He’d made it. He’d survived Pompeii. Officer Ellis. The one with the burned leg. Of course, it made good sense. He could barely walk, so shove him on guard duty. And since he’s injured, shove him on guard duty in Sick Bay.
His helmet lay on the floor by his chair. There was no sign of the big sonic rifle, just a neat handgun on a sticky patch on his thigh. I tried to find that reassuring. He sat, arms folded, looking out of the window. He had the sort of face that really didn’t lend itself to the brutal crew-cut inflicted upon him by his job. Instead of threatening and sinister, he just looked like a little boy. The ears didn’t help. What on earth was he doing in an outfit like the Time Police?
He turned his head and caught me looking.
Neither of us said anything. I closed my eyes and he resumed his stare out of the window.
Hunter roused me to have a bath. Apparently, I had to have one or there would be no breakfast.
She turned to the guard.
‘Wait outside.’
He shook his head. ‘No. She can undress in the bathroom. Leave the door open.’
She glared at him. He was unmoved. Maybe he wasn’t in the wrong job after all.
She disconnected me from everything, which took a while, and I hobbled into the bathroom.
I’d been a little surprised that, so far, no one actually seemed to recognise me. Granted, only Dr Foster, Hunter, and Dieter had seen me, but they all knew me very well and no one had said a word.
When I saw myself in the mirror, I could understand why.
The face that stared back at me was not my own. For a start, my hair was stained dark with sweat, grease, and dirt. My face had lost all colour – even my lips were bloodless. The dark shadows of strain changed the colour of my eyes and I’d lost so much weight that the shape of my face had altered.
No wonder no one recognised me. I didn’t recognise me.
The bath was wonderful. She washed my hair. It took three goes before the water ran clear.
When I emerged, pink and wrinkled, Officer Ellis was still sitting quietly in his chair, but if he hadn’t taken the opportunity to check around my bed space and under my pillow for anything incriminating, he was the most useless officer in existence. Good luck to him anyway, because, in this world, I didn’t even own the clothes I stood up in. In which I stood up. Whatever. I wondered what would happen if Leon never came back.
Hunter had combed out my hair and plaited it for me. When she came to take away the breakfast stuff, it was almost dry. This was when they realised they were harbouring a ginger. She stared for a while, said nothing, picked up the tray, and left.
Here we go.
Dr Foster came in, aimlessly checked a few readings, bashed something into her scratchpad, stared at me, and went away again.
I wasn’t left in peace for long. I expected to be interrogated – which wouldn’t do them the slightest bit of good since I was determined to carry out Leon’s instructions and say nothing. Silence is always the best defence.
I expected the Time Police – two or three of them, maybe. Good cop, bad cop, and one to wield the telephone directories. The door opened and I braced myself. But not anything like enough, because my visitor was Bitchface Barclay.
I’d forgotten all about her. In the all too brief time we’d had together, Leon had said she was my friend. A remark that had gone straight over my head at the time.
She stood in the doorway. Here was another one who stared. Good job I was getting used to it. I kept my face very carefully neutral. No surprise. No welcome. No hostility. No fear. And especially – no guilt. Because, in my world, I’d murdered Isabella Barclay. Not in a fair fight or in self-defence; I’d shot her in the back and then I’d shot her in the head. My only defence is that she was on her way to murder Leon as he lay unconscious and helpless. But I could have, maybe should have, given her a chance. I could have called out or challenged her, but I did none of that. Before you feel too sorry for her, she’d once left four men to die in the Cretaceous period. She’d sided with that bastard Clive Ronan when he invaded St Mary’s. She probably hadn’t actually killed anyone herself, but she’d certainly connived at the murder, rape, and torture of St Mary’s personnel.
So I shot her dead.
Now, she was standing here, her face a little puzzled, but perfectly pleasant. Like me, she wore her red hair in a plait over one shoulder. Historian wannabe. I waited to see what would happen next.
She jerked her head at Officer Ellis, who got up and limped out of the room. Well, that was interesting, but I didn’t have time to think about it. She pulled up his chair and sat down. Apart from her expression, she looked no different. Instead of her usual sneer, she looked quite pleasant.
We began well.
‘Hello. Do you know me?’
Not prepared to commit myself either way, I made no sign.
She smiled uncertainly and tried again.
‘My name is Isabella Barclay. Do you remember me at all?’