Hope for the Best Page 3

  He nodded again.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say something about the picture he’d drawn, but I didn’t. Yes, he wasn’t the chattiest kid in the world, but even so . . . No. Safer for everyone to say nothing.

  So, I said nothing.

  2

  A few days after he’d gone, I had my old casts off and my walking casts on and could say goodbye to the wheelchair. It took a while to get used to walking again, but I was soon inching my way around the building with all the speed and stylish panache of continental drift.

  Leon took the opportunity to recycle all the jokes I’d made about him over the last months, although, as I pointed out, they weren’t funny the second time around.

  I spent a lot of time in our room, working on my private project. Data stacks and files covered every horizontal surface until, one day, I reached the point where I couldn’t go any further. I’d been putting it off for days but the time had come. I needed to have a chat with Mrs Partridge.

  I hobbled around the gallery. I knew there was no point in complaining because I was lucky to be mobile at all, but I’ve always moved quickly and it irked me no end not to be trotting around the building at my usual speed. The only good thing about the whole situation was that I was still considerably underweight – sorry, I just want to savour those unfamiliar words again, considerably underweight – after my spell in the 14th century, and at least being light made movement much less tiring.

  Regaining weight isn’t easy. You’re not allowed to pile it on any old how, you know. For some reason that completely escapes me, you can’t just scarf your way indiscriminately through plates of sausages and chocolate until you hit your target. You have to eat sensibly. I’d pointed out to Dr Stone that the medical profession was always coming up with new reasons for people not to scarf down chocolate and sausages and he’d said there was something in the Hypocritical Oath compelling doctors to make their patients’ lives as difficult as possible. Apparently, they get Brownie points. Even after weeks of eating sensibly, my BMI still wasn’t acceptable and there had been a small confusion because I had thought BMI was a car and Hunter had offered to draw me a picture.

  Anyway, trudging – or rather, hobbling – back to the point, my lighter frame was a Good Thing, apparently, so I was taking advantage of this and wobbling my way to Mrs Partridge’s office.

  She regarded me without joy, but she always did so I didn’t take a lot of notice.

  ‘I’m afraid Dr Bairstow isn’t here at the moment, Dr Maxwell. He’s attending a meeting at Thirsk and not expected back until late tonight.’

  ‘Well, actually, it was you I wanted to see, Mrs Partridge.’

  She shut down her screen and pushed her keyboard away. ‘How can I help you?’

  Now that the moment had come, I wasn’t sure I could find the words, so I got up and flicked on the red light outside her office and then sat back down again.

  I thought she would tut with annoyance – she usually does whenever I’m around, but not this time. She sat, her hands in her lap, quietly waiting for me to find the words.

  I felt slightly awkward. ‘We’ve never spoken of this.’

  ‘Is there any need to speak of it now, I wonder?’

  ‘Yes, I think the time has come.’

  There wasn’t a flicker of emotion from her. On the other hand, no hostile stare, either. I swallowed. ‘Mrs Partridge, you once gave me a second chance. A chance of a new life and I was grateful enough to take it and ask no questions.’

  She said nothing. We’d never spoken of this in any way, of when I’d been dying and she’d swept me off to another world. One minute I was staring at the sword in my chest and feeling my life ebb away, and the next I was face down on someone’s carpet in a world where Leon was alive – which was good – and the Time Police existed – which was less good. I’d fulfilled Mrs Partridge’s purpose – not that I’d had much choice – and my reward had been this other life at this other St Mary’s with this other Leon. I’d tried to thank her once or twice but she’d swept my words away and we’d never mentioned it again. Until now.

  I continued. ‘Today, I have questions. Important questions.’

  I paused in case she wanted to say she had no idea what I was talking about and I was to go away immediately but she remained silent.

  I struggled on. ‘The world in which I find myself today is very similar to the world I left. There have been some differences, but many things that happened there have happened here as well.’

  I stopped and looked at her, searching her face for some clue. I don’t know why I bothered. Her face registered nothing but polite interest. I gripped my hands together more tightly and continued.

  ‘For example, in the other world, Peterson sustained a serious wound to his arm at Agincourt. Here, it was at Rouen. Different circumstances, but it was the same wound. Same arm, even. David Sands was in a wheelchair there – here, he’s lost a foot. Izzie Barclay was shot in that world,’ (by me, actually, but no need to go into that now) ‘and then again in this one.’ This time by Greta Van Owen in revenge for the death of Schiller.

  Again, I waited in case she wanted to tell me to stop wasting her time, but she just stared at me impassively. I took a deep breath because this was the crux of the matter. I’d shouted at the Time Police and demanded to know why, when all the odds were with them, they couldn’t catch Clive Ronan? Why did he always manage to get away? Why did he always manage to escape? I’d been quite rude. I was surprised they hadn’t shot me. And then, in the exact moment when Dottle and I fell off the roof, when you’d think I would have had other things on my mind, I’d realised why we couldn’t catch Clive Ronan. Well, I thought I had and now I was here for confirmation and she wasn’t making things easy for me.

