The third, the one who had tried to arrest Leon, pulled up a chair and sat down.
I’ve always had a problem with authority – parents, school, uni, Barclay, everyone. Up to this moment, I’d never before appreciated how skilfully Dr Bairstow managed not only me, but also all the other social misfits and eccentrics at St Mary’s.
This man was no Dr Bairstow. I prepared to be difficult.
He let the silence build so that I would be properly intimidated and, actually, I was. Barclay was easy – I’d been getting up her nose for years – but this man was different. My heart knocked against my ribs. I hoped he couldn’t hear it.
He was small, slightly built, and had eyes the colour of the North Sea on a raw day.
‘My name is Colonel Albay. I am a member of the Time Police and I am currently in charge of this establishment. To save us both a very great deal of time and trouble, I will tell you now that I recognise your big-eyed innocent act for the sham it is. Innocent people do not attack my officers with water jugs. I shall ask you three questions. Failure to answer them promptly and fully will result in my pursuing a more direct route to the truth. It is traditional, in these circumstances to say that neither of us will enjoy that. This statement is untrue. You will not enjoy it. I could not care less. We shall begin. What is your name?’
Counting is good. Apparently, the brain gives this task priority. It’s a useful way of keeping calm. When they say, ‘Count to ten,’ it really is a good idea. I fixed my gaze on my hands and slowly began to count.
At fifteen, he said, ‘Where did you meet Leon Farrell?’
I restarted at one.
Precisely fifteen seconds later, he said, ‘Where has Leon Farrell gone?’
I went back to one.
At fifteen, he started again. ‘What is your name?’
He showed no emotion. He was remorseless. Like a machine. Every fifteen seconds he asked a question. The same three questions, over and over and over again.
My heart was thumping. I could feel sweat running down the small of my back. The compulsion to speak was overwhelming. I don’t know how he was doing it – he never raised his voice or made any threatening moves, but I was very, very frightened.
I honestly thought about telling him everything. Anything to get away from this. The implied violence. The two guards standing motionless by the door. Just waiting for the word. The knowledge that no one knew I was here. No one in the entire world knew I was here. He could do with me as he pleased. I knew it. He knew I knew it.
Without any change in his voice, he sent for Dr Foster. She appeared immediately. I guessed she had been waiting outside. Without a word, she crossed to the bed and took my pulse. It must have been racing, but she said nothing.
‘It’s not my style to beat up my suspects, Doctor. My methods are more subtle. I require you to carry out a medical procedure.’
He held up a syringe.
Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit!
He turned to me. ‘Your time is running out.’
Dr Foster shook her head. ‘That won’t work. She has so many drugs in her system, she doesn’t even know who she is, let alone where and when, and what’s been happening.’
Didn’t I?
‘We can always use the cuff.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. What cuff?
‘Again – she won’t know what she’s saying. And we still don’t know if she can talk.’
‘Has she spoken at all?’
‘No, not one word. We’re not even sure she understands English.’
‘Oh, she understands every word.’
‘Well, her body chemistry is skewed. The cuff probably won’t work. She still has periods of delirium.’
This was news to me. I lay back and tried to look delirious. It was surprisingly easy.
‘How long before she can be interrogated more thoroughly?’
‘Seven days.’
‘You have three.’
He swept from the room. You had to hand it to him, he really did like dramatic entrances and exits.
Two days later, I was told to get up. They brought me a set of greys to wear. Most St Mary’s personnel wear jump suits. The History department wears blue, IT wears black, the Security section is in green, and the Technical section wears convict orange. The Admin people wear whatever they like and the nutters in R & D wear white coats, armour, fireproof suits, lifejackets, or any combination thereof, depending on their current project. Dr Dowson, our librarian and archivist, and who has the misfortune to work directly underneath R & D, usually wears a jacket with leather patches, and either a sou’wester, a hard hat, or a gas mask according to what’s coming through his ceiling at the time.
Only trainees, the lowest of the low, wear grey.
I was a little reluctant to leave the comparative safety of Sick Bay and the faint protection of Dr Foster, but I couldn’t stay for ever. I had to face this new world sometime. Besides, I might hear something useful.