The Very First Damned Thing (5 page)

Dr Bairstow, while aware that by normal government standards, events were proceeding at the speed of light, could not help just the occasional twinge of what, in a lesser man, could be classed as impatience. Today, however, was different. There was a definite feeling that, after the jump to Waterloo, a corner had been turned.

‘Dr Bairstow, arising from our last meeting, we have given some thought as to where you and your organisation should be situated. After a great deal of discussion, we would like to offer you a choice of properties we feel would be appropriate for your needs.'

Dr Bairstow arranged his features into something that might, in the dark, resemble an expression of anticipation. ‘A choice? How exciting.'

‘We have here,' Mr Black passed over a folder, ‘a disused castle in Scotland. Very remote. Security would not be an issue. Or here,' another folder was pushed across the table, ‘St Mary's Priory, just outside of Rushford. A little dilapidated, but easily reclaimable. Or,' he produced a third folder, ‘a modern warehouse complex just outside of Barnstaple, although that would need extensive refurbishment to be suitable for your purposes.'

Dr Bairstow made no move to pick up the folders. ‘While each property has its own merits, I believe St Mary's Priory can offer me exactly what I need.'

Mr Brown blinked. ‘Don't you want to inspect any of these properties before making a decision?'

‘Thank you, but no. I have been familiar with St Mary's for some years now.'

‘Ah. Yes, of course. I should warn you however, the premises are in a state of some disrepair.'

Dr Bairstow sighed. ‘They always are, sir. They always are.'

On his way out, Dr Bairstow requested the pleasure of a few words with the major. In private.

‘If you would care to step into my office, sir …'

Major Guthrie opened a door to yet another small, dusty room and offered his guest a chair.

Dr Bairstow settled himself. ‘Please do not construe this as any sort of criticism, but you're very young to be a major.'

‘Promotion by attrition, sir. There weren't many of us left at the end.'

‘So I have heard.' He regarded his stick for a moment and then said, ‘Well, Major, at long last, it looks as if my unit will have a home.'

‘Congratulations, sir. It's been a long time coming.'

‘It has indeed, but I think I am now well on my way, and arising out of that, I wonder if you might like to consider alternative employment.'

‘Another office job, sir?'

‘Oh dear me, no. Rest assured this would easily be as hazardous as anything to which you have been accustomed. Unit security will form part of your duties, but your main function will be to prevent a group of gifted but not always very sensible young people from killing themselves, levelling their immediate surroundings, and destroying the fabric of space and time as we know it. There will be days when you are not sure whether to shoot them or yourself. I beg that you will do neither. You will frequently operate away from the unit and must rely on your own judgment and abilities to see you through. As will everyone around you. Rely on you, I mean. The responsibilities will be enormous and the pay in no way commensurate with them.'

‘How incommensurate?'

‘Meagre.'

‘How meagre is meagre?'

‘More meagre than you have been accustomed to.'

‘I'm a serving officer in His Majesty's Forces, sir. You'd be amazed how familiar I am with meagre.'

Dr Bairstow smiled, but said nothing.

‘This is about what happened the other day, isn't it, sir? When we went off to Waterloo?'

‘It is. I am, I think, very close to securing my funding but one of the many conditions, I am sure, will relate to security. I hope to allay any fears by being able to assure the authorities that all security issues are in your capable hands. I have seen your files, Major, and your achievements are impressive. I have no hesitation, therefore, in making you this offer.'

‘And my current employers?'

Your current employers will, I think, be reassured that security issues will be handled by one whom they know to be trustworthy.'

‘Well, I'll confess, Dr Bairstow that while peace is very pleasant …'

‘It's not very exciting. Major, if excitement is what you're after, I believe I may have the very thing.'

‘Could I choose my own team?'

‘Almost certainly. Do you have anyone in mind?'

‘One or two, yes. Including that young man you met the other day.'

‘Mr … Markham?'

‘You would not object?'

‘Is there any reason why I should?'

‘Perhaps you should read his file first.'

