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

by Jodi Taylor

  There was a breathless silence.

  A chair creaked. Mrs Mack stood up. ‘I won’t go either. And before you say anything, I was in Cardiff in July and August of ’68, and I fought in the Monmouth Riots two years later. I’ve almost certainly seen more combat action than some of Major Guthrie’s young saplings over there and I’m very sorry to defy you like this, sir, but I won’t go.’

  Wow! And before I could get my head round that, Jenny Fields stood up and, gripping the chair in front of her, said breathlessly, ‘I’m not very brave and I’ve never shot anyone, but I’m not leaving either.’

  Both Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, each attempting to be first on their feet, became entangled, glared at each other, and said simultaneously, ‘Nor I. ’

  The professor added, ‘Sorry, Edward.’

  It must have been the most polite mutiny in history.

  Dr Bairstow visibly pulled himself together.

  ‘Major Guthrie!’

  ‘No, sorry, sir, but I’m definitely not going!’

  The laughter relieved the tension.

  ‘Major, please ensure that any member of St Mary’s who volunteers to remain is fully incorporated into your plans.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  The Boss stood for a long time, looking at his feet. The silence lengthened. I watched the dust dancing in the shafts of sunshine streaming through the lantern.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘St Mary’s thanks you for your service. As do I.’

  They sat down.

  ‘I must tell you, however, there is very little chance we will survive this.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It’s not Mafeking. No one will relieve us. We are completely alone. We dare not ask for support from other incarnations of St Mary’s who will also have their hands full. Or from the army or the government. It is imperative that no one ever knows that things go so badly wrong in the future. St Mary’s would be disestablished overnight. Therefore, we cannot risk outside involvement. There is only us. You are my friends. Some of you have been my friends for many years. I would be wrong to lead you into this without making you aware of our very slim chances of survival.’

  Mrs Mack stood up again. ‘When can I draw my weapon?’

  * * *

  In the end, only three people elected not to stay. They left that night. Another four volunteered to go with the pods as caretakers.

  For me, the next three days were a bit of a blur. Peterson went with Professor Rapson to assist with clearing out Wardrobe, R & D, and all the workrooms along that corridor. I was seconded to the library and archive. The trained staff did all the packing and stacking and I lugged flatbed after flatbed down the long (and rapidly getting longer) corridor to Hawking, where the archive boxes were carefully stowed in their designated pods.

  Techies were swarming over everything like orange ants. The IT people were backing up and shutting down, which was a long business. I could see Barclay striding around, barking instructions.

  I sat on my flatbed, ostensibly for a glug of water, and studied her. As always, her face gave nothing away. She appeared to be concentrating all her efforts on shutting down our IT systems safely. She moved from group to group, occasionally pointing at a screen or offering a word of advice. She had a clipboard and a serious expression. She never once looked in my direction.

  There were lighter moments amongst the gloom. We were standing around the Boss’s data table working out deployments when, with barely a knock, Mrs Mack swept in – a woman with a mission – closely followed by Jenny Fields, who was burdened with a cardboard box and an embarrassed expression.

  The Boss straightened up, faintly surprised. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh good, you’re all here. Yes, you can all help. I need condoms, please. As many as possible.’

  We stared at her.

  She said, sharply, ‘Now, please, if you would be so good.’

  We stared at her.

  ‘I know at least some of you must have some and I need as many as I can get.’

  We stared at her.

  Peterson jerked himself back to reality. ‘Um …I think there are machines in the …’

  ‘I have all those,’ she said, jerking her head in the direction of Jenny and her box. ‘I need more. These may not be enough.’

  We stared at her.

  You would not believe the pictures cartwheeling through my mind.

  After a long moment, Dieter pulled out his wallet and tossed two onto the table. ‘Two,’ he said.

  Peterson grinned. ‘I’ll see your two and raise you one,’ laid down three, appeared to be struck by a sudden thought and snatched two back. Mrs Mack glared at him and he reluctantly let them go again.

