A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (15 page)

Without any change in his voice, he sent for Dr Foster. She appeared immediately. I guessed she had been waiting outside. Without a word, she crossed to the bed and took my pulse. It must have been racing, but she said nothing.

‘It’s not my style to beat up my suspects, Doctor. My methods are more subtle. I require you to carry out a medical procedure.’

He held up a syringe.

Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit!

He turned to me. ‘Your time is running out.’

Dr Foster shook her head. ‘That won’t work. She has so many drugs in her system, she doesn’t even know who she is, let alone where and when, and what’s been happening.’

Didn’t I?

‘We can always use the cuff.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. What cuff?

‘Again – she won’t know what she’s saying. And we still don’t know if she can talk.’

‘Has she spoken at all?’

‘No, not one word. We’re not even sure she understands English.’

‘Oh, she understands every word.’

‘Well, her body chemistry is skewed. The cuff probably won’t work. She still has periods of delirium.’

This was news to me. I lay back and tried to look delirious. It was surprisingly easy.

‘How long before she can be interrogated more thoroughly?’

‘Seven days.’

‘You have three.’

He swept from the room. You had to hand it to him, he really did like dramatic entrances and exits.

Two days later, I was told to get up. They brought me a set of greys to wear. Most St Mary’s personnel wear jump suits. The History department wears blue, IT wears black, the Security section is in green, and the Technical section wears convict orange. The Admin people wear whatever they like and the nutters in R & D wear white coats, armour, fireproof suits, lifejackets, or any combination thereof, depending on their current project. Dr Dowson, our librarian and archivist, and who has the misfortune to work directly underneath R & D, usually wears a jacket with leather patches, and either a sou’wester, a hard hat, or a gas mask according to what’s coming through his ceiling at the time.

Only trainees, the lowest of the low, wear grey.

I was a little reluctant to leave the comparative safety of Sick Bay and the faint protection of Dr Foster, but I couldn’t stay for ever. I had to face this new world sometime. Besides, I might hear something useful.

Trailing my appendage, or Officer Ellis, as he would probably prefer to be known, I left the ward.

I did remember to turn the wrong way to get to the stairs, hoping my hesitation would get back to Colonel Albay. I had to unremember everything I knew of St Mary’s – its layout and its people. I had no shared experiences with anyone here. No common memories of triumphs or disasters. I had to see everything with new eyes – the eyes of a stranger.

St Mary’s is shabby and battered. As are the inhabitants, although at the moment, none was more shabby and battered than me. There’s very little paint below shoulder level. The lovely oak panelling is gouged and scraped. People have carved their names all over it. The parquet floors are scuffed and loose. Not many windows have both curtains of the same colour. The whole place smells of floor polish, disinfectant, and damp stone, with occasional top-notes of whatever R & D are brewing up that day.

Ellis nudged me and I set off.

I was halfway down the stairs when it suddenly dawned on me. There was one person in this building who knew perfectly well I could speak. I stopped dead and Ellis walked straight past me, realised he’d lost me and turned back. I was two stairs above him, which made us eye to eye.

‘Took you long enough,’ he said, gruffly, and motioned me to continue.

I didn’t allow myself to consider him an ally. He was simply repaying a debt and now it was paid. I couldn’t count on any more favours.

At the bottom of the stairs, I went to turn right to Hawking Hangar, where we keep the pods. I knew he wouldn’t let me, but it did no harm to try. He pointed me left instead, and we set off down the long corridor that joined Hawking to the main building.

The sun was shining through the windows, laying long patches of bright sunshine on the floor. As always, I had the sensation of passing from one world to another. From light to dark. From warm to cool. From then to now.

I stopped at the end of the corridor. The Great Hall lay ahead, with the kitchen and dining room off to the left. The Hall would be full of historians, preparing for their next assignments, writing up their reports, shouting, squabbling, and generally getting through their working day. I felt suddenly … afraid. This had been my world. I had been head of this department. I had been their Chief Operations Officer. And now? What was I now? Prisoner? Outcast? Suspect? Freak?

Why was I here?

