The Time Police didn’t find me. I found them. One of them, anyway.
Two of the temporary wooden stalls had been overturned in the panic. I didn’t take a lot of notice, but, as I passed, even over all the racket going on around me, I heard a faint cry. Peering through the murk, I could just make out a dark shape, stretched out in the ash. An officer. He was pinned underneath one of the stalls. Even as I looked, he raised an arm at me.
Cursing myself for a complete idiot, I braced myself for whatever he was about to shoot me with, but I was wrong. It was a cry for help.
Very hesitantly, and poised at any moment to run for it, I drew closer. I could smell it even through the ash and sulphur. He was burning.
A brazier had come down, spilling smouldering charcoal on his leg, burning through armour, cloth, and skin. He must have been in agony. I kicked the brazier aside, wound my blanket around my hands, scraped off the smouldering coals as best I could, and jumped back so he couldn’t make a grab for me. I should leave him. No doubt he was in contact with his comrades who would – should – be on their way to pick him up. They could be here any minute now.
All the time, volcanic debris continued to fall around us. Large lumps of rock thudded into the ash, making little crater patterns. Smaller pieces of pumice and lava zinged past us, burning holes in our clothing. The backs of my hands were pitted with tiny, stinging red burns. But mostly, the ash fell, silent and deadly. He was pinned face down. At the moment, he was holding himself up on one arm, but that wouldn’t save him for long. His hood had fallen back. He was very, very young.
I’m a sucker for young men. It started when I was on assignment to the Somme. Young men are so achingly vulnerable. They launch themselves into the world, thinking they’re the dog’s bollocks and, sometimes, the world just chews them up and spits them out. They should be spending their days messing around with cars or motor bikes. Or playing football. Or staring at girls and trying to pretend they’re not terrified. They should not be hanging off barbed wire. Not lying in water-filled craters with their legs blown off. Not struggling for every agonising breath after a mustard gas attack. Not lying in front of me, crushed, burned, and fighting to keep their faces out of the suffocating ash.
There’s never really any choice, is there?
The stall wasn’t that heavy. People moved them all the time, trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities. He’d fallen with one arm pinned beneath him and been unable to pull himself free. I got my hands under one of the shafts and heaved. Something shifted. It might have been something important in my lower back.
I planted my feet and got a good grip. Back straight, knees bent, lift with your legs, Maxwell. I heaved again.
This time, it lifted slightly. I closed my eyes, locked my joints, and clenched my teeth against the pain. I was an invalid. I should not be doing this.
Defying the laws of physics, the stall got heavier with each passing second. My legs began to tremble. My shoulders were being pulled from their sockets. My chest was NOT HAPPY.
He grasped my ankle with his free hand and used it to pull against. I could feel him moving beneath the stall. Now he had his other arm free. He used his forearms to pull himself out.
I shouted a warning. The shaft was slipping through my fingers. We had seconds …
He rolled away just as it thudded down, raising another localised dust cloud.
I leaned forward to ease my aching back, put my hands on my knees, and got my breath back. If he reached for his gun now, there would be nothing I could do to save myself. I couldn’t even run.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
He nodded. I nodded.
I pushed off while I still could.
When I looked back, he was still there, trying – and failing – to crawl through the ash.
Bloody bollocking hell!
Where were his people? Why weren’t they combing the streets for him? What sort of organisation was this?
I should go. I should be at the rendezvous point. I shouldn’t be wasting time here.
I ran back and helped him to his feet.
His leg was the problem. He could barely walk.
I got his arm around my shoulders and we limped along. Of course, just when I could have done with a glimpse of them, there was no sign of the Time Police anywhere. I was so fed up with these bloody people.
We staggered into the shelter of an archway. He went to sit down but I wouldn’t let him. I’d never have the strength to get him back up again.
I had to cough and spit to clear my throat.
‘Where are your people?’
‘What?’
I raised my voice. ‘Where are you parked?’
‘That big open place by the big building with the pillar things.’
Obviously a potential member of the Security section.
‘The Forum?’
‘What?’
We were shouting to make ourselves heard.
‘Do your people know where you are?’
‘I tried to tell them …’
He broke off and shifted his weight, trying to ease the pain in his leg.’