No Time Like the Past (17 page)

That evening, Hunter turned up with double-strength Horlicks and a selection of films.

‘
Eat, Pray, Love
?’

‘Dear God, no.’

‘
The Haunting of Hill House
? Original version.’

‘Maybe …’

‘
Tremors
?’

That’s the one.’

Barely had the first giant slug eaten his first victim, however, when I had a visitor. Van Owen. My heart sank. This couldn’t possibly be good.

Hunter switched off the TV, glanced at both of us, and quietly disappeared.

We looked at each other. She looked dreadful. I was supposed to be the invalid and she looked far worse than I did. She’d cut off her long hair and looked, at the same time, both younger and older. Her pansy-purple eyes had matching shadows underneath. She was seeing things she would rather forget. Gentle, pretty Van Owen. Who would have thought?

Why had she done it? I wouldn’t have thought her capable of such savagery. If she’d just shot Barclay once or twice then she’d have got away with saving my life as her defence, but sending all those bullets into a body – to keep firing long after life had departed – it hadn’t been a pretty sight.

I checked no one could possibly overhear and then said, urgently, ‘Where’s the gun?’

‘Middle of the lake.’

‘You’re sure it’s safe?’

‘Yes. It’s in pieces. No one will ever find it.’

I let my head fall back on the pillows. ‘I have to thank you, Greta.’

‘No need. I’m just sorry I didn’t get there sooner.’

‘How did you know she was here?’

‘I didn’t. I thought I saw her in the crowd. I didn’t believe it at first, because … well because I was convinced I was imagining it. That I was seeing what I wanted to see. Then I saw her again and it was definitely her. Then I had to acquire a weapon.’

I didn’t ask from where she’d got it. Ignorance is bliss. For the first time, I noticed her clothes. Jeans and boots. A long parka. Backpack by the door.

‘Are you going away?’

‘I’m leaving St Mary’s.’

‘Greta, no, there’s no need.’ I said with careful emphasis, ‘I don’t remember a thing that happened.’

She shook her head. ‘Sadly, I can remember everything. I can’t stay. Too many memories.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry to leave you with no senior historians.’

‘If you don’t go then I won’t be without any senior historians.’

She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘My time here was … golden. Whatever happens to me next, nothing in my life will ever be this good again. To have been here – to have found love – to have fitted in … I’ll always look back on these years … I’ll miss it dreadfully. And all the people. But I can’t stay. New start. New life. You understand?’

I nodded. I did understand.

‘I’m sorry, Greta. It’s my fault. I believed every word she said. And then, just for a moment at the end, when she smiled at me I really thought that perhaps …’

‘Don’t waste your thoughts on her, Max. She was pure evil. What she did to Schiller was inhuman. She deserved to die and when I saw her standing over you … Thank God she never was a very good shot.’

I saw the scene again. Barclay’s body, jerking and jumping as bullet after bullet thudded into her. Even after she was dead, they still kept coming, showering me with warm blood …

I sighed. She was dead and still causing grief. I changed the subject. ‘What does Dr Bairstow say about you leaving?’

Her chin wobbled. ‘Oh, Max. He was so very kind. He said just the right things. I’m afraid I cried all over him. He’s sending me to Thirsk for three months as a research assistant while I look around and decide what to do next. He told me I could come back anytime. That there will always be a place for me.’

‘And will you?’

‘I don’t know. I might. I just don’t know.’

‘Do you need anything?’

‘No. He’s given me six months’ pay. I nearly fell over. And then he thanked me for my service.’

‘As do I.’ I held out my hand. ‘I owe you, Greta. I won’t forget.’

‘Goodbye, Max. I know you’ll struggle with the concept, but take care of yourself. And thanks for everything.’

I swallowed hard. ‘An honour and a privilege.’

She heaved her pack onto her shoulder and walked out of the door.

I appreciated that Hunter left me alone for an hour.

Two weeks later, I thought I was ready to go back to work and found that actually, I wasn’t.

