Copyright © 2024 Jodi Taylor

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2024 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may

only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior

permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures –

are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 0354 0498 8

Cover design and illustration by Tom Sanderson

Author photograph © Accent Press

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright page

About the Author

About the Book

Also By

Author’s Note

Author’s Note: Take Two

Roll Call

Luke

Jane

Matthew

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

Epilogue

Author’s Note Three – yes, another one. Is there no respite?

Acknowledgements

Discover more from Jodi Taylor . . .

Discover more about Jodi Taylor . . .

About the Author

Jodi Taylor is the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster prone individuals who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel! She is also the author of the Time Police series – a St Mary’s spinoff and gateway into the world of an all-powerful, international organisation who are NOTHING like St Mary’s. Except, when they are.

Alongside these, Jodi is known for her gripping supernatural thrillers featuring Elizabeth Cage together with the enchanting Frogmorton Farm series – a fairy story for adults.

Born in Bristol and now living in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and write a novel. Over twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

About the Book

A ghost train, lost in Time, hurtles through the night . . .

Two members of Team 236 are trapped on board. Not ideal under any circumstances but catastrophic when they’re at each other’s throats.

Hot on their heels, but never quite able to catch up, can Lt Grint and his team overcome all obstacles in their way and save their fellow officers before the train disappears for good?

Nor is TPHQ without its own problems as Matthew risks his sanity to track them through the Time Map. And a Mikey-experiment goes horribly wrong, exposing something better left concealed for all Time. What are the Time Police hiding?

And what will they do to keep their secret?

By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

TIME POLICE SERIES

Doing Time

Hard Time

saving time

About Time

Killing Time

The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

Just One Damned Thing After Another

A Symphony of Echoes

A Second Chance

A Trail Through Time

No Time Like the Past

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Lies, Damned Lies, and History

And the Rest is History

An Argumentation of Historians

Hope for the Best

Plan For the Worst

another time, another place

A Catalogue of Catastrophe

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE HISTORY

Short-story collections

The Long and Short of It

Long Story Short

THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

Elizabeth Cage novels

White Silence

Dark Light

long shadows

Frogmorton Farm Series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

––––––––––––––

A Bachelor Establishment

Author’s Note

This is my twenty-fifth novel. Ten years ago I thought I’d try and write a book – Just One Damned Thing After Another. I did it for fun (yes, I know, but I don’t get out a lot). I certainly never intended to publish it, but I was taken away and plied with alcohol and we all know what happened next. Then I thought I’d write another – and then another, because trilogies are very fashionable – and here we are, twenty-five novels and twenty-one short stories later.

Surely I should be getting the hang of it soon.

Author’s Note: Take Two

A very quick catch-up for those who can’t remember what happened in About Time.

Team 236 still have not completely resolved their personal differences.

Mrs Farnborough and her daughter have been hidden in a private nursing home while they recover from recent events. Other than Raymond and Luke Parrish, no one knows where they are.

Lt Grint and Officer Lockland are continuing their stumbling path along the rocky road of romance. Sprained ankles ahead.

Roll Call

TIME POLICE PERSONNEL

Commander Hay

Commander of the Time Police. If things get much worse, they’ll have only two pencils with which to defend the Timeline. Two very small pencils.

Captain Farenden

Adjutant to Commander Hay. Member of MENSA. Who knew?

Major Callen

Second in charge of the Time Police. Suspiciously quiet in this story.

Major Ellis

Head of BeeBOC – the Big Business and Organised Crime Unit.

Lt Grint

Ellis’s deputy. Head of Team 235. Inching his way towards a romantic tryst with Officer Lockland. Don’t hold your breath. (No. Seriously. Don’t.)

Lt North

Head of Records/Historical Briefing Unit. Includes shooting people as her favourite teaching aid. It rarely fails.

TEAM 235

Officer Kohl (Socko)

All moderately normal by Time Police standards.

Officer Hansen

Officer Rossi

TEAM 236

Officer Farrell

The dreaded Team Weird. Been through a lot recently and are about to be returned to factory setting.

Officer Lockland

Officer Parrish

SECURITY

Officer Varma

Whose future go-to solution to all problems will be to hurl people down the stairs. Because it works.

Officer Harvey

Officer Jessup

Officer Schwartz

Officer Wu

Officer Mitchell

Officer Etok

Officer Roche

POD BAY & LOGISTICS

Senior Mech

In charge of the Pod Bay. A very worried man.

Officer Oti

Logistics.

OTHER TIME POLICE OFFICERS

Lt Dal

Lt Chigozie

Lt Fanboten

Officer Curtis

Officer Rockmeyer

Trainee Tucker

Hadn’t realised working for the Time Police would be so much fun.

Trainee Clore

Ditto.

Mikey

Time Police consultant and both witting and unwitting cause of Senior Mech anxiety.

The doctor

Head of MedCen.

TIME MAP

Map Master

In charge of the Time Map.

Connor

A TiMM.

CIVILIANS

Nora Adesina

Worried mum.

Jay Adesina

Her son.

Devan Kumar

His friend. Both of them talented lads who really should have known better.

THE ZANETTI TRAIN PASSENGERS AND GUARDS

Luigi de Luca

A passenger.

Tommaso

A guard.

HOSPITAL DE SAN HIPÓLITA PERSONNEL

Dr José Saxino

All treatment must be unpleasant to be effective.

Various guards and warders

MISCELLANEOUS

Lady Amelia Smallhope

Bounty hunter.

Pennyroyal

Butler and bounty hunter.

Ernesto Portman

Has had better days.

Luke

Well, I’ve really screwed up this time. No going back, as far as I can see. I doubt you’ll find anyone in TPHQ – or outside it either – who has a good word to say to me. Or about me.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I’ve been out of things for a while, recuperating, talking to Dad, getting to know Mum. Although we’re taking things slowly. There are days when she doesn’t know me, just as Dad said would happen.

And Immy is slowly returning to normal now the drugs have worked their way out of her system. There’s no real reason for her to remain at the Sunnyside Nursing Home but she can’t bring herself to face the world and I can’t say I blame her. I could do with a bit more hiding from the world myself. Not that I’m likely to get the chance. We’re suffering from what’s known as ‘team issues’. Things were said – by me, mostly. People got thumped – again, me, mostly. And now Major Ellis has lost his rag and is threatening to lock us all – me, Jane and Matthew – in a small room until we’ve sorted ourselves out, once and for all.

Yeah – we could be here a while.

Jane

I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on. Every day seems to bring fresh revelations. My grandmother’s dead. My parents weren’t who I thought they were. Who anyone thought they were.

And I’m a Portman. Which came as a bit of a shock. Well, quite a big shock, actually. And not just to me. Luke didn’t take it at all well and now Team 236 is broken. More than broken, actually. Shattered would be a better word.

The Time Police want to know if we can still work together – and we did at Mile End.

We’ve been ordered to resolve our differences but I’m not sure that’s possible.

I don’t know what the future holds for me.

I don’t even know what I want.

Matthew

I have no idea what’s going on. I know what Luke’s problem is. Well, we all know what Luke’s problem is. Jane’s a bit more of a mystery. I don’t know what she wants to do and I suspect she doesn’t either. It’s all a horrible mess. People always said Team 236 could never last and it looks as if they might be right.

Update – the Time Map spoke to me. I heard it. Or I’ve gone mad. One of the two, anyway.

1

Commander Hay seated herself at her desk, arranged her files neatly and picked up her mug of very excellent coffee.

‘Right then, Charlie. Give it your best shot.’

‘And good morning to you too, ma’am. Not a great deal today, I’m happy to say.’

‘Excellent. In that case I’ll push off now before our next catastrophe lands squarely on my desk.’

‘As you wish, ma’am, but before you go . . .’

Commander Hay sighed. ‘I knew it was too good to be true.’

‘No, ma’am, really. It’s mostly just updates and one or two of those updates are mostly good news.’

‘A pleasant change. However, the day is yet young. I’m sure we’ll all be fighting for our lives before teatime.’

‘Something for us to look forward to. Shall I begin? Before the government slashes our non-existent budget even further? Or Henry Plimpton destroys the Timeline. Or Officer Parrish’s blood decorates the corridors again. Or dread Cthulhu rises from the depths to destroy us all.’

‘You may, Charlie, although after a build-up like that, I warn you, my expectations are high.’

‘Team Two-Three-Six, ma’am.’

‘Oh God. I think I prefer dread Cthulhu.’

‘As would we all, ma’am. However . . .’

‘Yes, what’s happening there? Does Two-Three-Six still exist or have they decided to go their separate ways? I freely admit, I’ll miss them. Like when your heat rash subsides but you miss the pleasure of scratching it.’

‘I believe there’s an ointment for . . .’

‘It was a metaphor, Charlie.’ She paused. ‘Or do I mean simile?’

‘Actually, ma’am . . .’

‘And that was rhetorical.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

There was a pause.

‘Why have you stopped?’

‘I was wondering whether it was safe to continue, ma’am.’

‘Team Two-Three-Six . . .’

‘Are still with us, ma’am. At least they were as of 1000 hours this morning, which was when Major Ellis locked them in their office with instructions not to emerge until they’ve resolved their issues.’

Hay sighed. ‘We may never see them again.’

‘As Major Callen remarked, no downside, ma’am.’

Hay frowned. ‘What’s the word on the street.’

‘You can get good odds that they’ll kill each other, but the smart money’s on a reconciliation.’

‘The smart money being yours, I suppose.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Hm. Put me down for a tenner each way.’

Captain Farenden made a note. And paused.

Hay sipped her coffee. ‘Ah . . . we approach the item I’m not going to like.’

Her adjutant took a breath. ‘It’s not yet been made public but . . .’ He took another breath. ‘It would appear there has been an accident.’

Commander Hay, who knew him well, waited quietly.

‘At some point between 2300 hours last night and 0450 this morning, a car went off the road just outside of a small, private airfield in Kent. There were no survivors. Preliminary identification indicates the occupants were Anthony and Bradley Portman, together with their driver and bodyguard.’

He waited. The silence went on for a very long time.

Eventually, Commander Hay stirred. ‘Coincidence?’

‘So soon after they kidnapped Raymond Parrish, ma’am? How likely is that? And also . . .’ He paused again. ‘An airfield, ma’am. Is it possible they were seeking to flee the country?’

‘I rather think that depends on from whom they were fleeing.’

‘Plus . . .’

‘There’s more?’

‘Ernesto Portman has completely disappeared. He was known to have a heart condition – albeit not a serious one – and it’s thought he has been removed to a secret location.’

‘Are we aware of this secret location?’

‘At this precise moment, ma’am – no.’

‘Do we know exactly who removed him to this secret location?’

‘At this precise moment, ma’am – no.’

‘Is he aware his sons are dead?’

‘Unknown, ma’am.’

Hay looked thoughtful. ‘So that’s all three Portmans out of the picture, then? You have to admire an organisation that cleans up after itself.’

He nodded. ‘Very considerate, ma’am.’

‘Although a little bird tells me Raymond Parrish might not be unconnected with these events.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’

‘Just as a courtesy, could you update Raymond Parrish – who almost certainly already knows. Fortunately, this is between the Parrishes and the Portmans and absolutely nothing to do with us. We’ll stand well back on this one, I think.’ Hay appeared struck by a thought. ‘Does Officer Parrish know?’

‘I received the news only an hour ago, ma’am. He’s been in conclave since mid-morning. That doesn’t mean, of course, that he wouldn’t be aware of his father’s intentions. If it was his father, of course.’

Hay drummed her fingers on her desk. ‘None of this involves the Time Police, Charlie. Not officially. I think we’ll sit on this intel for the time being – wait and see what happens next.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Moving on . . . I have received a joint request from both Officer Varma and the Senior Mech.’

She blinked. ‘Unlikely bedfellows.’

‘Indeed, ma’am. I was somewhat taken aback myself.’

‘What do they want?’

‘If you cast your mind back to when Varma and Maxwell returned from Roan—’

‘We decided that name was never to be spoken, Captain.’

‘No, ma’am. You will remember they did not return alone.’

‘I remember they brought four illegals back with them. Are they dead?’

‘Um . . . no, ma’am.’

Commander Hay regarded him shrewdly. ‘Because . . . ?’

Captain Farenden shifted in his seat. ‘Well, ma’am – and I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this – but Varma has requested two of them be considered as potential recruits for the security department, and the Senior Mech has his eye on the other two. Apparently all four are not without . . . useful skills, ma’am.’

‘Skills,’ said Hay flatly.

‘Indeed, ma’am, and at some point during the operation at . . . that place which must not be named . . . Officer Varma made a tentative and definitely non-binding offer of amnesty in return for information and cooperation.’

Hay sighed. ‘I have to ask, Charlie, given the frequent offers of amnesty we’ve been hurling around recently, to John Costello and the like – we appear to be recruiting solely from the criminal classes these days – whatever happened to conventional recruitment procedures? You know – keen young people battering down our doors in their enthusiasm to join.’

‘As far as I am aware, ma’am, nothing has happened to conventional recruitment procedures, but Mr Tucker, apparently, displays exactly the type of leadership skills we look for, as verified by Officer Farrell.’

‘Farrell? What would he know about leadership skills? Given his hairstyle I’m astonished he can even see properly. This Tucker and his men work – worked – for Henry Plimpton and . . .’

‘They’ve been very cooperative in the matter of grassing up their former employer, ma’am. Understandably so since Plimpton was going to kill them all. He – Tucker – has also had some very interesting things to say about the site at Ro— the site where he and his team were apprehended, ma’am.’

Hay sat up in a hurry. ‘We’ve found the Death Ray.’

‘Alas, no, ma’am. To massive disappointment, the teams on site have found absolutely no trace of Tesla’s fabled Death Ray.’

‘Damn.’

‘Your comment is being echoed around TPHQ, ma’am. There was enormous enthusiasm for a Death Ray.’

‘I’m not surprised. I was quite excited myself. Possession of a Death Ray would solve so many of our problems.’ She sighed. ‘However, returning to the real world, why was Plimpton building a base there? Given the body count and primitive living conditions . . . why there?’

‘Mr Tucker does not appear to be privy to that information, ma’am. Several teams are carrying out a methodical search – during the hours of daylight since no one’s keen to leave the safety of their pods after dark. There is a certain . . . atmosphere about the place. However, nothing even remotely Death Rayish has been discovered – although, to be fair, construction of the base was in its early stages. Their interim reports will be with you tomorrow. But to return to the undefined status of Mr Tucker and his crew . . .’

Hay stared out of the window. ‘I don’t know anyone better at reading people than Varma.’

‘No, ma’am. Nor the Senior Mech, either. He is particularly interested in Mr Clore.’

‘Are we aware of the feelings of Tucker and his former crew?’

‘They appear to be quite enthusiastic, ma’am.’

‘I suspect after Henry Plimpton even we look good. Even so . . .’

‘We do have several officers with criminal records, ma’am.’

‘Only because their skills are useful to us.’

‘I believe that is the Senior Mech’s and Varma’s argument, ma’am.’

‘All right, let’s see where this goes. Rigorous vetting for Tucker and all his team. Restricted access to the more sensitive parts of the building. They need to earn our trust.’

He made a note on his scratchpad. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Very nearly, ma’am. Mrs and Miss Farnborough.’

‘I thought Mrs Farnborough had returned to London.’

‘She has, ma’am. Ostensibly to oversee the repairs to her house in Mile End.’

Commander Hay closed her eyes. ‘Let’s not talk about that now, Charlie.’

‘As you wish, ma’am. My sources tell me she offered to resign as an MP but was persuaded to remain. She has, however, declined to resume her role in the cabinet.’

‘And how is Miss Farnborough recovering?’

‘Well, I believe, ma’am.’

‘You believe? Have your legendary sources let you down?’

‘Well, if I knew where she was, ma’am, I would be able to provide more details. I believe she is in the care of Parrish Industries, so she could, literally, be anywhere in the world.’

‘Bet you Officer Parrish knows her whereabouts.’

‘I have refrained from enquiring, ma’am.’

Hay nodded. ‘We’ll need to speak to her at some point but there’s no rush. I don’t want to crowd her at this stage. Plus, I am certain that by now, no trace of her incarceration at the hands of the Portmans will remain and they will simply deny everything.’

‘And as discussed just now, we can safely leave any and all punitive action to Raymond Parrish, ma’am.’

‘Very true. And should it become necessary, we can honestly claim we have no knowledge of her whereabouts. I’m very big on plausible deniability at the moment. Speaking of which – how are we off for money?’

‘Er . . . well . . . running a quick check, ma’am, my current account is not as healthy as I could wish, and I have a small savings account.’

‘I meant the financial standing of the Time Police.’

‘Ah. Less good news on that front, ma’am.’

‘How less good?’

‘Very less good.’

‘Anything in the wages budget?’

‘No.’

‘Materiel and equipment?’

‘No.’

‘Repairs and maintenance?’

‘No.’

‘Vehicle and fleet expenditure?’

‘No.’

‘Utilities?’

‘God, no.’

‘Medical?’

‘Never anything in that one, ma’am.’

‘Contingency fund?’

‘We contingenced out over two years ago, ma’am.’

‘Stationery?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘How much do you need?’

‘Could I buy a pencil?’

‘You could buy two but they’d have to be very small.’

‘Something to look forward to. What about the pension fund?’

He threw her a pained look. ‘We’re not captains of industry or politicians, ma’am. Raiding pension funds is illegal.’

‘Damnation. Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely certain, ma’am. Do you have any instructions as to how we should proceed?’

‘Standard procedure, Captain. Keep going as hard as we can until someone tells us to stop. And then pretend we didn’t hear them and continue to push on for as long as possible.’

‘It’s payday at the end of the month, ma’am.’

‘A whole thirteen days away. A lot can happen in a single day, Charlie, as we should know, and we still have thirteen of them. What else do you have on your list of things with which to annoy your commanding officer?’

‘Lt Filbert, ma’am.’

Commander Hay’s expression did not change. Although to be fair, it rarely did. As the result of an accident, one half of her face was considerably older than the other. Facial expressions did not come easily to her.

Looking down at her desk, she said quietly, ‘And what about Lt Filbert?’

‘I know we’ve told people he was already dead, ma’am, but I have to inform you that Lt Filbert has died of his injuries while still in custody at the Tower of London. Last night.’

She sighed. ‘Did he say anything before . . . ?’

‘Not a word, ma’am.’ He looked up. ‘Will there be a service for him?’

There was another pause.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Full honours, Charlie.’

He made another note.

Hay continued. ‘I’ll need to start thinking about his replacement. I’ll be discussing this with Majors Callen and Ellis, of course, but for me it’s between two officers at the moment.’

‘May I hazard a guess? Varma and Grint.’

‘Spot on, Charlie. Remind me never to bet against you.’

‘So noted, ma’am.’

‘Varma is my first choice, but if Two-Three-Six don’t pull themselves together then I’ll need to move Lockland to Two-Three-Five, and for obvious reasons, I don’t want Lockland and Grint in the same team. No reflection on either of them but it’s not an ideal situation.’

‘Agreed, ma’am, but we don’t yet know which way Two-Three-Six will drop.’

‘Oh, I think we both know it will be butter-side down, Charlie.’

He grinned.

‘My first choice is for Two-Three-Six to find a way to work together and put Varma in charge of security.’

‘If it helps the decision-making process, ma’am, things are very quiet at the moment.’

‘Yes. And I shan’t formally appoint anyone until after Filbert’s service, anyway. We have a short breathing space.’

‘Lt Grint has seniority. And would be a good choice for the role, ma’am. He even looks the part. You know – massive, muscled, and so forth.’

‘Very true, but Varma has the skills and the security experience.’

‘It is a difficult choice, ma’am.’ He paused.

‘Go on, Charlie, say it.’

‘Security is a tough gig, ma’am. They take no prisoners in there – quite literally, sometimes – and the remit covers responsibility for the clean-up crews as well. Internal promotions are tough. Varma would be supervising former friends and colleagues. Our policy is usually to promote from outside the relevant department.’

‘Not always possible, Charlie.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Please do not shoot the messenger, but . . .’