  Markham rummaged endlessly through pockets and wallet and produced a great handful. A great, multi-coloured, ribbed handful. ‘Way to go, Mr Markham,’ said Peterson in admiration.

  After a brief pause that actually seemed to go on for quite a long time, the Boss laid down two. A more than respectful silence fell. Nobody caught anybody’s eye. Mrs Mack departed.

  I heard the Boss murmur, ‘I sometimes wonder what goes on in that kitchen,’ and we continued with the briefing.

  Saying goodbye to the pods was hard for everyone. They were to jump to our remote site, the location of which was a closely guarded secret. The Boss tried to make Dr Dowson go with them, ostensibly because he was our archivist but also because he was nearly seventy. He refused to leave, and in the end, the Boss relented.

  The whole unit assembled in Hawking. I stood on the gantry with the rest of St Mary’s and watched them disappear, silently, one by one, taking my memories with them. Eventually, the vast hangar was empty. Dieter looked as if he’d lost his entire family, which, I suppose, he had. Polly Perkins was in tears. I wondered whether I would ever see them again. Whether any of us would ever see them again.

  We were divided into teams.

  I was in Markham’s team, along with Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson (presumably so we could argue the enemy to death), Peterson, and Mrs Partridge. Our position was at the foot of the stairs. From there, we could cover the entrance to the long corridor to Hawking, and the front doors.

  Weller, Evans, and Clerk covered our rear from the half landing. Major Guthrie’s teams were ranged around the gallery. Dieter’s team was stationed outside Hawking. Helen was covering Sick Bay and the civilian staff were deployed around the building as reserves.

  Everything was locked, shuttered, bolted, barred, barricaded, booby-trapped, and anything else we could think of. Unless they brought heavy explosives, the only ways in were through Hawking or the main entrance, and we reckoned they wouldn’t want to risk damaging Hawking, so the main door was where we were concentrated.

  ‘Remember,’ said Guthrie, at our briefing, ‘you are only responsible for your particular area. Be aware of what goes on around you, but if you look around, you will see each team is covered by the others. Check your range and designated target areas. Fire only along your lines of sight. Don’t go waving your weapons around from left to right. Trust your colleagues on either side of you. Trust those behind you.’

  We spent hours on the ranges. At first, it was chaos and we were in more danger standing behind some of our volunteers than in front of them, but it settled down. We didn’t go for anything fancy – just aim for the centre of the body and pull the trigger. Single shots. Those of us with more experience did our best to pass it on. We held drills, stripping down weapons and re-assembling them with our eyes shut. Ditto re-loading. Mrs Partridge was our designated re-loader. She was quick, clean, and dexterous. I felt reassured, knowing she would be nearby.

  Gradually, it began to gel. A feeling of optimism was encouraged, although I could see this wasn’t shared by Guthrie, or Markham, or anyone with any sort of combat experience. We were on our own. We would be pitted against better-armed, ruthless, professional troops who had already demonstrated their complete disregard for anything or anyone who got in their way. We were going to
die.

  But we’re St Mary’s and we weren’t dead yet.

  I sat on the stairs, looking down into the Hall. It had been another long day. Night had fallen. Only a few lights burned. Guards were posted and most people were getting their heads down. The slightest sound echoed eerily around the empty building.

  I don’t know for how long I’d been sitting there, alone with my thoughts, but even the hard wooden stairs were more comfortable than my cramped little concrete cell, and, quite honestly, I was too tired and unhappy to move.

  I heard uneven footsteps approaching and when I looked up, Dr Bairstow stood before me. Scrambling stiffly to my feet, I said, ‘Good evening, Dr Bairstow.’

  He looked at me for a while and then said, ‘I wondered if you would care to join me for a moment.’

  Mystified, I followed him back to his empty office.

  He pulled open a drawer and brought out a bottle and two glasses. He poured generously and passed me one.

  He stood, in the dark, his back to me, looking out of the window.

  His first words surprised me. ‘We can’t win this. I am presiding over the end of St Mary’s as we know it. No matter what they say, I should send everyone away.’