He unlocked a filing cabinet and passed over a folder.

Dr Bairstow read quietly. ‘A most unfortunate start to a young life.'

‘He's just beginning to find his way, I think.'

‘He certainly found his way rather quickly through officer school.'

‘The blaze was soon contained, sir. And it was rather an ingenious solution to the problem in hand. And as he himself argued, who knew the flames would spread so quickly?'

‘Well, we both saw him the other day, large as life and twice as dirty, so we must assume, therefore, that I say yes.'

‘He was part of the team I brought with me when I was transferred to London and I would like to keep him with me.'

Dr Bairstow nodded. ‘I believe I can provide an environment in which he can thrive. I should perhaps warn you both, however, that I am very much a “one strike and you're out” employer. You will find that while I am prepared to walk through fire for my people, I have no hesitation, should they cross me, in using their bodies to feed the fire through which I should be walking.'

Major Guthrie closed his eyes briefly. ‘Please don't mention fire and Markham in the same sentence.'

Dr Bairstow smiled politely and returned the file. ‘Well?'

‘Count me in, sir.'

Two.

One month later, a coach drew up outside the locked gates of St Mary's Priory. After a while, the driver turned off the engine and waited patiently while everyone blamed everyone else for not having the keys.

Dr Bairstow sat quietly in the front seat while Major Guthrie's small team milled around outside the bus. As far as he could ascertain on such short acquaintance, their names were Weller, Ritter, Markham, Murdoch, Evans and Randall. They represented the entire spectrum of shapes, sizes, and colours, from the big rumbling giant imaginatively named Big Dave Murdoch, to the small, scruffy individual at the back who, at a nod from Guthrie, bent over to inspect the padlock. In a disturbingly short space of time, he had pulled the chain free and handed it to the major.

‘Sorry sir. Came off in my hand.'

They climbed noisily back into the bus. Carefully blank faced, Major Guthrie handed both chain and padlock to Dr Bairstow who accepted them without comment.

St Mary's Priory was a long, low building, not more than three storeys high at its tallest point. Small windows caught the sunlight as the coach zigzagged slowly up the potholed drive. The remains of formal gardens could still be seen. To one side, a reed-smothered lake hosted an impressive number of swans who had no idea what was about to hit them.

Markham said, for the first and last time in his life, that he liked swans.

Tall chimneys rose from a shallow roof and the whole building was smothered in Virginia Creeper, just beginning to show new green leaves in the spring sunshine.

From the back of the bus, Markham could be heard enthusiastically comparing the building to a haunted house and enquiring whether there was a ghost.

Alighting carefully, Dr Bairstow stood quietly looking around. A man gazing at the unfamiliarly familiar. He was recalled by creaking hinges and a dragging noise as finally, with some effort and bad language, the front doors were persuaded to open.

Markham, surging forwards, was restrained by Major Guthrie. ‘After you, Dr Bairstow.'

Slowly, Dr Bairstow mounted the shallow steps, paused for a moment, and then stepped from sunshine into shadow.

He was conscious of a familiar smell. Damp stone, dust, stale air, and old wood. He tilted his head as if listening and just momentarily, he caught the sound of footsteps clattering on a wooden staircase, voices raised in amiable dispute, a door slamming and somewhere unseen, a small explosion: an echo from the future perhaps.

Becoming aware of the silence around him, he turned.

‘Well, gentlemen. Welcome to St Mary's. This is the Great Hall. The kitchens and dining room will be down there. The Library through there. These rooms off to the left will be the Wardrobe Department. R&D is up the stairs and over to the right. Please find yourselves somewhere to put your gear and let us begin.'

‘I'll put the kettle on,' said Markham.

Exactly seven days later, Dr Bairstow was facing a minor uprising. A small space had been cleared in the dining room, a table set up, and Markham was serving an optimistically named chicken stew.

Murdoch prodded his carefully. ‘I'm almost certain this sort of thing is banned under the Geneva Convention.'

Randall was heard to enquire whether something had escaped from Quatermass and The Pit.