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘It will be said all over the building. Varma’s female.’

‘We have a female Map Master and to my certain knowledge no one argues with her. And Lt North heads up the Records section.’

‘There was some initial resistance to that appointment, ma’am.’

‘True, but she very soon brought people around to her way of thinking.’

‘She shot them, ma’am.’

‘With blanks, Charlie.’

‘They didn’t know that at the time.’

‘All the better to make her point, don’t you think?’

‘I doubt Varma would use blanks.’

‘Exactly.’

‘She may still find the going rather tough, though, ma’am.’

‘Isn’t there a general feeling that when the going gets tough, we send in Varma?’

He nodded. ‘Very true.’

‘Speaking of the going getting tough, I see you have scheduled me a meeting today with Miss Meiklejohn.’

‘That is correct, ma’am. It’s Friday.’

Commander Hay regarded him with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Friday was the designated day for the Time Police’s one and only civilian consultant, Miss Meiklejohn, to report on her week’s activities, present Commander Hay with her proposed schedule for the coming week, describe any brilliant ideas she might have hatched since their last meeting and depart, trailing inspiration, enthusiasm and potential catastrophe.

‘Ten minutes tops, ma’am.’

Commander Hay sighed. Her adjutant’s allocation of ten minutes for this encounter invariably overran.

He grinned. ‘I can, if you wish, interrupt you with an urgent call from the prime minister.’

‘I’m never going to be that desperate, Charlie.’

‘Then that’s it for the time being, ma’am.’ He stood up to depart.

As he was leaving, she said, ‘Ask Major Callen if he can spare me a moment, please.’

2

In another part of the building, Team 236 were seated in their tiny office, looking everywhere except at each other. If any of them remembered the excitement and anticipation of their first day’s occupation and the plans they had to make the office more comfortable, none of them were saying anything now.

There was a table and four chairs – even though there were only three of them. Normal teams consisted of four officers. In this matter – as in every other – Team 236 did not conform.

Over in the corner stood an illegal bookcase, stuffed with books, papers, a broken scratchpad, a mug full of mouldy coffee dregs no one would own up to, two unmatched socks and a tube of hand cream. Various posters adorned the walls: a sunset (Jane’s), the periodic table (Matthew’s) and a young woman on a tennis court scratching her bare bottom (no prizes for guessing the owner of that one but apparently it was Art). On top of the illegal bookcase, an illegal coffee machine bubbled away. Illegally.

They had been there for some time. Meaningful discussions had not taken place. Issues had not been resolved once and for all. A solution to their team breakdown had not been mooted, discussed and agreed. A possible way forwards had not been discovered.

The coffee machine gave a final roar. Matthew stood up, poured the coffee, placed a mug in front of each of his teammates and sat back down again. Three people sipped in silence.

‘Well,’ said Luke eventually. ‘Since no one’s going anywhere until we get this sorted, and since I’m the one with the most to regret, I suppose I’d better start the ball rolling.’

He turned to Jane, sitting with her back to the bottom-scratcher.

‘Jane, I apologise for the way I behaved. As you may be aware, I’m not too balanced on the subject of our friends the Portmans, and suddenly to discover you are one was rather a shock. However, that’s no excuse. And Matthew – I’m not sure what I might have said or done to upset you, but I’m sure I will have done something. This is me, after all. So, I apologise to you, too. If either of you feels you can’t accept my apologies, then I think everything ends officially here and now and we inform the major accordingly. And even if you feel you can accept them, then we still need to discuss whether we can continue to work together. As a team, I mean. I’m not sure what would happen next, but I think if we went to Ellis and said the situation was irretrievable then they’d reallocate us. Jane, I’m certain that Two-Three-Five would welcome you with open arms. And Matthew could divide his time between the Time Map and assisting Mikey in her underground bunker. I don’t think any of that would be a problem.’

Jane looked at him. ‘What about you? Where would you work?’

‘Oh, I think it’s a given that no one will want me here. And I’m not sure I’d want to work with anyone who would have me. Relations with my dad are better – he’d find me a job if I asked – although I’m not sure I would. Ask, I mean. I might strike out on my own for a bit. See where that takes me.’

He sipped his coffee.

‘What you’re saying,’ said Matthew, ‘is that if we break up the team then you’ll have nowhere to go.’

‘Matthew, my dad’s one of the richest people on the planet – I’m not going to starve. Besides, he’ll be plotting his revenge against the Portmans for kidnapping him. He might need me to give him a hand with that. Which I’ll be very happy to do.’

Matthew looked across at Jane. ‘Jane – how would you feel about applying to join Two-Three-Five?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jane slowly. ‘I’m sorry – I’m still a bit thrown by everything. The death of my grandmother. And the other things about my parents – who they were and how they died. A lot has happened recently and I still don’t know how I feel about some of it.’

‘Then you should consult me,’ said Luke. ‘I am still your team leader, after all. It’s my job to advise on personal problems. And even if we do decide to go our separate ways, as the one outside the team, I’ll be able to provide a valuable perspective. You see – as always, I’m the important one around here.’

Jane had to smile.

Matthew, who had been watching Luke carefully, said, ‘Never mind us, Luke. What do you want?’

Luke paused. What did he want? His life had changed irrevocably. And so had he. He had a greater insight into the burdens carried by his father. He’d rediscovered his mother and that was another relationship to be built and cherished. Then there was Imogen Farnborough. Kidnapped and abused by the Portmans – for which they would pay. Heavily. She was sick, broken-down, fearful – if he left the Time Police, he could spend some time with her. He missed the old Immy, spitting fire at him. Yes, there was no doubt – if he left the Time Police – if he regarded this as a natural ending to his career – he could devote more time to Immy, to getting to know his mother properly, and possibly do something worthwhile with his life.

But he’d enjoyed his time at TPHQ. He had responsibility. A purpose. Somehow life here – difficult as it could frequently be – was more enjoyable than fast cars, faster women and very fast money. However – and he was the first to recognise this – he was Luke Parrish and, sooner or later, Luke Parrish always screwed up. Wrecked everything he touched. And not only his own life. He still couldn’t think about Orduroy Tannhauser, the man – well, boy, really – who had killed himself because of what he, Luke, had done. The guilt would never leave him. Nor should it, he supposed.

‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ said Matthew, who was still watching him.

Luke shook himself free of those thoughts. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a secret ballot. Yes if we want to continue in Two-Three-Six. No if we all fancy a bright, shiny new future. And if we want to keep the team together then it has to be unanimous. Two to one is no good. It has to be all of us. Agreed?’

They nodded.

‘Jane – bring forth your trusty notebook.’

Jane brought out her by now rather dog-eared notebook, carefully pulled out a page and tore it into three, passing one piece each to Matthew and Luke. They could only rustle up one pen between them so she carefully placed it in the centre of the table. They all looked at it.

‘Do we have to decide now?’ enquired Matthew.

‘I think so,’ said Luke. ‘Ellis said we can’t come out until we do. And it’s not like you to miss lunch, is it? But if you really want more time, I don’t see why not. We could send Jane out for some toast. You know, because she’s the girl on the team and catering is her responsibility.’

‘See that pen?’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘You know what to do, sweetie. Straight up his left nostril, through his sinuses and into his brain. All problems solved and you and Matthew can go off and have a nice lunch. Although you’ll probably need a new pen.’

‘Actually,’ said Wimpy Jane, timidly putting forwards her point of view. ‘I think Luke should stay. He talks about a fresh start outside the Time Police and he may mean it now, but I think once he’s back in his own world, the old Luke Parrish will soon come back and he knows it.’

‘The old Luke Parrish never went away,’ said Bolshy Jane bluntly. ‘And anyway, it’s not our job to sort his life out. Jane should do what is best for Jane. Not what’s best for him.’

Slowly, Matthew reached out, picked up the pen, made a mark on his paper, folded it up small and replaced the pen.

Slowly, without meeting anyone’s gaze, Luke reached out, picked up the pen, made a mark on his paper, folded it up small and replaced the pen.

They both looked at Jane.

‘No pressure then,’ said Bolshy Jane chattily.

Jane picked up the pen, made a mark on her paper, folded it up small and put the pen back in her pocket – because it was her pen, after all.

They regarded the three folded slips.

‘Shall I do the honours?’ said Luke.

They nodded.

He reached out, made the classic nothing up my sleeve gesture, unfolded the nearest scrap and smoothed it out. ‘I’m assuming Y is for yes.’

Matthew nodded.

Luke sighed. ‘This was supposed to be anonymous.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Matthew. ‘You know that wasn’t your vote. Jane knows it wasn’t hers. That only leaves me. Get a move on. I want my lunch.’

Luke unfolded the second slip and laid it face up on the table.

Yes.

‘Well, that one was mine,’ he said, ‘so it’s all on you, Jane. Does the team continue or not?’

He reached for the third slip.

And then the fire alarm went off.

Commander Hay, meanwhile, had been grappling with her regular Friday meeting with the Time Police’s civilian consultant, Miss Meiklejohn. Or Mikey, as some people knew her. Or the former illegal, as most officers still regarded her.

Captain Farenden had disappeared to begin the arrangements for Lt Filbert’s service, so Commander Hay was on her own.

Mikey swung in through the door clutching files, scratchpads, data cubes, data sticks and sundry pieces of paper. ‘Hello there. Where’s Cheerful Charlie?’

‘Captain Farenden is otherwise engaged at the moment. Please sit down.’

Mikey sat and began to arrange her files and so forth on Commander Hay’s desk.

‘Well – I’ve made excellent progress in some areas and not so much in others. Where would you like me to start?’

Commander Hay closed her file, clasped her hands attentively and mentally braced herself. ‘Wherever you like.’

‘OK. Well – the toilet’s stopped regurgitating stuff.’

‘This is the facility you are developing for use in the pods?’

‘Yes – obviously there are times when you don’t particularly want to pop outside to do the biz. You know – battles, weather, wild animals, whatever – and so . . .’

‘You said regurgitating?’

‘Yes. Quite vigorously in some cases. Sometimes the throughput is not as . . . through . . .’ she made appropriate gestures, ‘as I could wish, and the pressure builds up with sometimes unfortunate results. I suspect I may have to take a look at the composition of our compo rations. I know they’re supposed to have a binding effect, but I think we might have slightly overdone it and the result is sometimes too . . . stodgy . . . for optimum progress. I’m considering experimenting with the amount of binding material in the recipes. You know – aiming for throughput with a slightly more . . . sloppy constituency. Less solid, anyway. Although I’d have to be very precise. There’s a very fine line between malleable and . . . runny. We don’t want runny TPOs, do we?’

She appeared to think deeply. ‘I wonder what would happen if I bypassed all that and addressed the problem at the other end – so to speak. Suppose I ignored the solid factor altogether and introduced some sort of built-in macerator. To the equipment, obviously, not the personnel. The downside is that those things can be very dodgy sometimes and then it really would be a case of the effluent hitting the fan, wouldn’t it? I wonder if the St Mary’s approach might not be the best after all. Chemical breakdown, I mean. Although given the volatility of the individual components – methane plus blasters plus Time Police plus chemicals – even I feel we could be asking for trouble there.’

Mikey regarded Commander Hay and tilted her head to one side. ‘How would you feel about some sort of shrink-wrapping device? You know – like on spaceships. You sit down, do the biz, press a button, and something shrink-wrapped shoots out the other end. And then at the end of the mission, it’s all just brought back and hygienically disposed of. Actually, I think that might well be the way to go. Leave it with me, Commander.’

‘Happily,’ said Hay drily. She began to stack her papers neatly – a triumph of optimism over experience. Neither Mikey nor her sibling Adrian had ever demonstrated the slightest ability to take a hint.

‘The one thing that is going well,’ continued Mikey, ‘is the rapidly hardening string I’ve been working on.’

‘Rapidly hardening . . .’

‘Yes. I’m really going to have to come up with a better name than that, of course. Perhaps we could have a competition. You know . . . with a small prize. Make everyone feel included. Management thinking is very big on inclusivity these days. Anyway. Yes. At the moment you point and squirt – I’m talking about the string now – not . . . not the other thing, you understand – and it takes a while for the string to set. Especially if your victim is still moving. People are always complaining their target has escaped because of that. Now, however, I’ve jiggled the chemical components and I’m rather optimistic. Tests so far demonstrate a much faster hardening time. I’ve got it down to only about five seconds. Don’t think I want it any faster, otherwise it’ll be hardening while it’s still in the can, which won’t do at all, will it?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Yes, properly deployed, the victim—’

‘Person of interest . . .’ murmured Commander Hay.

‘. . . will crash to the ground, legs, arms and torso cocooned in a rigid web of string, secure and utterly helpless and waiting to be collected at an officer’s convenience.’

Something had been nagging at the back of Commander Hay’s mind. ‘You mentioned tests?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry – everyone volunteered. There’s quite a bit of enthusiasm for rapidly hardening string – I wonder if we could call it RHS – although people might confuse us with the Royal Horticultural Thingummy, mightn’t they, and I know we’re working on our image, but . . . no, not RHS. Anyway, a number of officers are participating, and don’t worry, we chose a quiet spot – the corridor between the Batcave, security and the Pod Bay – no one ever uses it but me. The idea was that the volunteers would act out the part of fleeing suspects. They’d run quickly or slowly or dodge about or whatever they felt like and I’d string them. Either close up or from a distance, and we’d see for how long they’d be immobile. They were to do their best to break free, of course. Oh – and something that occurred to me during the course of the tests was the possibility of stringing them to something immobile. To decrease their chances of escape even further. So walls, doors, the floor. Some officers are freestanding, of course – well, free-lying would be more accurate, but you know what I mean – just to vary the conditions a little. The challenge is for them to escape before I get back.’

‘Wait,’ said Hay. ‘You left them there?’

‘Well, they’re not going anywhere, are they? Or rather, they weren’t, but now they should be. If you see what I mean. I’m betting they’ll all be free by the time I get back. Don’t worry – I’ll collate the results and write it all up for you.’ She beamed. ‘I think we might have a bit of a winner here. You could patent the formula and license it out. Nice little earner.’

‘These tests . . . who . . . ?’

‘Well, this is a project very dear to officers’ hearts, so I was rather inundated with volunteers. Curtis, Rockmeyer, Kelly from MedCen, Oti from Logistics, three or four others from the Pod Bay, and a couple from security whose names I don’t know. About a dozen altogether. It’s all looking very promising.’

‘I wonder if—’

The fire alarms went off.

Commander Hay stared accusingly at the Time Police’s one and only consultant.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Mikey indignantly. ‘I’m up here talking to you.’

The door opened. Captain Farenden stood on the threshold. ‘Your urgent attention is required . . .’

Commander Hay looked up. ‘No, no, it’s fine, Charlie. Everything’s fine. No need.’

Captain Farenden raised his voice to be heard over the clamour. ‘No, ma’am. With respect – it’s not you I want. Mikey – report to the Pod Bay. Now. The Senior Mech wants a more than quick word with you. Just a warning – he’s not a happy bunny.’

‘Shit.’ Mikey flew from the room.

The outer door to Charlie Farenden’s office opened, very briefly admitting sounds of shouting and running feet.

Hay was irritated. ‘What now? Why are people always shouting and screaming in the corridors? We’re supposed to be the bloody Time Police.’ She raised her voice to be heard over the alarm. ‘We endure. We have fortitude. We have grit.’

The alarms died, enabling Commander Hay to bellow into the sudden silence, ‘Some of us even have balls.’

One does not become an adjutant without developing superb facial control. And the ability to summon and maintain superb facial control at a second’s notice.

Captain Farenden coughed, once. ‘Would you like me to investigate?’

Hay sighed. ‘Does knowing what’s going on ever make me any happier?’

‘Not that I can discern, despite all my efforts to lighten your day with humorous little anecdotes.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘This will cheer you up, ma’am. Major Callen is here.’

There was a short silence. Commander Hay peered at Mikey’s abandoned files and cubes. ‘I suspect my meeting with Miss Meiklejohn has ended. Rather more abruptly than is conventional, but this is Miss Meiklejohn, after all. Could you gather up her stuff, please. I’m sure she’ll remember where she’s left it sooner or later.’ She raised her voice slightly. ‘And ask Major Callen if he would come in.’

Major Callen strode into the room. ‘Good day, Commander.’

Captain Farenden, his arms full of Mikey’s gear, paused. ‘Do you wish me to take notes, ma’am.’

‘No, thank you, Captain. Not for this meeting.’

Captain Farenden closed the door behind him.

‘Please sit down, Major.’

He sat. ‘Well, this is very encouraging, implying, as it does, that this meeting will actually last long enough to warrant me sitting down.’

Hay ignored this. ‘I understand Lt Filbert has died.’

‘I was actually on my way to inform you of that fact, Commander, but it appears the frighteningly efficient Captain Farenden has done so before I could get here.’

‘Of his injuries.’

‘So I have been informed.’

‘And did he die of his original wounds or of more recently acquired injuries?’

‘Your implication wounds me, Commander.’

‘Much the same as for Lt Filbert, I imagine.’

‘Allow me to put your mind at rest, Commander. Lt Filbert died of the serious injuries he sustained here in TPHQ. Frankly, I am not at all surprised. He had very little to live for and I suspect he simply gave up. This was a perfectly legitimate death.’

‘And where were you while Lt Filbert was legitimately dying?’

‘Legitimately in a meeting with my teams here at TPHQ. With at least fifteen witnesses. Probably considerably more, but I regret I neglected to call the roll. I can see what you are thinking, Commander, but I believe you are, in this instance, considerably overestimating my abilities. However, should you wish to promote the myth that I somehow achieved this death at a distance scenario, please do so. I feel it cannot do anything other than enhance my already stellar prestige.’ He smiled at her over her desk. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Not from me.’

‘Ah. Hardly worth my sitting down after all, was it?’ He stood up.

‘Dismissed, Major.’

‘Commander.’

He left the room.

Commander Hay took a moment to recover her composure. On reflection, it did seem likely that had Major Callen been involved in the death of the traitor Filbert then he would certainly have said so. She had never known him to be anything other than brutally honest. It would appear Filbert had legitimately died of his wounds. Given the extent of both his injuries and his crimes, this could be a merciful release for everyone.

Captain Farenden appeared bearing a mug of steaming coffee.

Hay surveyed this gift horse. ‘I am betting, Captain, that this is a precursor to yet more bad news.’

‘You may regard it as such, ma’am, but I was actually intending to regale you with yet another of my humorous anecdotes. To lighten your day.’

‘Will it increase my chances of making it to the weekend? Not that that will be any sort of relief. It’s Friday. All around the world, amateur pod builders will be leaving work to spend the weekend firing up their unstable contraptions, hell-bent on fracturing the Timeline in the most spectacular ways imaginable. I think I might take to drink.’

She sipped her coffee, closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘You’re still here, Charlie.’

‘With my humorous anecdote, ma’am. Although, if you’d rather not . . .’

‘You are, I feel sure, about to explain the inevitable link between Miss Meiklejohn’s current project and the alarms going off.’

‘I am.’

‘Are we on fire?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Is the building about to blow up?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Then why . . . ?’

‘Officer Curtis fell on the fire alarm, ma’am.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m going to regret this, I know, but how? And why? Not forgetting where?’

‘Just outside the Pod Bay, ma’am.’

‘The Pod Bay’s on fire?’

‘No, ma’am.’

Commander Hay regarded him shrewdly. ‘Was the Pod Bay on fire?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Then why did Officer Curtis feel it incumbent to . . . ?’

‘He fell over, ma’am.’

‘Over what?’

‘Nothing, ma’am. He lost his balance.’

‘Are they drinking down there? Why wasn’t I invited?’

‘No, ma’am. Well, they weren’t then – I don’t know about now. They might well be. Would you like me to ascertain . . . ?’

‘I would like you to tell me about Officer Curtis. In the Pod Bay. With the fire alarm.’ She paused. ‘I sound like Cluedo.’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I thought you knew.’

‘Why? How would I know? I’m all the way up here – they’re all the way down there.’

‘Your meeting. With Miss Meiklejohn. Didn’t she explain?’

