The Very First Damned Thing (8 page)

He cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, it would.'

‘We didn't have any contact details, sir, and the lady wasn't always coherent. I'm sorry, but we couldn't find you.'

The silence lengthened.

‘I'm afraid, sir, I took rather a liberty. She was becoming agitated and when it became apparent that she wasn't – that she didn't have very long, when she kept asking, I told her you were just downstairs, signing in. She smiled, and said, “I knew he would come.” And then really, sir, she just – fell asleep.'

‘I see. That was a kind thought. Thank you, nurse.'

‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?'

‘Thank you. No.'

Very carefully, concentrating on his hands, he replaced the receiver and sat motionless for some time.

Long shadows moved silently across the carpet.

Rising stiffly to his feet, he unzipped the garment bag. The sea-green silk shimmered gently in the half-light. Reaching out, he touched the material with only the very tips of his fingers. Just for an instant.

Hearing a movement in the outer office, he called, ‘Yes?'

Randall stuck his head around the door. ‘Just picking up the post, sir. Was there anything?'

With a sudden decisive movement, Dr Bairstow zipped up the garment bag.

‘Would you be good enough to return this costume to Mrs Enderby with my thanks. Unfortunately, it is no longer required.'

‘Of course sir.'

He disappeared and his footsteps could be heard clattering off down the corridor.

Dr Bairstow returned to his desk, closed the mission file, and marked it for incineration.

Mrs Green would not be going to the ball.

The night was very dark and still, even inside St Mary's. Just for once, the building was silent. Dr Bairstow sat at his desk, staring at the bottle and glass in front of him. He had not moved for some considerable time.

Everyone has a private face. The one worn when the struggle becomes too much. When the possibility of success seems a very long away. The private face that no one ever sees.

He stirred and reached for the bottle again and as he did so, someone tapped at the door.

The private face fled. He squared his shoulders. ‘Come in.'

The door opened to reveal a tall, elegant woman of indeterminate age. She wore her dark hair in a neat French pleat. Her black suit was impeccably tailored. Standing quietly in the doorway, she waited.

They looked at each other for a very long time until Dr Bairstow sat back in his chair, smiled a little, and said, ‘Good evening. If you have come in answer to the advertisement for a PA, I haven't placed it yet.'

‘No. I have come in answer to a need.'

She pulled the visitor's chair around to the other side of the desk. ‘I think I shall always feel more comfortable on this side.'

‘You may not get the opportunity.' He topped up his glass again.

She clasped her hands. ‘Something has occurred?'

‘Actually, no. Nothing has occurred. I left it too late and now it's – too late. Now … nothing will ever occur.'

She said nothing.

He gestured. ‘I had not realised until today how much of myself I've put into St Mary's. How much it demands of me. And will always demand of me. And it's still not completed. Nor anywhere near.'

‘I do not think that completion is the issue here.'

‘Are you here as my PA?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘Why not?' He looked around at the disordered room, the mounds of files, cubes and data sticks. ‘At least one of us should do something useful.'

She dismissed the tottering piles of paperwork with a wave of her hand. ‘You are lonely.'

He smiled bitterly into his glass. ‘Even the very loneliest person does not like to have this pointed out.'

She ignored him. ‘You have no one. You are out of your own time. You are alone. Your task is Herculean. It would be very natural for you sometimes to feel overwhelmed and Leon Farrell, the one person who might have some understanding of your loss today, is not yet here. You are completely and utterly alone.'

‘I do hope your purpose here tonight is not to provide support and encouragement because …' He made an effort. ‘Why are you here?'

‘To provide support and encouragement.'

‘Can I refer you to my previous statement?'

She said nothing.

He played with his glass. ‘I think they may have chosen the wrong person.'

‘You volunteered for this task and they chose exactly the right person.'

He stared out of the window into the dark. ‘She reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago in the future and then today I learned her name. Her real name.'

