And the Rest is History

It began as a day just like any other. I awoke to a crisp, frosty morning and decided to go for a run. You can’t use giving birth as an excuse forever. I’ve never been what you might call toned, but even I could see it was time to get into some sort of shape. Yes, I’d been on maternity leave, but I wanted to hit the ground running, so to speak, and therefore a little time spent running now might mean a lot less time hitting the ground later on.

I left Leon and Matthew in the bath, playing Attack of the Deadly Flannels. I’m not sure what the game entails, but there’s always a lot of splashing and shrieking – and that’s just Leon. Followed by massive mopping up afterwards, of course.

I blew them both a kiss, ignored Leon’s invitation to join them, and shot off to pick up a bottle of water, bumping into Miss Dottle on the stairs.

Dottle wasn’t actually a member of St Mary’s. She and her boss, the idiot Halcombe, were from Thirsk University, and had been foisted on us last year. That had been my fault – we did something really bad, but no one talks about it so neither will I. Anyway, he’d tried to sabotage an assignment and Dr Foster had diagnosed him with leprosy – as you do – which had got rid of him nicely, leaving us with the much more likeable Miss Dottle.

‘Off for a run,’ I said. ‘Need to get back into shape before taking on the 1066 assignments. A couple of times around the lake should do it.’

As always, she looked over my shoulder for Peterson. She’s a quiet girl and, even though she’s Thirsk’s representative here at St Mary’s, people do quite like her. Besides, as Peterson pointed out, we’d sent them Kalinda Black – or that six-foot blonde psychopath, as Leon always refers to her – so they had rather got the worst of the deal. Miss Dottle was actually quite sweet. True, she had an enormous crush on Peterson, blushing like a sunset whenever he appeared over the horizon but, let’s face it, if you’re going to have a crush on anyone, you could do worse than Peterson. A lot worse.

It could be Markham, for instance, who was the next person to get between me and fresh air.

‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been tasked by Dr B to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

‘Well, actually, he said, “Mr Markham, should anything happen to Dr Maxwell, I will hold you personally responsible and the consequences will be commensurate with my displeasure.”‘

‘A couple of times around the lake,’ I said, patting my midriff. It rippled in a disconcerting manner.

My thingy – as the Security Section refers to it, because they have to keep things simple otherwise they can’t cope – was the personal attack alarm, hanging around my neck. For further security, they’d increased the number of my tags. In addition to the normal one in my arm, they’d inserted another in my thigh. ‘In case your arm gets chopped off,’ said Helen, comfortingly, and a third under my shoulder blade.

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I presented my thingy for inspection, was instructed to wave as I passed the windows, not to overdo things, to remember my water, to try not to fall over my own feet, or get lost.

Since he showed signs of wanting to come with me, I asked him if he really was married, which always shifts him faster than one of Helen’s constipation cures goes through a short historian, and eventually I made it out into the fresh air.

I wandered over to the lake, stretched out a few non-existent muscles and set off.

I have my own formula. A hundred yard’s jog. Hundred yard’s brisk walk. Hundred yard’s sprint. Hundred yard’s jog again. It covers the ground surprisingly quickly. Although not as quickly as having a pack of enraged villagers coming at you waving pitchforks and torches and shouting about burning the witch. Then watch me really move.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Things wobbled a bit, but casting my mind back to pre-pregnancy days, things had always wobbled a bit, so I didn’t take a lot of notice.

The day was lovely, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and cool enough to keep me comfortable. The swans, always as far away from St Mary’s as they could possibly manage, floated serenely on the lake or stamped around the reed beds muttering to themselves. We all gave each other a wide berth.

I completed one circuit, chugged back some water and, encouraged to find I was still alive, decided to give it another go.

I set off again, anti-clockwise this time, rather enjoying myself and, just as I was at the very furthest point from St Mary’s, just where the reed beds hid me from sight, I came upon Clive Ronan, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, and apparently waiting for me.