‘It's nutritious,' said Markham indignantly.

‘It's grey. No food should be grey.'

‘I think mine just twitched,' said Evans. ‘Should I stun it, do you think?'

‘It's cheap,' said Markham, marshalling his secondary arguments.

‘I'm sure it's delicious,' said Dr Bairstow. He took a dubious forkful, chewed valiantly for some considerable time and swallowed. Six pairs of eyes watched him closely.

Delicately patting his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll, he rummaged in his wallet, eventually pulling out a credit card, which he handed to Major Guthrie.

‘Please ascertain the whereabouts of the nearest establishment prepared to deliver here and place an order with all speed.'

‘Hey,' protested Markham. ‘I slaved for nearly twenty minutes over this.'

Dr Bairstow did not shudder. ‘And we are all deeply appreciative of your efforts. However, Major Guthrie advises me that while your enthusiasm is admirable, your talents are better employed in other parts of the building.'

‘But–' wailed Markham, loyal to his culinary creation.

Randall passed over his dish. As did Ritter and Evans. Murdoch might possibly have followed suit, but his dish appeared to have welded itself to the table.

‘You eat it then,' said Evans.

Markham surveyed the dishes before him, many of which were forming a crust.

He sighed. ‘Chicken and sweetcorn soup with a side order of pancake rolls. Beef and green peppers in oyster sauce. Sweet and sour pork balls. Egg fried rice and a double helping of prawn crackers. For my second course …'

Emerging from the train station, Dr Bairstow stopped and looked around him. It was said that the first stirrings of resistance had been born on the night they threw the Fascists out of Cardiff, and there seemed no doubt that the city still bore the scars of that and subsequent fighting. Unlike in London, however, there were no building sites, no scaffolding, and no signs of regeneration. He saw rows of tents pitched wherever enough rubble had been cleared. There were no shops. Just a number of public washing and cooking facilities. He remembered the newspaper headline, ‘Where did all the money go?' Not to Cardiff, that was obvious.

Consulting his map, he set off.

Thirty minutes walking brought him to a narrow street in Cathays. Possibly due to the high student population, this area had been particularly badly damaged. Most of the paving stones had been removed. Craters rendered the road undriveable. Some of the houses had no roofs and a number of canvas tarpaulins flapped in the wind.

Walking carefully along the right-hand side of the street, he counted the numbers on the front doors, stopping at one particular house about half way down. There, he knocked and waited.

The door was opened by a small woman with bright hair and tired eyes.

‘Yes?

‘I'm looking for Mrs Theresa Mack.'

‘And you are?'

‘My name is Edward Bairstow and I have come a very long way to speak to her.'

‘From London?

‘That was part of my journey, yes.'

She sighed. ‘You'd better come in.'

The front door opened straight into the living room.

There was no TV. No fire. No smell of cooking. One small lamp burned beside an armchair. An open book lay face down on the chair. A similar armchair was placed on the other side of the empty fireplace. A small table and two chairs stood under the window. A framed photograph of a young couple was the only decoration in the room.

Dr Bairstow paused beside the table, looked at the photograph, and said softly, ‘I understand you are married.'

‘Widowed,' she said curtly. ‘Please sit down.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. Was it in the recent fighting?'

‘At the Barricades, yes. He survived Cardiff and Monmouth and then fell right at the very end, in London. Almost as the surrender was announced. I could even hear the faint cheering far away over the bridge as the shot rang out. Five minutes later and everyone was shouting, “Cease fire!” and “Hooray!” but by then, of course, it was far too late.'

A long silence fell and eventually Dr Bairstow said, ‘I've just come from there.'

‘Have they rebuilt yet? I suppose priority goes to London.'

‘They have made a start, yes, but there's not been a great deal of progress.'

‘There never is. Have you seen the state of Cardiff?'

‘My walk from the station offered me ample opportunity to see.'

‘So why are you here?'

‘I find myself in need of your expertise.'

‘I'm too old for all that now. The fight's gone out of me.'