JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘However, this retreat was further hindered by a massive and completely unexpected explosion, which threw everything into confusion and, according to Director Barclay here, resulted in the deaths of Chief Farrell, Major Guthrie, Mr Peterson and Mr Markham.

  ‘On her return to this unit, Director Barclay reported the deaths of her colleagues, forbade any rescue attempts, appointed herself Caretaker Director and has, ever since, been presiding over the gradual decline of this unit.’

  I paused, looked around at her and pitched my voice so that it rang around the Hall.

  ‘You now have a choice to make … Director. You can, with immediate effect, remove yourself from my sight, thus effectively saving your life. You have ten minutes to leave this building. You may take absolutely nothing with you except your life. And you will be grateful. Or … ‘

  I left it hanging.

  She put her fists on her hips and stared me out. ‘Or what?’

  She’d pulled herself together and was going to make a fight of it.

  Good.

  ‘Or … Director …, I will drag you down to Hawking by your hair. I will take you back to the Cretaceous Period. I will hurl you out into the night and slam the door behind you and I will leave you there, alone for ever, screaming for help that will never, ever come. I tell you now … Director … if I do this, no one here will lift a finger to save you. Your choice.’

  ‘I choose neither. Security – arrest this woman and hold her until I can arrange her incarceration.’

  Behind her, Murdoch, now presumably Head of Security and two or three others rose slowly to their feet.

  I looked him in the eye. ‘Hawthorn.’

  He froze, did nothing for long seconds and then gestured to the others to sit down again. He himself moved quietly to the end of the row and stood, waiting to see what would happen next.

  I turned back to Barclay. ‘That was your version of events. Now let’s hear the truth.’

  She said, through gritted teeth, ‘That was the truth. They died. All four of them.’

  I spoke directly to her, standing so that to face me, she had her back to the room.

  ‘Let’s talk about what actually did happen, shall we?’

  ‘I’ve told you already. Security –ʼ

  I cut across her.

  ‘At approximately 2205, the security teams left the pods. At approximately 2212, the explosion occurred. Of these facts, there is no doubt.

  ‘At 2215, Director Barclay despatched Mr Peterson to locate Chief Farrell and Major Guthrie, leaving her alone in the pod. At 2220, she ordered Miss Black to return to base, taking an injured Dr Bairstow with her. Two minutes later, she ordered me to return to St Mary’s; before I had time to report a missing Mr Markham.’

  A stir ran through the hall. Murdoch lifted an arm and they fell silent.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘All this is on record. Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something I don’t know,’ I said, quietly. ‘I don’t know how you were so sure four of them were missing.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  But she did. She’d gone so white I could see the freckles under her makeup. My heart-rate picked up. ‘Mr Markham was on my team, not yours. I reported him missing before you got back. I repeat – how did you know there were four men dead?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened, Director.’ I made the very word an insult. ‘They came out of the smoke and explosions, running towards your pod, running for their lives and you slammed and locked the door in their faces. You left those men there to die. Did you even hear them banging on the door? Did they scream your name? Beg to be let in? Do you ever hear them in your head, kicking at the door, hammering with their empty weapons? How long did you wait? You couldn’t jump too soon, could you? You had to be the last back. So you waited and waited and they screamed and screamed and then you pressed the button and you jumped to safety and you left those men. In the middle of a feeding frenzy; in the middle of a battleground, with no food, no water and no shelter; you left them!’

  Someone, I think it was Helen, drew a shuddering breath.

  Barclay said, ‘It wasn’t like that; I swear it wasn’t like that.’

  Which was true, but I wanted her to dig herself in even deeper.

  Never knowing when to shut up, she obliged me.

  ‘I …’ She paused and swallowed hard, tearfully brave. My fingers itched. ‘I went outside to check. I know it was against Dr Bairstow’s orders, but I had to know for myself. There … there wasn’t much of them left, but it was certainly them.’

  She suddenly remembered she’d despatched Peterson after the explosion. ‘Peterson lay a little distance away. He’d been shot.’

