I’d made a mistake. I apologised. It was little enough, but it was all I could do.’
He nodded and then said, ‘What would you say if I told you I’d done the same thing here? That I had lifted Helios out of Troy and taken him to safety. That I’d done the same as your Leon. What would you say?’
There is a time in everyone’s life when they wish either they had or hadn’t said something. Very few people get a second chance. A chance to unsay the wrong words and replace them with the right ones. The words they should have said.
‘I would say, “I wish I had your compassion. That if it happened to me, I hope I could find the strength to do what you did. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t.”’
The words hung between us. Without knowing why, I’d said something important. For a moment, I thought he might say something. I waited, but that moment passed.
