They say owners get to look like their dogs but at St Mary's it was a case of the trainees getting to look like their institute. St Mary's was shabby and battered and after a few weeks, so were we.
Only seven of us trainees turned up on Day One. Apparently, there should have been ten. It seemed an average of only 3.5 trainees actually graduated from each course.
‘You’ll be the point five, then,’ said a tall guy to me, presumably alluding to my lack of height. I ignored him. He rammed paperwork into his folder, seemingly not noticing most of it falling out of the bottom as he did so. His nametag said Sussman. He had dark eyes and hair and looked almost Mediterranean – the sort who gets a tan just by looking out of the window.
Next to him stood Grant, a stocky lad with sandy hair and steady blue eyes. He stacked his paperwork neatly with broad, blunt hands and inserted it carefully into his folder, his square, pleasant face thoughtful. He stood next to Nagley and listened as she spoke. She had a clever, intense face and her eyes and hands moved continually. She was as highly strung as he was placid. They made a natural team.
The other girl, Jordan, stood slightly apart, and almost poised for flight, her body language uncertain. I guessed she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there. I was right. She remained aloof and left in the first week. I don’t know what happened; one day she was there and the next day she was gone. There was no point in asking because they never told you. I can’t remember even hearing her voice.
The other two, Rutherford and Stevens, talked together as they sorted their papers. Stevens was a little older than the rest of us, small, chubby, and enthusiastic. He looked excitedly round the room, taking it all in. Rutherford had the big, blunt look of a rugby player.
The first shock was that we lost our academic titles and I became Miss Maxwell again. Only heads of departments had titles. I quite liked that. I could see Miss Maxwell would have far more fun than Dr Maxwell would.
We were shown to rooms in the newly built Staff Block. Mine was small and shabby and I shared a bathroom with the two other girls, Nagley and Jordan. Laid out on my bed were sets of grey jump suits, possibly the most unflattering garments in history. A neat electronic scratchpad fitted snugly inside a knee pocket. Heavy-weather gear, wet-weather gear, grey T-shirts and shorts, socks and boots completed the set. I unpacked my few belongings and changed. Surveying myself in a mirror, I looked like an excited, grey sack with ginger hair.
We met again downstairs and shuffled off for our medicals. I didn’t bother trying to hide my dislike of doctors because Dr Foster didn’t bother trying to hide her dislike of patients. The white coat and stethoscope looked incongruous on her. Closely fitting black leather and a short hunting crop would have better suited her stern expression.
The medical paperwork seemed endless. My life had been comparatively blameless so far, but despite that, I was vaccinated for and against everything, and I mean everything. We were also encouraged to give blood regularly – as an investment for the future.
After the medicals, we trooped back to the Hall, rubbing the bits that still throbbed, and sat while Dr Bairstow gave his welcome speech.
‘Congratulations to those of you here today. You constitute the best of the candidates interviewed, but only the best of you will complete your training. You should be aware that not all of you will make the grade. You have tough times ahead of you. Of course, you may resign whenever you wish. There is no compulsion. If you wish to leave, you should be aware that the confidentiality documents you signed today apply in perpetuity and, again, the consequences of divulging any information of any kind to anybody will be very, very clear to you.’
He paused and eyed us all individually. I made myself stare calmly back.
‘We work in conjunction with the University of Thirsk, whence some of you graduated. We enjoy considerable autonomy, but we are answerable to them for our funding. They in turn answer for us to a small and discreet government body who, as far as I can tell, answer to no one below God.
‘You, however, answer to me.’
He paused again for this to sink in.
‘Our public image is of a charmingly eccentric historical research organisation which is of no harm to anyone but itself. This view is particularly prevalent in the village, especially as the echoes of our latest explosion die away. Strive to maintain this image please, ladies and gentlemen.
‘I hope to get to know you all better over the coming months.’ His eyes crossed slightly and he said, in the voice of one who has committed something distasteful to memory, ‘Please remember my door is always open.’ Then he was gone.
After this we grappled with yet more hand-outs, schedules, organisational schematics, and even more forms to complete. The concept of the paperless office never really made much headway at St Mary's. I leafed through the papers in my folder until I found my timetable. The first lecture started at 09.00 the following morning with Chief Farrell, who I remembered, followed by a session with the Head of IT, Miss Barclay, who I didn’t.
