And the Rest Is History(17)

‘Drink this.’ Mrs Partridge was at my side, offering me a small glass with another half an inch of corpse-reviver in the bottom. I chugged it back in one go and waited for the explosion of warmth again.

No good would come of being emotional. I’d seen friends and colleagues die before this. Dr Bairstow needed facts and he needed them quickly.

I closed my eyes again because for some reason that made things easier and described, as unemotionally as I could, the events in Sick Bay.

Corpse-reviver or not, I couldn’t control my voice or stop the tears from running down my face. And nothing in the world could overcome my all-consuming fear for Matthew. What might Ronan be doing to him at this very moment? I remembered the Spartans who threw unwanted children off a mountain. Child sacrifice was widespread throughout the ancient world. And it wasn’t as if Ronan actually had to do anything. He could just land – anywhere – anytime – open the door and just pitch him out. To be carried away by predators. Or die slowly in the pitiless glare of the desert sun. Or freeze to death in a snow bank somewhere. Or…

A strong, cool hand was laid on mine and I felt calmness and strength run through me. My mind cleared. Thoughts of death and suffering melted away. I opened my eyes, turned to Mrs Partridge and nodded my thanks.

She smiled slightly and then resumed her traditional seat behind Dr Bairstow.

I cleared my throat. ‘Sir, if you’ve finished with me, I’d like to go to Dr Peterson. He shouldn’t be alone.’

‘Nor is he. Mr Markham is under instructions not to leave him.’

There was the sound of voices from Mrs Partridge’s office. She slipped from the room.

Dr Bairstow looked at me.

‘The Time Police are here.’

I stood up, gave a thought to what I must look like, decided it wasn’t important, and turned to face the door.

First through was Leon, who looked immediately for me. I was relieved to see he seemed immeasurably better than the last time I’d seen him. He was pale, but that awful grey colour had gone. He looked tired, but calmer.

We have a self-imposed rule about never touching each other if we’re in uniform. I kicked that into touch and held his hand. If anyone wanted to object, we could take it outside. I was just in the mood.

Next in was Ian Guthrie, himself looking tired. He saw me and nodded.

And here they came. The bloody Time Police. The cause of all the trouble. Despite all my good intentions, I stiffened. Leon tightened his grip on my hand.

First in was Commander Hay. We’d met before. After the battle of St Mary’s, we’d all sat down and thrashed out a workable treaty. They hadn’t stuck to it but then, neither had we, so probably enough said.

She was a few inches taller than me – so still not tall – and probably a few years older, although, with her, it was hard to tell. She’d fought in the Time Wars – that period when the Time Police had struggled against political and personal time travel. They’d fought to defend the timeline and for a while it had been touch and go. Make no mistake, we all owe the fact that we’re still here and more or less intact to the Time Police. Anyway, there’d been some sort of temporal accident. One half of her face was older than the other. Rumours abounded, but I’d heard that during an emergency evacuation, the door had been blown off in mid-jump and she’d been exposed to whatever was out there. She’d been the lucky one. Everyone else in the pod had died. And it hadn’t been pretty.

She was followed by two officers. One I knew – Captain Matthew Ellis, after whom Matthew was named. The other I hadn’t met before, but she introduced him as her adjutant, Captain Charles Farenden. He was a long, lanky man with brown hair who walked with a slight limp. And that was it. No soldiers. No weapons. Just Commander Hay herself, her adjutant, and an old acquaintance, making the point that this was not a punitive visit. We moved towards the briefing table.

Just as we were about to sit down, however, there was a tap at the door and Dottle entered. Bloody Thirsk shoving their oar in again. This was nothing to do with them. I think she might have had similar feelings because, without looking at me, she scuttled to a seat at the bottom of the table and pulled out her scratchpad.

Dr Bairstow began. ‘Dr Maxwell, your report, please.’

Keeping my eyes on the table so I wouldn’t have to look at Leon, I described the morning’s events in Sick Bay. Dr Bairstow had been right. It was easier the second time around.

Guthrie reported no success with the search for either Ronan or Matthew. No one thought there would be, but he was a thorough man.

Leon reported he’d picked up a very slight trace of radioactivity behind the stables, presumably where Ronan had left his pod. He handed a printout to the adjutant. They could use this to help track Ronan. Every pod has an individual signature and it would give them something to focus upon.

And that was it. That was all we had.

Commander Hay spoke into the silence.

‘Max, it’s a long time since we last spoke. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances. I’m sorry too that the events of today probably arise from our failed attempt to capture Clive Ronan. I think the greater part of the blame must lie with us and I hope we shall be able to work together to put things right.’

Well – from the Time Police, who never apologise for anything – this was a gesture. And a generous one. I found a voice.