by Jodi Taylor
He paused and eyed us all individually. I made myself stare calmly back.
‘We work in conjunction with the University of Thirsk, whence some of you graduated. We enjoy considerable autonomy, but, at the end of the day, we are answerable to them for our funding. They, in turn answer for us to a small and discreet government body who, as far as I can tell, answer to no one below God.
‘You, however, answer to me.’
He paused again for this to sink in.
‘Our public image is of a charmingly eccentric historical research organisation which is of no harm to anyone but itself. This view is particularly prevalent in the village, especially as the echoes of our latest explosion die away. Strive to maintain this image please, ladies and gentlemen.
‘I hope to get to know you all better over the coming months.’ His eyes crossed slightly and he said, in the voice of one who has committed something distasteful to memory, ‘Please remember my door is always open.’ Then he was gone.
We grappled with yet more hand-outs, schedules, organisational schematics and even more forms to complete. The concept of the paperless office never really made much headway at St Mary’s. I leafed through the papers in my folder until I found my timetable. The first lecture started at 0900 tomorrow morning with Chief Farrell, whom I remembered, followed by a session with the Head of IT, Miss Barclay, whom I didn’t.
I suppose that because, with the exception of Smartarse Sussman, I’d rather liked everyone I’d met so far, I was lulled into a false security when it came to Barclay. My own fault. I could have kept my mouth shut. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I’m stupid and never learn. Third in command at St Mary’s after Dr Bairstow and Chief Farrell, in contrast to everyone else’s easy-going style, she was unpopular, self-important and lacking the sense of humour gene.
We assembled, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, the next morning. Chief Farrell, calm and authoritative was easy listening and pretty easy on the eyes as well. Izzie Barclay was another matter, rendering her subject so completely devoid of interest and relevance that you could practically hear people’s eyes glazing over. I listened with only half an ear while watching her pose in the sunshine so everyone could admire the glints in her red hair.
Without warning, she wheeled and pounced. ‘You! Stevens! What did I just say?’
If he did have any idea of what she’d been boring on about, it fled straight out of his head with the sharpness of her question. He stared at her; a small furry woodland animal hypnotized by a ginger cobra. The silence lengthened.
I looked up. ‘You were describing the position of a point as relative. No point can ever be regarded as solid or fixed but must always be viewed in relation to everything else.’
More silence. ‘Is your name Stevens?’
Good God, it was like being back at school.
‘No,’ I said, helpfully. ‘I’m Maxwell.’
‘I suppose you think you’re clever.’
More silence.
‘Answer me.’
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t hear a question there.’
Mercifully, the clock struck, signifying the end of the lecture and lunchtime. No one moved.
At last, she stepped back. ‘Dismissed.’
So that was my card marked; second period on the first day. Way to go, Maxwell.
St Mary’s consisted of a warren of dark corridors and small rooms. Only the Staff Block, Hawking Hangar and the kitchens were less than two hundred years old. The walls showed barely a lick of paint below shoulder height. The lovely old panelling was gouged and scraped and successive generations had carved their names and dates all over it. Such carpet as remained was old and worn. All the furniture sagged. We could see through the curtains, they were so thin and an overall smell of damp stone and whatever we’d had for lunch that day always hung in the air.
Regular soft explosions from R & D really didn’t help much and, one memorable day, Professor Rapson put his head round the door and said, mildly, ‘If it’s not too much bother, may I recommend you evacuate the building right now, please.’
Chief Farrell paused from revealing the secrets of the universe and said, ‘Right, everyone out. Immediately. No, not the door, Miss Nagley, use the windows. Move!’
We clambered out of the windows and joined the rest of the unit on the South Lawn. Major Guthrie’s team, wearing breathing apparatus, threw open windows around the building. Something greenish wafted out. We all got the afternoon off.
It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. And uncomfortable. I hadn’t realised how closely together we would live and work. The circumstances of my life had made me solitary and wherever I looked there was Sussman. He and I were the only unallocated singles so we seemed to be stuck with each other.
‘What’s the problem with working with me?’ he demanded, after I’d spent an entire day trying to avoid him. ‘Have I said something? Do I have bad breath? What is it?’
I tried to marshal some words. ‘It’s not you …’ I started to say.
‘Oh, come on, you’re not going to follow that up with, ‘It’s me,’ are you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, stung. ‘But I can lie to you if you prefer,’ and went to step past him.
‘No, look, I’m sorry. Just wait a minute. Have I done something? Sometimes, you know, I can be a bit …’
‘No, I’m …’ I struggled for words.
He smiled and said, ‘You’re not a team player. Yet. You don’t trust people enough to place your safety in their hands. You don’t like relying on other people and you especially don’t want to rely on me because you don’t know me, you don’t like me and you don’t trust me. At this very moment you’re wishing I’d drop dead so you can vanish back to your room and enjoy your own solitary self, doing whatever you do in there every night.’
‘Well, nearly right. I’m actually trying to vanish to the dining room, but the rest was spot on.’