  She uttered these blatant lies without hesitation, knowing there was no way they could be disproved. No one ever went back to check.

  Except me.

  ‘You’re telling me you saw four dead bodies?’ I let uncertainty bleed into my voice, just to draw her in a little further.

  She lifted her chin and said clearly and without hesitation, ‘Yes. I saw four bodies. They were damaged, but recognisable.’

  ‘So you knew them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘These four dead bodies you saw – would these be the same four people standing behind you now?’

  She didn’t move. A small, disbelieving smile crossed her face.

  I said softly and with complete contempt, ‘You still don’t get it, do you? And that’s why you’ll never be one of us. We’re St. Mary’s. We never, ever, ever leave our people behind.’

  And finally, she got it. She turned slowly. They stood quietly at the back of the Hall, headed by Chief Farrell. I had, like everyone else, always seen the gentle, likeable man, but I swear the look on his face chilled my blood.

  In the silence, someone swore softly.

  Helen rose shakily to her feet, hanging on to the back of a chair. ‘Peterson?’

  He shouted ‘Helen!’ and started climbing over chairs and people to get to her. It broke the spell and people surged forward, laughing, cheering and shouting. We’re a noisy bunch.

  I remembered where I was and turned around to face Bitchface Barclay. She stared at the Chief, her mouth still open.

  I said softly, ‘Hey!’ and she jerked her head around. Suddenly, we were face to face, our eyes only inches apart. I could feel the hatred coming off me in waves. For two pins, I could have ripped her head off there and then. The Hall was packed with shouting, cheering people, but for me, there was only her.

  I watched a thousand emotions chase across her face. It took several efforts, but eventually, she got the words out.

  ‘You stole my life.’

  In a million years, I hadn’t expected that.

  ‘All this.’ She jerked her head backwards, whether at Leon Farrell, the noisy horde behind her or St Mary’s in general, I never knew.

  ‘You took my life. I was the one with the golden future. I worked so hard … He would have seen me eventually. Seen what I could offer. All this – it should have been mine. It could have been mine.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘One day it will be.’ Spit flew from her lips. She quivered with suppressed fury. ‘One day, Maxwell, I will finish you. I swear it.’

  I should have let it go but I thought of what I’d lost already and something, somewhere, demanded revenge.

  My fist, travelling at the combined speeds of rage and retribution impacted hard on her nose. There was a glorious cracking and squelching noise and a great big gout of blood darkened the front of her beautifully pressed uniform. She went over backwards, fell onto her stupid lectern and the whole lot crashed to the floor.

  I looked up at the gallery. ‘Was that how you wanted it done, sir?’

  The Boss came slowly down the stairway, to huge applause. Such a showman! Standing beside me, we both surveyed the wreckage of the lectern, which had bits of Izzie Barclay sticking out of it.

  ‘Very satisfactory,
’ he said, and went to speak to Mrs Partridge.

  I was joined by the Chief. He stood looking down into my eyes, smiling his slow smile. We had one of those conversations where you don’t need words.

  After a while, he said, ‘Broke your hand didn’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Forgot to un-tuck your thumb?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Hurts like buggery?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The Boss cleared his throat. ‘To clear up a few minor points: I am Dr Edward Bairstow and I am the Director of St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research.’

  His unit cheered. He bent over the vaguely stirring Barclay.

  ‘Madam, you are relieved!’

  We all got shunted off to Sick Bay, even Barclay. Apparently, there’s something in the Geneva Convention or the Human Rights Thingy about leaving people lying around bleeding. I was going to require some convincing.

  I got shoved into the scanner thing and, as I knew she would, Nurse Hunter took one look at the printout and went out. I sighed and tried one-handed to unlace my boots. Hunter came back and helped. I sat in the stupid white gown and waited for the storm to break. They were bringing someone into the next cubicle. It struck me that directly or indirectly, I was responsible for everyone currently in Sick Bay. That had to be some sort of record. Hunter finished putting the Flexi Glove on my hand. It began to cool and gently flex and the pain retreated.

