A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (14 page)

I wondered if he’d ever come back.

Chapter Nine

I suppose I’d been lulled by the familiarity of this world. There really seemed very little difference between this one and my own. Yes, obviously in this world, they had the Time Police. And yes, in this world, I was dead, but apart from that, everything seemed normal. The History was pretty much the same, along with the language, the food, the clothes … And then, suddenly, everything was different.

I won’t go so far as to say I thought I could just pick things up from where I left off, but I was unprepared, completely unprepared, for the suspicion and the downright hostility which I encountered at St Mary’s and it hurt. Far more than the physical pain I’d encountered so far, this rejection cut me to the core. It shouldn’t have, but it did. I was more vulnerable than I knew.

And I was alone. Leon was gone and I had to meet it on my own.

I awoke to sunlight and shadows. They’d moved me. I was in Sick Bay. It doesn’t matter in which world I lived – some things never change. I was still waking up in Sick Bay. The walls were cream instead of green, but it still smelled just the same – disinfectant, the burnt paper smell from the incinerator, floor polish … I turned my head. They’d put me in Isolation. Possibly because it was more comfortable, being designed for long-stay patients who might be incubating something unpleasant, but more likely because they could lock the door.

I lay very still and listened. I could hear breathing and the odd rustle of clothing. Once, a chair scraped. Of course, they’d left a guard. I was their only link with Leon Farrell. They were waiting for him to come back for me. Although if he ever did anything that stupid, the Time Police would be the least of his problems.

I opened my eyes.

An officer sat on a chair by the door, his leg stretched stiffly in front of him.

He’d made it. He’d survived Pompeii. Officer Ellis. The one with the burned leg. Of course, it made good sense. He could barely walk, so shove him on guard duty. And since he’s injured, shove him on guard duty in Sick Bay.

His helmet lay on the floor by his chair. There was no sign of the big sonic rifle, just a neat handgun on a sticky patch on his thigh. I tried to find that reassuring. He sat, arms folded, looking out of the window. He had the sort of face that really didn’t lend itself to the brutal crew-cut inflicted upon him by his job. Instead of threatening and sinister, he just looked like a little boy. The ears didn’t help. What on earth was he doing in an outfit like the Time Police?

He turned his head and caught me looking.

Neither of us said anything. I closed my eyes and he resumed his stare out of the window.

Hunter roused me to have a bath. Apparently, I had to have one or there would be no breakfast.

She turned to the guard.

‘Wait outside.’

He shook his head. ‘No. She can undress in the bathroom. Leave the door open.’

She glared at him. He was unmoved. Maybe he wasn’t in the wrong job after all.

She disconnected me from everything, which took a while, and I hobbled into the bathroom.

I’d been a little surprised that, so far, no one actually seemed to recognise me. Granted, only Dr Foster, Hunter, and Dieter had seen me, but they all knew me very well and no one had said a word.

When I saw myself in the mirror, I could understand why.

The face that stared back at me was not my own. For a start, my hair was stained dark with sweat, grease, and dirt. My face had lost all colour – even my lips were bloodless. The dark shadows of strain changed the colour of my eyes and I’d lost so much weight that the shape of my face had altered.

No wonder no one recognised me. I didn’t recognise me.

The bath was wonderful. She washed my hair. It took three goes before the water ran clear.

When I emerged, pink and wrinkled, Officer Ellis was still sitting quietly in his chair, but if he hadn’t taken the opportunity to check around my bed space and under my pillow for anything incriminating, he was the most useless officer in existence. Good luck to him anyway, because, in this world, I didn’t even own the clothes I stood up in. In which I stood up. Whatever. I wondered what would happen if Leon never came back.

Hunter had combed out my hair and plaited it for me. When she came to take away the breakfast stuff, it was almost dry. This was when they realised they were harbouring a ginger. She stared for a while, said nothing, picked up the tray, and left.

Here we go.

Dr Foster came in, aimlessly checked a few readings, bashed something into her scratchpad, stared at me, and went away again.

I wasn’t left in peace for long. I expected to be interrogated – which wouldn’t do them the slightest bit of good since I was determined to carry out Leon’s instructions and say nothing. Silence is always the best defence.

