A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (6 page)

We helped each other up and stumbled back to the pod. To have our first argument.

First things first, however. We jumped. I was surprised we got away with it. We were both so coated in Egyptian mud that the computer might well have decided that we were wearing enough of Egypt to constitute a foreign object and refused to jump. However, it didn’t and we jumped away.

I had no idea where to, but at least it was quiet. Or it was until we got there.

We were tired, overwrought, and hurt, so all in all, a great time for a sensible discussion in which both participants could calmly and quietly state their point of view in an atmosphere of mutual tolerance and respect.

Leon opened the batting.

‘I told you to go back to the pod. Why don’t you ever do as you’re told?’

‘Why should I? You tell me to do such stupid things.’

‘Hanging around to pull me out of a ditch I could perfectly easily have climbed out of is more than stupid.’

‘Oh, really? You could have got yourself out of that?’

‘Obviously.’

It was vitally important that at least one of us should stay calm. We didn’t argue often, but whenever we did, Things Were Said and People Got Hurt. I should have said something conciliatory but I never got the chance.

‘What is the point of me trying to keep you safe if you do stupid things like that?’

‘Says the idiot who fell in a ditch.’

‘I didn’t see it.’

‘It’s twenty feet wide, for God’s sake. Are you blind as well?’

‘As well as what? No, don’t bother answering that.’

Just as well he said that. I had a long list prepared. I closed my mouth. Sadly, he didn’t notice my restraint.

‘Just tell me what on earth you thought you were doing.’

‘I was rescuing you.’

‘And while you’re doing that the Time Police grab you and I lose you all over again.’

‘Well, I’d already lost you. You were seconds from drowning in the mud. Or being eaten by crocodiles. Or found by the Time Police. But none of that happened.
Because we pulled you out
.’

‘Why can’t you understand? You could have handed yourself to them on a plate. They’d have grabbed you, left me for crocodile fodder, and that would have been the end of both of us.’

‘No it wouldn’t. I’m sneaky and resourceful. I always have a cunning plan.’

‘Which in this case, apparently, was to get yourself killed.’

‘No I wouldn’t. They keep using their sound gun thing …’

‘Their sonic pulse weapons …’

‘Yes – so they obviously want us alive. If they’d caught us – which they didn’t – the worst that could have happened was that they would have taken us prisoner. The point I’m making is that we would have been alive and if you’re alive then anything is possible. It’s being dead that limits your options.’

We were shouting now.

He slapped the console in frustration. ‘You don’t know that. I could have lost you. Again. Why can’t you understand?’

I was waving my arms around. ‘Of course I understand. Who better? Why do you think I wouldn’t let go? Why can’t you understand – I won’t lose
you
again.’

To my horror, my voice wobbled. I was going to cry. This was no good – I still had plenty to say. And I was so tired. And my chest hurt. And my arms. And my shoulders. And I’d held on to him long enough for him to be rescued. And he was yelling at me about it. And I was stuck in this new life. In this new world. And I didn’t know where I belonged. And people were chasing me. That was what I was yelling about. Why didn’t he know that? I leaned on the console for support and the tears just ran down my cheeks.

Of course he knew it. I really should have more faith. In fact, it was time we both had a little more faith in each other. I heard him take a deep, ragged breath.

He said quietly, ‘Sweetheart, don’t cry.’

He put his arms around me. A little awkwardly, but with luck, practice would make perfect.

‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I really should look after you better. I’ve had you for less than two days and already you’re half dead.’

I sniffed into his muddy tunic. ‘You can’t take all the credit for that. I was half dead when I got here.’

‘I know this wasn’t what either of us expected, but we’re stuck with it for the time being. I promise you, Lucy, we will get through this. We’ll find somewhere safe.’

I put my arms around him and closed my eyes. To have the time to stand still, just for a second … This wasn’t about who fell in the ditch and who disobeyed whose instructions. This was about two people pitchforked into a new life together before the wounds of the old life had completely healed. Two people who were scared, exhausted, and hurt.

Actually, more hurt than they realised.

‘Max, where’s all this blood coming from?’

‘What blood?’ I stepped back and looked at my hands, sticky with blood. There were smears on the console, too.

He held me at arm’s length. ‘Are you in any pain?’

‘Yes, all over, but it’s not me. I think it’s you.’

He pulled his tunic over his head, twisting to see his back. A huge red and purple bruise blossomed under his shoulder blade. A small cut oozed with enthusiasm.

I said. ‘I’d better take a look at that before it gets infected. Take a shower while I check the First Aid box.’

