3. A Second Chance (25 page)

I kicked him hard, poked his eyes, and tried to pull his ear off. He roared in anger, but I had only one aim now – to get this over with as soon as possible. I heard his friends behind me.

They’d forgotten all about Peterson. My job was done.

I yanked again on his ear and, as I tore free of his grasp, I heard the ring of steel as he drew his sword.

The world went very quiet and still.

Chapter Twenty-one

‘
I see you,

Golden-eyed girl.

Watcher of time’s brave pageant.

Beloved of Kleio.

Weep for your dreams

For today they die.

Your heart will grow cold.

And as the leaves fall

The golden-eyed girl

Will leave this world.

Never to return.’

I stared uncomprehendingly at the red, wet thing protruding from my chest.

I should do something, but I was already drifting away.

I should scream, but the need to breathe had left me.

Time – finally – stood still for me. I looked up at the tracery of black branches dramatically etched against the milk-white sky. I looked down at the sodden, once golden leaves. I should move. Run. Do something.

I closed my eyes and fell forwards into the pile of wet, soft …

… hard, hairy carpet.

Sometimes, it’s best to leap to your feet, armed and ready to tackle anything, and sometimes, it’s best just to lie still and wonder what the hell’s going on. My nostrils were full of carpet dust. I could feel the bristly texture of Axminster against my cheek.

A familiar voice said, ‘Breathe.’

That was not going to happen. My chest was on fire. Huge, pulsing, red-hot, agonising fire. Breathing in could only make it worse. Besides, I was dead. I must be. No one could survive a wound like that.

My stupid body took over and I took a deep, carpet-dust laden gulp of air, coughed blood, and doubled up in a pain no words of mine could describe.

I don’t know how long I lay, taking tiny, shallow breaths and bleeding all over someone’s carpet.

Since I obviously wasn’t dead, I eventually opened one cautious eye.

I could see carpet, the lower half of an armchair, and elegantly sandaled feet.

I closed my eyes again. I knew those feet. They never boded well.

The silence went on. I knew she was waiting. Dear God, was there no respite? Even in death …?

In a painful whisper, I said, ‘I’m not dead, am I?’

‘No.’

That would do for the time being. Just let me rest. In peace, preferably.

‘Open your eyes.’

It was a command and my eyes opened of their own accord.

‘Can you get up?’

‘No.’

‘I think you should try.’

Well, she would think that, wouldn’t she?

I put my forearms on the floor and tried to push myself up. Pain sleeted through every last inch of me. Everything hurt. For God’s sake, I had taken a sword through the heart. Why couldn’t she let me be?

‘Try again. The sooner you are able to move, the sooner your pain will dissipate.’

A likely story. But again, independent of anything I wanted to do – which was just lie still and die all over again – I pushed myself a few inches off the carpet and tried to look around.

Nothing I recognised here. Early- to mid-twenty-first-century furnishings. Solid. Dull. Clean. Conventional. I fell back again with a groan.

‘Come along, Dr Maxwell. Time is short.’

‘Go away,’ I said, brave because I was already dying. What else could she do to me?

‘I shall, as soon as I see you on your feet and functioning.’

I got one knee underneath me this time, then the other, a forearm on the coffee table, another on the sofa. And that was it. I hung, quivering with the strain.

Someone lifted me up and dropped me onto the sofa. I lay back, waiting for the waves of pain to subside.

‘Please drink this.’

God knows what it was. Some ancient corpse-reviver from the groves of Mount Ida, probably. It tasted like someone’s discarded washing-up water. Hot liquid burned its way down my throat and mingled with the other, larger, still-present and definitely-not-going-away pain.

I closed my eyes, still unwilling to participate in current events.

‘Dr Maxwell, open your eyes, please, and listen to me.’

I sighed. I’d deliberately asked no questions or shown any interest in anything in the vain hope she would just go away and leave me alone.

As if what I wanted was of any importance.

The silence lengthened as she waited for me to utter the traditional, ‘When am I?’ followed by the equally traditional, ‘Where am I?’ and followed, in this case, by the very justified, ‘What the hell is going on?’

I refused to cooperate. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘None whatsoever.’ I sighed. Of course there wasn’t.

‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?’

