1. Just One Damned Thing After Another (6 page)

The food actually tasted quite good. Fortunately, I’m a terrible cook, so my expectations of food are never high anyway. I think airline food is great. I pulled the red heating tabs and munched away. Afterwards I washed my face and hands, took down and plaited my hair, undressed, and pulled out one of the sleep modules. It moulded itself around me and sensing I was cold, began to warm up. If ever there was a time and a place to have a bit of a snivel then this was it.

I passed.

It was a long night; a long, long night. I think I dozed a couple of times but not for very long. I made mental lists of the Kings and Queens of England, then their spouses. I composed an imaginary essay on the causes of the Wars of the Roses. I listed my top ten favourite books, then my ten favourite movies. I played Shoot, Shag, or Marry. It was a long night.

When the screen showed a cold, grey light outside, I got up and made some tea.

I tried talking to the computer again but it wasn’t having any of it. I tried hard not to remember that this time yesterday I was having breakfast at St Mary’s.

My training said it was important to establish a routine, so I began to map out my day. Tidy the pod and myself and put away the sleeping gear. Have brunch around mid-morning. Spend some time on the roof looking for signs of human habitation – although if I found any, whether I would run to or from was a good question. Walk or run for one hour. The ground was so flat I should be able to run for some time without losing sight of the pod. I’m not good with direction. Sit in the sun and read until it became chilly. Go inside and tidy up. Eat again. Read again. Write up the daily log. Go to bed. Don’t lie awake panicking.

That’s how it went for two days. It wasn’t unpleasant. On the third day I was sitting outside, using a valuable page in the scribble pad to sketch the mountains when something clicked in my head. This was not a bad life. I had everything I needed; good weather, a safe environment, something to read, enough to eat
.

Yes, I did, didn’t I? I had everything I needed to survive comfortably for a fortnight at least.

Another click. How lucky that this pod was loaded ready for a quick turn over, even though there were other pods available for use.

And then I started to laugh. As if Chief Farrell would ever send out an unreliable pod with a trainee. This was why they sent you alone. It wasn’t spending an afternoon in Shrewsbury that was the test.
This
was the real test. To survive, alone, lost, with no hope of rescue or backup. This was why he programmed the co-ordinates himself. This was why it was all on automatic.

I bet if I just sat quietly and waited; the pod would re-activate itself in twelve days’ time and get me back to St Mary’s as if nothing had happened. Well, I was going to tough it out. Of course, if I was wrong then I was going to look pretty silly in twelve days’ time. On the other hand, who would know?

The days slipped slowly by; each one the same as the last in this unchanging landscape. I sat in the sun, thumb in bum, brain in neutral, and let my mind drift. I thought about the chain of events leading to this moment. I thought about my childhood, but not for long. I wondered if I wanted to be alone all my life. I wondered if I didn’t want to be alone all my life.

I wrote my log, spending five or six pages on the subject of technical incompetence and embellishing the text with small sketches. I had long chats with myself. I tried new ways of wearing my hair. And really doing my best not to think about what would happen on Day 14. Which came, of course, shortly after Day 13, as is the scheme of things. I didn’t leave the pod all day, waiting for the console to light up again.

It didn’t.

Noon came and went.

I sat unmoving.

The sun started to go down. Shadows lengthened. Total silence.

Nothing happened.

It began to get dark. Still nothing happened.

I clenched my hands tightly in my lap. I sat in the dark.

Nothing happened. Nothing bloody happened!

The one thought clanking around my head was that this was self-inflicted. Obviously,
obviously,
I should have declared an emergency and returned home at once, when I could, when the bloody system was still working. How could I have pushed my luck like this?

I must have dropped off because I awoke, cold and stiff, early on the morning of Day 15 with some hard thinking to do. Reviewing my resources, I had about three days’ food left and a little less water. It was definitely time to go home.

On the other hand … on the other hand … on the other hand … maybe
this
was the test. How traumatic is it to be marooned somewhere safe and quiet with plenty of food? Maybe the test was survival
after
all expectation of rescue was past and supplies had run out.

How did it go? Three minutes without oxygen. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. So, should I leave the pod to find water and miss the chance of possible extraction? Or should I stay put and gamble on being rescued before death by dehydration, which, I’d heard, was not a pleasant way to die? But short of expiring of exhaustion underneath a chocolate-covered Leon Farrell, what is a pleasant way to die? And should I start rationing myself? Which meant I could last for maybe an extra two or three days? Or just eat and drink the lot and die anyway?

Day 15 ended. I pulled out the scribble pad and thought about leaving details of whom I was and why I was here, in case my remains should ever be found. Bugger it. Let them guess.

