A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's)

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Yes, I can fix the worst of it.’

  Something in his voice wasn’t right.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And the bit you’re not telling me. The really bad news. What’s happened at St Mary’s?’

  ‘The Time Police are there.’

  I stared, speechless.

  ‘Don’t panic. It wasn’t a problem.’

  Why wasn’t I reassured? ‘Why not?’

  A long, a very long silence.

  I felt my stomach shift. Something bad had happened. ‘Leon?’

  ‘There were only two officers on site and they were easy to avoid.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because they were too busy looking for Helios. Max, they know.’

  ‘They know Helios is Joe Nelson?’

  ‘No, no. They don’t know Helios is Joe Nelson. They just know Helios is there. Somewhere.’

  ‘What will they do if they find him?’

  ‘Arrest Dr Bairstow, Peterson, Guthrie – and me, of course. You’ll be all right – you’re dead.’

  ‘Not funny.’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘I meant – what will they do to Helios?’

  ‘At worst, they’ll shoot him. At best, they’ll take him back.’

  ‘To Troy? Right in the middle of …?’

  I saw it all again. The thick black smoke rising from the ruined city. The flames. Dead people everywhere. Burning bodies. Kassandra dragged from the temple. Little runty man breaking my nose. The lines of women and children on the beach waiting to be shipped as slaves. Dead babies bobbing in the surf …

  Even though he was a grown man now, Helios would be dead in seconds, along with every other man in Troy. They would be taking him back to his death. But if he stayed, they’d shoot him as an anomaly. Certain death for Helios, whatever the Time Police did to him.

  Leon was staring at his hands.

  ‘Unless …?’

  He looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Unless …?.’

  ‘Unless we take him back ourselves. To a time and place of our choosing. In that way, we can give him a small chance.’

  ‘Yes … yes, that would work. He’s a man now. We could take him back to, maybe, one year on from the war. The city was never abandoned, you know. They rebuilt afterwards. It was never the same again, of course, but he would stand a chance of survival. Or from there, he could move away. It would be his decision.’

  He nodded. Both of us were skirting around the important issue. Finally, I said it. ‘Will he go?’

  Because the thought of forcibly relocating him … dragging a struggling man into the pod, Joe Nelson from the Falconberg Arms, who’d lived all his adult life in modern times, who might be screaming and begging for his life, and then just heaving him out at the other end … abandoning him to the nightmare that was Troy …

  This is what happens when historians interfere with History. Helios should have died at Troy and he didn’t. I’d been surprised at the time that History hadn’t sideswiped us all out of existence. Now I had a horrible feeling we were being taught a lesson. That we were being made to face the consequences of what we had done. Whatever happened to him – whether Helios died in this time or long ago, we would have this on our consciences for the rest of our lives. What was Leon thinking at this moment?

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘This must be your decision, but whatever you decide, I’m with you all the way. To the death, if necessary. I won’t leave you to face this alone. Nor Peterson, or Guthrie, or any of you. Whatever you do, you can count me in.’

  He reached for my hand. ‘I’m going to take him back. It’s got to be me. St Mary’s is too closely watched.’

  ‘He won’t run?’

  ‘No. His exact words were, “You risked yourselves for me. At the very least, I can do the same for you.”’

  I swallowed. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  He was suddenly brisk. ‘Remove your tag and leave it at Pompeii. Stop them following us once and for all. Then we can jump back to St Mary’s, pick up Helios, and take him back to Troy.’

  ‘How will we get him away from the Time Police?’

  ‘I’ve left the worst news till last. St Mary’s will arrange a diversion.’

  ‘Oh … dear.’

  He spent all night repairing the pod. I spent all night coughing up major amounts of volcano. I drank as much water as I could and then spent the rest of the night in the toilet. The glamour of an historian’s life.

  When I awoke, he’d spread a cloth on the floor and laid a small meal.

  ‘I’m going to give you painkillers in advance, so you need to eat.’

