JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

by Jodi Taylor

  He became aware of the silence. ‘As per your instructions.’ The silence lengthened.

  ‘What?’ he said, defensively. ‘You said, “No heroics. I’ll kick your arses,” etc. So I came straight to the pod as instructed by my mission controller, that’s you, Miss Black and got on with our mission, which is to investigate and record.’

  He was being over-defensive and belligerent. Behind Kal, I made ‘Shut up, Shut up’ signs to him, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t see them. He finished with, ‘So what’s your problem, then?’

  She took a long step forward and seized his wrist. ‘Look at these hands. Did you even stop to pick up anyone out of the mud? Did you just step over them? Or did you actually knock them down in your mad dash to safety?’

  The problem was that he’d done too little and he knew it. He was angry and guilty and defensive and it brought out his worst side. She’d done too much and she knew it – we’d both done too much and she was angry and guilty and defensive as well. They stood glaring at each other. I decided to risk life and limb and stepped between them.

  ‘Guys! Not now. Davey, go and check the disks are recording OK. No, now please.’

  He stepped back and muttered something and that did it. She strode forward and pushed his shoulder. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ I said, physically getting between them again. ‘He’s upset. We both are. It’s our first big assignment. It’s certainly the first time I’ve seen anyone die and it’s possibly his as well and the noise from the horses didn’t help.’

  It didn’t work at all. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, that’s a point. From what you said when we got here, you thought your partner was dead. Good to know you’re sitting here safely when you think she’s burned to death in an explosion; especially since you sent her there in the first place. You really are a total waste of fucking space, Sussman.’

  That really did it. There was no going back now. Something ugly flashed briefly in his eyes and he squared up to her, right in her face. She held his gaze. It was a very long moment and then his eyes slipped sideways to mine and guilt was written all over his face. He pulled himself together.

  Ignoring Kal, he turned to me and said, shakily, ‘Max, I apologise. I never thought for one moment you could still be alive. If I’d thought there was the slightest chance I’d have torn the building down myself to get to you. I’m really sorry.’

  My own heart was thumping away, but I nodded at him and turned aside. He misread my action. ‘No, Max. Really, I’m sorry. Don’t look like that. It’s not true. Don’t listen to her.’

  I nodded again, still not looking at him. Kal said in a quiet voice, ‘Let it go, Sussman.’ There was a nasty little silence. I wondered if all assignments ended like this.

  Sussman took a long breath. ‘Let’s get back.’

  Kal drew herself up again. ‘Stand away from those controls, mister. I call the shots here. You see to your partner.’

  And indeed, I suddenly felt extremely wobbly. I opened my mouth to say, ‘I really don’t feel so good,’ and instead threw up violently all down his front. He was covered in it.

  There was another silence and then Kal grinned wickedly and said, ‘Not so clean now, are you?’ We all laughed. Not good laughter, but we chose to interpret it that way and everyone’s face was saved. We shut things down and jumped back.

  We landed with the gentlest bump. Sussman opened the door and left immediately after decon and without a backward glance.

  It was at that moment that I realised just why St Mary’s was always banging on about interaction. You are not there to interact. Observe, document and record. Don’t get involved. It wasn’t only the dangers of inadvertently changing history, but the emotional toll as well. How many people had died today? Matron? The blind boy? My job was to watch events unfold. To record and document. To observe. To stand apart. Not to interfere.

  I thought about this and came to the same conclusion that every good historian should reach. Then I thought about it a bit more and came to the other conclusion that every historian not only reaches but implements. You don’t walk away from blind men struggling in the mud. You should, but you don’t. Well, Kal hadn’t and neither had I. Nor Kevin Grant. But Sussman had. Did that make him a better or worse historian than me? Or a better or worse person?

  Yes, there was an emotional price to pay for interaction, but was it greater or lesser than doing nothing? And what about a vengeful History, always on the lookout for naughty historians?

  Fortunately, Kal interrupted my thoughts. ‘We ought to be making a start,’ she said.

