Why is Nothing Ever Simple? Read online

  They dropped the two new snipers to lay face down alongside the other two. I carried out another head count. Two plus two plus two equalled six. Sadly, Smallhope and Pennyroyal were now wide awake and glaring.

  Peterson bent over them. ‘Who are these two?’

  ‘Sorry – where are my manners? This is Lady Amelia Smallhope and her butler, Pennyroyal.’

  There was a bit of a silence.

  Eventually Markham said, ‘And they are here because . . . ?’

  ‘They’re bounty hunters.’

  ‘Recovery agents,’ said Smallhope with dignity.

  ‘And they’re after these two?’

  ‘These four.’

  I counted the snipers by kicking them. ‘If we hang on a bit longer, we could be in double figures soon.’

  ‘No, we will not,’ said Markham firmly. ‘We’re leaving. I know you’re only historians but even you can’t have failed to notice the bloody great battle going on around us.’

  A slight exaggeration but I could see his point. There’s such a thing as outstaying one’s welcome. And Elspeth, taking care to stand near Guthrie, should definitely be taken back to St Mary’s as soon as possible. Not least so everyone could see what a hero she had been. She’d left the pod – alone – and come looking for us. That had taken some doing.

  ‘Well, now what?’ said Peterson as we prepared to depart with everyone’s weapons, because we weren’t going to leave those lying around for any contemporaries to fall over. ‘Do we just leave them all here?’

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘They were going to leave us.’

  ‘But the Time Police . . . ?’

  ‘Well, these four . . .’ I pointed at the snipers, ‘are legitimate prey, and these two . . .’ I pointed at Smallhope and Pennyroyal, ‘I’m going to pay them the compliment of saying they’re too dangerous to take any chances with. They’re probably legit – although that’s not our problem. I’m sure the Time Police will soon be here to rescue them.’

  I looked down at the two of them. ‘I imagine there will be some witty amusement at your expense – because I’ll bet you’ve been witty at theirs on many occasions. I’m sure they’ll only put the boot in very gently. After taking you back to TPHQ for processing, of course. And photographing. And statements. I’m sure it won’t be hugely embarrassing at all.’

  They glared at me.

  ‘We should go,’ said Markham. He looked down at our prisoners. ‘Lovely to meet you all today but we really must be going. Long walk back.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said nastily, as we scrambled out of the ditch. ‘We can spend the time discussing which bits of “Do not leave the pod” were too difficult for you to understand.’

  ‘They shot at us, Max.’

  ‘And who can blame them. I’m stifling that urge, myself.’

  We set off back to the pod leaving four snipers and two bounty hunters. A pretty impressive afternoon’s work, I think everyone will agree.

  I walked alongside Major Guthrie. ‘Ian, I’m sorry to cut this short but I really don’t think we should hang around here. There’s more going on here than just . . .’ I gestured vaguely in the direction I thought the battle should be.

  ‘Than the Scots kicking the English arse?’ he said, helpfully.

  I glared at him.

  He grinned. ‘Too soon?’

  I persevered. ‘I know you’ll miss the second day, but . . .’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s not as if we don’t know how it ends.’

  Evans nodded. ‘And I’m bloody sure I don’t want to be around when that butler’s able to function again.’

  Peterson nodded. ‘I don’t think any of us do.’

  I hadn’t finished. ‘Just think, Ian – we saved Scotland. Your guys missed Robert Bruce and our guys never got around to taking their shot. If those other bastards back there had had their way – that’s the ENLA bastards, not the member of the aristocracy and her semi-trained thug – Bruce would have died, and without his tactical abilities, to say nothing of the massive loss of morale, the Scots would have lost. Bruce would never have become king. Scotland would not have become an independent nation. Everything would have been different. We might have been a united nation some four hundred years earlier.’

  He frowned. ‘Would we? Even if he’d won here today, I don’t think Edward would have been capable of holding on to Scotland.’