‘She left at some speed. Let’s assume she hadn’t painted quite the full picture.’

‘Ah. Well, in that case, ma’am, your confusion is understandable. String.’

‘Is this her rapidly hardening string? Meiklejohn was saying they need a new name for it.’

‘I think, in future, ma’am, it will probably be referred to as that bastard bastarding stuff she did it on purpose I swear that fire-trucking troublemaker is out to murder us all.’

‘Can I take it there is a problem with Meiklejohn’s rapidly hardening string?’

‘Not at all, ma’am. The rapidly hardening string performs perfectly.’

‘Then why . . . ?’

‘Sadly its performance in the subsequent softening enough to be safely removed area is less than ideal.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘Yes. I regret to inform you that all the officers foolish enough to become embroiled in one of Miss Meiklejohn’s brilliant ideas will be unavailable for the foreseeable future.’

‘They’ve been stringed?’

‘Encased would be a more accurate description, ma’am. The experiment was carried out in the corridor outside Meiklejohn’s workshop. Her victims were instructed to attempt to escape while she chased after them, spraying them as they adopted a variety of different speeds, positions and so forth while she observed the results. The product worked perfectly every time. Her victims were almost instantaneously completely unable to move and the whole thing was judged a massive success. There were congratulations all round. Every officer reported they were completely incapacitated.’

‘Oh God, Charlie.’

‘I see you’re ahead of me, ma’am.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Over two hours, ma’am.’

‘And they’re still . . . ?’

‘Completely incapacitated, yes, but not quite so congratulatory as they were.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Indeed, ma’am. And to forestall your next question – Officer Curtis, slightly less stringed than his colleagues because the spray had run out before his part of the experiment had been completed, managed to hump his way down the corridor towards the Pod Bay, intending to summon assistance.’

‘Hump?’

‘Like a caterpillar, apparently. Anyway, arriving at the doors to the Pod Bay, he attempted, using the wall, to heave himself to an upright position.’

‘And failed.’

‘Spectacularly, ma’am. Not only did he manage to set off the fire alarm with his chin, causing consternation of the first order in the Pod Bay, but his subsequent fall dislodged the adjacent fire extinguisher, which very nearly crushed his skull.’

‘I am still at TPHQ, aren’t I? I haven’t suddenly found myself at St Mary’s?’

‘It gets worse.’

‘Of course it does.’

‘Racing to establish the location of the fire, the Senior Mech, followed by his team, burst through the doors and tripped over the prone Officer Curtis. He went down with quite a crash and his crew fell over him. It took some time for them to sort themselves out, but as soon as the Senior Mech was able to do so, he requested the immediate presence of Miss Meiklejohn in order that he could adequately convey to her his views on her ideas, her behaviour, her attitude, her experiments, and above all, her presence here in TPHQ. Miss Meiklejohn, appearing at exactly the wrong moment, apparently responded in a manner I can only describe as spirited and unconciliatory. The Senior Mech’s efforts to reach her were heroic, but fortunately, thanks to the massive efforts of everyone present, unsuccessful. She is currently being removed to a place of greater safety, ma’am.’

‘The Antipodes?’

‘Her workshop. Where she is attempting to address the problem of cocooned TPOs.’

‘Is anyone expecting me to do anything about any of this?’

‘I don’t think so, ma’am. A medical team was summoned and have professed themselves baffled. Work in the Pod Bay has been abandoned while the merits of various implements such as saws, pliers, drills, acid and so forth are being comprehensively discussed.’

‘Good. Lock the doors and turn out the lights, Charlie. We’ll let someone else sort it all out.’

‘As you wish, ma’am.’

His scratchpad bleeped.

Commander Hay picked up her coffee again. ‘Let’s hope nothing too serious kicks off in the meantime.’ She paused. ‘I wish I hadn’t just said that.’

* * *

Back in their office, meanwhile, Team 236 were hesitating over whether they should become involved in whatever was happening elsewhere, or do as they had been commanded to do, which was to stay put until their personal issues had been resolved.

The alarms stopped. Luke reached for the slip of paper again.

‘To continue—’

Major Ellis stuck his head round their door. ‘We have a slight problem.’

‘You can’t blame us for that,’ said Luke. ‘We haven’t left this office all morning.’

‘It’s shift change, and due to circumstances beyond our control, we appear to be suffering what I’m assured is a temporary shortage of officers, so I’m detailing you two . . .’ he pointed at Jane and Luke, ‘to the front desk this morning.’

‘What about me?’ enquired Matthew, who had absolutely no desire to go down to the front desk but felt slightly indignant at being excluded.

‘You are required to report to Miss Meiklejohn to assist her with a . . . technical issue. Don’t just sit there looking gormless, you three. Move.’

3

There’s a saying: Being a Time Police officer isn’t all shooting, shouting and shitting. A small part of every officer’s duties involves front-of-house sessions, when, much against their will and certainly against their better judgement, they are actually required to interact with the general public in a polite, helpful and, above all, non-lethal fashion. Not all officers, obviously – by the direct order of Commander Hay, a few officers were exempt from this particular task. Clean-up crews, for example. No one in their right mind would put a clean-up crew anywhere near members of the public. They probably didn’t actually eat children – not these days, anyway – and definitely not in public – but who wanted to take the chance?

As fully qualified officers, Jane and Luke were familiar with this non-shooting, shouting and shitting part of their duties, but given their current circumstances, a prudent duty officer took care to station them at opposite ends of the public area. Jane stared resolutely ahead, determined not to catch Luke’s eye, and gave her full attention to those presenting themselves at her desk.

There were five officers on reception duties that day, all approaching their task with varying degrees of unenthusiasm.

Officer Parrish was allocated the desk nearest the door. He had by far the longest queue in front of his station – mostly young women, but a few young men as well. A shortage of personnel – as already mentioned – had led to the next two desks being empty. Then came Officer Volkan, currently wrestling (not actually, although give it time) with a determined young lady demanding Officer Volkan verify the authenticity of what she persisted in referring to as the artefact. Shrewd questioning on the part of Officer Volkan had established she’d purchased the artefact from that well-known purveyor of genuine historical paraphernalia: a bloke in the pub last Friday.

In vain did Officer Volkan strive to point out that the bloke in the pub last Friday was unlikely to have access to . . . he paused at this point, holding out his hand for the box, in which, he was guessing, the artefact currently reposed. The woman, however, simply clutched the box more tightly than ever and loudly demanded he provide a certificate confirming the artefact’s legitimacy. Now. Right this moment. Rather in the way hurricanes develop in the Caribbean before unleashing themselves on a wider area, a scene was developing nicely.

Volkan held out his hand again. ‘Perhaps if I could inspect your artefact, madame, I could . . .’

He got no further. This polite request was met with the rejoinder that she knew his type and to keep his hands to himself.

Officer Volkan – whose first choice had been to shoot her, and who felt his restraint warranted at least a little gratitude – pointed out he could hardly issue a certificate if he had no idea of the artefact’s identity, could he?

Glancing surreptitiously over both shoulders in a manner that attracted the attention of everyone present, the young woman informed him the box held nothing less than – the hand mirror of Helen of Troy herself.

‘I’m sure it does, madame, but I still need to . . .’

Possibly in an effort to speed things along a little, he wrestled the box from her and tipped a small, mass-produced-in-China mirror – or the looking glass of Helen of Troy herself, if you like – on to the table.

With all eyes upon him, Officer Volkan kept his head and bethought himself of an old enemy. Assuming an expression of great cunning, he informed her that now he’d looked at the artefact more closely, it was definitely Helen of Troy’s very own hand mirror – how could he have been so blind? – and recommended she convey her treasure immediately to the British Museum and demand the personal attention of the Head Curator there, who was known to be an authority on just this type of artefact and would – after only a little gentle persuasion – pay top whack for it and no questions asked. He recommended persistence and a refusal to accept the word ‘no’ to ensure a happy outcome.

His customer barely waited for him to finish his sentence before grabbing the artefact from the suspiciously straight-faced Officer Volkan and departing the building at top speed.

On Officer Volkan’s left, Officer Mitchell was dealing with an earnest, middle-aged man convinced his spare bedroom was being used as a Time portal by sinister beings hell-bent on snatching him away to the future to become a sex slave to an unknown but voracious tribe of women based in Godalming who would remove all his clothing and . . .

At this point – and to the disappointment of all – the man dwindled into twitching and dribbling, from which only the words ‘insatiable’ and ‘rapacious’ were audible.

Next to Officer Mitchell sat Officer Wu from security, taking down details of a plot to turn the Isle of Wight into another Jurassic Park.

Officer Lockland sat at the end.

Possibly because no one could quite believe she was an officer in the Time Police, Jane’s queue was the shortest, which might have been why the woman chose her. Or, as Jane said afterwards, the poor woman had instinctively selected the most intelligent person present.

Whatever the reason, Jane looked up to see a weary, work-worn face with a nondescript hairstyle, careful but shabby clothes, and a worried expression.

‘Hello,’ said Jane. ‘How can I help? Would you like to sit down?’

Carefully, the woman sat, knees tightly together, clutching her bag on her lap.

‘I . . . um . . . I . . . I . . .’ She lapsed into silence.

Jane clasped her hands in front of her and tried to look encouraging. ‘Yes?’

Away on the other side of the atrium, a man’s voice was raised. Someone else joined in. Officers moved in before a scuffle could develop.

The woman had flinched at the noise. Now she looked over her shoulder. Jane recognised the signs. The woman was getting ready to run.

‘Sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘There’s something about this one. I think you should follow this through.’

For once, Jane found herself in complete agreement. ‘It’s very noisy in here, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Why don’t we find a nice interview room? It will be quieter in there. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Oh, but . . .’

‘And then you can tell me all about it, and if it turns out not to be something we’d be interested in, then you can enjoy your coffee and be on your way with no harm done.’

Jane paused, fingers crossed. The Time Police have a procedure for reluctant witnesses. The first stage being – don’t let them get away.

The woman said nothing but she didn’t run, either.

‘Number 3’s free,’ said Jane, folding her screen back into her desk and standing up. ‘Let’s go in there.’

Interview Room 3 was actually small, stuffy and slightly smelly, but, to Jane’s knowledge, no one had ever actually died in it and there was no dried blood splashed across the walls. No officer could ask for more.

They settled themselves again, Jane being careful to sit between her interviewee and the door. Because, as had been drilled into her during training – you never knew with the general public.

‘Now,’ she said, smiling. ‘How can I help you today?’

She was particularly proud of this phrase, implying, as it did, that there were many occasions on which Jane could be helpful, but today was special.

‘Well, I don’t really know . . .’ The woman trailed away, still clutching her bag as if her life depended upon it. Jane wondered if it contained something important.

‘Why don’t we start with your name. I’m Officer Lockland. What shall I call you?’

‘Nora. Nora . . .’ She stopped, unwilling to give her surname, perhaps.

Jane pretended not to notice – or that it was important, although she had only to press a button under the desk and someone from IT would download Interview Room 3’s camera footage, run it through facial recognition and flash Nora’s name and details to her scratchpad within minutes. Probably even less. Rumour had it that the highly competitive IT section timed themselves on this sort of thing and the winner won the right to call themself Wonder of the Week and, more importantly, claim two free drinks in the bar on Friday evenings.

For the moment, however, Jane was content to let it go.

She smiled again. ‘So, Nora – how can we help you?’

Nora swallowed. ‘Well . . . I . . . um . . .’

Jane waited.

‘My son . . . and his friend . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well . . .’ She trailed away again into silence.

‘Sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘You’re going to have to speed things up a bit or we’ll still be here at Christmas.’

‘Are they about to do something you think we might be interested in?’ enquired Jane helpfully. ‘Would it help to know that if they haven’t actually done it yet, then the Time Police often take a very lenient view?’

Such leniency usually consisted of commuting a death sentence to life imprisonment, but there are times and places for conveying such information and this wasn’t any of them.

‘They’ve already done it,’ blurted Nora.

‘All right,’ said Jane. ‘Still not necessarily a disaster. Tell me what they’ve done and I’ll see how I can help.’

As a TPO, the only thing she would be able to do for Nora’s son and his unfortunate friend would be to come down on them like a ton of bricks, but once again – this was not the time or place.

Nora was pulling a tissue from her bag, apparently unable to continue. Another officer might, at this point, send for someone more versed in wresting information from unwilling victims – Varma from security, perhaps – but Jane was a big believer in carrots rather than sticks.

‘Here’s a thought,’ she said. ‘Let’s start with the easy stuff and work up. Give me your address.’

Nora hesitated and then passed over her citizen’s ID. Jane flashed it over the reader, which beeped reassuringly. It was genuine. Should it become necessary, she would now be able to access everything she needed to know about Nora. The fact that Nora had handed over her card was leading Jane to think that either the matter about which Nora had come in today was very trivial . . . or very, very serious indeed. Given the state of her, Jane was coming to the conclusion it was the latter. Grassing up your own son is not done lightly. Not by people like Nora.

‘He’s always been interested in trains,’ she said.

‘Your son?’

‘Yes. And his friend.’

Jane didn’t bother with their names. They could easily be discovered. The flow of Nora’s information was more important.

‘They like trains. Not the modern ones – the old ones.’

Jane nodded as if fascinated. ‘How old?’

‘Oh, very old. The steam ones.’

‘Gosh,’ said Jane. Possibly the last person on the planet who still said gosh. ‘That is old.’

Nora nodded. ‘Anyway, they thought . . . Dev – his friend . . . a clever boy . . .’ She played with the catch on her handbag. ‘They, um . . . they . . .’

Jane leaned forwards. ‘Perhaps I can help. Have they perhaps built a . . . device that would enable them to . . . view these old trains at first hand?’

Nora dropped her eyes and nodded.

‘Well,’ said Jane. ‘Enterprising but illegal. However, if we can intervene before . . .’

‘That’s just it,’ said Nora, staring down at the table. ‘It’s too late. They’ve already . . . He left me a note. And they haven’t come back.’

Not returning safely was the most common end for amateurs building their own pod. Any number of things could go horribly wrong. And frequently did. Jane sighed for Nora.

‘Did you bring the note with you?’

Nora nodded and rummaged again in her bag, finally pulling out a single sheet torn from what looked like an old school exercise book. She passed it over.

Jane unfolded the note and read.

Then she read it again.

Then she looked across the table to Nora. Tears were running down her cheeks.

‘Nora, you understand what I must do.’

Nora nodded. ‘I do, but I had hoped . . . They’re both very young.’

Jane said softly, ‘I am sorry.’

Nora nodded again. ‘I just want them to be safe.’

‘That’s very understandable,’ said Jane gently. ‘Let me get you some more coffee. I shan’t be a moment.’

She left Nora blowing her nose and made her way back into the noisy atrium, heading straight for Luke.

He looked up, surprised. She indicated he should follow her back to Interview Room 3. Once outside the door, he scowled at her.

‘What do you want, Jane? I was just in the middle of ascertaining some very private details with a view to a future follow-up visit. Apparently the young lady likes a good time and I’m just the person to give it to her.’

Jane regarded him with complete bewilderment. ‘What about your blonde in Logistics? Or even your brunette from Logistics?’

He appeared genuinely confused. ‘What about them?’

‘Don’t you ever feel . . . oh, I don’t know . . . any pangs of conscience?’

‘Of course not. Look at me, Jane.’ He indicated his handsome self. ‘Don’t you think it’s my duty to spread this around as much as possible? For the benefit of all womankind, of course.’

‘Can we get back to the job in hand, please?’

‘Which is?’

‘Nora.’ She jerked her head at the closed door. ‘I think we might have something serious here. Her son and his friend have done something stupid and I think I need to pass this up the chain. Can you stay with her for a moment?’

His eyes brightened. ‘Nora, eh?’

‘She’s middle-aged, she’s terrified, she’s grassing up her son and his friend, and she’ll be out of the door given half a chance. Just sit with her and be reassuring.’

‘I can do so much more than that.’

‘Seriously, this is an occasion for Nice Luke – which I know you can do – rather than Smart Arse Luke – which I also know you can do.’

He reached for the door handle. ‘Leave it with me, Jane.’

‘If she talks, then listen. Don’t try to force anything.’

‘Jane, I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘Jury’s still out on that one, Parrish.’

‘Speaking of which, we never found out how you voted, did we? Yes? Or no?’

‘Just keep an eye on Nora, please.’

She turned away and opened her com. ‘Major Ellis, sir?’

‘Lockland? What’s the problem?’

‘Sir, I’m on the front desk and wonder if you could join me in Interview Room 3, please.’

‘Something useful?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Secure your source. I’m on my way.’

Jane used the time to call up Lt North in the Records section who promised to forward the info to her scratchpad asap. She was just shutting down her com when Ellis arrived. ‘What have we got, Lockland?’

‘Nora Adesina, sir. Her son and his friend appear to have built themselves a pod, which, for once, doesn’t seem to have blown up and taken out the immediate neighbourhood. Which, considering what they’re up to, might have been a good thing.’

Ellis raised an eyebrow. ‘An unusually bloodthirsty point of view for you, Lockland.’

‘Well, sir, the thing is . . . these two are trainspotters.’

‘Sad, but not punishable by death, Lockland. Strive for more tolerance.’

‘According to the informant, they’ve built a pod and jumped back to check out an old steam locomotive.’

‘Ah. As you were on the death sentence. Get the details and pass it on to the duty teams. As soon as we have a duty team, of course. One of them will sort it out.’

‘Actually, sir . . .’ Jane passed over Nora’s piece of paper.

Ellis read the note and frowned. ‘This rings a faint bell.’

‘It does, sir, doesn’t it? I’ve asked Lt North if she can provide any more details. She’s flashing them to my scratchpad. In fact . . .’

She pulled out her scratchpad and scrolled down the screen.

Ellis frowned. ‘Well?’

‘Bad news, I’m afraid, sir.’ She passed it over.

Ellis read and then sighed deeply. ‘This has all the makings of a complete shitstorm.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Stick around, Lockland. This is likely to get emotional.’

‘She’s very nervous, sir.’

‘She has every right to be, but I take your point. You continue with the interview. I’ll just sit in at this stage. Who’s in with her now?’

‘Parrish, sir. Under strict instructions not to hit on her.’

‘Did you get her details?’

‘I ran her citizen’s ID, sir. Nora Adesina. Age forty-seven. Lives with her son, Jay, aged fifteen. North London. Holds down several part-time jobs. Occasionally lets out her spare room to make ends meet.’

Ellis opened the door. ‘Parrish.’

Luke stood up and crossed to the door.

Ellis lowered his voice. ‘Get yourself to the duty officer. I want a team round to Nora’s address as soon as he can manage it. Thorough search. They know what to look for. They’re to follow up with friends, relatives, places of work and so forth. All the usual stuff. Report back to me.’

Luke nodded. Ellis suppressed the familiar desire to slap him. ‘The correct response is, “Yes, sir.”’

Luke nodded again and set off down the corridor.

Ellis turned back. ‘All right, Lockland. Let’s see what Nora has to say for herself, shall we? You take the lead on this – I’ll observe.’

Time crimes aside, Jane couldn’t help wishing all witnesses were like Nora. The words didn’t exactly tumble out, but Jane persevered and Ellis remained silent. That this made Nora nervous was very apparent. She stumbled over her words occasionally and there were many more tears, but the facts were fairly straightforward.

Ms Adesina took in lodgers. Some had been good – some bad. When her last one left without even giving notice, her son Jay had asked her to take in his long-time friend, Dev. Dev Kumar. The two of them had been inseparable all through school. Both were clever boys – Jay had won prizes for maths – he still did – and Dev for science. Nora was very insistent the Time Police should know they were good boys. They’d never been in any sort of trouble before, and now this. If it hadn’t been for the note they’d left, she wouldn’t have believed it.

