And the Rest Is History(75)

Then we washed our face and hands, tidied ourselves up, because historians never go back looking scruffy, and, finally, we jumped away.



Normally, the return from an assignment as important as Hastings is a triumphant business. As many of the unit as can be prised away from their work – which is all of them – assembles on the gantry or behind the safety line and cheers us in. We wave and march to Sick Bay for them to pull us about in the name of medicine and then retire for a shower and a favourite meal. Reports are written, arguments settled, the odd margarita secretly imbibed and we sleep for twelve hours.

This wasn’t anything like that.

We disembarked quietly. I don’t know about anyone else, but I could still hear the ring of steel on steel, the thunder of hooves, the moans of the dying.

And then we stepped out of the pod into Hawking. Only a few emergency lights were on. The roof was covered with a giant tarpaulin that flapped and rustled occasionally. The giant space was almost completely empty, making it easy to see the great gouges in the walls where lumps of pod had been blown around like dandelion seeds.

Dieter appeared with a glow stick and in silence, guided us around the holes in the floor. In equal silence, we followed him. There were no dreadful jokes. No banter. There weren’t even any arguments. The effects of what we’d just witnessed, together with disembarking to a wrecked Hawking … We’d had some tough times. It wasn’t the first time St Mary’s had blown up around us, but I thought at the time that this was our darkest hour.





We pulled everything together, viewed the footage, wrote our reports, and indulged in a bit of speculation just for the hell of it. I recommended Bashford and Sykes do the presentation to Thirsk and, since every technician was now working his socks off in Hawking, that they take Lingoss along for technical support. As I said to Dr Bairstow, it was time we gave the younger generation a chance to shine. There was a short pause as we both envisaged what Miss Sykes and the Senior Faculty would make of each other, and then he agreed.

He rearranged one or two things on his desk and then said, ‘Our current schedule of assignments is ended. May I enquire as to your plans for the future?’

I hadn’t been going to say anything, but this seemed a fortuitous coincidence, so I said, ‘Well, sir, actually…’ took a deep breath, and with some misgivings, admitted I was seriously thinking about taking Matthew away. Ronan was dead, I said. We could live quietly in Rushford. Perhaps we could stay with Mrs De Winter for a while. I would commute. Matthew could go to the school Dr Dowson had found, I said. We could say he’d been subject to some sort of trauma and evolved stories of living in another time as some sort of defence mechanism. And living a normal life, with normal friends, doing normal things, would surely cause bad memories to fade and he would become a normal little boy with a favourite football team. He’d leave his stuff all over the house, become indescribably dirty at the drop of a hat, refuse to eat his vegetables, incubate new forms of life under his bed, sulk in his room when he couldn’t get his own way, and just generally be normal.

I’d clean the house on Saturday mornings, I said, becoming quite carried away at this fantasy of another life. I’d shout at him about the state of his room, demand to know why one of his socks was always missing, force him to do his homework, moan about the cost of living, my job, my life. We would go to the cinema – but not on school nights. We’d have a week’s holiday every year in Devon. He could have pizza on Saturday nights.

Eventually emerging from cloud-cuckoo land, I asked Dr Bairstow’s opinion.

After a long silence, he said, ‘I cannot take exception to any of your plans, Max, although I myself have never regarded pizza as nutritiously acceptable, but from a purely personal point of view I would feel much happier if you were to wait, say, six months. If you are still of the same mind then, it might be a good step for both of you – but I need to be sure you are taking it for the right reasons.’

‘What would be the wrong reasons?’

He hesitated. ‘If you are running away from bad memories, then your strategy won’t work. Wherever you go, you will be taking your memories with you. It is always better to confront them. Furthermore, I think you underestimate how lonely and how difficult is the life of a single parent. Here, you have friends and their support. They tell me Matthew is settling well and I think it would be a shame to jeopardise the progress made so far. And from a personal, purely selfish point of view, I would like you to stay. You are a key member of this unit. I know you don’t think so, but people look to you for guidance and example. If you were to leave, others might think of following your example. Obviously I cannot compel you to remain and nor would I wish to do so. All I ask is that you wait six months and if you are still of the same mind, then yes, we can make plans. Together.’

He was right. I nodded, rather glad of the excuse not to have to make any hard choices just yet.



The days dragged past. One after the other. As they do. People said I was handling things well and I was. No credit to me. I didn’t do anything. The bits that loved and laughed and experienced emotions had all disappeared with Leon. Wherever he was, those parts of me were with him. What remained was some kind of shell or husk – empty and dry – that walked and talked and never felt a single thing.



I’ve never told anyone about this. I’ve never even mentioned it to Peterson. Even after it was over, I wasn’t quite sure it hadn’t all been a dream.