We assembled, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, the next morning. Chief Farrell, calm and authoritative, was easy listening and pretty easy on the eyes as well. Izzie Barclay was another matter, rendering her subject so completely devoid of interest and relevance that you could practically hear people's eyes glazing over. I listened with only half an ear while watching her pose in the sunshine so everyone could admire the glints in her red hair.
I suppose that because, with the exception of Smartarse Sussman, I’d rather liked everyone I’d met so far, I was lulled into a false security when it came to Barclay. My own fault. I could have kept my mouth shut. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I’m stupid and never learn. Third in command at St Mary's after Dr Bairstow and Chief Farrell, her approach was a contrast to everyone else's easy-going style; she was unpopular, self-important, and lacking the sense of humour gene.
Without warning, she wheeled and pounced. ‘You! Stevens! What did I just say?’
If he’d had any idea of what she’d been boring on about, it must have flown straight out of his head with the sharpness of her question. He stared at her; a small furry woodland animal hypnotized by a ginger cobra. The silence lengthened.
I looked up. ‘You were describing the position of a point as relative. No point can ever be regarded as solid or fixed but must always be viewed in relation to everything else.’
More silence. ‘Is your name Stevens?’
Good God, it was like being back at school.
‘No,’ I said, helpfully. ‘I’m Maxwell.’
‘I suppose you think you’re clever.’
More silence.
‘Answer me.’
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t hear a question there.’
Mercifully, the clock struck, signifying the end of the lecture and lunchtime. No one moved.
At last, she stepped back. ‘Dismissed.’
So that was my card marked; second period on the first day. Way to go, Maxwell.
St Mary's consisted of a warren of dark corridors and small rooms. Only the Staff Block, Hawking Hangar, and the kitchens were less than two hundred years old. The walls showed barely a lick of paint below shoulder height. The lovely old panelling was gouged and scraped and successive generations had carved their names and dates all over it. Such carpet as remained was old and worn. All the furniture sagged. We could see through the curtains they were so thin, and an overall smell of damp stone and whatever we’d had for lunch that day hung in the air.
Regular soft explosions from R & D didn’t help with the preservation of the building. One memorable day, early in our training, Professor Rapson put his head round the door and said, mildly, ‘If it's not too much bother, may I recommend you evacuate the building right now, please.’
Chief Farrell paused from revealing the secrets of the universe and said, ‘Right, everyone out. Immediately. No, not the door, Miss Nagley, use the windows. Move!’
We clambered out of the windows and joined the rest of the unit on the South Lawn. Major Guthrie's team, wearing breathing apparatus, threw open windows around the building. Something greenish wafted out. We all got the afternoon off.
It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. And uncomfortable. I hadn’t realised how closely together we would live and work. Historians work in pairs. We weren’t assigned a partner because St Mary's believes the best and strongest partnerships are between those who choose each other. Like marriage, I suppose, but with a lower attrition rate. Where possible, the traditional pairing was one man and one woman. Grant and Nagley took to each other straight away and Rutherford and Stevens seemed to hit it off, which just left me and that cocky bastard, Sussman. The circumstances of my life before St Mary's had made me solitary but now wherever I looked he was there. He and I were the only unallocated singles so we seemed to be stuck with each other.
‘What's the problem with working with me?’ he demanded, after I’d spent an entire day trying to avoid him. ‘Have I said something? Do I have bad breath? What is it?’
I tried to marshal some words. ‘It's not you I started to say.
‘Oh, come on, you’re not going to follow that up with, “It's me,” are you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, stung. ‘But I can lie to you if you prefer,’ and went to step past him.
‘No, look, I’m sorry. Just wait a minute. Have I done something? Sometimes, you know, I can be a bit …’
‘No, I’m …’ I struggled for words.
He smiled and said, ‘You’re not a team player. Yet. You don’t trust people enough to place your safety in their hands. You don’t like relying on other people and you especially don’t want to rely on me because you don’t know me, you don’t like me, and you don’t trust me. At this very moment you’re wishing I’d drop dead so you can vanish back to your room and enjoy your own solitary self, doing whatever you do in there every night.’
‘Well, nearly right. I’m actually trying to vanish to the dining room, but the rest was spot on.’