I had a sudden, heartrending vision of the Chief, sitting alone with a mug of cold tea by his side and really did have to blink back a tear of self-pity. Would my name go up on the Boards? I wasn’t technically an historian yet. It might not count. I sat outside with my arms around my knees and thought gloomy thoughts. I’d just closed my eyes when I heard a click, a hum, and the entire console lit up like the Christmas display in Oxford Street. Lights flashed, requiring a response.

I scrambled to my feet, tripped on my skirt, and rushed in to look. The readouts seemed normal, the countdown held at 4, awaiting confirmation to continue.

For a moment, I thought I might faint. I sat heavily and waited for my innards to subside. Pulling myself together, I shut the door; kicked lockers closed, rolled up the sleeping module, and splashed water on my face, all in about thirty seconds. I sat down, ordered my heart to slow down, and activated the countdown. The world went white, a slight bump, and I was home.

Oh God, I was home!

Peering through the screen, I was amazed to see St Mary’s carrying on pretty much as normal. Didn’t these idiots know what I’d been through? Then I sat back. Of course they did. I’d never been in any sort of danger at all. Well, if they could play it cool then so could I. I activated the decontamination unit and sat back while the cold, blue light worked its magic.

I saw the Chief crossing the floor with a mug of steaming tea. He knocked on the door.

I called, ‘Who’s there?’

After a pause long enough for the word ‘cocky’ not actually to be spoken aloud, he said, ‘Room service.’

I laughed and opened the door. He handed me the tea and began to shut things down. Outside, I could see his crew plugging in the umbilicals.

‘How did it go?’

‘It was fine. Ate, read, worked on the tan. Thought about St Mary’s best kept secret. I’m impressed, I’m really impressed. I didn’t have – none of us had – the slightest idea about this. How has St Mary’s kept this quiet over the years?’

‘Everyone who thinks about it sees the benefit of keeping it quiet. It’s the most valuable test we have; and the most nerve-wracking, for us, as well as for you.’

‘This is fantastic tea.’

‘How long ago did you run out?’

‘Two long days ago.’

‘We were spot on then. We have to try and gauge it so you’re close to running out of supplies but haven’t yet struck out across country to search for help. When were you planning to go?’

‘I wasn’t. I knew you wouldn’t let me starve.’

‘No one likes a smart arse.’

‘Does this mean I’ve failed?’

‘No, Miss Maxwell, it means you’re top of the class.’

Yes! My future stretched happily in front of me; back to the past.

‘How about the others? Are they back yet?’

He frowned. ‘Grant activated his emergency extraction as soon as he realised he was where he shouldn’t be, which is, of course, the correct procedure. Nagley came back when her console failed. I’m sorry to say she wasn’t very calm and has subsequently left the unit.’

‘She’s gone?’

‘She couldn’t wait. She had a fairly tense conversation with Grant and left immediately.’

‘Did she leave a message for me?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’

I was hurt. We’d been together a long time and she was the only other girl. I’d liked her. And she’d left without even a goodbye.

‘Sussman says he worked it out, but demanded emergency extraction after five days, claiming boredom. He exited his pod, thumped the first technician he came across who happened to be Mr Dieter and so spent the rest of the day in Sick Bay recovering consciousness. You’re the last back.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It demonstrates a certain mind-set.’

I chugged back the tea and set out for Sick Bay and the more than scary Dr Foster. If there is an opposite of a good bedside manner then Helen Foster has it.

‘Come in, Maxwell.’ She activated a data stack, went to sit on the window sill, and rummaged in her pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one.

‘Have you ingested or imbibed anything other than standard rations?’

I looked pointedly at the smoke detector. ‘No.’

‘I took the battery out years ago.’ I got the feeling Chief Farrell was fighting a losing battle with smoke detectors and fire alarms. ‘Have you had sexual relations or exchanged bodily fluids with anyone outside this timeline?’

‘Sadly, no. Nor anyone in this timeline either.’

‘Too much information. Have you received any injuries, wounds, broken your skin, have a rash or skin lesions …?’ And on and on. After a while, she flipped her dog-end out of the window. There was a squawk from outside.

‘I keep telling you, Peterson, don’t stand there. Idiot!’

We established I’d spent sixteen days of unparalleled tedium and that I constituted no threat to life as we knew it and I skipped off to see Mrs Partridge, who made me sign hundreds of documents which mostly said that everything happening to me from now on was entirely my own fault. She sent me off to Wardrobe, who issued me with a full set of the coveted blues and all the rest of my kit and sent me back to Mrs Partridge again, who offered me the choice of a bigger room in the Staff Block or one in the main building. I went with the one in the main building. It had a bath.

