Roman Holiday (5 page)

We sipped our tea and watched the screen in awe.

Twenty minutes later, the square was deserted apart from a few disoriented souls who were rebounding from wall to wall as they attempted to find their way home.

Trampled vegetables lay in the gutters. The remains of market barrows and their goods were scattered over a surprisingly large area. The street was littered with odd sandals, discarded togas, several broken handcarts, abandoned shopping, and surely far more dung than was possible from only six oxen. Every dog in Rome was still howling its head off. The purveyor of quality groceries was still up the tree and had been joined by large numbers of chickens and a stray goat. Markham wanted to go and help him down, but was restrained by Major Guthrie, who was staring at the screen as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

‘Not our fault,’ I said, defensively.

He closed his eyes, briefly.

‘Relax. No one’s ever going to know,’ said Peterson. Wrongly.

One by one, the soldiers dropped off the roof.

‘It’s raining men,’ said Van Owen, which was something I’d always wanted to say.

Wrapping their cloaks around their heads, they went for more reinforcements.

‘We could sell this device to Asterix,’ said Markham, the only one who appeared unaffected by Sonic Scream Trauma.

‘Can we just go?’ said Guthrie, between gritted teeth.

So we went.

It was one of Peterson’s better landings. We hardly bumped at all.

‘Rather in the manner of a stone skimming effortlessly across a limpid pool,’ he said.

What anyone would have said to that was never known because at this point it became apparent that our problems were not yet over.

All around Hawking, orange techies began to drop to the ground, arms curled protectively around their heads.

In the far corners of the hangar, the glass in both the IT and technical offices crazed suddenly, shattered, and fell to the ground.

‘Shit!’ said Peterson. ‘Did we do that?’

‘You forgot to switch off the bloody Sonic Scream thing,’ I shouted. ‘Quick.’

Peterson flicked a few switches and although nothing happened inside, outside the pod prone orange figures slowly began to unfurl.

‘Like flowers at the beginning of a new day,’ I said, trying to look on the bright side and getting the look from Guthrie that I deserved.

‘All this is your fault,’ said Guthrie to Markham. ‘If you’d kept your bosoms where they belonged, none of this would have happened. I hold you entirely responsible.’

Markham blinked, indignantly. ‘Not my fault if I have unreliable bosoms. I’ve got nice bleached nipples, though. Do you want to see?’

‘No!’ shouted four voices, simultaneously.

Round the hangar, people started to pick themselves up.

Polly Perkins, head of IT and a sweet girl, was being forcibly restrained by members of her team.

Dieter, Chief Farrell’s number two and built like a large brick shithouse, picked himself up, staggered a little, and then headed wrathfully for our pod. I had a moment of déjà vu. It was the oxen all over again. He picked up a fire bucket and hurled it with great accuracy and not a little force. It bounced off the pod with a dull thud.

We all stepped back.

‘I don’t actually care if I have to spend the rest of my life in here,’ said Van Owen. ‘I am never leaving this pod again.’

I heard Leon’s voice over the com link.

‘What’s going on in there?’

‘I’m carrying out a complete systems check,’ said Peterson, swiftly. ‘Going to be some time, I’m afraid.’

‘And I’m checking the inventory,’ I said. ‘Don’t wait up.’

There was a pause and then he said, 'You have five seconds. Get your arses out here. Now.’

We sent Van Owen out first, because she has huge pansy-purple eyes and you’d have to be a monster to yell at her, closely followed by me because I was covered in snake goo and people might feel sorry for me.

Dr Bairstow, crunching his way across the glass fragments with magnificent disdain, met us just outside the pod.

‘Dr Maxwell. Are you injured?’

‘Snake blood, sir. But good news, Cleopatra is still alive.’

‘Should she be otherwise?’

‘An attempted murder, sir, magnificently foiled by St Mary’s in general and by Major Guthrie and Mr Markham in particular.

I beckoned them forwards. They shuffled sideways instead.