No, she didn’t know about the pod or where or how they could possibly have built such a thing. Because they were good boys. Dev paid his rent on time – well, his parents did. And he kept his room tidy – mostly. There must surely be some mistake. She was convinced they would return at any moment with a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Except, as Jane gently pointed out – they hadn’t returned. They had expected to be back home within a few hours and were now more than two days overdue. Something had obviously gone wrong – probably nothing serious, she added, as the tears began to fall again – but the Time Police would rescue the boys and bring them back safely, and every detail Nora could possibly remember would be very helpful. Jane took good care to minimise the seriousness of the charge as much as she could, using the word rescue as often as possible. The word arrest would appear later, shortly to be followed by the words trial and sentence.

Jane handed Nora another cup of coffee and a little pack of tissues. She was never particularly comfortable with this style of interrogation. The part where they pretended to be the interviewee’s friend, and nothing was ever said about the consequences of their crimes to the perpetrators. Especially the aftermath. She wondered if Nora had any idea of what would happen next. Or even that she herself would probably be under arrest before the day was out. She smiled professionally and told Nora to drink her coffee while it was still hot.

Leaving their witness alternately mopping and sipping, Jane and Ellis stood in the corridor outside and discussed their next action.

‘Our problem, Lockland, is that large numbers of our colleagues are already out on various assignments and of those remaining, most appear, for the time being anyway, to be . . .’

‘Tied up,’ said Jane brightly and then wished she hadn’t.

‘Good one, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane.

Ellis frowned at the floor. ‘Your team – are you functioning?’

‘As far as I know, sir. We were still discussing things when we were interrupted by the alarm.’

‘Can you all work together? Truthfully, Lockland. This is too serious to mess up.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane, crossing her fingers behind her back. No one had said otherwise. Not out loud, anyway.

‘Right. You and Farrell – and Parrish when the duty officer has finished with him – wait for me in my office. I’m off to speak to Hay. I’ll get Varma to send someone to babysit Nora. I don’t think any useful purpose will be served by hauling her off to security at this stage.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She moved away, only to encounter Lt Grint on his way to the lift for purposes of his own.

‘Lockland.’

‘Sir.’

They nodded at each other and entered the lift.

After a moment’s awkward silence, during which Grint was obviously working himself up to say something, he paused the lift between floors and said, ‘Jane, you’ve had a chance to think about what happened to your grandmother now, haven’t you?’

‘I have, sir, although I still can’t quite believe . . .’

‘That she’s dead.’

It came out more brutally than he had intended. He stared down at his feet. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s all right. I know she can’t hurt me any longer.’

‘No, she can’t, but that isn’t what I wanted to say.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know if you’ve considered this, but you must be your grandmother’s sole heir.’

Jane looked up, startled. ‘We don’t know that.’

‘I think we do. For no better reason than if there was any other living relative on her side of the family, then you would have lived with them.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane, in a very small voice. ‘Yes. I see.’

‘No – the point I’m trying to make is that as sole heir, you might suddenly find yourself quite well off. There’s the house . . . and it’s very likely she would have more than a little tucked away somewhere. Several somewheres, I suspect.’

‘I don’t want it,’ cried Jane vehemently. ‘I don’t want any of it.’

‘Well, that’s up to you, of course, but if she did leave everything to you, then there’s not a lot you can do about it. I mean, you can give it all away, but it does still have to come to you in the first place.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane.

‘And don’t be in too much of a hurry to make that decision. It might be that your life is about to open up. You could buy nice things. Books. Travel.’ He paused and stared with massive concentration at the unmoving floor indicator. ‘Leave the Time Police.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane again. A thought struck her. ‘What are you saying? Do you think I should leave? Is that why we’re having this conversation?’

‘No,’ said Grint woodenly, hiding his sudden panic behind a stolid front. ‘What I’m saying is to take some advice before making any life-changing decisions. Talk to people. North, Ellis – even Hay. I’d say your teammates as well, but they’re both idiots in their own separate ways. And no – I don’t want you to leave the Time Police.’

Jane’s heart began to thump. ‘Why not?’

Grint shifted slightly to stare over her shoulder. ‘Because then I’d have to leave too and I don’t know how to do anything else.’

Before Jane could say anything, he started the lift again. When the doors pinged open, he walked away.

‘Close your mouth, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane.

Hay peered at Nora’s note, lying on her blotter. ‘It was only a matter of time, I suppose, Major. No pun intended.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Who will you send?’

‘For the public interface – Lockland and Parrish, I think. Neither of them looks like a TPO. Farrell can go with Two-Three-Five.’

She frowned up at him.

‘I know what you’re thinking, ma’am, but Lockland assures me there won’t be an issue.’

‘And Parrish?’

‘There’s always an issue with Parrish, ma’am. We’ve learned to ignore it.’

‘Back-up?’

‘Grint will lead Team Two-Three-Five, ma’am. If they’re available, of course, and not among those Araldited to a wall downstairs.’

‘Send whoever you can get. In the meantime, I will address Miss Meiklejohn on the subject of freeing up – literally – additional personnel as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Before you go, Major, some news has just come in. Lt Filbert is dead.’

Ellis stiffened and stared at her. ‘Was Major Callen involved in any way, ma’am?’

‘No, thank God. Filbert died of his wounds, apparently. There will be a memorial service. Captain Farenden is making all the arrangements.’

He nodded. ‘Understood, ma’am.’

4

The briefing took place in Major Ellis’s office, although, as a straight-faced Lt North pointed out, the major’s presence wasn’t strictly necessary and wouldn’t his time be better spent ascertaining exactly how to free the vast numbers of his unfortunate colleagues still glued to the fixtures and fittings downstairs?

Major Ellis, having a fair idea of what was happening under their feet at this very moment, would have attended any briefing, anywhere, on any subject under the sun rather than become involved in the current insanity outside the Pod Bay. He responded with dignity.

‘Given your – I’m sure undeserved – reputation for gunning down anyone who dares argue with you, Lieutenant, I am here to ensure this briefing is conducted in strict accordance with Time Police regulations and best practice.’

She made a rude noise. ‘In that case, sir, I’ll let you open, and hold myself in reserve should things become difficult.’

Ellis regarded the number of files under her arm with some misgivings. ‘Do I gather this could be quite a long briefing?’

She was busy arranging her material. ‘Very probably. There’s a lot to get through.’

He grinned. ‘You might have some problems keeping them engaged for that length of time. They’re TPOs, you know. Attention span shorter than . . .’

He paused, racking his brains for an example.

North grinned at him. ‘Forgotten what you were going to say, sir?’

The door opened and what Major Ellis would always describe as North’s victims filed in. Teams 235 and 236, Lt Grint, and Miss Meiklejohn – whose presence was unnecessary to the briefing but whose absence from another part of the building had been deemed essential to allow the Senior Mech to recover his composure.

Ellis opened the briefing.

‘Firstly, I’d like to acknowledge the efforts of Officer Lockland here, who took the time and trouble to reassure a nervous witness, and without whose patience we probably wouldn’t have been made aware of this situation until far too late. Good work, Lockland.’

Jane’s face flamed red with pride.

‘Oh, sweetie,’ sighed Bolshy Jane. ‘You have so got to stop doing that.’

Ellis continued. ‘Earlier today, a Ms Adesina . . .’ he flashed her citizen’s ID up on the screen, ‘laid information regarding her son, Jay Adesina, and his friend and their lodger, Devan Kumar.’

Images of two of what the Time Police would refer to as youths appeared.

‘How old are they?’ demanded Luke.

‘Fifteen and very nearly sixteen. Old enough to be legally responsible for their actions. They’re quiet, well behaved, they generally like to stay at home and do not, apparently, enjoy a great deal of popularity with either sex. I think we’re all familiar with the type. Both boys are gifted in the fields of science and mathematics. As if this wasn’t bad enough, they also enjoy an interest in trains. Old-fashioned steam locomotives, mostly. This lethal combination of geekery and nerdery has led them to build some sort of pod – we have no idea how or where, although other teams are covering that end of the investigation – and jump back to witness a specific event. An event from which they have not returned.’

A groan went up.

‘Trainspotters,’ said someone. ‘Can’t we just leave them there?’

‘Unfortunately that is not possible since, despite your objections, this is exactly the sort of misdemeanour that falls under our remit.’

‘Time-travelling trainspotters,’ said Luke. ‘Could they be more uncool? No wonder they don’t have any sort of social life.’

Ellis continued. ‘Sadly, lack of cool does not render them exempt from Time Police attention, Parrish. However, given their age and lack of experience, we’re hoping this will be a simple extraction – locate, retrieve, return – followed by a clean-up crew to deal with their pod. Again, thanks to Lockland, we have a specific date, Time and place.’

‘Really?’ said Hansen, twisting to look at Jane. ‘How on earth did we manage that?’

Jane looked up from her notebook. ‘Jay left a note for his mum to tell her where they’d gone.’

Another groan. It was very possible there hadn’t been this lack of enthusiasm for a mission since Team 235 had been despatched to bring in Jane’s grandmother.

‘Even more stupid than the usual illegal,’ said Luke. ‘Seriously, can’t we just increase the intelligence levels of this century by leaving them where they are?’

Ellis ignored all that, pointing to the screen.

‘Rome. The fourteenth of July, 1911. The launch of a new train. Bands, balloons, festivities, illegals. Coordinates have been flashed to your scratchpads. Parrish and Lockland will approach and apprehend the two suspects. Nothing Ms Adesina has said leads us to suppose they have violent tendencies. In fact, she had quite a lot to say on their lack of energy and the difficulties of shifting them out of bed in the mornings.’

He paused. ‘Because you’ll be in a crowded environment and interacting with possibly large numbers of contemporaries, you’ll be dressed appropriately.’

Luke groaned. ‘Stiff collars and hairy suits.’

Jane turned to Luke. ‘I’ll swap your stiff collar and hairy suit for a stupid hat and long skirts. And possibly a corset.’

Luke was inclined to argue. ‘Why us?’

‘Because,’ Ellis replied, ‘despite the best efforts of everyone who has ever come into contact with you, neither of you look or act like Time Police officers. It’s your own fault.’

He addressed the room. ‘Everyone else – not you, Meiklejohn – will scour the area for the pod in question. We have no idea what it will look like, but the chances are it’ll be trailing radiation like a banner, so if your gums suddenly start to bleed and your liver turns black, then you’re probably standing next to it.’

Luke opened his mouth.

‘Anticipating your question, Officer Parrish, Miss Meiklejohn will be remaining at TPHQ to undertake other duties.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is imperative we return to what is laughingly known as full operational strength as soon as possible.’

‘No, I mean, why are we bothering with this?’

The Time Police are an efficient and disciplined force. They do not have mutinies. That does not, however, stop them complaining. Lockland was still politely attentive and Mikey was staring into space and almost certainly thinking of something else – how to free up a significant number of officers from what was unkindly being referred to as their larval state, or so Ellis hoped – Lt Grint was frowning and Team 235 were waiting to see where Parrish was going with this.

Ellis looked across at North, who was wearing her would you like me to shoot them now? face, and sighed. Time to motivate the troops.

‘Because this situation is not quite as straightforward as you might imagine, so I suggest you shut up and listen. Lt North, if you would, please.’

Very carefully not catching Ellis’s eye, North stood up and moved to the front of the briefing room.

‘I’m assuming not all of you have heard of the Zanetti Train?’

She surveyed their blank faces. ‘Have any of you heard of the Zanetti Train?’

With the exception of Jane, everyone shook their heads. ‘All right – listen up.’

Luke sighed loudly.

‘In 1911, an Italian railway company named Zanetti unveiled their newest route – a passenger service running from Rome to Milan.’ She brought up a map. ‘The route passed through Lazio, Umbria, Tuscany, Emilia-Romagna and into Lombardy. To gain maximum publicity and because the route journeyed through some very spectacular scenery, the company wanted to make a bit of a splash, so they put on a special train and invited members of the local aristocracy, municipal bigwigs and senior members of the Zanetti company along for the trip.

‘The train comprised a steam locomotive, its tender, and three luxury carriages. There were one hundred passengers, together with a standard crew – driver, firemen, guards and so forth. The Zanetti Train pulled out of Rome . . .’ She paused. ‘. . . and it, together with its crew and passengers, vanished off the face of the earth.’

Attention levels spiked suddenly.

‘I do enjoy her briefings,’ whispered Luke to Matthew and Jane. ‘There’s always the added bonus of never knowing who she’ll shoot next.’

‘With luck it will be you,’ muttered Matthew. Jane was still assiduously scribbling in her trusty notebook.

North forged on. ‘According to records, the Zanetti Train departed Rome on its maiden voyage. At no point on the route did anything untoward occur until, somewhere between Emilia and Lombardy . . .’ she pointed at the map, ‘the train entered the one-kilometre-long Lombardy Tunnel. A group of sightseers were waiting at the entrance, hoping for a glimpse of this new train. According to accounts, they waved and cheered as it passed them. Presumably the passengers waved back. The train entered the tunnel . . . and was never seen again.’

‘Never?’ enquired Hansen. ‘Really?’

‘Well, that’s not strictly true – it was seen in medieval Modena, five hundred years before 1911. And in 19th-century Mexico City, seventy years before it set out from Rome. And several times in 20th-century Russia and Ukraine, forty years after it left Rome. In fact, all over the Time and place.’ She paused and then said blandly, ‘Even though all witnesses swear blind it never left the tunnel.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Rossi, sitting up in excitement. ‘A Time Tunnel. An actual Time Tunnel.’

North ignored him. ‘A similar group of spectators had assembled at the tunnel exit and every single one of them was adamant that the train never emerged. The train entered the tunnel but never came out.’

Hansen raised his hand. ‘A stupid question, I suspect, but could it have crashed? In the tunnel?’

‘No. Obviously when the train didn’t come out the other side, where another group of spectators had gathered to see it, the authorities mounted a frantic search. The train was not in the tunnel. There were no other exits, no branch lines, the walls and roof were of solid rock – not even a ventilation shaft. There was nowhere it could have gone. There was no debris, no damage to the tracks. Everything was exactly as it should be – except for the complete disappearance of the train and its one hundred and four occupants.’

‘One hundred and six, surely,’ said Socko, consulting his notes on his scratchpad. ‘One hundred passengers, one driver, two firemen, three guards.’

‘No. Just before it entered the tunnel, two people jumped from the moving train.’

There was a buzz of excited conversation, from which emerged Officer Parrish’s voice.

‘Why? Why did they jump?’

‘A very good question. No one knows the details. The two jumpers were, obviously, extremely shocked when they were picked up. One of them, when he was well enough to speak, told of a strange hum—’

‘Oh my God,’ said Mikey, suddenly awake and taking notice. ‘The Taos Hum.’

‘No.’

‘Because that would be so cool.’

‘No.’

‘Because if it was—’

‘NOT the Taos Hum,’ said North, somewhat testily.

Time Police officers do not flinch but it would be fair to say the entire front row twitched in unison. Lt North enjoyed a reputation for using gunfire as a teaching aid.

Somewhat more calmly, she continued. ‘The witness spoke of a strange humming noise – that wasn’t the Taos Hum – and a white fog seemingly emerging from the tunnel mouth and wrapping itself around the train as it entered.’

‘What of the other witness who jumped? What did he have to say?’

‘There are no records of his or her statement.’

‘Sounds like a tasty temporal event to me,’ said Hansen happily. ‘This should be exciting.’

‘Alas,’ said North, ‘not in this case. This supposedly “tasty temporal event” is not our main purpose today. We will be there to apprehend two illegals at the station in Rome and return them to TPHQ for interrogation and punishment. The Zanetti Train is not our target. Devan Kumar and Jay Adesina are.’

There was a chorus of protest. Ellis rose to his feet.

‘Your enthusiasm is appreciated, ladies and gentlemen, but not this time. None of the passengers were ever seen again and, strange though it may seem, we don’t want that happening to any of you. The Time Police have invested a great deal of time, effort and expense to bring you all to the peak of . . . whatever you all are . . . and does not particularly want to see it all swept away in a swirl of humming fog. NOT the Taos Hum,’ he added quickly as Mikey opened her mouth again.

‘But what happened to the train, then?’ asked Luke. ‘You said it was seen again on different occasions and at different locations.’

North nodded. ‘I did and it was. It’s quite interesting actually. No trace of the train was ever found. However . . .’ She paused again, ostensibly tidying her notes away.

‘Yes?’ said Rossi eagerly.

‘Ten years after the train’s disappearance, a relative of one of the passengers came across a strange report among the medieval chronicles of a monastery in Modena. This account told of a satanic black chariot erupting out of the night, belching black smoke as it came, and followed by three lesser chariots. To the monks’ horror, two devils, clothed and cloaked in black, emerged from the smoke. Fortunately, strong doors and stronger prayers kept these servants of Satan at bay.’

‘Phew,’ said Luke.

‘Actually, that’s quite worrying,’ said Jane, frowning. ‘Black clothes and cloaks?’

North shook her head. ‘Since no one will be going anywhere near either the Zanetti Train or the monastery in Modena, this is not something we will need to worry about. Is it, ladies and gentlemen?’

‘Is it possible to check out those records?’ said Matthew.

‘The manuscript was destroyed in the Messina earthquake,’ said North.

‘Shame,’ said Luke.

‘Um . . . what happened next?’ enquired Jane. ‘To the train, I mean.’

‘In 1992 a Ukrainian newspaper, the Gloria di Sevastopol, published an account of a train and three ghostly carriages appearing suddenly out of nowhere. The cab was empty of driver and firemen and all the curtains in the carriages were drawn. The carriage doors were wide open, though, and swinging in the wind as the train rushed by.’

‘Cool,’ said Hansen with great enthusiasm.

‘Indeed,’ said North. ‘And it would be even more cool if there was evidence any such newspaper entitled the Gloria di Sevastopol had ever existed.’

‘Oh. Any other reported sightings?’

‘Oh yes. According to the villagers of Zavalichi, a train has appeared in their vicinity several times. A certain Vasily Leshchaty from the somewhat nebulous Ukrainian Academy of Sciences undertook to study this phenomenon. It was he who suggested this might be the missing Zanetti Train.’

‘Why are we wasting time on two delinquents when we could be chasing a ghost train through Time and space?’ demanded Luke.

There was enthusiastic nodding.

‘Because we are not being paid to chase an almost certainly non-existent ghost train through Time and space, but to apprehend two illegals whose misdeeds threaten the Timeline.’

‘Shame,’ said Luke. ‘I’d take that job.’

There was wholehearted agreement. Bolshy Jane was especially keen.

‘Vasily Leshchaty supposedly boarded this ghost train and he too was never seen again,’ announced North, not helping matters even the tiniest bit.

‘Seriously?’ said Rossi. Excitement was reaching fever pitch.

‘Yes. He had become obsessed with tracking the train’s movements. Unverified reports say the train actually slowed, almost as if enticing him to board, and then, as soon as he did, it picked up speed and vanished, taking him with it.’

‘Oh, wow,’ said Luke. ‘This just gets better and better.’

‘If we could return to our official purpose of apprehending a pair of teenage illegals . . .’ said Ellis, but without a great deal of hope.

‘What happened next?’ demanded Luke. ‘There has to be a next. You can’t just leave it like that.’

North consulted her notes.

‘We now jump (literally) to October 1955 – a signalman at Balaclava reported a steam locomotive and three carriages travelling along the route of a disused line. The tracks had been removed some years before. He rushed to check it out but other than flattened undergrowth and a couple of crushed chickens, there was no evidence a train had ever passed that way.’

‘Interesting,’ said Mikey, twiddling an elastic band between her fingers, a sure sign of deep thought. ‘Physical evidence is unusual. It looks as if the train materialises for short periods, becoming solid enough to allow Vasily whatshisname to board, for example, or flatten a couple of chickens – and then dematerialises again. I wonder what would cause that.’

She stared thoughtfully at the floor.

‘Please do not attempt to replicate these effects,’ said Ellis hastily, with visions of TPHQ dematerialising to reappear two thousand years ago outside Ancient Rome. Or forty years in the future in the middle of the Indian Ocean, its chimneys slowly sinking beneath the waves. Like a monolithic, formerly coal-powered Atlantis. Wisely, he kept this vision to himself.

‘Anything else?’ queried Luke.