I expected the Time Police – two or three of them, maybe. Good cop, bad cop, and one to wield the telephone directories. The door opened and I braced myself. But not anything like enough, because my visitor was Bitchface Barclay.

I’d forgotten all about her. In the all too brief time we’d had together, Leon had said she was my friend. A remark that had gone straight over my head at the time.

She stood in the doorway. Here was another one who stared. Good job I was getting used to it. I kept my face very carefully neutral. No surprise. No welcome. No hostility. No fear. And especially – no guilt. Because, in my world, I’d murdered Isabella Barclay. Not in a fair fight or in self-defence; I’d shot her in the back and then I’d shot her in the head. My only defence is that she was on her way to murder Leon as he lay unconscious and helpless. But I could have, maybe should have, given her a chance. I could have called out or challenged her, but I did none of that. Before you feel too sorry for her, she’d once left four men to die in the Cretaceous period. She’d sided with that bastard Clive Ronan when he invaded St Mary’s. She probably hadn’t actually killed anyone herself, but she’d certainly connived at the murder, rape, and torture of St Mary’s personnel.

So I shot her dead.

Now, she was standing here, her face a little puzzled, but perfectly pleasant. Like me, she wore her red hair in a plait over one shoulder. Historian wannabe. I waited to see what would happen next.

She jerked her head at Officer Ellis, who got up and limped out of the room. Well, that was interesting, but I didn’t have time to think about it. She pulled up his chair and sat down. Apart from her expression, she looked no different. Instead of her usual sneer, she looked quite pleasant.

We began well.

‘Hello. Do you know me?’

Not prepared to commit myself either way, I made no sign.

She smiled uncertainly and tried again.

‘My name is Isabella Barclay. Do you remember me at all?’

Receiving no response, she soldiered on. She never had any trouble listening to the sound of her own voice.

‘You’re at the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, just outside of Rushford. I’m Head of IT here and Deputy to Dr Bairstow, the Director. He sends his apologies for not being here. He is currently – indisposed.’

What did that mean? Was he dead? If he was – indisposed – then discounting the Time Police, that left her in charge, which was not good news. Not good news at all.

She continued. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stare. You have to excuse me. You look very much like a friend of mine who died recently, and I’m still a little … what did you say your name was?’

When it became apparent I wasn’t going to reply, she said, ‘Do you understand me? Do you speak English? Repeating herself in French, German, and Spanish.

I remained silent in many languages.

She didn’t give up.

‘Can you tell me how you came by your injuries?’

Nope.

‘We don’t often have visitors here at St Mary’s. I hope they have made you comfortable?’

Silence.

‘You’ve received treatment here and we’re certainly happy for you to stay until you have recovered. However, there are some people who are anxious to speak to you about the man you were with – Leon Farrell? I wondered, if you’re still not feeling very well, would you prefer to speak to me?’

Not bloody likely.

She looked at me, expectantly.

I said nothing.

Suddenly, she leaned forwards and put her hand on my good one.

‘Please – tell me. Are you Max? Are you my friend? Why wouldn’t you tell me?’

Well, this was a bit of a turn-up. My identity was causing her some anxiety. In my world, Bitchface Barclay would have danced on my grave.

I’d like to be able to say that that was the moment when I had my first inkling, but I can’t. I was so confused by this new Barclay that my thoughts were flinging themselves all over the place. I held on to the one certainty in this new St Mary’s. Leon had told me to say nothing, so I said nothing.

‘Max? Please, please talk to me. Rumours are flying around St Mary’s. Everyone wants to know. Are you Madeleine Maxwell? Just nod.’

Again – not bloody likely.

She bit her lip. ‘Look, I’ve brought you something. I’ve brought you some chocolate. Your favourite.’

She placed two giant bars of chocolate in my lap.

