‘Hand-washing?’ she said. ‘Checking the door is locked, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Siobhan cautiously. ‘But there’s more to it than that. A person with OCD usually feels an excess of responsibility. All of us experience passing worries about whether we turned the oven off, but the person with OCD might imagine a disastrous gas explosion, involving fatalities, injuries, or loss of home, for which she is solely culpable. Checking provides relief from anxiety, but the relief wears off, so the person checks again, then again, eventually developing a ritual even if she’s aware her behaviour is illogical.’
Extraordinary, Margaret thought. How glad she was not to have that weakness of mind. ‘And this is true for Veronica?’
‘In her case, she repeatedly worries that she’s killed a person during one of her time travel trips and somehow forgotten her involvement.’
‘I’m frightened that I’ve killed my grandchild,’ Veronica added. ‘I’m twenty-eight, for Pete’s sake.’
‘She keeps returning to his gravestone for reassurance,’ Siobhan said. ‘The epigram says he died peacefully of old age.’
‘How many times have you returned?’ Margaret asked.
‘Hundreds. Thousands.’
The scale of Veronica’s problem, then, was significant. Her mental weakness could jeopardise the Conclave, as Barbara’s had done, if Margaret didn’t strictly manage Veronica’s decisions from here. That would be achieved more easily if they spoke to each other alone.
‘Thank you, Dr Joyce, for diagnosing Veronica,’ Margaret said. ‘But I’ll take things from here. Please don’t let us keep you from your duties.’
Siobhan straightened in surprise. ‘If that’s what you think best.’
She left. Veronica searched for a tissue.
Margaret adopted what she hoped was a benevolent tone. ‘My dear, have you told any family members about your difficulties? Any friends?’
‘No, I… I didn’t think they’d understand.’
‘Good. Your instincts, I think, are correct. People don’t understand. They propagate unfortunate stereotypes of time travellers and sadly this… disorder… would give them further ammunition.’ Against the Conclave, as much as Veronica, Margaret silently added. ‘But you still have options, and I will support whichever you decide upon.’
Veronica nodded uncertainly.
‘Two paths are available to you,’ Margaret said. ‘First, you may remove the source of your anxiety by leaving your position at the Conclave. I will ensure you receive a good reference and severance package, provided you sign a non-disclosure agreement. It is essential that you remain silent on the reasons for your departure.’
‘And the other path?’
‘You stay. You tell no one of your distress. You undertake desk work, without access to the time machines, until your disorder improves. And you commit to a programme of reconditioning, which I’ll oversee.’
‘Re-what?’ Veronica asked.
‘Conditioning. The focus of your distress, Veronica, is the death of a loved one. I propose we neutralise your responses to the certainty we all must die.’ Veronica should be familiar with hazing. Whenever wenches joined the Conclave, there was a degree of rough and tumble. But clearly the hazing had been insufficient in Veronica’s case; it would have to be escalated, till she adjusted to Conclave life as the other time travellers had done.
‘Neutralise my responses…’ Veronica whispered. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Through a series of games. That doesn’t sound so bad, now, does it?’
‘I suppose not. Can I please have some time to decide?’
‘You have until the end of the day. The sooner we know your next steps, the sooner you can start the next stage of your life.’
*
Veronica struggled to accept that the options Margaret presented were the only ones available. Could it be true that her only options were to leave – against her own desire for a career at the Conclave – or have her feelings neutralised? The word was so sinister. Why could she not retain her position and seek an independent medical opinion? Surely the law offered some protection? To understand this point better, Veronica visited the Conclave’s legal department.
A woman named Fay, who had a drooping pompadour of ginger and grey hair, was at the duty desk. Family photographs were crowded round her telephone. Her matronly air appeased Veronica.
‘I’d like to speak to an expert in employment law,’ Veronica said.
‘We don’t have any employment law,’ Fay said.
‘I don’t follow. England has lots of employment law.’
‘Take a seat. I can see I need to explain a few things.’
Veronica obeyed.
‘Policing people who can move between periods with different laws is complex,’ Fay said. ‘So the Conclave has its own governing body, and legislation, to regulate the conduct of time travellers. This constant, stable legislation takes precedence over the relatively changeable English and Welsh law.’
‘But I’m English,’ Veronica said. ‘And we are in England.’
‘No, love. You’re in the Conclave. Think of us as an embassy – a little part of another country, right in the middle of London. And here, workers have no legal protections.’
If Veronica wanted to stay, she really did have to play by the Conclave’s rules.
Fay was looking at her with open curiosity.
‘If it makes you feel better, England’s employment law isn’t great in 1982. Margaret’s trying to fire you, I take it?’ she said.
‘Not exactly, no.’
Fay rolled her eyes, apparently unconvinced. ‘Can I give you some advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Margaret’s a risky woman to tangle with. Leave willingly. You’re still really young. Take it from me – if you could stay, you’d only get callous.’
‘I know you mean well,’ Veronica said, ‘but I’d never leave the Conclave if I didn’t have to.’
She didn’t wait till the end of the day to let Margaret know. The decision was plain, once she realised there really was no third option. If the only way to stay was to play Margaret’s games, then that was what she would do.
29
AUGUST 2017
Ruby and Barbara
After the ambulance had gone, Ruby was at a loose end because her train ticket wouldn’t be valid until six in the evening. She idled her way through the civic quarter, and sat among the statues for a while, but decided to move on after the sixth charity rep approached for a donation.
Down one of the side streets she came upon an old cinema with bevelled windows. The cinema was called The Futurist, which made Ruby smile wryly. They had only one screen, which was showing Barry Lyndon. The woman in the ticket booth explained that the matinee had begun, and if Ruby bought a ticket now she’d be joining midway through the story. She’d seen the film before so it didn’t bother her too much to miss the start. The chief appeal was being able to kill time undisturbed for a couple of hours.
She paid up and entered the auditorium. No one else was there. She settled into a cracked leather seat and promptly fell asleep. The previous night’s restlessness, and the events of the morning, were to blame. She slept through the film’s first act and woke, in some confusion, to a door banging shut. A second audience member had entered. Although the auditorium was dim, Ruby made out a woman’s silhouette. The woman walked with purpose up the steps and into Ruby’s row, and sat right next to her.
Grace. Young Grace in a purple paisley dress. Her eyes were winged with black eyeshadow, Cleopatra style.
‘Hello again,’ Ruby said. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you today.’
‘I knew you’d be here,’ Grace said.
‘Are you saying time travellers track my whereabouts?’
‘Not all the time. But your location today is important.’
‘Why?’