‘Come on.’ Teddy walked backwards, his arms outstretched. ‘It’s not as though you’ll be home any later.’
This was unarguable. Reluctantly, she followed him. They met no one in the corridors, nor on the stairs. The snow and the late hour must account for the quiet. She recalled Teddy’s earlier attempt to kiss her, and felt uneasy. Hopefully there would be other people wherever he was taking her. She tried to remember, from the introductory tour, which teams worked in the basement.
‘Are we going to biometrics, Teddy?’
‘No. I’ve got another little game lined up for you.’
More initiations? Her heart sank. ‘I thought we’d finished – in St Ives.’
‘Just one more game. Then we’re done.’ He led her past several empty labs and through a door at the very end of the hall.
‘But, Teddy, this is the morgue!’
If an employee died away from their home timeline, bodies were stored here while arrangements were made for their safe return. Occasionally an autopsy might be conducted, at the request of the Conclave’s Criminal Investigation team.
Teddy grinned, and opened one of the cold chambers. Inside was the corpse of an elderly man. He was bearded, and the folds of his torso were tattooed. The pathologist must have cut him open, too, because there was a line of stitches running down the centre of the man’s chest.
‘Who is this?’ Fay asked nervously.
‘Does it matter?’ Teddy asked.
‘Of course. You want us to play a game with a dead body. I’ll say it matters.’
‘Oh ho, you’re checking that we have consent? If that’s what’s bothering you, the body’s mine.’
‘So you have the same tattoos?’
‘Not yet. He’s got a few years on me.’
‘This is a different man. You’re a liar.’
Teddy stopped smiling. ‘I’m trying to make the game easier for you. If you’re going to be a bitch, what am I supposed to say? I’ll have to tell the others you wouldn’t play along. Old Maggie won’t like that at all.’
This was the price of the job. Fay had come this far; she had played the Angel of Death game. That would be for nothing if she lost her job now.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Fay said.
‘Can you juggle?’
Oh God. ‘I guess.’
Teddy walked to a high double-doored refrigerator. When he opened it the light blanched his skin. He took a plastic pack of meat from the shelf, from among several, and checked the label.
‘Here we are.’ He returned, and Fay saw the bag was vacuum packed round a pair of kidneys. Large kidneys. Human sized.
‘They belong to this guy?’ Fay asked.
‘To me. Yes.’ Teddy tore open the packet. He proffered it to Fay. ‘Now. Juggle.’
Gagging, she took a kidney from the bag. It was firm, cold, and leathery to the touch. She took out the second with her other hand, then stared at the kidneys that lay on her palms. If they did belong to Teddy then holding them was a morbid intimacy. She looked at his face.
‘Go on,’ he urged.
He wasn’t disturbed at all. Was that because the body wasn’t his? Or because it was?
Her soul seemed to detach itself. She felt far from her actions, as if she had floated above her body, and was now observing. One kidney arced through the air at the jerk of her hand. She caught it, and tossed the second kidney. Her palms were bloody.
‘That’s it,’ Teddy said. ‘Again.’
Another jerk. Another arc.
‘Can I leave now?’ she asked.
‘Once more,’ he said.
She half shuddered, half jolted the kidneys into the air, and caught them.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.
Teddy took the kidneys from her, and suddenly seemed subdued. ‘All right. I’ll tidy up here. You can get going.’
She stopped at the ladies’ loos on the way to the time machines. The blood spiralled down the sink until her hands were white again. She wiped her face with paper towels. Before she left for home, she wanted the taint completely eradicated. But the taint was deep, and despite her efforts, Fay did not feel clean.
26
AUGUST 2017
Ruby
While Bee ate brunch with Dinah, Ruby was in Birmingham, as she’d said, but not for a conference. She was there to meet Grace. Ruby was about to hear whether or not her grandmother had four months to live.
It didn’t take long to find the hotel. The building was a conversion from a Victorian eye hospital, and grand if rather dark. On arrival Ruby asked the concierge where to find the restaurant. He informed her it was in the cellar; they were not yet serving lunch, but she could purchase a drink while she waited. She took the wrought iron lift downstairs. It was half eleven, but Grace was nowhere to be seen, so Ruby bought herself an orange juice and cracked open Sushila Pardesi’s phrasebook.
Ruby was still halfway through the section on sexual slang. There were a few double entendres – she could have guessed the meanings of flux capacitor and quantum tunnelling, although Tipler cylinder required a bit more specialist knowledge. A number of terms had no application outside the context of time travelling. For instance – intercourse with one’s future self was called forecasting. Intercourse with one’s past self was a legacy fuck. Infidelity committed with a past or future self was called me-timing. If colloquial usage was any indication, time travellers’ proclivities were overwhelming autoerotic. But there were some interactions with other people alluded to, as well. A palmist was a time traveller who used her knowledge of a person’s future to manipulate them into sex. That was a depressing insight into the Conclave’s sexual politics. Occasionally there was a surprising detour into more romantic waters. A trip to see a lover for the last time before one’s death was called a liebestod.
It was at that moment that Grace Taylor arrived in the cellar bar. This Grace was ancient and bright-eyed. Her hair was as white as dandelion clocks. Her head was framed by a foot-high collar made from gold wire and lace, the kind of thing you’d see in portraits of Elizabeth I. Ruby wondered which year Grace had travelled here from – some future period, where they’d revived renaissance fashions? Or maybe Grace had dispensed with fashion’s whims altogether, and worn what she liked. She paused under the archway to survey everyone in the room. For an instant Ruby forgot she was there to discuss Bee’s death. So impressive was Grace, it seemed everyone should drop to their knees in allegiance. Grace’s eyes fixed on Ruby’s – and then Grace gave the most luminous smile – only seconds before her body folded to the floor.
‘Oh, hell,’ Ruby muttered.
One of the barmen rushed to Grace’s side, claiming his knowledge of first aid, and informed the room she was out cold. The other barman called emergency services.
‘Her name’s Grace Taylor,’ Ruby said. ‘She was here to meet me.’
Then she stood scratching her head, unable to give even the most rudimentary information about Grace’s next of kin.
‘We should probably ring the Conclave of time travel,’ Ruby told barman number two.
‘Wouldn’t they know already?’ said a patron, predictably. He had a point, though. How thoughtless of Grace to invite Ruby, merely to collapse in front of her. She seemed determined to play on Ruby’s last nerve. Yet again, Ruby would have to wait to hear Bee’s fate.
She didn’t think that Grace was seriously ill. The installation at Tate Modern – not to mention several dozen scarves in the gallery shop – said her death date was still a decade away. By her own account, she was not in mortal danger. Barman number one was beginning to look sweaty, and Ruby wanted to reassure him: don’t panic; she isn’t actually going to die until 2027, but it didn’t seem very appropriate.