‘I’m almost certain the assignment was simply to observe and document. I distinctly remember saying so.’

‘Indeed you did, sir, but you know us. Always ready to go that extra mile.’

‘If you only knew how often I pray that some of you would go those extra miles.’

I was unsure how to respond to that one and compromised by scrubbing uselessly at my snake goo.

‘Good news,’ said Peterson, cheerfully. ‘The Sonic Scream thing seems to work.’

‘While I am certain the technical section rejoices in that knowledge,’ said Dr Bairstow, ‘I suspect that thought is not uppermost in their minds at this moment. They appear to be anxious to discuss recent events with you. Should any of you survive, I look forward to reading your inadequate excuses for returning from your assignment in such an unexpectedly destructive manner.’

He turned and limped away.

The technical section closed in for the kill.

‘I blame Markham,’ said Peterson, much later. We were in the bar, settling our nerves.

Markham, who had been eyeing Nurse Hunter in his usual besotted fashion, sat up indignantly, although I can’t think why. It can’t have been the first time he’d heard those words uttered.

‘What baffles me,’ I said, in an attempt to head the argument off at the pass, ‘is why no one ever said how ugly she was. Cleopatra, I mean. You could have launched ships off that nose.’

‘Maybe,’ said Van Owen, ‘they just didn’t want to admit their leading men fell for a woman who looked like a camel.’

We nodded wisely.

‘Am I right in thinking we did A Good Thing there?’ asked Guthrie. ‘I’m assuming no one was supposed to die today. Except us, of course, and that happens so frequently, I’ve stopped worrying about it.’

We nodded again, each of us running through the implications in our minds. Of course, if it hadn’t been us, someone else might easily have spotted the asps amongst the figs. But if they hadn’t … If one or both of them had died … It really didn’t bear thinking about. Guthrie was right – just for once, we’d done a Really Good Thing today.

Mrs Partridge appeared in the doorway, an ominously large number of ‘Deductions from Wages for Damages Incurred’ forms in her hand.

Markham groaned. A doomed attempt to reproduce Native American smoke signals had resulted in an unexpectedly large conflagration, the destruction of a small copse, the incineration of a surprisingly large number of blankets, and a letter of protest from the parish council. These days, very little of his wages remained for damages incurred to be deducted from. Any day now, he would be paying Dr Bairstow.

And behind Mrs Partridge loomed a very large and still very irate Dieter.

We resisted the temptation to huddle together for mutual reassurance.

‘Well, I’ll be OK,’ I said, reaching for my drink. ‘I’m Chief Operations Officer. I outrank him.’

‘And I’m Chief Training Officer,’ said Peterson. ‘No problem here.’

‘I’m Head of Security,’ said Guthrie. ‘I’m safe.’

‘I’m a girl,’ said Van Owen, fluttering her eyelashes.

We all stared at Mr Markham.

‘You utter bastards,’ he said.

THE END

The Chronicles of St. Mary’s Series
by Jodi Taylor

For more information about
Jodi Taylor
and other
Accent Press
titles
please visit

www.accentpress.co.uk

A seasonal short story

It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror.

Or so they think.

However, History seems to have different plans for them and when Max finds herself delivering a child in a peasant's 

The Nothing Girl

Jodi Taylor brings all her comic writing skills to this heart-warming tale of self-discovery.

Known as “The Nothing Girl” because of her severe stutter and chronically low self-confidence, Jenny Dove is only just prevented from ending it all by the sudden appearance of Thomas, a mystical golden horse only she can see. Under his guidance, Jenny unexpectedly acquires a husband 
–
 the charming and chaotic Russell Checkland 
–
 and for her, nothing will ever be the same again.

With over-protective relatives on one hand and the world's most erratic spouse on the other, Jenny needs to become Someone. And fast!

Fans of Jodi Taylor's best-selling Chronicles of St Mary's series will adore the quirky humour in this new, contemporary novel.