A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (11 page)

‘A thousand pounds what? Despite my repugnance for this sorry tale, I have to admit to a certain grisly interest in the outcome. A thousand pounds what?’

I said, through gritted teeth, ‘
A thousand pounds an inch
.’

‘What! Good job it’s not me we’re talking about. We’d need to take out a mortgage.’

‘Oh, please. I’m lying here … helpless and … having to listen … to … the male ego. Can it get any worse?’

Yes, was the answer to that one and for several red and purple moments, it did. I lost all interest in the joke, the tag, the pod, the world, everything.

‘Hey,’ he said, sharply. ‘Stay with me. What happens next? A thousand pounds an inch?’

‘And the man thinks … for a bit … and then smiles and says, “
Oh. OK, then. Not a problem.
”’

‘I still can’t find it,’ he said and I could hear the tension in his voice.

‘Don’t stop now. Make the incision bigger again. Maybe Helen inserted it lower down. Or, since I’ve had an exciting life, it might have come loose and be lodged somewhere in my armpit.’

He stared at me. ‘You have no idea how these things work, do you?’

‘Of course not. I’m an historian. We concentrate on the bigger picture.’

He frowned. ‘Max, I don’t know.’

‘You must, or we’re screwed. You can do it.’

‘I’m hurting you.’

‘Not a lot. I’m just being a baby.’

He began again.

I jerked. I couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

‘I know, love. I think we should stop. I’m going to do some damage if I go any deeper. There are tendons and blood vessels and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

‘No, you can’t stop. If you don’t do this, I’ll insist we split up, because you have to get back to St Mary’s.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’

‘Then get on with it and stop pissing around.’

More pain. Yuk.

‘So what happens after the thousand pounds an inch bit?’

‘What?’

‘The joke? A thousand pounds an inch?’

‘The … the … doctor says, “
Look, talk to your wife about this. Any … radical … difference in the size and shape of your todger is going to come … as … a bit of a shock … to her.
”’

‘I’ll say,’ he said, calmly. ‘Imagine if I came at you waving something the same size and shape as a fire hose.’

‘I’d really rather not. One ordeal a day is enough.’

‘Against my will, I’m being drawn into this social and medical drama. What happens next?’

‘The doctor calls the … next morning.’

I had to stop for a while.

‘Drink more brandy.’

‘Yes.’ I swigged a mouthful. Then another. ‘Oh God, I hate this stuff.’

I had another mouthful to take the taste away.

Even in the dim glow of our lightstick, I could see how pale he looked. He wasn’t enjoying this any more than I was.

I said, softly, ‘It’s all right, love. You’re doing just fine.’

Just for a moment, we looked at each other …

‘So, the doctor visits the next morning and says, “
Did your wife call
?” and the man says “
Yes. We discussed everything thoroughly … and came to a decision
.” And the doctor says, “
Great! What’s it to be then
?” And the man … says … the man says …’

‘Yes? Yes? For God’s sake, I’m on the edge of my seat here.’

‘And the man says, “
We’re having a new kitchen
.”’

Another long, pain-crowded pause.

Without looking up, he said, ‘I can’t believe you think that’s funny.’

From dim and distant Brandyland, I slurred, ‘Of course it is. It’s … hilarious.’

‘I’m not laughing.’

‘Sorry. Was it too difficult … for you? Should I have dumbed … it down? You know, the techie version?’

‘How could you think that’s funny?’

‘Well, every … one … else just … fell … about. Kal … nearly wet herself.

‘You’re comparing me to that six foot blonde psychopath?’

‘You … wouldn’t … aaaghh … say … that if she was here.’

‘I wish she was here.’

I said, ‘You’re doing … very … well,’ and closed my eyes. Just for a second. Just for a little while.

I awoke several hours later. Leon was lying half under the console, muttering to himself.

I smiled. ‘Hey.’

He lifted his head.

‘There you are. How are you feeling?’

My arm was on fire. My head was on fire. My chest was on fire.

‘I’m never drinking brandy again.’

‘Hangover?’

‘Mouth like the bottom of a dodo cage. Did you get it?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

I said, ‘Shit,’ and let my head fall back.

