And the Rest Is History(59)

Easier for whom was a good question.

Dr Stone interrupted. ‘Max, do you know why you’re in Sick Bay?’

‘No, but my head hurts. And my back. And my shoulder.’

‘I can give you something for that.’

Silence fell again

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Why am I here?’

I thought they’d be pleased I was taking an interest but, again, they just looked at each other.

In the silence, I became aware of the sounds of heavy machinery outside, and men shouting.

‘What’s going on?’

Tim took my other hand. Whatever had happened between us was forgotten. He looked so distressed that I was distressed for him. ‘Max, there’s been an … explosion.’

My first thought was that Professor Rapson had finally taken out the entire R&D corridor but their faces were … wrong.

And then, something flickered at the back of my mind. I said, ‘Say that again.’

‘There has been an explosion.’

There it was again. Something. I began to claw my way through lumps of cotton wool that fought me every inch of the way.

A white flash. Tumbling. Dieter.

I opened my eyes. ‘Dieter.’

‘We’ve discharged him. He’s fine. Just a sprained wrist and some bruising.’

They both watched me again. I shook my head. ‘No. Sorry. Can’t you just tell me?’

‘The thing is, Max, it’s not good news. I think your memory will return quite naturally in a couple of days and then we could take things from there.’

‘No. Tell me now.’

‘I’m offering you a period of – well, you could say, blissful ignorance, which…’

‘Tell me.’

‘All right. Dr Peterson? Would you like to begin?’

Tim hitched his chair a little closer. ‘Max, think back. You’re in Hawking. You’ve arrived back from Stamford Bridge. Do you remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happens next?’

I closed my eyes. ‘Dieter comes in. He’s shutting things down. I take my bag out of the locker. It’s heavy. I heave it over my shoulder. Dieter’s finished. He’s asking me how things went. I turn to speak to him.’

I stopped, confronted by more giant lumps of cotton wool. ‘That’s it.’

‘No, that’s very good, Max. Now, you’re in Hawking. What do you see? What can you smell?’

‘The Hawking smell. Concrete. Dust. Metal. Hot electrics.’

‘Good. What can you hear?’

‘People shouting to one another. Echoes in a big space. An electric drill somewhere. The radio’s playing the classics. Abba.’

And suddenly, without warning, I was there. In Hawking. And I remembered everything.

It all came crashing back. I remembered that last scene. Those final moments. My people up ahead, heading for the door. Techies dragging the thick black umbilicals across the floor towards Number Five. The big hangar doors slightly open, letting in light and a welcome shaft of rare sunlight. Hawking Hangar during a normal day.

Just before it was all gone for ever.

I jumped down off the plinth, dodged Mr Lindstrom’s grinning attempts to trip me with an umbilical, and set off for the far door and Sick Bay. Ahead of me, Bashford and Sykes were just passing through. I remember he held the door open for her. They were arguing about something or other and then, without any sort of warning, every alarm went off. Every light flashed above every plinth. The blue emergency lights strobed overhead. The red alarms over the blast doors came on, hooting and shrieking. With a boom that made the building shudder, the big interlocking blast doors crashed together.

I stood like an idiot wondering what the hell was going on. I think I thought one of the pods was about to blow. Which wasn’t so very wrong as things turned out. Dieter was shouting something but I couldn’t hear over the noise of the alarms. People raced for the open hangar door. Major evacuation. I saw Polly Perkins urging people through.

And then, off to my right, an unknown pod materialised. I stared. It was in a hell of a state. The casing was scorched and twisted and in some places it had disappeared altogether. It shouldn’t make any difference to the pod – the casing is purely cosmetic, but this level of damage outside gave every indication that all would not be well inside.

A fraction of a second later, another one appeared, directly opposite. This one I recognised. Squat and black and menacing. This was the Time Police. Which gave me a pretty good clue as to the occupant of the first pod.

I was right. The door slid open and Clive Ronan stood on the threshold. He was only about twenty feet away from me. He didn’t look good. I could see the tears in his jeans, the mud on his boots, and the sweat stains in his armpits. He hadn’t shaved in a very long time. He looked unkempt and exhausted. A wave of stale, foetid air billowed out of his pod. God knows what it must be like in there.

At that exact moment, the other pod’s door opened and there stood Leon and Guthrie. They were heavily armoured and helmeted but I knew who it was. They carried heavy-duty blasters. The big ones. Even over the shrieking alarms, I could hear them whining on full charge.

I could hardly believe it. They’d got him. They’d got Clive Ronan at last. They’d chased him up and down the timeline, all the way back to St Mary’s. How fitting that they should finally corner him here.