Pods need regular servicing – As, Bs and Cs. An A service is the damage-repair every pod receives after every jump and is usually accompanied by a great deal of completely unjustified complaint and criticism from the Technical section. The B service is monthly, regardless of when it last had an A service, and the big one, the C service is twice-yearly; when the pod gets pulled out of the schedule and virtually taken apart. The established ritual is for the Technical section to sigh and shake its collective head and for the Chief Operations Officer to tear her hair out over their slowness in getting it back online.
However, our pod hadn’t had any letter of the alphabet at all. I’ve no doubt Leon kept it in tip-top working order, but they need frequent realigning or they start to drift. This can be a bit of a bugger if you’re aiming for, say, Renaissance Florence and you exit your pod preparing to view the art treasures of that period in an atmosphere of tranquil contemplation only to find you’ve been pitchforked into the St Bartholomew’s Eve massacre, ankle deep in blood and with Huguenot body parts lying everywhere.
We were perched on a headland. Wind buffeted the pod, although a dense wood behind us did offer some protection from the elements. The grey North Sea boomed away beneath us and a huge shining sheet of water swept away to our right. On the far side of the estuary, wooden huts of various size and shape clustered around several larger, more elaborately decorated halls set high up on the hillside.
Best of all, there were no longboats. It was high summer. You could tell by the way the rain was sleeting from the south. I suspected the men had taken to the longboats for a spot of rape and pillage on England’s east coast. They were probably beating up Lindisfarne at this very moment.
Still, it did mean that the settlement was almost deserted. Smoke puffed half-heartedly through holes in heavily thatched roofs, but on this wet and windy day, everyone would stay inside as much as possible, which suited us just fine. Norsewomen were as ferocious as their men and with the state of us at the moment, a Viking six year old could probably take us with one hand behind her back.
We’d taken every precaution. We were camouflaged and the proximity alerts were set. It was now up to the god of historians to keep us safe.
I stared at the screen. The sun was struggling to break through the heavy grey clouds, sending shafts of light on to the rough water below. The effect was rather beautiful but I couldn’t have cared less. Another day was beginning and I just wanted to get my head down.
Leon felt the same. ‘Look. We need to stop, catch our breath, and work out some sort of routine. We can’t keep fleeing headlong up and down the timeline like this. We need to eat and sleep regularly, regardless of what time of day it is outside. We need to keep our own personal clocks straight or we’re going to be in trouble.’
He was right. At the moment, my poor old body didn’t know if it was midnight or Manchester and this can be dangerous. You get tired and disoriented and then you start making mistakes.
‘Let’s start by having a meal.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Loss of appetite is one of the first symptoms. When your body hasn’t a clue what’s going on, it tends to shut down in self-defence.
‘You must eat.’
He was right. I must. No matter how little I felt like it. We had to establish a routine.
‘And then a few hours’ sleep, I think. How are you feeling?’ He smiled. ‘You look terrible.’
‘I’m absolutely fine.’
I forced down some chicken soup, a few of those tasteless high-energy biscuits that no one ever eats so consequently there are boxes full of them in every pod, and a slice of cheese, possessed – an old joke, familiar to everyone who’s ever been on compo rations.
We argued about who would sleep first and, eventually, Leon hauled out the decision-making apparatus. I called heads and then lied as the coin came down, because even though I might have looked terrible, he looked even worse.
‘Wake me in four hours.’
I nodded. ‘OK.’
‘No, I mean it. No sitting there until your eyeballs fall out. Four hours. Then it’s your turn to sleep.’
I made myself a cup of tea and found a scribble pad and pen and by the time I went to sit back at the console, he was asleep. I turned the lights and heating down and took a few moments just to stop and think about the events of the last few days.
Because that was all it was. I know I’d jumped from day to night and back again, but it still couldn’t be more than two or three days at the most since I’d been injured at Agincourt. In those three days, I’d been pitchforked into another world and another life. I’d barely drawn breath before being catapulted to a small Mediterranean island, which would have been very pleasant, if I’d been allowed to enjoy it for more than an hour. From there to a bitterly cold 17th-century London. I’d been there for, what, two or three hours? From there to 18th-dynasty Thebes. Via the Central Asian steppes, of course. We’d managed to stay in Thebes for a whole afternoon. Now I was in 8th-century Scandinavia. For how long? How long before they found us again?
I had no way of answering that question, so I shelved it and turned my attention to things to which I did know the answer.
I watched Leon sleep for a while. He slept neatly and quietly as he always did.
You don’t know that , argued a small voice inside me. You only know that your Leon slept neatly and quietly.
Oh, shut up.