  I continued. I didn’t say, ‘in my world,’ because that implied I hadn’t accepted this one and, since in the other one I’d been dying at Agincourt and Leon was already dead, I felt it implied a certain amount of ingratitude. This was my world now.

  I came straight to the point. ‘In the other world, Clive Ronan died in the Cretaceous period.’

  Still she said nothing. I had no clue what she was thinking but at least she was listening. I glanced at her locked door and lowered my voice even further. ‘I think the reason we can’t catch Clive Ronan here is because he’s not meant to die here. He’s supposed to die in the Cretaceous.’

  She regarded me steadily. ‘Are you saying that if you can arrange a similar set of circumstances then events might follow a similar path to a similar result?’

  ‘Yes. I think if I could somehow lure him to the Cretaceous then I will be able to . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said, so sharply that I was alarmed. ‘You must not make the mistake of thinking that because the circumstances are the same, the result will be the same.’

  ‘But things that happened there could happen here?’

  ‘Could . . . yes. Will? Not necessarily.’

  We looked at each other for a long time. She wasn’t helping – but she wasn’t chucking me out, either. I was at a loss as to what to say next. The silence lengthened. What did she want from me? Much more, obviously, otherwise I’d be on the other side of the door by now, but what?

  I think, in the end, she took pity on me. ‘Why are you here, Dr Maxwell?’

  I said very quietly, ‘I’m working on an idea, which I’d like to run past Dr Bairstow. I’ve spent a lot of time on it, but I’ve reached the point where I’m doubting myself and, without more information, I don’t know if I should pursue it any further.’

  I inched forwards on my chair. ‘Mrs Partridge, might it not be quicker and easier all round if you could say, here and now, whether I would be wasting Dr Bairstow’s time by troubling him with this idea?’

  I sat back. I couldn’t do any more. If I was wrong then all she had to do was tell me so. But if I was righ
t? I felt a thrill of excitement. Because I was right. I knew I was right.

  We stared at each other over her desk for what, to me, felt like aeons and then she pulled her keyboard forwards. ‘I can pencil you in for 10:30 tomorrow morning, if that is convenient.’

  ‘It’s perfect, Mrs Partridge. Thank you.’

  I was prompt. In our job you have to be. Mrs Partridge waved me through. Dr Bairstow was waiting for me.

  My presentation took a long time. There were several strands to it. I worked through each one individually and then wove them all together into chronological order.

  He said almost nothing all the way through, just stared at his hands, but that’s what he does when he’s listening, so I gritted my teeth, ignored his lack of reaction, and soldiered on to the very end. I’m accustomed to his long silences, but this one went on and on. It was a struggle not to burst into speech, to explain, to elucidate, but he doesn’t like that, so I shut up and stared over his shoulder out of the window.

  Eventually, he said, ‘Shall we have some tea?’

  Which meant he wanted me to go through it all again but that was a good sign.

  Mrs Partridge brought in the tea. I thanked her – and not just for the tea. We set things up on his briefing table and went through everything. Point by point. Line by line. Lunchtime came and went. I missed it but I was too strung up to eat anyway. He picked away at everything. Not in a critical way but making sure he knew exactly what each aspect of my plan entailed. And, I suspected, making sure I did, too. Because this one was a doozy.

  ‘You are aware, Max, there are large areas that cannot be planned in advance. Almost more than I am comfortable with.’

  ‘Can’t be helped, sir. All I can do is respond to circumstances at the time and improvise.’

  ‘Offhand, I cannot remember any occasion where creative thinking has been a problem for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Let us hope this is not that occasion.’

  I shut up.

  Midway through the afternoon, Mrs Partridge brought in fresh tea and sandwiches and instructed us both to eat something. I chomped my way through a chicken-salad sandwich – protein, vegetables and carbohydrates – and watched while he twirled the data stacks, referring from one to the other and frowning.

  I helped myself to another sandwich and poured us both a second cup.

  He sat back, stirring his tea. ‘Have you discussed this with Leon?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘When you give me permission to, sir. After Dottle, I . . . I am conscious of a certain reluctance to discuss anything with anyone.’

  He regarded me gravely. ‘Talk to Leon about it. He will be able to provide a useful perspective.’ He sipped his tea. ‘You and Leon – how are you these days?’

  He wasn’t talking about just our physical state.

  ‘It’s like being in a kind of limbo, sir.’ I put down my tea. ‘Every now and then I try to work out how we ever got to this point. Years ago, we’d just catch a glimpse of Ronan here or there – we would foil one of his dastardly schemes or dodge his attempts to throw a spanner in our works and then go on our merry way. But now, everything has escalated and he permeates our entire lives. He affects everything we do. Not only can we not catch him, but the Time Police can’t either. We’re hobbled, sir, both in our private and our working lives and until we hunt him down we’re . . . stuck.’

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’m inclined to give my permission for this somewhat bizarre and very unorthodox idea of yours.’

  I knew better than to get up and cheer.

  He tapped the box of files and data cubes. ‘This is . . . massive.’ And he wasn’t referring to the size of the box and the quantity of material inside.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And involves others.’

  ‘Many others, sir.’