‘Yes, they were related.'

‘I sometimes wonder if I am not cursed.'

She did not reply.

‘Is it so beyond the bounds of possibility that one day I would find someone and she would not die?'

‘You will not always be alone.'

He drained his glass. ‘Why haven't you come in answer to the advert?'

‘Well, you haven't placed it yet.'

‘I can't imagine that that would ever stop you.'

She smiled. ‘You will have a number of assistants before me.'

‘Why?'

‘All the better for you to appreciate my talents when I do arrive.'

He sighed, turning the empty glass around on his desk.

She leaned forwards and switched on his desk light. Shadows fled. Standing up, she turned to the window and drew the curtains, shutting out the dark.

Her voice cut the air like a sword. ‘You will surround yourself with bright and brilliant people. The building will echo to the sound of ideas, discussions, and the occasional small explosion. There will be triumph and disaster in equal measure. There will be outstanding bravery and heart-stopping betrayal. There will be love and loss. There will be devotion to duty and to each other. There will be treachery and defeat. There will be tragedy and death. You will lead and inspire and protect. And once they walk through these doors, no one in this unit will ever be alone again.'

She moved towards the door.

‘Will you always be here?'

Her voice came from a great distance. ‘No, I will not. But I will always be here when St Mary's needs me.'

The door closed and Dr Bairstow was alone again.

He sat for a while, lost in thought, and then pulled his chair forwards, placed the bottle and glass in his bottom drawer, opened a file at random, and began to work.

Cornered outside R&D and not having the speed for a quick getaway, Dr Bairstow smiled benignly on the two representatives of the Forces of Darkness, or the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings, as they probably preferred to be known.

‘I have agreed the amendments to the new staff block. I have agreed that the hangar should be situated behind the main building so that the original façade may remain unspoiled. Please present me with today's list of unreasonable demands, all of which will, apparently, have been designed to prevent my project ever coming to fruition.'

An earnest young man whose cardigan had obviously been knitted by a loving mother, pushed his spectacles further up his nose and said nervously, ‘Well, to be honest Dr Bairstow, there is one area that causes Miss Spindle and me particular concern.'

Miss Spindle, clutching an armful of folders, gazed adoringly up at him.

‘Only one?' Dr Bairstow said.

The young man shifted his weight and mentally girded his loins. ‘Our understanding is that this will eventually be an educational establishment.'

‘An eventuality that seems to recede further and further into the distant future with every passing day.'

‘Sir?'

‘A research facility, yes. Under the auspices of the University of Thirsk.'

‘Well, I have to ask, sir …'

‘Yes?'

‘Blast doors?'

‘Purely a precautionary measure. Nothing to alarm you in any way.'

‘A precautionary measure against what?'

‘Anything that could go wrong.'

‘What could possibly go so wrong you need a set of blast doors? Are you splitting the atom?'

‘Good heavens, no. Well, not on purpose, certainly.'

Dr Bairstow paused for a reaction from the representatives of an organisation famed for its lack of humour. After a while, it became apparent their reputation would remain intact.

‘Actually, they are there to protect the old building. We will have a fully functioning R&D department and their function is – well, you could say, practical history. I don't know if you're aware of Greek Fire? Or the ballistic properties of a trebuchet? The blast doors are here solely to protect this fine old building from anything untoward that may occur as the academic mind marches unstoppably forwards in its quest for knowledge.'

He paused, leaned on his stick, and smiled benevolently at them again.

They stepped back.

‘But according to the plans, R&D will be lodged in the main building.'

‘That is correct.'

‘So – they will also occupy this space as well?'

‘R&D personnel will certainly be present on many occasions.'

‘But the structure is massive. It's practically an aircraft hangar. What on earth could possibly require this amount of space?'

‘My dear sir, have you ever tried to reconstruct the Battle of Hastings? You cannot possibly expect me to fit the entire Saxon fyrd into an area the size of a small bedroom.'

