‘What do you mean, “Because it didn’t matter any more”?’
Of everything, I hadn’t expected that. ‘What?’
‘You said, “I went into town because it didn’t matter” What was that all about?’
All that gabble and he picked on that one little phrase. Tell him. Tell him now.
I drew a ragged breath and said, ‘Because you were gone. St Mary’s was gone. Everything was gone. I had no money, no job and no way of getting one. I was cold and ill. I was head sick and heartsick and nothing really mattered any more. You said, “I knew you would come,” as if I’d done something marvellous, but I got it all wrong. You guys are alive through your own efforts, not mine.’
‘So, you get discharged from hospital, still not recovered from a serious illness at … what … eleven a.m.? You stop for a quick lunch, meet a friend, steal a pod from a top-security establishment, do a series of complex equations, and an hour later you’re skipping around the Cretaceous, rescuing four men and facing down the world’s greatest predator with a can of pepper spray and a hard look. I think you’re pretty amazing.’
I smiled, shook my head, had a good cough, and finished my tea. We weren’t talking about what we really should be.
‘So Max, how are you? Really?’
Now was the moment to tell him. I bottled out – again.
‘Really, really glad to see you again.’
The moment passed. He leaned over and took the photo from the bedside table. ‘I remember this.’
I took it from him and traced my finger around the frame again, then gave it back to him.
‘Is this all you brought from St Mary’s?’
‘No, they wouldn’t let me take it away.’ We both knew by ‘they’, I meant Bitchface Barclay. ‘I only saw it again yesterday.’
He smiled, looking down at the photo. ‘That day seems such a long time ago now. I never forgot your face. I saw it every time I closed my eyes. Whatever you say, I knew you would come. I told the others you would come. You may not think so, but you were saving us long before you arrived with just a bad attitude and a photo to remind you of what I look like.’
‘I don’t need a photo to know how you look. I know how you look. I know how you sound. I know when you enter a room without lifting my head. I know how I feel when you touch me. I don’t need a photo for any of that. I love the photo and I love the Horse because you gave them to me.’
In the silence I thought, Shit, shit, shit. There must be women on this planet who know when to shut up. Why can’t I be one of them?
‘Max, look at me. Look at me.’ There was something wrong with his voice. I looked at him. There was something wrong with my eyes.
And I still didn’t tell him.
Breakfast was a lively meal. I listened with one ear to the banter, helped Markham as he scattered his food over the table, caught Leon’s eye occasionally, and all the time I was thinking.
Finally, after about an hour and just as the toaster began to overheat, we got down to talking about how to get back to St Mary’s. I had something tickling at the back of my mind. It had been in there for months and I’d been too apathetic to chase it out. I knew though, that if I dived in after it then it would vanish in a puff of smoke, so I left it and drifted into my own world.
I was jolted back by a shout of laughter and Peterson saying, ‘… so after that, the four of us went south again …’ And I suddenly knew what it was and it was far, far worse than anything I could have imagined.
I sat quietly while I worked it out in my head, not wanting to speak before I was sure. I really thought I kept my face fairly neutral, but silence made me look up. Everyone was staring at me.
‘Sir, can I speak to you for a moment please?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘Shall we get some fresh air?’
‘Back in a minute,’ I said vaguely, following him out.
We walked slowly around the garden. It was cold but sunny. We reached the end of the path and stared at the compost heap. It seemed appropriate.
I took my time and let it out slowly. No gabbling this time. And I moderated my language. This was business and it was important. I described what happened after he was carted off to Sick Bay. He didn’t seem much surprised so I guessed he’d heard most of it before.
I talked about Barclay’s appearance, her throwing up, her refusal to send a search party, her insistence they were dead.
He shifted his weight. ‘What’s your point, Miss Maxwell?’
I was reluctant to make it. ‘Well, sir, as far as I can remember her exact words were, ‘They’re dead. All four of them.’’