We left. Emerging from the lift I went to turn left, back to the main building but he caught my arm and pushed me across the foyer. To the paint store! We were going to the paint store! We were almost running when we hit his pod door and then we were inside and safe.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Get them off now.’ I was pulling off my jacket when the world went white. I knew where we were; somewhere quiet and private five thousand years ago where noise didn’t matter.
We didn’t make it outside. Up against a wall inside the pod, outside on a blanket, outside off the blanket, outside up against a tree; the man was a machine. They say the quiet ones are the worst. Take it from me, the quiet ones are the best.
Hours later, night fell. I knew how it felt. We wound down to a halt.
‘No more,’ he gasped. ‘For God’s sake, woman, leave me alone.’
I put my head on his chest and felt his heart race. We were in a sorry state, sweaty, covered in dust, bruised, and scratched. I’d never felt better. He got to his feet and came back with a bottle of wine and a mug. We shared. I was parched and grateful.
‘Should we be getting back?’
‘I can’t take you back looking like that. You look like a fallen angel.’
‘I didn’t fall – I was pushed.’
He tightened his arm and bent to kiss me. ‘Please, no.’ I whispered. ‘I can barely walk as it is.’
‘Not one for the road?’
I looked down. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t you have an off switch?’
‘Not anytime in the last four years. You have no idea how often I’ve thanked God for baggy jumpsuits!’
‘Really?’ I didn’t know I could do that!
‘Right from the moment I met you. You stood on the stairs with the sun in your hair and smiled at me and I was lost from that moment.’
I stretched up and kissed him. ‘Can I trust you in a shower?’
‘You’ll be warm, wet, and slippery. There will be soapy hands. What do you think?’
It took hours to get out of the shower. We’d probably be there still if the tank hadn’t emptied. Slowly, we got ourselves ready for the here and now and finally, suited and booted, we returned, no more than half an hour after we left, and made our way to the Boss’s office.
He congratulated me on my presentation. Thirsk had obviously contacted him, telling him all about it and singing our praises. ‘Satisfactory,’ was the exact word used, so he was obviously pleased. He didn’t mention the car.
‘Saved your bacon there,’ I said as we left. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘So much. Give me a minute. I’ll see you in the bar.’
Pushing open the heavy vestibule door I could hear the racket immediately. Either they were re-enacting the battle at Marathon or there was another massive punch up in the bar.
This happens occasionally.
Every section, rightly or wrongly, regards itself as the most important at St Mary’s. I don’t know why, since it’s obviously the History Department that runs the show, but techies and Security, and occasionally R & D always fail to recognise this and someone says something unfortunate, sometimes accidentally, but usually not, and away we all go.
From the doorway I could see this was no ordinary bar fight. This was a riot. Orange, black, green, and occasionally blue bodies struggled, locked together, rolling on the floor, cursing, shouting, and flailing wildly at each other. Glasses shattered and furniture overturned. The bar staff were yelling for order.
I pushed my way through the watchers and eggers-on and looked for an opening. Dieter and Markham rolled free, struggled to their feet and squared up to each other. Given their respective sizes, it was rather like a chipmunk hurling itself at Mount Everest.
Without thinking, (there’s a first!) I tried to get between them and push them apart and Dieter, already swinging a fist the size of a small armchair, caught me just below the eye and knocked me to the ground. He did pull it at the last moment, but, even so, it still hurt.
But at least the fighting stopped while everyone waited to see what would happen next. Typical. The least they could have done was carry on trying to kill each other and given me the time to get myself together again.
I wobbled to my feet and tried to pull my skirt down.
‘You’re not supposed to hit girls,’ said Markham provocatively. ‘It’s not polite.’
‘Oh, my God, Max,’ said Dieter, horrified (as well he might be). ‘I’m sorry.’
My instinct was to deck him and blacken at least one of his eyes so we could have a matching set. His and Hers. I used the anger.
‘What the fuck do you fuckwits think you’re playing at?’