‘You will be fighting battles inside the building?'

‘Only if it's wet outside.'

They stared at each other, adrift in a fog of mutual incomprehension. In the future, Dr Bairstow was frequently heard to remark that any lighthearted frivolity he might possibly once have possessed had been leeched from his soul by prolonged contact with the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings and any complaints should be addressed to them. In triplicate. With full supporting documentation, together with the appropriate plans, diagrams, and projections all countersigned, dated, and stamped with official approval.

He tried again. ‘Not if we cannot reach some sort of compromise today, no. As I understand your function, it is to provide advice and information relevant to renovating a listed building. It is not to question the function to which that building should be put.'

‘Well, actually …' began the young man, who was pretty sure it was.

‘The appropriate permissions have been acquired and the plans approved. There really is no more to discuss.'

‘But …'

‘I thought I had made it perfectly clear. This project must be completed by the date specified. A great deal hangs on this. I am sure you must be as committed to …'

He pushed open a door as he spoke and stopped dead on the threshold.

Contrary to the rest of R&D, which was almost permanently buried in miscellaneous clutter, this room was empty. Or rather, almost empty. At this moment and in this company, Dr Bairstow would have given a great deal of the money he did not possess for this room to be empty. Unfortunately, it was not.

Messrs Markham, Ritter, Weller, and Evans, naked apart from inexpertly tied tea towels disguised as loincloths, stood motionless in each corner, apparently smothered from head to toe in a mixture of honey and slightly sour milk.

The gently bred Miss Spindle, who had for years been strangely susceptible to men who wore astonishing knitwear, now began to perceive her horizons had been unnecessarily narrow and moved forward for a clearer view.

Professor Rapson himself cut a magnificent figure, reclining on a gilded chaise-longue in the middle of the room. He wore a long black wig and a golden tunic and was, as far as Dr Bairstow dared ascertain, honey free.

Dr Dowson, wearing a beekeeper's mask, which was, mercifully, muffling his complaints, was busy decanting what looked like several thousand bluebottles into the room. ‘Are you ready?'

With a gesture similar to Ramses unleashing his forces at the Battle of Kadesh, Professor Rapson indicated that he was indeed ready. An anticipatory buzzing filled the room. Most of it from the flies.

Released from captivity, they zipped around for a few moments, presumably getting their bearings, and then, apart from one or two specimens who had fallen to the floor in excitement and were now on their backs waving their legs in the air, every bluebottle in the room settled on Professor Rapson.

Dr Bairstow gently closed the door and ushered his bemused guests down the corridor.

‘What on earth …?'

‘Human flypaper,' said Dr Bairstow in tones which gave them to understand they now had all the information they needed to know exactly what was going on.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Human flypaper. One of the pharaohs – I'm sorry I can't offhand recall which one – in an effort to keep the flies off his sacred self, covered his slaves in a mixture of honey and milk and stationed them around his palace.'

‘But it didn't work. Did it? I mean … that poor man … he was covered …'

‘I expect it was his aftershave,' said Dr Bairstow, taking full advantage of their momentary confusion. ‘If you could just sign here, please … and here … and here. Thank you so much.'

Much of the structural work was completed and St Mary's was, allegedly, weatherproof. Miscellaneous articles of furniture continued to mushroom. Literally, in some cases. Mismatched curtains adorned dusty windows. The acquisition of enough chairs for everyone to be able to sit simultaneously was celebrated by the first St Mary's All Comers Yodelling Contest, in which a blushing Mrs Enderby was persuaded to present the prizes, although, as Major Guthrie commented afterwards to Dr Bairstow, the standard had not been high.

The young man from SPOHB, sporting his most exciting knitwear, asked Miss Spindle for her hand in marriage and was politely but firmly rejected. It was subsequently discovered that she had cut her hair, acquired contact lenses, left SPOHB, and taken up a position with a male modelling agency.