‘Yes,’ he said, shifting in his chair. ‘I might have ever so slightly misled you about the true purpose of the test.’
‘In what way,’ I said, moving ever so slightly into fighting stance.
‘Well, let me show you. Firstly, the house represents your nesting instinct which, as we can see here, barely exists. The garden represents your desire for gentleness and peace which, as we can see, is no greater than your stunted nesting instinct.
I sighed. ‘What has this to do with…’
‘The snake, on the other hand – this easily three-hundred-feet-long, beautifully drawn, exquisitely detailed, all-encompassing snake, represents your sexual urges which, apparently, appear to be quite massive.’
I snatched up the paper, demanding to know what this had to do with an eye test.
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. But failure to make an appointment will almost certainly result in my posting the results of this test all over St Mary’s. For people’s own safety, of course.’
I crumpled the paper and threw it in the bin. ‘What time do you want me?’
‘I’ve already pencilled you in for 14:30 this afternoon. Don’t be late.’
I began to see why Dr Bairstow had hired him.
I did turn up for the eye test. Something told me it wasn’t wise to cross someone with an access all areas pass to my more private parts, together with a diploma in advanced deviousness.
I seated myself with a reasonable degree of confidence. I’ve long since memorised the letters in the light box. There are three options and I had them all down pat. The secret is to stumble on about the fourth line down, squint realistically, correct yourself and carry on, faultlessly, to the end.
He entered, we smiled engagingly at each other, and he switched on the light box.
I stared, speechless. This guy was a complete bastard. If there’s one thing that really pisses me off, it’s people who look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths and then cheat on an eye test. He’d changed the letters.
‘Off you go,’ he said encouragingly, while I tried not to squint. ‘Start with the third row down.’
The first symbol was either the old sign for British Rail, the Greek letter omega, or two ladybirds humping each other.
‘G,’ I hazarded.
There was quite a long pause.
‘I’m sorry, did I not make it clear? The whole row, please, Dr Maxwell.’
The next letter was a toss-up between the letter R, a floorplan of the Circus Maximus, the figure 8, the letter B, the German symbol for double S, or…
‘R,’ I said with confidence, because that’s half the secret.
Actually the next was easy because there’s no figure two on an eye chart.
‘Z.’ I stopped. It’s always a good idea to end on a high.
‘Continue.’
‘Could I have a glass of water, please.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t see well when I’m dehydrated.’
‘I’m beginning to suspect you don’t see well at all. You’re short-sighted.’
I pointed out of the window. ‘What’s that?’
Now he squinted. ‘The sky?’
‘No, that big yellow ball of flaming gas.’
‘You mean the sun?’
‘It’s ninety-three million miles away. How much further would you like me to be able to see?’
‘Shut up and read the next letter.’
‘B?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Yes, it is.’
I went to get up so I could check personally – and possibly to have a quick gander at the rest of the chart as well – and he pushed me back into my seat.
‘It’s E,’ he said.
‘I was actually going to say that but you distracted me.’
‘Continue.’
‘How many more have I got to read?’
‘It’s taken you ten minutes to read three letters. At this rate, we’ll be here until next Thursday.’
‘Four letters actually.’
‘The last one was wrong.’
‘We could take an average.’
‘We could just get on with it.’
I sighed. ‘S. No Z. No S. Yes S. Or possibly Z.’
‘Make up your mind.’
‘I’m an historian. We like to keep our options open. But the next one’s definitely a Z. Which makes the previous one an S.’
‘It’s not a logic test. Next letter.’
I couldn’t decide whether it was a C or an O. ‘Seeoh,’ I said.
‘That’s not even a real letter.’
I decided to pass on that one and move on to the next.
‘Z,’ I said confidently, because we’d had that one before and I was beginning to recognise the blurry outline. ‘Are you sure this chart’s in English? Maybe that’s why I can’t read it. You’ve set up the Polish one by mistake. I can come back another day.’
‘Just two more left.’
‘And then I can go?’
‘I doubt you’ll be able to find the door on your own.’
I glared at the chart. What hadn’t we had yet? Vowels. The law of averages said the next one would be a vowel. Or would it? Or maybe a semi vowel.
‘Y,’ I said hopefully, watching his face for a clue, but he was tapping at his scratchpad. ‘What are you doing? I’m busting a gut here. The least you can do is pay attention.’
‘Looking up the contact details for Guide Dogs for the Blind.’
‘Dr Bairstow won’t let us have a dog. He says that a) it would be the most intelligent thing in the place and b) he doesn’t want the Security Section learning to cock their legs. Are we done?’
‘One more left.’
‘W. No – Y. No, we’ve had that. Not Z again, surely? No W. W. Definitely W.’
He sighed. ‘It’s K.’
‘Well,’ I said cheerfully, ‘one out of ten’s not bad.’
‘How did you even find your way here?’
‘Isn’t this the dining room?’
He sighed. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’
‘I’m going to be making a spectacle of myself?’
His telephone rang and he picked it up. ‘Yes, I’ll tell her.’ He looked at me. ‘Dr Bairstow would like to see you in his office. It would seem the Time Police are here.’
This was not shaping up to be a good day.
It was a full senior officer meeting. Dr Bairstow sat at the head of his briefing table. Commander Hay on his right. On her right was her adjutant, Captain Farenden. Guthrie, still in Time Police gear, sat on the Boss’s left, with Leon next to him. I sat opposite Leon with Captain Ellis on my other side and Markham beyond him. Peterson’s place was empty. Mrs Partridge sat behind Dr Bairstow, scratchpad in hand. Dottle sat in her traditional place at the foot of the table. This looked serious. I felt a twist of unease, but Matthew was safely – if that word can be used to describe someone in Professor Rapson’s care – ensconced in R&D, doing heaven knows what.
The rain hammered on the windows again. This was turning out to be a shit spring.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming. I think we all know each other here, so, Commander Hay, if would you like to begin.’
‘Thank you, Director.’ She looked around the table. ‘We have, I’m afraid, been unable to locate and apprehend the renegade, Clive Ronan. I am now, therefore, designating this top priority. We are putting together a task force whose sole function will be his capture. This will be a long-term initiative. We simply cannot allow Clive Ronan to continue murdering his way through the timeline. Since we cannot spare as many people as I would like, we are calling on St Mary’s, present and future, for volunteers. Director Pinkerton has released four historians to us and only regrets that she cannot spare more. Before you call for volunteers, however, I should warn you now that I have no idea how long this operation will take. We will not stop until we find him, but it could be some considerable time.’
Dr Bairstow said, ‘I too, will not be able to release as many people as I suspect will want to volunteer. You will appreciate that after recent events, I cannot leave St Mary’s unguarded. However, I shall hold an all-staff meeting first thing tomorrow morning and anyone who wishes to volunteer will be considered. Department heads will report to me this time tomorrow to discuss whom we can spare.’
Guthrie spoke. ‘I’ll go.’
From the corner of my eye, I saw Markham’s shoulders slump. If Guthrie went, then he couldn’t.
Leon said, ‘I volunteer.’