  ‘Who will not always be aware they’re being involved.’

  ‘There are key figures whom I think we should inform, sir. For our own safety. And theirs. But otherwise I do recommend we tell as few people as possible.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said, staring into space.

  Suddenly he turned around and seemed to see me for the first time. ‘Max, I’ve kept you too long. You look tired.’

  I knew better than to deny it. ‘Well, I am, sir, but it’s a good tired.’

  ‘Mm,’ he said. ‘I’m going to let you go now. Leave all of this here, if you please, I want to familiarise myself with the details. I shall meet you again in . . . a few days.’

  I hadn’t expected him to leap from his seat shouting, ‘Brilliant, Dr Maxwell, get on with it!’ but to make me wait . . .

  He knew what I was thinking. ‘There are people I must consult.’

  Dottle’s betrayal was still very fresh in my mind. I said doubtfully, ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Max, but you may rest easy. In fact, I order you to do so. When we meet again I want you fresh, rested, on top of your game, and able to answer every point I put to you.’

  I stood up. ‘Yes, sir.’

  He paused. ‘You have thought this through, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You know the personal sacrifices it will entail?’

  ‘I suspect there will be more than I’m aware of, sir, but the ones I am aware of I’ve thought about.’

  He seemed to find this piece of gobbledygook satisfactory. ‘By the way, Max, I have been visiting the Chancellor at Thirsk.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mrs Partridge said.’

  ‘They wanted to discuss a replacement for Dottle.’

  I stared at him, swallowed down my frequently voiced opinion of the University of Thirsk and their representatives, and said, as mildly as I could, ‘Sir, they cannot be serious. The two we’ve had so far – Halcombe and Dottle – were complete disasters. For Thirsk as well as for us. I confess I’ve rather been hoping they’d take the hint and let the whole idea slide quietly into oblivion. And I have to ask – given the life expectancy and career damage – why would anyone there even consider working here?’

  ‘That was, more or less, my own argument.’

  I tapped the box. ‘Sir, if they’re serious, then I do feel we need to implement this as soon as possible. Before some other daft bugger turns up and starts to cause chaos.’

  ‘Indeed. Take the few days, Max. You’re going to need them. I’ll send for you.’

  I said again, ‘Yes, sir,’ and headed to the door.

  3

  The following Monday I went back to work properly.

  Peterson had done a good job – there was hardly anything in my in-tray. I expressed my thanks and he said no problem, the job was hardly onerous, and whatever did I find to do all day long? I told him to sod off and off he sodded.

  Barely had I warmed my seat when Lingoss stuck her head around the door. ‘Max? Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  She closed the door behind her. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

  We both paused, waiting for Rosie Lee to leave.

  Nothing happened.

  We folded our arms and stared until even she couldn’t fail to get the message.

  ‘I might as well finish early then.’

  It was ten past two.

  ‘You might as well,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if you’re doing anything here.’

  She slammed the door on the way out.

  I asked Lingoss if she wanted some tea.

  She shook her head. Today’s hair was silver tipped with purple. Very striking.

  ‘So – what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, the thing is, Max, I wanted to ask you something.’

  I had a sudden nasty moment of déjà vu. We’d
had a similar conversation when she wanted to leave the History Department’s training programme and join R&D and I’d lost an historian. Was she about to give in her notice? I’d do anything to keep her here, not least because, if she left, the job of babysitting Professor Rapson through his working day might fall to me. No other bugger would do it.

  ‘What did you want to ask?’

  She shifted in her chair. ‘The thing is, Max, last year when, you know, when . . .’ she tailed away. I wondered what on earth could cause the blunt and forthright Lingoss such embarrassment and waited patiently while she gathered her forces for another go.

  ‘Last year, Max, after Hawking blew up and we thought they were dead – Guthrie, Chief Farrell and Markham, I mean – and you were so . . . and then you and Peterson . . . well, you know. Everyone was so pleased. Everyone thought it was such a good thing. For both of you. And then Chief Farrell came back. Which was so brilliant. But Peterson was . . . well . . . and then there was all that business with Dottle . . . and now she’s dead. And then there was the steam-pump jump with Dr Peterson – as you know . . . and . . . um . . . I wondered . . . Well . . . do you think there’s any hope for me?’

  Strangely, I knew exactly what she was on about. I always tried to avoid thinking of that night. Peterson with his smart jacket – the only one he had, actually – standing in front of me with his neatly combed hair, pleased at the possibility that Leon might still be alive, no matter that he would be alone again.

  I’d despatched Lingoss to keep an eye on him because I’d been genuinely torn. Yes, I had to go and rescue Leon, but that really wasn’t a night when Peterson should have been left on his own. And then, Dottle had died . . . He was doing his best to carry on normally, but sometimes he struggled, so I’d sent him out with Lingoss on a very minor assignment and Markham had ever so slightly overstepped the brief and pushed her into the moat so she could be rescued by Peterson. Sometimes, I wonder whether having the Security Section on your side is a Good Thing or not.

  But whatever he’d done, it had worked. I knew they’d been spending time together. Nothing major and all perfectly innocuous, but it was a start.