No Time Like the Past (11 page)

‘Really? You astonish me. ‘

All the time, we were working our way around St Paul’s. More explosions in the distance caused pieces of burning wood to cartwheel through the air, scattering sparks on landing and starting their own individual little fires, which would eventually join up and become the huge conflagration that would kill us all. Bloody hell, this really was no place to be. Sod the artefacts. We’d get our people out. We’d laugh at them for having to get themselves rescued and get them straight back to St Mary’s for something long, cold, and extremely alcoholic.

Another explosion, bigger and much closer. Were they blowing up the nearby streets in an effort to save St Paul’s?

‘Bloody hellfire,’ said Markham, appropriately. ‘We’re going to be burned
and
blown up. It only takes one of us to fall into the Thames and drown and we’ve got the hat trick. Come on.’

Everything around us was burning. Even the ground under our feet was burning. Even through my fireproof suit, I was burning. Stinging sweat ran down into my eyes. I was drenched.

The building was massive and it seemed to take ages for us to get around the perimeter. We couldn’t get too close. We zigzagged around, trying to find the tiny door on the north side.

‘Fifty minutes remaining to terminal event.’

‘There,’ said Markham. ‘There’s the door.’ He had to shout to make himself heard over the sudden frenzied bleeping of our tag readers. Bloody things. They only ever work properly when if your target is either easily visible or only twenty feet in front of you. Jumping up and down shouting, ‘Hey, hey, I’m over here!’ is often quite helpful, too.

But, our only stroke of luck that day, on this side of the building, only the upper part of the scaffolding was in flames, so apart from lumps of burning wood falling on us from a great height – no problem.

I heard a crackly voice in my ear. Major Guthrie. ‘Max? Is that you?’

‘No. Who’s Max?’

‘Very funny. The door’s locked. We can’t get out.’

‘Are you still in the crypt?’

‘No, we’re only on the other side of the outside door. We’re all ready to go. We just can’t get the bloody thing open.’

Markham shone his torch around the doorframe.

No, they couldn’t get the door open because a bright shiny chain secured the latch. And that chain was secured with a heavy-duty padlock. Someone had not intended that door to open easily.

Markham used the pick end of his fire axe to attack the padlock and I kicked odd bits of burning wood away from the door, which didn’t do my knee any good at all.

‘Forty-five minutes remaining to terminal event.’

‘How’re you doing?’ I yelled, kicking the last piece of wood away.

‘No use. Here. Shove your end in here.’ I inserted my fire axe as instructed and we both strained to prise open the padlock. The very substantial padlock.

No luck.

More debris fell down around us. We cowered in the shelter of the wall. God, it was so hot …

Guthrie’s voice in my ear. ‘Report.’

‘Still working on getting the door open. Are you on fire in there?’

‘Not yet, but it’s very smoky. Get a move on.’

‘On it.’

We strained again, making no impact at all. I tried prising apart the links on the chain but couldn’t get a proper purchase. Nothing we were doing was making any difference.

‘Forty minutes remaining to terminal event.’

Markham reversed his axe and began to hack at the chain. He fetched it a number of powerful blows then stepped aside for me. I did my best, but it was a very substantial chain. I was gasping for breath all the time. Sweat ran down into my eyes. I couldn’t see properly and I was sure most of my blows were going astray. We were wasting our time.

Another enormous explosion rocked the ground under our feet. More lumps of burning wood showered past us. ‘Shit,’ shouted Markham, dancing around and slapping his smouldering fire suit. I pushed him against the door for the tiny amount of protection the lintel would give us and crowded in after him.

‘Thirty-five minutes remaining to terminal event.’

I was melting. And not in a good way. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t stand. I was  dissolving in my own sweat. I wondered idly whether the melting point of the human body was greater or lesser than that of padlocks. It didn’t really matter. People, padlocks … We’d all burn in the end.

We both had the same idea at the same time.

‘We’re idiots,’ I said, unshouldering my blaster.

‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘Direct your beam.’

We played liquid fire over the padlock and chain. Nothing seemed to happen.

I blinked furiously to clear my eyes but the sweat stung viciously. I tried to sniff, but no good. Tears and snot mingled with the sweat running down my face. My mouth, on the other hand, was as dry as the Sahara and tasted like it. I was so dehydrated that it was very possible that I would never pee again.

