And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  And I hadn’t even started on my bottom half. Or shoes. Or lipstick. Why had I said I would do this? I had a demanding job and an even more demanding child. I couldn’t afford to spend large chunks of my life staring at myself in a mirror. I needed help.

  I went to Kal for advice. Her face filled my laptop screen.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m raging against humanity’s injustices.’

  She blinked. ‘O … K. Any injustice in particular or is this an all-encompassing, one size fits everyone rage?’

  ‘Why is everything always so much easier for men?’

  ‘It’s their outside plumbing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My theory is they wouldn’t be half so light-hearted about everything if, every time they were caught short outdoors, they had peel off layers of clothing, squat and then wait for their shoes to dry out afterwards.’

  I considered this. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I’m always right. So what’s brought this on?’

  I explained about Peterson and my sartorial difficulties.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look then.’

  I held up the black top.

  ‘No.’

  And the blue one.

  ‘Really? No.’

  And the third – the gold one.

  ‘God, no. Good Grief, Max, you’ve really gone to pieces since I left, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well,’ I said feebly, ‘I’ve had a lot on and I haven’t really felt much like clothes shopping.’

  I don’t know why I bothered. Kal does sympathy like Hitler did Stalingrad.

  ‘What else have you got?’

  I held up the green affair with slashed sleeves.

  ‘Is that some sort of tea towel?’

  I balled it up and threw it across the room. ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at that other one. The cream one there. On the bed. Yes, that’ll do nicely.’

  ‘What about my hair. Up? Down?’

  ‘In a loose ponytail tied with that black and cream scarf I gave you last Christmas. Let the ends hang over your shoulder. Those black trousers you have and black pumps. There. Done and dusted.’

  It began to dawn on me her answers were suspiciously pat.

  ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘Course I did. I’ve been waiting all evening to hear from you. What took you so long?’

  ‘Did you know what he was going to ask me?’

  She sighed heavily. ‘I told him what to say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I had to. He was useless. Gibbering like an idiot. So, in the end, I dictated. He wrote it down and learned it off by heart. How did he do?’

  ‘How should I know? What was he supposed to say?’

  She cleared her throat and said in a deep, gravelly voice. ‘Max, I understand it may be a little soon to ask you this and if it makes you feel at all uncomfortable then of course, there’s no more to be said, but I wanted to ask if you would do me the honour of allowing me to take you out one evening. We’re old friends, you and I, and we enjoy each other’s company. I don’t want to put you under any sort of pressure and if you want some time to think about it then I shall quite understand. Is what he was supposed to say. How did he do?’

  ‘He was spot on,’ I said loyally. ‘Almost word perfect. I was quite won over by his simple charm.’

  ‘You’re such a liar, Maxwell. Now, a few reminders because you won’t have a bloody clue either. Remember to wait for him to open doors for you. Abandon your feminist principles and let him pay. Don’t talk about St Mary’s.’

  ‘But what will we talk about?’

  ‘Books. Music. Politics.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Football, the latest holos, the weather.’

  ‘Yes, OK.’

  ‘Favourite food, wines, travel.’

  ‘Yes, all right. For God’s sake. Enough. What do you and Dieter usually talk about?’

  ‘Who’s turn it is to be on top. Good luck.’

  And the screen went blank.

  I opened the door to him. Just for a very brief moment, a flicker of relief flashed across his face. He hadn’t been sure I would go through with it. Actually, neither had I. Especially after more last-minute doubts about the cream top.

  ‘Well, what a pleasant surprise, Max. You don’t look too bad at all. My worst fears have not been justified.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, closing the door behind me and heading towards the stairs, ‘but I should warn you this is the only decent top I possess. If there’s a second date, then I may have sartorial difficulties.’

  ‘No need to panic. With luck this date will go so badly we’ll never even speak to each other again, let alone achieve the giddy heights of a second date.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ I said gravely.

  He smiled at me. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’

  I smiled back. ‘Me too.’

  He held out his arm and after only a moment’s hesitation, I took it.

  ‘Right,’ he said, as we clattered down the stairs. ‘Ground rules. No one talks about work. We’re just two normal people looking for a normal night out.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said, thinking that might be pushing our luck a little.

  I was right. Just as we were crossing the hall, we were met by Mrs Partridge, emerging from the shadows. I don’t know why, but I felt my heart sink.

  She looked us up and down, noting Peterson’s smart jacket, and my much tidier than usual hair, and said quietly. ‘Dr Bairstow would like to see you.’

  Peterson said, ‘What? Both of us?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But we have a table booked. Won’t tomorrow morning do?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Please follow me if you would be so good.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes, it has. The Time Police want to see you, Dr Maxwell.’

  People deal with different situations in different ways. Techies curse and reach for a screwdriver. Mrs Enderby has a wonderful repertoire of reproachful stares. The Security Section will probably shoot you. Historians panic. We’re highly trained, lowly paid panickers.

  I panicked now.

  ‘Have they come for Matthew? They promised me time. Why are they here?’

  Normally she just stares at me, effortlessly giving me to understand I am less than the dirt beneath her feet. On this occasion, to my surprise, she seemed genuinely distressed. My alarm increased. What could possibly distress Mrs Partridge?

