Along with self-defence, running, and target practice, we’re supposed to log a certain number of side-saddle hours every month. I’d let mine lapse for a number of reasons. I didn’t like riding side-saddle, I didn’t have the time to get out much these days, and, most importantly, I was a Head of Department – the rules didn’t apply to me. They hadn’t applied much when I wasn’t a Head of Department, and they applied even less now.
Peterson collected me and we made our way slowly downstairs, narrowly avoiding being mown down by a couple of trainees who were late for lunch.
‘I can remember the day,’ said Peterson grumpily, ‘when we were the fastest things in this building.’
I laughed but it was true. Age had crept up on us when we weren’t looking. On paper we weren’t that old, but do a month in a different time here, three weeks there, nine months somewhere else, and it all mounts up. I’d worked it out once and I was actually about three years older than my official age. And those three years were taking their toll.
Thankfully, we lived long enough to finish lunch and afterwards, it being Friday, Peterson disappeared to supervise his trainees’ weekly examinations. Most of the technical and security sections disappeared to kick the living daylights out of each other on the football pitch and I wandered off to the stables, wondering what on earth Mr Strong, our caretaker, could possibly want to see me about. He wasn’t there, so I whiled away a few minutes talking to my old adversary, Turk. I’d done my side-saddle training on him and he’d done his best to maim me in return. He was semi-retired now, his head lean and bony with a lot of white hairs showing. I tossed him a carrot or two and he must have mellowed with age because he graciously didn’t try to rip off my arm. I rested my elbows on the fence, feeling the sun on my back. It was a warm, sleepy afternoon and Turk was standing, slack-jawed, ears drooping when I heard something behind me.
He flung up his head and snorted a warning but it was too late. Something soft and smelly covered my mouth and nose. I tried to struggle but none of my body would do as it was told. I was vaguely conscious of being lugged round the corner. Someone said, ‘Door,’ and I was flung, not gently, inside.
I lay face down on the worst-smelling floor ever and tried to work out what was going on. I was in a pod. I knew that with my eyes shut. The smell was unmistakeable – and bad. In fact, the smell was terrible. Musty and rank, with top notes of sour person and really, really bad breath.
While I got to grips with this, the world went white. We’d jumped.
The supposed message from Mr Strong had been a trap. Even I’d worked that one out. I lay very still, eyes closed, waiting for some clues as to what was happening here.
A long-unheard voice said, ‘You’re not fooling anyone, Maxwell. Open your eyes.’
So I did.
Clive Ronan.
I hadn’t seen him for some time. Once, he’d been the focus of practically my every waking thought and now I’d nearly forgotten about him. How stupid am I?
I said, ‘Oh, there you are. How have you been?’ and rolled over.
He said sharply, ‘Steady. No sudden moves. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.’
Oh God, that didn’t sound good. I sat up slowly, hoping I would throw up. It could only improve the smell.
I looked around his pod first. It was the stolen Number Nine right enough, and like me it had seen better days. The flooring was filthy and stank. The locker doors were dull and dented and two were missing altogether. Some ceiling panels were gone and bunches of wires hung down. Everything was dirty and greasy.
Just like Ronan himself. He looked unkempt and malnourished. I don’t know where he’d been since I last saw him. I suspected he’d been jumping around History, stealing what he could and then getting out quickly before being hanged for thieving, burned as a witch, or shot for spying. The glamorous world of time travel.
I’d encountered him on several occasions in the past: Alexandria, the court of Mary Stuart, the Cretaceous period, even in the future, and every single time he’d come off worst. But on every occasion I’d had St Mary’s with me in one form or another. This time I was alone and no one even knew I was here. This time I was in real trouble.
Looking at him closely, I could see he was ill. In addition to his puckered burns and melted ear, his skin was bad. Clumps of his hair had fallen out and I could see scabby scalp underneath. His hands trembled and his eyes shifted constantly. He coughed occasionally and more gusts of bad breath wafted around the enclosed space. He and his pod were dying hard.
This was not a comforting thought. I’d been snatched by a dying madman who hated me and had nothing to lose. The good news was that he didn’t want to shoot me. The bad news was that he would have something much worse planned for the afternoon.
I stood up slowly and sat in the second chair. His gun wobbled away. I wished he’d point it somewhere else. It would be just my luck to be shot by accident. I leaned forward to look out of the screen, casually putting my hands on the console, which was greasy and unpleasant. A number of lights were on that shouldn’t have been. And vice versa.