A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #4)

Brother Anselm nodded, apparently well satisfied.

I looked at the plump little figure standing in front of me, arms thrust into the sleeves of his carefully darned habit. Quietly doing his best every day. Invincible in a faith I could not understand. Doing battle for his God. Winning some. Losing most. I felt a gentle regret at leaving him.

Peterson tactfully turned away.

‘I read great trouble in you, my child. Your life is burdened with doubt and fear. I say to you, place your trust in the God who loves you and all will be well. Do not waste the time given you in fretting over events you cannot control. If you only let him, God will amend all. Have just a little faith.’

I swallowed hard and nodded. Just for a moment, I couldn’t find any words.

Suddenly brisk, he said, ‘I have duties to perform. Call on me when you return to make your pilgrimage.’

‘We will,’ I said, knowing we wouldn’t ever see him again.

‘God’s blessing be upon you both, my children.’

‘Amen,’ said Peterson.

We watched him trundle his cart back into the High Street and be swallowed up in the crowd.

I like to think he lived a long and useful life, happy in the service of the God in whom he believed so implicitly, but there’s no record of him anywhere, either of his life or his death. I know, because I looked.

The familiar pod smell greeted us – hot electrics, damp carpet, stale air, the toilet, and cabbage. Even in this world, they had the cabbage smell.

Peterson looked too weak for a seat, so I lowered him gently to the floor and crossed to the console. ‘The jump’s all laid in. All you have to do is initiate.’

He nodded. ‘Just a minute.’

‘What’s the problem?’

He fidgeted. ‘I just wanted to say …’

‘There’s really no need. If you could do the honours, please.’

We landed as lightly as thistledown in a soft summer breeze if you listened to Peterson. Or like a plummeting pachyderm if you believed me.

‘You’ve got the pox,’ I said, checking the screen. ‘What would you know?’

‘Plague! I have the plague! For God’s sake, do not go around telling people I have the pox. Please tell me you know the difference.’

‘Well, I treated you for pox and you got better. Ergo – you had the pox.’

‘You mean – all that crawling around between my legs and you hadn’t got a bloody clue what you were doing?’

‘Listen, ingrate. My ministrations, ungentle as they were, will be as nothing once Doctor Foster gets hold of you. She’s going to stick you with every antibiotic known to man – and probably a few still in the experimental stages. Are you ready for decon? I’m going to do it at least twice.’

He nodded and I operated the decontamination system. The cold, blue light flickered and I could feel the hairs on my arms stirring.

‘And again.’

The lamp hummed.

‘Do it once more,’ he said. ‘The more we suffer in here, the less we suffer out there.’

‘I think you’re underestimating the medical section,’ but I operated the lamp again anyway.

Three times in such short succession left us both feeling a little sick, but it was necessary. We decontaminated after every assignment. Dr Bairstow’s procedures were rigorous. There was no way we would ever bring something unpleasant back from the past. Apart from each other, of course.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s put the cat amongst the pigeons.’ I activated the comm. ‘Attention please. Code Blue. Code Blue. Code Blue. This is Pod Three declaring a Code Blue. Authorisation Maxwell. Five zero alpha nine eight zero four bravo. I say again, Code Blue. Code Blue. Code Blue. This is not a drill.’

I had no authorisation here, but they would get the message. I left the mike on and switched on the internal cameras so they could see what was happening in here and went and sat alongside Peterson who was still on the floor.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Not too bad, despite being irradiated by that bloody lamp.’

‘Yes, I gave you a good blast. You’re almost certainly sterile by now.’

‘What?’

‘When the two of you are finished,’ said Dr Foster’s voice, ‘please state the nature of the contamination.’

I gestured to Peterson. He was the patient.

‘Pox,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Plague! I mean plague! I’ve got the plague! Stop laughing, Max.’

The next hour was busy. Priority was given to ridding ourselves of the infected fleas we had almost certainly brought back with us.

On Dr Foster’s instructions, I helped Peterson undress and shoved him into the shower. While he was in there, I found his knife and, not without some misgivings, sawed away. After a few minutes, two long red plaits fell to the floor.

‘Oh my God,’ said Peterson, emerging. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done that. Dr Bairstow will go ballistic.’

‘Not with me. I’m going to tell him you made me do it.’