Why is Nothing Ever Simple? Page 3

  I was halfway up the road when the window opened and a voice accustomed to being heard over battlefields and feeding time at St Mary’s bellowed, ‘Bannockburn.’

  I made the Agincourt gesture and ran for it.

  As it happened, I never made it to Bannockburn. Well, I did, but not officially. I’m accustomed to encountering obstacles during assignments but rarely beforehand. Today, however, was just Pelion piled upon Ossa.

  I’m a mother. Not a particularly good one – no one’s ever going to nominate me for the Mother of the Year award – but, after a while, even a bad mother develops certain instincts. You soon realise that too quiet is a hundred times worse than too noisy. Too quiet is sinister. A clean and smiling child should be regarded with the very greatest suspicion and a thorough investigation carried out immediately. Likewise, obedience. An obedient child is a child who’s up to something. Obedience is not a natural state for the young. You need to get in and sort things out before events slide, inevitably, towards the catastrophic.

  Strictly speaking, Adrian and Mikey weren’t mine. They were teenagers who’d turned up one day in their teapot-shaped pod in desperate need of assistance. They were attempting to evade the Time Police so assistance was enthusiastically and successfully provided. They’ve been living here at St Mary’s ever since. Mikey works in R&D, often with Matthew, and Adrian adds colour and variety to Leon’s working day in the Technical Section.

  Just in case anyone from the Time Police is reading this, their pod very definitely does not reside here. Absolutely not. Never. Because that would be very, very wrong and we at St Mary’s are always very careful never to . . . no, I’m sorry – I can’t finish that sentence.

  It wasn’t anything new to see Adrian and Mikey talking together in a corner. It was the way they were talking together that aroused my suspicions. Normally there would be laughing, a little bit of shoving, deadly insults exchanged – that sort of thing. But not today. The two of them stood, heads together, talking quietly, all of which was so wrong that my mother senses kicked into overdrive and – yes, I spied on them. No, I’m not ashamed and it turned out to be a bloody good thing that I did.

  They’d changed into civilian clothing. Mikey has to change at the end of every working day anyway. It’s a rare day in R&D when they’re not covering themselves in something unspeakable. Or, worse, covering everyone else in something unspeakable. I still had vivid memories of being pursued around the gallery by R&D-manufactured ever-expanding exothermic foam. Seemingly possessed of a malevolent intelligence – which was more than could be said of anyone else in this unit, as Dr Bairstow had acidly remarked afterwards – it had surged and frothed its way massively around the gallery, swallowing up everything in its path. People fled before it. Except for Bashford who ran the wrong way – typical historian sense of direction – and ended up alone and cornered outside Peterson’s office.

  His near-end was actually quite moving. Last heard shrieking, ‘Fly, my pretty one, fly,’ he’d attempted to fling Angus to safety over the banisters and into the Hall below. Sadly, Angus has the flying abilities of a brick and she’d been very lucky to be caught by an astonished Mr Sands. As he said later, one minute he’d been concentrating on avoiding certain death by man-eating foam and the next, a gravity-constrained chicken had dropped heavily into his arms.

  People had scattered, running for their lives or shooting into offices and barricading the doors behind them. It was like being pursued by a giant Crunchie, said Peterson later as we recovered in the bar. An image that appears occasionally in my dreams.

  Anyway, Leon and I had been in the corridor, amicably arguing over the pod schedule, when the giant Crunchie thing kicked off. He looked over my shoulder, shouted, ‘Look out,’ grabbed my arm and suddenly the two of us were in the airing cupboard. Trapped together in the warm, fragrant darkness. All alone and trying to think of a way to pass the time during what might be the final moments of our lives.

  The foam surged along the gallery, wisely stopping short of Dr Bairstow’s door, and everyone assumed the danger had passed. Until it began to harden.

  It took several hours to chip Bashford free. Fortunately, his head was still above the foam and he was able to converse with his rescuers and enquire after the well-being of Angus, who had not taken kindly to being hurled over the banisters by her idol and was sulking in the kitchen.