  ‘Mrs Partridge? What’s happening? Please tell me.’

  She said gently, ‘I am unable to say,’ but whether she couldn’t or wouldn’t say, remained unclear.

  ‘Can’t this wait? said Tim. ‘We’re on our way out.’

  She said, almost with sympathy, ‘I doubt, when you’ve heard what they have to say, that either of you will feel that an evening out is appropriate.’

  I felt my stomach turn over.

  Tim took my arm. ‘Come on, Max, let’s go and find out the worst. We can still go out afterwards.’

  I looked at Mrs Partridge and the lack of expression on her face told me we wouldn’t be going out afterwards.

  I turned to him. ‘Do you ever think we must be cursed?’

  ‘All the time. Don’t you?’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘What else could possibly go wrong?’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea, but this is St Mary’s. Shall we go and find out?’

  Commander Hay sat with Captain Ellis at the briefing table. Dr Bairstow stood by his desk, waiting. He too surveyed our unusually clean and tidy appearance. ‘I am very sorry to have interrupted your evening but I think, when Commander Hay has explained, you will understand why this could not wait until morning.’

  Explained what? Understand what?

  ‘Please sit down. If you remember, at her request, I gave Commander Hay a copy of the footage from Hawking. Her people have spent some considerable time augmenting the
tape and enhancing the quality. That done, they have subjected the improved tape to close analysis and scrutiny. And brought their findings for us to view this evening.’

  ‘Have you discovered something?’

  ‘We have.’

  I looked at Dr Bairstow. ‘What? What have they found?’

  ‘I think you should sit down and see for yourself. I should warn you, you may find what you are about to see … unsettling.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Peterson said, ‘Do you want me to remain, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please. I would like both of you to see this and let me have your thoughts afterwards.’

  I began to have a very bad feeling about this.

  I sat at the table. Dr Bairstow activated the screen, and here were the familiar images, considerably enhanced this time. They’d split the screen and at one and the same time I saw myself in close up and far away. Dr Bairstow ran the footage at normal speed until Markham appeared, and then he slowed it down. Right down.

  I watched Markham race slowly down the hangar, arms pumping. I saw him push me out of the way. Now Dr Bairstow minimised the second image, the distant one from the camera in Leon’s office, and concentrated solely on the footage from the nearer camera.

  I became aware my hands were clenched so tightly I was digging my nails into the palms of my hands. I looked down at the rows of little red crescents and made myself try to relax.

  On screen, I had disappeared. It was just Ronan, Leon, Guthrie and Markham now. And, of course, the unseen Greta Van Owen.

  Ronan stood in the doorway of his pod, just as I remembered.

  Leon and Guthrie stood, guns raised, one or two paces from their own pod.

  He slowed the film some more.

  I saw Ronan bend his knees a little, preparing to hurl his bombs into the air.

  Markham was closing but what could he do? If shooting Ronan was the answer, then Leon or Guthrie would already have done so.

  Stupidly, I was holding my breath. As if that would make any difference. We all knew how this was going to end.

  Beside me, Peterson stiffened and leaned forwards. A second later, I’d realised too. Markham wasn’t heading for Ronan. He was running, flat out, towards Leon and Guthrie.

  Ronan made his last, defiant gesture, bowing to the camera, and then he straightened his arms hurling two, small, black objects high up into the air.

  They slowed the film again. Now it was clicking on. Almost frame by frame. The quality was deteriorating with each passing moment, but I saw Markham, still travelling at speed, crash headlong into Leon and Guthrie. The force of the collision and his momentum carried all three of them back towards their pod.

  Dr Bairstow stopped the film.

  I turned my head to look at him. My neck hurt when I moved. I hadn’t realised I’d tensed every muscle.

  He said, ‘We shall split the screen again and play the two angles simultaneously. You will need to watch very carefully.’

  He took up the remote and the film started up again, advancing, frame by frame. Click by click.

  On the left-hand screen, the three of them, just a tangle of limbs and bodies, fall backwards.

  On the right-hand screen, Ronan has released his bombs. He stands for a moment, arms above his head, looking up, following their trajectory. And then – something new – he steps back into his pod. He vanishes from sight. His door is closing.

  On the left, almost inch by inch, they’re falling. Falling back into the pod.

  They say the onlooker sees most of the game. Had Markham, from far back in the hangar, realised what was about to happen? Was it possible that his objective was never Ronan, but Leon and Guthrie instead? He must have had less than a split second to make a decision and act on it. He gave his life trying to save them.

  Click. They’re almost through the door. Almost…

  Click. On the other screen, Ronan’s pod vanishes. He’s gone. He got out before the blast. He’s not dead. No time to think about that now.

  Click. The other screen shows a dark hole which is the empty doorway. They’re inside.

  Then there’s a huge white flash. Then nothing.

  What?

  I found I was gripping the edge of the table.

  ‘Again,’ said Dr Bairstow and, once again, there was Ronan’s pod vanishing. He unsplit the screen. ‘This is the best we can manage. Please watch very carefully.’