  I tucked in to a croissant, some cheese, and a few dried apricots while he opened locker doors so I could see. We had enough food for an army, two sleeping bags, basic medical supplies, and toiletries. Best of all, I was wearing clothes that weren’t yellow and white. Life was looking up.

  I cleared away the meal while he got the medical stuff together. Because now it was tag-removal time and, suddenly, I wasn’t anything like as enthusiastic as I had been, but it was that or living in a box until I died. And until it was gone, we couldn’t risk going back to St Mary’s, so I’d better shut up and get on with it.

  I showered, tied up my still sticky hair, and lay down on the floor. He opened a sterile pack and started to lay things out. A bottle of brandy stood within easy reach. I stared resolutely at the scorch mark on the ceiling.

  He picked up a syringe. ‘Just a little prick.’

  ‘Seriously? You’re saying that to an historian?’

  ‘Couldn’t resist it. Ready?’

  ‘Ready when you are.’ I closed my eyes.

  He paused. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Max. We should have had at least a little time together.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be there with.’

  ‘Say that again in ten minutes,’ he said, grimly.

  ‘It’ll be easy,’ I said from a position of complete ignorance. ‘Tags are tiny. How difficult can it be?’

  He swabbed my arm with something cold, and I felt the prick of the needle. He also made me swallow two painkillers. He picked up a scalpel and hesitated.

  I sighed. ‘I’m going to have to do it myself, aren’t I?’

  ‘There’s no way I’m letting an historian near a sharp implement in an enclosed space. Here we go.’

  To begin with, it wasn’t too bad. I could feel something was happening, but so long as I didn’t actually look … I kept my eyes on the ceiling. The scorch mark was shaped like Australia. I could see Darwin.

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  ‘No.’

  I turned my head away and counted the dents on the locker doors.

  And then, suddenly, a nasty twinge. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to distract him.

  ‘Are you unconscious?’

  ‘I was keeping quiet out of consideration for you.’

  ‘I feel more reassured when you’re talking. I don’t actually listen to the words, but the drone of your voice, maundering on and on, is comforting.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell you a joke?

  ‘I’ve heard historian jokes. They’re either pathetic or so sick that only an historian would think they were funny. Do you actually know a joke that isn’t either historically based or revolting?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, inaccurately, as a river of pain coursed up and down my arm.

  He wiped the blood away and peered closely.

  ‘I can’t find it. Sometimes they … migrate.’

  ‘What, like geese?’

  ‘I’m going to make the incision a little larger.’

  ‘Did I see a bottle?’ I lifted my head and swallowed some brandy. ‘Yuk. I hate this stuff.’

  He tried to take the bottle away but I wasn’t having any of that.

  ‘Off you go, then. Let’s
hear this famous joke.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Well, there was this man … And he wakes up in hospital.’

  ‘A medical joke. Most appropriate. Continue.’

  ‘Nnng … this man … wakes up in hospital and the doctor says …’

  I clenched my teeth. I really didn’t want to scream and put him off, so I gritted my teeth, thought of the Battle of Salamis, and had another mouthful. Yuk.

  ‘Is that it? Well, all right, I’ll grant you it wasn’t sick, but it wasn’t very funny, either.’

  ‘No,’ I said, appreciating his efforts to distract me. ‘There’s a bit more.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘This man wakes up in the hospital and the … doctor says … “ It’s all right, mate. You’ve been in an accident on the Great North Road, but … you’re all right now.”’

  ‘Ah! There is a happy ending. That’s nice. Not the usual historian style at all.’

  ‘No … Not finished yet. Just shut up, will you. Aagh.’

  ‘Please try and keep still.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s all the excitement …’

  ‘A common reaction among women whenever I’m near. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Lousy joke, by the way.’

  ‘And the doctor says, “But sadly, in the accident, your todger fell off.”’

  ‘What? Is this is the historian definition of the words – happy ending? Your todger falls off?’

  ‘And the man says … “Oh no!” and the doctor says … Aren’t you finished yet?’