  Anyway, back to being a mother – as if that’s something that ever goes away. The two of them – Adrian and Mikey – had changed out of their working clothes and back into what Adrian often referred to as their battledress. He wore his favourite black jeans and T-shirt with his long, leather coat over the top. He loved that coat and would frequently and dramatically swirl around the building like a villain in a Victorian melodrama.

  Mikey also wore jeans, a St Mary’s sweatshirt and her truly dilapidated flying jacket, together with her Snoopy helmet and completely unnecessary goggles.

  I watched them as they set off down the Long Corridor towards Hawking Hangar. Where we keep our pods.

  Just a word of explanation here. Yes, I know it’s been a long time coming but it’s here now. Pods are our centre of operations. We use them to travel up and down the timeline as we investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Don’t call it time travel or Dr Bairstow will probably feed you to the foam.

  I stood in a doorway and watched them. I would put money on these two being up to no good. It struck me now – and it should certainly have struck me long before this – that our Adrian and Mikey – long-time fugitives and accustomed to living exciting lives – might well attempt to alleviate their traditional teenage boredom by indulging in a few illicit jumps. Which was no huge problem for me. I’m not sure if anyone’s ever noticed but I myself am no stranger to the occasional illicit jump – especially at Christmas. No, the problem lay with the vessel in which they no doubt intended to make said illicit jump.

  A mainstream pod wouldn’t be a problem – and Leon would almost certainly head them off at the pass anyway. My concerns lay with the teapot. A sentence not quite as surreal as might initially appear. Mikey and Adrian’s pod is shaped like a twelve-foot-high teapot. It also has one or two other interesting features – not least the ability to remove objects from their own time, which is very much a no-no and liable to lead to all sorts of trouble with the bastard Time Police – and since we’d told them we’d destroyed the pod and hadn’t, we really couldn’t afford to attract any attention.

  I let them get to the end of the Long Corridor and then set off after them. I’ll use the time it takes me to get from one end to the other to explain about us here at St Mary’s.

  We all belong to St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research – a small organisation outside Rushford where we live in peaceful rural seclusion – mostly – and hardly get into any trouble at all. We jump back in time to record major historical events. Sometimes we don’t always manage to return successfully, but mostly we do. So that’s quite clear, then.

  I slipped quietly into Hawking Hangar and waited to see what would happen next. There was no sign of Leon anywhere – I suspected he was in with Peterson and Guthrie, prepping Number Four, all ready for the Bannockburn jump. Where I myself should be right at this moment.

  I peered cautiously down the hangar because this was probably something that should be handled with discretion. Which is something I can do when I have to. Number Four was over to my left, easily distinguishable because, in honour of Ian’s last jump, someone had stencilled the blue and white cross of St Andrew – the Saltire – on the side.

  There was a light on in Leon’s office at the far end. I could see Dieter and Polly Perkins bending over a screen, their faces lit from below and actually looking quite sinister. Otherwise, just for once, the place was deserted. Adrian and Mikey had chosen their moment well.

  They paused just inside the hangar and then turned off and made their wa
y quietly along the back wall.

  I knew exactly where they were going. I slipped in behind them and followed them across the hangar to Tea Bag 2.

  TB2 is our big pod. We use it for transporting large numbers of people or plant and equipment. Especially when we’re on a search and rescue mission. There’s a living area and a toilet that sometimes works, and it’s very big and really useful for storing things inside. Such as, for example, an illegal teapot.

  This is complicated. Bear with me. We can’t use the teapot because as soon as we did, the Time Police would pick up the signature and we’d told them we’d destroyed it. It was part of a deal which they’d broken on their side and we’d broken on ours. Such are the levels of trust between St Mary’s and the Time Police. And now, it looked as if our two teapot tearaways had plans that were wrong on so many levels. I didn’t know what they were up to, but it wouldn’t be good and would almost certainly bring the Time Police down on top of us and then there would be all sorts of tears and trauma. And for us, as well.

