by Jodi Taylor
Beside me, Evans went rigid and grunted. I half turned to see what had happened and then he toppled sideways like one of those industrial chimneys, bringing me down with him, driving the air from my lungs and rendering me completely helpless. What the hell . . . ?
Trust me, you never want to find yourself underneath Mr Evans. For any reason at all. The guy weighs as much as the Isle of Wight on a wet day and it’s all solid muscle.
Apparently – as I now know – snipers work in pairs. One to set himself up and get the range and angle and do all the other technical bits and pieces, and the other with the spotter scope. I can’t think why they don’t teach this sort of thing in schools. It’s got to be more useful than knowing Lima is the capital of Peru, which I can state, with certainty, is a piece of information I have never, until this moment, had cause to use. They bang on and on about bloody x. And photosynthesis. They even make you knit things, and what an utter waste of time that turned out to be. And yet I don’t remember that useful phrase – remember, class, snipers come in pairs – ever being uttered in all the long, dreary years of my schooling. I honestly don’t know what teachers find to do all day long.
Anyway, reluctantly setting all blame and recrimination to one side, obviously his partner had turned up, correctly identified Evans as the main threat, taken him out and then used him to incapacitate me. No one functions well with Mr Evans on top of them. That did not come out quite right but you know what I mean.
He was a single-minded bugger. The second sniper, I mean – Evans has all the laser-like focus of cigarette smoke. Completely ignoring his fallen colleague, he secured Evans first because I wasn’t going anywhere – trust me, I could barely breathe – and then me second. Showing no compassion at all for sniper number one, he heaved him out of the way, lowered himself to the ground and sighted along the gun.
I wriggled and kicked because suddenly this was serious. Given that he too was wearing the cross of St George, I was pretty sure who his intended target was and this couldn’t be allowed to happen. I struggled, but not only had he zipped my wrists and ankles tightly but that great lump Evans was still slowly crushing the life out of me as well.
These men were not amateurs. They hadn’t killed us, presumably because that wasn’t in their brief. They had their target and they had their objective. Everything else was incidental.
It was bloody embarrassing actually. Two of St Mary’s finest – three if you counted Evans twice and many of us do – rendered utterly helpless. The implications were massive. Take out Robert Bruce and everything changed. No charismatic king of Scotland. No Scottish independence. History completely off the rails again. And, most importantly, where the bloody hell were the Time Police? This was exactly the sort of thing they were supposed to deal with. I thought of the number of times they’d appeared on the scene at just the wrong moment and made a bad situation considerably worse – and now that they were really needed there was no bloody sign of them anywhere. Probably off harassing some very nearly innocent historians somewhere else. Not here, anyway, where, just for once, they could be useful.
I couldn’t see much – just his hands, camouflaged green and brown like his face. I saw him make a last-minute, infinitesimal adjustment to something and then . . . the world fell silent. I held my breath and waited . . .
And then there was a sound very similar to a large halibut being slapped down on to a marble slab. His hands went into some sort of spasm and then fell limply to the ground.
Behind and above me, a privileged, upper-class voice that reminded me strongly of Miss North said, ‘Oh, jolly well done, Pennyroyal.’
A hoarse voice with a strong London accent said, ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
I could hear the sounds of people scrambling down the slope. For God’s sake – now what?
I saw two pairs of legs and ankles. Boots, combats . . . not much of a clue there and then, thank God, someone heaved Evans off me and I could breathe again.
Well, they weren’t Time Police.
Sorry – I can’t add anything else to that statement. I didn’t know who they were but they definitely weren’t Time Police. They were far too quick and efficient for that bunch of numpties. And there were only two of them and the Time Police usually travel in fours and – most tellingly – fifty per cent of this pair were female. The Time Police don’t really do women. Too difficult for them, I suspect.
I sucked in some grateful air and stared up at the sky above me. Still grey and miserable. Still in Scotland then.
Looking back, there must have been a bloody great battle going on not that far away but I have no recollection of the sounds of it. Whether because we were in a thick, sound-deadening wood or, more likely, because an historian’s tiny mind can only concentrate on one crisis at a time, I don’t know, but I only remember silence.
I stared at the man now competently zipping the second sniper. I’d seriously lost count of how many of us there were on the ground at that moment. Me, Evans, two snipers . . . and still no sign of our own people. What a complete lash-up this was turning out to be. It was definitely time I looked for an office job.
Anyway, back to our possible rescuers. The female was youngish – younger than me, anyway. And tall – taller than me. And thin – thinner than me. And her hair was exactly the same colour that mine used to be. I tried not to hate her on sight and failed miserably.
Her companion was older – perhaps around Leon’s age. His white-blond hair was cut short in a rather brutal crew cut. He had hard grey eyes and, frankly, looked much more like a serial killer than serial killers usually do. You definitely wouldn’t want your daughter bringing this one home. It began to dawn on me that our situation had not improved by very much.
Evans was still semi-conscious and dribbling so it was all obviously up to me.
I twisted to bring her into view. ‘Who are you?’
