1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (18 page)

Nor my little book about Agincourt, the only thing left from my childhood; nor any of my other books; nor any of my artwork. Just underwear, a set of sweats, jeans, a couple of hoodies, and some tees. I had to leave behind my beautiful, golden dress with the beautiful, golden memories. I wore my boots and riding mac. I took toiletries from the bathroom and a towel. And that was it. Five years of my life and I was leaving with even less than I started.

Mrs Partridge arrived with some paperwork to sign. While she was laying it out on the table I covered the Horse and photo with the towel, meaning to pick the whole lot up together and just casually drop in my bag. Murdoch and Ritter waited outside while I re-signed all the secure paperwork again. She handed me a month’s pay. When I looked across, the towel was neatly folded and the Horse and photo were gone. It seemed so unnecessarily cruel. Shock and disbelief were wearing off and the full awfulness finally dawning on me. Where would I go? What would I do? I opened my wallet and slowly handed over my ID card.

I looked outside. It was dark. It was raining. It was half past ten at night. I didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Who was Prime Minister? What was happening in the world? Too late now to remember the Boss’s advice about maintaining a grip on the here and now. Mrs Partridge collected her papers, regarded me expressionlessly for a moment, and then swept out. There was no reason to stay. I was no longer a member of the unit.

Flanked by Murdoch and Ritter, I walked slowly down the stairs. No one spoke. The building was completely silent. No one was around. I thought Kal might manage a small appearance somehow, but there was no sign of her or anyone. No one came to say goodbye. I was officially a non-person. I never thought I would leave like this. I turned up my collar, huddled into my clothes, and crept across the Hall like the ghost I already was.

A troubled-looking Mr Strong unbolted the front doors and I passed through them for the last time. No one spoke. Bending my head against the rain, I trudged down the drive. The gates opened silently in front of me and closed as silently behind me.

There I was, just gone eleven at night in the pouring rain with the gates of St Mary’s locked behind me and no idea what to do next or where to go. I turned and looked back one last time. Lights blazed everywhere. Sick Bay was lit up like a Christmas tree. Peterson would never stand underneath the windows again, waiting for his love to shower him with dog ends. A door opened somewhere and light streamed out briefly, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Somewhere in there, Kal was grieving for Peterson. The Boss was fighting for his life. Murdoch would be mourning Guthrie …

And the man I loved had been dead for sixty-seven million years. I dropped my bag onto the wet road, leaned forward, and put my hands on my knees. Huge, thick, rasping sobs tore at my throat. I fell to my knees, curled into a ball and wrapped my arms around my head. The rain drummed on my back. Wet soaked through my clothes.

I’d always said my life began the day I walked through the gates of St Mary’s and now I’d walked back out again and it was ended.

I have no memory of how I got to Rushford, or why, but having got there, I lacked the strength or the will to go any further. Every time I tried to get to grips with things, my mind just slithered away.

The bit in my head that had kept me safe through childhood found me a two-room flat in an old building somewhere at the back of St Stephen’s Street. It was cold, damp, and dirty and I could barely afford it. I applied for jobs but rarely received even an acknowledgment. With no employment history, no previous employers, and no references, I had no chance.

It was an alien world. I’d been nearly five years at St Mary’s and everything had moved on and left me behind. It would have been a difficult readjustment if I’d left the unit normally, but this sudden displacement left me bewildered and lost. I had no place here. I was more at home in the Cretaceous period than in modern-day Rushford. Grief and shock kicked down my defences and left me vulnerable and exposed in a world I couldn’t comprehend.

I had one small electric cooking ring and lived off baked beans and packet soup but even so, my meagre savings melted away like ice in the sun.

The cold didn’t help. There were days when I barely moved, let alone went out. I was filled with a dreadful lethargy that could not be shaken off. I cut my hair. I couldn’t keep it clean and drying it was impossible in my damp, mildewy rooms. Besides, I didn’t need it any more. It stuck out in spikes everywhere. It scared me – God knows what it did to everyone else.

One day passed so much like another that I was shocked to find three months had passed. Small signs of spring began to appear. Then I began to cough.

I ignored it to begin with. I’ve been injured a lot; some of it friendly fire, but I’m rarely ill and waited for it to go away. It didn’t. I drank copious amounts of water and sweated it all back out again half an hour later. My temperature was so high I wondered if I could hook myself up to the broken water heater. My chest grew tight and hurt. Then my back hurt. Breathing in was one pain and breathing out was another.

