‘I should be more specific. How did you feel when you realised you wouldn’t prevent the crime?’
‘Oh.’ Odette reflected. She supposed she should have been depressed on learning that she wouldn’t swerve the course of events. Yet she hadn’t been. She had switched her focus to evidence collection – and the possible motives of Dr Taylor. That process had been satisfying, in its way, rather than depressing. ‘I think I liked feeling part of something bigger than me. My actions fitted in to a bigger pattern that I wasn’t driving. I just wanted to see how everything fitted together.’
‘Hm.’ Elspeth’s tone was impossible to interpret. She looked down again at the paper. ‘The stakes were low, compared to our usual cases. You may feel more… despondent… if you couldn’t prevent a murder, for example.’
Odette said nothing. The comment touched on her experience at the toy museum too closely. Her skin prickled. Had Papi already alerted Elspeth? Was she talking about Odette’s trauma, and waiting for a confession?
Elspeth sat back again in her chair. ‘Why do you want to work for us, Odette? Why not the police?’
Because a woman died, and the Conclave has something to do with it, and I want to know what.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a detective.’ This should have the ring of authenticity, at least, though it didn’t answer Elspeth’s question. Why wouldn’t she join the police? Because they were racist. Maybe the Conclave was too, but they’d had Lucille Waters at the top from the start, giving an impression of greater opportunity. ‘I think the Conclave is a better cultural fit for me than the police force.’
‘Oh. Culture. The Conclave has its own culture, indeed. And it makes you fit by hook or by crook.’
‘Is the training intensive?’
‘We have a formal induction period. The Conclave has its own laws, and you have to be fully versed in them before you work as a detective, obviously. For the first few weeks you’d be carrying out administrative duties, but it’s not quite as dire as it sounds. You’d get to shadow a detective before taking on your own caseload.’
‘Could I shadow you?’ No harm in creating a connection.
Elspeth laughed. ‘Maybe. That would throw you in at the deep end.’
‘Good. I like that. And can I request particular cases?’ There was every chance the museum case was already under investigation. Odette wanted to be in the midst of it if it was.
‘That would be unusual. Allocating caseloads takes a degree of managerial oversight.’ Elspeth checked the clock. ‘I think we have all the information we need. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’
‘How many positions are you filling in this round?’
‘One. And we don’t have to fill it this round if there isn’t a suitable candidate. Our timescales are flexible, obviously. Tell me, do you think you were the best applicant?’
This was not a fair question; Odette had to tread carefully. The Conclave might value team playing. ‘I believe two have been excluded already. The third was clearly serious in his intent to work here. But we differed in our approaches to the experiment.’
‘Grace’s black eye?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t ever use violence in apprehending a criminal?’
‘That would depend on the danger presented. Grace Taylor wasn’t posing any physical threat.’
‘Useful to know.’ Elspeth’s expression gave nothing away. ‘We’ll have an answer for you by the end of the day. Please wait in the reception area till then.’
‘Thank you; I’ll do that.’
They shook hands, bringing Odette’s Conclave application to a close.
34
JUNE 1999
Siobhan
Siobhan Joyce was from the twenty-second century, where the field of psychology was a relic. It had largely been replaced by theological determinism: a belief that all human action was dictated by a higher power. New religions even used the experience of time travellers to bolster their worldview: if there was no divine plan, the theologians argued, it would surely be possible to use time travel to change the course of events. But it was not. Psychology was concerned with internal states and environmental influences, neither of which was deemed meaningful any more. Instead, theologians aggregated maps of people’s life events, and searched for patterns computationally. They reasoned that any patterns in the data would be a source of divine insight.
Reading psychological texts had become at best a niche historical interest. The world had moved on. Job opportunities for psychological autodidacts, like Siobhan, were thus hard to find in her home timeline. As an independent scholar she had pored diligently over psychometric scales, finding a beauty in their enumeration of emotion. Fortunately for Siobhan, Margaret Norton was a woman of the twentieth century, not the twenty-second; and she saw a role for psychology in the Conclave. All vacant positions were advertised in all years the Conclave was active, giving Siobhan the opportunity she craved.
Her favourite psychometrics were the questionnaires for people with sleep disorders, and her knowledge had earned her the Conclave post. The Conclave took an interest in time travellers’ dreams for practical reasons. Disordered sleep and unpleasant dreams can be part of a wider pattern of poor psychological health. As a basic safety precaution, time travellers were schooled in paying attention to their dreams, and reporting any issues to Dr Joyce. Siobhan drew on a variety of methods to record dreams, such as inviting the time traveller to tell their dreams as a story, ticking items on a prepared list of symbols, and drawing their dreams.
The job was one she felt immense gratitude for. She had faith in her tools, and was glad that the Conclave treated them with proper reverence. But a conflict arose for her. Siobhan had hoped to help people with her questionnaires and tests. The Conclave, however, had a different agenda. They used her expertise to marginalise vulnerable time travellers, rather than help them. Margaret’s aggression towards Julie had troubled Siobhan deeply. At least, in Veronica’s case, one might believe Margaret had spoken reasonably and for the general good – although Siobhan had no idea what bargain had been struck to keep Veronica in her job and she doubted it was to Veronica’s benefit. Yet Siobhan did not publicise her objections: her own job security rested on an apparent willingness to follow Margaret’s rules and there was no other venue available where Siobhan could work as a psychologist. She was sure there must be a compromise available – a way of retaining her position without being complicit in further mistreatment of sick staff.
On a commonplace day in 1992, Jim Plantagenet, from the biomedical department, saw Siobhan for a routine psychological check. This check included the monitoring of his recent dreams. Siobhan explained she would read from a list of symbols, and Jim should stop her if any of them were familiar. He agreed; she began to read.
‘A future city burning with all of its inhabitants,’ Siobhan said. ‘Boiling oceans on a future coast. The earth cracking open from one future border to another. A future sky glowing in neon greens and yellow and pink.’
And Jim began to cry.
He was, at this time, only a recent recruit. Siobhan checked his notes and saw he had taken just three trips in the time machine so far. She wondered if he was having difficulty adjusting.
‘Would you like to tell me what you’re feeling?’ she asked.
‘My sleep’s disturbed,’ he said. ‘I wake up screaming.’
‘You’re having nightmares?’
He nodded.
‘With the symbols I described?’
He shuddered. ‘I see my family dying from radiation sickness. Their skin is… ulcerated. Necrotic.’
‘Is this an imagined scenario? Or something you’ve seen in the future?’