Why is Nothing Ever Simple? Read online

  ‘But you asked us,’ said Mikey reasonably, effortlessly shifting the blame for everything on to my sagging shoulders. ‘You said . . .’

  I can’t understand why more teenagers aren’t justifiably slaughtered by enraged adults goaded beyond human endurance. There should be awards. And an annual dinner. And a rewards system.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully. I’m an historian. I know a hundred and thirty-five ways of killing you without leaving any trace. I know where to bury your bodies so they’ll never be found. Just saying. Now, we can do this one of two ways. I can kill you – here and now – quick and quiet – and no one will ever know. Or I can rip you painfully to pieces, smearing your internal organs across the walls and tying your innards in a bow around the light fittings, before going off for the cup of tea I so desperately need. And if by some chance I am apprehended, I shall not only get away with my hideous crime but probably receive a medal and a small reward for services towards ridding the world of two really, really irritating smart arse teenagers.’

  Wordlessly, Adrian pointed upwards to one of the discreetly placed CCTV cameras with which Hawking is infested.

  I moved a menacing step closer. ‘I no longer care.’

  Nothing happened for long seconds and then, finally, just as I was thinking I was going to have to kill them after all, Adrian pulled out his scratchpad, brought something up on the screen and handed it to me.

  It was indeed an invitation. Unbelievably, some idiot had issued these two – sight unseen, obviously – with a formal invitation to some sort of function.

  With a plummeting heart, I read the words aloud.

  My voice petered away. I looked up. They were beaming at me.

  ‘See,’ said Mikey. She pointed at the invitation. ‘We’re invited.’ She seemed to think this made everything all right. ‘In fact, we’re all invited. Why don’t you come too?’

  God help me, I was tempted. I was very tempted indeed. Who wouldn’t want to go? The chance to meet Stephen Hawking. To talk with him. To see his face as we walked in. To see his face as he clapped eyes on Adrian and Mikey. It would be so worth it.

  They were grinning at me. ‘There’s champagne,’ said Mikey, beguilingly.

  ‘Neither of you are old enough to drink.’

  ‘And horses doovers.’

  ‘If you knew what a horses doover was you wouldn’t be half so enthusiastic.’

  ‘But Max . . .’ she wheedled.

  I rallied. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It’s out there, Max. All over the internet and anyone with a pod can go.’ They beamed. Presumably access to the internet and possession of a pod made everything all right.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, guys. I’m completely with you on this one, but no.’

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘No. It’s not possible.’

  Mikey pointed to the invite. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Look – it contravenes the Hundred Years Rule. It contravenes Ian Guthrie’s “No jumping back to irritate Professor Hawking” rule and most importantly, the party has already happened and no one turned up. You didn’t go to the party. You never got to meet Professor Hawking. It’s a shame because I think the three of you would have got on like a house on fire, but no. Believe me, I am sorry, but absolutely not.’

  I felt bad. Really, really bad. But no contact with Professor Hawking was just about the first rule I ever learned at St Mary’s and one of the few I hadn’t yet broken.

  They looked so upset that I said, ‘Come on. I’ll take you for a drink.’

  They brightened up.

  ‘Nothing alcoholic.’

  They drooped again. I felt like a kitten-murderer but just imagine if I’d missed them. If they’d gone ahead and made the jump. I could just see the teapot materialising in the middle of the room, the two of them throwing out their heavy ladder, hopefully not stunning one of the world’s leading cosmologists and Giant Brain. The implications were enormous but thanks to me, would never happen. I’d averted catastrophe. Never mind them – I needed a drink.

  So that was how I missed the jump. But not Bannockburn. I didn’t miss Bannockburn at all.

  Anyway, after all that, just to keep an eye on them for a while and not in the least because I needed a drink, we sat in the bar, talking of this and that, reminiscing about Atticus Wolfe and the Time Police. They regaled me with some of their more hair-raising adventures, all of which confirmed my belief we’d done the universe an enormous favour by removing them from general circulation, and the time passed really quickly.

