I stumbled up the stairs to my room. My home for the last five years. But not any longer. I stood blankly by the bed and it was Murdoch who reached my sports bag down off the wardrobe. He unzipped it, checked it was empty, and put it on the bed.
‘Come on, Max. Time’s passing.’
As if anyone knew that better than me.
What I wanted to do was curl up in a corner, turn my face to the wall, and just let go. What I had to do was pull myself together, pack what I needed, abandon the rest, and find somewhere to go,
And not think. Don’t think. Don’t think about anything. I’d been trained to deal with catastrophe. First rule. Deal with the now. Deal with everything else later. It’s not as if any of it was important. Nothing was important any more. Nothing mattered.
I picked up the Chief’s photo and pushed it into an outside pocket. Murdoch pulled it back out again. ‘No, Max. Sorry.’
‘It’s a personal possession.’
‘It’s a picture of a member of this unit.’
My voice wobbled. ‘Not any more it’s not.’
‘Can’t allow it. Sorry.’ And his voice wasn’t steady either.
I wouldn’t let go. He tried to pry my fingers away.
‘Max, please don’t make me hurt you.’
I remembered this was Big Dave Murdoch and no matter how many times he’d fallen over for me in Self Defence classes, at the end of the day, he could hurt me badly. He wouldn’t want to, but he would.
He wouldn’t let me take the Trojan Horse, either.
‘Dave,’ I pleaded and my voice cracked. He shook his head, not looking at me.
Nor my little book about Agincourt, the only thing left from my childhood; nor any of my other books; nor any of my artwork. Just underwear, a set of sweats, jeans, a couple of hoodies, and some tees. I had to leave behind my beautiful, golden dress with the beautiful, golden memories. I wore my boots and riding mac. I took toiletries from the bathroom and a towel. And that was it. Five years of my life and I was leaving with even less than I started.
Mrs Partridge arrived with some paperwork to sign. While she was laying it out on the table I covered the Horse and photo with the towel, meaning to pick the whole lot up together and just casually drop in my bag. Murdoch and Ritter waited outside while I re-signed all the secure paperwork again. She handed me a month’s pay. When I looked across, the towel was neatly folded and the Horse and photo were gone. It seemed so unnecessarily cruel. Shock and disbelief were wearing off and the full awfulness finally dawning on me. Where would I go? What would I do? I opened my wallet and slowly handed over my ID card.
I looked outside. It was dark. It was raining. It was half past ten at night. I didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Who was Prime Minister? What was happening in the world? Too late now to remember the Boss’s advice about maintaining a grip on the here and now. Mrs Partridge collected her papers, regarded me expressionlessly for a moment, and then swept out. There was no reason to stay. I was no longer a member of the unit.
Flanked by Murdoch and Ritter, I walked slowly down the stairs. No one spoke. The building was completely silent. No one was around. I thought Kal might manage a small appearance somehow, but there was no sign of her or anyone. No one came to say goodbye. I was officially a non-person. I never thought I would leave like this. I turned up my collar, huddled into my clothes, and crept across the Hall like the ghost I already was.
A troubled-looking Mr Strong unbolted the front doors and I passed through them for the last time. No one spoke. Bending my head against the rain, I trudged down the drive. The gates opened silently in front of me and closed as silently behind me.
There I was, just gone eleven at night in the pouring rain with the gates of St Mary’s locked behind me and no idea what to do next or where to go. I turned and looked back one last time. Lights blazed everywhere. Sick Bay was lit up like a Christmas tree. Peterson would never stand underneath the windows again, waiting for his love to shower him with dog ends. A door opened somewhere and light streamed out briefly, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Somewhere in there, Kal was grieving for Peterson. The Boss was fighting for his life. Murdoch would be mourning Guthrie …
And the man I loved had been dead for sixty-seven million years. I dropped my bag onto the wet road, leaned forward, and put my hands on my knees. Huge, thick, rasping sobs tore at my throat. I fell to my knees, curled into a ball and wrapped my arms around my head. The rain drummed on my back. Wet soaked through my clothes.
I’d always said my life began the day I walked through the gates of St Mary’s and now I’d walked back out again and it was ended.