I was allocated an attic room on the small, east landing. I had Dr Foster opposite me and Kalinda Black, another historian, on the other side. My room was long and narrow with a small window at the front overlooking the lake and a larger window with a low window seat overlooking a flat roof. Furnishings were the usual St Mary’s minimum – a Narnia wardrobe, a bed, a baggy couch, a bookcase, and a data table. But I did have a small bathroom where, for some reason, I had to climb over a vast, enamel, claw-footed bath to get to the toilet.

I bought a rug, some posters, and a corkboard where I could pin up my favourite bits and pieces. I blagged an old table from Housekeeping for all my paints and brushes, added a tin of biscuits and a kettle, and had everything I needed.

I loved my room, from the uneven floor to the pock-marked walls. It was the first space I’d ever had that was truly mine and no one could get in. I arranged my books, hung my blues in the wardrobe, and waited in excited anticipation for whatever came next.

Chapter Four

What came next was a reality check. We had two deaths in my first two weeks as a historian. Training had been difficult, hard work, strenuous, scary even, but apart from cuts, bruises, and the odd simple fracture, not particularly hazardous. All that was about to change.

Kalinda Black and Tim Peterson got the Peterloo Massacre; part of an ongoing ‘History of Democracy’ assignment, which included the Peasant’s Revolt and the signing of Magna Carta at Runnymede. Baverstock and Lower got the peasants and Grant, Sussman and I hoped that if we kept quiet and tried to look normal, at least one of us would be included in the Runnymede jump. But the first in the series was Peterloo.

In August 1819, sixty thousand demonstrators assembled in St Peter’s Square, Manchester. They were anti-poverty and pro-democracy which did them no favours at all in the eyes of authority. Despite this, the demonstrators regarded this as a fun day out for the family, dressing in their Sunday best and bringing the kids.

Equally looking forward to the day, but for completely different reasons, were the local yeomanry, led by a Captain Hugh Birley. Drawn from local mill owners and shop proprietors, they would have had strong views about workers gaining the right to vote and having enough to eat.

Local magistrates read the Riot Act to a very small section of the crowd and then, legal duty done, withdrew to let the drunken yeomanry get on with it. They charged the crowd, ostensibly to arrest Henry Hunt who was speaking from a cart. The protestors linked arms to prevent this and were struck down by the yeomanry, who were, apparently, as pissed as newts. The crowd panicked; this was seen as an attack and six hundred Hussars went in. Eighteen people, including one woman and child, were killed. The military received a message from the Prince Regent, congratulating them on their success.

With Industrial History as her specialty and as a Mancunian herself, Kalinda Black was all set for this one. So keen was she to go that she ignored persistent abdominal pain, dosed herself with a year’s worth of laxatives, doubled over at breakfast one day, and despite loudly declaring it was only a spot of indigestion, got carted off to meet her fate in Sick Bay.

I sat contemplating a morning in the Library with no great enthusiasm. Sussman had taken himself off somewhere and I was lingering over a mug of tea before making a move. I jumped a mile as Grant threw himself into a chair beside me, face flushed with excitement, his faint Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. ‘Guess what? Black’s got appendicitis. They’re whipping it out as we speak.’

Really, I suppose, my reaction should have been concerned sympathy, but first things first.

‘So who’s going to Peterloo, then?’

‘Obviously, it’s going to be one of us, isn’t it?’

We looked at each other. I stood lazily. ‘Well, sadly, I’m in the Library all morning. I’ve got a pile of anthropology papers to read.’

‘Me too,’ he said casually. ‘What a bummer.’

I beat him to the door, but he drew ahead as we galloped across the Hall and he got to the Library first. Much good it did him because Dr Dowson, wise in the ways of historians, had two files already waiting. I felt a little bit guilty.

‘What about Sussman?’

He polished his glasses. ‘Oh, he picked his up a good hour ago. I’m afraid he’s got quite a start on you two.’

Bastard!

Grant and I eyed each other and then by, unspoken consent, split up. I settled down and sorted through the material. The assignment originated from Thirsk and the brief was simple enough. Observe and authenticate. Bread and butter stuff. I wondered which of us would get it. It wasn’t my specialty or any of my secondary areas either. It certainly wasn’t any of Sussman’s. Grant was the nearest, with the French Revolution. But he was also quiet and easily overlooked. It had to be between me and Sussman.

I reviewed the file twice and then went for lunch. Sussman was there, smirking.

I sat opposite him and unwrapped my sandwich.

‘Bastard!’