‘Oh yes, there have been many glimpses, including one in the former Channel Tunnel, but since the date given is two years before the Chunnel was actually built, I think we should take most, if not all, of these supposed sightings with just a tiny pinch of salt.’

Silence fell. ‘Is that it?’ said Rossi.

North began to pick up her notes. ‘Just about.’

Luke was indignant. ‘You can’t leave it there.’

‘I can and I am,’ said North, heading towards the door. ‘None of this is pertinent to your mission.’

‘I can scarcely believe my ears,’ said Luke, shocked at this heresy from North, of all people. ‘This is all historical background.’

‘OMG, there was a skull on the train,’ said Socko, who had been consulting his scratchpad. ‘An actual skull, guys. And . . . wow . . . an exploding battleship.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said North in exasperation. ‘This is why we don’t leave historical research to idiots.’

‘I’m not an idiot,’ said Socko. He appealed to Jane. ‘Am I?’

Jane patted his hand consolingly. ‘But we still love you.’

‘It ends in Mexico City,’ said North, apparently relenting.

‘Tell us,’ commanded Luke. ‘We demand to know.’

Ellis hid a grin.

North sighed. ‘Cut to a lunatic asylum in Mexico City. Built, apparently, by prisoners, captured pirates . . .’

‘Pirates,’ said Luke, his eyes sparkling. ‘This just gets better and better.’

‘And enslaved indigenous peoples.’

‘Oh. OK. As you were on the hospital.’

‘The facility primarily treated those with psychiatric disorders, and according to the notes of one Dr José Saxino, over one hundred Italians suddenly turned up out of the blue, and to the mystification of officials at the time, it was claimed they travelled by train. From Rome. No one believed them.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because this was seventy years before the train actually set out. Obviously, in the 1840s there was no way of investigating their story, let alone proving it.’

‘Didn’t the hospital find over one hundred people sharing the same delusion a little suspicious?’

‘We don’t know – other than the rumour that a cigarette case dated 1907 was found among their belongings, there’s no further information. Some reports say they were banged up in the facility for the rest of their lives. Some say they were released and lived out their lives in Mexico City. Some say they too mysteriously vanished and were never seen again.’

‘Oh, wow,’ said Luke happily.

North rolled her eyes.

‘The Zanetti Train is a temporal anomaly,’ said Rossi. ‘Why aren’t we investigating?’

‘Because it’s dormant,’ said Ellis. ‘It’s already happened. It’s not recurring, and unlike the Versailles and Bold Street time-slips, there have been no sightings for some considerable time. It’s not causing any damage to the Timeline. We’ve learned to let sleeping dogs lie. Two illegals and their pod are what you’re after. Before they upset the fragile status quo. Now – to recap, since we seem to have wandered off-topic somewhat. Parrish and Lockland will target the illegals. Team Two-Three-Five, together with Officer Farrell, will locate the pod and arrange a clean-up crew. Lt Grint will lead the mission and the Zanetti Train will come and go unmolested by any of you. Is that clear? Now – any questions?’

Jane took a deep breath. ‘They’re only fifteen. Shouldn’t their age mitigate their sentences?’

Ellis was crisp. ‘That’s not our concern. Our task is to identify and shut down Time crimes. What happens afterwards is not within our remit. Nor should it be. Any more questions? . . . Then this briefing is concluded. Dismissed.’

5

‘I hate the 20th century,’ said Luke, looking down at himself. ‘These trousers feel as if they’ve been woven from purest yak. And if they get wet, I bet they’ll smell like it, too.’

Jane, struggling with heavy skirts and petticoats, found she had no sympathy whatsoever and was about to say so when Luke’s attention – always somewhat random even at the best of times – found something else on which to focus. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘It’s known as a Lady’s Travelling Costume,’ said Jane bitterly, looking down at her long, dark green gored skirt and matching jacket. ‘It’s supposed to be both practical and comfortable. Railway stations were dirty places during the days of steam travel.’

‘Not much better now,’ said Luke. ‘That’s why I travel by hyperloop.’ He considered this statement. ‘Used to travel by hyperloop.’

Jane attempted to adjust her hat. ‘Stupid thing.’

‘You think you have problems. I’m experiencing severe chafing in certain delicate areas, you know.’

Jane ignored this. ‘Don’t forget your hat.’

She handed him his hat, a neat bowler with a curved brim.

He put it on and regarded his reflection in the small, spotty, locker-room mirror. ‘I look stupid.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You looked stupid in the suit. You look really stupid in that hat.’

He regarded her sadly. ‘You used to be so shy and polite. What happened to you, Jane?’

‘You, mostly.’

‘Yes, I meant to ask you. The vote. Two yesses and an unknown. What did you vote, Jane? Yes or no? Do I stay or do I go?’

She headed towards the door. ‘Don’t forget that carpet bag. It’s got all our gear in it.’

Ellis and North were waiting for them outside their pod. North subjected them both to critical inspection. ‘Turn around. Why are you both wearing such heavy fabric? It’s summer in Italy. Everyone else will be wearing silk, cotton and linen.’

‘It’s what we were given,’ grumbled Luke. ‘If we had a Staff Suggestion Box – which we don’t – and since having to wear stupid clothes seems to be a regular thing now, I’d like to suggest a Historical Costume Department.’ He looked over at Lt Grint, busy marshalling his forces outside his own pod. ‘We could put Grint in charge of it.’

‘An excellent idea,’ said Jane smoothly. ‘If you really want to spend the rest of your Time Police career wearing a sequinned boob tube and plus fours.’

Ellis and North exchanged troubled glances.

Team 235 lined up behind their leader, along with Officer Farrell, who was festooned with various pieces of electronic equipment with which to trace the illegal pod. He waved at his teammates.

‘Last team back gets the drinks in,’ said Grint as he and his crew boarded their pod.

Ellis turned to Luke and Jane. ‘When you’re ready, officers. Do not kill each other or I shall be seriously annoyed.’

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Ellis turned to North. ‘I need to check on the progress – or lack thereof – of our colleagues downstairs. Can I persuade you to accompany me?’

‘Good God, no.’

Ellis sighed. ‘Lockland, Parrish – good luck.’

He and North pushed their way out through the Pod Bay doors.

Luke and Jane watched them go, then turned to look at each other.

‘Well,’ said Luke lightly. ‘If you think you can refrain from doing me a personal injury over the next few hours . . . shall we go?’

He indicated she should precede him into the pod.

‘He’s hurting,’ said Wimpy Jane, very quietly.

Jane tried not to care.

Entering the pod, Luke threw himself into a seat. ‘Off you go, Jane. Do your magic thing.’

Jane showed no inclination to do her thing, magic or otherwise. ‘You’re the team leader.’

Luke ignored this. ‘Have you checked the coordinates?’

‘No. You’re the team leader.’

‘You usually do it.’

‘Yes.’

‘So . . .’ Luke made coordinate-checking gestures.

Jane folded her arms. ‘You’re the team leader.’

‘And I’m instructing you to—’

‘I’m not doing your job for you, Parrish.’

Luke sighed heavily and leaned forwards to check over the coordinates. ‘Looks OK to me. Proceed with the jump.’

Nothing happened.

Luke sighed again. ‘Jane . . .’

Jane opened her mouth.

‘Yes, I know,’ he said hastily. ‘I’m the team leader. I get it. Pod . . .’

The AI chirped.

‘Commence jump procedures.’

The pod responded in its usual pleasant female voice. ‘Unable to comply.’

Luke sighed. ‘Why the fire truck not this time?’

‘No team ID has been entered.’

Luke gestured at Jane.

Jane, arms still folded, folded them even harder.

Luke stared at the console, thinking deeply. ‘I . . . um . . .’

Time passed. And then a bit more time passed.

‘I . . . um . . . You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?’

Jane said nothing.

‘Sweetie, this is such fun,’ cried Bolshy Jane in delight.

Luke sighed. ‘All right – I admit it. I can’t remember the team ID. Which isn’t surprising because it’s always you that handles that bit.’

Jane said nothing.

Someone banged on the door.

‘I think they want you to get a move on,’ said Jane helpfully.

The Senior Mech’s voice was heard over the com. ‘What’s going on in there? Is there a problem with the pod?’

‘Yes, all right, Jane. You’ve made your point. It’s getting embarrassing now.’

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ said Jane.

‘I’ll say it again – what’s happened to you, Jane?’

‘And I’ll say it again – you, mostly.’

‘Jane, for the prestige of Team Weird, please enter the team ID and get this show on the road. If they think we’re having problems working together – which we are – they’ll pull us off and find someone else and I’d really like to see this Zanetti Train, wouldn’t you? Please do the biz.’

Jane unfolded her arms and did the biz, finishing with, ‘Pod, commence jump procedures.’

The AI responded smugly. ‘Jump procedures commenced.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘That bloody thing hates me,’ muttered Luke.

There was a silence during which the words it’s not the only one were not spoken but might just as well have been.

But – finally – they were off.

Both pods landed on one of those scruffy patches of waste ground that frequently surround railway stations in any era, about a hundred yards apart. Jane activated the screen and panned around. Of the two pods, theirs was closest to the railway station. Which was immense. Two parallel buildings were connected by a metal roof that would almost certainly double up as a functioning oven. July in Italy is not cool.

Grint’s voice sounded in Luke’s ear. ‘Parrish – report.’

‘We’re here,’ said Luke. ‘Where are you?’

‘Behind you. Get yourselves into the station and find those two young buggers. Don’t come back without them. It’s far too hot for the usual Two-Three-Six cock-up. We’ll locate their pod. Exiting now.’ He closed down his com.

While Jane sorted out her skirts and adjusted her hat inside, Luke stood in the pod’s shadow and looked about him.

One railway yard looks very like another in any Time and place. There were piles of wooden sleepers stacked like giant Jenga blocks stretching off into the distance. Long lengths of rusty metal – former railway lines, presumably – lay half buried in dry, scrubby undergrowth. Over to their right, a labyrinth of tracks and points glinted in the sun. Some tracks led into the station itself or into the tall, gabled engine sheds off to one side. Some terminated in hefty-looking buffers. Clumps of bushes and brambles alternated with piles of sand and gravel. Along a separate outside track stood a long row of massive wooden containers built of old sleepers and chock-full of coal and coke. Fully laden trucks waited nearby ready to disgorge their own loads. Dotted everywhere were anonymous wooden huts, purpose unknown. Many of them looked to have been built from cannibalised ancient railway trucks. Giant water towers loomed over everything like refugees from Mr Wells’ War of the Worlds.

The day was scorching. A white-hot sun beat down. The heat had leached all colour from the sky. It was probably not the best day to be wearing heavy wool clothing.

‘Not sure the Time Police have got this quite right,’ said Luke as Jane exited the pod, closing the door behind her. ‘I tell you, Jane, if we get to the station and everyone else is in cream linen, I will be seriously cross.’

Having adjusted her clothing to her satisfaction, Jane was looking around. ‘Any sign of a pod signature?’

Luke glanced down at his scratchpad and nodded. ‘Yes. Quite clear and distinct for once. Over there, I think. Grint will have that covered.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Our two young rascals are most likely to be in the station somewhere.’

‘Shade,’ said Jane yearningly.

Luke glanced at the metal roof. ‘If you say so.’

‘Are you certain that’s where they’ll be? Only, I don’t think I’m going to be able to move fast in these skirts. Or in this heat.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Luke confidently. ‘No sense in coming all this way to stay in their pod. They’ll be up on the platform, eager to see this famous train. As am I. I think if we head that way, nip behind those old sheds over there and then around that pile of sleepers, we can discreetly approach, suss out what’s where and decide where best we should conceal ourselves.’

‘I can tell you exactly where we should be,’ said Jane, shading her eyes and squinting into the bright sunlight. ‘It’s the platform with the band and the bunting. There.’

‘Excellent. And just for once, we’re in the right place at the right time. Walk behind me, Jane.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because a man poking around a railway station’s working bits is not unusual. A woman is. Stay behind me where it’s safe.’

Jane gritted her teeth.

‘Never mind,’ said Bolshy Jane cheerfully. ‘Amuse yourself with thoughts of tying him to the tracks and watching two hundred tons of steam locomotive trundle straight over the top of him.’

Before Jane could dwell for too long on this enjoyable fantasy, Grint’s voice sounded in her ear.

‘We’ve located their pod. Moving in now.’

‘And we have a possible location for our two intrepid illegals,’ said Jane. ‘Moving in now.’

‘Do you need any assistance?’

‘Not at this moment,’ said Luke. ‘Depending on what’s happening, we’ll either wait for a suitable moment and then move in, or simply follow them back when they return to their pod and your welcoming arms. Make sure you’re ready.’ He closed his com before Grint could respond appropriately.

Following Luke’s plan, they scrambled through a hole in the fence – Luke had to pause there to disentangle Jane’s skirt from a particularly malevolent strand of wire – and cautiously approached the station proper. There was no barrier at the end of the platform which sloped gently to ground level – for ease of loading and unloading, Jane assumed – and so they simply walked up the slope and joined the waiting passengers. Jane smiled to herself. These were obviously much more trusting times.

The downside, as Luke had foreseen, was that they were now under the roof. The air was hot and still. Jane’s nostrils twitched at the pungent smells of hot coal, smoke, burning wood, hot water and cinders. A steam smell. Once encountered, never forgotten. And yes, conditions were even more uncomfortable under the metal roof, which not only trapped the heat but the echoing sounds of a busy station as well. People shouted. Trains were raising steam. Jane discovered, to her delight, that steam trains really do go chuff-chuff-chuff. Every now and then a shrieking train whistle would pierce the clamour. The atmosphere was hot and steamy and chaotic, and, even before the arrival of the Zanetti Train, full of anticipation and excitement.

Already hot from her scramble over rough ground, Jane felt the sweat break out all over her body.

‘Wait,’ said Luke, looking more uncomfortable than she could ever remember seeing him. ‘I think we both need to take a moment to catch our breath and try to cool down a little.’

He eased her back into a convenient doorway, took off his bowler and began to fan himself. Jane wiped her face with her sleeve in a very unladylike fashion and looked around.

The platform was shorter than those to which she was accustomed. Trains obviously had far fewer carriages than the long monsters criss-crossing the country in modern times. Groups of people were standing together, chatting and waving, and more were piling on to the platform every minute.

The station had certainly dressed for the occasion. Savoy-blue bunting – the national colour of Italy – hung in festoons. An enormous flag of red, white and green – the Italian tricolour – hung from the soot-laden metal girders in the roof. Underneath it, a brass band played with slightly more enthusiasm than skill. Well-dressed people moved around the platform, exclaiming as they encountered each other. Everyone wore cool, light clothing in pastel colours. Jane and Luke separately and simultaneously decided mentioning this would serve no useful purpose. Bolshy Jane was not so reticent.

‘More fool them,’ she said scornfully. ‘Have they never heard of smuts? Steam trains are filthy, you know. They’ll be covered in soot. They’re going to look really stupid in an hour or so, whereas you . . .’ she paused, ‘look really stupid now.’

Jane was too hot to care.

The station itself was alive with activity and noise and colour. Trains pulled in and then pulled out again. Jane tried to count the number of railway lines in and out, but trapped steam and smoke obscured the far corners. Her eyes felt gritty and heavy. Nothing pulled alongside their platform, which had obviously been reserved for this special occasion.

Despite the heat, she found herself rather enjoying the drama of it all. Shrieking whistles. Shouting porters. Slamming doors. Clouds of steam. Pumping pistons as the wheels scrabbled for purchase on the metal rails. Watching the train jerk and then imperceptibly ease itself forwards. People would lean out of all the windows waving their friends goodbye because health and safety hadn’t been invented yet. Handkerchiefs fluttered as everyone called their farewells. And then the train would begin to pick up speed. The smell of hot coal, hot water and smoke would become even stronger. The carriages would all bump together, their couplings clanking and rattling, and then the last one would disappear into the clouds of steam. With one final, triumphant shriek at odds overcome, the train would be gone.

‘Wow,’ said Luke, equally entranced. ‘No wonder so many kids wanted to be engine drivers. I know I did. Didn’t you, Jane?’

‘I just wanted to escape,’ said Jane, not looking at him.

Luke looked at her but made no response.

They stood quietly watching the crowds as they drifted around the platform, breaking up, reforming in separate groups . . . no one was taking any notice of them at all.

‘They probably think we’re servants,’ said Luke. ‘It’s only a matter of time before someone sends me off to fetch their handkerchief.’

Jane was scanning the crowds of well-dressed Italians. Wide-brimmed summer hats seemed popular this year. For women, that was. Men sported cream linen suits and a lot of facial hair. Women wore pretty pastel dresses and many carried matching parasols. To her eyes, the average age seemed quite old. Presumably most of them had had to live a long time to become rich and important enough to warrant an invitation to the day’s events. There were no children present, this being the age when children were neither seen nor heard, and the crowd was predominantly men. Women made up about a quarter of the numbers. Everyone seemed excited and looking forward to their trip. Which, considering what was in store for them . . . Jane gave a little shiver and pulled herself together.

‘Jay and Devan should be really easy to spot,’ she said. ‘We have Time Police resources behind us and even we stand out a mile. As will they.’

Luke nudged her. ‘There. Over there. Other end of the platform. Behind the pillar with the luggage trolley in front of it.’

Two young men – or youths as the Time Police would designate them – stood partially concealed by one of the many iron pillars holding up the roof.

Jane pulled out her com to communicate their success to Lt Grint, but before she could speak, his voice sounded in her ear.

‘We’re at the pod,’ he said.

‘And we’ve located our two intrepid illegals,’ said Jane. ‘We could all be home in ten minutes’ time.’

‘Do you need any assistance?’ enquired Grint.

‘Not at this moment, thank you,’ said Luke frostily, indicating Jane should close her com. He turned to her. ‘Let’s try to get a little closer, shall we?’

‘Slowly and carefully,’ said Jane. ‘We do have a bit of a reputation for getting this sort of thing badly wrong.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Luke easily. ‘What could poss—?’

‘Don’t say it,’ said Jane quickly.

‘Stop worrying, Jane. Trust me, this will be a piece of piss. A Roman holiday, if you like.’

‘We have to get this right first time. I’m too hot to go chasing after them.’

‘Agreed,’ said Luke. He held out his arm and with only a very little hesitation, she took it and they weaved their way slowly around the groups of chattering people. Italian was such a melodic language, she thought.

‘Do you speak Italian, Jane?’ asked Luke, as if following her thoughts.

‘No – I did French and German at school. Do you?’

He hesitated and then said, ‘My mother was part-Italian.’

‘What are they saying?’

‘Mostly how hot it is. Wondering whether the train will be late. How much longer do they have to wait? Exactly what anyone would say in these circumstances in any language.’

‘How long, do you think, before the Zanetti Train turns up?’

‘Seriously, Jane, I wouldn’t be surprised if it never did.’

Jane stopped, turned and looked up at him. ‘Why do you say that?’

He looked over her shoulder. ‘Quick. They’re moving.’

Indeed, the two young men were strolling towards the edge of the platform to peer down the tracks to their left. She watched as they pulled tiny cameras from their pockets and surreptitiously began to snap the station and the crowds, all of whom were alternately craning their necks for a first glimpse of the train and gossiping excitedly to each other.

‘Well,’ said Jane, nodding in the boys’ direction. ‘They seem to think it’ll be here. As do all these other people.’ She waved her hand at the much more than one hundred or so people on the platform. ‘Actually, I don’t know how they think they’ll ever get them all aboard.’

‘Most have only come to see the train,’ said Luke. ‘Only the crème de la crème will actually board.’

Satisfied no train was imminent, the two youths resumed their former position by the pillar.

‘What are they wearing?’ said Jane, squinting.

‘Don’t laugh,’ said Luke. ‘School blazers . . . school ties . . . and . . . yes, old-fashioned school caps. Wonder where they got those from?’

‘Actually, not so stupid,’ said Jane. ‘In these times children often wore their uniforms outside of school. Especially boys. Clever of them not to try to ape current fashion.’ She looked down at herself. ‘And get it wrong.’

‘Undo your jacket if you’re hot,’ advised Luke.