I stood in the gallery for a long time, looking down on the historians working below in the Hall. Prentiss and Roberts stood at a whiteboard, prioritising bullet points. Clerk and Sands were building a data stack. They all had their heads down. I’d never known the place to be so quiet.

No Schiller. No Van Owen.

I should move. I really should go down there and face them.

‘Are you going to stand here all day?’ said a voice behind me, shaving several decades off my life expectancy.

When I was certain I could present a reasonably normal exterior, I turned to confront Miss Lee, on her way around the gallery with an armful of files and just for one brief moment, looking like a real admin assistant.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Lee. I didn’t recognise you. You’re working and it confused me.’

‘Everything confuses you. And yes, one of us is working while the other is just standing around staring into space. Let’s see if we can work out which one is which, shall we?’ She looked down at her armful of files. ‘Oh yes, now I’ve got it.’

I really didn’t need this.

She scowled. ‘So – are you going to stand there all day?’

‘I might,’ I said, quietly and for a moment, I actually contemplated doing just that. Spending the rest of my life here, between two worlds – no stress, no decisions to make, no friends to grieve for.

She shifted her position and I braced myself for whatever was coming next.

‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘I’m fed up with doing all the work around here. I don’t think you realise how difficult it is to do two people’s work.’

‘How would you know? You struggle to do any work at all.’

 ‘Here are last month’s time-sheets for you to sign. Professor Rapson has requisitioned twenty-five dead rabbits and three cowhides and I’m not getting involved in any of that. Chief Farrell is requesting your comments on next month’s pod schedule. Major Guthrie wants a word about your entire department’s failure to submit their form 23Bs. Mrs Enderby says …’

‘Go away,’ I said.

She heaved the sigh of the oppressed and shifted her weight to her other hip.

‘Listen. If I can face them on a daily basis then you can do the same.’

‘What?’ What did that mean?

‘If you want my advice …’

Oh God, I was taking crisis management tips from Rosie Lee. For a moment, I wondered if I was still back in Sick Bay, sitting on my pink, fluffy cloud of confusion.

‘What’s that, then?’

She grinned and suddenly was a different person altogether.

‘Whatever it is, you need to face it down. You give it a good kicking, because that’s what you have to do. Then you walk away. And then you turn around, walk back and give it an even bigger one, just because you can.’

She heaved her files into my arms and I sagged under the weight.

‘I’m an invalid, you know.’

She snorted rudely. ‘I’m going now. Unlike you, I’m quite busy this morning.’

‘Are you sure you can remember where my office is. Should I get someone to show you the way?’

I was wasting my breath.

‘Dr Bairstow wants to see you. I’m going for my lunch now.’

Then she was gone.

I hadn’t been the only one keeping secrets. Dr Bairstow had bad news for me.

He asked me how I was and I said fine, and then, having exhausted his tiny Caring Manager repertoire, he brought me up to speed.

Things were not going well for St Mary’s. Schiller’s death, our recent spectacular failure at rescuing the treasures of Old St Paul’s, me being shot, Van Owen’s sudden departure – no one was very happy with us at the moment. I was instructed to get us back on track and to be quick about it.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m responsible for all this. The idea was mine – as was all the planning, the allocation of personnel …’

‘ … And the responsibility is mine.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Yes, the mission was your idea. You are the Chief Operations Officer – it was supposed to be, but the final approval for every mission is mine. Always mine. Only mine. And the responsibility for the tragic aftermath of the Old St Paul’s assignment, up to and including your being shot – is also mine.’

He looked out of the window for a moment and then the moment passed.

‘However, the responsibility for raising morale in your department, ensuring that it continues to operate as usual, coming up with something to get us all back on track, and placating our overlords rests solely with you. Why are you still sitting there, Dr Maxwell?’

Not having the strength to face the maelstrom of paperwork on my desk, I took a cup of tea into the library, sat by the empty fireplace in one of the big armchairs, and had a bit of a think.

We should never have gone for Old St Paul’s. I could see that now. If only my normal vision was as good as my hindsight. The risk/reward ratio had been all wrong. Braving the flames for a few unimportant artefacts had been a mistake. My mistake. Now I had to put it right.