The padlock was holding. I could have screamed from frustration. The heat was melting the lead on the roof but the bloody padlock was still holding. I had a sudden vision of a huge heap of a burned-out St Paul’s with a bright, shiny padlock still nestling smugly atop the smouldering pile.

Markham shut down his blaster and tried again with his fire axe. ‘Yes,’ he shouted. ‘It’s softening.’ He fetched it a hefty blow with his fire axe. ‘Come on, you bitch!’

He rained down blows in a frenzy. I stepped back to give him room and he went at like a madman until I stopped him.

‘Take a break. I’ll give it a go.’

He’d definitely made an impact. The padlock hung askew. I didn’t have any strength to waste, so I took my time, lining up each blow carefully.

‘Thirty minutes remaining to terminal event.’

‘Can’t you shut that off? It’s really getting on my nerves.’

‘It’s so I can get you out in time.’

‘I’m not going anywhere without them,’ I grunted, redoubling my efforts.

‘They might die if you leave, but they’ll definitely die if you stay. We all will, so no arguments,’ he said tersely. ‘Move over. My turn.’

He was a lot stronger than he looked. Half a dozen swift blows and the padlock clattered to the ground. At last. He tore at the chain.

I activated my com. ‘Major?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re getting the door open. Be ready to move.’

‘We’re ready. Just give the word.’

Markham gave a final yank to the chain, which went the way of the padlock.

He seized the latch and gritted his teeth against the pain in his hands. Even through his gloves, what with the fire and then our blasters, it must have been nearly red-hot. He pulled.

Nothing happened.

‘Twenty-five minutes remaining.’

‘Can you please shut that thing off?’

‘No. A little help here?’

I couldn’t do anything. There was only an iron ring so small only one person could grasp it.

I called Major Guthrie again. ‘Major, you need to push from your side.’

‘Copy that.’

A series of thuds from the other side of the door indicated that they were, indeed, pushing. I took a moment just to check that the door did actually open outwards because we are St Mary’s after all, but yes, the door opened outwards. Or it should do. Mystified, I stared at it. There was no lock. I could see the door shudder with every impact. It just wasn’t opening.

‘Wait,’ I shouted over the noise. ‘Stop a minute.’

Ignoring my protesting knee and splitting headache, I crouched for a close look. I was right. A small piece of wood had somehow got wedged under the door, preventing it from opening.

‘Major – pull. Pull the door towards you.’

‘What?’

‘Twenty minutes remaining to terminal event.’

‘Shut up,’ I shouted. ‘No, not you, Major.’

A huge piece of burning wood crashed to the ground between us, reminding us that we really didn’t have much time. Because, of course, that had completely slipped our minds.

Markham kicked it away. ‘Don’t argue, sir. Just bloody do it.’

I saw the door move back an inch or so and began to work at the wedge with my axe. I had to do it by guesswork because I couldn’t see a thing and I was struggling for every breath. I suspected I wasn’t going to last much longer.

‘Move over,’ said Markham, impatiently. He shoved me aside and began to work on the wedge.

‘OK. Got it.’

He seized the ring at exactly the same time as what seemed like everyone behind the door threw their weight at it.

The door flew open. All right, I was wearing a helmet, but nail-studded oak is still nail-studded oak. I flew backwards and hit the ground with a crash that knocked the breath out of me. I lay gasping while St Mary’s erupted out of the doorway, Dieter, Roberts, Peterson and Van Owen in the lead, alternately treading on or falling over me. Only at St Mary’s do the rescuees try to trample the rescuers. Bloody ingratitude.

I sat up painfully and lifted my visor. ‘You stupid bunch of pillocks! This is what happens when I’m not around. The whole thing goes tits up and you have to be rescued like a bunch of little girls.’

 ‘Fifteen minutes remaining to terminal event.’

I turned to Markham in exasperation. I was burned and breathless. I had a splitting headache. My knee was killing me. I had at least three people on top of me. The last thing I needed was to listen to a well-modulated voice counting down to disaster. ‘Will you stop it doing that? It’s getting on my nerves.’

Markham ignored me, heaving people to their feet. ‘Come on, Max. Time to go.’

‘Did you manage to salvage anything?’ I gasped, displaying the correct grasp of priorities.

