‘I’ll tell you once. Put your hands in your pockets. I won’t tell you again. I’ll just shoot you.’
I believed him. He wasn’t one for empty threats. Usually, when he pointed a gun at you, you were dead five seconds later. He must be in a good mood today. I put my hands in my pockets and looked around me.
‘You’ve let things go a bit, haven’t you?’
‘You can shut up, too.’
‘Where are we?’ I asked so he wouldn’t know I’d already clocked the coordinates and was having a quiet panic.
He raised his gun again, but even without my glimpse of the coordinates, I knew that unmistakeable light outside. I was back in the Cretaceous. Again. Did I have a season ticket? Was it some sort of curse?
He was switching things off – or on. His pod was in such a state that it was hard to tell. We don’t keep armies of techies around because we like the colour orange. Pods need regular attention. They need frequent re-aligning or they start to drift. I had a brief hope we were in the wrong place and he was going to try again, but it was misplaced.
He finished with the console and gave me his full attention.
‘Well,’ I said, affably, because the longer I was talking in here, the less I was dying out there. ‘Here we are again.’
‘Did you kill Isabella Barclay?’
Whatever I’d expected, it hadn’t been that. But there was no point in denying it. We both knew the truth. He just wanted me to say it.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
I had nothing to lose.
‘She was an evil bitch. She was a traitor. She stood by while you tortured and killed to get what you wanted. And she left four men to die in the Cretaceous.’
‘And now, I’m going to do the same to you. Get up.’
‘No.’
‘I shan’t tell you again.’
‘I shan’t listen again.’
‘Get up, Maxwell. You’re going to pay. For everything you’ve done. And for the murder of Isabella Barclay. You’re going to pay in full. Get up and move to the door.’
‘No.’
‘Walk to the door.’
‘No.’
He flourished the gun again, but I was beginning to wonder. The pod was empty. The lockers were empty. I wondered if the gun was empty too.
He caught my thought. ‘It’s loaded. Don’t kid yourself. Go and stand by the door.’
‘No.’
I mean, what could he do? Shoot me twice?
‘I’ll shoot you and drag you out by your hair.’
I shrugged my shoulders, leaned back, and folded my arms. If I was going to die then I might as well make it as difficult as possible for him. He kept threatening, but he still hadn’t shot me. And I definitely wasn’t going out there.
‘If I shoot you in the knee you’ll die out there. In agony. Either from the gunshot wound or worse. Walk out unscathed and you might survive a few hours. I know you, Maxwell. You’ll take every chance you can get to live a little longer. So, on your feet.’
The door jerked open. I hadn’t realised how cold and dark his pod was until the bright sunshine flooded in. The familiar, never-to-be-forgotten Cretaceous stink overcame even Ronan’s rancid smell. Wet foliage, wet earth, wet shit and sulphur, all borne on a thick, muggy heat. I felt every pore open.
I stood slowly, trying to think. He stood with me and retreated behind his chair to maintain the distance. I had to get him outside with me. If he stayed inside then I was lost.
Major Guthrie’s voice drifted down the years.
Always do the unexpected.
What did Ronan expect me to do?
He expected me to move slowly. To take as much time as possible. To put up some sort of struggle. To make a grab for the gun … The last thing he would expect me to do was go outside voluntarily. And the door moved so slowly …
I took one very reluctant step towards the door and then stopped.
He motioned me on with the barrel. I pretended to stumble. Thinking I was about to make a grab for the gun he drew back, increasing the distance between us. While his weight was still on his back foot, I ran straight out of the door, skidded in the mud, turned left, and raced around the corner of the pod.
Without stopping to think – typical historian behaviour – I sprinted around the pod, appearing from the other direction just as the door was slowly jerking itself closed.
Praying the sensors still worked, I stuck my hand in the gap and the door stopped moving.
Keeping my hand on the half-open door, I flattened myself against the side of the pod and waited, panting slightly, feeling the sweat rolling down my back.
The pod couldn’t jump with the door open. And the door couldn’t close with my hand there.
His voice sounded very close. ‘Move away or I’ll fire.’
No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t risk damaging the door. I was the one supposed to end my days here – not him. And I still reckoned the gun was empty.
I was actually in quite a strong position. To shift me he was going to have to venture some part of his body outside the door. Either gun first, which I could grab or –
He took a leaf out of my book, moving with a swiftness I would not have expected in one so physically frail.