Actually, it’s not so much a First Aid box, more a First Aid cupboard. Historians can be a little accident-prone, sometimes.

He emerged, drying his hair. I washed my hands and peered at the wound.

‘Can you lie down?’

‘With pleasure. It’s been a long day.’

He stretched himself face down on the floor with a groan.

I cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic spray. He barely flinched.

‘It’s OK. You can be a baby if you want to.’

He turned his head to the side. ‘I’m being a Man. Show some appreciation, will you?’

‘Sorry. I’m very impressed. Just a small dressing for the cut and I have some anti-inflammation stuff that should numb the bruised area, as well. Just hold still.’

I used two fingers to apply the cream in small circles, being as gentle as I could. Taking my time. The bruise was the size of a dinner plate. He must have fetched himself a real wallop when he fell.

‘I never noticed,’ he said. ‘Too busy hanging on.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ he said, being Manly again.

I finished and passed him his T-shirt, but he didn’t move.

‘Shall I help you up?’

‘Can you give me a minute?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Was that supposed to reduce stiffness?’

I read the label again.

‘Yes. Is there a problem?’

‘I might need to write a letter of complaint.’

‘Why? Does it still hurt?’

A pause.

‘Yes. Let’s go with that, shall we?’

Chapter Five

An hour later, we’d indulged in the traditional St Mary’s ritual for dealing with any sort of crisis, which is to imbibe vast reservoirs of tea. People laugh, but it works. By the time the kettle has boiled, the tea made, the amount of sugar added has been silently criticised, the tea blown on and finally drunk … all this takes time, and if you’re a member of St Mary’s with the attention-span of a privet hedge, then you’ve forgotten what you were arguing about in the first place.

We’d established where and when we were. In 8th-century Scandinavia. It was impossible to be more precise, and that was something else to worry about. We’d had five jumps now – one after the other in quick succession and a couple of those had been emergency extractions.

Pods need regular servicing – As, Bs and Cs. An A service is the damage-repair every pod receives after every jump and is usually accompanied by a great deal of completely unjustified complaint and criticism from the Technical section. The B service is monthly, regardless of when it last had an A service, and the big one, the C service is twice-yearly; when the pod gets pulled out of the schedule and virtually taken apart. The established ritual is for the Technical section to sigh and shake its collective head and for the Chief Operations Officer to tear her hair out over their slowness in getting it back online.

However, our pod hadn’t had any letter of the alphabet at all. I’ve no doubt Leon kept it in tip-top working order, but they need frequent realigning or they start to drift. This can be a bit of a bugger if you’re aiming for, say, Renaissance Florence and you exit your pod preparing to view the art treasures of that period in an atmosphere of tranquil contemplation only to find you’ve been pitchforked into the St Bartholomew’s Eve massacre, ankle deep in blood and with Huguenot body parts lying everywhere.

We were perched on a headland. Wind buffeted the pod, although a dense wood behind us did offer some protection from the elements. The grey North Sea boomed away beneath us and a huge shining sheet of water swept away to our right. On the far side of the estuary, wooden huts of various size and shape clustered around several larger, more elaborately decorated halls set high up on the hillside.

Best of all, there were no longboats. It was high summer. You could tell by the way the rain was sleeting from the south. I suspected the men had taken to the longboats for a spot of rape and pillage on England’s east coast. They were probably beating up Lindisfarne at this very moment.

Still, it did mean that the settlement was almost deserted. Smoke puffed half-heartedly through holes in heavily thatched roofs, but on this wet and windy day, everyone would stay inside as much as possible, which suited us just fine. Norsewomen were as ferocious as their men and with the state of us at the moment, a Viking six year old could probably take us with one hand behind her back.

We’d taken every precaution. We were camouflaged and the proximity alerts were set. It was now up to the god of historians to keep us safe.

I stared at the screen. The sun was struggling to break through the heavy grey clouds, sending shafts of light on to the rough water below. The effect was rather beautiful but I couldn’t have cared less. Another day was beginning and I just wanted to get my head down.

Leon felt the same. ‘Look. We need to stop, catch our breath, and work out some sort of routine. We can’t keep fleeing headlong up and down the timeline like this. We need to eat and sleep regularly, regardless of what time of day it is outside. We need to keep our own personal clocks straight or we’re going to be in trouble.’

He was right. At the moment, my poor old body didn’t know if it was midnight or Manchester and this can be dangerous. You get tired and disoriented and then you start making mistakes.