Remembering the last occasion on which I’d seen him, the time when he’d kidnapped me and left me to give birth alone and lost in time, I screeched to a halt and began to grope for my thingy. Sadly, it was under my T-shirt to stop it bumping around so was not, therefore, immediately accessible.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I mean you no harm. I’m not armed. Look.’

His gun was on the ground some feet away. ‘Pick it up if it makes you feel safer.’

I did pick it up. As I’d suspected, it was empty but I could always use it to club him to death.

He stood up very slowly. ‘I’m not armed,’ he said again, arms in the air, rotating slowly. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and I could see he had no gun.

‘No ankle holster,’ he said pulling up his jeans. ‘And no knives either. No hostile intentions of any kind.’ He sat back down again. ‘I can understand that after our last encounter you might have a few … issues … with me, but since you apparently made it back safe and sound, I hope you’ll be able to set those aside for a few minutes and talk. How is the young lad by the way? Does he look like his dad?’

He seated himself again slowly and carefully. ‘I have something to say to you and…’

I finally located my thingy and pulled it out. Carefully, because I’d once set it off accidentally and birds had erupted from the trees, glass had shattered, every dog for miles around had begun to howl, and Dr Bairstow had blamed me for stopping his clock. You get the picture. It’s loud.

I’ve been dealing with Ronan for years now. He’s a killer without conscience. He’s ruthless. A complete bastard. He couldn’t possibly have anything to say to me. Activating my alarm would have the entire Security Section here in moments. And Leon, probably, dripping wet, baby in one hand, Glock 9mm in the other. And the History Department, of course, all wanting to see what was happening, and keen to make a bad situation worse.

There was a silence, while my brain struggled with what was actually quite a simple sentence.

He sighed and leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. ‘I want to stop running. I want … I don’t want to…’

I wasn’t altogether surprised. I think I’ve said before that living outside one’s own time is not easy. Today’s society is much more fragmented than in the past – people are no longer linked in the traditional groupings of family, tribe, guild, or village, but even today, without a NI number, a credit rating, or an ID card, there’s little chance of being accepted into society. Life on the outside is never easy. Everyone belongs somewhere. They may not like their life but it fits them exactly. It’s where they’re meant to be. Leave it for any length of time and History reacts by making things as difficult as it knows how.

Ronan had been running for years, damaging himself and everyone around him. His trail was littered with corpses and the wreckage of other people’s lives. I could understand that he would want to stop running. Especially now that the Time Police were on his case. The question was – would he be allowed to? Should he be allowed to?

I thought of Mary Schiller. Killed and left in a box for four hundred years. And Jamie Cameron. Killed to make a point. And Big Dave Murdoch who died saving me. I thought of what Ronan had done to Bashford and Grey. And to me.

Not looking at me, he said, ‘I want to stop running all the time. I’ve found somewhere … I want to settle down with … I want to stop all this. Sooner or later, Max, one or both of us is going to be dead. And that doesn’t have to happen. I now know the … the value of what you have, and I want it too. So I’m saying – you back off – I back off – and we both of us get on with the rest of our lives.’

I found a voice. ‘That’s it? That’s what you want? A decade and more of killing everyone in your path and now you just want to close the door and walk away?’

‘I can’t do anything about the past. But I can do something about the future. People who might die in the future now might not. If we can agree to stop this.’

‘I can’t agree. I mean, it’s not my decision. Dr Bairstow, Director Pinkerton, The Time Police, Leon – I can’t begin to count the number of people who want to take you down.’

‘It hasn’t happened yet, but you don’t have to be a genius to work out where this is leading. We’re all caught up in this deadly, downward spiral of violence and revenge and it’s going to end badly, Max, for all of us. You have a son now. You have responsibilities. Surely you want to keep yourself and Farrell alive for him. You want to watch him grow up, don’t you?’

‘No. I’ll just step into my pod, which is only just over there and disappear again, leaving you to reflect on a wasted opportunity which could have changed everything.’

Something in his face changed. Even his voice was different. Softer, but somehow more compelling.

‘Because, my dear Max, you dance on the edge of darkness. You always have, and I don’t think it would take very much for you to dance my way. I can’t think of anyone I would rather have to speak for me.’