  ‘He might not but his son would have.’

  ‘Yes, but that means he would have had to concentrate all his attention on Scotland rather than France. Possibly no Crecy and no Poitiers. And even if he’d been successful, I don’t think Scotland and England would have become one nation. The English would always have regarded Scotland as a vassal state.’

  ‘And we’d never have had the Stuarts,’ said Peterson, turning around. ‘Which means that after Elizabeth died . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ said Markham from the rear. ‘More walking, less talking.’

  Barely had he spoken than Evans, who was in the lead, stopped dead. The rest of us remembered we were supposed to be professionals and did not concertina into the back of him.

  Gesturing over to the right, he dropped to the ground. We followed suit.

  Shit. I thought things had been too easy up until now.

  They were on a parallel course with us, about twenty yards over to our right. Eight or ten of them, skinny, badly dressed, damp, muddy, poorly equipped, and heading away from the battle.

  Deserters. And English, judging by the direction they’d come from. Fed up with bad weather, bad food and bad leadership, they were going while the going was good. I couldn’t blame them. They wouldn’t know this – although given how today had gone so far, they might have had an inkling – but English losses tomorrow would be huge. Of those who did survive, many would not find their way safely home. Except for Edward, of course, who, given the way his life turned out, would have done better to have died gloriously on the battlefield.

  This bunch crept almost soundlessly through the woods, knives and axes out, very scared and very jumpy.

  I crouched behind something bushy and watched them pass.

  The good news was that they completely missed us. The bad news was that they were heading in the direction of Smallhope and Pennyroyal. Who were on the ground, trussed and helpless.

  I stood up, stared after them, then turned to Markham and whispered, ‘We left them tied up. They won’t stand a chance. We have to go back.’

  Evans shook his head. ‘Max, they were going to leave us.’

  ‘We’re not them.’

  ‘The Time Police will be here any moment,’ whispered Peterson. ‘Let them do any saving.’

  ‘Tim, it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Not here, it’s not. It’s summer. You can tell by the trees.’

  I stared at him, baffled. ‘You mean the leaves?’

  ‘No, I mean that grand old Scottish saying: “If you can’t see the trees, it’s raining. If you can see the trees, it’s going to rain”.’

  I ignored him. ‘It’s goodwill to all men and all that. You guys go on. I’ll catch you up.’

  I turned back the way we’d come.

  Markham sighed deeply. ‘You stay with them,’ he said to Evans. ‘Get them back to the pods. I’ll keep an eye on the daft bat here.’

  Evans offered him his big blaster and very, very cautiously, we set off through the vast acres of wet woodland with which Scotland was so generously endowed.

  We caught up with them as they were standing over our prisoners, knives drawn, waiting for someone else to make the first move. I didn’t blame them. Strange people, strangely dressed. Tied up and left in the middle of nowhere. They’d be deeply suspicious. Would they kill them? Attempt to rob them? If they had any sense at all, they’d leave them there and just keep going.

>   All four snipers were now making desperate efforts to free themselves. Pennyroyal had rolled on top of Smallhope in an effort to shield her.

  As we watched, one of the deserters sidled closer and raised his axe. There were shouts and pleas from the snipers who, while they had no problems with slaughtering others willy-nilly, seemed to have every objection to having the same done to them. The deserters wouldn’t want all this noise drawing attention to them. Three or four more stepped forwards, knives drawn, their intentions obvious.

  Shit.

  Markham wasted no time in friendly introductions, firing the big blaster at a small bush that had never done him any harm, and which went up in a very satisfactory roar of red flames. I leaped down the slope, shouting and waving my arms and they were so surprised that I was able to stun two of them before they even knew I was there. Two ran away immediately. Two or three hung back, unsure what to do next. The rest stayed to make a fight of it and I left them to Markham. I threw myself down beside Pennyroyal, cutting his ties and rolling out of the way as he exploded into action. Men flew in all directions. Trust me, a pissed-off butler is a terrifying sight. I’d never seen anything like it. He and Markham made a great team. I suspected they were enjoying themselves so I sat down beside Smallhope and regretted the absence of popcorn.