  I sighed. It would be nice to sit here for ever. I loved this bit between two worlds. The cares of the past behind us and not yet in the present long enough to get into any real trouble. No sooner were her words spoken then there was gentle tap at the door.

  ‘It’s Farrell. Are you OK in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Kal in her best ‘Bugger off’ voice and after a long pause it opened and Farrell and Dieter, stood in the doorway.

  ‘Don’t come in,’ said Kal.

  They looked at us.

  ‘It’s not personal,’ I said. ‘We smell a bit.’

  Dieter stepped forward.

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Kal angrily.

  ‘If it’s your smell, it’s not a problem.’ He picked up her bag. She glared at him but he only smiled. Did he not know how close to death he was? Mind, he was built like a large brick shithouse. Two large brick shithouses actually. In fact he was so big it was possible he distorted time and space. He had his own gravitational pull, like a blond planet and he’d fallen for Kal like a sperm whale failing to clear the Grand Canyon on a bicycle. He thought no one knew. He slung her bag over his shoulder and helped her to her feet. ‘Come on.’

  Moving like an old woman, she hobbled out.

  The Chief smiled at me. ‘Your turn.’ I reached for my bag but he’d already picked it up. I looked at my burned hands and my stiff, red fingers, swollen from all that time in water. Now it was all over, I doubted I had the strength to put one foot in front of the other.

  ‘Lean on me,’ he said and, just for once, I allowed myself to do so.

  Chief Farrell visited us in Sick Bay the next day, bringing with him a box of various bits and pieces we’d left behind in the pod. All the records had been uploaded and everyone was waiting on our reports. We nodded.

  He said, ‘I’ve already debriefed Sussman and gather it wasn’t shellfire after all, but an accidental explosion. Can you give me the details?’

  ‘I think Max is the best person to talk to,’ said Kal, ‘She was the one on the spot.’ To my surprise, she pulled an incomprehensible face and left the room.

  ‘So,’ said Farrell, sitting down next to me and smiling. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, so pleased to see him.

  He regarded me warily. ‘Is it safe to be this close? I hear you’ve developed your own defence mechanism.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.’

  He looked at me carefully for a while and then said, ‘So, tell me all about it.’

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you. First of all I was behind the door and then I was underneath it. Then the corridor was full of smoke. Then I was outside. I know it spread really quickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said absently. ‘Old building. Did you smell anything?’

  Did I? I shut my eyes and walked through it again. And again. And there it was, on the very edge … ‘Yes, yes I did.’ I actually sniffed, tasting it with my nostrils. ‘Yes … chemicals … like the lab sometimes.’

  He sat back. ‘I think probably not gunfire at all. I think sabotage.’

  ‘Someone sabotaged a hospital?’

  He shrugged. ‘Looks like it. There’s no source of combustion, only the hot pipes from the boilers running through the rooms to air the linen. So I think someone very carefully mixed a chemical cocktail. I think
it smouldered for a while, generating some heat and actually opening the door provided additional oxygen and created the fireball.’ He was watching me carefully. ‘Does that sound likely?’

  I wasn’t listening properly. ‘So it was me? I did it? I set fire to the hospital?’

  ‘No, no, no. Absolutely not, Miss Maxwell, I didn’t mean that at all. Please don’t think … The person who mixed the chemicals set fire to the hospital. It wasn’t you.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  I spent the rest of the day going over and over things in my mind. If I had noticed that warm door handle … If I’d been paying attention … If I just stopped and thought occasionally … I know the fire had to happen because it had already happened, but it was a shock to discover that I was the one who might have caused the very catastrophe we went to investigate.

  We were both restless all day. Sussman had been discharged. By unspoken consent we left the lights on. Nurse Hunter irritated us by constantly sticking her head round the door and going away again. After an hour, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I sat up and, for something to do, rummaged around the box the Chief had brought. There was something knobbly at the bottom. I pulled out a paper-wrapped bundle. Six pieces of chunky charcoal. The big stuff, not the little girlie willow sticks.