And then, one morning, I had a different pain.

Fortunately, I lived in St Stephen’s Street with the Free Clinic just around the corner. I got myself there somehow, expecting antibiotics and maybe painkillers if their budget was reasonably healthy. I sat in a cubicle and tried to explain. I saw people’s lips move, but fortunately, none of this was anything to do with me, so I curled into a ball, closed my eyes, and let someone else sort it all out.

Chapter Twelve

Knowing you are pregnant for only twenty minutes is not the same as being pregnant for only twenty minutes. I wish it was.

I stared up at the ceiling above me and tried not to think about anything. In my head, Izzie Barclay said, ‘Everything you touch, everywhere you go, people die,’ over and over again, relentless and unstoppable. She was right. How many more lives would be lost because of me? How much more damage could I do? The last piece of Leon Farrell had gone. Now he really was dead. Now I really was alone.

They chucked me out after four days.

I stood outside in the sleety rain and tried to think. Even my bones were cold and that had nothing to do with the temperature. A passing van splashed me with cold water and I realised I’d been standing there for over half an hour.

My future looked bleak and consisted of a cold, damp, mould-filled flat and very little money. There was nothing left for me. I’d lost the man I loved and I’d lost his child too. Suddenly I was so tired, tired of everything, tired of trying to get by, tired of struggling with love and loss. I felt as if the strings of my life had been cut with a pair of scissors. This was the end for me. I’d had enough.

This is how it ends. One minute you have a job, somewhere to live, friends, and no provision for a future you never expected to have. Take away the job and the friends and the home disappear all by themselves. Then the last money is gone, benefits that were inadequate anyway are never paid, the rent is due, and suddenly a whole life just crashes to the ground, never to get back up again.

I wandered slowly down the High Street, stopping outside The Copper Kettle. Today’s special was roast beef and I had just enough money. I could stick two fingers up at the universe and go with a full stomach. It seemed like a plan.

It was warm and steamy inside. I ordered the beef, with a pot of tea to follow. I cleared my plate and by eating slowly, managed to make it last over an hour. The pot of tea lasted another half an hour and I read all their newspapers as well. I was in no hurry, but they would be closing soon. It was time to go.

As I began to get my things together, there was a bustle of movement; someone pulled out a chair and said ‘Hello, Madeleine, how are you?’

It was Mrs De Winter. I stared at her. Apart from a few glimpses at St Mary’s over the years, I hadn’t seen her since she handed me over to the Boss.

I managed to say, ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

She said, ‘Oh, fine,’ and touched the pot. ‘Let’s have a refill, shall we?’ She signalled to the waitress and ordered more tea. I started to get up and then wondered where I was going to go and sat back down again.

She chattered aimlessly while we were served, but as soon as the waitress left she leaned closer and said in a low voice, ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Have you? Why?’

‘Dr Bairstow wanted you found as soon as possible. He’s been really worried about you. We all have been. And rightly so, I think. You look terrible. What’s been happening?’

‘I’ve been here in Rushford since I left St Mary’s,’ I said carefully. ‘But these last few days I’ve been in the clinic.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

I lost my baby.

‘No, I had a bit of a chest infection, but I’m all clear now. And I must be going.’ I really don’t know what stupidity was pulling me out of the warm café and back to my spore-ridden ice-cube. Pride probably, but pride doesn’t keep you warm.

She put her hand on my arm. ‘Wait a minute. I need to speak to you. But not here.’ She looked at me carefully. ‘I have a proposition for you. I’d like you to come back to my house.’ I started to speak. ‘No, just for a few days. I have some of your things with me. My sister gave them to me for safe keeping.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Cleo Partridge – my sister.’

Cleo? Sister?
Now
I knew who Mrs Partridge reminded me of.

I considered this, trying hard to close my ears to the siren song of a warm house, maybe another meal. I opened my mouth to say no and it came out yes. I felt ashamed. I felt even more ashamed when she paid the bill. We argued. I lost, but told myself I could leave the money at her house later. She insisted we drive to my rooms, where, under her gentle bullying, I packed my stuff. It still all fitted in one small sports bag. I looked around. I knew, for one reason or another, I’d never come back here. I slammed my door behind me and left the keys on the table by the front door and never looked back.

She had a very large house on the outskirts of town. ‘I sometimes do B & B,’ she said. ‘Life is boring since I retired. I get to meet some interesting people. But the house is empty at the moment.’

