A Symphony of Echoes (19 page)

They were both screaming themselves hoarse by now. I heard the order given and made myself look. I was part of this – part of the responsibility was mine.

I’ve seen death before, but this was an execution. Another one. The nightmare came back. I saw Barclay lying at my feet, wasting the last precious seconds of her life in hatred. I had to get through this. And live with the consequences afterwards. I stood next to Farrell. He grasped my cold hand, squeezing tightly. I squeezed gratefully back.

A very quick succession of short sharp cracks – so quick they almost sounded like one single, ragged shot – and it was done. The Head of Security walked toward them.

Farrell said quickly, ‘Wait for me in the pod.’

For once, I didn’t argue.

I heard two more shots and then it was finished.

Chapter Fourteen

We didn’t hang around. We wanted to get back to our St Mary’s as quickly as possible. Pinkie escorted us to our pod. All around us, the mood was sombre. No one had taken any pleasure from the day’s events, but they would recover. It was finally over. Time to go home.

Farrell took his pod and went first. I entered an unfamiliar Number Seven and took it home.

Farrell had alerted Hawking to the return of our final lost pod. A token security force awaited my return. I was out of the pod as soon as the decon light was finished and raced to the exit. At the door, I stood and looked back down the hangar. For the first time I could remember, every plinth was occupied. We had our pods back. It was a moment that demanded more respect than I was giving it.

I set off for the main building. There was no sign of Chief Farrell.

I looked at my watch. I had twenty minutes before my appointment with the Boss. Just time to wash my face, comb my hair, grab a mug of something hot and sweet, and get to his office.

I got all that done and scooped up Schiller and Van Owen on the way. I was stressed, breathless, and disoriented. My boots and the legs of my jumpsuit were still wet from the snow. I could still see two dark shapes on the ground and those patches of crimson snow. I could still hear the shots, crisp in the frosty air …

I took a deep breath outside Mrs Partridge’s door and entered quietly. The Boss was waiting in his office doorway. His face was grave. Over his shoulder, I could see Chief Farrell sitting in one of the two chairs put ready, a pool of print-out at his feet.

The Boss said, ‘Dr Maxwell, would you go straight in, please. Miss Van Owen, Miss Schiller, thank you for coming. We won’t keep you a moment.’

I followed him in. Chief Farrell turned his head as I entered. He didn’t look good at all and I suspected I looked worse. The Boss seated himself.

‘Which one of you will begin?’

Chief Farrell had seniority and I was happy to leave it to him.

He made a better job of it than I could have, and at the end, the Boss got up and looked out of the window.

‘Definitely dead?’ he asked.

‘Definitely dead,’ confirmed the Chief. ‘I checked myself. They were both dead.’

I nodded, even though the Boss couldn’t see me. He was quiet for a very long time.

I waited.

For the first time ever, I saw him at a loss. Finally, he turned back into the room, saying, ‘It seems I owe you both an apology. I really had no idea of Knox’s identity and purpose when I sent you to The Red House. I understand it wasn’t a pleasant experience for either of you, and I’m more pleased than I can say to see that you emerged from it mostly unscathed.’

This was unexpected and unfamiliar, but he soon reverted to normal. ‘Max, that your instincts are so sound is, I believe, a tribute to your training and development and St Mary’s takes full credit. Your urge to remove yourself as quickly as possible was, under the circumstances, absolutely the correct thing to do. Subsequent events – less so, of course, but we have already discussed that.

‘His disappearance will cause more than a stir. I don’t think St Mary’s will be implicated in any way. We should receive nothing more than a cursory interview, but you can rely on me to provide any alibis you both may need.’

Farrell said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

He sighed once more and then seated himself at his desk, folded his hands and looked expectantly at me.

‘Well, Dr Maxwell, what do you have for me today?’

He knew perfectly well why I was there, but I think it helped us all to pull ourselves back into the here and now. Assembling people and files, I took him through everything, step by step. Schiller and Van Owen walked him through The Play. His office filled up with papers, diagrams, cubes, and disks. They’d worked it up very nicely. We booted up his data table and they brought up their data stacks. He peered closely, firing questions at them, but they’d done their work well and had their answers ready. I was proud of them.

When they’d finished, he thanked them politely and escorted them to the door. They escaped.

He returned to the rotating data stack and regarded it silently.

‘I assume you have more.’