  ‘What? I’m confused now.’

  ‘You’re hacking your way through my blood vessels, muscles, capilliarilleries and God knows what else. You’d better not be bloody confused.’

  ‘Just get on with this painfully long and unfunny joke, will you?’

  ‘Yuk. Where was I?’

  ‘The poor bloke’s lost his todger. Not, if I might venture an opinion, a suitable subject for mirth, but I’m accustomed to you failing to meet my standards of propriety and decency.’

  ‘So the man says, “Oh no.” And the doctor – aaagh.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t find it.’

  ‘Well, keep looking. Where’s it going to go, for crying out loud? And the doctor says, “ Don’t panic. We have the technology. We can rebuild you.” And the man says … “Thank goodness.”’

  Silence. I kept my eyes on him, grim and focused. I didn’t dare look at what he was doing. Red-hot waves of pain ran up my arm with the occasional short, sharp, purple jab of agony. I took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the thread.

  ‘And the doctor says, “Yes, but to rebuild you will cost a thousand … pounds … a thousand … pounds … ”’

  ‘A thousand pounds what? Despite my repugnance for this sorry tale, I have to admit to a certain grisly interest in the outcome. A thousand pounds what?’

  I said, through gritted teeth, ‘A thousand pounds an inch.’

  ‘What! Good job it’s not me we’re talking about. We’d need to take out a mortgage.’

  ‘Oh, please. I’m lying here … helpless and … having to listen … to … the male ego. Can it get any worse?’

  Yes, was the answer to that one and for several red and purple moments, it did. I lost all interest in the joke, the tag, the pod, the world, everything.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, sharply. ‘Stay with me. What happens next? A thousand pounds an inch?’

  ‘And the man thinks … for a bit … and then smiles and says, “Oh. OK, then. Not a problem.”’

  ‘I still can’t find it,’ he said and I could hear the tension in his voice.

  ‘Don’t stop now. Make the incision bigger again. Maybe Helen inserted it lower down. Or, since I’ve had an exciting life, it might have come loose and be lodged somewhere in my armpit.’

  He stared at me. ‘You have no idea how these things work, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m an historian. We concentrate on the bigger picture.’

  He frowned. ‘Max, I don’t know.’

  ‘You must, or we’re screwed. You can do it.’

  ‘I’m hurting you.’

  ‘Not a lot. I’m just being a baby.’

  He began again.

  I jerked. I couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘I know, love. I think we should stop. I’m going to do some damage if I go any deeper. There are tendons and blood vessels and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

  ‘No, you can’t stop. If you don’t do this, I’ll insist we split up, because you have to get back to St Mary’s.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘Then get on with it and stop pissing around.’

  More pain. Yuk.

  ‘So what happens after the thousand pounds an inch bit?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The joke? A thousand pounds an inch?’

  ‘The … the … doctor says, “ Look, talk to your wife about this. Any … radical … difference in the size and shape of your todger is going to come … as … a bit of a shock … to her. ”’

  ‘I’ll say,’ he said, calmly. ‘Imagine if I came at you waving something the same size and shape as a fire hose.’

  ‘I’d really rather not. One ordeal a day is enough.’

  ‘Against my will, I’m being drawn into this social and medical drama. What happens next?’

  ‘The doctor calls the … next morning.’

  I had to stop for a while.

  ‘Drink more brandy.’

  ‘Yes.’ I swigged a mouthful. Then another. ‘Oh God, I hate this stuff.’

  I had another mouthful to take the taste away.

  Even in the dim glow of our lightstick, I could see how pale he looked. He wasn’t enjoying this any more than I was.

  I said, softly, ‘It’s all right, love. You’re doing just fine.’

  Just for a moment, we looked at each other …

  ‘So, the doctor visits the next morning and says, “Did your wife call?” and the man says “ Yes. We discussed everything thoroughly … and came to a decision.” And the doctor says, “Great! What’s it to be then ?” And the man … says … the man says …’

  ‘Yes? Yes? For God’s sake, I’m on the edge of my seat here.’