We went up to the big double room at the front. It was warm and nicely furnished. I loved it. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get your stuff and see you downstairs.’

I thought about unpacking, but it seemed presumptuous, so I left it. I met her downstairs in her big kitchen and we sat at the table. She pushed over a small box. Inside, I found the photo of the Chief and me, together with my Trojan Horse.

I looked at them both and then slowly reached out to the photo. The sense of loss cut through me like a knife. I stood it on the table in front of me. Him and me, laughing together about daffodils, of all things. I touched the frame with one finger. Then I fished out the little Horse. Still as exquisite as the day he made it for me. Other memories rolled over me in waves.

I could have shown the photo to my son and said, ‘Look, this is your father.’

I could have shown the Trojan Horse to my son and said, ‘Look, your father made this.’

I said hoarsely, ‘These mean a great deal to me. Please convey my thanks to Mrs Partridge when you next see her.’

‘I will. May I?’ She picked up the Horse. ‘Is this a model of the Wooden Horse of Troy?’

‘Yes. The Chief made it for me. He always used to say he would have given a lot to see Odysseus and his men dropping out from under the Horse’s tail. He didn’t believe the trapdoor was in the belly because he said that would have weakened the structure, but he was just winding me up.’

She turned the Horse over. ‘Well, he’s put the trapdoor in the belly, nonetheless.’

I took the Horse from her. She was right. I shrugged. ‘He was just teasing me,’ and put it down.

She poured another cup of tea. ‘So tell me what’s been happening to you?’

I countered, ‘If you’ll tell me what’s been happening at St Mary’s.’

‘Nothing’s been happening. That’s the point.’ she said angrily. ‘That stupid woman has everything nailed down. No one’s going anywhere. Well, they can’t. She has no historians left.’

‘Wait,’ I said, alarmed. ‘Dr Bairstow? He’s not dead, is he?’

‘No, you can’t kill Edward, but he’s still on “sick leave”, and she’s doing her best to keep him out.’

‘And she has no historians?’

‘Well, no, how can she? You’re gone, Peterson’s dead, and Kalinda …’

A cold hand touched me. ‘What about Kalinda?’

‘It’s rather funny, actually. Barclay started throwing her tiny weight around, introducing inspections and paperwork and bureaucracy and I got the impression that spurred on by the redoubtable Miss Black, they all rather enjoyed a spell of civil disobedience. It all got a bit out of hand though when she tried to put Dieter on a charge for the damage to Pod Eight. Apparently, words were exchanged and Miss Black and Mr Dieter left the building to cheers and applause.’

I had to laugh. Good old Kalinda. I couldn’t help wondering just how civil the disobedience had been. I knew, none better, how very creative St Mary’s could be in their disobedience while actually doing exactly as they’d been told.

‘But, of course, the key people are now all gone. There’s only Andrew Rapson left and he’s keeping his head down. And Doctor Foster, but they tell me the fight’s gone out of her. I don’t think she realised how deeply attached she was to Peterson. Barclay’s running a historical research organisation without any historical researchers. Nothing’s moving and people are leaving in their droves.

‘So, tell me about you.’ She was relentless. She had been a schoolteacher after all. In the end, I just gave her the bare facts. Sacked. No work history. Unable to get work. No money. Cold flat. Chest infection.

I managed to get it all out in about six brief sentences. She patted my hand gently but said nothing, which I appreciated. I never know what to do with sympathy. But she kept patting.

‘What? I said.

‘I’m so angry. And so is Edward. This should not have happened. We don’t just throw our people out into the streets, Max. Do you think this hasn’t happened before? There’s an exit procedure. You should have been offered alternative employment at Thirsk for a year, to give you some sort of employment history and ease you back into outside life. Remember Stevens? And Rutherford? Do you think we just cast them adrift?  She knew this. She’s a spiteful, jealous cow!’

She brooded a while and then said with determination, ‘You must stay here. No, don’t say anything, Max. I watched you through the café window and I don’t know what you were thinking, or maybe I do, but I’d like you to think of my house as a haven, at least for a few days while you recover your strength. I hope you’ll stay. This is a big house, you know, and sometimes …’ She trailed away to give me time to appreciate her loneliness. The redoubtable Mrs De Winter had never had a lonely moment in her life, but was making me a face-saving offer I couldn’t refuse.