‘Look, we two are on our own here. I’ve been watching you, Maxwell, and you’re as good as I am. And I don’t say that often because I’ve got a big head as well as a big mouth. At the moment, we need each other, and I think together we could be pretty good. You want to be the best and so do I, but we can’t do it separately. I’m not asking you to tell me your life secrets or sleep with me; I just want to work with you. What do you say?’
I’d once overridden my instincts and confided in Mrs De Winter and that had changed my life. Maybe I could do it again. Looking at his feet, I nodded. He was too clever to push it any further. ‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, at breakfast,’ and disappeared.
Once that barrier crumbled, others followed. On the whole, the people at St Mary's were a good crowd. Volatile, noisy, eccentric, argumentative, loyal, dedicated, and impatient as well, of course, but also the best bunch of people you could hope to meet. I began to relax a little. The strange chaos of the first few weeks unravelled into order and routine and we began to get the hang of things.
The mornings were mostly devoted to lectures on temporal dynamics, pod procedures, maths, and the history and structure of St Mary's. We spent our afternoons in the Library, keeping abreast of developments in our specialised areas – Ancient History in my case – the latest thinking in archaeology and anthropology, together with intensive research on the other two specialities in which we were required to be current.
‘What did you choose as your other two specialties?’ asked Sussman one Friday lunchtime as I staggered to my room, legs wobbling under the weight of books, papers, and boxes of data cubes and sticks. My scratchpad was banging in my knee pocket and I was desperate for tea and a pee and not in that order, either.
‘Middle Ages and the Tudors,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
He opened the door for me. ‘Roman Britain and the Age of Enlightenment.’
I was impressed. His main area was Early Byzantine. These were big subjects. He wasn’t just a pretty face. I was glad now I’d taken a chance on him. He wasn’t everyone's cup of tea, but I liked him better as I got to know him. Except on Fridays.
On Fridays, he was just a pain in the arse.
‘It's Friday,’ he said, passing me a sheet of paper and we sat down.
‘Oh, for God's sake, Davey.’
‘Come on, Max, it’ll only take a minute.’
‘Why don’t you revise like the rest of us?’
‘That's no fun. This is much more of a challenge.’
‘Not as much of a challenge as that blonde admin clerk you’ve been chasing all week. How's that working out for you?’
‘I’m quietly confident,’ he said, rolling up his sleeve and picking up a pen.
Every Friday afternoon after lunch, just when normal people were looking forward to the weekend, or feeling sleepy after too many helpings of Mrs Mack's treacle tart (or both), they would shove us into the small training room and hit us with unending questions on all the topics covered that week. Essays, multiple choice, the occasional practical demo – it all came thick and fast. One thing after another. Bang, bang, bang. And we had to pass. Failure was not an option, as the famous saying goes. Fail just one weekly test and you were out. No re-sits, no second chances. You were gone.
Consequently, every Friday lunchtime was devoted to the Sussman Method of Exam Preparation which basically consisted of writing things on his arm. This was irritating enough, without having to watch him achieving higher marks than those of us who’d toiled at the bookface, which was really bloody annoying.
He began to write.
‘Come on, Max. Read me that bit about temporal and spatial co-ordinates and I’ll buy you a drink.’
He found me one afternoon in the small classroom on the second floor where I was hiding from a cross-country run.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Obviously not,’ I said, marking my place with a finger so he would take the hint and go away. ‘Heard what?’
‘Rutherford's broken his leg.’
‘What? Is he OK?’
‘Well, no. He's broken his leg, you daft bat.’
I picked up my McKisack's The Fourteenth Century and hefted it in a meaningful manner. ‘Is he here in Sick Bay or have they taken him away?’
‘Oh, they took him to Rushford. It was nearer. He’ll be back soon.’
But he wasn’t. We never saw him again. Rumour had it he went off to Thirsk as a post-grad assistant, which left poor Stevens pretty exposed. I really felt for Stevens. He wanted this so badly and he struggled with nearly everything. Academically he was fine, but with everything else he was a complete disaster and worst of all, that bitch Barclay, scenting blood in the water, was making his life a misery. This brought out the side of Sussman I didn’t like very much. I asked him to tone things down a bit because he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see that his careless brilliance and effortless achievement were a bit insensitive when Stevens was struggling so hard.
‘Why should I?’ he demanded. ‘There's only three, or at the most, four of us going to complete our training. Me, you, Grant, and probably Nagley. What's the point?’
‘Are you suggesting we throw Stevens under the bus?’
‘What do you care?’