‘Early bird,’ he said, smugly. ‘No point in knocking yourselves out, I’ve already volunteered.’

‘But you haven’t got it yet?’

‘Well, there isn’t anyone else, is there?’

‘Actually, yes. Grant’s specialty is closer than Early Byzantine. In fact, everything’s closer than Early Byzantine.’

‘Except Ancient Civilisations. Face it, Max, you couldn’t be any further away if you tried. And you’re female.’

‘Exactly, teams consist of one male and one female, so neither of you stands a chance. Peterson will take me.’

‘They won’t send you to a riot.’

‘Don’t give me any of that crap. I’ve started a few riots in my time. It’s going to be me.’

‘Over your dead body. I’m the obvious choice. I graduated top …’

‘No, I was two points ahead of you.’

‘… I know the period. I’ve read the brief. I’ve already registered an interest. There’s no doubt it will be me. Oh, and I’m the tallest, as well.’

I opened my mouth but it never got said because suddenly Grant was with us. We only had to look at him to know. He glowed with excitement and pride and his grin could be seen from space.

‘No,’ protested Sussman. ‘Surely not. What are they thinking?’

He was such an insensitive pillock sometimes.

‘You’re such an insensitive pillock sometimes,’ I told him. Swallowing my disappointment, I turned to Grant. ‘You lucky devil. So, you’ll be the first of us away, then?’

He nodded, still too full of it to speak.

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘I mean it,’ and kicked the insensitive pillock under the table.

‘Ow! Yes, well done, mate.’ He scowled and I kicked him again. ‘Will you stop doing that?’

I nodded towards Grant. ‘It’s his first assignment. It’s
our
first assignment. Make an effort.’

He did. ‘Yeah, well done, Kev. When do you go?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Peterson’s briefing me in …’ he looked at his watch, ‘… now,’ scrambled to his feet and nearly tripped over his chair.

Sussman handed him his untouched sandwiches. ‘Here, you should eat before you fall over. Take these.’ Just when I’d decided he was a complete arsehole, he surprised me. You could always say that about Sussman – he always surprised you.

We spent the evening going through Grant’s brief with him.

‘I still can’t believe they chose me,’ he said on several occasions, causing me to kick Sussman again before he could agree with him.

‘You deserve it,’ I told him. ‘You worked really hard for this.’ And he had. He wasn’t showy, like Sussman or me, but he’d put in hours of solid, hard, unspectacular work. It meant he’d have seniority over Sussman and me as well. That hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it would. It would occur to Sussman as well and that would be a fun moment.

We saw him off the next day. He marched down the hangar beside Peterson, so full of pride and purpose that my heart nearly burst for him. Even Sussman clapped and whistled. They paused in the doorway, waved and disappeared into their pod. After a minute or two, the Chief came out and waved everyone back behind the safety line. Thirty seconds later, they were gone.

We made sure to be in the hangar in good time for their return. Kalinda Black, grumpy but recovering, came with us. I could imagine Grant, tumbling out of the pod, eager to tell us all his adventures, absolutely full of himself.

I nudged Sussman. ‘Be nice.’

He looked offended. ‘Of course I will.’ We looked at each other and grinned. This would be us soon.

Number Five light flickered. We craned forward on the gantry, all prepared to give Grant a hero’s welcome. He was the first of our intake to jump. He deserved something special. We’d got a big night planned as soon as he got the all clear from Sick Bay.

The pod materialised. And nothing happened.

I don’t know why, but I felt a chill. As clearly as yesterday I remembered Chief Farrell saying, ‘You get a feel for it.’ I had a feel for it now and I wasn’t the only one. Around me, the hangar fell quiet.

Chief Farrell crossed the floor, tapped on the door, and disappeared inside. We waited for the shout of ‘Medic,’ but nothing happened. Beside me, Black whispered, ‘Tim,’ and if possible, got even paler. I nudged Sussman and he found her a stool.

After endless moments, the Chief reappeared, supporting a blood-soaked Peterson. He was upright and walking, so I guessed most of the blood wasn’t his, which left … 

He looked up at the gantry and shook his head. Dr Foster appeared from nowhere, entered the pod, and shut the door. Dieter began to clear the hangar. We helped Black to the bar and waited silently for Peterson, who trudged in an hour later, looking pale and with a stitched gash over one eye. Sussman and I sat huddled together for warmth and support, the stuffing well and truly knocked out of us.

Kalinda said, ‘What happened?’