Now we were in trouble.

But not anything like the trouble we were going to be in.

Chapter Eight

I love Leon Farrell dearly. He is the still small voice of calm at the centre of my hectic, historian world. He knows me better than I know myself and doesn’t allow that to put him off in any way. He knows when to agree with me. He knows when to argue. He knows when I need to be talked out of something for my own good. And best of all, he knows all this without being told. I trust his judgement more than anyone’s.

So what the hell he was playing at when he let Professor Rapson organise the diversion at St Mary’s was a complete mystery to me.

We presented ourselves at the rendezvous point an hour early – a minor miracle given the condition of the pod.

We were situated just below the woods to the west of the lake. We weren’t camouflaged, but outbuildings and stables would give us some cover. Helios could make his way up through the woods themselves and approach us from the rear.

Leon sat at the console, checking the systems again. Cameras and sound were turned up to the maximum. We needed to know what was happening around us.

He’d fashioned a sling to try to ease the pain in my arm and it wasn’t working at all. I leaned against the chair and watched the screen.

I could see all of St Mary’s spread out before me. The old house dreamed gently in the warm summer afternoon. There were the mullioned windows winking in the sunshine, the Virginia creeper climbing the stone walls, the South Lawn, the lake with its reed beds, the straight gravel drive flanked by horse chestnuts – it was all there, the epitome of the quiet English country house. I could even hear the birds singing.

My heart thumped with the shock of recognition. There was no one around, but inside, somewhere, there would be Peterson. And Guthrie. And Mrs Mack. And Van Owen. All of them. I wondered what they were doing. What assignments they were preparing for. Who had my job now? I gave myself a little shake and made myself focus.

Of course, this quiet, idyllic scene wasn’t the whole story. I could also see the craters, the burned patches of grass and the stumpy remains of the Clock Tower. The remnants of Professor Rapson’s previous experiments lay strewn around the grounds. I did take a moment to wonder at the Time Police allowing this and whether they had any idea at all of what could – and probably would – happen. I had no clue what the diversion would entail, but it seemed safe to assume it would be fiery, spectacular, noisy – and successful.

‘Right,’ said Leon, breaking a long silence. ‘We’ll just run over the details. At 1400 hours, some sort of diversion will occur. God knows what. I just hope there’s no major loss of life. Given the presence of the Time Police, they will probably tone it down a bit. So long as it’s enough to enable Helios to get here undetected. Whatever they do will last a good thirty minutes, which should give Guthrie more than enough time to get him to us. They’ll probably come through the woods and approach us from the rear. We don’t open the door until he’s directly in front of us. You will hide in the toilet.’

‘Will I?’ I said, not best pleased.

‘Yes. I trust Ian Guthrie with my life, but, at this stage, I’d prefer that no one, apart from Dr Bairstow, knows about you. So no arguing. I give the word and you head for the head. Got it?’

Reluctantly, I nodded.

‘You stay there until I give the all clear. The best option is to go ahead with the plan. I know we’ll have to open the door to let him out, but only for a second or so. I’m pretty sure your tag won’t register on their equipment. Or, if it does, it won’t be long enough for them to get a fix. Understood?’

Reluctantly, I nodded.

At that moment, things began to happen and didn’t stop happening for quite a long time.

Firstly, Dr Bairstow appeared on his balcony. Two black-uniformed figures accompanied him. From this distance, it was unclear whether they were guests or gaolers. However, they seated themselves quietly enough. Dr Bairstow’s role was obviously to keep them out of the way so he’d offered them ringside seats for the afternoon’s entertainment. I watched them exchanging casual remarks. They seemed amused.

Slowly, large numbers of personnel wandered from the building, clutching mugs of tea and seating themselves on a convenient wall. A black-and-yellow tape delineated a safe distance from the splash zone. This was ignored by all.

To a round of applause and cheers, three boats appeared from the other side of the lake. Two were small rowing boats, with Professor Rapson standing in the prow of one of them, rather like a Viking figurehead. He and his R & D crews had long poles with which they were attempting to guide the third boat. This was a small craft, about twelve feet long with two short, stubby masts. Two cauldrons hung suspended from these masts. Brushwood and other combustible materials were piled high in the bottom of the boat.