  Helen bustled in. ‘Ok, Max. I want to listen to your chest.’ I did a bit of breathing; in and out – the traditional way. ‘And hold it please. And out again.’ I leaned forward and she tapped my back a lot. I breathed in and out again. I coughed a bit. Then I coughed a bit more.

  ‘Can you lie down, please? Knees up.’

  ‘Is this legal?’

  She just looked, so I did it.

  ‘I’m impressed, Helen. This is just the sort of thing real doctors do.’

  She ignored me, stripping off her gloves. ‘Hunter, could you organise some tea, please?’

  It got very quiet in the cubicle after Hunter had gone. Helen sighed heavily. ‘You’re really not fit to be allowed out on your own, are you?’

  ‘So, what’s the damage?’

  ‘How do you want it? From head to toe? Alphabetically? Chronologically?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Well, your feet are holding up well.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’ll be on my way then.’

  ‘So tell me what’s been happening here.’

  ‘Exactly what your scan tells you.’

  ‘No, I want to hear it from you and you will remain here until I do.’

  So I trotted it all out again. Hunter brought in some tea. Helen handed her the chart and she disappeared again.

  Helen lit a cigarette and took her usual place at the window. ‘Ok, you are malnourished. You will eat at least four meals a day. You will eat portions of fruit and vegetables at every meal. You will drink plenty of fluids. You will not drink alcohol. I’m prescribing more antibiotics for the infection and you will complete the course. You are anaemic. You will eat iron-rich foods. I’ll give Mrs Mack a list. You will go to bed for eight hours a day, even if you don’t sleep. You may read, but no TV, holos or computers. You will take one week’s sick leave during which you will not work – at all. You will take a little gentle exercise in the grounds every day. You will not ride. You will not run.’

  I looked at the cubicle floor.

  ‘You will not argue or you will spend the next seven days here in Sick Bay. I will release you under your own recognisance if you agree to the above. Either way Max, you will comply.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I knew it. You’re Borg, aren’t you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Ok. Sleep, read, eat, shit, got it.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  And that, as they say, was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. I honestly didn’t know. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to. Because it’s my problem. Because either it will hurt him badly, or he won’t care at all, which will hurt me. Because I don’t want to add to his total of dead children. Choose any or all.’

  ‘I understand your motives, but he has a right to know.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘How would you feel if it was the other way around?’

  ‘He need never know.’

  ‘Losing a child is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I only knew I was pregnant for about twenty minutes and he never knew at all. I don’t think it qualifies.’ Even to me that sounded hollow.

  ‘What if he finds out?’

  ‘How can he?’ I looked at her hard.

  ‘Think this over very carefully, Max. It’s not just you who’s involved here.’

  She stood up and then hesitated. I waited. She was hopeless at this sort of thing. Without looking at me, she said awkwardly, ‘Thanks for bringing him back.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Helen,’

  She changed the subject. ‘Your clothes are here. We’ll wash them if you like and you can go back in a dressing gown.’

  ‘No thanks. This is literally all I have in the world.’

  ‘Mrs Partridge and I saved some of your stuff. She’ll be along to see you later. So what’s it to be; your custody or mine?’

  ‘Mine,’ I said, and reached for my clothes.

  Back in my old room I put the Horse on the empty shelf and the photo next to the bed. I was home again. I was back where I belonged. Around me I could hear St Mary’s getting on with the day. Doors opened and closed; people called out to each other. The floorboards in my room creaked as the radiator warmed up. I sniffed – they’d had curry for lunch. This time last week, being back at St Mary’s was all I had wanted. A lot had happened in the last week. Why wasn’t I happier?

  I lay on my couch and everyone turned up at once. Peterson, liberated from Sick Bay, arrived first with two cardboard boxes. ‘Some of your books,’ he said. ‘How do you organise them?’

  ‘By order of enjoyment.’