Because I had a job to do and I still didn’t know what it was.

No. Why was I
here now
?

Because the colonel wanted to see what I would do. How I would behave. How people would behave towards me. Which just went to show that he was a bloody sight cleverer than I was, because I screwed everything up in the first ten minutes.

I didn’t recognise him at first, which wasn’t my fault because I’d never actually seen him standing up. I hadn’t realised how tall he had been. I’d only ever known him hunched in his wheelchair, with his bony shoulders and elbows. But his eyes were unchanged. The same bright eyes.

Even as I stared at him, I heard him say, ‘Hey, Prentiss. Knock-knock.’

It was David Sands.

He’d been involved in a car crash that left him paralysed. He’d become my assistant and died shortly afterwards. He died in my arms, fighting for breath and still trying to tell me some stupid knock-knock joke. And here he was, right in front of me. Uninjured, glowing with health and enjoying his life.

He was wearing civilian clothes and dangling a set of car keys. He was about to drive into Rushford. I heard him say, ‘No, I can’t stop. I’m late already.’

He was in a hurry. He was going to Rushford. Was this the day he had his accident? Was this why I was here? Mrs Partridge had been very fond of David Sands. She was distressed when he died. Had she brought me here to prevent his accident?

I looked around for her, but she wasn’t there. I stared at the stone floor, the battered panelling around the walls, and the old oak staircase at one end. The stair carpet was dark red instead of green, but all of it was identical to the Hall I had known. The only exception was that here, at some point, they’d overcome the problem of bad lighting by installing a large glass lantern in the roof. I could see the sky, which was nice, but didn’t solve my immediate problem.

What should I do about David Sands?

The answer to that was – nothing. If I spoke now then I ruined everything and placed God knows how many people in jeopardy. I should let him go. This might not be the day that changed his life for ever. It probably wasn’t the day that changed his life for ever, but could I take that chance? If it was and I said nothing – in a year’s time, he would be dead and I might have been able to prevent it. This wasn’t changing History. It hadn’t happened yet. And I might be able to prevent it ever happening at all.

I looked around again for Mrs Partridge.

Nothing. She wasn’t here. I felt very alone. Even the familiar frosty stare would have been welcome.

I took a step forwards and Ellis pulled me back.

‘Where are you going?’

Sands was threading his way through groups of historians, heading towards the doors. I had only seconds. What should I do? Could I live with myself if I did nothing? If today was the day …?

I’m an historian. Well, I used to be. I’m trained to make decisions. It’s easy. In a crisis – deal with the now. Sort out the future later.

I struggled feebly with Ellis, but he had hold of my arm and wasn’t going to let go. David Sands was almost at the door. I couldn’t possibly get to him in time. In a few seconds, he would be gone. If I was going to do anything, it had to be now.

Was I going to do anything? Was I going to take the risk?

Of course I was.

I took a deep breath.

‘David Sands. Don’t go into Rushford this afternoon.’

The words rang around the Hall far more loudly than I intended and everyone stopped talking.

Heads turned in the sudden silence.

Sands took two or three paces back into the Hall, his face puzzled.

‘What? Who said that?’

It was too late for me. I’d burned my boats, but I might as well do the job properly.

I pulled free of Ellis and said more quietly, ‘Don’t go into Rushford today.’

‘But I must. Why not?’

I said nothing.

‘Why not?’

I still said nothing.

I saw the challenge in his eyes.

‘Who are you?’

‘The person telling you not to drive into Rushford today.’

Now, everyone was staring at me. Heads appeared round doors. I saw shock, surprise, disbelief, anger, but no welcome.

No one moved for what seemed like a very long time. He looked back towards the front doors. Undecided.

I said nothing.

He said again, ‘Who are you?’

I said nothing.

He turned and walked back towards the vestibule doors. I felt a kind of sick despair. I’d buggered it all up for nothing.

He reached the doors, went to push them open, paused, and looked back.

I held his gaze.

Nothing happened, apart from my heart trying to break out of my chest and then, slowly, he put his keys back in his pocket. The huge surge of relief made my legs go weak.