Van Owen rolled off me and shouted something about Schiller.

Markham was yelling at me. ‘Come on, Max. We have to get out of here.’

We were all shrieking at each other over the noise of the roaring flames. Somewhere to my left another explosion, further off this time, sent a huge fireball into the sky. Sparks and small burning pieces of stuff rained down on us.

‘Wait, wait,’ shouted Guthrie, gesturing. ‘Come back inside a moment.’

It was a good idea. We stepped back into the comparative calm of the cathedral. I took a moment and stared.

It was packed. Jam-packed. Packed solid with piles of paper, books, wooden boxes, furniture, and household goods. This was no hasty last minute, hurl-it-in-any-old-how-we’ll-sort-it-all-out-later, stacking. Everything was neatly piled. Narrow walkways threaded their way between the stacks. Massive pillars arose out of towering piles of books piled around their bases. Tarpaulins covered the more valuable items. The whole place reeked of wood, tar, dry paper, dust – and smoke. If someone had said, ‘How can we ensure St Paul’s is completely destroyed in the coming conflagration?’ they could not have made a better job or it. A huge space filled with every inflammable material known to man and encased outside with a wooden framework. Great job, guys!

I dragged my mind back. ‘What’s this about Schiller? Where is she? Who saw her last? And where?’

No one seemed sure.

Van Owen spoke up. ‘We’d formed a chain and were passing stuff up from the crypt. She was at the top of the steps. I didn’t see her leave. Did anyone?’

People shook their heads.

I said, ‘Could she be in here somewhere? Unconscious? Do we need to search? Or is she out there in the flames?’

No one knew. All attempts to raise her had met with failure.

I could have screamed at them. I would scream at them. But not now. Guthrie was already organising search teams. They dispersed, calling to each other through the smoky gloom.

I sagged against a pile of books. An arm appeared with a bottle of water.

‘Drink,’ said Dr Foster and disappeared.

‘Let’s have a look at your hands,’ I said to Markham.

He grimaced at his shredded gloves. I could see burned flesh. ‘Actually, Max, no offence, but I think it’s best to leave them for the moment. No time. We must go.’

‘Not until I know Schiller’s safe.’

‘Not your problem, Max. You’ve done what you came to do. Time to go.’

‘I’ve got fifteen minutes yet.’

‘No. There’s a burning churchyard to negotiate. It’s hell out there. It’s going to take us twice as long to get back as it did to get here.’

‘Schiller …’

‘Is not your problem. Time to go.’ He spoke into his com. ‘Major, I have to get Max back to St Mary’s. We’re leaving.’

‘Copy that. Thanks for your help, Max. We’ll revise our jump times and see you back at St Mary’s in a couple of days.’

I tried again. ‘Schiller …’

‘We’ll find her. Leave your gear. We’ll pick it up. Get out of here. Run.’

Markham was physically pulling me towards the door. ‘Come on, Max.’

I shook off his arm. ‘What is the matter with you?’

He stood in the doorway, looking out at the hell that was London on 3
^rd
September 1666. We’d both pushed up our visors. I could see he was white-faced with pain and drenched with sweat and there was a strange expression on his face.

‘Ten minutes remaining to terminal event.’

‘We’re leaving. Now.’

‘Just a few minutes. Please. Schiller’s missing.’

He pulled his gun and slapped in a clip. ‘No. One way or another, you’re leaving.’

I said slowly, ‘What are you doing?’

He swallowed. ‘He’s not a stupid man, is he? Dr Bairstow, I mean.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He drew himself up and was suddenly different. ‘He foresaw all this. He knew something had gone wrong. He knew you’d refuse to leave. That you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, so I’m telling you, Maxwell – no arguing, no nothing – get your arse out of that door and back to Number Six.’

I’d never heard him use that tone before. ‘Markham?’

He raised the gun. ‘I’m begging you, Max, please. Don’t make me do this.’

‘Do what? I don’t understand.’

But I did.

‘Dr Bairstow’s instructions. If you refuse to leave before the countdown expires, or you’re prevented from leaving for some reason – then I’m to shoot you. Dead. Only one living person etc.’

I stared at him. ‘You’d do that?’

‘You know I would. So I’m saying, Max. Don’t make me do it.’