  Too quickly. It was a shock to look at the clock and realise that Number Four’s return time had passed more than half an hour ago. And at exactly that moment, Dr Bairstow requested the pleasure of my company.

  I said goodbye to the teapot tearaways and trotted up the stairs. Mrs Partridge waved me through.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell, we appear to have a problem.’

  For one moment I wondered if he’d heard about Adrian and Mikey’s attempt to subvert the course of History, physics, cosmology and the universe in general, but no – we had another problem. Number Four had not returned.

  In older, happier days, our assignments were open-ended. We could return any time. Now, however, in these more perilous times, we’d introduced specific return times. If a pod failed to materialise at the designated time, then we could safely assume something had gone wrong. It would appear the Three Stooges had encountered a problem at Bannockburn.

  ‘How late are they, sir?’

  ‘Nearly an hour, now. I am beginning to experience some concern.’

  So was I. This was Ian Guthrie, our former Head of Security; Markham, our current Head of Security; and Peterson, our Deputy Director. It seemed unlikely they’d get themselves into difficulties, but this was Bannockburn, after all. It seemed much more likely difficulties had got to them.

  I sighed. This is what happens if you let men out on their own without adequate female supervision. They just can’t handle it. Guilt kicked in. I should have gone with them. I could have just sent Adrian and Mikey on their way. I could have asked Leon to keep an eye on them. I was Head of the History Department and I’d let them go on their own. One civilian and a couple of idiots. Of course they were going to get themselves lost, injured or dead. And it was my fault.

  Dr Bairstow was taking a less pessimistic view. ‘I feel sure there will be an adequate explanation, Dr Maxwell. They are probably stranded somewhere unable to return to their pod without assistance.’

  I’d forbidden them to leave the pod. I’d suspected at the time they’d ignore that instruction and now look what had happened.

  ‘I’ll put together a rescue team as quickly as I can, sir.’

  ‘I think not, Dr Maxwell. Bannockburn is a battlefield. There are around thirty thousand armed men in the vicinity. We could not possibly compete. Therefore, I think, in and out, quick and quiet. A scouting party. Take a look around, locate our people and if you can’t immediately retrieve them, jump back here for reinforcements.’

  I sat quietly and had a bit of a think. ‘In that case, sir, I think I’ll take Mr Evans – an obvious choice – and . . .’

  I was hovering between Atherton and Clerk when Mrs Partridge entered. ‘Miss Grey is here and would like to see you immediately, Dr Bairstow.’

  He frowned. I could see his thinking. He wouldn’t want Elspeth knowing we were having a problem. On the other hand, Mrs Partridge wouldn’t let anyone in without a very good reason.

  ‘Ask her to come in, please.’

  Elspeth was pale but resolute. ‘They’re late, aren’t they? Ian said he would ring me as soon as he got back and he hasn’t.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Grey. Yes, they are, but not hugely so. Dr Maxwell and I are just considering our options.’

  �
�I’d like to be included in any rescue mission.’

  I frowned. I could understand her wish to be included, but I, for one, had several objections to this and I was certain Dr Bairstow would, as well.

  There’s no nice way of wrapping this up: Elspeth Grey is pod-shy. It’s not her fault and certainly no one blames her, but it’s the reason she doesn’t work here any longer. She and her then partner, Bashford, had been snatched by that bastard Clive Ronan and dropped, defenceless, into the middle of Colchester, minutes before Boudicca turned up to massacre the inhabitants and raze the place to the ground.

  We’d got there just in time to pull them out – another illegal Christmas jump – avoided a hundred thousand blood-hungry Brits and an enraged pig – and returned them safely to St Mary’s.