  I know it’s traditional to say, ‘When the dust had settled,’ but this was Scotland, so when the mud had settled, those who could had run away. I counted those on the ground yet again. Two snipers. And another two snipers. Four deserters. Eight altogether. We’d failed to reach double figures which was disappointing. And yes, before anyone starts, I know we’re not supposed to injure contemporaries. So put me on a disciplinary. It’s a long time since I had a yellow sheet in my file.

  ‘You came back,’ said Smallhope. We’d managed to surprise her.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ I said, sawing her free.

  ‘Well . . . thank you.’

  Everyone was dusting themselves down.

  ‘And,’ I said, ‘now you have four prisoners to deliver. Double the bounty.’

  ‘Very grateful,’ said Smallhope.

  ‘Buy me a drink sometime,’ I said.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Markham, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll be inviting them back to lunch in a minute.’

  ‘That’s a very good thought,’ I said, turning to Smallhope and Pennyroyal. ‘What are you doing for Christmas lunch?’

  They blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘Christmas lunch. Do you want some?’

  I don’t think they quite knew what to say.

  ‘It’ll be good,’ I said. ‘The food is brilliant and there’s a lot of it. Sadly, you’ll have to endure the Security Section’s traditional rabid reindeer routine but why should we suffer alone?’

  ‘No more chat,’ said Markham sternly. ‘Back to the pods right now. I’m assuming you two can take things from here?’

  Pennyroyal was heaving snipers to their feet. ‘My lady . . .’

  ‘Yes, we should be going too. Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Which other one?’ said Markham, looking around.

  ‘You mean Mr Evans,’ I said.

  ‘Yes – the big one.’

  ‘Gone on ahead, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Shame,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ I said. ‘Very . . . capable.’

  Markham gave me a shove. ‘Time to go.’

  We went.

  ‘You didn’t leave me time to give them our coordinates,’ I said as Markham hustled me away.

  ‘If they can’t work them out for themselves then they don’t deserve Christmas lunch,’ he said. ‘Now can we please get a move on.’

  In among the flurry of medical attention back in Sick Bay, I managed to have a quiet word with Elspeth.

  ‘Elspeth, you were amazing and so I shall say in my report.’

  She was almost sparkling. ‘Thank you, Max.’

  ‘I have to say this – if you want to come back to St Mary’s, it’s not too late and I’d be overjoyed to have you.’

  She smiled. ‘No. Thank you, Max, but no. I still don’t want to do it but now I don’t want to do it for the right reasons. I don’t want to do it because I have something better now. My life has moved on. Rather than because I’m too shit-scared ever to get into a pod again.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. And this is me making the decision this time, rather than the decision making me.’

  ‘In that case, Merry Christmas, Elspeth.’

  Deep down, I didn’t think Lady Amelia and Pennyroyal would turn up but they did, arriving about eleven o’clock on Christmas morning. They’d obviously done their homework, bringing a beautifully wrapped bottle of something for Dr Bairstow. It would have been wrapped by Pennyroyal, I was certain. No dodecahedral nightmares for him. He’d probably done it at the same time as servicing their pod, cleaning their weapons and producing a four-course dinner. I bet he did flower arranging as well, and spent a happy few minutes imagining the damage he could do with a daffodil.

  They were both on their best behaviour. If they were armed, our wands failed to pick it up and we didn’t make a big thing of searching them.

  Pennyroyal was a huge hit with everyone, demonstrating how to defend oneself single-handed while at the same time making the perfect margarita. I instructed Markham to take notes. He went on to compliment Mrs Mack on her menu and was offered a tour of the kitchen. Matthew was rendered speechless by his conjuring tricks. Even Angus adored him.