  I looked at them.

  I looked at the big wall to my left.

  The big, blank wall.

  The nice, big, blank wall.

  I swung my legs out of bed. ‘Give me a hand to shift this table.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to stand on it.’

  ‘You’re not going to hang yourself are you?’

  We shoved the table into place and I clambered up. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. Using wide arm movements, I sketched in a black sky, lit with starburst shells. Stark figures raced and fell across a lunar landscape. I drew faster and faster, unable to stop, taking the pictures in my head and transposing them on to the wall. I drew the explosions, the cold, the terror, the heart-breaking waste. I drew limbs, heads and blood. I drew men dying on the wire, drowning in the mud, eyes wide, mouths gaping, hands clawing. It poured out. Beside me, Kal added her own contributions. At some point, Dr Foster came in, watched and surprisingly said nothing. We moved the table out and I drew the Reception tent. I drew rows of soldiers, wrapped in blankets and coats, all stiff and heavy with mud and blood. I drew cold, grey, vacant faces; contorted faces; screaming and crying faces. The last piece of charcoal crumbled and flaked with the pressure. A hand touched my shoulder and Dr Foster said, ‘Enough.’

  I looked round. A crowd of people had gathered behind us; the entire medical team, Farrell, Dieter, Doctor Dowson and some more. I waited for the trouble coming my way but it didn’t happen.

  We washed our hands and Nurse Hunter brought us a cup of tea. Then we switched out the lights and fell asleep.

  We got over it, of course. You have to. We wrote our reports and submitted them to Dr Bairstow. We spent an afternoon with him and Chief Farrell, talking them through everything before they made the final report to Thirsk for them to present to the client. And then it was nearly done.

  Kal and I accompanied Dr Bairstow to the Remembrance Day ceremony in Rushford that year. We were smartly turned out as he always insisted we were in public, wearing the full, formal uniform, hair up, shiny shoes and make-up. We paid our private respects while he laid a wreath on behalf of St Mary’s, as he did every year. In my mind I saw the tents, the rows of wounded, saw the faces, heard the guns that never went away.

  The Last Post sounded, thin in the cold air and the echoes took a long time to die away in more ways than one. I thought of the blind soldier and of that young major from the Glosters whose presence of mind had saved so many lives and wondered if they had survived the conflict. I dragged myself back to the present. We joined in the prayer.

  They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old

  Age shall not weary them, not the years condemn

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  Sussman didn’t come.

  There was a curious postscript. A small event that had enormous consequences. I had a birthday soon after. Left outside my door, I found a small box, neatly wrapped in coloured paper. This must be from Sussman. Typically, he’d never talked about the explosion and fire at all, just carrying on as if nothing had happened and expecting everyone else to do the same. I wondered if he was trying to make amends with a present. If so, he’d certainly succeeded.

  Inside the box nestled a small statue. A model of the Trojan Horse. About six inches tall and exquisitely made. From its delicate features to the trapdoor in its belly, it was absolutely perfect.

  That evening, however, Sussman handed me a box of chocolates. I was surprised but did remember to thank him, although this didn’t solve my problem. Who left the horse for me? I pondered this as I ran downstairs and collided with Chief Farrell who was going up. We’re supposed to keep to the right.

  ‘You’re supposed to keep to the right,’ he said, mildly.

  ‘Sorry, Chief. You OK?’ And then I got it. I don’t know how I could ever have thought Sussman could have come up with anything so exquisite. Whatever had I been thinking? Sudden realisation swept over me. He’d given me a gift, a perfect gift, a wonderful gift. I was so happy. An inner voice said, ‘Don’t read too much into this,’ but how could I not?

  I said, without missing a beat, ‘Thanks very much.’

  He smiled back at me. ‘Keep it safe.’

  I felt a little offended he thought I might lose or break it. I don’t have so many possessions I can afford to be careless with any of them and certainly not this one.

  ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I mean it, Miss Maxwell. Keep it safe and keep it accessible. It’s important.’ Then he was gone again, leaving me, happiness subsiding, bewildered and just a little bit uneasy.

  We had the usual big noisy party that evening, but not all the music, dancing and drinking in the world could mask the underlying tension. I don’t know if anyone said anything to Dr Bairstow, but Sussman and Kal never went on another assignment together again.

  Chapter Six

  Another all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow.

  ‘And finally, I have been asked by Mrs Partridge to raise this issue. As some of you may struggle to remember, next month is your annual appraisal and I’m advised by Mrs Partridge that some of the forms you were asked to complete as a preliminary need … more work.

  ‘Your personal details update form … Mr Sussman; you are not a Jedi Knight. Kindly amend the details in Box 3 – Religion. Ditto Mr Markham, Mr Peterson, Miss Maxwell, Mr Dieter and Miss Black.

  ‘Miss Maxwell, Box 5. You are not five feet seven inches tall and never will be. Live with it and correct your paperwork.

  ‘Mr Markham, the box marked ‘Sex’ is not an invitation. Please amend the details and apologise to Mrs Partridge.

  ‘Mr Dieter, the claims made in the box marked ‘Other Interests’ are physically impossible and, in most of the civilised world, illegal. You also render yourself liable to prosecution for misuse of government property. Amend.

  ‘Miss Black, there are two P s in oppressed and only one N in minority. You are neither. Delete.

  ‘I would also take this opportunity to remind you that Doctor Foster will be circulating similar medical paperwork for your completion and does not share my enlightened attitude towards employee relations. As I’m sure at least some of you are aware, she enjoys a robust, thorough and above all, penetrative approach to your annual medical examinations. Mess her about at your peril.

  ‘Miss Maxwell, please report to my office in 30 minutes and persuade Mr Sussman to take time out from his religious conversion to accompany you. That is all. Dismissed.’

  Grumbling and shuffling our paperwork, we watched him limp away to his lair. I looked round for Sussman but he’d disappeared already. Kalinda joined me and gave
me a look.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’ll get you killed one day.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s just a bit … erratic.’

  ‘No, you’re erratic; he’s a bloody disaster. If you don’t watch it, Max, you’ll lose your chance at the next Big Job because of him. The Boss does not like him and I don’t either. Nobody does but you.’

  ‘He’s my partner,’ I said defensively, getting tired of this. ‘He’s not that bad.’

  ‘Exactly, Max. He’s your partner and the best you can say of him is that he’s not that bad. Doesn’t that tell you anything?’

  ‘He’s OK with me. It’s you he doesn’t like and he winds you up deliberately. It’s not a problem, believe me.’

  Exactly thirty minutes later we stood outside the door. Time is important in our organisation. If you can’t even get to an appointment in your own building on time they argue, you’re not going to have much luck trying to find the Battle of Hastings.

  Sussman pushed me in first. Mrs Partridge gave us an unloving glare. You could see the words feckless and irresponsible hacking their way through her thought processes. I looked in vain for some human emotion. She made the Boss look like a humanitarian aid worker. She was, as always, impeccably dressed in a black suit and white shirt, with her dark hair in a French pleat. As always, she reminded me of someone. She handed us each a mission folder and nodded us in. I began to feel excited. This could be a Big Job.

  The Boss was waiting for us at his briefing table. Files, cubes and data sticks littered the surface. He motioned us to sit. Without speaking, he began to bring up data. He was such a showman. Data began to twist and spiral, culminating in Thirsk’s logo and two short paragraphs.

  I sat stunned. Beside me, Sussman’s mouth hung open. For the first time ever, the pair of us were speechless. We stared at the screen. I looked away, blinked and looked back again.

  There were only the two paragraphs but I couldn’t take them in at all. So I read them again. And again. I took my scratch pad out of my knee pocket, laid it on the table in front of me, clasped my hands and looked expectantly at the Boss.