And the Rest Is History(102)

‘How is he?’ I said, preparing myself for the worst.

They were all too busy to talk.

Ellis took my arm. ‘Let them do their job.’

‘But I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.’

‘He’s alive.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘They’re working on him. They wouldn’t do that if he was dead. Come on. Three more to find.’

He’d barely finished speaking when another shout went up.

‘Van Owen. Over here. I’ve found her.’

I went to join the medics as they crowded around her, but at the same moment, another shout went up, indicating they’d found Guthrie.

It wasn’t good.

He was still in the remains of the pod. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been thrown clear. I didn’t see how he could possibly still be alive. He lay, impaled on a jagged piece of metal, the end of which was piercing his shoulder. His helmet had been torn off and his whole face was a mask of blood. I could only see one eye. Astoundingly, he was not only alive, he was conscious – or seemed to be. His eye was half open, although I don’t think he was seeing anything. He was in shock, shaking, white-faced, teeth clenched against the pain.

There was something else. What was it? What wasn’t right? A silly voice in my head said, ‘What is wrong with this picture?’

I couldn’t take it in. It just didn’t register. Guthrie was here. His leg was over there. How could that be? Why was his leg all the way over there? I could see it quite clearly. Quite intact. Boot, armour, all there, just a nasty ribbon of flesh and torn skin dangling from the end. For one stupid, stupid moment, I wondered if he had three legs. Had he brought a spare? And then, of course, I realised. He’d lost his leg. My dear friend Ian had lost his leg.

I threw myself to the ground beside him, hardly aware of the pain in my knees.

‘Ian. Ian, it’s Max. We’re here. We’ve got you. Can you hear me?’

His eye flickered towards me. He grunted, ‘Max,’ and then as if that had opened the floodgates of pain, he began to scream.

I was shouldered aside by another medical team. Smoothly, they split themselves into two teams. One for Guthrie and one for his leg. Ellis yanked me to my feet and pulled me out of the way.

I stood watching them work. Not daring to look around me. After seeing Guthrie and Markham, I had no hope left. How could Leon possibly be alive?

‘Guthrie’s still alive,’ said Ellis, reading my mind. ‘His armour and helmet went a long way towards protecting him. Markham survived and he wasn’t wearing any at all. Leon will have been protected too.’

Protected against what? Against being blown up by a madman? Against being hurled through time and space in a disintegrating pod? Against crashing into half a city on landing? Against having his pod break up around him?

‘The other three are still alive,’ said Ellis softly. ‘He will be, too.’

He might have been right, but we couldn’t find him.

We walked a spiral pattern, covering every inch, everyone staring at the ground. No one spoke. I wondered if they were looking for body parts rather than an actual body. Ellis was consulting others, as they tried to get consistent readings from their instruments. And all the time the smoke billowed, hampering all our efforts, and the distant screaming never went away.

My fear was that Leon was completely buried and it would be beyond our resources to dig him out. That they would have to leave him. Of course they would. They’d want to get the other three back for life-saving treatment as soon as possible. Especially Guthrie. A limb is only viable for so long. Yes, they were searching for Leon – and very diligently too – but the time would come when a good commander – and Captain Ellis was a very good commander – would give the order to withdraw. I didn’t blame him. In his position I would probably do the same.

Except that it was Leon and the chances of me going back with them and leaving him here were nil. They couldn’t force me to go. They couldn’t use Matthew against me and, let’s face it, most of them would probably be quite happy to leave me here for ever anyway.

I climbed to the top of what might, two days ago, have been a public oven and looked around me. I could mark the pod’s progress by the deep, burning groove through shattered walls and houses. I could see where it had broken up, hurling out Markham, and Van Owen more or less in the same spot. I could see the Time Police, turning over rubble and timbers, kicking open sagging doors, sticking their heads through holes in walls, waving their tag readers around, all of them doing everything they possibly could, and still not finding Leon. Who could be trapped, dreadfully injured but still alive, as the flames drew ever closer to him. I saw pictures in my head. Leon burning to death. Bleeding to death. Stabbed to death. Trampled to death. Dying alone. He could be only yards away and I’d never know. He might actually be able to see me and couldn’t call out. He might be dying now and I’d never know.

The sudden rush of panic made my head spin. I bent and put my hands on my knees, fighting off feelings of being trapped for ever in this bloody helmet.

I had a sudden memory of Matthew’s dark head, bent over his box of new toys. Well, he wouldn’t miss me. He would probably settle at TPHQ very well. The place was full of men and they had the definitive Time Map. He’d like it there.