The Long and Short of It Read online

  Ever since the first book, when Leon tells Max about the missing historians, I’d always intended to bring some of them back again. Suddenly this seemed the ideal opportunity, and Bashford and Grey were born.

  I’m quite pleased with Grey, because she gave me an opportunity to show the slightly less gung-ho side of St Mary’s. I can’t imagine anything more frightening than being abandoned in the wrong time. It’s rather similar to being marooned on an alien planet. No matter how hard you struggle, how far you walk, how long you wait, you’re never, ever going to be able to get home again. Something like that would, I think, be bound to affect anyone, and Grey has given me a chance to explore that, although, possible spoiler alert for the future, she comes through in the end. At least she will if I can work out that particular aspect of a future St Mary’s story.

  Bashford, of course, is a typical historian, only semi-conscious at the best of times. It is possible that Miss Sykes might have her eye on him, although, of course, he is completely unaware of this.

  Initially, I wasn’t sure the story would be accepted – I worried that an account of the destruction of Roman Colchester wasn’t particularly suitable for Christmas, but it seemed to go down quite well. Especially the scene with Max and Mrs Partridge at the end.

  While I’m at it, I’d like to take the opportunity to thank Jan Jones, another Accent Press author, whose Christmas short story had the same title. Strictly speaking, she submitted hers first, so it was her title, but she very generously agreed to change hers to ‘Christmas Gift’, so that I could use ‘Christmas Present’. Thanks very much, Jan.

  Christmas Present

  I thought it was a dream. To this day, I’m not convinced it wasn’t. It felt like a dream. There was the same lack of reality. Although, at St Mary’s, a lack of reality doesn’t necessarily mean you’re dreaming. And since I wasn’t being chased by giant scissors through a world suddenly turned to custard, maybe it wasn’t a dream.

  But it probably was.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to describe Mrs Partridge as a nightmare – not if she was within earshot, anyway – but there she was, standing at the bottom of my bed, regarding me with that expressionless stare that never, ever, bodes well for me and I should know. I’ve been the recipient of that stare on many occasions.

  We looked at each other for a while. She was wearing the full formal attire – Greek robes, silver diadem, sandals, and a stern expression. Only Kleio, Muse of History, could brandish a scroll as if it was a heat-seeking missile.

  I, on the other hand, was not only in my PJs, but further disadvantaged by the presence of a heavily slumbering Leon Farrell beside me. The only good thing about this situation was that she hadn’t turned up twenty minutes earlier. By unspoken but mutual consent, we ignored him.

  I struggled to sit up. ‘Mrs Partridge?’

  As if there could be any doubt, but it was the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. It was freezing cold – I could see frost on the window – and St Mary’s was officially on holiday.

  We work for the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, detests that phrase. ‘This is not Science Fiction, Dr Maxwell!’

  I knew he was in Rushford tonight, dining with a bunch of civic dignitaries, and wouldn’t return until tomorrow, just in time to preside over Christmas lunch. If he wasn’t here and St Mary’s was on holiday, what could she possibly want? And how had she got in? Leon, wisely, always locked the door. I mentally kicked myself. She was Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. She could go anywhere she damned well pleased. And, apparently, she had.

  She said, ‘Get up, please, Dr Maxwell. I’ll wait outside,’ and turned to go.

  ‘Wait! What’s happened? Is someone dead?’

  But she’d gone.

  I grabbed my dressing gown.

  She was waiting for me on the dark landing. ‘Please, come with me.’ She took my hand.

  ‘No. Wait. What’s going on?’

  Too late. She never likes to spoil the surprise with anything as mundane as an explanation. The ground disappeared beneath my feet and we whirled away into the air, as directionless and weightless as two tiny snowflakes in a blizzard. We landed, light as thistledown in her case, and like a small sack of coal in mine.

  I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again.

  ‘Mrs Partridge, please, just tell me. What’s this all about?’

  She gestured ahead of us. We were in Hawking Hangar. But not the Hawking I knew. This one looked really rough. Primitive, even. For a start, the lighting was terrible. Eye-wateringly bright in some areas, but dangerously dim in others. A bit like our Technical Section, actually. The central area was taken up with long metal benches, smothered in tools, cables, and equipment. The floor and walls were of rough concrete and the whole place echoed like a cathedral. Huge, rubber-sheathed cables trailed across the floor, not tidily bundled against the walls as they should be, but snaking around the place in giant loops, seeking to trip the unwary.

  Busy techies were moving around us, obviously completely unaware of our presence. Nobody actually walked through us though, which was a shame, because I would have liked to see how my dream coped with that.

  Pods stood on plinths, ready to jump back to their allocated time, but instead of each plinth having its own set of controls built in, techies were trundling around a giant contraption of flashing lights, dials, levers, read-outs, and electronic beeping. Huge umbilicals sprouted from every orifice. They heaved it to plinth four – it took three of them – and started plugging things in. They all wore thick insulating gloves. They even wore protective goggles. For an organisation that tends to regard health and safety in the workplace as something that happens to someone else, this was a little worrying. It all looked very Heath Robinson to me. As if something new was being born and everyone was making it all up as they went along. A crisis would occur and someone would bolt on another piece of equipment, which would do until the next time something else went horribly wrong, and they had to come up with another solution.

