Not that I ever got to enjoy it for long. As usual, I was chief wood-gatherer and water-fetcher. I would have been the designated heavy-load carrier as well, but, fortunately, I had a fatal chest wound to recover from, so I was, to some extent, excused boots. And cooking. Actually, I’m not so much excused cooking as banned from approaching any food preparation area over three continents. Which is not the harsh punishment it might seem.
Leon busied himself lighting the fire, and I set off on the perpetual search for firewood. I’d kicked off my slippers and dressing gown and wandered along familiar paths, feeling the soft carpet of pine needles under my feet, inhaling the scents of pine and sea, and listening to the seabirds crying as they circled the rocky shore. Nothing had changed. Seasons came and went but nothing ever changed here. It would be thousands of years before people arrived on this little island.
There was plenty of wood around and I strolled slowly through the trees, bending painfully to pick up the smaller pieces.
And then, somewhere behind me, a bird called a harsh warning and erupted into the air, wings beating hard as it sought for height.
Instinct cut in. I drew back behind a tree and stood stock-still. Waiting.
I saw the movement several seconds before I realised what I was looking at. And there. And over there as well.
A line of familiar black-clad soldiers was moving slowly uphill. They weren’t charging. There was a deliberation about their movements. They kept in strict formation. They weren’t charging – they were beating. They were making sure nothing could slip past them.
Shit! How could they possibly have found us?
There was no time for finesse. They would see me as soon as I moved. There is no environment in the world in which yellow-and-white PJs can fade quietly into the background.
I dropped the wood, shouted a warning to Leon, and set off, running uphill as best I could, my chest straining with the effort. It was far too soon after my recent death for all this exertion.
Behind me, someone shouted an order. They’d seen me.
I half expected a hail of bullets but it didn’t happen. Maybe they couldn’t get a clear shot at me amongst the trees.
Leon was hurling our stuff back into the pod.
I risked a look back over my shoulder and two of them were pointing the hair-dryer things again.
If they were EMPs then they didn’t need to shoot us. They could just disable the pod and then pick us up at their leisure. It was a small island. We wouldn’t be able to avoid them for long.
I was struggling uphill. My chest hurt. I couldn’t catch my breath. This time yesterday, I’d been dead. What did people expect from me?
I shouted to Leon. ‘Go! Get away!’
He ignored me. He ran towards me, seized an arm, and literally towed me into the pod. As we crashed through the door, he shouted, ‘Computer. Emergency extraction. Now.’
I braced myself because I knew this would hurt.
And it did.
The world went black.
Chapter Two
I lay on my back amid a clutter of stuff and stared up at the ceiling.
Bloody hell, not again.
Emergency extraction is – not surprisingly – for emergencies. When getting out quickly is more important than getting out safely. Because it hurts. You declare an emergency and the pod hurls you away from the current catastrophe at nose-bleeding speed. Shortly followed by bone-breaking impact. Believe it or not, there’s the odd historian who’s never, ever, had to call for emergency extraction. I, on the other hand, am losing count of the number of times it has happened to me. And they never get any easier.
I turned my head. Leon was slowly lifting himself off the floor.
‘Stay where you are, Max.’
As if I had any choice.
‘We need to check whether they’ve followed us again. Just lie still. I’ll get to you in a minute.’
I was glad to see he didn’t let personal concerns affect his priorities. There was no point in him bending anxiously over me as the Time Police crashed through the door.
He heaved himself up and dropped heavily into the seat, flexing his shoulder painfully. There’s no such thing as a painless extraction. I had no difficulty in obeying his instructions to stay put.
‘Well,’ he said, eventually. ‘It’s the 17th century. London, I think, and it’s cold. Actually, it’s very cold.’
Yes, it would be. Britain suffered the Little Ice Age between the 14th and 19th centuries. I groaned to myself. Lacking any return coordinates, the computer had randomly selected a time and place. Its priority was to safeguard pod and crew. Probably in that order. Since fifty per cent of the crew were still in their pyjamas, somewhere a little warmer would have been appreciated.
‘I think,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘we’ve landed on the River Thames. That doesn’t seem right.’
He began scrolling through screens.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I think it is. I think you’ll find the Thames is frozen over. Will it hold our weight?
He was peering at the screen. ‘It seems to be holding everyone’s weight. There’s a small town out there. Booths, tents, stalls, people, bonfires, roasting animals and … I think … yes, a bear. I don’t think one small pod is going to make much difference.’