‘He's one of us, you insensitive pillock.’
‘Well, now who's suddenly a team player?’
‘He’d do it for you.’
‘He wouldn’t have to.’
I said nothing, which was usually the best way with him.
‘Oh, all right, then.’
After a morning running simulations, I was sitting at my favourite data table in the Library, trying to work out exactly where I had gone wrong when Sussman came and plonked himself opposite me.
‘So, how did your first simulation go?’
‘Oh, really well,’ I said, inaccurately.
‘Where did you end up?’
‘Minoan Crete, Bronze Age.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes. Sadly, I was aiming for early fifteenth-century Constantinople.’
‘Ah. Oh well, never mind. You’ll get it right next time. Did you hear about Stevens?’
‘Oh, no. What now?’
‘He wanted Tudor England. 1588 to be precise.’
‘And?’
‘He ended up right in the middle of the Spanish Armada.’
I thought quickly. ‘No, that's good. 1588 is the Spanish Armada.’
‘No, right in the middle of the Spanish Armada. About eight miles off the east coast with the San Lorenzo bearing down on him with all guns blazing as he and his pod disappeared beneath the simulated waves. The Chief is still trying to work out how he accidentally managed to override all the safety protocols and Barclay's got a face like a buggered badger. He's a bit depressed, so we’re off to ply him with alcohol before he loses the will to live. Coming?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stuffing my gear into my bag and following him to the bar.
Nagley and I put our heads together and did what we could. We gave Stevens extra sessions, extra revision, and helped him with his notes. Grant and a muttering Sussman tried to make him look good physically, but probably our efforts only served to highlight his deficiencies.
We were finishing one of the sessions with Chief Farrell on closed timelike curves when the door opened and Barclay marched in. I saw Stevens go pale. He’d been expecting this, but now the reality was upon him.
‘Mr Stevens, a moment please.’
Whether by accident or design (and you never knew with her), the door didn’t close properly behind her and we heard every word.
‘Stevens,’ she snapped, ‘get your gear together, please. I’m sorry to tell you – you’re chopped.’
It was brutal. The class gasped. We looked at each other. Chief Farrell, his lecture now lost beyond recall, got up and stepped out into the corridor. We could hear voices. Eventually silence fell. Chief Farrell brought Stevens back into the classroom. He dropped blindly onto the nearest chair. The Chief placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, said, ‘I think we’re finished here today,’ and went quietly out of the room. I suppose it was too much to hope he was giving her a good kicking in the corridor.
Stevens was devastated. Grant and Sussman rushed him to the bar for emergency treatment. Nagley and I did his packing for him and spent an enjoyable half hour dreaming up a series of elaborate and painful deaths for Bitchface Barclay, as she was everlastingly known.
He cried when he left and, to my amazement, so did I, but we didn’t have much time to mourn Stevens. Now we moved into the physical part of our training. Apparently, up until now we’d had it easy.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Major Guthrie, trying not to grin evilly and failing. ‘Up to this moment, I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the cut and thrust of academic debate, but the time has come to embark on the more “hands-on” part of your training. I see there are just the four of you remaining, which gives my section the opportunity to ensure each of you will receive extensive, thorough, and frequent attention. You will find your new timetables in the folders in front of you. Please study them carefully. The consequences of non-attendance, for whatever reason, will not be pleasant.
‘Your primary survival strategy will always be running away, which brings me to the running schedules you will find in Appendix C. Those of you who have hitherto avoided our jolly cross-country sessions,’ he smiled unpleasantly, ‘will be sorry.’
Oh, bloody hell.
Now I got to know the security section rather well. As well as you usually get to know people who have their hands all over you five times a week. I suspect there are married couples who have less intimate physical contact than we did. I met Big Dave Murdoch, Guthrie's number two, a real gentle giant, calm and polite.
‘Good morning, Miss Maxwell. Today, I’m going to rob, rape, and strangle you. Shall we begin?’
I also met Whissell, our other unarmed-combat specialist, small and runty with bad teeth and a habit of standing too close. They said he liked the girls a bit too much, but I suspected he didn’t like girls at all. Sessions with Whissell and his hands were always a little too real to be comfortable and one day, enough was enough.
I reached down, grasped, and twisted.
‘Aarghh,’ he yelled. I saw the blow coming but didn’t quite manage to avoid it.
He closed in.