‘I think such an action might get us expelled from the station for lewd behaviour. Queen Victoria hasn’t been dead that long.’

He grinned at her. ‘That would be something to go back and tell Ellis, wouldn’t it? That Officer Lockland got us expelled for lewd behaviour.’

They resumed their slow stroll, looking about them as they went.

To their left, Jane saw two men take out their fob watches and flip them open.

Over their heads, a giant clock showed fifteen minutes to the hour.

‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ said Luke. ‘Shall we be kind and move in after the train has pulled out? The least we can do is let the boys see the wretched thing.’

Neither of them mentioned that the Zanetti Train might be the last thing the two boys saw for a very long time. Jane sighed. There were parts of the Time Police of which Mikey strongly disapproved and Jane sometimes thought she might be right. Yes, she was bang alongside apprehending real criminals such as Henry Plimpton or those lunatics who had tried to rescue Marie Antoinette – such actions imperilled not just the Timeline but everyone else as well – but these were just two high-spirited boys who were rather too clever for their own good. And what of work-worn Nora? She sighed again.

‘Yes, let them see the train first,’ she said. Words she would bitterly regret later. Had they been proper Time Police officers, they would have moved in immediately, apprehended the illegals and had them halfway back to the pod and TPHQ before anyone knew what was happening. Certainly before the Zanetti Train even pulled into the station. But, this was Team Weird – famed for never knowingly getting it right the first time.

Faintly, in the distance, came the sound of a train whistle.

‘Is this it?’ said Jane, craning her neck. This was her first ghost train, after all.

‘No – wrong track,’ said Luke, who was considerably taller and therefore had the better view.

Over their heads, the minute hand clicked. On the opposite platform a seriously battered old train panted into the station in a cloud of black smoke, groaning and squealing to a halt. Porters rushed forwards, opening carriage doors, assisting ladies to alight and grabbing suitcases. Those who had come to greet friends and family waved and called out and generally got in the way. For two or three minutes there was total confusion.

‘No one’s getting on,’ said Jane.

‘End of the line, obviously,’ said Luke. ‘They’ll move it on in a minute, I expect, to make room for the next train in.’

‘Where will it go now?’

‘Engine sheds, probably. Change the driver, fill up the tender with more coal, take on water, and so forth. Couple up new carriages and off they go again.’

To their right, someone shouted and pointed. Others took up the cry.

‘It’s coming,’ said Luke. ‘I have to say, Jane, this is quite exciting, isn’t it? I mean, I know you get smooth efficiency with the hyperloop, but this is Drama. With a capital D.’

Across the rails, an official was shouting at the train driver, who was leaning out of his cab to hear him. ‘Telling him to get a move on, I expect,’ said Luke. ‘They won’t want that old thing spoiling people’s view of the big new shiny Zanetti Train.’

The old train began to move, pistons pumping. Carriages clattered and bumped against each other. More steam. More smoke. The squeal of straining metal.

To their left, another whistle shrieked. Men shouted. Ladies applauded. Finally, the Zanetti Train was coming.

The old warrior on the opposite track made a huge effort to clear the station, belching black smoke everywhere.

‘Good grief,’ said Jane, flapping her hand in front of her face and wishing she had a handkerchief with which to cover her nose and mouth.

The whistle sounded again, but closer. And again.

The band broke into what Jane assumed was the national anthem. Men cheered, handkerchiefs fluttered in a seeming snowstorm of white, and the crowd surged forwards. Jane and Luke were swept towards Jay and Dev. Somehow, Luke lost his grip on her arm and Jane found herself being pushed perilously close to the edge of the platform.

‘Luke! Help.’

Someone caught her wrist and pulled her back from the edge.

Instinctively she gasped, ‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘I don’t think you were in any danger,’ said Jay seriously.

‘No, but thank you anyway.’ Belatedly, she remembered the mission. ‘You’re English. Like me.’

‘Yeah – we’ve come to see the train.’

‘As have we,’ said Luke, appearing at Jane’s shoulder. ‘Thank you for saving Miss Lockland from a painful death. My fault for failing to supervise her properly.’

‘There’s a train on the way,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Pick your moment and then go back to TPHQ and tell everyone there’s been a tragic accident.’

‘It’s coming,’ said Dev, his dark eyes shining with excitement and completely ignoring everyone around him.

A prolonged shriek announced the arrival of the Zanetti Train. Owing to the thick clouds of steam and smoke, Jane was never able to recall anything other than a funnel, enormous buffers and crossed Italian flags.

‘Good job you’re a trained observer,’ said Bolshy Jane cheerfully.

Jane looked up at the clock. The hands stood at ten minutes to noon. She suspected that for full dramatic effect, the train would depart at noon precisely.

She opened her mouth to point this out to Luke.

The words were never uttered.

Luke grabbed her arm. ‘Jane.’

‘I see him,’ she said. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Stay out of sight, Jane. He knows us. It’s vital he doesn’t spot us.’

Mindful of Jay and Dev nearby, Luke eased behind the baggage trolley and fumbled for his com.

Keeping his voice low, he whispered, ‘We have a situation. Forget the pod. Assistance required. North end of the platform. Immediate.’

Without waiting for a reply, he shut down his com and strolled out from behind the trolley as if nothing had happened.

Leaning close, he whispered, ‘Forget these two, Jane. You go left. I’ll go right. Do not let him get away.’

Jane moved left, all the time attempting to dodge the continually shifting groups of people all determined to get a close-up view of the magnificent engine and its gleaming carriages.

She lost him again. Then saw him again. He was pushing his way through the crowd towards Jay and Dev, who were staring at him as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Did they know him, too?

A small stage festooned with blue bunting had been erected and on it, a man was making a speech. Or trying to. Those who had tickets were pushing towards the train, eager to board. There were doors at each end of the carriages. Guards and porters were already flinging them open. A very small amount of luggage was being loaded – one or two heavy trunks, boxes of all shapes and sizes, a tall crate, parcels done up in brown paper and string.

People shouted goodbye and good luck. The band switched to another tune. One with a lot of tuba. The whole scene was chaos. Jane had lost Luke. She’d lost Dev and Jay. She’d lost her target. All she could see were the backs of other people.

Another Team Weird shambles, she thought drearily. We should have grabbed them while we could. Time and again the universe lines everything up for us, and time and again we make a complete dog’s breakfast of everything, and today is no exception.

She heard Luke, surprisingly close at hand. ‘Jane?’

‘Here,’ she shouted, turning towards the sound of his voice.

And found herself face to face with ex-Lt Sawney.

6

Recognition was mutual and instantaneous.

Jane groped for the baton hanging from her belt under her jacket. Her sonic was in their carpet bag and the carpet bag was with Luke and she couldn’t see him anywhere.

Sawney stopped dead, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Which he very probably couldn’t. He hesitated, then sensibly remembered that where there was one TPO, there was likely to be at least another four or five not that far away. To say nothing of a possible clean-up crew on standby. He paused, opened his mouth to say something, opted for discretion as being the better part of valour, and took a step backwards, vanishing into the crowd. A cloud of coal-smelling smoke washed over him, covering his disappearance.

Jane began to push her way after him, struggling through the milling spectators. Despite the company official still striving to make his speech heard, people were boarding the train. Their friends pushed forwards, eager to see them off.

Where was Luke?

Where were Jay and Dev?

Where had Sawney gone?

Why was he here in the first place?

And why wouldn’t people get out of the fire-trucking way?

As closely as she could, she was following a course parallel to the train, which was emitting all sorts of hissing and gushing noises she could only hope were part of its normal vocabulary. Boilers did blow up, she knew that, frequently causing widespread devastation and loss of life. But this one didn’t. She knew that as well. She also knew that the odds of something very dodgy happening to the Zanetti Train had increased exponentially with the sudden and sinister appearance of former Lt Sawney. Hadn’t someone said this should be simple and straightforward? She would be having a word with that someone on her return.

Easing her way around a portly gentleman and his wife, she caught a glimpse of Jay and Dev, now shouting at each other and struggling to move away from Sawney. Luke appeared ahead of them. To cut them off, perhaps? She saw his lips move, but between the public speeches, the cheering crowd, the band and the apparently indigestion-suffering train, there was no chance of making out anything he was saying. She was suddenly conscious of the sweat beading her forehead and upper lip. The crowd was dense. People surrounded her, pinning her arms to her sides, and she couldn’t get out. Her head swam. Surely she wasn’t going to faint?

A woman with a pink parasol moved in front of her and Jane lost sight of everyone again. Sawney might be only a few feet away and she’d never spot him.

She turned her head. He was only a few feet away – but not interested in her. His eyes were fixed on Jay and Dev. She watched him barge his way through the crowd, desperate to reach them. His efforts caused him to push aside a well-dressed woman who staggered sideways into her escort. Several male voices were raised in anger.

Distracted, Luke craned his head to see what was going on.

Jay and Dev seized the opportunity to veer off towards the train. Suddenly, Sawney broke through the sea of people and grabbed them both by the arm. They tried to pull away, and at that moment, Luke spotted them and shouted, ‘Time Police. Halt!’

‘I don’t know why we do that,’ said Bolshy Jane crossly. ‘It’s not as if anyone ever takes any fire-trucking notice.’

‘We’re obliged to identify ourselves,’ said Jane vaguely. ‘Because once we’ve identified ourselves and they’ve ignored us, we can legally shoot them dead.’

‘And exactly how many people have you shot dead?’ enquired Bolshy Jane scornfully.

Jane was painfully aware that if there was such a thing as a Shooting People Dead league table back at TPHQ, the chances were that she’d be at the very bottom. She might not even be on the list.

Someone crashed into her, knocking her hat over her eyes, and for long seconds not only could she not see where she was going, but she couldn’t get her hands free to adjust the stupid thing. She was completely disoriented and had a sudden vision of toppling over the edge and becoming wedged somehow between the wheels and the platform and they wouldn’t be able to get her out unless they moved the train, which would kill her, but they would go ahead and do it anyway and everyone would watch as she died slowly under the wheels while Luke Parrish shouted angrily at her and Lt Sawney laughed.

‘Sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane in exasperation. ‘For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.’

Jane straightened her hat to find her face was level with one of the carriage windows. She turned her head to see Jay and Dev staring out from an empty compartment, their faces slack with terror. Before she could say or do anything, they spun around and were frozen to the spot in what appeared to be horrified recognition as Sawney appeared in the doorway. He pushed them further into the compartment, sending both boys sprawling across the seats. Whirling around, he slid shut the compartment door and pulled the curtains across. Ignoring both boys, he yanked the curtains shut across the outer windows as well.

Jane was panic-stricken. Their targets were on the train. They were actually on the Zanetti Train. This was not how things were supposed to go. And where was Luke? Did he know, or was he still looking for them among the crowd on the platform? She couldn’t see him anywhere. She could barely move her arms, let alone pull out her com, and if she dropped it in this scrum she’d never find it again. What should she do?

Well, that was easy. Assume Luke was, for some reason, temporarily out of the picture. That left her the only TPO on the scene. She should board the train herself. Luke, Ellis, Grint, someone would think of a way to get her off again. In the meantime, her duty was to secure the prisoners.

Carefully counting the number of windows, she made her way to the door at the front of the carriage and joined the queue to board. A guard politely assisted her to step up into the carriage while muttering what she assumed was the Italian equivalent of ‘Mind the gap’. Which was, actually, quite narrow and nowhere near the yawning chasm she had imagined.

‘See,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘And you thought you’d get wedged down there.’

‘Shut up,’ said Jane, taking a moment to adjust her hat, shake out her skirts and look around.

To her right, a corridor stretched ahead with individual compartments leading off. The overwhelming impression was of red plush, gilt paint and ostentation.

‘It might be an idea to make yourself scarce before he asks to see your ticket,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Although you could just tell him your husband’s looking after it for you. It is 1911, after all.’

The guard, however, was in a hurry to get his passengers on board and had already turned to the people behind her. Jane set off down the corridor, counting the compartments as she went. The first two were both full of people making themselves comfortable, the men stowing their hats on the overhead baggage nets and talking excitedly. Jane kept going. The next was empty . . . four . . . five. Yes. The curtains were drawn. This was the one she wanted.

She looked around. Other people were approaching from both ends of the carriage. She drew back so as to be out of sight should Sawney try for a peep through the curtains. What was his role in all this? He and the boys seemed to know each other. In fact, the boys had seemed horrified to see him.

Turning away and apparently entranced by the view of the opposite platform through the window, she groped for her com. ‘Luke?’

His voice sounded faint and staticky. How far away was he? ‘Jane, where . . . you?’

‘Did you see him?’

‘. . . did.’

‘Did he see you? He certainly saw me.’

His reply was inaudible.

Jane persevered, whispering, ‘I’m on the train. And I have eyes on Jay and Dev. They’re also on the train. And Sawney. We’re all on the train. Luke – we’re on the train.’

There followed a great deal of static, interspersed with some speech. Jane was unable to make out most of the words, but it seemed safe to assume Luke was making known his feelings relating to Jane’s lack of forward planning, her folly, her recklessness, her stupidity, and quite a lot more.

‘Luke, we’re all on the train. Middle carriage. Compartment number five. Red and gold. All very plush. Get your backside on board.’

Static. What could possibly be causing so much interference?

‘Luke – let our colleagues know where I am and they can pick us all up at the next station.’

She was interrupted by a long, drawn-out and piercing blast from the train whistle. Even if her com had been working, then she couldn’t have heard a word Luke said. And then another one. And then another. And then every train in the station responded in salutation. Bells, whistles, some sort of hooter . . . And then the band struck up again. Something jolly with lots of ooompah-oompah.

‘Well,’ said Bolshy Jane chattily. ‘Now we know the level of volume required to shut Luke Parrish up.’

‘Wish someone would tell me how to do the same to you,’ said Jane bitterly and shut down her useless com. Either Luke would appear or he wouldn’t. Nothing she could do about it either way. She would stay here until the train pulled out of the station, and then once it was in motion and there was no chance of anyone escaping, she would carry out a quick recce, note any official and unofficial exit points, locate the toilet, ascertain if any refreshments would be available, and then find herself somewhere comfortable and out of the way to sit down. With luck, Sawney and the boys would assume she’d been left behind on the platform and be taken completely by surprise when Lt Grint’s team intercepted them at the next station. Yep – good plan.

Around her, the last people were boarding and scurrying to their seats. She couldn’t stay here. Standing might not be allowed. She edged her way further down the corridor. Behind her, she heard the guard slam the door. She turned to look out of the window again as he pushed past her with a muttered, ‘Scusi,’ hurrying to do the same to the door at the other end. All along the train she could hear other doors closing. The moment had arrived.

The train ceased to shriek and concentrated on forward motion. She felt the jolt as the locomotive took the strain. Then another. Then the by now familiar chuff-chuff-chuff. The platform began to slide past. There was no sound from the boys’ compartment. She considered bursting in but there was no point. They weren’t going anywhere. None of them were. She opened her com again. ‘Luke?’

No response. Nothing but static. He couldn’t be out of range already. Perhaps he was occupied or unable to talk. She walked back to the door and watched the platform slip slowly past the window. Which was down. Mentally praying for no overhead wires or other head-severing obstacles, Jane removed her hat and cautiously thrust out her head. The platform was rapidly disappearing behind her. She could see nothing but a wall of waving spectators. The band was still playing its heart out. Whoever had hired them had really had their money’s worth this afternoon.

What there wasn’t, however, was Luke Parrish, pounding down the platform, hat in hand, trying to overtake the currently picking-up-speed Zanetti Train. Ergo – he was already on board somewhere.

‘Unless he forgot to mind the gap,’ said Bolshy Jane nastily.

Jane sighed, withdrew her head and went off to look for him.

She found Luke in the baggage area at the other end of the carriage, comfortably seated on someone’s old wooden trunk with his carpet bag up on the shelf behind him. One or two other pieces of luggage were neatly stacked alongside the trunk, and a few brown-paper packages were stored in the net hanging from the wall. Near the door and strapped securely to the wall stood a tall wardrobe-sized crate with ‘Milano’ stickers plastered all over it. The clackety-clack of the rails was much louder in here.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘There you are. Well, this is another fine mess you’ve got us into, Jane.’

‘Well, we haven’t actually lost our prisoners, have we? A slight improvement on our usual performance, I think.’ She scowled at him. ‘Move over.’

He budged up. ‘Yes, I’m sure Ellis will happily accept our explanation that there was nothing we could do.’

She joined him on the trunk, which was by no means as comfortable as it had first appeared. They sat in silence as the train rocked and swayed over a number of points.

‘Try your com,’ said Luke eventually. ‘With all the racket at the station I wasn’t sure Grint could hear me. I certainly couldn’t hear him.’

‘Are they in trouble as well, do you think?’

‘Loath as I am to say anything positive about the giant known as Grint, if he’s around then probably not. Assume they can hear you even if we can’t hear them. Tell him we’ll meet them at the next station. Although Grint’s probably worked that out anyway.’

Jane complied but there was no response. ‘They’re not answering,’ she said. ‘Are we out of range?’

‘Unlikely. We can’t be more than a few miles away. More likely to be some kind of interference, don’t you think? Although from what, I’ve no idea.’

‘What do you think he’ll do? Sawney, I mean.’

‘Check whether we’re actually on the train as well, I suspect. Which is why I’ve taken up residence here. Only one entrance and I’ve hooked the internal door open, which gives me a clear view of the whole corridor. No way he can sneak up on us.’

‘Unless he comes over the roof,’ said Jane, looking up.

Luke regarded her severely. ‘I suspect that rarely happens, Jane.’

‘Too dangerous?’

‘He wouldn’t be able to see. This train’s belching smoke like a . . .’ Inspiration failed him.

‘Just as well,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘He’d only have said something like smoking like a whore’s drawers on a Saturday night.’

‘Do whore’s drawers smoke?’ said Jane, realising, just a second too late, that she’d said that out loud.

Luke regarded her oddly. ‘I genuinely have no idea and I think we should change the subject.’

Jane’s complexion followed its traditional route from pink to red to bright scarlet to something that was a danger to low-flying aircraft. Had there been aircraft around in 1911?

She sighed and turned to look at him. ‘All right – how about this – why don’t you like Grint?’

Luke shrugged – either unwilling or unable to put his feelings into words. Especially to Jane. She changed the subject again. ‘What do you think he’s doing here? Sawney, I mean.’

‘No idea, but he seemed to know Jay and Dev so I’m guessing it’s something to do with them. Does he know you’re on the train?’

‘I’m not sure. I was still on the platform when he last caught sight of me and I don’t know if he saw you at all.’

‘Then let’s leave him in ignorance, shall we?’ said Luke. ‘For the time being.’

They sat in silence, staring at their feet. Around them the carriage swayed and rattled. Dust swirled in the sunlight. The air was close and still. They clattered over another set of points and began to pick up more speed. Luke estimated they were going at between thirty-five to forty miles an hour. Top speed of around fifty or sixty miles per hour, perhaps? But for how long could that be sustained? And there would be gradients and bends.

Jane turned suddenly, saying, ‘What did you mean, earlier on?’

Luke roused himself from his thoughts on locomotive locomotion. ‘When?’

‘When you said you’d be surprised if the Zanetti Train actually turned up. Did you think it wasn’t real?’

‘Oh. That. Yes. Well, think about it, Jane.’ He began to tick off points on his fingers. ‘The distance between Rome and Milan is something over three hundred miles. Say an average speed of fifty miles per hour – and given some of the terrain, I think that might be being over-generous – that means the journey could take seven and a half hours, Jane. Minimum. Much longer when you include stops to take on coal and water for the engine. There’s no food, no drink, no sleeping arrangements that I’ve seen. And no toilets. Not in this carriage, anyway. A bit primitive, don’t you think, for such posh passengers?’

Jane nodded. That hadn’t actually struck her until Luke pointed it out.

‘Work it out for yourself. Only three passenger carriages. No dining car. No facilities of any kind. I don’t think this train ever intended to go to Milan. Or, more likely, the train is bound for Milan but these carriages will be uncoupled at the first station and return to Rome.’