He stared at me. Everyone was staring at me.

Something made me look up.

Colonel Albay was looking down from the gallery. Smiling.

The dining room was full. St Mary’s always sounds like feeding time at the zoo. Some of the animals might have better manners and smaller appetites, but otherwise, there’s not a great difference.

I stood in the doorway and the noise died away. It’s a shame there was no piano to stop playing. Everyone was looking at me. For lack of anything better to do, I stared back.

I saw Dieter with Polly Perkins from IT, sitting together, both of them peering at a printout while they ate. Not a flicker of emotion crossed their faces. My stomach clenched. Schiller and Van Owen sat with Roberts and Clerk. Over in the corner, the Security section had pushed three tables together. People twisted in their chairs to look at me. There were faces I didn’t recognise, but the familiar ones were all there. Except for Peterson and Guthrie who were still, presumably, under arrest along with Dr Bairstow.

I very nearly bolted. Just for a second, I nearly turned and ran away. Then Ellis nudged me towards the food.

I struggled, one-handed with my tray. Toad in the Hole – must be Wednesday. I helped myself to a good portion. Mrs Mack, kitchen supremo, watched me in silence and then took my plate from me and began to load up a pile of vegetables. I watched in horror. No good ever comes of eating green food.

‘Doctor’s orders,’ she said, handing me back my plate.

I sat with Ellis at a quiet table by the window and watched them all ignore me. No one came over to enquire how I was. Or even ask who I was. I faced a wall of blank hostility. I blinked back tears and concentrated on my food. This was really not my world.

Who was I kidding? This was exactly my world – because even as I ate my way carefully around the vegetables, someone shouted a warning outside, and I heard the sound of furiously galloping hooves.

Mr Markham on horseback was a strange enough sight. He didn’t enjoy a happy relationship with the animal world.

Mr Markham on board Turk was an even stranger sight. He steered clear of horses, especially since, whenever he was near, they tended to form an outward-facing huddle and bare enormous yellow teeth at him. Whether they’d had some sort of temporary reconciliation, I had no idea. Maybe that had only happened in my world.

I reminded myself again that this was my world now.

Anyway, the two of them were galloping headlong across Mr Strong’s cherished South Lawn. Old Turk was going full tilt, bony head outstretched, snorting like a dragon, and obviously not intending to stop any time soon. His huge hooves threw great clods of turf up into the air. A distraught Mr Strong ran behind, calling down blood-curdling curses upon the pair of them, and waving his arms.

The thing that lifted this one from the realms of the comparatively normal (for St Mary’s, that is), was that Markham, not, in the scheme of things a natural horseman anyway, was facing backwards – a position that gave him absolutely no control over Turk whatsoever. He lay face down across his rump, grimly clutching his (Turk’s, I mean) tail with both hands and calling piteously for assistance. Being St Mary’s, no one moved, although as a tribute, one or two people did stop eating.

Turk, who liked having his tail pulled as little as any horse, increased his speed. Markham increased his wailing. Behind them, Mr Strong fell grimly silent. He was obviously in it for the long haul.

The trio Dopplered across the lawn and were last seen heading west where, presumably, they would all eventually fall into the sea. Or hit Ireland.

The Security section began to lay bets on whether any of them would ever be seen again.

Officer Ellis sat frozen, his mug of tea halfway between table and face.

‘What …?’

‘Parthians,’ I said, helpfully.

He refused to defrost so I tried again.

‘The Parthians. Great horsemen. Best known for their tactical retreats. They would apparently flee the battlefield and then, when the enemy chased after them, without slowing down at all, they’d turn themselves around on their horses, face backwards, and unleash a hail of arrows upon their luckless pursuers. Hence the expression, “Parthian shot”. Of course, for it to be effective, the riders had to have a level of skill possibly not possessed by our Mr Markham. And the cooperation of their horses as well, of course. Something definitely not possessed by our Mr Markham.’

He said, seemingly casual, ‘How did you know his name was Markham?’

‘Nurse Hunter’s boyfriend.’

‘Really? That pretty blonde girl?’