  ‘And the man says, “We’re having a new kitchen.”’

  Another long, pain-crowded pause.

  Without looking up, he said, ‘I can’t believe you think that’s funny.’

  From dim and distant Brandyland, I slurred, ‘Of course it is. It’s … hilarious.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘Sorry. Was it too difficult … for you? Should I have dumbed … it down? You know, the techie version?’

  ‘How could you think that’s funny?’

  ‘Well, every … one … else just … fell … about. Kal … nearly wet herself.

  ‘You’re comparing me to that six foot blonde psychopath?’

  ‘You … wouldn’t … aaaghh … say … that if she was here.’

  ‘I wish she was here.’

  I said, ‘You’re doing … very … well,’ and closed my eyes. Just for a second. Just for a little while.

  I awoke several hours later. Leon was lying half under the console, muttering to himself.

  I smiled. ‘Hey.’

  He lifted his head.

  ‘There you are. How are you feeling?’

  My arm was on fire. My head was on fire. My chest was on fire.

  ‘I’m never drinking brandy again.’

  ‘Hangover?’

  ‘Mouth like the bottom of a dodo cage. Did you get it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  I said, ‘Shit,’ and let my head fall back.

  Now we were in trouble.

  But not anything like the trouble we were going to be in.

  Chapter Eight

  I love Leon Farrell dearly. He is the still small voice of calm at the centre of my hectic, historian world. He knows me better than I know myself and doesn�
��t allow that to put him off in any way. He knows when to agree with me. He knows when to argue. He knows when I need to be talked out of something for my own good. And best of all, he knows all this without being told. I trust his judgement more than anyone’s.

  So what the hell he was playing at when he let Professor Rapson organise the diversion at St Mary’s was a complete mystery to me.

  We presented ourselves at the rendezvous point an hour early – a minor miracle given the condition of the pod.

  We were situated just below the woods to the west of the lake. We weren’t camouflaged, but outbuildings and stables would give us some cover. Helios could make his way up through the woods themselves and approach us from the rear.

  Leon sat at the console, checking the systems again. Cameras and sound were turned up to the maximum. We needed to know what was happening around us.

  He’d fashioned a sling to try to ease the pain in my arm and it wasn’t working at all. I leaned against the chair and watched the screen.

  I could see all of St Mary’s spread out before me. The old house dreamed gently in the warm summer afternoon. There were the mullioned windows winking in the sunshine, the Virginia creeper climbing the stone walls, the South Lawn, the lake with its reed beds, the straight gravel drive flanked by horse chestnuts – it was all there, the epitome of the quiet English country house. I could even hear the birds singing.

  My heart thumped with the shock of recognition. There was no one around, but inside, somewhere, there would be Peterson. And Guthrie. And Mrs Mack. And Van Owen. All of them. I wondered what they were doing. What assignments they were preparing for. Who had my job now? I gave myself a little shake and made myself focus.

  Of course, this quiet, idyllic scene wasn’t the whole story. I could also see the craters, the burned patches of grass and the stumpy remains of the Clock Tower. The remnants of Professor Rapson’s previous experiments lay strewn around the grounds. I did take a moment to wonder at the Time Police allowing this and whether they had any idea at all of what could – and probably would – happen. I had no clue what the diversion would entail, but it seemed safe to assume it would be fiery, spectacular, noisy – and successful.

  ‘Right,’ said Leon, breaking a long silence. ‘We’ll just run over the details. At 1400 hours, some sort of diversion will occur. God knows what. I just hope there’s no major loss of life. Given the presence of the Time Police, they will probably tone it down a bit. So long as it’s enough to enable Helios to get here undetected. Whatever they do will last a good thirty minutes, which should give Guthrie more than enough time to get him to us. They’ll probably come through the woods and approach us from the rear. We don’t open the door until he’s directly in front of us. You will hide in the toilet.’