  We were all gathered in the Great Hall. The tables and whiteboards had all been cleared away and the usual tasteful St Mary’s decorations were dangling from every surface. Our Christmas tree stood tipsily at the foot of the stairs topped by its traditionally lopsided star. Every attempt to replace it with something more modern and in much better condition had been fiercely resisted and last year, Dr Bairstow had formally awarded it listed status. It would now probably survive us all. And speaking of survival, Leon and Dieter had done the Christmas lights this year, thus considerably enhancing our chances of making it alive to Boxing Day.

  The Yule Log burned merrily in our massive fireplace, hurling out great gusts of superfluous heat, but it was traditional and we like our traditions here. If you turned down the sound the whole place looked like something out of Dickens. Shutting your eyes helped, as well.

  Matthew tugged at my sleeve. ‘Have you seen Mikey?’

  ‘Over by the fireplace.’

  I watched him set off across the Hall, a carefully wrapped present in his hand. It wasn’t very big. I had no idea what was in it.

  Very casually, pretending to admire a particularly battered piece of wooden wall panelling, I sidled close enough to hear their conversation. They were talking about cheese and Mikey’s lack thereof.

  ‘I know I don’t need it any longer,’ she was saying, ‘but somehow it doesn’t seem right, making a jump without my emergency cheese. You know, just in case.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said seriously. ‘I know.’

  She sighed. ‘I miss my lucky cheese.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I got you this.’

  He handed her the tiny present.

  I crossed my fingers that she would know how important this was to him but I needn’t have worried.

  ‘Oh, Matthew, this is so kind of you. I’m so excited. I love presents. Can I open it now?’

  I decided the next time she wanted to visit Stephen Hawking I would not stand in her way.

  He nodded. He was standing very still but his skinny little body twanged with tension.

  She carefully unwrapped her present and stared at it.

  ‘It’s cheese,’ said Matthew, helpfully.

  ‘It’s more than that,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘From now on this will be my lucky cheese
. Um . . . what’s the hole for?’

  ‘To hang round your neck. With ribbon. So you don’t lose it.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ she said, without a pause. ‘Do you think green would look nice?’

  He nodded, although I think he’d have nodded if she’d said sky-blue-pink.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a length of green ribbon – I discovered when emptying his pockets later that he had seven different shades of ribbon tucked away – carefully threaded it through the cheese and handed it back to her.

  She didn’t even blink. ‘Brilliant.’ She tied the lump of cheese around her neck. ‘Thank you, Matthew.’

  He nodded shyly, suddenly looking very like Leon when we first met. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Eventually, Dr Bairstow appeared, looking remarkably mellow. Christmas morning, good food, good drink, nothing on fire, no one screaming . . . how often does that happen?

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pennyroyal. I trust my people are making you welcome.’

  Pennyroyal straightened up from showing Matthew a card trick. ‘They are, indeed, Dr Bairstow. Most welcome. I’ve been given a tour of the kitchens – I have a professional interest, you know – and enjoyed a most interesting half hour with Theresa and her excellent team.’

  Theresa? Did he just call Mrs Mack Theresa?

  Dr Bairstow looked around the room. ‘And the whereabouts of our second guest?’

  Markham intervened. ‘Mr Evans has volunteered to escort Lady Amelia, sir.’ He paused. ‘Close protection, obviously.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dr Bairstow to me. ‘One can only imagine the enthusiasm with which Mr Evans has hurled himself into that particular duty.’

  I never know whether he’s making a joke or not. There’s never the tiniest clue. Not even a flicker. No one has ever dared take the risk and I wasn’t going to break our record. I murmured, ‘Yes, sir,’ which he could interpret any way he pleased.

  ‘Mr Pennyroyal, I would like to extend our customary invitation to those who have rendered St Mary’s a service. Should you ever require it, there will always be rest and a shelter for you and Lady Amelia here at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I know Lady Amelia would wish me to express her own gratitude and acceptance of your kind offer.’