He stood silently as my words sank in and I regretted them almost at once. He was right. I was afraid, but unless I changed my attitude, I wasn’t going to survive here. He stepped aside to let me pass and the minute I could do so, I didn’t. He was a very clever young man, was Davey Sussman.
‘Look, we two are on our own here. I’ve been watching you, Maxwell and you’re as good as I am. And I don’t say that often because I’ve got a big head as well as a big mouth. At the moment, we need each other and I think together we could be pretty good. You want to be the best and so do I, but we can’t do it separately. I’m not asking you to tell me your life secrets or sleep with me; I just want to work with you. What do you say?’
I’d once over-ridden my instincts and confided in Mrs De Winter and that had changed my life. Maybe I could do it again. Looking at his feet, I nodded. He was too clever to push it any further. ‘Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow, at breakfast,’ and disappeared.
Once that barrier crumbled, others followed. On the whole, the people at St Mary’s were a good crowd. Volatile, noisy, eccentric, argumentative, loyal, dedicated, and impatient as well, of course, but also the best bunch of people you could hope to meet. I began to relax a little. The strange chaos of the first few weeks unravelled into order and routine and we began to get the hang of things.
The mornings were mostly devoted to lectures on temporal dynamics, pod procedures, maths and the history and structure of St Mary’s. We spent our afternoons in the Library, keeping abreast of developments in our specialised areas – Ancient History in my case – the latest thinking in archaeology and anthropology, together with intensive research on the other two specialities in which we were required to be current.
‘What did you choose as your other two specialties?’ asked Sussman one Friday lunchtime as I staggered to my room, legs wobbling under the weight of books, papers and boxes of cubes and sticks. My scratchpad was banging in my knee pocket and I was desperate for tea and a pee and not in that order, either.
‘Middle Ages and the Tudors,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
He opened the door for me. ‘Roman Britain and the Age of Enlightenment.’
I was impressed. His main area was Early Byzantine. These were big subjects. He wasn’t just a pretty face. I was glad now I’d taken a chance on him. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I liked him better as I got to know him. Except on Fridays.
On Fridays, he was just a pain in the arse.
‘It’s Friday,’ he said, passing me a sheet of paper and we sat down.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Davey.’
‘Come on, Max, it’ll only take a minute.’
‘Why don’t you revise like the rest of us?’
‘That’s no fun. This is much more of a challenge.’
‘Not as much of a challenge as that blonde admin clerk you’ve been chasing all week. How’s that working out for you?’
‘I’m quietly confident,’ he said, rolling up his sleeve and picking up a pen.
Each Friday afternoon was devoted to a two-hour exam on all the topics covered that week. And we had to pass. Failure was not an option, as the famous saying goes. Fail just one weekly test and you were out. No re-sits, no second chances. You were gone. Sussman just didn’t seem to grasp that. He began to write on his arm.
‘Come on, Max. Read me that bit about temporal and spatial co-ordinates and I’ll buy you a drink.’
He found me one afternoon in the small classroom on the second floor where I was hiding from a cross-country run.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Obviously not,’ I said, marking my place with a finger so he would take the hint and go away. ‘Heard what?’
‘Rutherford’s broken his leg.’
‘What? Is he OK?’
‘Well, no. He’s broken his leg, you daft bat.’
I picked up my copy of McKisack and hefted it in a meaningful manner. ‘Is he here in Sick Bay or have they taken him away?’
‘Oh, they took him to Rushford. It was nearer. He’ll be back soon.’
But he wasn’t. We never saw him again. Rumour had it he went off to Thirsk as a post-grad assistant, which left poor Stevens pretty exposed. I really felt for Stevens. He wanted this so badly and he struggled with nearly everything. Academically he was fine, but with everything else he was a complete disaster and worst of all, that bitch Barclay, scenting blood in the water, was making his life a misery. This brought out the side of Sussman I didn’t like very much. I asked him to tone it down a bit. He couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see that careless brilliance and effortless achievement could be a bit insensitive with Stevens struggling so hard.
‘Why should I?’ he demanded. ‘There’s only three, or at the most, four of us going to complete our training. Me, you, Grant and probably Nagley. What’s the point?’
‘Are you suggesting we throw Stevens under the bus?’
‘What do you care?’
‘He’s one of us, you insensitive pillock.’
‘Well, now who’s suddenly a team player?’
‘He’d do it for you.’
‘He wouldn’t have to.’
I said nothing, which was usually the best way with him.
‘Oh, all right, then.’
I was sitting at my favourite data table in the Library, trying to work out exactly where I had gone wrong. Sussman came and plonked himself opposite me.
‘So, how did your first simulation go?’
‘Oh, really well,’ I said, inaccurately.
‘Where did you end up?’
‘Minoan Crete, Bronze Age.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes. Sadly, I was aiming for early 15th-century Constantinople.’
‘Ah. Oh well, never mind. You’ll get it right next time. Did you hear about Stevens?’
‘Oh, no. What now?’
‘He wanted Tudor England. 1588 to be precise.’
‘And?’
‘He ended up right in the middle of the Spanish Armada.’
