by Jodi Taylor
Finally, he said, in a tired thread of a voice, ‘You shouldn’t have to do this for me.’
‘You should be grateful you don’t have to do it for me. We don’t all have outside plumbing. Imagine the difficulties involved with aim and flow control.’
‘Oh … gross.’
‘Exactly. Your problem is that you don’t know when you’re well off.’
He averted his gaze from my ham-fisted assistance. ‘You’re right.'
I tidied him away afterwards and picked up the bowl and got to my feet.
‘Where are you going?’ he said, in sudden alarm.
‘Just taking the piss.’
He was awake when Brother Anselm knocked the next morning.
I called out and he cautiously opened the door.
A great shaft of sunlight flooded the little shed. Peterson blinked in the sudden brightness and tried to put up a hand to shade his eyes.
I said quickly, ‘Husband, this is Brother Anselm; to whose goodness we owe our lives. And to God, of course.’
He stood in the doorway, beaming. ‘Praise God for his goodness. This is a miracle indeed. And you, my child, you are well?’
‘Yes, indeed, brother.’
‘And the swelling?’
‘It has gone. The fever dropped immediately. I have kept the wound clean.’
‘Let me see.’
He knelt beside Peterson, who once again suffered the indignity of crotch sniffing.
‘Everything seems as it should be.’ He hesitated. ‘You understand that because there is still a risk …’
Yes, I was still a plague risk, myself. Besides, the last thing we needed now was for Peterson to be admitted to hospital. If he continued to improve, I would ask for the cart tomorrow and get him back to St Mary’s for proper treatment. They would quarantine us in the pod and treat us there, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
I nodded, solemnly.
Brother Anselm disappeared to bring food and clean bandages.
Peterson slept for most of the day.
Brother Anselm visited regularly, each time asking after me. I think my stubborn refusal to develop the disease caused him some puzzlement. It puzzled me, as well. The only explanation I could find was that, after my infected arm, I was so stuffed full of antibiotics that my body had been able to fight off the nasty medieval plague germs and, as each hour passed, it seemed less likely that I would get it. Not that that would save me from ruthless quarantine when I got back.
That evening, Peterson swallowed a little soup, which stayed put. You can’t keep a good historian down for long. He insisted on feeding himself, so I guided the spoon and mopped him up afterwards, grumbling about his poor aim. He grumbled about my abysmal nursing skills.
We settled down for our third night.
The question came out of the dark.
‘Who are you? Really?’
I sighed and sat up. ‘Well, I’ll tell you because you might still die, and it will save me killing you later. I’m Max, but I’m not your Max. That’s how I was able to tell the truth to the Time Police. I was about to die on my last assignment and woke up here. I’m not an imposter or a substitute or a copy. I’m me. And you’re not my Peterson. And it’s not my St Mary’s. And this isn’t my 14th century. And I don’t know what’s going on most of the time. And Leon’s not here. But apart from all that, everything’s fine.’
I struggled again with a dizzying panic that was akin to feelings of vertigo.
He pulled my skirt. ‘Hey. Come back.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What was your last assignment?’
‘Agincourt.’
A pause. ‘Was I there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So tell me … what happened?’
In as few words as possible, I told him about the attack on the baggage camp, his wound, and my struggle to get him back to the pod. I described how I’d hit him on the head, rolled him under a bush, and drawn off our pursuers. It was a bald, factual account, recounted with difficulty, and afterwards, there was a long silence.
Eventually, he said, ‘I don’t know what to say.’
I shrugged in the dark.
I was about to lay back down again when he said, ‘I found you, you know.’
At first, I didn’t understand. Then I did.
‘I thought Leon found me.’
‘No. He telephoned you. He said afterwards that he knew something was wrong. He rang me in my office and asked me to nip along and make sure you were on your way to meet him. I walked in through the door … and you were on the floor.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You still had the Famous Assassinations assignment in your hand.’
I said nothing. He needed to say this.
‘Your face was bright red. I knew at once … carbon monoxide … I dragged you out into the corridor. Markham was walking past. We did everything we could. Helen arrived. She did everything she could. Everyone knew it was far too late and that it was all useless but we did it anyway. Then Leon arrived.’
He stopped. I wondered if I should stop him talking. He was so weak, but he needed to say this.
‘It was bad for us, but for him … His life just stopped. You could see it in his face. For him, everything just stopped dead. And it never started up again. Oh, he went through the motions, but when you went away, a large part of him went with you. He wasn’t the only one. Dr Bairstow was devastated. Both Mrs Mack and Mrs Enderby cried. And as for Kal … It was a terrible time for everyone.’ He tried to laugh. ‘Especially you, of course.’
I tried to laugh, too. ‘In my world, it was Leon who died.’
‘Tell me …’
So I did. In fact, apart from Mrs Partridge’s role in all this, I told him everything. Right up to the hearing.
Another long silence. I helped him to more water.
‘We didn’t treat you very well, did we?’
‘Well, what were you to think? You saw me dead. Everyone was bound to think that I was some sort of imposter. Or that Leon had lost his mind and picked up some bint who just happened to look like me. I don’t hold any grudges.’
Except maybe for one.