  ‘Yes, that’s helpful.’

  ‘Fiction goes on the top shelf, alphabetically and everything else underneath in chronological order.’

  ‘Apparently various people grabbed bits of your stuff before Barclay got in here. Helen got your books and Kal got some of your clothes. It’s all slowly on its way back to you’

  Mrs Partridge was hard on his heels, clutching folders and trailing a printout.

  ‘Miss Maxwell, there is some paperwork to work through here.’ She sniffed and looked around the room. ‘I really think you should do your laundry.’

  ‘Before we start,’ I interrupted. ‘I want to thank you for saving those two items for me. They mean a great deal to me. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Miss Maxwell. Shall we make a start? Now then, Dr Bairstow has approved the following expenditure. Firstly, unfair dismissal; you were inappropriately dismissed and the correct procedures were not adhered to. Secondly, there are subsistence payments for your period outside the unit. Thirdly, there is compensation for your illegally seized belongings and computer. I’m sorry we couldn’t save your artwork; it was all destroyed. Your computer has been sterilised and even the operating system is gone, I’m afraid. Fourthly, back pay from your day of dismissal to today, the date of your reinstatement.’

  I said, ‘Um, isn’t there a bit of a discrepancy here? You can’t compensate me for dismissal and at the same time say I was on the payroll. Surely, it’s one or the other? And you’ve paid me at the wrong rate as well.’

  Listen to me telling Mrs Partridge she’d made a mistake. Death-wish Maxwell, they call me.

  She said evenly, ‘No, I believe Dr Bairstow’s figures are correct.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘They are quite correct, Miss Maxwell.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just sign, Max,’ said Peterson. ‘I’ve got a similar
deal. Not as generous as yours but good enough. You’ve lost more than anyone else. Just smile and sign.’

  This was the Boss. This was the Boss doing what he could to put things right. I looked at the column of figures. The total was huge; too huge. I shook my head and said, ‘But Mrs Partridge …’

  The door crashed back into my already pock-marked wall and Chief Farrell was suddenly in the room. He looked terrible. Even worse than when I’d left him a couple of hours ago. His face was haggard with purple-green shadows under his eyes, which were dark and glittery. I took a breath to speak but never got the words out. I realised with a sick lurch to my stomach that he knew. Somehow he knew and he was angry. No, beyond angry. I’d made a big, big mistake.

  He interrupted me. His voice shook and I realised with a twist of fear that he was losing control and this was going to be ugly. It came out in an Exorcist-style rasp. My chest tightened.

  ‘When were you going to tell me? I thought we’d got past all this, but obviously we haven’t. You’re never going to change, are you? I’ve just been wasting my time with you. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I should say something. He paused to draw breath and there was an infinitesimal window of opportunity, but no words came. Peterson and Mrs Partridge seemed paralysed.

  ‘You weren’t ever going to tell me, were you? You can’t even talk to me now. What is it with you? Anyone would think – oh, I see, of course. How stupid do you think I am? I see it now. It wasn’t mine. Whose was it? What about you, Peterson? Was it yours? You two are pretty close. Oh, no, of course not. It was fucking Sussman’s wasn’t it? You never had eyes for anyone but that worthless piece of shit. And you were going to pass it off as mine, but luckily you lost it, so you didn’t need to mention it at all. And no one else was going to tell me. I had to hear it from Barclay. You called her a bitch. Well, it takes one to know one.’

  He spun on his heel and was gone, taking all the air in the room with him. My world crashed around my head. Somehow, I got myself together and took a deep breath. The centre held. I could function.

  I turned to Mrs Partridge and said lightly, ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten where you wanted me to sign. Can you show me again please?’

  She silently pointed and I moved the pen blindly. Half the signature ended up on the table-top, but she made no comment. She gathered up her papers, caught my eye, said quietly, ‘Do your laundry, Miss Maxwell,’ and left, closing the door behind her. I turned to look at Peterson who sat among my books, looking like Lot’s wife.