And the Rest Is History(62)

Actually, there wasn’t anything there that had been before. The original camera must have been destroyed in the blast because this one had a different point of view. This was the one from Leon’s office down at the other end of the hangar. The picture was very grainy, due, in no small part, to the swirling mass of dust and dirt inside the hangar.

But not all the dust and dirt in the world could conceal the damage. There was no sign anywhere of Leon’s or Ronan’s pods. Just a huge crater in the concrete floor. TB2 was a mangled wreck. A large lump of it was embedded in Number Seven. Number Eight had been blown off its plinth and slammed back into the hangar wall. As had Three. Four was completely destroyed. Shattered pieces of twisted metal lay everywhere. Number Five, still with me and Dieter inside, lay on its side, half on and half off its plinth.

Everything was gone. Nothing was left alive. The only movement was the clouds of dust and smoke swirling around the hangar before being sucked upwards through the gaping hole that had been the roof.

I swallowed. I was looking at the stuff of nightmares. Hawking was devastated. Just like me. Just like my life.

The whole roof was completely gone. Just like Leon. And Guthrie. And Markham.

I heard Ronan’s voice. ‘No Maxwell. You’re going to live. Everyone else in your world will die but you’ll live on. You’ll look back on today and wish I had killed you.’

Hawking had been built like a fireworks factory, with strong walls and a weak roof, so that in the event of any explosions, the blast wouldn’t spread outwards, but would be channelled harmlessly up through the roof. Because roofs can be replaced. And electrics. And pods. And equipment. Everything could be replaced. Except for Guthrie. And Markham. And Leon. They were gone for ever. Blown out of existence.

‘You’ll look back on today and wish I had killed you.’

I blinked, trying to see through the cloud of brownish yellow dust and smoke swirling upwards, taking with it everything that was left of Leon. Somewhere in all that murk, his scattered atoms and molecules were about to begin a new journey. Making their lonely way around the universe. On their way to become something else. In the fullness of time they might become a tiny part of a new star. Or a new planet. Or a new mountain. Or a new person, even. But no matter how long they travelled and no matter how long the universe continued, they would never again assemble in the combination that had been Leon Farrell.

On that bright sunny morning, I stared at the blurred picture and finally accepted that, dead though he might be, Ronan had won.



I don’t know for how long I sat there. I think it was some considerable time. At some point, Dr Bairstow had switched off the screen and was watching me.

I took a deep shuddering breath. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything.

‘Listen to me Max. You and I have known each other for a very long time now. You may be wondering why I wanted you to watch that. You must understand that, no matter how painful it is to accept, Leon is dead. I know you well. Don’t tell me that somewhere, deep down, you weren’t convinced that somehow, against all the possibilities, Leon had not been killed. To continue to harbour such false hope is futile.’

He was right. I hadn’t even realised I was doing it, but I hadn’t accepted Leon was dead. A small part of me was still expecting the knock on the door that would tell me there had been some dreadful mistake and that they were all alive. Was that why I hadn’t told Matthew his father was dead? Because, deep down, I hadn’t really believed it?

He continued. ‘It would have eaten away at you and prevented you continuing with your life. Sooner or later – and you know as well as I, Max, that sooner is usually better than later – you must accept the fact that Leon is dead. That they are all dead.’

I nodded. The silence in his room was very heavy.

I sighed. ‘Ronan got them, sir.’

‘I prefer to think that they got him.’

I shook my head. ‘Too high a price.’

‘They didn’t think so. Neither did Mr Markham who died doing his duty.’

He sat in silence for a very long time. ‘They were almost the last you know. There’s only Mr Evans left.’

‘The last, sir?’

‘The last of those who walked through the front doors with me the day I opened St Mary’s. Guthrie, Murdoch, Ritter, Randall, Weller, Evans and Markham. Good men all of them. But yes, Max, for once we find ourselves in complete agreement. Too high a price.’

He looked out of the window.

I was suddenly aware of why the silence was so … silent. ‘Your clock has stopped, sir.’

‘What?’

‘Your clock, sir. It’s stopped.’

‘Oh yes, I’m afraid it has. It has been on its last legs for some time. I believe that the blast has dislodged or damaged some vital part.’

I knew how it felt.

‘You should fix it, sir.’

‘Should I? Why is that?’

‘Markham always said it gave him something to focus on when he was being … the object of your displeasure. It wasn’t that he wasn’t listening – although we both know he probably wasn’t – it just took his mind off things. It’s a kind of tradition with us, sir. We stand in your office, listen to your clock, accept our punishment, and survive to return another day.’