‘I beg your pardon – how rude of us. My name is Amelia Smallhope and this is Pennyroyal.’
I looked over at the serial killer, still competently dealing with the sniper. ‘Your hitman?’
‘My butler, actually.’
Well, OK, I asked for that. ‘No, seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘Your butler?’
‘My butler. Can I recommend you get one? If you want to avoid situations like this, I mean.’
‘Pennyroyal?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Not Parker?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. And you’re who, exactly . . . ?’
‘Lady Amelia Smallhope,’ interrupted Pennyroyal, efficiently going through his prisoner’s pockets. ‘We should be moving, my lady. The Time Police are almost certainly not far behind us.’
‘Of course. And it’s nearly time for cocktails.’
‘Indeed, my lady.’
‘And you are?’ She smiled at me.
‘Maxwell.’
‘And him?’
‘Evans.’
‘Does he have a first name?’
I wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘Mister.’
‘My goodness, he’s a big boy, isn’t he? I’ve always had a weakness for big men, you know. Things tend to be proportionate. But enough of me.’ She gestured at the now ex-snipers. ‘I think we’ll walk off with these two here. The reward will certainly make all this . . .’ she gestured disparagingly at Scotland, ‘worthwhile. We’ll leave their pod for the Time Police though, just to rub their noses in it.’
I had no fault to find with any of that. Rubbing Time Police noses in anything sounded good to me. And besides, the Elephant of Enlightenment had suddenly fallen from the sky.
‘You’re bounty hunters? You are, aren’t you? You’re bounty hunters.’
‘We prefer the term “recovery agents”.’
Well, bloody bollocking hell. I couldn’t believe it. Was it possible those bastards in the Time Police were outsourcing?
She flashed a virtual card at me. I didn’t have my specs on and wild horses couldn’t have induced me to squint. I assumed it was supposed to be some sort of holographic ID. I was determined not to be impressed.
‘And you have to be St Mary’s,’ she said.
‘Not necessarily,’ I said, defensively.
She smiled blindingly. She had perfect teeth. ‘An inadequate force, inadequately equipped, walking blindly into an unknown situation and making a complete dog’s breakfast of everything when they get there? Who else would you be?’
Who else indeed? I stared at them. They hadn’t untied us but I didn’t think they meant us any harm. I toyed with the idea of asking them about our other team and decided against it. If they’d seen them – alive or dead – they’d have mentioned it. And I didn’t want them knowing there were another three St Mary’s people out there because that would tip the balance of power in St Mary’s favour and they just might decide to do something about that. Starting with us. I wouldn’t trust that butler as far as I could throw him.
I tried to divert the conversation away from St Mary’s before she started wondering if there were any more of us. ‘Actually, you’ve just described the Time Police.’
Pennyroyal got to his feet. ‘And those buggers will be here soon enough, my lady. We should take our prisoners and go.’
‘We are not your prisoners,’ I said firmly, from my prone and completely helpless position on the ground.
‘No bounty on you,’ she said regretfully. ‘Otherwise I’d beg to differ.’
‘So let us go, then.’
‘Not taking any chances with St Mary’s. You lot do have a bit of a reputation, you know. You’re probably not in any danger – the battle’s way over there – and the Time Police will be here soon looking for these two. I imagine there will be some witty amusement at your expense but I’m sure they’ll let you go eventually. After taking you back to TPHQ for processing, of course. And photographing. And statements. I’m sure it won’t be hugely embarrassing at all.’
Craning my neck was painful but I was determined to find out. ‘So if you’re bounty hunters then who are these two?’ I nodded towards their prisoners.
She fetched the nearest one a vicious kick. I made a mental note to dial back on the piss-taking.
‘These two? These are members of a particularly witless organisation – trust me, they make St Mary’s look like MENSA – dedicated to the promotion and protection of all things English.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘They call themselves the English National Liberation Army which they have to abbreviate to ENLA because the majority of them are too stupid to understand polysyllabic words.’ She gave them another kick. ‘Barely sentient but extremely valuable. The Time Police will pay heavily for these two.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Give them both a kick from me while they’re down there, will you?’
‘Gladly.’ She gave them several, actually. I could only approve this generous gesture. ‘These two – ostensibly slightly less stupid than their colleagues – like to think of themselves as “assassins”, although most of us shorten the word to just the first syllable. They thought they’d take out Robert Bruce, and guarantee an English victory, thus ensuring Scotland would remain a vassal state of England over the coming centuries.’
Well, isn’t it gratifying to be right? Believe it or not, I often am. And that solved the mystery of the shot-up Saltire, as well. They just hadn’t been able to resist.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘No independence. No Stuarts. History all over the place. Good job upsetting that applecart.’
‘Thank you.’
I doubt Pennyroyal had ever been agitated in his entire life but he was exhibiting signs of slight concern. ‘My lady . . .’
‘Yes, Pennyroyal, I’m coming.’ She bent over the recovering Evans and smiled at him. ‘Shame. Another time, perhaps.’
