‘Well, isn’t that why I’m here? Oh, I acquit you of outright murder – you’re not actually going to kill me, are you? But in a minute, I’ll look round and you’ll be gone and I’ll go back to the pod and that’ll be gone too, and when Leon turns up you’ll all look sad and tell him there was a tragic accident. Isn’t that the plan? There’s really not much to choose between you and the Time Police, is there?’
I have no idea what thoughts ran through his head. His face showed nothing. However, the strength of his grip on my arm told its own story. He pushed me back against the wall, and right in the middle of an assignment, before we’d got our bearings, when we were at our most vulnerable, and with most of the 14th century cursing as they tried to get past us, we had it out. There and then.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Words fell from my mouth. All the things I never meant to say. All the things that should not be said.
‘Weren’t those your instructions? A tidy end to an untidy problem. And no blood shed. Let’s face it, if you walked away from me now, there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it, would there? I don’t understand why you didn’t save yourself the effort and just open the door and throw me out.’
I didn’t actually believe any of it, but I was so fed up with all of this. This was Tim Peterson, for crying out loud. I had a sudden, aching vision of the last time I saw him …
‘Is that what you think? You think that I would …? You’re not Maxwell. I don’t care what you say. She would never think … never believe …’
I knocked his arm away.
‘Well, there you go then. I’m not Maxwell. Happy now? Just walk away, Peterson. Go on. Look, I’ll even turn my back and make it easy for you. Don’t worry – I’m not tagged. No one will ever find me. You can tell whatever story you like.’
I turned and walked away, so buoyed up with rage that I had no idea where I was going. I shouldered my way through the crowds, back the way we’d come, until I suddenly realised that instinctively I was heading towards the pod. Without thinking, I wheeled right and found myself in a narrow alleyway running between two inns.
Suddenly, the street noises disappeared. This place never saw the sun. It was cooler here and the stones were damp. Green patches showed on the walls, even in the height of summer. I could hear my own footsteps. I felt very much alone.
What the hell was I doing? Of all the stupid, irresponsible …
I wheeled about and trotted back down the alleyway, hoping at every moment to catch a glimpse of Peterson. He was tall enough to show above the crowd. Especially in that hat. I gazed up and down the High Street. Surely, he’d be around somewhere. He hadn’t really gone back to the pod and left me. I was the stupid one, not him.
There he was. I caught a brief glimpse of him, conspicuous in his pilgrim’s hat, exiting The King’s Head. Wisely, since he was looking for an historian, he was starting with places purveying alcoholic refreshments. I could see him staring anxiously up and down the street. I shouted his name, but my words were lost amongst the day-to-day noises of 14th-century Southwark.
I had some difficulty getting across the street, but eventually emerged, breathless and tousled on the other side and headed down a passageway after him.
It all happened so quickly.
I opened my mouth to call his name. Two figures stepped out of the shadows. One raised a cudgel. There was a sickening noise and Peterson went down like a tree. They bent over him.
I shouted, ‘Hey,’ and went down that alleyway like a rocket. If they’d stood their ground there would have been two of us unconscious, but they didn’t. They grabbed his scrip – much good it would do them, being as empty as mine – and ran off.
I hurled myself to my knees beside him, terrified of what I might find, praying desperately to the god of historians that he wasn’t dead. That he couldn’t be dead. Not Tim Peterson. I think it’s to my credit that my first thoughts were for him. It was only much later I realised what a problem I would have had if he had been dead.
He wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway. He had a lump on the back of his head, but when I probed gently, nothing moved. His skull was intact. However, his face was white and his breathing ragged and heavy. I tried not to panic. Raising my voice, I shouted for help. And again. And again.
I don’t know why I did that. Surely, no one was ever going to hear over the clamour of the street, but someone did hear. A small figure clutching a basket of greens appeared at the other end of the alley.
I picked up Peterson’s staff and stood up, ready for anything, but it wasn’t needed.
A shabby Augustinian monk, with the sad remnants of a soft, brown tonsure and an even sadder, softer, brown face, put down his basket and knelt to take a look.
He probed the wound, as I had done, listened to his breathing, as I had done, and then stood up.
‘My child, can you understand me?’
He spoke in heavily accented English that I could barely make out. I had an idea.
I said, in Latin, ‘Yes, brother. I beseech you for aid.’
If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘Wait here. I will return. Do not worry – they will not come back.’
I gripped my staff. ‘They had better not.’