  ‘If I might argue with you briefly, sir …’

  ‘The word briefly never applies to any of your arguments, Dr Maxwell. The word interminable is a far more apt description.’

  ‘Well, actually, sir, the word compelling best describes my arguments, but, be that as it may, you should consider this. Everyone here is a volunteer. You heard Mrs Enderby. She said she believed in what we do here. We all believe in what we do here, sir. Some of us think it an honour and a privilege to be offered the opportunity to defend something as important as St Mary’s. Personally, sir, I count myself in good company.’

  ‘As do I, Dr Maxwell, the very best company. With one or two notable exceptions, I could not have asked for better people around me, which makes it all even more of a waste, I think. When I consider the planning, the effort, and the sacrifices made … and not just by this unit.’

  ‘Sir, if it was easy then everyone would be doing it. It’s no fun if it’s not difficult.’

  He turned from the window to look at me through the gloom. I still couldn’t see his face.

  I sat quietly, facing him. The light from Mrs Partridge’s office was behind me so he couldn’t see my face, either.

  I thought about what this meant to him. This was his unit, his world. This was the culmination of everything he’d worked for. He’d built it up from scratch. He’d sacrificed his future to jump back and found St Mary’s. He’d fought the good fight up and down the timeline. He wouldn’t allow anyone to take it from him. He wouldn’t go quietly into the night. He would fight to his last breath.

  And so would we.

  I said nothing. Around us, St Mary’s settled and the last noises died away. The silence was very heavy.

  When I had control of my voice, I said, ‘When Leon was here, what did he say?’

  ‘According to Leon … the day after tomorrow. The attack is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at about five o’clock in the morning.’ His face was still in shadow. ‘If they come …’

  ‘This is about much more than Helios, isn’t it?’

  ʻYes. I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this, Max. You and Leon deserved …’

  ‘Don’t be, sir. Perhaps some things are just never meant to be.’

  He drew a breath and topped up my glass.

  I changed the subject. ‘Sir, I haven’t thanked you for taking me in.’

  He said gently, ‘I think that between such old friends as us, Max, thanks are not needed.’

  I took a painful breath. ‘Will they come?’

  I looked directly at him and he paid me the compliment of looking directly back.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, but I think they will come.’

  I knew what he was saying. If they came, it was because Leon had failed. It would mean all the other St Mary’s had been unable to hold them back and that Leon was dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Midnight.

  Team Markham assembled at the foot of the stairs, behind the big barricade. We checked each other over, tightening straps and slapping helmets. Mrs Partridge stacked her spare ammo. I inspected my weapons – two 9 mm semi-automatics taking 30 round clips, and a wide beam blaster, fully charged. Never having envisaged a situation where all of St Mary’s would be in the firing line, Major Guthrie didn’t have enough equipment for everyone and priority, obviously, went to the Security section. I had some armour and a helmet, but no night vision.

  I stood at the foot of the stairs, got my bearings, and noted who was where. I verified my allocated target areas and the range. Beside me, Peterson was making sure his weapons pulled free from his sticky patches without snagging or catching on anything.

  When we were satisfied, we sat down and made ourselves comfortable.

  Then we waited.

  Would they come?

  I could hear breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing as someone shifted position nearby. Around us, the building creaked and settled.

  We sat quietly, watching the hours pass. Every hour they didn’t come meant that Leon was still alive. That he was still out there somewhere. We made it through the small hours. Then 3 a.m. Then 4 a.m.

  Around me, people dozed. Markham snored. I didn’t dare close my eyes. Peterson sat motionless alongside me. Earlier, I’d seen him take the opportunity to exchange a few words with Helen Foster. They’d stood a little apart, not speaking. He held her hands. I’d caught a glimpse of their faces and had to turn my head away.

  Around four-thirty, the sun began to think about joining us and they still hadn’t turned up. I told myself it would be light soon and surely they wouldn’t risk a daylight attack. That they weren’t coming after all. That Leon had been successful.