There was a long silence and then he said quietly, ‘He was inexperienced. I didn’t supervise him properly.’ He touched his head gingerly. ‘The Yeomanry were drunk. A woman and her two kids went down in the panic. He ran over to them. Picked up the two kids. Tossed them out of the way. Grabbed the woman. Took a sword to the back of his head. His brains fell out. His body got kicked about all over the place. It took ages for me to get to him. I was shouting and cursing. I heaved him over my shoulder, dodged the Hussars, and got back to the pod but it was far too late. He never stood a chance.’ He turned to us. ‘You two think about today and learn the right lessons.’

We nodded.

In my mind, I saw snapshots: Grant on our first day, filing papers. Grant sitting alongside me in a classroom, his face frowning in concentration as he built his data stack. Grant with his head close to Nagley’s as they laughed over something on his scratchpad. I remembered his calm good nature and his willingness to help Stevens. But mostly I membered him bursting with pride at being the first away – the solid workhorse who somehow got to the prize before the flashier Sussman and Maxwell. And much good it had done him. I felt a pricking behind my eyes, but tears wouldn’t bring him back.

Peterson reached for his drink. ‘Kevin Grant,’ he said.

‘Kevin Grant,’ we said.

That was bad, but the next was worse. A week later, Lower and Baverstock came back from 1389, the Peasant’s Revolt. They were Senior Historians and I didn’t know them that well. There were only the four of us to meet them now and two of us were certainly a little quieter and more thoughtful than we had been a week ago.

This time, there was no messing. The Chief, alerted by something unknown to us, went straight in and stayed in. A minute later, Dr Foster and two medics flew down the hangar and went in. And stayed in. Thirty minutes later they were all still in there.

‘No,’ said Peterson softly. ‘No, no, no, not again.’

‘They’re not clearing the hangar,’ said Sussman. ‘It might not be too bad.’

But it was.

Baverstock was dead. An accident. He’d fallen under a horse in the chaos following the death of Wat Tyler and been trampled, dying shortly afterwards on the floor of his own pod. He and Lower had been together a long time. It was more than a working relationship. His death finished her. She couldn’t let him go. She held him while silent tears poured down her cheeks. When they tried to move her she lost control, screaming incessantly, unable to stop. They tried to sedate her but she fought them off and people were slipping in all the blood, so they had to leave it and Dr Foster and the Chief sat with her and Baverstock for nearly two hours before they were able to get them both out quietly. We never saw Lower again. I did ask Dr Foster once and she just said, ‘She’s taken care of,’ and I knew to leave it alone.

Sussman and I were quiet for a few days, but St Mary’s carried on around us and after a while, so did we. It wasn’t that we were uncaring and I’m sure many other people grieved as well, but we did it in private. We attended the service and Grant’s and Baverstock’s names went up on the Boards of Honour and then we moved on.

So there we were; only four of us historians in an organisation established for twelve. Normally, Sussman and I would undergo a series of small, unimportant, bread and butter jumps to give us experience and work the excitement out of our systems. Roman Bath was scheduled, together with a jump to eleventh-century London to watch the foundations being laid for Westminster Abbey. We should be supervised by a Senior Historian, except there weren’t any left. We got the best they could offer. Sussman and Black disappeared to Bath and Peterson and I got Westminster Abbey. The main purpose of the jump was simply to confirm the co-ordinates for the Time Map, but Peterson said it would be a pity not take a look around; the comment that gets so many historians, past and present, into such trouble.

I liked Tim Peterson. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Kalinda Black who was tall, blonde, and terrifying. She looked like a Disney Princess, spoke with a broad Manchester accent, and, rumour had it, drank the blood of newly qualified trainees to keep herself young.

 Entering the pod, Peterson threw himself into his seat, put his feet up, and declared me in charge.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Get on with it or we won’t be back in time for the footie.’

I verified the co-ordinates and, fingers crossed, initiated the jump. We landed without even the slightest bump, completely failing to materialise inside a mountain or at the bottom of the sea, much to my secret relief. Heart thumping, I checked the cameras and announced it was safe to venture outside.

‘Excellent work,’ said Peterson, opening his eyes. ‘Do you know the way?’

‘Yes,’ I said firmly.

‘Come on, then,’ he said, and we discreetly exited the pod. He was very good. He stood back and gave me a couple of minutes to take it all in.

I saw more stone buildings than I thought there would be, but this was London after all and Edward the Confessor’s England was a peaceful and prosperous place. Having said that though, most of the buildings were still built of wood. Sturdily constructed and with thatched roofs, but wood still seemed to be the material of choice. Many houses had let down fronts that converted to table tops from which a variety of goods and services were being touted. The noise levels were tremendous. Nobody seemed to converse in less than a bellow. A pall of pungent wood smoke hung over everything.