A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  Well, good for Mrs Partridge.

  ‘I would, therefore, like you to spend today tying up any loose ends in your department, writing a report on your recent experiences, with particular reference to your tenure as Director, and making all necessary arrangements for fourteen days leave. You and Chief Farrell will present yourselves at The Redhouse Centre at 11.00 a.m. tomorrow morning. You don’t need to take anything with you. In fact, they prefer it if you don’t. They will provide everything you need. I will speak to Chief Farrell separately. That will be all, Dr Maxwell.’

  Bloody hell! The Redhouse Centre, or just The Red House as it was usually known, was the place where they shoved royalty, high-ranking politicians, and captains of industry who had gone off the rails a bit. Rumour had it Princess Alice had spent some time there after her month-old marriage to that rock star had broken up so spectacularly, and the Defence Secretary had been taken there after he raced naked through the corridors of power, shouting, ‘I’m Titania, Queen of the Fairies!’ Given the balls-up he and the government had made of everything, that might have been the most accurate statement he ever made in his entire life.

  Anyway, this was where the rich and powerful went when feeling ‘tired and emotional’. They were opulent, effective, discreet, and utterly trustworthy. The man in charge, Dr Knox, reportedly held the secrets of the nation in his hands.

  But, mostly, it was incredibly, horribly, enormously, expensive. About a year’s wages for just an overnight stay. Of course, that said more about our levels of pay than Dr Knox’s prices.

  I gaped at him. ‘You’re sending both of us to the Red House? For fourteen days?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that was what I said. Which part was unclear?’

  ‘Can we afford it?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ve known Alexander Knox for some time. He’s interested in Chief Farrell’s condition and is happy to take you both at short notice.’

  ‘But do we have a cover story?’

  ‘Dr Knox is aware of St Mary’s. He knows what we do here. You can speak freely to him. Dr Foster has informed me she does not have the necessary expertise to be sure of the best treatment for Chief Farrell. You are going, ostensibly, as his carer. In reality, you are going for a spot of R&R. I believe the facilities at The Red House are among the finest in the country and I expect you to avail yourselves of them. Make sure you get my money’s worth. On your return I intend to work you to death, so make the most of it.’

  He stood up. The caring manager was back in the box. I left before he started talking about making deductions from my pay. Always one of his favourite subjects.

  I spent the rest of the day briefing and being briefed. I dictated my reports to my assistant, David, for onward transmission to the Boss after I’d gone. The place had ticked over pretty well without me, which was gratifying. I have no time for people who ensure their departments can’t function without them. I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion mine functions slightly better when I’m not around. Still, they seemed pleased to see me back.

  Best of all, Kal was still there. She was leaving the next day but I hadn’t missed her. I was so glad. She, Tim, and I had a last lunch together. Tim shot off to terrorise his trainees, Kal went to finish her packing and I went back to work. David had set up a series of meetings for me. First off were Miss Schiller and Miss Van Owen. I was setting them to work on The Play.

  Our genuine Shakespeare play. From the hand of Shakespeare himself, as attested by Dr Bairstow who stood over him while he wrote it, and then buried it here. Under our fourth step, actually, where it had been discovered along with the collection of sonnets which were now being used for the benefit of the future St Mary’s. We owned a manuscript beyond price. Except we couldn’t use it because, for some reason, in this play, they executed Elizabeth, not Mary Stuart.

  I said, ‘We need to get this sorted. This is your immediate priority. I want an in-depth study. Somewhere in this play, there must be a point where the histories diverge. A kind of tipping point, if you like. I want you to find it. Somewhere, our history goes one way and the play goes another. Cross-reference every event in the play against actual events. Find me a starting point. Let’s ascertain what we’re dealing with and when. It’s going to be detailed and painstaking – you’ll have to check everything against reputable sources and there’s always the possibility that Shakespeare has been flexible with actual events, so keep that in mind as well.’