‘Any clues?’ said Leon.

‘Actually, yes.’

Everything inside me that was St Mary’s was singing. This was going to be good. This was going to be very, very good.

‘I suspect Professor Rapson and his team are attempting to replicate part of Alexander’s siege of the Island of Tyre. Alexander tried to build a causeway to reach the island and the Tyrians launched fireships to destroy it. The professor is attempting to ascertain whether they were capable of reaching the temperatures necessary to do so. It’s actually a legitimate experiment. The small boat in front is stuffed full of firewood and other stuff. The cauldrons suspended from the mast will be filled with some concoction of beeswax or oil or maybe animal fat. Something that burns well, anyway. They’ll light the brushwood, and then float the burning boat to the jetty over there, which probably represents the causeway. On impact, the cauldrons will swing and tip the hot mixture onto the flames. The causeway was made of stone so they’ll need some pretty ferocious temperatures to do any damage. But we shall see.’

He shifted uneasily. ‘Exactly how much are we at risk?’

‘On the other side of the lake? Not at all.’

You would really think I’d know better by now.

We were left in no doubt when they were ready. The professor, obviously embracing the distraction aspect of the experiment, rather than going for historical accuracy, had rigged a sound system. It seemed safe to assume the original assault was not accompanied by the ominous opening chords of “Mars, the Bringer of War”. It was all very dramatic.

Making a gesture more appropriate to King Darius unleashing the Immortals at The Hot Gates, and to shouts of encouragement (and other things), the little flotilla set off, the lead boat trailing plumes of smoke from the burning brushwood. They trundled sedately and with a certain dignity across the lake.

Leon sat back and relaxed. ‘I don’t think this is going to produce a siege-ending conflagration, do you?’

As he spoke, the little boat collided with the jetty. The impact was sufficient to tip the cauldrons and the heated mixture spilled onto the burning kindling. For a second, nothing happened. I just had time for a twinge of disappointment and then …

With a tremendous roar, which made birds erupt from the treetops and the horses in the paddock bolt, a huge, HUGE tongue of orange fire broiled across the surface of the lake, enveloping the jetty and sending a great oily, black cloud high into the air like a nuclear mushroom. Water seemed to have no effect on the flames, which danced higher and higher across the lake’s surface. The reed beds around the south side exploded into flames. The professor and his team were blown backwards into their boats, clothes smoking and, I bet, not an eyebrow between them.

Markham appeared, shouting, ‘Duty fire team to the lake. All field medics with me!’ Never mind field medics or fire teams, the entire unit put down its tea and set off at a run for the disaster area, obviously eager to be involved.

On Dr Bairstow’s balcony, the Time Police had stopped laughing.

Professor Rapson clambered unsteadily to his feet and beat out his smouldering lab coat. The boat wobbled violently but he remained upright. The team in the other boat slowly started to pick themselves up. No fatalities. Yet.

Suddenly, and even over the cameras I saw this quite clearly, their heads snapped around in unison, there was a moment’s frozen panic and then someone screamed ‘Row! Row for your lives!’

They rowed like madmen. It was like that scene from
Ben Hur
. All that was missing was the fat, naked guy with the drum.

‘Good God,’ said Leon in disbelief. ‘Have they let loose the Kraken?’

The R & D team reached the shore, tumbled from their boats, and shrieking incoherently, raced away from the lake, becoming entangled with the Markham and his team who were racing
towards
the lake. For a few seconds everyone milled around chaotically with the professor and his team waving their arms and shouting, and Markham (whose track record rendered him perfect for the occasion) also waving his arms and shouting and considerably adding to the confusion.

I have to admit that up to that moment, I was fairly baffled. All right, the entire lake appeared to be a giant inferno, but it wasn’t the first time and someone would sort it all out so what was all the panic about?

Leon pointed. Ah. That was what all the panic was about.

Swans!

