‘My surprise was based less on the fact that we’ve hardly met, but more because you’re not actually dead.’
‘No, but I was. Nearly. Maybe I’m a zombie. Do you have any brains?’
‘No brains,’ he said, putting a jar on the table. ‘Will Marmite do?’
‘A very acceptable alternative.’
There was a slight pause. I wondered if perhaps his Max hadn’t liked Marmite. Was this how it was always going to be? Each of us silently comparing this new version of ourselves to the old one? I liked Marmite – maybe his Max hadn’t. I don’t like milk – maybe his Max had bathed in the stuff. Suppose now … suppose we weren’t …
I curled my hands around my steaming mug. It was so hard to see how this could work. Things had not gone that well for us the first time round, and then he’d died, and then I’d died – well, I would have if Mrs Partridge hadn’t brought me here. Both of us had so much history … If anything went wrong – and it would – I wasn’t sure I could survive losing him again. And then I remembered that wonderful, heart-bursting, soul-lifting moment in his workshop when I saw him again, and I knew that, between the two of us, anything and everything was possible.
I looked up and he was watching me, following my every thought. That hadn’t changed, anyway.
‘It’s not going to be a problem,’ he said softly. ‘We don’t have to rush anything. We have our whole lives ahead of us and we’ll just take each day as it comes. The first priority is to get you fit and well again. I don’t like women running around the flat with big holes in their chests. It makes the place look untidy.’
‘All closed up now,’ I said, squinting down at my yellow-and-white-spotted chest. ‘It just hurts a bit every now and then.’
Actually, it still hurt a lot. Mrs Partridge had closed the wound but not healed it. Initially, I’d been annoyed, but she knew what she was doing. I had no choice but to remain there and take things slowly. For a week, at least. A lot can happen in a week.
And it was about to.
The telephone rang.
Busy buttering toast, Leon ignored it and the machine cut in.
I heard his voice. ‘Please leave a message.’
Dr Bairstow, his voice harsh with urgency said, ‘Leon. Get out. They’re here. Run!’
The line went dead.
He dropped the butter knife. I watched it leave a long, greasy smear across the floor. He never even looked at it.
‘You have thirty seconds. Grab anything valuable to you. Move.’
I didn’t bother with questions. He wouldn’t have bothered answering them.
I lurched into the living room and grabbed the model of the Trojan Horse he’d once made for me. Looking around, I also snatched up my little book on Agincourt – the only thing left over from my childhood – and my one photo of him and me. I draped my red snake around my neck – I’d made it in hospital while recovering from Jack the Ripper and there was no way I was leaving that behind – and presented myself at the back door with seconds to spare.
He eyed the snake. ‘One day, we must take a moment to discuss your skewed priorities.’ He hustled me out of the back door, down the steps, and into the garden.
I could hear sounds on the other side of the garden wall. ‘Aren’t you going to lock up?’
‘Won’t do the slightest bit of good. Get into the pod. Hurry.’
His pod nestled in a corner of the tiny garden, disguised as an anonymous garden shed. I called for the door to open as he ripped away the clothesline and kicked the water butt aside.
I had just time to inhale the familiar pod smell of overloaded electrics, stale people, damp carpet, and cabbage, before he piled in after me and slapped the door control.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, calmly. ‘We’ll be quite safe in here. I’m activating the camouflage system. We’ll just wait here quietly. With a bit of luck they’ll fail to find us and go away again.’
I should be asking – who were they? Why wouldn’t we be safe? Or the all-encompassing – what the bloody hell is going on here?
But I didn’t. For one thing, all his attention was focused on the screen, watching for any movement. He probably wouldn’t even have heard me. I stood, festooned with books, photos, and snakes, and felt my chest throb. And I still hadn’t had breakfast.
‘Here.’ He swivelled the seat. I was glad to sit down. I wasn’t anything like as fit as I thought I was.
We waited in silence. But not for long.
They came right through the gate and they didn’t stop to open it first. It exploded off its hinges and cartwheeled away. They poured across the little yard and fanned out. About six of them, as far as I could see, although there would be two or more outside, securing the entrance. They were frighteningly quick, quiet, and professional.
Two raced up the steps, kicked the back door open, and disappeared into the flat.
The rest made straight for us. Straight into the garden. Straight towards the pod.