  I should have expected something like this. Adrian and Mikey were teenagers. The pair of them were geniuses. They’d had the freedom of the whole timeline. They’d come and gone as they’d pleased. Yes, they’d been pursued every minute of every day by the Time Police but it hadn’t seemed to cause them any problems. And yes, life here at St Mary’s could be exciting at times, but I bet it wasn’t half as exciting as their previous existence. I remembered their enthusiasm for bringing down renegade historian Clive Ronan. They’d allowed themselves to be captured by the Time Police and that couldn’t have been pleasant for them. Then there had been all the perils of the Cretaceous period and Mikey had nearly been washed away in a flash flood.

  Now they were living a quiet-ish life at St Mary’s. Dr Bairstow ruled with a light hand and they weren’t prisoners but . . . I suspected they were bored. At some point they’d planned this illegal jaunt. I might have been tempted to let them go. They could more than look after themselves. Except for the teapot. The one we were supposed to have destroyed.

  I stepped out of the shadows. ‘Good afternoon.’

  They didn’t shriek or panic.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Mikey, accepting the inevitable. ‘Busted.’

  ‘More than busted,’ I said. ‘What’s going on here? – and I’m supposed to be on my way to Bannockburn so don’t mess me about. In fact, I shouldn’t be here at all, so make it quick.’

  Admitting that was a mistake. I could see their thinking. She’s in a rush. We’ll fob her off with any old rubbish. Seriously? Did they think I’d never been a teenager myself?

  I folded my arms. ‘But for this, I have all the time in the world.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, Max . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, and I can’t think why no one has ever done this before . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In fact . . .’

  Just as we were about to get to the good stuff, I had Peterson in my ear. ‘Max, where are you?’

  ‘I need a few minutes. Something’s come up.’

  ‘You should go,’ said Mikey, generously. ‘It’s Major Guthrie’s last jump and you wouldn’t want to miss that.’

  Adrian nodded. ‘Yes, you’ll be late.’

  ‘They’ll wait for me,’ I said, without any hope at all.

  Peterson spoke again. ‘Max, we’re not waiting for you. Get a move on, will you?’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Right, you two, what’s happening here?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Stop saying “well”.’

  ‘Well, I mean – nothing. Nothing’s going on. We’re just talking to you.’

  I narrowed my eyes. If that didn’t work, then I’d smile at them. That always works. People will do anything to stop me smiling at them.

  ‘Obviously I need to narrow the focus of my interrogation.’

  ‘Are you allowed to interrogate us?’ enquired Mikey. ‘I mean – we’re minors, you know. The law doesn’t apply to us.’

  And there you have their entire attitude to life in a nutshell. I would bet good money they’ll still be using that excuse when they’re in their eighties. If they live that long.

  Peterson was becoming impatient. ‘Max, where the hell are you?’

  I looked at the two of them grinning at me. Just waiting for me to go away. I came to a decision.

  ‘Sorry, Tim. I’m not going to make it. Go without me.’

  That wiped the smiles off their faces. But put the smile back on mine. ‘Give my regards to Ian. Have a good trip.’

  Peterson was not impressed. ‘What’s the problem? Max, this is Ian’s last jump.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, with a nasty look at the two reprobates in front of me. ‘And I’m sorry to miss it but I’ll be here when you get back. All ready to review the tapes and point out where you went wrong.’

  There was a pause and then Peterson said, ‘All right then, if that’s what you want. See you later this afternoon.’

  He closed the link.

  Lights flashed above Number Four’s plinth. Moments later there was the familiar wind in my face and then they were gone.

  I turned back to Adrian and Mikey. ‘Right – I’ve missed Ian’s last jump and now, thanks to you two, I am highly pissed off.’