‘Let’s start by having a meal.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

Loss of appetite is one of the first symptoms. When your body hasn’t a clue what’s going on, it tends to shut down in self-defence.

‘You must eat.’

He was right. I must. No matter how little I felt like it. We had to establish a routine.

‘And then a few hours’ sleep, I think. How are you feeling?’ He smiled. ‘You look terrible.’

‘I’m absolutely fine.’

I forced down some chicken soup, a few of those tasteless high-energy biscuits that no one ever eats so consequently there are boxes full of them in every pod, and a slice of cheese, possessed – an old joke, familiar to everyone who’s ever been on compo rations.

We argued about who would sleep first and, eventually, Leon hauled out the decision-making apparatus. I called heads and then lied as the coin came down, because even though I might have looked terrible, he looked even worse.

‘Wake me in four hours.’

I nodded. ‘OK.’

‘No, I mean it. No sitting there until your eyeballs fall out. Four hours. Then it’s your turn to sleep.’

I made myself a cup of tea and found a scribble pad and pen and by the time I went to sit back at the console, he was asleep. I turned the lights and heating down and took a few moments just to stop and think about the events of the last few days.

Because that was all it was. I know I’d jumped from day to night and back again, but it still couldn’t be more than two or three days at the most since I’d been injured at Agincourt. In those three days, I’d been pitchforked into another world and another life. I’d barely drawn breath before being catapulted to a small Mediterranean island, which would have been very pleasant, if I’d been allowed to enjoy it for more than an hour. From there to a bitterly cold 17th-century London. I’d been there for, what, two or three hours? From there to 18th-dynasty Thebes. Via the Central Asian steppes, of course. We’d managed to stay in Thebes for a whole afternoon. Now I was in 8th-century Scandinavia. For how long? How long before they found us again?

I had no way of answering that question, so I shelved it and turned my attention to things to which I did know the answer.

I watched Leon sleep for a while. He slept neatly and quietly as he always did.

You don’t know that
, argued a small voice inside me.
You only know that your Leon slept neatly and quietly.

Oh, shut up.

I’m just saying …

I couldn’t think about that. Not just at the moment.

I spent a few minutes thinking about this job Mrs Partridge had sent me to do. I had absolutely no clues about that. For all I knew, it was something important in Thebes and I’d been so busy yanking Leon out of irrigation ditches that I’d missed it.

I didn’t want to think about that, either.

I thought about the Vikings, but not for long because they weren’t any of my special areas of expertise. I’m Ancient Civilisations, with British and European Medieval, and a bit of the Tudors thrown in for good measure. I tried to remember who, in my department, was the expert on Scandinavian history, couldn’t, and gave that up too. That world was gone. Gone for good. I’d never see any of them again. That was something else I couldn’t think about.

I stared out at the rain and doodled.

In the interests of peace and harmony, I did wake him after his four hours. And I made him a cup of tea.

He sat up and rubbed his hair.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Oh – the morning has been crowded with incidents. It stopped raining about an hour ago although we’re still waiting for the sun to emerge. A small child of indeterminate sex ran out of the big hall on the left, together with a dog. A woman stood on the threshold and yelled at them. On their return, the kid got a thump round the side of the head. The dog ran off. I have to say, Viking society isn’t anything like as exciting as I’d hoped. No one’s been raped or pillaged at all. Quite dull, really. Do you want to use the shower? It’s stopped raining. I can wait outside and we could let some fresh air in.’

‘No,’ he said, quickly, ‘don’t open the door.’

‘Why not? It’s a bit ripe in here – even by historian standards.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s colder than you think.’

‘In that case, I’m going to bed.’

I curled up in the still warm blankets. The sleeping module moulded itself around me.

The last thing I saw was Leon heading into the toilet.

When I awoke, considerably more than four hours had passed.

I sat up and glared at him.

‘You should have woken me.’

‘I tried. I couldn’t get you to open your eyes. Is there a password?’

He wasn’t telling the truth. Since childhood, I’m the world’s lightest sleeper. On a bad day, I can make Lady Macbeth look like a raging narcoleptic.

‘Anyway,’ he said, passing me over a mug of tea, ‘you’d only have been in the way. I’ve had the panels off the console and had a poke around inside. I can’t do much because I don’t have the equipment, but I’ve given it a bit of a tickle.’

His face belied his words. He didn’t look very happy at all.

‘Is there a problem?’

He suddenly looked very worried and very tired.

‘Leon, what’s the matter?’

‘I have bad news, really bad news, and catastrophic news.’

I grinned at him. ‘Nothing new there, then. OK. Give me the bad news.’