  There was an occasional murmur or someone rearranged their equipment, but otherwise we waited in silence. I checked myself for the umpteenth time.

  Mrs Partridge waited slightly behind us with stocks of spare ammo. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson were off to one side of me, whispering indignantly to each other in the dark.

  I wriggled round, hissed, ‘What?’ and stopped and stared in disbelief at their miscellaneous weapons of mass destruction. I saw what looked like a flame-thrower apparently made of an old milk churn and some industrial hosing, caltrops, a homemade crossbow, half a dozen Molotov cocktails, and what looked like a Vickers gun from WWI.

  ‘What is all that?’

  ‘Back-up,’ said Professor Rapson and I wondered if it was too late to request a transfer to another team. There seemed every indication this one would fall victim to friendly fire.

  ‘Last resort,’ I said warningly, wondering if we were in more danger from behind than in front.

  ‘Got it,’ they said gleefully. Markham rolled his eyes.

  Peterson turned to me. ‘Bet you wish you’d stayed at Agincourt, now.’

  ‘I’m prepared to admit it might have had attractions that I overlooked at the time. How about you? Any regrets?’

  ‘Well, I always wanted Carthage. And Waterloo. Thermopylae would have been good, too. I’m sorry to have missed that.’

  ‘Yes, me too. Well, if we ever get out of this, maybe you and I could …?’

  ‘Good idea. We’ll take a picnic. Now there’s a good title for a book. Picnic at Thermopylae.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m glad we’re in this together, Tim.’

  ‘That’s us. Always together. Through thick and thin.’

  ‘Sick and sin.’

  ‘Loss and win.’

  In my mind, I saw another Sick Bay. Another Tim.

  I smiled, sadly. ‘One last adventure …’

  They were brave words, but we really didn’t stand a chance. This wasn’t Thermopylae where a thousand stout hearts could hold off overwhelming odds. Or Agincourt, where brilliant tactics
and iron nerve won the day. This was St Mary’s. A handful of people, inadequately armed, defending a dilapidated old building. A couple of well-placed mortars would bring the roof down, then it would just be a case of them mopping up the survivors, installing their own people, and then their victory would be complete. They would have it all.

  If they came.

  And if they did come, it was because Leon had failed. Somewhere, in some far-off time I’d never know, he’d gone down in a hail of fire … dying for what he believed in and the bright, brilliant flame that had been St Mary’s …

  No. Stop that.

  I thought of Leonidas of Sparta. He didn’t know the future of the western world rested on his shoulders but that didn’t stop him drawing his sword, planting his feet, and defying the entire Persian Empire.

  Our forebears at the Gates of Grief didn’t know they were the direct ancestors of nearly everyone on the planet – they just built their little rafts, climbed aboard, and struck out for the unknown.

  History glitters with the tales of men and women who, with no thought of reward or glory, make their stand and quietly do their duty. I wasn’t going to be a lesser person than my ancestors.

  We crouched in the dark and waited for them.

  If they came.

  They came.

  All the Heath Robinson devices installed around the building sounded off simultaneously, signifying the arrival outside of the Forces of Darkness.

  My world stopped and for a moment, I just couldn’t move at all. Because I’d lost him. Again. Our second chance was never going to happen. All our plans … All those whispered conversations in a cold, dark pod … When we’d allowed ourselves to hope …

  I looked down at the gun in my hand and felt everything begin to drift away. Peterson, who knew what this meant to me, briefly touched my shoulder, bringing me back.

  I nodded and swallowed something huge and painful in my throat.

  Then it was down to business.

  In the absence of Major Guthrie, Markham spoke a few rallying words to the troops.

  ‘OK people, listen up. This is it. We all know what to do. If we remember our training then we’ll be fine. Our job is to hold the front doors and stairs for as long as possible. There will be noise and chaos and you’ll be scared, but that’s OK because we’re St Mary’s and no one does noise and chaos as well as us. Major Guthrie estimates we’ll be outnumbered about six to one …’