‘Very good, Miss Maxwell,’ said Murdoch, appearing from nowhere. ‘But a more effective response would have been to catch his wrist – like this – and follow through -like this – finishing with the heel of the hand – like this.’
We both regarded the groaning heap of Whissell.
‘Most instructive,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mr Murdoch.’
‘An honour and a privilege, Miss Maxwell. And keep that thumb un-tucked.’
After that, I always tried to make sure I got Murdoch. Weasel, as we called him, was the type to hurt the things he feared. I tried to keep a discreet distance from him and remain politely aloof, but he had sensed my dislike and I suspected that I would pay for it one day.
They kicked up the simulations programmes until we were in Hawking morning, noon, and night. I loved these sims sessions. I loved walking down the hangar, joking with Nagley or Sussman. I loved entering the pod and smelling that special pod smell. I loved checking the lockers and stowing my gear, settling myself in the lumpy chair, beginning the start-up procedures, laying in my pre-calculated co-ordinates under Chief Farrell's watchful eye, taking a deep breath and initiating the jump. I loved dealing with the hair-raising scenarios that followed. The sims were so real to me that I was always surprised to open the door and find myself still in Hawking.
We simulated missions where everything went according to plan, but only a couple of times because that almost never happened.
We simulated missions where we were attacked by hostile contemporaries. That happened a lot.
We simulated missions where we became ill with something unpleasant. That happened a lot too.
We simulated missions where the pod caught fire.
And, everyone's favourite, we simulated missions where we all died. These were usually scheduled for a Friday morning so we finished in time for the afternoon exams. Nothing good ever happened on a Friday morning.
The final exams loomed ever closer. Not long to go now -the culmination of all our hard work. Unless you were Sussman, of course, in which case you’d barely worked at all. They posted the exam schedule. Every single one had a pass mark of 80% and we had to pass every single one.
First, on the Monday, was Weapons Expertise. I laid about me happily, smiting hip and thigh with enthusiasm. I got Big Dave Murdoch and not only could I hold him off, but I managed to land a couple of good blows as well. I felt pretty pleased with myself and he winked at me.
Archery was a doddle, as was target shooting. Guthrie scribbled away and I hoped this was a good sign. They gave me a pile of miscellaneous tat and fifteen minutes to fashion a weapon. In the absence of any fissionable materials, I came up with a pretty good slingshot that David himself would have been proud of and when asked to test fire, I took out the small window in the gents’ toilets on the second floor. Much more scribbling happened.
Fire fighting was easy. Electrical, chemical – you name it, I doused it. There was good scribbling for Fire Fighting.
Wednesday was Self Defence. I made no headway at all with Weasel as he none too gently chucked me around all over the place, grinning his stupid head off all the time. I waited until a particularly heavy fall then placed my hand on my lower stomach, curled into a ball and uttered, ‘Oh God, the baby!’
Weasel stopped dead, saying, ‘What …?’ and I hacked his legs out from underneath him, leaped to my feet, ran across his chest, and rang the bell, which was the whole point of the exercise. Weasel shot me a filthy look and, at this point, there was no scribbling at all. Major Guthrie threw down his clipboard and walked off.
‘Oh dear,’ I said to a watching Murdoch.
‘No, you’re OK. He's gone round the corner where no one can see him laugh.’
So I felt quite pleased with myself and then, on Thursday, it was time for the Field Medic Test.
We started with theory: plague, cholera, and typhoid symptoms, how to treat simple fractures, shock, resuscitation, no problem at all. In fact, I enjoyed it. Then, in the afternoon, we had to go out and find ourselves a body. A number of volunteers lay scattered around the place and we had to find one. They had a label tied to one arm with a list of symptoms and injuries so we could diagnose and treat. With my usual luck, I fell over Izzie Barclay.
We didn’t like each other. I had still not forgiven her for Stevens and she definitely didn’t like me. Physically, we looked alike: both of us being short and ginger. Maybe that was it. Maybe because I didn’t find her as fascinating as she thought I should. I don’t know.
She lay stretched out near the entrance to Hawking, muffled up to the eyebrows against the cold and reading Computing for Geniuses, or some such thing. Her label said she’d been in an explosion. With dear old Mr Swanson from R & D looking on, I questioned her closely and got to work. Severe head trauma, broken limbs, burns; I worked away, bandaging, improvising splints and doing a good job. Mr Swanson scribbled away again. I sat back on my heels, satisfied, and then the sackless bint said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m on fire!’