  Alas for Elspeth, no happy ending. She just couldn’t rid herself of the fear that it would happen all over again. Her subsequent assignment had been a bit of a disaster and she’d quietly resigned. No one held it against her. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. You could argue that Elspeth was actually the most intelligent person here. You could also argue that she must be really concerned to be volunteering to get back into a pod again.

  I looked at her anxious eyes.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Max, but I have to do this. It’s Ian and I’d never forgive myself if . . . I have to stop running away. I have to deal with this.’

  ‘Elspeth, it’s not important. There are far more important things in this world than gallivanting up and down the timeline in an unreliable box accompanied by a bunch of lunatics.’

  She shook her head. ‘I thought if I left . . . started a new life . . . but . . . don’t tell Ian . . . but it’s not working. It’s not St Mary’s that’s the problem – it’s me. I’ve lost my bottle and everyone knows it. Including me. And everyone’s been really nice to me and I don’t deserve it. And yes, I’m terrified but I have to get past this. So I can look myself in the eye every morning. I have to do this. I have to get out there and conquer my fears. For Ian.’

  I should say no. A few Christmases ago I reunited her and Ian. I brought them together when everyone thought she and Bashford had been lost forever. And now this was Ian’s last jump before what everyone hoped was his long and happy retirement. We’ve all seen those films where the detective is killed on his last case. The racing driver killed in his last race. The soldier on his last assignment. It’s a kind of narrative imperative. And now, here she was . . . Had I brought Elspeth home one Christmas only to lose her during another? And then I looked at her face.

  Turning to Dr Bairstow, I said, ‘I have no objection, sir. Mr Evans and I can take a quick look around and if Miss Grey is content to remain in the pod, she can monitor the situation from there, give us an overview and warn us of any impending situations. She could be very useful.’

  He thought for a moment, staring out of the window, and then nodded. ‘Very well, Dr Maxwell. See to it, please.’

  We kitted ourselves out in woodland-green camouflage. There was absolutely no point in wrapping ourselves up in contemporary 14th-century gear. For a start, whose side would we choose? Quick, quiet and invisible was the way to go on this one.

  I toyed with the idea of taking Leon’s pod with its camouflage device but decided against it in the end. In a hazardous situation the last thing you need is to be racing around shouting, ‘Where the hell did we leave the bloody thing?’ And if we weren’t going to activate the camouflage device then there was no point in taking it.

  I sighed. Best-case scenario – if they’d obeyed my instructions – and I think we all know how likely that was – they’d be safely inside the pod and we’d be talking about nothing more serious than a minor systems failure. Although don’t mention that to Leon. We’ve never yet had a pod fail, despite, as he often points out, the fragile state in which some of them are returned.

  I thought we’d take Number Eight – my favourite pod. We’ve seen some exciting times together.

  We drew weapons – even Elspeth. I took a stun gun, a pepper spray and slapped a small blaster to the sticky patch on my combats.

  Evans took the same plus a massive blaster slung over his shoulder. Presumably he was hoping to subdue the Loch Ness Monster at the same time.

  Elspeth took two stun guns and a pepper spray.

  We surveyed each other outside the pod.

  ‘Everyone all set?’ I said.

  They nodded.

  Leon was just finishing laying in the coordinates. I’d asked for about an hour after their arrival and as close as possible to their landing site. There was a bloody great battle going on out there so I didn’t want to have to do too much running around outside the pod.

  ‘All set,’ he said. ‘Return coordinates laid in as well. Just in case.’

  I nodded. Sometimes we have to leave quite quickly and you don’t want to spend time calculating the returns. We always set up as much as we can in advance. Plenty will always go wrong and it gives us a couple of seconds’ head start on whatever is trying to kill us all.

  He smiled for me alone, wished us all good luck and left.

  ‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Off we go. Computer – initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  Well, here we were. Bannockburn, June 1314. The two-day battle which would ultimately result in Scottish independence. There’s a bit of a story behind Bannockburn. Well, there’s a bit of a story behind most events in History, obviously, but you know what I mean.