Do you ever wonder if there was a Mr Partridge?

‘I want you to open your eyes and pay close attention. This is important.’

‘Am I dead?’

‘As I told you, no.’

‘Is this the Elysian Fields?’

‘You are in Rushford. Please try and pull yourself together.’

I opened my eyes and squinted down at myself. ‘The sword’s gone.’

‘The wound is closed.’

‘The wound still hurts like hell.’

‘I said the wound is closed, not healed.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not a healer.’

‘Could you fetch one?’

‘You’re young and strong. Heal yourself.’

I suppose, if you’re thousands of years old, even I must seem young.

‘What do you want, Mrs Partridge?

‘I need you to concentrate.’

I sighed. She was never, ever going away.

‘All right, tell me.’

‘Look around you.’

I looked around me.

I was in a small living room in a small flat. I gave it a careless glance and then, forgetting my closed but unhealed chest wound, tried to sit up. I saw an unfamiliar but conventional living room with a fire laid and ready, but the picture over the mantelpiece was one of mine. A Mediterranean landscape, with apple-green pine trees marching down to a sparkling turquoise sea. A painting of a special place for me. Leon and I used to go there, secretly, to spend time together. Special time. I’d painted my favourite view and Leon had loved it and snatched it off my easel before even the paint was dry, and now it was here.

When I looked more closely, I saw other familiar objects scattered around the room.

On the mantelpiece stood the small model of the Trojan Horse, made for me by Leon himself and my most treasured possession. And a framed photograph of him and me, laughing together. I remembered the day Dieter had taken it.

Battered pine bookcases stood on each side of the fireplace. The right-hand one was full of my books. I recognised the titles. They were all here. Even the little book about Agincourt he would leave for me all those years ago. A stuffed scarlet snake hung from the top shelf.

The left-hand case was full of his own stuff. Books with the words ‘Quantum’ or ‘Temporal Dynamics’ in the title and the occasional thriller.

I looked around the room. On my right, a door led into a small kitchen from which the smells of something delicious wafted. A closed door ahead of me probably led to a bathroom. On my left, two bedroom doors.

I lurched to my feet and wobbled off to investigate further.

The bigger bedroom was his. A pair of jeans lay across a chair. I opened a wardrobe. Men’s clothes. I recognised some of them. On the bedside table stood another copy of our photograph. In fact, the two of them were placed in such a way that wherever you stood in this tiny flat, you could see at least one of them. I began to have yet another bad feeling.

I limped slowly into the other bedroom. My things were laid out on the dressing-table. My clothes hung in the wardrobe. A book I had been reading stood on the bedside-table. I looked under the pillow with growing unease . My yellow and white spotted PJs …

The room looked as if I’d just walked out of it. How was this possible? Had I lived here?

If you want to know who lives in a house, look in the bathroom.

A man lived in this house.

One toothbrush. Shaving gear. No hair conditioner.

I lurched back to Mrs Partridge, still in her alter ego as Kleio, Muse of History, and waiting for me. I sat heavily.

She looked at me for a long time and then said, ‘In this world, it was you who died.’

I took a moment or two to sort through the implications of ‘in this world,’ and ‘it was you who died.’ Suddenly, many things made sense. I waited.

‘He did not handle it well.’

No, he wouldn’t. He’d lost too many people in his life.

‘Against the advice of Dr Bairstow, he left St Mary’s and came here. Apparently, you had once had a plan to set up home together.’

I nodded.

‘He has built a shrine to you. Your clothes, your books, all your belongings. He brought them all here. He cooks meals for two. He lays the table for two. He discusses his day with you. He talks to you continually. His grief is overwhelming him.’

‘Is that why you have brought me here? To talk to him?’

‘No. I have brought you here to live with him. Here. In this other world. This must be your world now.’

‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll talk to him. I’ll even stay for a while until he’s better, but I have a job to do. I have to get back to Peterson. He’s wounded. He needs help.’

‘Dr Peterson is safe. The rescue party has found him. They will not find you. Because you are here. In this world.’

‘No. I have to go back. Tim …’

‘Is safe. He does not need you. Leon Farrell does. It is very important that you remain in this world. There is a job to be done and only you can do it.’

‘No, I have to go back.’