  Peterson leaned forward. I pulled out my specs and practically climbed on the table.

  Click. There’s the open doorway.

  Click. Still there.

  Click. Still there.

  Click. The dark shape has changed. It’s smaller. The door is closing.

  Click. Smaller still. But still not completely closed.

  Click. Nearly. Nearly.

  Click. Huge white flash.

  Click. Picture gone.

  I said hoarsely, ‘Again.’

  The open doorway.

  The door closing.

  Closing.

  Closing.

  Inch by inch.

  And now I was leaning across the table, my nose practically on the screen.

  Dr Bairstow paused the film and I squinted, blinked, and squinted again.

  White flash.

  ‘Go back!’

  There was the door closing.

  And there was the white flash.

  But before that … just for a fraction of a second.

  Without me asking, Dr Bairstow froze the screen.

  And there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t.

  Their pod was gone.

  And then the white flash hurt my eyes.

  But the pod was gone.

  I sat back, thinking furiously.

  The pod was gone. Before the explosion. But only very fractionally before the explosion. Was there a chance…?

  I made myself take three long deep breaths before looking up to see everyone watching me.

  Dr Bairstow said, ‘It would appear there is a possibility – a small possibility – that their pod jumped away. Just a fraction of a second before the blast.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘However, it would also appear, on the face of it, that the door wasn’t fully closed. Since, to my knowledge, a pod cannot jump with its door open, we are left with two conclusions.’

  Still no one spoke.

  ‘One – door status notwithstanding, they were able to jump away from the blast.’

  I couldn’t help looking at Commander Hay and her old/young face.

  ‘Whether they would have survived such a manoeuvre is doubtful. Or two – the unclosed door means they weren’t able to jump away from the blast and that our original hypothesis – that they were killed in the explosion – still stands.’

  Silence.

  So – the inescapable conclusion – either they were probably dead or they were certainly dead. Well, that was fractionally better than this time yesterday.

  What now?

  Commander Hay was talking. About the pod door, apparently. ‘We’re not sure if it was closed. Our best people have been over and over this footage and no one can definitely say yes or no. Let’s say it was – because there’s no point in speculating. If it wasn’t – then they’re all dead.

  ‘Hey,’ said Peterson, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. But the fact remains…’

  No, she was right. If the door wasn’t closed, then they were dead. Blasted into atoms. Or, if the door was closed but they were caught in the blast, then they were dead. But, if the door was closed and they somehow got away in time…

  She was continuing.

  ‘We’re not sure what effect the explosion would have had on what was presumably an emergency extraction. We suspect that if they did survive, lacking any specific instructions to the contrary, the computer took them to their last known coordinates.’

  ‘Which were?

  ‘13th April, 1204.’

 
; I felt my throat tighten. Fear clutched at me again. The unexpected joy of knowing that Leon and the others might still be alive was slipping away, to be replaced by something black and cold.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Constantinople.’

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  I heard Peterson swear softly to himself.

  I stared at the table. One thought hammered through my head. Leon might be alive. They might all be alive. Suddenly, unexpectedly, out of the blue, I was being told that they might not have died in Hawking that day. That there was a chance they were still alive.

  And then, in the next breath, I was being told they’d landed in one of the worst places in history. That even if they had survived the blast, or the possibility that the door might not be correctly engaged, or the crash landing, or whatever else had happened to them, then the chances were that they wouldn’t survive for very long. Because they were in Constantinople on the 13th April, 1204.

  I placed my elbows on the table, covered my face with my hands and let the tears fall, because I just couldn’t hold it all back any longer.

  They gave me two minutes. No more. Someone cleared their throat and I took my hands away to find Mrs Partridge handing me a cup of tea. Everyone politely murmured among themselves while I tried to pull myself together. Leon might be alive. Leon might actually still be alive. Why wasn’t I more surprised? Deep down, had I always known? Was this why I’d never said anything to Matthew?

  Don’t get your hopes up, said a warning voice in my head. The blast – the crash – the landing – the terror of Constantinople on that day – any or all of those could have killed them. The odds against survival are very great. Don’t allow yourself to hope.

  Eventually, aware of the silence, I looked up.

  Commander Hay clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, Max. You probably need time to process this, and you will have it, but not now. There is something else we must consider.’

  I pushed thoughts of Leon to one side and croaked, ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, there is the possibility – a small one – that they weren’t caught in the blast. But set against that is the certainty that neither was Ronan. And if he is still out there then all our previous arguments about Matthew’s safety apply. We shall, of course, be staging a rescue mission to Constantinople.’ She smiled faintly. ‘We don’t leave our people behind either. I am offering you a place on that mission, Max, but…’ She paused. ‘But, if you want to accompany us then I think you’ll agree that Matthew should return with us to TPHQ. This is an excellent opportunity for this to come about quite naturally. You can leave him with us for safe-keeping. He can have a look around and decide what he thinks of us. You yourself can inspect our facilities, talk to people, whatever you need to do. Then, on your return…’ she had the tact not to say with or without Leon, ‘we can discuss something more permanent. If he wants to stay, of course. I think we agreed it would be up to Matthew to decide.’