  The English were occupying nearby Stirling Castle – it being a strategic point for everyone. Edward Bruce – brother of the more famous Robert – was laying siege to it. I suspect it was a bit of a miserable business for both sides – the Scots up to their waists in mud and the English facing the prospect of slowly starving to death – and so the two sides reached a kind of gentlemen’s agreement. If the castle wasn’t relieved by midsummer, it would be handed over to the Scots without bloodshed.

  It is possible that hearing his brother’s arrangement – made without his knowledge – that mighty Robert Bruce fetched his younger and much dimmer sibling a mighty thump upside the head, because what Edward had done, in effect, was hurl down a challenge the English king couldn’t possibly ignore. A tiny Scottish army that had previously used only guerrilla tactics and avoided formal warfare like the plague suddenly found itself number one on the English summer fixture list.

  Once he’d calmed down, however, some brave soul had pointed out to Robert Bruce that he now knew where the English army would be next midsummer and he could therefore lay his plans accordingly. He had time to shape the battlefield to his advantage and he did.

  He had pits dug to break up the powerful English cavalry. He revived the fearsome Scottish schiltron – a mass of men welded together with long pikes bristling in all directions, disciplined and well trained and virtually invulnerable to mounted knights. Bruce was a canny man who used the time granted him to skew the odds in his favour.

  I called up Number Four as soon as we landed. There was no response. We tried our individual coms. Nothing.

  ‘They’re about twenty yards away,’ said Grey, peering at the screen.

  She was right. Number Four sat at the edge of our small clearing, just to the east of us. Unscathed and undamaged. I only hoped we could say the same of its occupants.

  Both pods had landed in the Torwood, situated about half a mile to the south of the Bannock Burn. The English army lay to our right, camped along the Roman road, and the Scots had made their stand on the boggy ground on the other side of the burn, behind their ditches. We had quite a good view from here, which is why I’d chosen it, although tomorrow, when the English would move east to the Carse, less so.

  Compared to the Scots, drawn up in four compact schiltrons, the English army must have seemed massive. At least ten divisions, t
heir weapons glinting in a temporary glimpse of the sun, colourful banners and pennants everywhere and heaving with horses, they sprawled across the landscape.

  The glimpse of the sun was very short. This was a typical Scottish summer – mild enough but very damp. There was a misty rain in the air. At least no one would have the sun in their eyes or find themselves slowly cooking in their own armour. The downside was that the going was soft. Very soft indeed. I could see puddles of water everywhere. There would be mud on an industrial scale. Actually, until very recently, most of History is mud, blood and pestilence. These days it’s greed, corruption and incompetence.

  Evans unshouldered his elephant gun. ‘I’ll go and check the other pod. You two stay here. Keep checking the proximities.’

  I looked up. ‘There are more than thirty thousand men here today. I’m not sure how helpful the proximities will be but yes, we’ll watch your back.’

  Elspeth angled the cameras and we watched him approach Number Four. He circled cautiously. He’d left his com open and we heard him call for the door which opened perfectly normally. He disappeared inside. We waited, hoping – no, expecting – to see Markham or Peterson’s head appear, demanding to know what all the fuss was about.

  It didn’t happen.

  Evans appeared instead, shook his head and called me over.

  ‘And me,’ said Elspeth, getting to her feet.

  We checked around very carefully before leaving the pod because we didn’t know who else was out there. Well, actually we did, there were thirty thousand of them, and none of them would be feeling friendly.

  I sent Elspeth over first, covering her from Number Eight, and then set off myself.

  Apart from the lack of people, Number Four looked completely normal.

  ‘The Marie Celeste of pods,’ said Evans cheerfully, then remembered Elspeth and shut up.

  Everything was working perfectly. Even the toilet, which might have been the one reason someone had nipped outside. Although, as Evans said, they wouldn’t all have gone at the same time. They weren’t girls.