‘If I send you back, you will die. You were only seconds from death when I brought you here. You will not live long enough to see Mr Peterson.’

‘I want to see Tim Peterson. Afterwards, I’ll do whatever you want, but if I don’t see Peterson then you’ll get nothing from me.’

My God, I was defying Mrs Partridge, the immortal daughter of Zeus. If I hadn’t been seconds from death before, I was now.

We stared stubbornly at each other.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I can find you a few minutes in your old world. But it will not be long. And it will have to be paid for, one day.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Stand up.’

I did, and was suddenly back in SickBay. The change was so abrupt, I rocked on my feet to get my balance.

I was in the men’s ward. Tim lay in the bed by the window, head turned, looking at the dark world outside, his arm heavily bandaged. A single battered yellow rose lay on his bedside table.

I said, softly, ‘Tim?’

He turned his head.

I have no memory of getting across the room, but suddenly I was on the bed. He got his good arm round me. I hugged him as tightly as I could.

‘Tim …’

‘Max! Oh, my God, Max. They found you. You’re alive.’

‘And you. You made it. I knew you would. How are you?’

‘Absolutely fine. Even better knowing you’re here. What happened? When did they find you?’

I sat back. ‘They didn’t.’

He took in my blood-soaked dress and my tangled hair. I probably didn’t look good.

‘Then how did you get back? How did you get away?’

‘I didn’t.’

He lay back on the pillows. I could see him trying to work through the implications and not understanding any of them.

‘Max?’

‘I’ve been allowed back, Tim. Just for a few minutes. I’ve been given a chance to say goodbye. Don’t let’s waste time with questions.’

‘Goodbye? Are you – are you leaving St Mary’s? Where are you going? What is happening?

‘There’s something I have to do and it’s important. But I only agreed to do it if I got a chance to say goodbye to you. That’s why I’m here.’

My voice wobbled horribly because I’d suddenly realised I would never see him again. Ever.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’

He wouldn’t accept it.

‘No. No. You can’t leave.’

‘I can’t stay, Tim. This is a fatal wound. I can’t come back.’

I was crying now and so was he.

‘Please, Tim, don’t. Be happy for me.’

‘I thought you were dead. That you’d given your life for me. I’m happy you’re not. I’m crying for me. You can’t leave.’

‘I must. I made my choice at Agincourt and I don’t regret it. Not for a moment. Please don’t you regret it either.’

He was silent a moment and then said, quietly, ‘There won’t be any more adventures, will there?’

‘Yes, of course there will, Tim. For us, there will always be adventures. Just not together any more.’

He shook his head. ‘This arm is probably never going to be the same. And even if it is – I’m not sure I want to do this without you.’

‘Tim …’

‘It was always you and me, Max, wasn’t it?’

I smiled through my tears, ‘Ever since you peed on me. I think it left some sort of imprint.’

‘I’m off the active list. Probably for good. Apparently, I’m going to be Deputy Director. Can you believe that?’

‘You’ll be superb.’

‘Yes,’ he said, with a touch of the old Tim. ‘I probably will. But you won’t be here.’

‘You’ll have Helen, who loves you more than she’s prepared to admit. And Kal. And everyone here. You’ll do great things, Tim.’

Someone tapped on the door.

He tightened his grip.

‘People are upset. Can I tell them you’re not dead?’

‘Tell the Boss.’ I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting in silent grief when there was no need. He’d lost Leon and now me. ‘Give him my love. Tell him I’ll think of him every day. And now, I don’t want to, but I have to go.’

‘No. Please. Can’t you stay a little longer. This is all the time we’ll ever have.’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry, Tim.’

He said, desperately, ‘Do you remember – that night at Rushford when I gave you that golden rose?
For my golden friend, Max
.’

I swallowed. ‘I do. I kept it for ages. Do you remember our night at Nineveh?’

‘I remember you yanking us out of the Cretaceous period. You were as pissed as a newt.’

I laughed through my tears. ‘I remember how bad you smelled.’

‘I don’t think you have any idea how much I’ll miss you.’

I stopped laughing. ‘Yes, I do know. I know exactly how much.’

I tightened my grip. So did he. We might only have three good arms between us, but we were holding on to each other like two people who knew they’d never, ever, see each other again.