And the Rest Is History(5)

‘Yes, sir.’

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

‘Yes sir. And no sir.’

*

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.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘How did your run go?’

‘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.





I set off that evening. It was that funny time of day when people have finished eating and are wondering what to do next. Have a drink in the bar? Wander down to the pub in the village? Pile into someone’s car and go into Rushford? Whatever they decided to do, they wouldn’t be doing it in Hawking Hangar, which should be deserted.

Dr Bairstow limped along beside me. ‘You have your instructions, Dr Maxwell.’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Take no risks.’

‘No, sir.’

In accordance with instructions, Dieter had sent his people away. Only he remained. The hangar was empty and echoing. Two rows of pods sat quietly on their plinths. There was no tinny radio playing music, no tinkle of dropped tools, no bad language, no hum of power drills. I almost didn’t recognise the place.

‘I’ve checked the coordinates and laid them in for you,’ he said.

‘Ta very muchly.’

I dumped my bag in a locker and turned to check over the console.

Pods are our centres of operations. They’re small, cramped, smell of cabbage and the toilet rarely works properly. I was in Number Eight, my favourite pod. We’d seen some adventures together and it would be hard to say which of us looked the most battered. The console was to the right of the door, with the wall-mounted screen over. I scanned the various readouts – everything looked normal – and seated myself in the uncomfortable seat, wriggling my bum to try to iron out the lumps.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got worms as well,’ said Dieter, watching me squirm as he bashed away at his scratchpad.

I stopped wriggling. ‘As well as whom?’

‘As well as Markham.’

‘Oh God, really? I’ve just eaten with him.’

‘More fool you.’

‘And it’s not as if it’s the first time. Or even the third. How does he do it?’

He shrugged. ‘He’s Markham – home to every passing parasite looking for somewhere dark and moist. Everything’s set here. You OK?’

I nodded.

‘Good luck, Max.’

I wondered how much Dr Bairstow had told him. ‘Thanks. See you soon.’

The door closed behind him.

I felt suddenly nervous and took a deep breath to steady myself. Peering at the screen, I could see Dr Bairstow standing behind the safety line. As I watched, he was joined by Dieter and the two of them stood together.

I wiped my hands on my desert-camouflage combats. We weren’t bothering with historically accurate costumes. It was the middle of the Egyptian desert, for God’s sake. Apart from Ronan and me, there would be nothing and no one for hundreds and hundreds of miles around.

I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

The world went white.



I landed in the middle of nowhere. A great, grim plain, shimmering in the heat, and broken only by an occasional rocky outcrop. Ronan had chosen well. Apart from a large rock about two hundred yards away, there was nothing. The sun hammered down from a sky from which the heat had drained all colour. There were no traditional golden sand dunes – this landscape was harsh and dry, with coarse brown sand blowing around in little eddies. I checked the temperature readings and groaned. Ronan really was a complete bastard. He could perfectly easily have selected a small tropical island somewhere and we could have dangled our feet in turquoise waters and eaten coconuts.

I panned the cameras. There was no sign of him anywhere, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around and I wasn’t going out in the blistering heat until I knew he was definitely here somewhere.

I sat for a while until it dawned on me that if he was here, he might be doing exactly the same thing. Leon’s pod has a camouflage device which enables it to be almost invisible in most landscapes, and I was willing to bet Ronan’s had something similar. He might be less than ten feet away. One of us had to make the first move and my guess was that it was going to have to be me.