‘But even so, Max …’
‘Well, you’re right, my life is not good at the moment. But every time I feel like giving way, I remember the day I walked into a pod and saw Leon Farrell stretched dead on the floor, and I know that however bad things are, they’ll never be that bad again.’ I grinned in the dark. ‘Plus, every time you see me, like it or not, you’ll remember that you’re only alive today because of me. Because I’m absolutely bloody wonderful.’
‘And let’s not forget modest either.’
‘As if you’ll ever get the chance.’
So we talked. And slept. And talked again. A lot was said although not all of it was spoken.
I woke early. At some point in the night, he’d reached out his hand and grasped a fold of my dress.
I wondered who was comforting whom.
My estimate of two days for Peterson to be strong enough to get back to the pod proved to be wildly over-optimistic. Brother Anselm refused to bring the handcart and even I had to admit that Peterson was nowhere near well enough to be moved. The fever had gone, the swelling had disappeared and his wound was healing, but he was frighteningly weak. He had lost an enormous amount of weight and he’d been skinny to begin with. I could clearly see his cheekbones showing under yellow skin that seemed stretched too tightly across his face.
He slept a great deal and although he did his best, forcing down a few mouthfuls of every meal, he could not disguise his lack of appetite and lethargy. I told myself there was no point in dragging him back to St Mary’s for proper medical treatment if the journey killed him.
Brother Anselm continued his fascination with Peterson’s recovery, visiting two or three times a day to question me closely about his treatment. In the end, I told him I’d seen a horse with a swollen leg treated in a similar manner and just copied what I’d seen. He seemed amused. Peterson wasn’t.
After four days, however, he agreed to bring the handcart. I told him we had a small hut behind The Bolles Hede and once he realised I wasn’t going to drag Peterson back to Rushford there and then, he nodded.
Part of me was sorry to leave. It was quiet, peaceful, the food was good and plentiful, and I liked Brother Anselm, but deep down, I worried that Peterson might still die. That he might take a turn for the worse, or pick up the pox or something. He was my responsibility. If this was a normal assignment, I’d have stuffed him full of antibiotics and had him back to St Mary’s. They would have confined us to the pod, but getting him back would have been the sensible thing to do.
I said this to Peterson who laughed and said if I was talking about the sensible option he now knew I couldn’t possibly be the real Maxwell.
He indignantly refused to lie down in the cart, and so we heaved him, sitting bolt upright like Patience on her monument, through the gardens, down the passageway and out into the dusty High Street.
We halted outside the pod. Peterson slithered off the cart and leaned against the door for support.
We all looked at each other.
Peterson stretched out his hand. ‘Thank you, Brother. I am sorry I have no money left to pay for my care. But when I return to Rushford, I will make a donation to the poor in gratitude.’
And he did. He never made a big thing of it, but he sent off a generous cheque to the free clinic in St Stephen’s Street.
Brother Anselm nodded, apparently well satisfied.
I looked at the plump little figure standing in front of me, arms thrust into the sleeves of his carefully darned habit. Quietly doing his best every day. Invincible in a faith I could not understand. Doing battle for his God. Winning some. Losing most. I felt a gentle regret at leaving him.
Peterson tactfully turned away.
‘I read great trouble in you, my child. Your life is burdened with doubt and fear. I say to you, place your trust in the God who loves you and all will be well. Do not waste the time given you in fretting over events you cannot control. If you only let him, God will amend all. Have just a little faith.’
I swallowed hard and nodded. Just for a moment, I couldn’t find any words.
Suddenly brisk, he said, ‘I have duties to perform. Call on me when you return to make your pilgrimage.’
‘We will,’ I said, knowing we wouldn’t ever see him again.
‘God’s blessing be upon you both, my children.’
‘Amen,’ said Peterson.
We watched him trundle his cart back into the High Street and be swallowed up in the crowd.
I like to think he lived a long and useful life, happy in the service of the God in whom he believed so implicitly, but there’s no record of him anywhere, either of his life or his death. I know, because I looked.
The familiar pod smell greeted us – hot electrics, damp carpet, stale air, the toilet, and cabbage. Even in this world, they had the cabbage smell.
Peterson looked too weak for a seat, so I lowered him gently to the floor and crossed to the console. ‘The jump’s all laid in. All you have to do is initiate.’
He nodded. ‘Just a minute.’
‘What’s the problem?’
He fidgeted. ‘I just wanted to say …’
‘There’s really no need. If you could do the honours, please.’
We landed as lightly as thistledown in a soft summer breeze if you listened to Peterson. Or like a plummeting pachyderm if you believed me.
‘You’ve got the pox,’ I said, checking the screen. ‘What would you know?’
‘Plague! I have the plague! For God’s sake, do not go around telling people I have the pox. Please tell me you know the difference.’
‘Well, I treated you for pox and you got better. Ergo – you had the pox.’
‘You mean – all that crawling around between my legs and you hadn’t got a bloody clue what you were doing?’
‘Listen, ingrate. My ministrations, ungentle as they were, will be as nothing once Doctor Foster gets hold of you. She’s going to stick you with every antibiotic known to man – and probably a few still in the experimental stages. Are you ready for decon? I’m going to do it at least twice.’