My heart stopped. I’d failed.
I checked her label.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
I took a deep breath. She was smirking. Everyone knew this was our examination. Everyone cut us some slack, Murdoch falling over more times than he had to, Guthrie rounding people's scores up instead of down. I bet Professor Rapson held up his broken limbs for bandaging without even being asked. And I’d got Bitchface Barclay and she’d screwed me.
I said, ‘Oh dear,’ deliberately omitting the ‘ma’am’ she so coveted. ‘This is an emergency. I must deal with it at once.’
I stepped away to the outside tap, filled a bucket with ice-cold water, and emptied it all over her. She screamed and shot to her feet, soaked to the skin. It was bloody excellent. I didn’t dare look at Mr Swanson. She had to drip her way past a small crowd of interested techies who had turned up to see who was screaming. Someone sniggered. I swear it wasn’t me.
I waited all evening expecting to hear I’d been failed.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Sussman. ‘Why would they fail you for something so trivial? They’ve invested hugely in us. And it's not as if you actually set her on fire, which is what I would have done. You put her out. Don’t expect any gratitude from the rest of the human race.’
He was right. I’m sure she filed her own body weight in yellow disciplinary forms, but I never heard a word about it. Of course after that day, she loved me even more!
And so we came to the dreaded Outdoor Survival, appropriately scheduled for Friday and all over the weekend. I’d survived unarmed combat. I’d even survived First Aid and Fire Fighting. So I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until Major Guthrie knocked the smirk off my face. Apparently, we would be driven to places unknown and left for two days to die of starvation and exposure. I hate the cold and wet and when I discovered this would be part of the final examination in November, I started to make plans. Not to cheat exactly, because that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? More like dealing with the situation on my own terms.
I had already made some arrangements. Actually, I’d been making provisions since they first told us. We would be dropped off separately and make our way back somehow, to arrive before Sunday lunchtime. That wasn’t going to be a problem because I planned not to leave the building in the first place.
I acquired one of Barclay's black jumpsuits. She was such a Grade-A bitch that I had no qualms at all in stealing from her. People see what they expect to see. Take away the greys and I was no longer a trainee. If I put on a techie-style baseball cap, grabbed a clipboard, slipped my scratchpad in my knee pocket, and looked as if I knew what I was doing, then I might just get away with it.
Next, I needed to avoid getting on the transport. I slunk into admin, brought up the lists, deleted my name, and re-printed. Hopefully, each driver would think I was with one of the others. Whenever anyone asked me which transport I was on, I said vaguely, ‘The other one.’
So far, so good. Now I needed somewhere to hide for two and a half days. I planned to use the time studying for my pods exams, which followed immediately afterwards, so it couldn’t have worked out better. I started poking round in odd corners. Obviously, I wanted to avoid the main building, the Staff Block, and the public areas.
I remembered the dark corridor opposite the Sick Bay lift and went for a wander one evening. The best bet was at the end, in the paint store. The badly lit room, cluttered and dusty with disuse, had a large, empty area at the back, cordoned off by yellow and black tape.
A notice on the wall said:
NO STORAGE IN THIS AREA.
L. FARRELL (CTO)
It wasn’t visible from the door, which made it ideal.
I started stockpiling. Sleeping bag, water, chocolate, torch, batteries, pods revision notes, and backpack. Food I would get the night before, pack it all away, and hide the backpack in the store. So long as I kept quiet, I should be OK. After all, I would be revising. It was practically my duty to cheat.
The others were strangely evasive about their own plans. I suspected they all had their contingencies stashed away around the countryside. I could only hope they weren’t planning something similar. It would be a bit of a bugger if no one at all got on the transports.
I breakfasted ostentatiously in woodland camouflage gear, making sure I packed away enough to keep me going for the day, then slipped quietly away. I never thought I’d say this, but nothing you learn at school is ever wasted! Years of bunking off had finally paid off. In the toilets, I stood on the cistern, bundled my camouflage up into the false ceiling, and pulled out blacks, a cap, and a clipboard.
I wandered slowly down the long corridor, consulting my clipboard, occasionally peering at a fire alarm point, and making a tick on my paperwork. I felt horribly vulnerable, but no one so much as looked at me. No one came racing down the corridor shouting my name, so presumably I’d not been missed at the transports, either.