  They nodded, heads bent over scratchpads. Although I had the Tudors as one of my secondary areas, Schiller’s main specialty was Tudor and Stuart England and Van Owen was the go-to person for detailed work.

  ‘Is there a deadline?’ she muttered, still tapping her scratchpad.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m off on leave for fourteen days. Accuracy is more important than speed. We have to get this absolutely right. Requisition whatever you need. See Dr Dowson if you have any problems. Any questions?’

  ‘No,’ they said calmly and disappeared with no fuss. When I came back, I was going to make them Senior Historians.

  David updated me on who was where and when. Clerk and Spencer were in Regency Bath.

  Yilmaz and Travis had gone off to see Drake singe the King of Spain’s beard at Cadiz and Roberts and Morgan were writing up their last assignment.

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘No, everything here is fine. Professor Rapson has completed his catapult and called for volunteers.’

  ‘What?’ I was suddenly wary.

  ‘He plans to see how accurately he can fling plague-ridden bodies over the walls of a besieged city.’

  ‘Not this time,’ I said. ‘Mannequins, sacks of flour, car tyres – yes. People – no.’

  ‘But the entire department has volunteered,’ he said, tragically. ‘They’ll be very disappointed. It’s quite safe – he was only going to toss them into the lake, and many of them planned to make themselves up with pustules and bleeding sores.’

  Not so very long ago I would have been one of the volunteers. In fact, Tim and I would probably have been top of the list. Suddenly, I felt very old. I definitely needed a holiday.

  ‘I’d rather they lived with disappointment than multiple fractures. Definitely not. Any problems from them, see Major Guthrie. Tell him if he can’t sort them out then he has my permission to shoot them.’

  ‘Yes, Max,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I was up at dawn the next morning to see Kal leave.

  In defiance of regulations, Dieter had brought her car round to the front door. We reckoned it was so early that no one would ever know. He was just opening the boot for her last bits and pieces when the front door opened and Dr Bairstow emerged.

  Whoops.

  Kal walked up the steps to meet him. They talked quietly for a few minutes. I don’t know what he said, but if you knew her you could she was moved. He put out his hand. She ignored it, stepped forward, hugged him, and kissed his cheek.

  And lived.

  She stepped back. He swept us with a look that promised later retribution and disappeared back into the building.

  She sniffed and rejoined us. I watched her say goodbye to Helen and Leon. She wasn’t finding this easy. I myself was conscious of a horrible cold feeling inside. She was going. She was actually going. Then she turned to me. I had nothing to say. There were no words. We hugged for a long time. Neither of us was going to let go. Behind me, Leon said gently, ‘Max …’

  I couldn’t watch her say goodbye to Tim. They’d been partners for so long. They were both in tears. Dieter had to push her into the car. Slowly, she drove away. I looked at Tim. He wasn’t going to have a good day. Leon and I were away after breakfast, and he would be alone. I looked at Helen. Her people skills were minimal and I wasn’t sure she would realise what this meant to him, but she was already talking gently to him. Well, what do you know? Personal growth.

&nbs
p; Farrell took my arm and we climbed the steps. When I looked back, Kal was just pulling out through the gates. There was a solitary pip from the horn, an arm waved out of the window and she was gone.

  Two hours later, so were we. We were in Farrell’s car and I was driving because he wasn’t allowed. It was a beautiful car, sleek and black and handled like a dream. I drove very, very carefully. The deal was that I would drive and he would navigate. This would give us at least a fighting chance of arriving at our destination intact.

  I said, ‘Shouldn’t we be arguing about directions or something?’

  ‘No, I looked at the route last night. I know the way.’

  ‘You take all the fun out of life, you know that?’

  ‘Well, I aim to put it back again as soon as possible, so try and stay out of trouble till then.’

  I did manage to keep the car on the road. He tutted.

  ‘Hey, I’m not the one who hits trees.’

  I was referring to the famous occasion when he crashed the Boss’s Bentley and I finished up across the bonnet and never saw my knickers again. Happy days.