He nodded and I operated the decontamination system. The cold, blue light flickered and I could feel the hairs on my arms stirring.
‘And again.’
The lamp hummed.
‘Do it once more,’ he said. ‘The more we suffer in here, the less we suffer out there.’
‘I think you’re underestimating the medical section,’ but I operated the lamp again anyway.
Three times in such short succession left us both feeling a little sick, but it was necessary. We decontaminated after every assignment. Dr Bairstow’s procedures were rigorous. There was no way we would ever bring something unpleasant back from the past. Apart from each other, of course.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s put the cat amongst the pigeons.’ I activated the comm. ‘Attention please. Code Blue. Code Blue. Code Blue. This is Pod Three declaring a Code Blue. Authorisation Maxwell. Five zero alpha nine eight zero four bravo. I say again, Code Blue. Code Blue. Code Blue. This is not a drill.’
I had no authorisation here, but they would get the message. I left the mike on and switched on the internal cameras so they could see what was happening in here and went and sat alongside Peterson who was still on the floor.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Not too bad, despite being irradiated by that bloody lamp.’
‘Yes, I gave you a good blast. You’re almost certainly sterile by now.’
‘What?’
‘When the two of you are finished,’ said Dr Foster’s voice, ‘please state the nature of the contamination.’
I gestured to Peterson. He was the patient.
‘Pox,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Plague! I mean plague! I’ve got the plague! Stop laughing, Max.’
The next hour was busy. Priority was given to ridding ourselves of the infected fleas we had almost certainly brought back with us.
On Dr Foster’s instructions, I helped Peterson undress and shoved him into the shower. While he was in there, I found his knife and, not without some misgivings, sawed away. After a few minutes, two long red plaits fell to the floor.
‘Oh my God,’ said Peterson, emerging. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done that. Dr Bairstow will go ballistic.’
‘Not with me. I’m going to tell him you made me do it.’
Following procedures, I incinerated everything – my hair, our clothes, everything, and then took a shower myself, letting the warm water run through my traumatised hair.
Five minutes later, I was back, enveloped in a towel.
Outside, Hawking was deserted. Dieter would have had them all out of the hangar like greased lightning. I could see a ring of armed guards in hazmat suits setting themselves up. Their job would be to shoot anything that tried to leave the pod without medical supervision.
We waited.
‘Been anytime nice this year?’ said Peterson, arranging his towel primly across his lap.
‘Let’s see. A London Frost Fair. A quick glimpse of Akhenaten. Pompeii was good.’
‘Really? We’re scheduled for Pompeii later this year.’
‘Well, if you see me, give me a wave.’
They zipped us up in plastic suits, carted us off to Sick Bay, and I was back in the isolation ward.
‘Nice,’ said Peterson, looking around him.
‘Better than the sock-smelling den of squalor that is the men’s ward, yes. I’m definitely not going in there. God knows what I’d come out with.’
Both Hunter and Dr Foster were engrossed with Peterson’s groin.
‘A man can never have too much of that,’ he said with a grin, which disappeared when they outlined the programme of vaccinations they had planned for him.
It was wiped from mine as well when I discovered I was in line, too. In vain did I prote
st I hadn’t actually had the pox. Plague! Dammit! Plague!
We weren’t allowed visitors, but people lined up to peer through the viewing window and point and laugh. They could at least have thrown peanuts.
Someone pasted up a list of famous people who had suffered from syphilis:
Hitler
Mussolini
Ivan the Terrible
Bonaparte
Cesare Borgia
Casanova
Lord Darnley
Chief Operations Officer Peterson
I laughed, but was a little hurt that my own name wasn’t up there. Relations were better, but we weren’t yet on familiar terms. When your name appears on the pox printout, you know you’ve been accepted.
We wrote our reports and sent them off to Dr Bairstow, who presented himself punctually at 0930 every morning to stare at us. It was beyond his nature to smile and encourage, so we could only assume he was there to intimidate any lingering plague germs. He certainly intimidated us.
I didn’t develop anything. I don’t think anyone expected me to, but it was a wonderful excuse to lock me up for a couple of days. I wasn’t bothered and Peterson, when he didn’t have people peering at his nether regions, was good company. I advised him that if this kept up, to start charging a viewing fee.
‘I could be the next national monument,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Open on Sunday afternoons. Cream teas for half a crown.’
I said nastily, ‘There’s nothing monumental about you, Tiny Tim,’ and left him spluttering indignantly.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. The relief and elation I felt at having got Peterson back more or less intact had worn off, and fears for the future now crowded my mind.
I lay in the dark and stared up at the ceiling. Peterson snored gently in the corner. I contemplated getting out of bed and giving him a poke, but just as I pushed back the covers he grunted, snorted, and turned over.
In the blessed silence, I thought I heard a faint sound outside my door. The dark shape that appeared in the window was too tall for Hunter. Even as I raised myself on one elbow, the door opened a little way; a dark figure slid through the gap and closed it silently.
I reached for the tried and trusty water jug and prepared to sell my life dearly.
A whisper in the dark. ‘Don’t switch on the light.’