I told him about Chief Farrell’s dreams and the bleed-through. He listened attentively and Farrell rounded it all off with his theory about changing History to save Annie. Both their faces were expressionless, so I made sure mine was as well.

At the end, I said, ‘I agree that individually, it’s not that strong, but if it’s all put together sir, I hope you’ll agree it is at least worth investigating.’

‘I do agree. However, while you were concentrating on this particular problem, Chief Farrell has been studying the records from Number Four. Chief, I believe you have something to add.’

‘I think so, sir. By downloading and analysing the jump history of Number Four, I’ve managed to trace most of its movements since it was stolen from us. He did indeed make a jump to Edinburgh, 1567.’

‘Well,’ I said to him, ‘surely that’s good. We know where to find him. We yank him out before he can do any further damage and neutralise him. With extreme prejudice.’

He said slowly, ‘No, it’s not good at all. Mr Ronan was still a comparatively young man when he escaped from St Mary’s. He appears to have arrived in Scotland only a few months after Annie Bessant’s death, obviously still hell-bent on changing History and not caring for the consequences.’

I turned to Dr Bairstow. ‘I don’t understand this, sir. Why didn’t History intervene? Why didn’t History kill him there and then and spare us all of this?’

They looked at each other and then Dr Bairstow said, ‘You have answered your own question, Dr Maxwell. We must not be “spared all of this.” If he is killed as a young man then he will not be alive to interfere with us in the Cretaceous or Alexandria or anywhere else. Our past will change. St Mary’s might not exist and again – paradox. We are on the horns of a dilemma. Either inadvertently or not, Mr Ronan has rendered himself untouchable. Neither we nor History can do anything. We must investigate and rectify this anomaly, yet we cannot kill or interfere in any way with the cause of it – our Mr Ronan.’

‘So what can we do?’

‘Last year, we undertook to police the timeline and make ourselves responsible for any and all irregularities. Therefore we investigate. We identify the problem, and attempt to repair the timeline before it gets any worse. As they say – a stitch in time …

‘Dr Maxwell, start putting things together, please. I want a …’

‘Actually, sir,’ I said, bringing up another data stack, ‘Dr Peterson and I already have.’

He read through it once.

Then he read it through again. Chief Farrell was still working his way down the stack, eyebrows climbing as he did so. I had to say I agreed with him. But there was no alternative – Peterson and I had run through all the files several times and in the end the choice had been between Farrell, Peterson himself, and Major Guthrie – an unlikely third. Farrell had the edge.

He was looking bemused.

‘Why me?’ said he said. ‘Why not …?’ he paused, rummaging for someone else, anyone else – and coming up with no one. ‘Why me?’

‘It’s your own fault,’ I told him, with a certain malice. ‘You speak perfect French. She’s going to love you.’

Afterwards, I found David in my office having another coughing fit.

I passed him some water. He looked flushed and hot.

‘Everything all right?’

It took him some time to get his breath back and I could hear his chest straining.

‘Surely … I should be asking you that. You’re the one just back from the …very dodgy mission you … won’t tell anyone … about.’

‘Stop changing the subject,’ I said, recognising the signs. ‘Are you taking anything for that?’

‘Not … at the moment.’

‘Well, go along to Dr Foster and get yourself sorted out. I don’t want an office full of phlegm.’

‘Nice … to see you too. How did it go?’

‘Mission accomplished,’ I said, not really wanting to talk about it.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, obviously recognising the signs too. ‘You’ll be delighted … but not surprised to hear that your … staggeringly brilliant assistant is completely on top of things here, and absolutely nothing is outstanding. You may as well go back … to bed.’

‘When you next see this staggeringly brilliant young assistant please thank her for me and ask her if she’d like your job full-time?’

‘Very funny. Speaking of which, knock-knock …’

‘Shut up.’

Muttering and coughing, he brought over a pile of post.

‘Nothing here is urgent. I’ve drafted replies to everything… Just say the word and I’ll send it all off. Tea?’

‘Mm … yes, please,’ I said, thinking, in my innocence, we were about to do some work.

‘So how are you?’ he said.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, not really listening.

‘You look like crap.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said again, in my ‘change the subject’ voice.

He did. I wished he hadn’t.

‘So … how’s Chief Farrell?’

‘Fine.’

The silence made me look up.

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I know.’

More silence.

‘Have you looked at him recently?’