  We pitched up just a little before eleven. We’re a time-travelling organisation. Punctuality is written into our contracts.

  A young woman in a white coat met us on the steps. Her short, dark hair emphasised her beautifully shaped skull. She had eyebrows and cheekbones to which lesser mortals could only aspire. I tried not to sigh.

  ‘I’m Dr Joanna Trent. Dr Knox is still with a patient, so he’s asked me to show you around and make you welcome. So – Mr Farrell, Dr Maxwell – welcome to The Red House. If you can let John here have your keys, he can park your car for you.’

  I handed the over the keys. Obviously Red House inmates never did anything as mundane as parking their own cars. I felt rather than heard Farrell’s sigh of relief. He had obviously been picturing his beloved car bouncing around a packed car park like an impala on a trampoline.

  She was speaking again.

  ‘I’ll leave you to explore the grounds yourselves. We’re very proud of our gardens and they’re here to be enjoyed. Now …’ We walked up the steps and through the main doors. You could tell this wasn’t the British National Health Service. They had carpet on the floor. Obviously the inmates never did anything as low-class as bleed or puke on it. Comfortable chairs and low tables were scattered around. Another young man sat behind a polished mahogany reception desk.

  ‘This is Paul. He’ll be along later to do the paperwork. Now, we’re standing at a kind of crossroads here. To the left is the library; a lovely room, well stocked and with a wide range of daily papers for the benefit of our guests.’

  Guests! Not inmates. Get the terminology right, Maxwell.

  ‘Which reminds me, no electronic devices and definitely no mobiles.’ She held out a hand.

  Farrell dug his out and handed it over. She looked at me.

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  She raised one disbelieving, beautifully shaped eyebrow.

  ‘No, it’s true,’ said Farrell. ‘She really doesn’t.’

  I shook my head in agreement. She still didn’t look happy, but it’s a look I’ve been familiar with all my life. I was beginning to feel my old dislike of authority stirring inside.

  ‘Next to the library is the Guests’ Lounge and, at the very end, the Guests’ Dining Room. Should you have any special dietary requirements, please be sure to speak to Paul about them. He’s here to help, as are we all.’

  She turned and gestured gracefully to her right. ‘Down this corridor, we have a series of consulting and treatment rooms and Dr Knox’s office at the end.

  ‘Straight ahead and through the big doors is our Annexe, consisting of the Arts and Crafts Centre, our gym, swimming pool, and spa facilities. Please make full use of them whenever you can.’

  I tuned her out and looked around. It was sumptuous. The colour scheme was cream and pale blue with occasional touches of a deep rose pink. It smelled of lemons. Everything was spotless. Everything looked very expensive.

  At the top of the stairs was a nurses’ station and corridors branched off in spokes.

  ‘Your rooms are down here. This is normally the Ladies’ Side,’ she said, ‘but we were asked to house you together, so you have the two adjacent rooms here.’ She fixed Chief Farrell with a severe frown. ‘Please be discreet.’

  Behind her back, I laughed at him.

  He murmured, ‘Of course, Doctor,’ but she had opened the first door and swept inside.

  ‘Dr Maxwell, this is your room.’

  I’d never seen anything like it. The curtains matched the bedcovers, which matched the cushions – always the sign of a diseased mind. There was a big double bed piled high with pillows, two deep armchairs, a dressing-table-cum-desk, a wardrobe, a carpet, and rugs. The floor was level. No pockmarks marred the smooth perfection of the walls. Both curtains were the same colour. This was a whole new world to me.

  There was a connecting door to Chief Farrell’s room, which was blue and cream to my cream and blue. We walked between the two rooms a couple of times, trying to look as though we were accustomed to this sort of thing, and probably failing wildly.

  ‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ she said, opening the door. ‘You’ll find clothes in the wardrobe, toiletries in the bathroom, a selection of books on the bedside table, and water in the chiller. The telephone connects with the nurses’ station. Just press zero.