‘It’s not the pod they’re following.’

‘Well, it’s hard to see how they could have been, really. It’s not as if we leave a vapour trail. Is that the bad news? What’s the really bad news?’

‘They’re following us. Specifically, they’re following you.’

For a moment, I couldn’t think. Then I couldn’t speak.

Oh, my God …

Tiredness had drained all the colour from his face, leaving it a dreadful grey shade. God knows what colour of the spectrum I was, because now, suddenly, I’d just realised – this was all my fault.

He didn’t need to tell me the really catastrophic news. I could work that out for myself. Because the really catastrophic news was that I was tagged. We all were. In case we get lost in time. No doubt, Leon, having left St Mary’s in the conventional manner, had had his tag removed – in the conventional manner. Having been bundled out of my own world without a moment’s notice, I hadn’t given it a thought and I should have. I know I’d been racing up and down the timeline, pursued by the forces of temporal law and order, but I really should have tumbled to it long before this. It wasn’t the pod leaving a trail through time that a blind man could follow – it was me.

And with their advanced technology, the Time Police could track me wherever I went. And they were fast – so much faster than St Mary’s. And much more accurate. And we were screwed.

‘I’m an idiot. A complete idiot.’

‘No you’re not. I never realised, either.’

‘I should have thought … Why didn’t I think of it?’

‘Stop,’ he said, taking my cold hands. His hands were always so warm. ‘You’re no more stupid than me. Neither of us realised. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

I stretched out my yellow-and-white-spotted arm and looked at it, still unable to believe the depths of my own stupidity. We can be tracked. Peterson and I had once been stranded in Nineveh and even though it took them a while, Major Guthrie and the rescue teams had been able to locate us and pull us out.

‘My pod is a Faraday cage. That’s why the tag can’t be picked up until we leave the pod. Or until we open the door.’

He stopped, unable or unwilling to continue. He didn’t have to. I did it for him.

‘But once that happens, it’s only a matter of time before they can track us down. Every time. There isn’t any place or any time where we’ll be safe. It might take them a while, but sooner or later, they’ll always find us. And there isn’t a thing we could do about it. This is all my fault.’

‘Before you start with the sackcloth and ashes,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a lot on your mind. Let’s not waste time thinking about what we should have done. We need to think about what we should do now.’

‘But it is all my fault, Leon. I should have worked it out. Every time I step outside they’re able to trace me. Us. This is bad. You know it is. Because if we can’t fix this then I’m never going to be able to leave this pod again.’

I stopped and looked around. Nothing had changed but everything was different. Now, far from being our little home, this pod was our prison. It was no longer small and cosy – it was cramped. No longer comfortably shabby and crowded – it was squalid and cluttered. Claustrophobic. Oppressive. Suffocating. My chest clenched. I tried not to panic. Tried not to realise I might never again feel the sun on my face or the wind in my hair.

‘And it’s a prison for you, too, Leon. For both of us. It doesn’t matter where or when we go – we’ll never be able to step outside again. Or even open the door. We won’t be able to let in fresh air or get food. We’ll never –’

‘Stop that,’ he said, quite sharply. ‘You’ve no reason to think …’

‘Yes, I do. I’m right. You know I’m right. We have to split up. You must see that.’

‘Not in a million years. Put that idea right out of you head.’

I said gently, ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but you must …’

‘I said no. Forget it.’

He had that note in his voice. Arguing would not help. Time to step back and think.

‘You’re saying we’re safe as long as we don’t open the door?’

He nodded.

‘OK. We’re safe here, then. Why don’t you get some sleep? You look worn out and so am I. We’ll talk about this calmly in a few hours.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘And from an historian, too. Who’d have thought? Just give me a minute.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m not a complete idiot. Computer – on my mark, door lock. Farrell voice command only. Authorisation Farrell – mike eight three eight papa echo foxtrot. Mark.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m not waking up in four hours to find you long gone. And don’t look at me like that. You’re no longer authorised to open the door, so if anything happens to me then you’re stuck in here, forever, with my slowly rotting corpse. Killing me in my sleep is, as they say, contra-indicated. Turn out the lights, will you?’

I was far too angry to sleep. And worried. And scared. And then back to angry again. Good job he warned me not to murder him in his sleep because otherwise he’d be dog meat by now. I began to devise a complicated scheme for bludgeoning him to death with the kettle and then feeding his minced remains down the toilet. It would have worked, I’m sure, but right in the middle of imaginatively dismembering his corpse, I had a brilliant idea.