Hope for the Best Page 8

  ‘Well, that kind of makes my point, Max. You never noticed. No one ever notices. No one ever knows anything about it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it right.’

  ‘Look, I accept that we have different values and different goals. We leave you to do your job . . .’

  ‘No, you bloody don’t. You’re always crashing through our door trying to shoot us.’

  ‘. . . and you should leave us to do ours. Can I invite you to contemplate the meaning of the words Time Police, Max? Time. Police. It’s what we do.’

  I knew I was never going to win this argument but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to go down fighting. I waved my arms around – the sign of a perturbed historian. ‘How the hell are you ever allowed to get away with this?’

  ‘Strangely, that’s a question we often ask ourselves about St Mary’s.’

  I waved that aside. ‘So how exactly do you set about rebuilding this bluebell wood?’

  ‘Well, we need to go off and have a bit of a chat about what to do next. No,’ he said quickly, noticing Matthew’s alarm. ‘Not you. You can stay and finish your puzzle.’

  ‘But Mum’s going.’

  ‘Yes, but I have to take your mother, because if I don’t, she’ll eat her way through the walls to find out what’s happening.’

  Well, that was rude.

  I said to Matthew, ‘Will you be all right on your own? Because I don’t have to go.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Sure? I don’t mind staying.’

  He shook his head.

  Damn. I wasn’t too sure I wanted to listen to a group of Time Police criticising Matthew and plotting to overthrow History.

  Actually, I should probably say now – most of what was to come was my idea.

  Sorry about that.

  7

  The Map Room was a place of some disorder.

  The Map stood silent, dark and unmoving. Frozen in a moment of chaos. The irregular dark patch reminded me of a black hole, devouring everything around it. Not a bad analogy, actually. We had a black hole in Time. In contrast to the frozen Map, crowds of technicians and specialists were racing around, peering at screens, shouting at each other, scanning printouts and generally behaving like headless chickens. There was an air of barely contained panic. I felt quite at home.

  The Map Master saw me first.

  ‘You!’

  She began to elbow her way through the throng to get to me.

  I gave her my best Come on, then. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough look. The one used in academic circles everywhere when a cherished theory is called into question.

  ‘Before you start,’ I said, pre-empting trouble in the traditional manner, ‘he didn’t cause the damage. He discovered it. Without him, you’d be sitting here playing Battleships and wondering what to have for tea as the entire 16th century disintegrated around you while you weren’t looking. So yes, I will pass on your grateful thanks while warning him, in future, for his own protection, to let all other anomalies go unreported.’

  I turned to go. The trick to all conflict resolution is always to have the last word. Indeed, not to let the other party have any words at all if you can manage it. Alas for me, she was made of stern stuff.

  ‘He touched the Map.’

  ‘He did,’ I agreed, ‘and Captain Ellis has already instructed him never to do that again. I’ll admit I find your enthusiasm for maintaining an inaccurate map to be a little confusing, but if that’s the way you like things in the Time Police, then who am I to criticise. I’m only a guest here.’

  She took another step towards me. ‘That’s easily remedied.’

  I, too, stepped forwards and we stood, chest to chest, invading each other’s space as hard as we could. ‘As you wish. My compliments to Commander Hay and please advise her that Matthew and I will be gone within the hour.’

  Yes, I was pushing it a bit, here. If they let me go, then my lovely plan for capturing Clive Ronan would crash to the ground in flames. I think if it had been just me then they’d have let me go quite happily, but my threat to take Matthew with me made them pause.

  Captain Ellis saved the day. As the two of us stood glaring at each other, he cleared his throat. With the result that now the both of us were glaring at him.

  ‘Max, Commander Hay would like to see us in her office. Immediately, please.’

  It was a face-saving solution. We held our hard-woman stares until the very last moment – like two tomcats fighting over possession of a dodgy kipper – and then allowed ourselves to precede him through the door.

  I hadn’t been in her office since the bijou problemette with Grint’s nose. She looked up as we entered and said, without any preamble, ‘We have a problem.’

  Ellis nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am, we were there.’

  ‘I don’t mean the damage to the Map.’ She looked at me. ‘Which we will be discussing later. I’m alluding to the current instability in the 16th century.’ She sighed and continued in a slightly softer tone. ‘Max, I have bad news. The Map is not particularly reliable at the moment but our people have cobbled information together as best they can. It’s all looking bad, but the worst part is that such information as is available leads us to believe that, while none of our own people are in harm’s way, members of St Mary’s are – so to speak – in the eye of the storm.’

  I bristled immediately. ‘They can’t possibly be held responsible,’ I said with more loyalty than accuracy.

  ‘We’re not holding them responsible. Our concern is that if anything happens to the fabric of time while they are still there – and we very much think it’s happening now . . .’ She paused. ‘Max, there’s no good way to put this. If this particular reality rolls up and disappears – as it could do at any moment – then it will take everyone and everything with it. Including everyone from St Mary’s who happens to be in that particular time.’

  I remembered those silver lines, waving aimlessly and then slowly fading away.