  Looking at the faces around me, I hardly recognised anyone until Dieter drifted past, wearing a stained, orange jumpsuit and looking as if he’d just escaped from college – which actually turned out to be the case. He was pounding his scratchpad and calling the results to someone inside Number Four. A disembodied but familiar voice replied and two seconds later, a very young looking Leon Farrell stuck his head out of the door, requesting clarification.

  Yes, this was Hawking, but not as I knew it.

  I looked around for a convenient calendar. Given the technical and mechanical nature of the place, the picture on the wall should be of some semi-naked nymph, sprawled elegantly across a high-end sports car, while a significant portion of her anatomy defied gravity. Since this was St Mary’s, a fluffy kitten and a fluffy duckling sat side by side above a date showing Christmas Eve. Ten years ago.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said to Mrs Partridge. ‘No, no, no. I am not doing the “Ghost of Christmas Past” thing.’

  She sighed. ‘This is not about you, Dr Maxwell. Please concentrate.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Please observe closely.’

  Three figures approached Number Four. Two, I didn’t know at all, but I certainly recognised the third one. Major Ian Guthrie, head of our Security section.

  Beside me, Mrs Partridge said, ‘May I introduce two of St Mary’s Senior Historians. Mr Bashford and Miss Grey.’

  I knew those names. I’d seen them up on our Board of Honour in the chapel, recording the names of those who didn’t come back. Those who died in the service of St Mary’s.

  It was before my time, but in the early days of St Mary’s, Bashford and Grey set out for 12th-century Jerusalem and never came back. Search parties failed to find any trace of them. They were killed by Clive Ronan, a renegade historian from the future. Killed for the
ir pod, Number Four. We got it back, eventually, but Grey and Bashford were never found.

  ‘Major Guthrie, of course, you know.’

  Well, I did, obviously, and he hadn’t changed that much over the last ten years. Except that, at second glance, he had. I don’t know how to put this, but sometimes, you don’t know how unhappy someone is until you see them before the unhappiness. Before grief etches deep lines on their face and dulls the light in their eyes. He walked beside Miss Grey, looking down at her as she lifted her face to him, smiling. I never thought I’d say this, and certainly not about quiet, self-contained Ian Guthrie, but his very soul was in his eyes as he looked at her.

  A half-forgotten memory flashed into my head. A naked Professor Rapson yodelling to himself on the top shelves of the archive. Dr Foster draped all over Peterson telling him how much she loved him, and Ian Guthrie slumped against a wall, staring at something only he could see and whispering, ‘Elspeth, I looked for you. I looked everywhere for you.’

  I had wondered at the time who he was talking to. And yes, before anyone asks, they were all as high as kites on homemade, hallucinogenic, toxic honey. Long story. This must be that Elspeth Grey.

  They paused outside Number Four. Bashford shook his head, laughed at them both, and disappeared inside with Chief Farrell.

  Guthrie and Grey exchanged a few words. She was dressed for the 12th century in a long tunic of blue. Her hair was covered, but her eyebrows were fair. She looked up at Guthrie with large, dark, serious eyes. He said something. She laughed. They paused and then formally shook hands, as Leon and I did when we had to say goodbye in front of other people. A private moment in a public place. Guthrie retired back behind the safety line. She entered the pod. Leon came out and the door closed behind him. Thirty seconds later, they were gone. Gone forever, because they never came back. St Mary’s searched for them because we don’t leave our people behind. But they were never found.

  Mrs Partridge turned to me.

  ‘Well, Dr Maxwell, what have we just seen?’

  Obediently, I responded. ‘We have just seen Bashford and Grey depart on their last assignment. Twelfth-century Jerusalem. At some point, that bastard Clive Ronan will ambush them. He will kill them and steal their pod.’

  I stopped and waited. What did she want from me? It had already happened. I couldn’t prevent it. Ronan stole Number Four and there was nothing anyone could do about it. She said nothing because I always have to work things out for myself. Seriously, would it have killed her to type up a briefing sheet every now and then?

  I made myself think. All right, so not the pod. It would be stolen and it would be a long time before we saw it again, so it had to be the people. Bashford and Grey. I experienced the legendary Maxwell Leap of Revelation and nearly fell over a coil of cable at my feet.

  ‘The historians!’

  ‘Yes?’

  Having made this promising beginning, I fell silent. She surely didn’t want me to prevent the jump. I wouldn’t do that. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. It had already happened.

  ‘I couldn’t prevent them leaving.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I racked my brains. For God’s sake – what did she expect from me? It was the middle of the night. I’d been dragged from my bed and dumped, in a dream, in the middle of Hawking ten years ago and – And we were gone.

  There was no gentle fading away. I blinked and found myself on the gallery, looking down into the Great Hall. I knew where we were now. And when. This was tomorrow. This was Christmas Present.