This is how you’re trapped. The instinct is to say thank you. It’s hard-wired into most of us. We’re taught to respond appropriately. I so very nearly opened my mouth and said, ‘Thank you.’ I actually took the breath to speak but I lifted my eyes just that little bit too soon and, just for a moment, her face …

A second later and it was gone. I might have imagined it. I might have been allowing a bone-deep prejudice to get the better of me. She might simply have been screwing up her eyes against the bright sun. But she wasn’t. I’d seen it and she knew I’d seen it. This was no act of kindness. This was a trap. We regarded each other. No words were spoken. I had no idea of what sort of relationship she’d had with the other Maxwell, but I knew exactly how this one was going to go …

She smiled and leaned forwards. ‘You don’t look very comfortable at all. Let me rearrange your pillows.’

She stood up and pulled out a pillow from behind my head, holding it in both hands.

Hunter stuck her head around the door. ‘Anything?’

She plumped up the pillow, slipping it gently behind my head. ‘No. She can’t or won’t speak to me. Has she said anything at all to you?’

‘No, not a word. Not to anyone. Perhaps she can’t speak English.’

Barclay finished with the pillows, straightened, and said, ‘There. Is that more comfortable for you?’

They both looked at me. I could almost feel them willing me to speak.

Still not going to happen.

I turned my head and closed my eyes, hoping everyone would go away.

I heard the door close and opened them again.

Barclay still stood at the foot of the bed, full of sympathy and concern.

‘Remember, I’m never very far away.’

The guard came in as she went out.

I should think through what I’d just heard. This was not my world. I must not approach people and situations with preconceptions. It was important not to judge people by the standards of my own world. And that was another mistake because I must remember that this was my world now.

So far, I wasn’t enjoying it that much.

I spent the rest of the day with my eyes closed. I wasn’t asleep – just keeping the world at bay. I blessed Leon and his instructions to say nothing. It made life easy. I didn’t have to think of lies and then remember them (always a problem for me). I didn’t have to say anything.

It couldn’t last, of course. That evening, the Time Police turned up. Three of them. My guard left. I wasn’t happy to see him go.

Two stood by the door, casually menacing.

The third, the one who had tried to arrest Leon, pulled up a chair and sat down.

I’ve always had a problem with authority – parents, school, uni, Barclay, everyone. Up to this moment, I’d never before appreciated how skilfully Dr Bairstow managed not only me, but also all the other social misfits and eccentrics at St Mary’s.

This man was no Dr Bairstow. I prepared to be difficult.

He let the silence build so that I would be properly intimidated and, actually, I was. Barclay was easy – I’d been getting up her nose for years – but this man was different. My heart knocked against my ribs. I hoped he couldn’t hear it.

He was small, slightly built, and had eyes the colour of the North Sea on a raw day.

‘My name is Colonel Albay. I am a member of the Time Police and I am currently in charge of this establishment. To save us both a very great deal of time and trouble, I will tell you now that I recognise your big-eyed innocent act for the sham it is. Innocent people do not attack my officers with water jugs. I shall ask you three questions. Failure to answer them promptly and fully will result in my pursuing a more direct route to the truth. It is traditional, in these circumstances to say that neither of us will enjoy that. This statement is untrue. You will not enjoy it. I could not care less. We shall begin. What is your name?’

Counting is good. Apparently, the brain gives this task priority. It’s a useful way of keeping calm. When they say, ‘Count to ten,’ it really is a good idea. I fixed my gaze on my hands and slowly began to count.

At fifteen, he said, ‘Where did you meet Leon Farrell?’

I restarted at one.

Precisely fifteen seconds later, he said, ‘Where has Leon Farrell gone?’

I went back to one.

At fifteen, he started again. ‘What is your name?’

He showed no emotion. He was remorseless. Like a machine. Every fifteen seconds he asked a question. The same three questions, over and over and over again.

My heart was thumping. I could feel sweat running down the small of my back. The compulsion to speak was overwhelming. I don’t know how he was doing it – he never raised his voice or made any threatening moves, but I was very, very frightened.

I honestly thought about telling him everything. Anything to get away from this. The implied violence. The two guards standing motionless by the door. Just waiting for the word. The knowledge that no one knew I was here. No one in the entire world knew I was here. He could do with me as he pleased. I knew it. He knew I knew it.