  She continued. ‘Based on what we can deduce, we think they’re in 1588. Max, why would they be there? What would they be doing?’

  I cast my mind back to the assignment list pinned to my office wall. 1588 – the Spanish Armada. ‘Can you be more precise, ma’am? Do you have a location?’

  ‘We have a date of 19th August. London.’

  That was worrying. Very worrying. Elizabeth was addressing her troops at Tilbury on that day. They should be there. What would they be doing in London?

  ‘Elizabeth is making her famous speech at Tilbury,’ I said. ‘You know the one. Heart and stomach of a king and a King of England, too. Are you sure they aren’t there?’

  She said crisply, ‘Positive. But for whatever purpose they are in London, they need to be extracted. And as quickly as possible.’

  The Map Master nodded. ‘My team are already on it, ma’am, but the Map only reflects what is happening. The problem needs to be addressed at source.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Captain Ellis will lead a rescue team and assess the situation. You, Dr Maxwell, will provide the expertise and liaise with the St Mary’s team. They will probably listen to you more readily than they would to us.’

  A good decision. Without someone to mediate, there would almost certainly be some sort of massive punch-up and someone would be shot.

  It was as if she read my mind. ‘You will all work together. Those are my instructions and they would be Dr Bairstow’s if he was here. Are there any questions?’

  We shook our heads.

  ‘Then go and get them out.’

  It was only when I was on the other side of her door that I remembered Matthew. Was he ready to be left alone? In the end, it wasn’t something I had to worry about. When I got back to our suite, an old friend was waiting for me.

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Greta. Is th
at you?’

  Greta Van Owen was ex-St Mary’s. She’d left in a hurry after shooting and killing Isabella Barclay. Dr Bairstow would have sheltered her, I was certain, but she’d elected to leave and the Time Police had yielded to a compassionate impulse and taken her in.

  I was delighted to see her again. ‘Good to see you. How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine, thank you.’ She laughed. ‘God, it feels good to say that again.’

  ‘Why haven’t I seen you here before?’

  ‘Sick Leave, plus Annual Leave, plus a spell of light duties in Admin. I was only signed back on again this morning and the first thing I get is this young man.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ I said.

  She turned to Matthew. ‘How’s your dad?’

  Van Owen had been with Leon and Guthrie when Ronan blew them back more than eight hundred years and two thousand miles.

  He nodded.

  I said, ‘Speak,’ and he said, ‘OK, I think.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it while your mum’s away. Don’t worry, Max. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.’

  ‘Thanks. You might want to keep him away from the Map Room for a bit.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about that. Not a problem.’

  As I shot out of the door I heard her say, ‘So how’s everyone back at St Mary’s then?’ as the door closed behind me.

  The Time Police don’t normally bother with costumes. They wrap themselves in sinister black cloaks which they consider constitute a sufficient disguise. One day I’m really going to have to tell them. Today, however, whether in deference to me or circumstances in general, they wore variations of brown leather doublets, knee trousers and boots, and someone had set aside a linen chemise and a mud-coloured kirtle for me that looked vaguely of the right period. I kept my boots on and no one objected. I wondered how long it would be before I succumbed to bad Time Police habits. While they’d provided the obligatory sinister black cloak for me, there was nothing for my head.

  I blame the influence of TV and historical holos. These days no one is interested in historical accuracy when it comes to costumes. For one thing, in any of Calvin Cutter’s abominations, no one’s clothes stay on long enough for anyone to notice. And – and this really upsets Mrs Enderby – his characters never have anything on their heads. I wouldn’t be in the slightest bit surprised to hear the Time Police gleaned their historical knowledge from Calvin Cutter’s heirs and successors.

  I sighed loudly and one of them – Nash, I think – demanded to know why it was important.

  ‘Because I don’t want to be solicited as a prostitute, accused of witchcraft, or mistaken for a young girl.’

  Complete silence implied one of these was very unlikely.

  I stood my ground, radiating deep historian disapproval.

  Eventually, one of them rolled his eyes and disappeared, returning moments later with what looked like a tea towel. Everyone watched as I draped it over my head, tied two corners at the back of my neck and then tucked the rest under. A couple of hairpins held it in place. When I checked in the mirror I had TPHQ over one eyebrow but I could live with that.

  Everyone was armed except me. Not even a stun gun. I protested, but Captain Ellis informed me I’d never be out of his sight the whole time so why would I need a weapon? In the interests of inter-unit cooperation, I kept my mouth shut.

  We stood silently in the lift. No one spoke. I never thought I’d say this, but I rather missed Sykes and North bickering in the background.

  We were decanted into the basement. The lights were full on today, and now I got to see how big the space really was.

  In Hawking, the pods stand against the walls in two neat rows, with our big pod, the recently rechristened Tea Bag 2, at the back. Formerly known as TB2, it had been rebuilt after Ronan’s effort to blow us all up and someone, looking around at the mountain of tea-making equipment and mugs left inside it by the overworked and exhausted Technical Section as they struggled to get it built, fitted out, aligned and working in record time, had christened it Tea Bag 2.