  All our historian gear had been stored away. A slightly wonky Christmas tree stood by the stairs, tastelessly festooned with tinsel, lights, and ornaments of every shape and colour. There was no fashionable colour scheme. Every shade of the rainbow was more than represented. At the top, a lopsided star clung on for dear life.

  As in the style of a medieval banquet, a long table ran down the middle of the room. This was rather more democratic, however. We’re St Mary’s. We’re all below the salt.

  The noise levels were tremendous. Lunch had finished and crackers were being pulled. Such is the standard of sophisticated humour at St Mary’s, that the jokes inside were considered hilarious. Copious amounts of alcohol had obviously been consumed.

  I leaned on the balustrade and looked down.

  I saw Kalinda Black, temporarily returned from extorting money from the University of Thirsk, our hapless employers. She was laughing with Dieter and Polly Perkins from IT. Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson were arguing amiably. Dr Bairstow sat at the head of the table, benign and dormant – like a volcano taking the afternoon off.

  Someone was missing. Someone’s seat was empty. My finely honed historian senses told me something was wrong.

  I turned suddenly to Mrs Partridge – who wasn’t there. And neither was I.

  I was alone in a dark room. The curtains were pulled across the windows. A man sat, perfectly still, his sightless eyes staring at a muted TV screen. Light flickered across his face. The empty pill bottle stood at his elbow.

  For Ian Guthrie, there would be no Christmas Future.

  I heard my hiss of indrawn breath. Heard the blood pound in my temples. Felt the room sway around me. I stood still for a long time. Until I was sure I wasn’t going to faint. My brain searched frantically for a reasonable explanation. A way to make sense of what I was seeing. The hope that I would open my eyes to find I’d made a terrible mistake. That it was some trick of the light. That it was a dream. Please, please, if there really is a merciful god somewhere, let this be a dream.

  Ten years. Tonight was the ten-year anniversary of her death and I hadn’t known. I’d never even had a clue. Had anyone else known? He was such a very private man. I thought of all his grief, building over the years, with nowhere to go, until suddenly … I’ve grieved for someone. I know what it’s like. And he’d been grieving for years. And we hadn’t known…

  ‘Ian? No. No, no, no.’

  It came out as a dreadful, rasping whisper that hurt my throat, although no pain could be greater than the one in my heart.

  I shouted. I tried to shake him. I don’t know why. I tried to get the door open to call for help and found I could do none of these things. I was suffocating under that helpless feeling you have in dreams when something dreadful is happening and you can’t move, can’t speak, can’t struggle, can’t do anything … Oh God, let this be a dream…

  I awoke with a jerk. Beside me, Leon muttered and turned over. I lay rigidly still for a moment, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal, while images I could well do without kaleidoscoped through my head.

  I closed my eyes and had a bit of a think. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew what I had to do. What I must do. But first things first. I had to find someone to watch over Guthrie. Someone who would stay with him, no matter what. Someone not easily intimidated. Someone who wouldn’t gossip. Someone I could trust.

  I sat up and sacrificed Leon without hesitation.

  ‘Wake up!’

  ‘No more,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, your demands are beyond the limit of human endurance, and I need my sleep.’

  ‘You should be so lucky. Wake up.’

  He sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  What did I say to him? Leon, I’ve had this weird dream which might not have been a dream at all actually, and Ian Guthrie is going to kill himself tonight, and I need you to keep an eye on him while I – while I what? What was I going to do? I’d come back to that.

  ‘Leon, listen. I don’t have time to explain now, but I will. You know I will.’

  He sat up, rubbed his hair, and said nothing.

  ‘I need you to do something really, really important.’

  He didn’t ask what was going on, or demand an explanation, or ask me what the hell I thought I was doing, and I remembered again just why he was so special.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I need you to stay with Ian Guthrie
. All night if necessary. At least until I get back.’

  I waited for him to ask me where I was going at his time of night, and he didn’t.

  ‘Why?’

  I was confused because he’d asked the wrong question. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why must I wake Ian Guthrie, who is almost certainly asleep by now, and stay with him all night at least until you get back?’

  A reasonable question.

  ‘That’s a very reasonable question.’

  ‘And I can’t wait to hear the very reasonable answer.’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  ‘That figures.’

  He folded his arms and waited. I had to tell him something.

  ‘Leon. It’s ten years tonight. She’s been gone for ten years. I think he needs a friend.’

  I watched his expressions. Perplexity. Realisation. Shock. Guilt. Urgency. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his clothes.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  I avoided the direct question. ‘It’s ten years tonight, Leon. He shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘And if he’s sleeping quietly in his bed? Which he probably is. I’m to wake him and spend the night with him? Have you any idea what he will be thinking?’

  ‘No,’ I said, innocently. ‘What will he be thinking?’

  He paused from dragging on his jeans. ‘We will be discussing this more fully tomorrow.’

  I blew him a kiss as he left the room and looked for my own clothes.

  I crept downstairs to the kitchen where I made myself a mug of tea and headed to the silent library for more thinking. The whole building was quiet, but there were a few people still around. Markham, doing a security sweep, came upon me at a data table.