  This was overstating things slightly. I hadn’t been that enthusiastic to begin with. Bannockburn was the battle that England lost. It’s not that I’m a bad loser – although I am – but we really should have won that one and we didn’t, thanks to that dipstick Edward II.

  I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. The job description for a medieval king wasn’t onerous. You kept the realm safe and sired the next generation. Fight and fu . . . well, you get the drift.

  Young Teddy Two managed the next generation part – although he and his wife loathed each other so I bet that was fun – but his main problem was that he was rubbish at controlling his barons.

  The whole medieval period was one long, bloody struggle between the king and his lords. Both were vital to the other. The king was the fount from which lands, titles and riches flowed. The barons were vital to the safety of the realm. In return for the aforementioned lands, titles, etc., they maintained the borders. And they were powerful clans. They had to be. The Percys and other northern lords maintained the border against the Scots. The western border with Wales was protected by the Marcher lords – among them, the Mortimers. Roger Mortimer would go on to become Edward’s wife’s lover and the two of them would eventually overthrow him.

  London was a long way off back then; communications were only as good as the weather and the fastest horse, which rendered these families virtually autonomous. Not a problem if you had a strong king who could keep them all in line but definitely a problem if you were weak, ineffective Edward II, over-reliant on low-born personal favourites.

  Possibly he was gay. Probably he was gay. And if he’d exercised a little discretion then things probably wouldn’t have turned out so badly for him. He certainly wouldn’t have been England’s first gay king. There was William Rufus, Richard the Lionheart, possibly William of William-and-Mary fame – perhaps even Queen Anne. There’s no reason to suppose people in the Middle Ages were any more or less gay than in modern times and he could probably have got away with it if he hadn’t flooded his favourite, the despised Piers Gaveston, with expensive gifts. If he hadn’t fawned on him in public while tough-as-shit border lords, who needed a firm but light hand, looked on in disgust and laid their plans accordingly.

  Gaveston had been safely disposed of and Edward – whose survival instincts were slightly less reliable than Bashford’s – immediately took up with Hugh Despenser and his old dad, two utter bastards, who must have made Edward’s nobles long for the good old days of Piers Gaveston.

  And – for those of you confused by my above
rant, we’re now back to the reasons I wasn’t going on the Bannockburn jump – now I could perhaps spend some time wrapping presents with Matthew. Or rather, since I possess the ability to transform the rectangular shape of a book into an inter-dimensional, Sellotape-smothered, irregular dodecahedral lump of Christmas wrapping paper, Matthew would do the actual wrapping and I would be trusted to hold the scissors and sticky tape. And not to touch anything unless specifically instructed otherwise. I envisaged a quiet afternoon with carols playing and a steadily growing pile of neat packages around our Christmas tree while we scarfed down a plate of mince pies together.

  Anyway, back to Adrian and Mikey after that scenic and informative digression. I think it was dawning on them that, like an STD, I wasn’t going to go away. Not without some sort of divine intervention. Or antibiotics.

  They sighed. ‘Well . . . the thing is . . . we’re not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Mikey, apparently struck by a brilliant idea, ‘you could say it’s our duty to go.’

  I folded my arms again. ‘And why would I say that?’

  ‘Because – well – we’ve been invited. We’re expected. It would be rude not to go.’

  They looked at me triumphantly. Argument over. Whatever their intent had been, their actions were completely justified and I was being an unreasonable adult. I began to feel a very slight sympathy for the Time Police. No need to tell them that. Ever.

  ‘What invite? No one in their right minds would invite you two anywhere.’

  ‘That’s hurtful,’ said Adrian, hurt. Mikey contrived to look stricken. It’s her go-to expression in a crisis.

  I unfolded my arms just so I could fold them again. With added menace.

  They sighed. Just two misunderstood young people alone and defenceless in a cruel world. I prepared to make it even crueller.

  ‘The thing is, Max . . .’

  ‘Stop talking about the bloody thing,’ I shouted. ‘Whatever it is.’