‘David, I’ve just spent the entire morning with him. Of course I’ve looked at him.’

‘No … really looked at him.’

‘You can’t go around peering closely at senior officers. It’s probably a chargeable offence.’

‘I’ll do you a deal.’

‘If it involves no more knock-knock jokes then I’ll take it.’

‘I’ll … go to Dr Foster if you’ll talk to Chief Farrell. You don’t have to have a mad reconciliation on the … spot. Just sit down and talk a little. You’ll feel better, trust me …’

I sighed, channelling hard-done-by Chief Operations Officer as hard as I could.

He started to cough again. Deliberately, I was sure.

‘OK, I will. I don’t know when, but I will. Do you want me to sign something to that effect? Now, get yourself to Sick Bay before I pick up the phone and make Sick Bay come to you. And that’s never pleasant.’

He backed out of the door, scraping the paint as he went. There was barely any left now and the whole jamb became even more gouged and gashed every time he passed through. It looked terrible. It still does. I’ve never let them paint over it. He disappeared and his coughing Dopplered down the corridor. There was a distant cry as he collided with someone.

I ran through the post – everything he’d done was spot-on – so I dropped it all back on his desk for onward dispatch. I made my own tea – again – and started on the Mary Stuart assignment.

I was soon engrossed. Hours passed and I never noticed. I never noticed that David didn’t come back.

Then the phone rang.

It was Helen and she wasted no time.

‘Max, get yourself down to Sick Bay. Now.’

I don’t think I even bothered replacing the receiver. I was out of the office and sprinting around the gallery at a speed I hadn’t achieved since I was a trainee. I went down the stairs three at a time. Astonished historians stood frozen as I raced past them. I crashed through the doors into the long corridor, shouting, ‘Get out of the way’, to anyone who didn’t move quickly enough. Someone had the sense to open the doors at the other end. I lifted my chin and sprinted. They’d sent the lift down, thank God. I don’t think I could have made the stairs. All the time I was thinking,
Who? Who is it this time?

I stepped sideways through the lift doors when they were barely inches apart and ran to the nurses’ station. There was no one there.

I called, ‘Helen? Doctor Foster?’ and she appeared round the corner.

‘This way, Max.’ She strode off. To my surprise, we bypassed the wards and headed for the isolation room at the end. I’d been in there once when I’d come back from Nabataean Petra with what turned out to be nothing more than a cold. It was a small room, rather more nicely furnished than the wards since inmates tended to stay longer.

Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge stood quietly outside. His head was bowed and the distress on her face stopped me in my tracks.

I said to Helen, ‘Who? Who is it? What’s happened?’

‘It’s David. Take a deep breath, Max. You must be calm. He doesn’t have very long.’

No. This could not be happening. We’d just been talking. How could this be happening?

I stood in the doorway, took several breaths and lowered my shoulders. When I had achieved a level of calm, I stepped into the room. They’d made it warm and quiet. The lights were on low. He lay on his back, hands across his stomach, chest rising and falling with every painful breath. I looked in vain for machines, drips, oxygen even. There was nothing. He might as well have been in his own bedroom.

I stepped back out again and said in a fierce undertone, ‘Where’s the oxygen? Where’s the equipment? Why aren’t you treating him?’

She sighed and looked sadder than I could ever remember.

‘He’s refused treatment, Max. No,’ she said as I tried to speak, ‘it’s not a spur of the moment thing, he signed the papers months ago.’

‘Helen …’

‘Max, not everyone takes it all the way to the wire like you do. Now go and see him. Time is precious.’

I couldn’t believe it. I thought he was happy. I thought he enjoyed his job. That he’d come to terms with his life. How could I have missed this?

I dashed an angry sleeve across my eyes, sniffed and walked quietly into the room. Helen followed me in.

‘It’s difficult for him to speak.’

I nodded, sat carefully on the bed and leaned forward so he could see me.

‘Hey.’

He tried to smile. He looked ghastly: his face was grey, his lips bloodless and he had dark shadows under his eyes. His breath rasped in and out, as he struggled to breathe. I’d always known he was vulnerable to infections; this looked like pneumonia. How could it be so quick? For how long had he been ill and I hadn’t noticed?

I gently took his hands and leaned into his face.

‘David.’ His eyelids flickered. ‘You have to come back to the office right now. I can’t find the Pericles file.’ He caught his breath, which I guessed was a kind of laugh.