  ‘Just the one rule you need to know now. Between 2.00 and 4.00 p.m. in the afternoon, all guests must return to their rooms. It’s OK if you want to doze, and equally all right if you don’t. We call it Quiet Time. Actually, the whole thing is not so much for our guests’ benefit as ours. It gives us a chance to put our feet up, have a cup of tea, write up our notes, and generally catch up. The chimes will sound at 2.00 p.m., so you’ll know. Dr Knox will see you in his office at 12.00 noon. Can you remember the way?’

  We nodded. Well, Leon could remember the way. I’d probably find myself on the outskirts of Aberystwyth.

  She disappeared and we looked at each other.

  ‘I do like a place where you have to go to bed at two o’clock,’ he said. ‘I wonder if we could get Edward to introduce the same thing at St Mary’s?’

  ‘Yes, just what St Mary’s needs – another excuse to climb into bed with each other.’

  ‘I don’t need an excuse,’ he said, backing me towards the bed.

  ‘It’s ten to twelve,’ I said, trying to wriggle free.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Seriously? Less than ten minutes? You think that’s something to be proud of?’

  ‘Later then,’ he said, reluctantly removing his hand.

  ‘Yes, right in the middle of Quiet Time – you practising your famous Rebel Yell, I’m going to take my clothes off now. You need to leave.’

  He laughed. ‘You really thought that one through, didn’t you?’

  ‘Later,’ I said, resting my forehead on his chest and feeling his heartbeat.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did and I’m holding you to it. Don’t make me come looking for you.’

  Well, that could be fun, but probably not here.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Two o’clock. I’ll see you then,’

  ‘No,’ he said, bending to kiss me. ‘I’ll see you. That’s the whole point.’

  I closed the door behind him, opened the wardrobe and yanked out a set of sweats that probably cost a week’s pay.

  The end of my world was here and I never saw it coming.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting. A tall, skinny, wild-eyed man with a shock of electric hair and an Austrian accent? In reality, Dr Knox was only just average height, very slight, with dark hair just beginning to be threaded with grey, brown eyes, and an over-tailored pinstriped suit.

  He came to greet us and smiled at me as if he knew exactly what I had be
en thinking. I resolved to be more careful. We shook hands and he ushered us in.

  His carefully designed office felt relaxing and reassuring. There was no modern chrome or glass here. A good but shabby, slightly threadbare carpet lay on the polished floor. The furniture was dark and slightly battered, with a couple of carefully distressed sofas. As opposed to my own sofa at St Mary’s, which was not so much distressed as distraught. Open French windows looked out into a small walled garden, and light muslin curtains billowed gently into the room. Nothing bad could ever happen here.

  He invited us to sit. Farrell dropped heavily onto a sofa. He was more tired than he knew. I curled up at the other end. Dr Knox began.

  ‘Firstly, let me say, I’ve known Edward Bairstow for some years now and I know who you are and what you do. We have all sorts of – guests – here. I’ve been told all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t know, by all sorts of people I wouldn’t normally meet. I don’t take notes and there are no recording devices anywhere. After you’ve gone, I’ll scribble a few lines, but that’s only so I can remember for our next session and not waste any time going over old ground again. So, shall we get started?

  ‘Mr Farrell, I’d like to start with you. Just a quick session today, mostly just admin stuff, a quick history, and a few other things.’

  I sat back as he went over names and carefully prepared dates.

  ‘Yes, that all seems to be correct.’ He tossed the folder on to the floor. That was apparently supposed to be a symbolic gesture. It looked rehearsed to me. I didn’t like this man …

  ‘So, a medical coma, I understand. What can you tell me?’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Well, how do you feel?’

  ‘I’m fine. I still get a little tired occasionally.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. How are you sleeping?’

  ‘Mostly, very well. Occasionally …’ He paused.

  ‘Let me guess. You dream.’

  ‘Yes, not all the time. It’s not happening anything like as frequently now.’