He gestured around the nearly empty baggage area. ‘Look around. People haven’t brought much luggage, have they? Did you see piles of trunks and cases on the platform all ready to be loaded? No, neither did I.’

He was right. Other than the scruffy trunk he and Jane were sitting on, a few parcels on netting shelves and the tall box in the corner destined for Milan – which, it seemed safe to assume, would never get there – there wasn’t very much baggage around. In fact, given there were one hundred passengers on the train, there was no baggage at all.

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said Bolshy Jane, in excitement. ‘Everyone on this train is a Time traveller like Jay and Dev, come to check out the mysterious Zanetti Train. Wouldn’t it be funny if, other than the train crew, there are no contemporaries on this train at all?’

Jane ignored this. ‘Perhaps hotel accommodation has been booked and their luggage has all gone on ahead. Food can be taken on board at one station and the dirty dishes and so forth unloaded at the next.’

‘Jane, as far as I can see, there isn’t even any drink on board. There’s no way these people are going all the way to Milan.’

‘What about the train itself?’

Luke shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Perhaps, now it’s been launched, it just becomes a normal train. Until its triumphant arrival in Milan, anyway.’

‘Regardless of passengers, the train must continue,’ said Jane. ‘A whole group of people saw it enter the Lombardy Tunnel. And another group say it never came out again.’

‘Easy enough to plant a group of people paid to see a train enter a tunnel. And the reason they never saw it come out again was because it never entered in the first place. This whole Zanetti Train thing is a massive lie.’

Jane gestured around. ‘And yet here we are on the Zanetti Train.’

‘Are we?’

Jane looked around at the swaying carriage. ‘I’m pretty sure we are, yes.’

‘Tell me, what colour was the train?’

Jane frowned. ‘I don’t know. It was a dark colour and there was a lot of steam – I didn’t notice. I was concentrating on the job.’

‘Or the carriages?’

‘Same as all the other trains pulling in and out. Oh.’

‘Exactly. Jane. Believe it or not, I read North’s briefing notes and the railways were nationalised in . . . nineteen oh something or other. Before 1911, anyway. Therefore there couldn’t have been a Zanetti Railway Company. Therefore there was no Zanetti Train. What we saw was just an ordinary – for want of a better word – inaugural new route ceremony. Or a new locomotive coming into service, perhaps. Whatever.’

‘Are you saying we’re not on the Zanetti Train, or that there never was a Zanetti Train?’

‘I’m not sure at the moment. I’m pretty bloody certain we’re not going to Milan, though.’

‘Where are we going? And why?’

Luke frowned. ‘Don’t laugh.’

Jane solemnly promised not to laugh.

‘There are a lot of wealthy and prominent people on this train, Jane. Suppose – just letting my imagination fly here – in ten, twenty, fifty miles, someone switches the points – it’s all manual, remember – or changes a signal or something, and the whole train is shunted down a rarely used branch line.’

‘And then what?’ said Jane slowly. ‘Ransom notes?’

‘Which were never paid,’ said Luke, warming to his theme. ‘That’s why the passengers were never heard of again. They were all killed and neither their bodies nor the train on which they travelled were ever discovered.’

Jane shivered. ‘And all the subsequent sightings? The monastery? The Ukraine? The Italian patients in Mexico City?’

‘Legends that grew up around a tragic but completely unsupernatural event.’

Jane nodded. ‘Luke, this is really good thinking.’

‘Well, don’t sound so surprised.’

‘No, you’re right. Most people haven’t heard of the Zanetti Train. Those that have tend to accept the legend as fact, and yet, when you pull it all apart and look at it closely, it’s all nonsense, isn’t it?’

‘Well, since we’re on board, I think we can assume it does actually exist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this was only a token jaunt and they’ll all get off at the first stop.’

‘Which is?’

Luke thought. ‘Terni, possibly. Or Florence.’

Jane was surprised at the wave of relief that washed over her. ‘So nothing supernatural? Nothing sinister? Just a legend with no foundation? And definitely nothing to do with Sawney? Or Jay and Dev?’

‘They might be as much accidental passengers as we are. Or . . .’ He stopped, frowning.

‘Or?’

‘Or their unplanned presence has changed something.’

‘Or even our unplanned presence has changed something.’

Luke nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Jane. She looked around. ‘We’re in trouble again, aren’t we?’

Luke nodded. ‘We are. Speaking of which, Jane, I’ll ask again – how did you vote?’

Jane stared at him. ‘How can you think of that at a time like this?’

‘I thought I’d take your mind off our current predicament. Would you rather talk about you and Grint instead? Has he actually . . . ? I mean, have the two of you yet managed to . . . ?’

‘Fire truck off, Parrish. None of your business.’

‘OK – back to the vote it is then. What did you vote, Jane?’

‘For God’s sake – can’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?’

‘Of course not. Why would I?’

‘What I voted for is my business, Parrish.’

‘Well, actually, Jane, no, it’s not. It’s very much my business as well. And Matthew’s. At the moment we’re all in a state of limbo because you’re not saying which way you voted. It’s not that you haven’t voted. Or that you couldn’t make up your mind – you know what you wanted and voted accordingly. You just don’t have the courage to tell me to my face.’

Jane had no idea where the sudden red-hot flash of temper came from. But then, no one had ever been able to wind her up like Luke Parrish. She rounded on him. Up close and telling him to his face.

‘I voted no, Parrish – OK? I don’t want to work with you and I wouldn’t be surprised if Matthew doesn’t want to either, but he’s too gentle a soul to say. So – no. I don’t think Two-Three-Six should continue. Happy now?’

There was a long silence and then Luke said, ‘Well, that couldn’t be clearer, could it? As soon as we return to TPHQ I’ll apply to buy myself out. In the meantime, I’ll take myself out of your way. You stay here – I’ll trawl the carriage and see if I can turn up anything interesting.’

He paused for a moment as if waiting for her to say something, and when she didn’t, rose swiftly to his feet.

Jane stared resolutely at the floor, and when she looked up again he was gone.

In the comparative silence – if you discounted the clackety-clack of the tracks, the occasional bump of the buffers, the swaying, creaking carriage, the chuff-chuff-chuff, and the occasional whistle – Jane contemplated her physical discomfort. The baggage area had double doors on both sides – for loading, presumably – and two let-down windows, both of which were closed. The not very large space was hot and airless. She could see faint footprints tracked through the dust. Her head prickled with sweat. She took off her hat and tried to use it as a fan. Sadly it was too floppy to be of much use. She derived a certain amount of pleasure from tossing it on to the floor. She briefly contemplated Luke’s advice re unbuttoning her jacket. She was wearing a blouse and light waistcoat underneath – why not? – although it was very possible the penalty for such a sartorial misdemeanour was being pitched from a moving train, in which case – yes, please. She got to her feet and struggled out of her jacket. The relief was instantaneous and she added to the pleasure by turning back the sleeves on her blouse to a daring mid-forearm. If she’d had the courage, she’d have untied the bow at her throat and undone her collar stud – possibly even removed her collar altogether.

‘Steady on,’ advised Bolshy Jane. ‘Confine yourself to just one fashion violation at a time, sweetie.’

She could see Luke coming back along the corridor. He scowled as he entered. ‘Move over.’

Jane refused to budge.

Scowling even more heavily, he attempted to lower the window.

‘Pull the strap,’ advised Jane.

The window also refused to budge and now someone else was coming down the corridor.

Not the guard, she prayed. Not the guard. Not the guard. They had no tickets and she was half-naked – by contemporary standards, anyway. It would be the guard, of course. There was a whole comfortable train back there with seats and windows and moderately fresh air – who else would choose to visit the baggage compartment?

Sadly for Jane, the answer to that question turned out to be ex-Lt Sawney. If she’d ever known his first name, she couldn’t remember it now. And he was armed. For a second they looked at each other and then . . .

‘Oh look, Jane,’ said Luke, turning from his struggles with the window and deliberately flinging oil on the flames of Sawney’s hatred. ‘It’s the cockwomble.’

7

For a long moment no one moved – Sawney in the doorway with his back to the corridor; Luke standing by the window off to his right; and Jane a sitting duck – literally – on the trunk. Their carpet bag sat quietly on the shelf behind them. True, Jane had her baton, but at this precise moment it was hanging uselessly from her belt. By the time she’d grabbed it, flicked it open and advanced upon ex-Lt Sawney, he could have shot her ten times over. And probably would have, before turning his attention to Luke, standing in just the wrong place to do anything useful.

Jane sighed. The curse of Team Weird had struck again.

The same thought had obviously occurred to Luke. Ignoring Sawney completely, he turned to Jane, saying, ‘We can’t afford for this to get out, Jane. We’ll be a laughing stock. Team leader instruction – we kill everyone in sight and never speak of this again.’

‘Happy to assist in every way,’ said Sawney, raising his weapon and sighting on Jane.

Jane turned to face Luke, gesturing at Sawney. ‘None of this is my fault. If Grint and North hadn’t stopped me doing for him that time in the bar, then we wouldn’t be in this position now. Why are you blaming me?’

‘I’m not blaming you, Jane, I’m just saying – we don’t want this getting out. Think of our credibility.’

Jane could feel her temper rising. ‘What credibility?’

‘Team Two-Three-Six’s credibility.’

Jane was certain she felt something burst inside her brain. ‘I keep telling you. There is no Team Two-Three-Six. You saw to that. You can’t treat people the way you do and expect them to welcome you back with open arms. You’re such an arrogant tosser, Parrish. You cruise through life thinking you’re so charming and God’s gift to women and you never ever stop to look back over your shoulder at the broken and bleeding bodies left in your wake. And you’re not actually any of that. Charming and God’s gift, I mean. You’re a spoiled little rich boy who thinks he can throw a tantrum and then be forgiven no matter how badly he’s behaved. Well, you’re not forgiven, Luke Parrish. I don’t forgive you. You wanted to throw me off the team for being half Portman. Something you are yourself. Because the world always has to adjust itself to the Parrish point of view. Well, now the boot’s on the other foot. I told you – I won’t work with you again. Ever. You’re off the team. And by all means complain to Hay, but I’ll bet you any money you like, if it’s a toss-up between you or me and Matthew, then it will be you finding yourself on the other side of her door, so fast you won’t know what’s happened.’

She turned to Sawney, her face the familiar scarlet but this time with rage. ‘Shoot him. Shoot him now. And if you won’t do it then I will. Give me your fire-trucking gun.’

‘Oh sweetie,’ cried Bolshy Jane. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

That Sawney was taken aback was obvious. Jane remembered him as a nasty, inflexible little man with a massive chip on his shoulder and a tendency to blame everyone else for his own shortcomings.

In Sawney’s world, however, this was not how the situation should go. He and his team had abandoned her in the middle of an undercover operation – deliberately – because girls who thought they could become proper TPOs needed to be taught a lesson. Unfortunately for him – and, it should be said, under the influence of some rather strong medication – not only had the bint Lockland significantly failed to learn any sort of lesson at all, but had publicly humiliated him, lost him his team and, ultimately – because the Hay bitch hadn’t backed him as she should – his job.

Seventeen fucking years he’d served with the Time Police. There had barely been a woman in sight when he’d joined and then suddenly they were everywhere. Where the fuck had they all come from?

Some of this must have been written across his face because Parrish shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you’re feeling so sorry for yourself. She’s lost me my job, too. I’m pig-sick of the way it’s girls who always get their own way these days. I thought the Time Police would be somewhere I could . . . well, never mind that, but if you’re going to kill us then do her first so I at least get the pleasure of watching the spiteful, underhanded, perpetually whining little bimbo bleed out on the floor.’

‘Bimbo?’ screamed both Jane and Bolshy Jane simultaneously. Jane surged to her feet, her fury at Luke, at Sawney, at the world, at everything, suddenly erupting from heaven knew where. Pulling out her baton, she turned to confront Luke.

‘You bastard, Parrish. You selfish, stupid . . .’ She flicked open her baton and headed straight for him.

He tried to dodge around her, coincidentally bringing himself closer to Sawney. ‘Whoa. Hold on a moment, Lockland. You try anything with me and I’ll—’

‘Yeah? You’ll do what exactly, Parrish, you pathetic . . .’

She took a wild swing at him, catching him a glancing blow on his upper arm. Luke yelled with supposed pain and pushed her hard, sending her reeling back towards Sawney, who’d been so caught up in the moment he very nearly forgot to step back out of the way, leaving himself in the optimum position for Jane’s favourite backhand stroke. Her baton slashed sideways, catching him on the meaty part of his thigh. He too yelled with pain and lurched sideways.

The Time Police are always saying don’t make it personal. Remain calm. Don’t let emotion cloud your judgement. Well – bollocks to that. All Jane’s careful attention during lectures, her meticulous notes, her adherence to other people’s rules and regulations – often to her own detriment – all that went straight out of the window. As, probably, Sawney would have done had anyone been able to get the bloody thing open. Zanetti Trains, illegals, Luke, everything was lost to Jane in a huge black swirl of resentment that threatened to overwhelm her. She was Jane Lockland. She was a fully qualified Time Police officer – she’d been taught how to damage people and she was going to start now. Right now. Right this moment. This very instant.

Her next blow knocked the weapon from Sawney’s hand. It skittered across the floor. Luke watched it disappear harmlessly into a dark corner, marked its position, leaned against the wall and prepared to enjoy round two of Lockland versus Sawney. He’d been gutted to learn he’d missed the opening bout in the bar some months ago, when Jane had, in reference to Sawney, gifted the world the deathless phrase dickless, pickle-tickling, lying cockwomble with all the personal appeal of amoebic dysentery, but this was nearly as good. And there was no Grint or North to restrain her this time around.

Those on the receiving end of the first blow from a Time Police baton rarely recover from that. The carriage was swaying, leaving Sawney unable to regain his balance. His leg wouldn’t fully support his weight and he’d lost both his weapon and the initiative. Jane, on the other hand, was completely immersed in the moment and determined to give it her all.

Luke had to admire her technique. From a safe distance, obviously. Perfectly positioned, she was close enough to do damage but not close enough for Sawney to make a grab for her or attempt any sort of comeback. Most of his attention was on protecting his head and balls. Neither of which were any particular gift to the world in general. Jane’s baton rose and fell. Sawney howled with pain. Gratifying, but the time had come for an intervention. Jane was tiring and Sawney could have a second weapon somewhere. He wasn’t that badly injured. He could still turn on her and rip the baton from her hand, and if that happened, he could kill her with one blow.

Luke unfolded his arms, pushed himself off the wall, retrieved Sawney’s blaster and approached with caution.

‘Step back, Jane. Yes, I mean it. Sawney, get up and park your backside on that trunk. Jane, go and stand over there. Please. Talk, Sawney, otherwise I go off in search of refreshments and leave you to the tender mercies of the officer you abandoned in the middle of an operation and who doesn’t appear to have forgiven you for that. You haven’t forgiven him, have you, Jane?’

‘God, no. Stand up, you worm, so I can knock you straight back down again.’

‘Jane, your zeal is commendable, but this is the part where Mr Sawney and I sit down and have a lovely chat together.’ Luke pulled down the carpet bag and kicked it in her direction. ‘Weapons and water. Avail yourself of both.’

Chest heaving, Jane took the opportunity to rummage in the carpet bag. And to chug back some much-needed water while everyone got their breath back.

‘Well,’ she said, checking the charge on her blaster and then levelling it at the part of Sawney he would least like to lose. ‘That was invigorating.’

‘Check no one’s coming.’

She crossed to the door and peered down the corridor. ‘Clear.’

‘Go and check on Jay and Dev. I’ll stay with our friend. Bring them back here. We’ll put all our eggs in one basket. Make things easier for Lt Grint. Especially if he’s brought his team along to do his thinking for him.’

Jane opened her mouth and decided she couldn’t be bothered. Hiding her blaster in the folds of her skirt, she set off down the corridor.

Regardless of the drama currently being enacted in the baggage area, everyone else seemed to be having a wonderful time. Jane caught glimpses of the other passengers as she made her way past their compartments. The gentlemen had taken off their hats and stowed them in the overhead baggage nets. Ladies had kept theirs on. Everyone was talking and laughing nineteen to the dozen and obviously thoroughly enjoying their day out. One or two ladies had brought their embroidery and sat placidly stitching as the scenery rolled past. Several portly gentlemen appeared to have dozed off.

Jay and Dev were exactly where she’d last seen them. They leaped to their feet as she slid open the door. She wondered what Sawney had said to them. Was she friend or foe in their eyes?

‘Right,’ she said, sliding the door closed behind her and cutting out the noise of the train. The sun-drenched landscape was still flashing past the window in the accepted manner so obviously whatever was going to happen to this train hadn’t happened yet. ‘I’m assuming you’re Jay.’

He nodded.

‘Which makes you Dev.’

He nodded.

‘Officer Lockland – Time Police. You’re both under arrest.’

Jay licked his lips. ‘How did you know? What will happen to us?’

‘We can’t be under arrest,’ said Dev, possibly not quite up to speed on very recent events. ‘I have chess club tonight.’

Jane hesitated. Yes, at this precise moment they were scared and obedient, but there were still two of them and only one of her. Now was not the moment to inform Dev he would never have chess club again.

She answered Jay’s first question. ‘Your mum came to see me.’

They gaped at her.

‘She’s worried about you.’

‘But we’ll be back by teatime.’

‘Guys, you’ve been gone for two days.’

They gaped some more. ‘But . . .’

‘You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you? You’re lucky that you haven’t ruptured the Timeline, your pod hasn’t blown up taking hundreds of people with it, and you’re not dead. What you did was incredibly dangerous. And incredibly illegal.’

‘But none of that happened,’ said Dev. ‘And we just wanted to see the train.’ He looked around. ‘Although not from the inside.’

Jay’s concerns were more immediate. ‘What will the Time Police do to us?’

‘Do you want the truth or comforting platitudes?’

‘Comforting platitudes, please.’

‘They’ll let you off with a stiff talking-to. Otherwise you’ll be fine.’

Strangely, this failed to reassure either of them.

‘We didn’t mean any harm.’

‘He said as long as we didn’t hurt anyone, the Time Police would turn a blind eye.’

‘Who did? Sawney?’

‘Mr White.’

‘The man who was just here?’

They nodded.

‘His name’s Sawney and he was thrown out of the Time Police for behaviour even they found despicable.’

‘Oh. Well . . . He told us he’d been in the Time Police and that they never prosecuted for a first offence.’

‘Jay, did the Time Police not do a presentation at your school?’

‘Two. One in the first year and one in the fourth.’

‘Did you actually listen?’

‘Well, everyone says that’s what they always say but they never do anything. Not for a first offence.’

Jane made a mental note to have a word with the Time Crime Prevention Unit. It would appear their message was not getting through.

‘So how did the two of you meet Sawney?’

‘He was our lodger,’ said Jay, surprised she hadn’t known that.

Too late Jane remembered Nora mentioning the lodger who had left suddenly. Just before Dev moved in. That lodger had been Sawney. It had probably been Sawney who provided the wherewithal and encouragement to build their pod. But how had he known about them in the first place? Even by Time Police standards he wasn’t that perceptive. Or imaginative. And he certainly wouldn’t have had the cash to buy the wherewithal for Jay and Dev to build a pod. So who did Sawney work for?

‘Have you ever seen him with anyone else?’

They shook their heads.

‘Did anyone ever come to the house?’

They shook their heads.

‘Or your school?’

They shook their heads.

‘Did you talk about building a pod? To anyone else, I mean?’

They shook their heads.

‘How did he become your lodger? Did he just turn up?’

They shook their heads.

Jane’s experience of teenagers was confined to having once been one. And she hadn’t been that good at it. Her rebellious teenage years were still waiting to happen. She was, however, easily able to experience all the exasperation of those forced to deal with them.

‘Did your mum advertise?’

‘Card in the newsagent’s window.’

Progress. So Sawney somehow had become aware there was a room to let. Or had been made aware. By a third party. Which was her guess. It was too much of a coincidence for a disgraced Time Police officer to take a room in a house where a talented, impressionable boy just happened to live. And that he had an equally talented, impressionable friend. Had the boys talked about building a pod or had Sawney put the idea into their heads? Whichever it was, Varma would soon find out. From Sawney, she hoped, rather than Jay or Dev. And claiming they’d been led astray by Sawney might be a viable defence.