I strolled into the paint store and closed the door behind me. Retrieving my backpack and stuff from behind the cobwebbed tins of Battleship Grey at the back, I made my way to the empty corner. And a door opened in the middle of nowhere and Chief Farrell stepped out.
It would be hard to say who was the most gobsmacked. I stood rooted to the spot, waiting for him to realise where I should be, compare it to where I actually was, and fire me on the spot.
It didn’t happen. Long seconds ticked by with nothing happening and it slowly dawned on me that he looked as guilty as I felt. And where had he come from? He just appeared. There was nothing. Then there was an open door. Then he stepped out. And here he was. In the middle of the room. We stared at each other.
‘Miss Maxwell,’ he managed, eventually, ignoring the fact I appeared to be disguised as the unit's IT officer.
‘Good morning, Chief,’ I said politely.
What now? While we were grappling with this social crisis, I heard sudden voices in the corridor outside. Panic gripped me and I stared wildly around for somewhere to hide. He grabbed my arm.
‘Come with me. Door!’
Four strides and I was inside a pod. I would have known that even with my eyes shut. The smell was unmistakable. I looked around. This one was small. Maybe a single-seater. The layout was different, with the console on the left-hand wall. The colour was different – a boring beige instead of the standard grim grey. Everything was different, not least the fact it appeared, from the outside, to be invisible.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get me into even deeper trouble, so I shut up. I suspect something similar flitted through his mind and he was a man of few words anyway.
Eons passed. My backpack slid off my shoulder and hit the floor with a thump that made us both jump. At last, he said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for somewhere quiet to do my pod revision,’ and pulled out a folder, as if that would convince him.
‘Shouldn’t you be …?’
I cut him off with a gesture and a complicated, ambiguous noise intended to convey – if you don’t ask then I won’t have to lie and you won’t have to take any action we might both regret, because, let's face it, I’m not the only one up to no good here.
We both paused to contemplate the massive rule-breaking going on here.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Oh. Yes, please.’
There was only one seat so we sat on the floor and sipped.
‘You picked the wrong day to … study … in the paint store. It's inventory day and people are going to be in and out all day, counting things.’
Bloody typical. It had been such a good plan, too.
He sighed. ‘You can stay here.’
I looked around.
‘In my pod.’
I looked at him.
‘This is my pod. My own pod. I keep it here out of the way.’
I carried on looking at him.
‘It's experimental.’
‘Ah. That accounts for some of its more unusual features.’
‘Yes, I use it as a prototype. If things test OK then I incorporate them into the mainstream pods.’
I nodded.
‘Only it's not generally known.’
I nodded again.
He turned and looked at me directly. ‘Is this likely to be a problem for you?’
‘No.’
‘Edward mentioned this.’
‘Edward?’
‘Dr Bairstow. The Boss. He said he found it one of the most unusual things about you. He said the more extraordinary things he told you, the quieter and calmer you became. You’re doing it again.’
‘I’m sitting here in an invisible room!’
‘Only from the outside and “invisible” is not a good word.’
‘Don’t tell me we’re “cloaked”.’ I did the hooked fingers thing.
‘No, it's camouflage. Simply a combination of high def. cameras and a sophisticated computer putting it all together and projecting the images back again. It works well against simple backgrounds like plain walls, less so against complex subjects – a leafy jungle, for example.’
I nodded and looked around. A small telephone-like object resting on a stand caught my eye. ‘You have a telephone?’
‘Funny you should pick up on that. It's a remote control. Someday you’ll be using one yourself.’
I nodded again, having no idea what he was saying.
‘I’ll leave you then to get on with your … revision. You’ll probably find around six thirty on Sunday morning will be the best time to finish and take a walk in the woods, coming in through the East Gate.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Leave the place tidy,’ he said, paused as if to say something else and then left. I made myself comfortable in his chair and pulled out my pod files.
He was right about the inventory. People wandered in and out all day, including Polly Perkins from IT and a small, dark girl and they had a very interesting conversation. They were counting tins of Sunshine Yellow, which is, apparently, the colour of the cross-hatching outside the hangar, when the Chief stuck his head round the door and without even a glance in my direction, asked them to count Lamp Black as well.
After he’d gone, they put down their paperwork and prepared for a good gossip.
‘Is he shagging Barclay?’
I turned up external audio and stared at the screen.