‘Your word carries weight. A great deal of weight. What do you have to lose? Love what you did to Halcombe, by the way.’

‘I’m sure had you been in my position you would have done something similar.’

‘I don’t think I dance quite as close to the edge of darkness as you sometimes imagine.’

‘Oh come on, Max. We both think the same way. The only difference is that you only think about these things and I actually do them.’

‘I’ve planted the seed, which is all I came to do. Talk to Edward, Max. Tell him what I’ve said.’

‘Can you?’ He smiled. ‘Ask him what Annie would have wanted him to do? May I have my gun back please?’

I turned, took a few steps, and threw it into the lake. When I turned back, he was gone.

I whirled around a couple of times, but he really was gone. A sudden hot wind rustled the dead, dry reeds as his pod jumped away.

I could see something white on the log where he’d been sitting. An unsealed envelope with my name on it. Inside was a sheet of paper.

Thank you for listening. If Edward wants to take this further – and I hope he does – then meet me at the coordinates below. A little remote, I know, but excellent all round visibility, which makes it a good place for neither of us to be ambushed.

Au revoir.

I folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and jogged back to St Mary’s.

She looked at me for a moment and then disappeared back into his office. I could hear the murmur of voices and then she reappeared.

Dr Bairstow and Miss Dottle were seated at his briefing table, teleconferencing with the Chancellor. She smiled. ‘Good morning, Max.’

‘Good morning, Madam Chancellor. My apologies, but I must speak to Dr Bairstow at once.’ I turned to him. ‘Something has happened, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Madam Chancellor, Miss Dottle, my apologies. We shall resume as soon as I am able.’

The screen went blank. Dottle picked up her papers and her scratchpad and scurried from the room.

I gave him the details and sat quietly while he sat quietly. His face, as usual, gave no clue to his thoughts and, believe me, I was looking. Eventually, he said, ‘Did you believe him?’

I didn’t make the mistake of replying instantly. I sat and ran through everything. What Ronan had said. How he had said it. His body language. His facial expressions. I sifted through my thoughts and impressions and then said, ‘If I had not known who he was, then yes, I would have believed him.’

‘So, as far as you can tell, based solely on this morning’s events, he was telling the truth.’

‘I have, sir. They translate to a location in the Egyptian desert, around 525BC.’

‘He’s being cautious, Max. It would be very difficult to arrange an ambush in the middle of the desert. There would be little cover for miles around.’

Silence again as he sat and stared out of the window. ‘If I asked you to, would you go?’

‘If he’s genuine, then this is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss. If he’s not, then I can shoot the bastard, and that’s an opportunity I can’t afford to miss.’

He stirred in his chair. ‘If I alert the Time Police, they’ll want to be there.’

‘And if I don’t alert them and he escapes or attacks you – then they will have a legitimate grievance, and the fault will be solely mine.’

‘Go and have some lunch, Max. Come back in an hour. Not a word of this to anyone.’

I sat with Markham and Peterson at our usual table. They chatted away. I sat and listened with half an ear, busy with my own thoughts.

‘You all right, Max?’ said Peterson. ‘Don’t tell me this morning’s gentle trot has knackered you completely.’

‘Of course not,’ I said with dignity. ‘If you don’t want your sandwich, can I have it?’ and he was so busy defending his lunch that he forgot to ask any more questions, and Markham was playing fish finger Jenga and not listening anyway.

It was only as I was leaving that I noticed Leon wasn’t there. Slightly concerned as to the whereabouts of the male members of my family, I went to look for them, eventually running them to earth in our room where Leon, covered in a protective sheet, was feeding Matthew. The way he eats – Matthew, I mean – it’s the feeder rather than the feedee who needs to wear the bib. One mashed banana can cover every available surface for miles around and has frequently done so.

‘Unexpectedly,’ I said, wondering whether to say anything or not. Leon’s not always very balanced on the subject of Clive Ronan. I hesitated, remembered Dr Bairstow’s instructions, and said nothing. If he wanted to, he could brief Leon himself.