We needed something more spectacular. In terms of reward, that was. Something with a big reward and comparatively small risk. Maybe this time, not so much a citywide conflagration – more a small bonfire.

The jolt of inspiration nearly blew me out of my chair.

I went off for another cup of tea and to find some paper.

I made a list, stared at it for a while, and then started to delete. Occasionally, I added another line. Then deleted it again. After thirty minutes, I had just one remaining item.

I drew a square, carefully coloured it in, and started to write. I scribbled thoughts all over the page and then joined them together. A route through our next assignment.

Pulling a selection of books from the shelves, I made notes, thought for a while, and then began to build my data stack. I listed the aims and objectives, the client, the personnel, the pods, the equipment, the methodology.

I was still at it when Leon came looking for me. Apparently, I’d missed a meal and he was concerned I might be dead. He looked at the stack for a while, rotated it slowly, and said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Of course I’m not. It’s perfectly doable.’

‘Yes, but not by you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Where have you been for the last four weeks? Do you not remember being in hospital at all? Because I remember it very vividly and I really don’t think I could do that again.’

‘You won’t have to. She’s dead.’

‘And so is Schiller. And Ronan’s still out there, somewhere.’

‘Leon, I’m not hiding at St Mary’s for the rest of my life.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you should take it easy for the next month or so. By all means plan assignments, but let others take the strain for a bit.’

‘I can’t do that. I don’t have any senior historians left. Clerk is the most experienced historian I have at the moment, but there’s only one of him. Prentiss and Roberts are brilliant but still inexperienced. There’s no way around this. If the Boss presented me with half a dozen fully qualified trainees tomorrow, someone would still have to supervise them. And we have to get moving, Leon. As far as Thirsk is concerned, we’re back to being a bunch of certifiable nutters. All our good work over the years, Alexandria, Troy, Nineveh, the Cretaceous period – it’s not counting for very much at the moment. We have to get back out there and we need something spectacular for them. If we can pull this off …’

‘I understand all that. I’m just saying it shouldn’t be you pulling it off.’

‘It won’t be. I intend that my role will be purely supervisory. I’ll point. Others will do the heavy lifting. That’s what junior staff are for. Come on. I’m hungry.’

He sighed. He wasn’t happy.

That wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t happy about. Back in my room, he caught me balancing on the back of the sofa trying to change the overhead light bulb. I stopped listening after a while.

He wouldn’t let me lift anything heavier than a teaspoon and when he heard I’d started running again, I thought I’d never hear the end of it. This wasn’t like him at all. I tried to be patient. I know it’s not easy, waiting beside a hospital bed for someone to wake up, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.

The final straw was when I reached for him one night and he drew back. I sat up and switched on the light. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No, of course not. I’ve just had a long day and so have you. You need to take things easy. Go to sleep.’

I lay down again and listened to him breathe in the darkness. He wasn’t asleep either.

We had a problem.

I should have realised this might happen. I’d been injured before and he usually coped with it by offering his own brand of bracing hard work and verbal abuse, but this time I’d been badly hurt. He’d spent a few days sitting by my bed, not knowing one way or the other. Despite my assurances to the contrary, I knew I wasn’t yet fully up to spec, but he was being overprotective. A natural enough reaction – but annoying.

Normal people talk through their problems. Alternatively – first choice as far as I as concerned – I could arrange a practical demonstration.

I thought I’d better check first with Helen. Just to be on the safe side.

Did I just say that?

She was sitting on the windowsill of her office, puffing cigarette smoke out of the window. She scowled heavily as I entered, but I ignored her. Since it was Helen and she has the people skills of a root vegetable, I went straight to it.

‘Am I dying?’

‘We are all dying,’ she intoned, blue smoke wreathing around her head. The effect was more than disconcerting. No wonder people will only visit Sick Bay in a pack. ‘The path of men is thorny and filled with pain.’

‘Well, it is if you have anything to do with it. No, listen – is there anything you’re not telling me?’

‘The world is full of things I’m not telling you, Max. Be more specific.’