‘No, that never really got off the ground, although not for want of trying on her part. She did everything she could and at the last Christmas party, it was just plain embarrassing. But fun to watch.’
‘Whatever did he do?’
‘Nothing. He was polite but distant. You know how he can be.’
‘Yeah, and I know how she can be as well. Don’t tell me she's given up.’
‘She might as well. The word on the street now is that he's very interested in someone else.’
‘Oh? Who's that then?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘What? Her? You’re having me on!’
Her? Who's her? Why does everyone always know what's going on but me? Come on, ladies! Clarify for the confused eavesdropper.
‘Well, she’ll lead him a merry dance.’
‘Already is by the sound of it.’
Why was I so upset?
‘No wonder Barclay's so pissed.’
‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’
‘And they say,’ she continued, ‘that cocky git Sussman's sniffing around as well.’
What? Who?
‘Did you hear she chucked a bucket of cold water over Barclay the other day? Apparently they all nearly wet themselves trying not to laugh and old Swanson doubled her score on the spot.’
Wow! ‘She’ was me. I never saw that coming. An inner voice said, ‘He's not interested in you. Who would be?’ But inside, a little warm glow spread.
I had nearly forty-eight hours solid revision time in this oasis of peace. I un-jangled my nerves, gave my aching body a rest, drank an ocean of tea, made sandwiches, ate chocolate, slept, and revised big time. And spent some time thinking about what I’d overheard. I did try to concentrate on operations, procedures, and protocols but snippets of that conversation kept intruding. Occasionally, I grinned to myself.
*
I eased myself out of the building at six thirty on Sunday. The Chief was right; it was a good time. Hardly anyone was up and paying attention at that time on a Sunday morning. The night watch, in their last hour of duty would be thinking of breakfast and writing their logs and everyone else was still in bed. I changed back into camouflage gear and strode confidently towards the woods. The rain bucketed down; thus confirming my decision to give the whole exposure and hardship thing a miss. It was three long miles to the East Gate. By the time I’d hacked my way through wet woodland, tripped over roots, fallen into boggy patches, had my face whipped by branches, and been splattered with mud, it looked as if I’d been out there for a fortnight. I was soaked to the skin.
I got lost twice – I’m not good with directions, eventually arriving at the East Gate. They laughed at me but gave me a slurp of hot tea while I signed in. They must have rung ahead because Major Guthrie was waiting for me. I knew he was suspicious, but I looked so authentic: wet, muddy, bleeding, limping, and I’d only gone three miles.
‘How did you get back?’
‘Found a stream and followed it down.’
‘How did you find the stream?’
‘Fell in it.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘East Gate.’
‘How did you find the East Gate?’
‘I was looking for the South Gate.’
‘Where were you dropped?’
‘Some godforsaken, windswept, rain-lashed, barren landscape not previously known to man.’
‘I can’t seem to find your name on the transport list.’
‘Bloody hellfire, sir, does that mean I didn’t have to do this?’
Long, long pause. I returned his stare with a look of blinding innocence and batted mud-clogged eyelashes at him. I’d cheated. He knew I’d cheated, but I stood before him, authentically bedraggled and there wasn’t a lot he could do.
‘Go and get cleaned up and get something to eat.’
‘Yes, Major.’
Yay!
Afterwards, I said to Sussman, ‘How did you do?’
‘I paid a guy to follow the transport at a discreet distance. He picked me up and I spent the weekend clubbing in Rushford.’
‘What? Baby seals?’
‘Very funny.’
‘What about Grant and Nagley?’
‘They planned ahead, planted two mobile phones in the transports, used the GPS, rang for a taxi, booked into a small hotel, and shagged themselves senseless for forty-eight hours.’
And I’d spent forty-eight hours living off sandwiches and sleeping on the floor. Alone.
‘Does anyone actually take this bloody exam?’
‘Not in living memory. That's the whole point. It's an initiative test. They know we all cheat. It's expected. The trick is to look them in the eye and lie right down the line.’
Well, bloody, bollocking hell!
I was still somewhat aggrieved over the Outdoor Survival thing, but the three-day pod exam was a triumph, as were Thursday's simulations. The end was in sight, which was just as well, because I was absolutely knackered. It would be typical if I fell at the last fence. Only the sims weren’t the last fence. The last fence was on Tuesday. Tuesday was the real deal.