I saw just the slightest flicker of movement in the gloom on the other side of the gallery. Bitchface Barclay. I hadn’t given her a thought. What was she up to? Could be anything. She could be taking a message. Or going for fresh ammo. Or looking for a better position. Even running away.
No, she wasn’t doing any of those things. Now I knew why I kept thinking of the Spartans and betrayal. She was making sure that whatever happened to anyone else, she came out a winner.
I hesitated.
Below, down in the Hall, I heard the battle roar – ‘St Mary’s!’
Ian Guthrie led the charge, firing as he went. Markham was at his shoulder. Peterson, Van Owen, Dieter, they were all there. No one held back. My heart broke with pride and grief. The noise was overwhelming. Like the Thunderchild, St Mary’s was going down with all guns blazing. I should be down there with them. It wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference, but that wasn’t the point.
I kicked out again. ‘Let me go.’
I must have hurt her, but she wouldn’t release me.
I heard her clearly over all the racket. ‘You wanted to know why you are here. You are here for Justice.’ I could hear the capital letter.
Now? Now she tells me …?
She relinquished her hold and crawled away into the shadows before I could say anything. Her calm assumption that I would abandon my colleagues and friends to do her bidding was breathtaking. Who did she think I was?
I was the person who would sort out Isabella Barclay, that’s who she thought I was.
I handed my blaster to Prentiss as she ran past, because her need was greater than mine. She grabbed it and was gone.
I moved around the gallery, hugging the wall, crunching over the remains of the banisters, shattered doors, and lumps of plaster. Glancing down into the Hall, I could see there was nothing I could do. My presence would not have made the slightest difference.
The Time Police were pouring in through the vestibule.
I saw something arc through the air and with a clap that hurt my ears, Ian Guthrie was blown backwards. He hit the wall with tremendous impact and lay very still. The same blast flattened Evans who disappeared under a pile of rubble.
On the other side of the room, Markham, who had escaped the worst of it, flung himself at an enormous black figure. He was casually batted aside. The last I saw of him, three more Time Police were converging on him.
Peterson got the furthest, nearly reaching the doors before a hail of something spun him around, and he fell to the floor.
I had to move. I could do nothing for anyone down there, but up here …
Trying to combine speed and invisibility, I slipped into R & D. Some of the wounded had been brought in here. Hunter was working on someone and shouting instructions to someone else at the same time. She saw me, paled, and said, ‘Markham?’
I couldn’t find any words, so I just nodded. She’d find out soon enough.
All these old rooms had connecting doors. I worked my way through Wardrobe, finally emerging in the short corridor that led to the Boss’s office.
Below me, I could hear gunfire, people shouting, and the crump of another explosion. I hesitated, still feeling I should be back there, standing with the rest of St Mary’s and defending my unit as they went down one by one.
‘You are defending your unit,’ said the stupid voice in my head. ‘Something’s not right. Stop pissing about and find out what it is.’
Mrs Partridge’s office was still empty. Bare shelves, bare tables. With typical Mrs Partridge thoroughness, she’d even emptied the waste bin. Moving as silently as I could, I eased around the door. Barclay was talking. Of course she was talking. She was always bloody talking.
Dr Bairstow stood at his desk in front of the window. Sounds of battle came up through the floor. Why was he here instead of with his unit?
One of the big blasters was propped against the wall behind him, just out of his reach. He was in full battle kit and by the expression on his face, in no mood to take prisoners.
I slid further into the room, desperate to see what was going on and hidden, I hoped, in shadow.
Another explosion brought part of the ceiling down somewhere behind me. I heard lumps of plaster clatter to the floor but I didn’t dare take my eyes from the scene in front of me.
She held a gun on him. Behind her, the safe door stood ajar. Whatever was going on here, I was too late.
As I watched, she reached into the safe and twisted something. Behind her, on the wall, a small panel snicked open. She moved carefully across the room, trying to cover him and retrieve whatever was in there at the same time.
He stood perfectly still. I saw his eyes drift towards his blaster. She saw it too, saying sharply, ‘No. Put both your hands flat on the desk.’
‘What are you doing, Miss Barclay?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What does it look as if I’m doing?’
‘It looks as if you are taking advantage of the situation to make your long-planned move to assume control of this unit.’
‘Well done. And?’
‘And what?’
‘Aren’t you going to say “Over my dead body” or something equally ludicrous and dramatic?’
‘No.’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Come in, Maxwell.’