He grinned blearily back at her, slurring, ‘If you’re very lucky,’ and I made a note to speak to him about inappropriate workplace behaviour.
‘Maxwell, I shall say goodbye now and . . .’
No, she wouldn’t, because at that moment Elspeth Grey rose up behind the pair of them like the wrath of God, stun guns crackling with maximum charge, and zapped the pair of them into paralysed unconsciousness. I had forgotten I had said I’d call her back. She must have been nearly out of her mind with anxiety, stifled her fears and ventured forth to find out what was happening.
There was a moment’s silence during which Evans and I made a simultaneous mental note never to mention this again.
I pulled myself together first. ‘Quick,’ I said. ‘Cut me free and let’s get these two dealt with. They’re easily the most dangerous people here today. And that includes the two armies out there.’
Pausing only for a quick recount of unconscious bodies – four and a half so far because Evans was still at the drooly stage – but the day was still young – we zipped Pennyroyal first, paying him the compliment of double ties, then Smallhope, who managed to look elegant even when face down in a Scottish forest. I left Elspeth assisting Evans back into this world and tried again to raise our team.
Nothing.
‘We’ll leave these two,’ I said, pointing to Pennyroyal and Smallhope. ‘Make sure they’re well secured. I don’t know about anyone else but I definitely wouldn’t want that butler coming after me on a dark night.’
‘What on earth is going on?’ said Elspeth, looking around at the bodies on the ground.
‘Good question,’ I said. ‘I think we can assume these two here . . .’ I gave the snipers a couple of swift kicks to maintain the tradition, ‘were responsible for the death of Henry de Bohun.’
‘Given what happened to his head,’ said Elspeth, nodding, ‘that makes far more sense.’
‘Actually, no, it doesn’t,’ said Evans, who had been examining the sniper rifle. ‘This gun hasn’t been fired.’ He picked up the second sniper’s weapon. ‘Nor this one. Whoever killed de Bohun, it wasn’t these two.’
The implications sank in. There was another team.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Evans, wiping his chin again. ‘Why is nothing ever simple?’ Which I thought summed things up very well.
We propped him against a convenient tree. He’d taken quite a hit, after all.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Back to the pod.’
It was our only course of action. To proceed with our search without a fully functioning Evans would be madness.
Elspeth tightened her lips but said nothing. She’d moved to the top of the slope, watching our backs. Good to see she hadn’t forgotten her training.
‘What about this lot?’ said Evans, gesturing to our prisoners.
‘We leave them here. None of this is our business. According to Smallhope, the Time Police will be here any minute. They can sort it all out, including the other team and their pods, too. In fact, this place is going to be crawling with clean-up crews any minute now.’
‘In that case, we should definitely go,’ said Evans. ‘I’m not in the mood to be cleaned up by anyone.’
He bent over the recovering Smallhope and gently moved her into the recovery position. I swear she winked at him.
‘Shame,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Another time, perhaps. When you’re feeling more yourself.’
I made another mental note about inappropriate workplace flirting. ‘When you’re quite ready, Mr Evans.’ I tapped my ear to give it one last try. ‘Peterson. Markham. Anyone. Where are you?’
‘Behind you,’ said Markham and the three of them emerged from the trees.
Safe and sound, as far as I could see. And they weren’t alone. ‘We’ve
brought you a present.’
He gestured to another two ghillie-suited figures, both competently secured with a complicated cat’s cradle of their own belts – I recognised the master hand of Major Guthrie from my training days – ‘Everything can be used as a weapon, Max’ – and blindfolded and gagged with what looked like their own torn-up tighty-whiteys. I suspected the fell hand of Mr Markham there. And both wore the cross of St George on their sleeve.
‘See,’ said Evans to Elspeth. ‘I told you the damage would be done to the other lot.’
‘Oh,’ I said, gesturing at their prisoners. ‘That’s so sweet. You shouldn’t have.’
‘We grudge no effort.’
‘No, you really shouldn’t have.’ I gestured at ours. ‘We’ve already got our own set.’
‘Ah, but these are the ones who shot our pod.’
‘Bloody vandals,’ I said. ‘Leon is not going to be happy.’
‘And, rather more importantly, they’re the ones who shot the unfortunate de Bohun.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Elspeth, placing herself in front of Ian Guthrie. ‘I’m still waiting to hear why you didn’t answer our calls.’
‘Didn’t know you were here,’ said Peterson, tactfully inserting himself between them. ‘We thought we heard something crackle once or twice but mostly we were in the wrong place or the wrong time or too busy. When we finally heard you clearly, we were nearly on top of you and it seemed a bit pointless to use our coms then.’
I don’t think she heard a word. ‘Or why you were all stupid enough to leave the pod at all.’
‘They had guns. At Bannockburn. It was our duty to stop them.’
‘No, it’s the Time Police’s duty to stop them.’
We all looked about us at the ostentatiously Time Police-free landscape.
‘Well, yes,’ said Markham, ‘but they’re such a bunch of useless wazzocks they’d be bound to screw it up, so we thought we’d better step in.’
No one found any argument to that.
