A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #2)

I glugged some water.

‘Yes – no ear flaps on their helmets.’

‘And we discovered The Hanging Gardens of Nineveh. Not Babylon.’

Guthrie took my water off me. ‘Not too much.’

He began to feel my arms and legs.

I took the water back. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to see where all this blood is coming from.’

‘It’s not blood – it’s dye. Can’t you tell the difference?’

‘How’s Mr Hopwood?’ said Tim.

‘Completely recovered. Why are you both covered in dye?’

‘Didn’t you see our message?’

‘What message?’

‘We left a message for you. On the wall. For God’s sake – it was in big writing. Even the security section couldn’t have missed it.’

‘We didn’t need a message. We just followed the riot. And surprise, surprise – there you were.’

‘You cut it a bit fine, didn’t you?’

‘We’d been with you for a good five minutes. We were just waiting for an opportunity to get you out quietly. Which never came.’

‘You could have given us a clue you were so close.’

‘You seemed to be managing perfectly well in your mission to wake the entire city. You didn’t need us.’

‘How long have we been missing?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘What?’

For us, it had been two, no, three days.

Reaction set in. I closed my eyes and felt again that cold touch of metal.

Guthrie laid a gentle hand on my arm and I clutched at it for a moment and nodded my thanks to him.

He stood up. ‘All right, Mr Clerk. Has everyone else jumped?’

‘Confirmed, Major.’

‘Let’s get them home.’

The world went white.

The whole world was waiting for us in Hawking. Armed and armoured people milled around, shouting and cheering. Miss Prentiss, Mr Dewar, and Mr Hopwood stepped forward.

Peterson, supported by Markham and Evans, drew himself up and reverted to full Training Officer Mode.

‘Right. Can anyone tell me where we went wrong?’

When I opened my eyes in Sick Bay, the room was very quiet. I was in my usual bed by the door.

Dr Bairstow sat beside the bed, his face turned away. One hand rested lightly on mine.

I closed my eyes again, sighed, and fluttered my eyelids a little. When I opened my eyes, he had both hands resting on his walking stick.

‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

I always appreciated that he never asked how I was. In his book, if you weren’t actually dead then you were fit to work.

‘An eventful assignment.’

‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

I struggled to sit up and he passed me a rehydration drink.

‘So,’ I said, sipping. ‘Six weeks.’

‘Or three days.’

This was an old argument. I would argue that we’d been missing for six weeks and our pay packets should reflect that fact. He would respond that according to my personal timeline, only three days had passed and therefore I was only entitled to three days’ pay. I never won, but I never wearied of the argument, either. It’s our responsibility to keep senior managers on their toes. I was doing him a kindness, really. He was never the slightest bit appreciative but we should never let management ingratitude deflect us from our duty.

Dr Foster wandered in an hour later, peered at me, lit a cigarette, typed into her scratchpad, and began to mutter apocalyptically about liver flukes.

I beamed at her because I knew it would annoy her. If there was one thing she hated more than a patient – it was a happy patient.

And the next visitor, of course, was Leon, who stood uncertainly by the door.

I’d been doing some thinking. There’s something about being adrift in time that rearranges some priorities and perceptions.

Looking up at the stars while waiting to have your throat cut rearranges the rest.

I climbed out of bed and wobbled towards him.

Nobody said anything for a very long time. I think we both felt that more than enough had been said already. Eventually though, I had to speak.

‘Leon. Need to breathe.’

He slackened his grip slightly. But not much.

So there we were. All set for a romantic reconciliation. I gazed into his eyes. Rainbows blossomed. Bluebirds sang. The music swelled to a crescendo.

The bloody fire alarms went off.

He uttered a paint-blistering curse. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Neither did I. Normally, there wasn’t a smoke detector in the building that had a battery in it.