I smiled a little and said, ‘Well, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way …’ She laughed and after a while, so did I.

To relieve the embarrassment I picked up the Horse again. It felt good in my hand and it comforted me a little. Strange about the trapdoor though. He’d always been so definite about them wriggling out from under the Horse’s tail like so many heroic tapeworms. I looked under the tail and saw a tiny hole, exactly where …

I said, ‘Do you have a paperclip?’ She looked surprised but rummaged in a drawer and produced a box. I took one, un-bent it, and inserted it into the tiny hole. There was a click, the trapdoor in the Horse’s belly sprang open and a little box clattered onto the table. The remote control of his pod.

Something inside me woke up.

I tried to think clearly. I could use this. I could return, now, to the Cretaceous, as near as I could get to that awful night and bring them back. If they were still alive. And if they weren’t … well, that wasn’t important. The point was that I could go. Now. I started to get up.

‘No, wait,’ she said. Being a teacher she obviously did mind reading as well. ‘No, I don’t mean you can’t go. Obviously you must go, but you’ll only get one chance and you have to do it properly. Now, the first thing is to bring the pod here so we can check supplies, equipment, and suchlike. Once we’ve ascertained our resources, we can make a proper plan.’

One surprise after another. She knew not only what the device was, but what it related to. I was beginning to have a great deal of curiosity about these sisters.

‘Do you have a back garden?’

She flung the curtain aside to display a back garden the size of half Rushfordshire. I’d never used this gizmo before, or seen it used, but it seemed relatively simple, even for me. There was only one button. Presumably you pressed it. Walking out into the garden, I selected a spot and, hoping it had a built in safety margin and wouldn’t materialise on top of me, I pressed it. Ten feet away from me, one of those rotary washing-line thingies crumpled flat under the weight of an invisible pod.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Learner driver.’ Thank God, she seemed more relaxed about this sort of thing than her sister Mrs Partridge did. I stood at where I thought the front would be and said, hopefully, ‘Door.’ It opened and I stepped inside.

Nothing had changed since I was last here. I inhaled the familiar smell. This was my world. This was where I belonged. I wondered when he had programmed me into the controls. Why had he given me a remote but not told me? He always maintained he knew nothing of the future after the day he arrived in my timeline, but I sometimes wondered. And if he didn’t know, I bet the Boss did. I couldn’t imagine the Boss not knowing anything.

I became aware of Mrs De Winter standing on the threshold. ‘Come in. Please.’ She began opening lockers and I activated the console.

‘Can you do it?’ she asked. I was flicking through past co-ordinates.

‘Theoretically, yes. His last jump but two was to the Cretaceous. I should recognise the coordinates.’

I heard my own voice saying to him, ‘But why did he send you? You couldn’t interfere – what was the point?’ Was the point to get the co-ordinates into the memory so I could use them later? Forget it. Deal with the now.

‘Yes, here they are. I need to sit down and work out how many days elapsed between these and our mission to the Cretaceous. Then I should maybe add a day for safety’s sake – I don’t want two of me there – and if they’re alive then I should be able to get them out. I hope.’

I wasn’t anywhere near as confident as I sounded. This was not my pod. I had no idea how it handled. It might not even accept commands from me.

‘Do you have a calculator?’ She nodded and slipped out, returning a few minutes later with that, two pens, and a pile of paper. I thanked her absently and began to fire things up.

I sat and worked it all out very slowly and carefully, showing my calculations in a way I hadn’t done since basic training. I checked everything. It seemed OK. I worked it backwards and the co-ordinates matched.

Mrs De Winter came back. I realised I’d been working for two hours. She asked me how I was getting on. I showed her and asked her to check. She said, ‘But I can’t do that!’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But you can check the maths, which is my weak spot.’

She did so and twenty minutes later said, ‘Your calculations are correct,’ which was encouraging. I just hoped they were the right calculations. She stocked the chiller with beer. I hadn’t thought of that.

And then, just as everything was going so well, I started to lay in the figures and the bastard computer wouldn’t accept them. Initially, I didn’t know if it was me or my figures it disliked, but it accepted commands for the door and lights happily enough, so it had to be the figures. I added one day, increasing the interval between our night attack and my proposed new jump, and it spat that back at me as well. I added another day and another and with increasing dismay, another. All the time, Mrs De Winter stood quietly beside me, whispering, ‘Keep trying, Max. Keep trying.’