‘I’m tall enough to reach,’ Square Jaw said. ‘You two support the base of the frame.’
Tartan and Odette did as he asked. The screws were impacted with rust, and Square Jaw grunted as his screwdriver repeatedly scraped the surface. A few red flakes fell to the floor.
‘I can’t get any purchase,’ he said. ‘I’ll try the other side.’
As he stepped away, Odette noticed there was a plaque on the wall. The plaque that had been missing when Dr Niven unveiled the portrait. It read:
HEADMASTER
CHARLES THURROCK.
A man who caned his charge for her vulgar accent.
Artist: Grace Taylor.
Grace Taylor must be the charge he caned. Why else would she paint him, and add that particular detail, if it weren’t from personal experience? Odette understood about accents; the loss of one, the gaining of another, and what the switch signified.
Odette let go of the frame.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Tartan.
‘Collecting a clue.’ Odette took the other screwdriver from her pocket, and applied it to the plaque.
‘A clue to what?’ Square Jaw asked, pausing in his own efforts.
‘Dr Taylor’s life, I think.’ The last screw wriggled out of its fitting, and she slipped the plaque into her bag.
‘I don’t think we can get this picture off the wall,’ Square Jaw said. ‘I can’t get either corner to budge and we’ve only got fifteen minutes left before our old selves arrive.’
‘Leave it,’ said Tartan. ‘We can start catapulting the chandeliers, before we run out of time.’
They took one chandelier each, a slingshot and ball at their right shoulder, and none of the trio – not even Tartan, archer for her county – made a direct hit. Their missiles arced too soon and too low every time. Odette’s sailed past the security camera, and she noticed that its light wasn’t flashing.
When Elspeth Niven had briefed them, the security camera was switched on; Odette was sure she had seen its light flashing, because she had believed they were on tape for the assessment.
Now the camera was off. Was the difference significant?
It might be. If the vandal did succeed in slashing the painting, the evidence should be captured on camera, and could help with prosecution.
The camera was too high for Odette to switch on manually. In the interests of experimentation, she raised her catapult again, and took aim at the camera.
With god-given precision, the ball struck the side of the camera, and the light flashed. Her success must be fluke. Yet Odette had known she was going to be successful, because she had seen the camera was switched on in the future.
And she knew, too, she wouldn’t stop anyone vandalising the painting. She knew, because she had seen the portrait slashed in the future.
‘It’s eleven twenty,’ Tartan said. ‘We’re going to arrive in ten minutes. Shall we get back in the time machine?’
‘That’s not what we agreed. The vandal must be on their way.’ Square Jaw nodded at Odette. ‘She’s going to intercept them.’
‘Is there any point?’ Tartan asked.
Square Jaw’s lips parted in surprise. ‘Yes! We need to do everything we can to change the course of history.’
‘We can’t. I’ve thought this all along. If we did, it would be paradoxical.’ Tartan turned to Odette. ‘What do you think?’
‘We were asked how time travel can prevent crime,’ Odette mused. ‘I think we can provide an interesting answer even if we fail to stop the vandal.’
‘So let’s get back in the time machine!’ Tartan said.
‘I’m not going to fail at this task just because you two give up early,’ Square Jaw said. ‘I’ll intercept.’
Odette raised a hand. ‘You’re being rash. I didn’t say I wouldn’t try. As it happens, I want to ask the vandal a question.’
So Tartan and Square Jaw went one way – back to the hall of time machines – and Odette found a shady alcove in the corridor from which to spy. She saw a woman approach: Grace Taylor. Odette recognised her from the television. She wore a gold breastplate. A roundel of reflected light shone at her shoulder.
‘Dr Taylor,’ Odette called softly.
The time traveller stopped, and peered into the alcove. Odette moved out of the shadows.
‘I’m one of the candidates,’ she said. ‘From the… near future. Very near.’
‘I see,’ Dr Taylor said. ‘Can I help?’
‘I wanted to know something. The picture you’re about to vandalise – you chose that one for a reason, didn’t you? I took the plaque as evidence. You took pleasure in painting someone you hated, just to destroy it.’
‘How dramatic.’ Dr Taylor checked her watch. ‘I prefer to say I was making an artistic statement. Was there anything else?’
‘Is that a standard exercise for Conclave applicants?’
‘Yes – when they want to be investigators.’
‘How many people have done this exercise before?’
‘This exercise exactly? None. But around seventy applicants have endured a variation of it. Sometimes the crime’s a theft, once it was arson.’
‘Has anyone ever changed the outcome?’
‘Not yet.’ Dr Taylor paused. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I must be—’
A round, rubber ball struck Dr Taylor in the eye. Her hands leapt to her face.
‘Fucking Nora!’ she exclaimed.
At the end of the corridor stood Square Jaw, catapult in hand.
‘She’s about to leave,’ he called to Odette. ‘Pull the knife!’
Odette glanced down at her pocket. But Dr Taylor saw the direction of her gaze; she ripped Odette’s pocket from the jacket, and the knife fell to the floor.
Dr Taylor picked it up, and shook her head. ‘I’ll take that. You two have delayed me quite enough.’
Odette couldn’t bring herself to speak to Square Jaw. By assaulting a senior time traveller, he had surely ruined his own chances of a job offer, and had possibly jeopardised Odette’s opportunity too. She hoped Dr Taylor would distinguish between their actions. They walked back to the time machine in silence; Tartan had already departed without them.
28
FEBRUARY 1983
Margaret and Veronica
Since 1969, Margaret had followed Angharad’s recommendations for recruitment. Only people with a clean bill of mental health, as demonstrated by their medical notes, were recruited as time travellers; and among new recruits, hazing rituals were commonplace. But Angharad’s final recommendation – to issue ultimatums to employees with death anxiety – didn’t have to be implemented until 1983. That year one particular employee was struggling, and failing, to manage her poor mental health. Her name was Veronica Collins; she was an interpreter, who was aged twenty-eight when her symptoms came to the attention of the Conclave’s clinical psychologist, Dr Siobhan Joyce. Margaret’s reaction would give Veronica a clear motive for subsequently placing Margaret’s life at risk.
Dr Joyce picked up on Veronica’s problems during a routine mental health check. She immediately telephoned Margaret to say she was bringing Veronica to see her. On arrival, Veronica’s first comment surprised Margaret.
‘I’m so grateful you’re finding out in 1982,’ Veronica said. ‘It would have been dreadful, later in the century.’
‘In what way?’ Margaret asked.
‘The silver Margarets are utter bitches. You’re easier to talk to.’
‘I see,’ Margaret said. There was a tendency, among time travellers, to treat green and silver selves as separate people, but it was still a faux pas to criticise one to the other. Veronica’s comment did not place her on a good footing.
To Siobhan, Margaret said, ‘Would you care to outline the problem?’
‘Veronica’s using time travel in some troubling ways,’ Siobhan said. ‘Mainly to assuage anxiety. According to her psychometric results today, she meets the criteria for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.’
In 1983, OCD was not a term in layman’s usage, but Margaret had heard it used by travellers from the near future.