I thought quickly. ‘No, that’s good. 1588 is the Spanish Armada.’
‘No, right in the middle of the Spanish Armada. About eight miles off the east coast with the San Lorenzo bearing down on him with all guns blazing as he and his pod disappeared beneath the simulated waves. The Chief is still trying to work out how he accidentally managed to override all the safety protocols and Barclay’s got a face like a buggered badger. He’s a bit depressed, so we’re off to ply him with alcohol before he loses the will to live. Coming?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stuffing my gear into my bag and following him to the bar.
Nagley and I put our heads together and did what we could. We gave him extra sessions, extra revision and helped him with his notes. Grant and a muttering Sussman tried to make him look good physically, but probably our efforts only served to highlight his deficiencies and he was chopped.
We were finishing one of the sessions on closed timelike curves when the door opened and Barclay marched in. I saw Stevens go pale. He’d been expecting this, but now the reality was upon him.
‘Mr Stevens, a moment please.’
Whether by accident or design (and you never knew with her), the door didn’t close properly behind her and we heard every word.
‘Stevens,’ she snapped, ‘get your gear together, please. I’m sorry to tell you – you’re chopped.’
It was brutal. The class gasped. We looked at each other. Chief Farrell, his lecture now lost beyond recall, got up and stepped out into the corridor. We could hear voices. Eventually silence fell. Chief Farrell brought Stevens back into the classroom. He dropped blindly onto the nearest chair. The Chief placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, said, ‘I think we’re finished here today,’ and went quietly out of the room. I suppose it was too much to hope he was giving her a good kicking in the corridor.
Stevens was devastated. Grant and Sussman rushed him to the bar for emergency treatment. Nagley and I did his packing for him and spent an enjoyable half hour dreaming up a series of elaborate and painful deaths for Bitchface Barclay, as she was everlastingly known.
He cried when he left and, to my amazement, so did I. We didn’t have much time to mourn Stevens. Now we moved into the more physical part of our training. Apparently, up until now we’d had it easy.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Major Guthrie, trying not to grin evilly and failing. ‘Up to this moment, I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the cut and thrust of academic debate, but the time has come to embark on the more ‘hands on’ part of your training. I see there are just the four of you remaining, which gives my section the opportunity to ensure each of you will receive extensive, thorough and frequent attention. You will find your new timetables in the folders in front of you. Please study them carefully. The alternatives to non-attendance, for whatever reason, will not be pleasant.
‘However,’ he continued, ‘your primary survival strategy will always be running away, which brings me to the running schedules you will find in Appendix C. Those of you who have hitherto avoided our jolly cross-country sessions,’ he smiled unpleasantly, ‘will be sorry.’
Oh, bloody hell.
I got to know the security section rather well. As well as you usually get to know people who have their hands all over you five times a week. I suspect there are married couples who have less intimate physical contact than we did. I met Big Dave Murdoch, Guthrie’s number two, a real gentle giant, calm and polite.
‘Good morning, Miss Maxwell. Today, I’m going to rob, rape and strangle you. Shall we begin?’
I also met Whissell, our other unarmed-combat specialist, small and runty with bad teeth and a habit of standing too close. They said he liked the girls a bit too much, but I suspected he didn’t like girls at all. Sessions with Whissell and his hands were always a little too real to be comfortable and one day, enough was enough.
I reached down, grasped and twisted.
‘Aarghh,’ he yelled. I saw the blow coming but didn’t quite manage to avoid it.
He closed in.
/> ‘Very good, Miss Maxwell,’ said Murdoch, appearing from nowhere. ‘But a more effective response would have been to catch his wrist – like this – and follow through – like this – finishing with the heel of the hand – like this.’
We both regarded the groaning heap of Whissell.
‘Most instructive,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mr Murdoch.’
‘An honour and a privilege, Miss Maxwell. And keep that thumb un-tucked.’
After that, I always tried to make sure I got Murdoch. Weasel, as we called him, was the type to hurt the things he feared. I tried to keep a discreet distance from him and remain politely aloof, but he sensed my dislike and I would pay for it one day.
I survived unarmed combat. I even survived First Aid and Fire Fighting. So I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until Major Guthrie knocked the smirk off my face with Outdoor Survival. Apparently, we would be regularly driven to places unknown and left for two days to die of starvation and exposure. I hate the cold and wet and when I discovered this would be part of the final examination in November, I started to make plans. Not to cheat exactly, because that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? More like dealing with the situation on my own terms.
They kicked up the simulations programmes until we were in Hawking morning, noon and night. I loved these sessions. I loved walking down the hangar, joking with Nagley or Sussman. I loved entering the pod and smelling that special pod smell. I loved checking the lockers and stowing my gear, settling myself in the lumpy chair, beginning the start-up procedures, laying in my pre-calculated co-ordinates under Chief Farrell’s watchful eye, taking a deep breath and initiating the jump. I loved dealing with the hair-raising scenarios that followed. The sessions were so real to me that I was always surprised to open the door and find myself still in Hawking.
We simulated missions where everything went according to plan, but only a couple of times because that almost never happened.