Coming in at eye-height, in attack formation with necks outstretched, wings extended and some very nasty looks in their eyes, was what seemed like every swan in the county, or possibly all of England. A whole battalion of them. I had no idea we had so many. I know they can be nasty, and God knows these had good reason. Over the years St Mary’s swans have been blown up, terrorised by Plesiosaur look-alikes, had a Renault 5 engine mistakenly flung at them by a Roman trebuchet, and been dyed Barbie pink. These were swans that had had enough. Forget Nile crocodiles – suddenly, this was not the place to be.

People scattered. It didn’t help. Some people assumed the traditional St Mary’s position and curled into a foetal ball until it was all over. Some headed for the hills. Some actually made it back to the main building by climbing in through the library windows. They were pursued by ten or twelve battle-crazed birds, who powered in through the open windows and proceeded to lay about them. I could hear Dr Dowson shrieking. The fire alarms went off, adding their deafening clamour to the music bouncing off the walls, the shouts and yells of those falling victim to avian aggression and the wail of approaching sirens. Not only could they hear us in the village, they could probably hear us in Vladivostok. There would be another letter from the parish council. Two letters, probably. And the traditional telephone call from the Chief Constable was imminent.

Markham was still trying to evacuate Professor Rapson and his crew from the shoreline while surrounded and outnumbered by what looked like millions of enraged Cygnus Olor, all of whom were circling the beleaguered forces rather like the Indians at Custer’s Last Stand. I hoped he had better luck than the General did. Everywhere I looked, there was chaos and carnage. The lake was still ablaze, the entire bank was burning, a thick pall of smoke hung over everything, and the sirens were very close.

Leon groaned. ‘The entire county must be on terrorist alert by now. There’s no chance …’

Helen Foster appeared with her emergency medical team, shouted ‘What the fu …?’ got a swan in her face, and tumbled backwards over a low wall.

I was face down on the console, laughing.

Leon had his hands over his eyes.

‘Well,’ I said, just to rub it in. ‘Thank God they toned it down a bit.’

Leon groaned. ‘Every Time Police officer in existence is going to be here in a minute.’

I turned my attention back to Dr Bairstow who appeared to be taking a telephone call.

‘Quick,’ I said, ‘Can we make out what he’s saying?’

Leon fiddled for a while, enhancing one speaker and filtering out the noise from the others. Dr Bairstow’s voice, familiar but tinny, was just audible.

‘Ridley, my dear fellow, how are you …? And Audrey …? Well, that’s good news … No … No, the Siege of Tyre … Tyre … No, not the rubber product, the small island … No, just a tiny miscalculation … Yes … No … As far as I can ascertain, no fatalities at all … Well, no, not that astonishing really … No, perfectly under control … What noise …? … Oh, no, just a few swans … No, slightly more than two … Yes, more than three … Getting warmer … About forty, I think … Well, obviously they’re a little agitated … Ridley, I have to go now, there are a number of emergency vehicles pulling in through the gates. Quite a large number, actually. They seem very purposeful … Yes, Sunday evening. I haven’t forgotten. Looking forward to it.’

He handed the phone to someone unseen and began to usher his guests safely off the balcony. Just as they disappeared inside, he turned and looked directly at us. Obviously, I was still high on painkillers, because I could have sworn that for a moment, just for one very brief moment, he actually smiled, and then he stepped back into his office.

I grinned to myself and then the first emergency services vehicles came roaring up the drive in a cacophony of sound and strobing lights and flying gravel. Reluctantly, I turned the cameras away from all the drama and concentrated on the woods. One of our alerts pinged.

‘There,’ said Leon and indeed, there were two figures running swiftly towards us.

I didn’t wait to be told, shooting into the toilet and closing the door behind me.

I heard a very brief murmur of voices. A pause.

And then the world went white.

I never thought I’d go back. Not after what had happened to me there. I remembered the last time I had seen Troy. Burning buildings. Drifting smoke. The smell of burned flesh. The screaming. If I closed my eyes, could I still hear …?

That was in the past. A year had gone by since the Greeks had overrun the city. Not all the population had been killed or captured and the survivors would have slowly drifted back. The smoke in the wind would now be the smoke of cooking fires. On the other side of the olive grove would be what was left of the tavern that Helios’s family had run. Would he choose to stay? His father and his sister had died there. This might not have been the best place to land, but it was what he’d asked for. Because it was familiar. Because it was his home.