  The Time Police had four times as many pods, which stood in clusters, ordered by use. Over there, near to the doors leading to the Medical Centre, were their four hospital pods, big and white and with every international medical symbol painted on the walls. Alongside those were two enormous pods – almost portable aircraft hangars – and I couldn’t for the life of me think why they would need anything that huge.

  ‘Troop movements,’ said Ellis curtly, catching me looking. ‘For when we need a show of force. And for any equipment and material we might need, of course.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, thinking of Captain Farenden’s helicopter over Florence.

  ‘And over there,’ he said, pointing, ‘our detention pods.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. I’d seen those before.

  ‘And over there the clean-up pods.’

  The clean-up pods were just small boxes. No attempt had been made to camouflage them. I suppose if you’ve reached the stage where the clean-up crews are on site, then everything’s gone properly tits-up and any disguise is a waste of time. Clean-up crews are bad news. They do what they say on the tin. I had a nasty feeling about this.

  I turned to Ellis. ‘Is that a clean-up crew coming with us?’

  ‘Only because we don’t know what we’re going to find, do we? So yes, a squad will accompany us in case we need them.’ This was Time Police speak for doing whatever necessary to neutralise whatever threat was presenting itself at the time.

  A clean-up crew consists of four members. The Time Police tend to travel in fours with a team leader. They stood waiting for us. Armoured and visored. They were wearing those helmets with the antennae. They’d made no attempt at all at 16th-century dress. Of course, the 16th century might not be around long enough to protest.

  Our pod was just an ordinary, bog-standard Time Police pod which was a bit of a relief. Ellis’s crew consisted of him, me and four others. Grint, the one whose nose had collided with my knee, Nash, Oliver and Bevan. And the clean-up crew, of course.

  We all filed on board and the door closed behind us. Things were a little snug and some of them were closer than I was completely happy with.

  I was still fiddling with my headscarf when I heard Ellis say, ‘Commence jump procedures.’

  ‘Jump procedures commenced.’

  And off we went. Just like that.

  St Mary’s still does it better.

  8

  London 1588 was a disaster zone. Some dreadful cataclysm had occurred. Or was occurring. Or was about to occur. We had to verify the coordinates twice because none of us could quite believe what we were seeing.

  Time Police pods have four screens, one on each wall, so there was no crowding around the console, which, and I speak from experience, can be irritating. Each of the four screens showed a different view and every single one of those views was very, very bad. We were looking at the end of the world. I moved from screen to screen, staring open-mouthed, and I wasn’t the only one.

  Supposedly, we were in Southwark, on the south bank, within sight of London Bridge. I’d been here so many times in the past that the view was quite familiar. Over there should be The Globe. Except it wasn’t. Over there should be London Bridge. Except it wasn’t the London Bridge I knew. Nothing was as I’d known it.

  First things first. Careful to keep any hint of criticism from my voice, I said, ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Because this is where your team is,’ said Ellis, absently, watching the screens.

  I opened my mouth to say, ‘Are you sure?’ and then closed it again. Of course they were sure. They were the Time Police. The explanation of why St Mary’s wasn’t at Tilbury was something I looked forward to hearing. Although, when I thought about it, given what was going on outside, where else would they be?

  Ellis turned to me. ‘Max
, can you tell us what’s happening here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, still unable to take my eyes from the screens. ‘I honestly have no idea. Something’s gone horribly wrong somewhere.’

  Something had indeed gone horribly, horribly wrong. London appeared to be in the midst of some sort of massive catastrophe. What that catastrophe had been or was about to be, I had no idea, but every street, every lane, every alleyway was clogged with people, all of them screaming and fighting with each other. Some were even trying to scramble over roofs, so desperate were they to escape . . . something.

  Grint had turned the volume down and we were watching screaming hysteria happen in silence. Mouths opened and closed, red in dirty faces. People were knocked down and then others fell over them, slowly crushing the life out of those at the bottom. I caught glimpses of desperate faces and even more desperate arms held out for help. I saw a man’s face, blue and congested, and then another pile of people was added to the heap and he was gone. Others were silently crushed under trundling wagon wheels.

  We tend to associate silence with calm or stillness or peace, but this was the very opposite. This was pandemonium, turmoil, madness, even. Someone, Grint, I think, reached out to adjust the sound.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Ellis quickly. ‘It won’t help.’

  And all the time, smoke from fires on both sides of the river drifted across the streets. Orange flames danced in the distance.

  This was no ordered evacuation with people being directed to the quickest way out of the city. No one was in charge. It would seem that law and order had completely broken down. Shops and stalls had been broken into and their contents strewn everywhere. It was, I think, a measure of people’s desperation to get out that no one stopped to pick anything up. Bolts of once-beautiful cloth lay trampled in the filth. Crates and barrels lay shattered, their contents spilled across the road, and no one even noticed.

  From what we could see, the people on the north bank were struggling to get across the bridge to our side of the river and the people on our side were trying to fight their way north. No one was directing the traffic or attempting to clear a way. Where were the soldiers? What was happening? Yes, all right, the Armada was on its way but there was no record of this level of terror. These people were blind with fear. The carnage was horrible.