For Sawney there was no defence. He’d betrayed the Time Police and everything they stood for. There would be no mercy for him. Dead man walking.

She should get back to Luke, taking these two with her. Hold all their prisoners in one place and wait for reinforcements to arrive.

‘Right then, gentlemen. We’ll join my colleague and his prisoner in the baggage area at the end of the train. Out of the door and turn right, please.’

As soon as Jane had disappeared out of the baggage area, Sawney pushed himself up off the trunk, wincingly tried to stand up straight, and attempted to assume a friendly expression.

‘Listen, mate. I’m earning more money than you ever thought possible. You could do the same.’

‘Really? Who’s paying you?’

‘I’ll tell you that if you let me go. I’ll tell you everything if you let me go. You should listen to me, Parrish. From what I just heard, you’re out of a job like me. Join us.’

‘Us? Who’s us?’

‘Let me go and I’ll tell you.’

‘We’re on a moving train, Sawney. How do you propose I let you go?’

Sawney nodded back up the corridor. ‘She won’t put up much of a fight.’

Luke, who had on a previous occasion been the recipient of the famous Lockland knee, grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

‘Look, there’s only one of her and two of us. Four if you count them two boys, as well. You heard the way she spoke to you. Don’t tell me you’re going to take that lying down. We’ve got ourselves a nice bit of space here. Or back in the compartment. Makes no odds to me. And when you’ve had your fun, I’ll have mine and then we push Little Miss High and Mighty out the door and carry on our merry way. Good afternoon’s work, I reckon.’

‘Actually,’ said Luke slowly, as if seeing recent events in a new light. ‘You’re right. The way she spoke to me was well out of order.’

‘Yeah, a bit uppity that one. Me and the boys always thought so.’

‘Scrape’s dead,’ said Luke suddenly. ‘Ambush in Paris. Damn near sliced in half by a laser. Lockland’s fault.’

Scrape had been a member of Sawney’s team.

Sawney nodded. ‘Scrape was as thick as mince, but he didn’t deserve that.’

‘No,’ said Luke. ‘There was a bit of talk afterwards. You know the sort of thing.’

‘Wouldn’t have happened if I’d still been team leader.’

‘No,’ said Luke slowly. ‘Probably not.’ He let a thoughtful pause go by. ‘So – these two – Jay and Dev. You with them?’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Or here for them?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m nosy. Always have been. I tell you what – tell me what I want to know and I’ll trade you first go at the young madam. Now that’s worth thinking about.’ He leaned forwards confidentially. ‘Still waiting for her first time, if you know what I mean.’

Sawney stared for a moment and then grinned. ‘OK – come on, then.’ He went to set off down the corridor.

‘No,’ said Luke. ‘Satisfy my curiosity and then you can satisfy . . . yours. Are you here with them or for them?’

Sawney shrugged. ‘Bit of both, actually.’ He puffed out his chest a little. ‘We’ve been . . . what’s the word . . . grooming them and now the time’s come for them to pay the bill.’

‘So you are working for someone?’

‘With someone. With someone.’

It was obvious Sawney’s ego would only let him see it this way. Luke had no problem with that.

‘Well, it’s good you’ve fallen on your feet. We were a bit worried about you. After you left. I mean, it was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?’

‘Nah. Walked straight into a job offer. Got special skills.’

Interesting, thought Luke. Someone in TPHQ must have passed on the info about Sawney. But to whom? Something to think about when he had a moment.

‘You were lucky there,’ he said to Sawney. ‘I don’t suppose Hay gave you a decent reference.’

‘Or any reference at all, mate. I tell you, old Albay wouldn’t have treated me like that. He looked after his boys, he did.’

‘Never knew him,’ said Luke. ‘But I’ve heard the guys talk.’

‘Good bloke. Right priorities. Men first.’

‘Yeah,’ said Luke. ‘Girls are fine. I’m the first to say that. But in their place.’

‘It’s like I said. Some of them can be a bit uppity. That one, especially . . .’ Sawney nodded with his head down the corridor and then winced. Painfully, he flexed his right arm and then rubbed his leg.

‘You all right?’

Sawney shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse. She hits like a girl.’

Luke laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard for ages.

After a moment, Sawney, who hadn’t realised he’d made a joke, joined in. ‘Listen, mate. Neither of us is having a good day. That could all change. Join me. There’ll be good money for a bloke like you.’

Luke shook his head. ‘Tempting. I’m always in the market for good money, but you’re talking desertion here.’

‘You’re on your way out anyway. And who will ever know? Goody Two Shoes back there certainly isn’t ever going to be in a position to tell anyone anything. They’ll assume you went out of the train with her. They’ll just never find your body.’

Luke hesitated.

‘Think of the perks, man. No rules. No uniform. Just get the job done – how doesn’t matter – collect your pay, have a couple of good nights, and then do it all again. Don’t say that doesn’t appeal.’

‘They’d track me down and then I’d be against the wall with all the other lowlifes.’

‘Well, if desertion’s a step too far, then just let me go. I overcame you and escaped.’

Luke hunched a shoulder. ‘She wouldn’t believe that for a second.’

‘I keep telling you. Half an hour’s fun and then she’s out the door. Literally. Not that she’ll care by then. No downside. What do you say?’

‘I’m saying I’d want a lot more information before making a decision like that. Who do you work for?’

‘Tell you when you’ve made the jump.’ He sniggered. ‘Not literally. This is your big chance. Kick Hay into touch, start thinking for yourself and make some real money.’

Luke wavered. ‘How much money?’

‘A lot. For instance, for this job, I’m getting three times the Time Police rate and a bonus on completion.’

‘Successful completion, I assume?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘What do you get for unsuccessful completion? A bullet in the brain?’

‘Dunno,’ Sawney said carelessly. ‘Never happened so far. Look – let me go and enjoy the benefits. We both win. Or spend the rest of your life being treated like second-rate shit by the likes of her.’ He motioned with his head again. ‘I tell you, Parrish, the Time Police is no place for real men to be these days. Not any longer. Bloody place is being run by women. There used to be a good joke among some of the guys – why do female TPOs have legs? To stop them leaving slimy trails in the corridors.’

Luke made himself smile. ‘That’s very funny.’

‘So – let me go. We’ll find our friends and the bint, enjoy ourselves for a bit and then . . .’

‘Grint will be waiting for us at the next station.’

‘We’ll be gone long before then. Now let’s go and settle some scores.’

‘You’re practically salivating over that, aren’t you?’

‘Too bloody right I am. That bitch ended my career and now she’s going to pay.’

‘Tell me who you’re working for first. I notice you keep changing the subject.’

‘And I keep telling you – let me go and then I’ll tell you.’

‘Stalemate,’ said Luke. ‘So what happens now?’

‘What happens now,’ said Jane, appearing behind Sawney with Jay and Dev, ‘is that you’re under arrest, Sawney, you two-day-old turd, and we hand you over to Lt Grint at the next station.’

‘He hasn’t told us who he’s working for yet,’ said Luke.

‘He will,’ said Jane with confidence. ‘Grint will kick him from now back to our own Time. And if his foot gets tired, then I’ll do it myself. And once back at base, then Varma’s bound to want a go, and as soon as she gets her hands on him, he won’t be able to talk fast enough.’

Sawney spat at her and missed.

‘Arsehole,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘But don’t get too close, sweetie. Shoot him from a safe distance.’

Sadly, despite her inclination to take this advice, Jane was not granted the opportunity. A cornered Sawney was a dangerous Sawney. He exploded into action.

Really, reflected Jane afterwards, it hadn’t been their fault. She and Luke had done everything right. Not too close to the prisoner. Luke was covering Sawney, while Jane kept an eye on Jay and Dev. They’d both failed to factor in Sawney’s determination not to go quietly, his sudden realisation that Luke had been taking the piss, and his overwhelming hatred of Jane.

Unfortunately, Sawney himself fell into the same trap. He simply couldn’t make up his mind which of them to attack first. True, Luke was easiest to get to but Luke had a clear shot at him. Jane was closer but was partly concealed behind Jay and Dev. Almost certainly Luke was the easier target. But he hated Jane more. The split second’s indecision slowed his attack.

Theoretically Jane and Luke shouldn’t have had a problem. Sawney was between them. Jay and Dev could easily be elbowed aside, leaving both of them with a clear shot – problem solved.

The first thing that went wrong was that everyone moved at the same time. Correctly foreseeing what was about to happen, both boys tried to push past Jane to get out of the way, temporarily obscuring her view of Sawney.

‘Should have put them in restraints,’ said Bolshy Jane critically. ‘Too late now.’

Jane struggled to shove them out of her way.

Sawney threw himself at Luke and no one knew how that would have ended, but at that moment, the train gave a massive lurch over some points. There was widespread and simultaneous balance-losing on the part of everyone. Luke staggered sideways. Sawney went the same way. Jay fell against Jane who fell against the side of the carriage. Dev overbalanced and dropped to his knees, somehow managing to entangle himself with Sawney. Sawney was knocked forwards into Luke, who received the combined weight of Dev and Sawney and went down himself. Dev panicked, trying to get clear, and only managed to make things worse. Jane was struggling to extricate herself from Jay who, for reasons which no doubt seemed good at the time, was trying to get out of the door and back down the corridor, although where he thought he was going was anyone’s guess.

Luke’s legs were pinned by Dev, still scrabbling around trying to get up. Luke and Sawney were battling for possession of the weapon. Jane emerged from behind Jay, shouting, ‘Keep still, Sawney, or I’ll shoot you.’

The train lurched again. The internal door came off its hook and swung forwards, knocking into Jay, who knocked into Jane. Jane’s blaster, set to tight beam, discharged itself into the tall crate in the corner.

At exactly the same moment, as Sawney and Luke battled for possession, their blaster went off, and – with exactly the sort of luck that dogged 236 wherever they went – both managed to hit the unfortunate wardrobe-crate in exactly the same spot.

Something happened. Jane was never really able to describe it. She heard Sawney roar. Either with fear or fury. There was some kind of shock wave. Dust swirled about her, stinging her eyes. The air shimmered and she felt a sudden heat. Oh God, had they somehow managed to set the wardrobe on fire? Something else 236 would never live down.

Sawney had changed his tactics. Now he had abandoned his attempt to retrieve his weapon from Luke and was roaring and bucking, trying to free himself from the melee. He was shouting something about getting out. Getting out now. Now. It was going to blow.

Unexpectedly finding herself on the top of the heap, Jane rolled off Dev and pulled herself to her feet. The train was still trundling along, completely unconcerned with the drama currently being played out in carriage two’s baggage area.

‘Shit,’ said Luke, still sprawled on the floor but staring at the Milan crate in the corner. ‘What the hell?’

The crate had begun to shimmer, flickering in and out of focus. One of the Milano stickers scorched, curled, suddenly ignited itself and, still burning, fell to the floor.

Jay and Dev heaved themselves to their feet and stared in horror.

‘Back,’ said Jane, remembering they were prisoners and therefore her responsibility. ‘Get back. What the hell is that? What’s going on?’

Sawney scrambled to his feet. ‘Let me out. Let me out.’

He began to scrabble at the door. The sunny landscape continued to slide past the window.

‘Whoa,’ said Luke, grabbing at him. ‘What’s happening?’

‘It’s going to blow.’

‘What is?’

‘The pod. You shot the pod, you fucking idiots. You’ve done something. It’s going to blow and take this whole train with it.’

‘That’s a pod?’

‘That’s how you were going to get them off the train,’ said Jane, suddenly enlightened. She shook her head. ‘Can anyone else hear that? A sort of high-pitched hum? What is it?’ Her mind flew back to the briefing and North’s exasperation. Not the Taos Hum.

‘It’s the pod, you stupid cow,’ shouted Sawney. ‘I keep telling you – it’s going to blow.’

‘But it’s so small. It’s a fraction of the size of . . .’

‘We have to get out,’ he shouted, eyes wild with panic. ‘The whole train will go up.’

He wasn’t wrong. On the fortunately rare occasions when a pod exploded, it really didn’t muck about. Widespread and substantial were the words usually used to describe the damage. Unfortunate was another one.

There was something wrong with her eyes. And the crate. Its outline blurred. The hum began to rise in tone. The throbbing reverberated inside her head. Little dust devils swirled around the baggage area. Luke, nearest to the pod/wardrobe/crate/something, clutched at his head. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril. He struggled to one knee and gestured wildly. ‘Back, everyone. Get back. As far as you can.’

Jay and Dev backed towards the door. Jane paused to wait for Luke but was knocked aside in Sawney’s bid for freedom. Luke heaved himself to his feet and groped his way blindly towards her.

There was no bang, but another, larger shock wave knocked them all over. A sharp, hot wind blew in their faces. Jane felt her muscles tighten. Unbidden and horribly unwelcome, she had a sudden remembrance of Hay’s damaged face. The door had blown off her pod and exposed her to . . . something. This was not the moment for such a memory.

Worse was the corresponding sucking sensation as the wind gusted back the other way, blowing her hair around her face. She actually felt herself shift a few inches along the floor. Towards the thing that hurt her eyes. Which still weren’t working properly. Someone was screaming. Sawney? One of the boys? The sound was abruptly cut off, as if someone had slammed a door shut. The sudden silence was so profound that she later swore she had heard the sound of settling dust.

It was very tempting to just lie there forever. Why not? Her head and limbs felt so heavy it was very likely she wouldn’t be contributing anything useful to the situation anyway. Whatever the situation was.

With a huge effort, she rolled over and lifted her head.

The baggage area was a tangle of limbs and bodies. Again, Hay sprang to mind. She’d been discovered under a mound of melted, welded flesh. It had taken hours of surgery to free her from her former colleagues. She’d been the only one left alive of all of them.

Jane struggled to sit up. Her movement triggered others. Jay groaned and opened his eyes. ‘What . . . ?’

‘Just take a moment to recover,’ said Jane, more because she needed a moment to recover herself rather than any concern for her prisoners.

‘What happened?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

Jay’s eyes widened as he looked over her shoulder.

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

Still on the floor, Jane shunted around to look.

Shit indeed.

8

The tall crate – wardrobe – pod – whatever – had disappeared. Along with a large part of the carriage wall and roof, leaving a very large, irregularly shaped but perfectly smooth, neat hole in the side of the carriage. As if part of it had suddenly decided to be somewhere else but hadn’t wanted to make a fuss about it.

Worst of all – and definitely something they should be making a fuss about – Italy had disappeared. The sky was gone as well. Everything was gone. Other than the now suddenly much louder sound of the train itself.

‘Where’s it gone?’ shouted Jay, his voice cracking, although whether he was referring to the pod, the side of their carriage, Italy, or everything in general was unclear. He began to cry.

‘Stupid sod,’ shouted Sawney. ‘We’re in a tunnel. For God’s sake, stop bloody blubbing. You’re not a baby.’

Massive relief washed over Jane. How stupid was she? Of course they were in a tunnel. Any moment now they’d flash back into daylight again, and other than a substantial part of the baggage area now being missing, everything would be absolutely fine.

The carriage swayed, crowding her mind with concerns about structural integrity. Was it safe to remain in here? Could the remainder of the carriage disintegrate at any moment? Should they move back to the compartment perhaps? Instinctively she backed away from the hole. As did everyone else.

Sawney was still on his hands and knees, staring at the spot formerly occupied by the Milano crate. Jane could understand his concern. His getaway vehicle had just disappeared. He was now as trapped as the rest of them. And Grint would certainly be waiting for them at the next station. She felt a certain anticipation of events.

Luke was using the still-existing part of the carriage wall to pull himself to his feet. His clothes were dishevelled and covered in dust, but he still had hold of Sawney’s blaster which, Jane felt, was the most important thing just at this moment.

Which reminded her of her prisoners. Both Jay and Dev – whom even the Time Police would admit weren’t having the best of days – were huddled together against the wall, as far from the hole as they could manage, and showing no inclination whatsoever to make a break for it. She could safely leave them where they were for the time being.

The Time Police have a procedure for unexpected disasters. Well, actually, they have many, depending on the particular type of disaster currently confronting its officers. Most of them run along the lines of:

Review the situation.

Secure the area with best speed.

Secure or disable any prisoners.

Summon assistance.

If possible, remain in situ until assistance arrives.

Well, she’d reviewed the situation. She didn’t know what was going on and neither did anyone else. No need to secure the area. No one was going anywhere until the train stopped. Both prisoners looked as if they were about to faint at any moment, so no problem there. What next? Ah, yes. She opened her com to summon assistance. Nothing. Not even static.

Frowning, she cast her mind back. They’d been able to contact each other while in Rome. With hindsight, communication had been lost only when the train pulled into the station. She remembered seeing the tall crate standing ready to be loaded. Had the pod-thing generated some sort of dampening field? Perfectly possible, she supposed. She looked outside at the dark nothingness. Assessment completed. None of it helpful.

She tilted her head, listening. She could hear raised voices. The shock wave must have travelled all the way down the carriage. Perhaps down the entire train. One voice was clearly audible. One of the guards, perhaps, instructing everyone to stay calm and remain in their seats. He would work his way down the train and eventually end up here – in the baggage area with the big hole in it, when, no doubt, he would be demanding some sort of explanation. Jane racked her brains for a convincing reason as to how quite a substantial part of a railway carriage could just disappear.

Luke, apparently, had been having similar thoughts.

Turning his back on the damage, he said, ‘Sawney, when the guard turns up, lie down and shut your eyes. You’re unconscious. Don’t argue. Just do it. You boys – look terrified. Yes, that’s very good. Jane – you’re having hysterics because half the carriage just fell off. I’m your husband and pretty furious about the shoddy standards pertaining to Zanetti carriage-building. Remember, everyone, we’re rich and important people in an age when rich and important people invariably get their own way. Actually, not a lot has changed, has it? Places, everyone – he’s on his way.’

Jane put one hand to her face, one to her chest, and screamed. ‘Oh my God, where did it go? What’s happening? Save me. Somebody save me. Oh, look, this poor man is dead.’

She kicked Sawney until he closed his eyes and derived a great deal of satisfaction in doing so.

‘Keep screaming,’ shouted Luke, in English. He switched to Italian. ‘I’ll save you. Everything will be all right.’ He patted her arm and said in English, ‘Keep screaming, Jane. Keep the guard off balance. Remember we’re the injured party here. Just innocent passengers aboard a disintegrating train.’

The guard burst into the baggage area. An astonishing scene met his astonished gaze. An unconscious passenger – possibly dead. A screaming woman – well, that was what women did, wasn’t it? Two terrified young boys and . . .

His gaze slid past them. The missing wall. And some of the roof. The landscape that wasn’t flashing past because, at no more than one o’clock in the afternoon, it was completely dark outside.

He appealed to Luke – the least hysterical person present – demanding to know what had occurred.

‘Well,’ said Luke in careful Italian. His instinct was to slow the situation, calm the guard, convince him of their innocence and then . . . He had no idea.

‘Well,’ he said again. ‘We were here to check on our belongings.’ He made a vague gesture that could have encompassed the trunk, the packages, anything. ‘And suddenly the train . . .’ he groped for the word, demonstrating with gestures, ‘lurched.’

The guard nodded. The train had indeed lurched.

‘And at that same moment, part of the wall here . . . this part here . . . just . . . dropped off. It was a terrible shock. My poor wife. This gentleman . . .’ he indicated Sawney, ‘nearly fell from the train.’ He dropped to the floor beside him. ‘I think he might be dead.’

The guard paled. Dead passengers were even more of an inconvenience than live ones. He went to examine the dead passenger.

Jane clutched at his arm instead. ‘Sir, sir, what is happening? What has happened to the train? Are we all going to die?’

She spoke in English but her agitation was multilingual.

The guard became professionally calm. ‘Calm yourself, signora, the train is in no danger . . .’

‘But . . .’

For the guard, desperation inspired inspiration. As it frequently does. ‘The train has entered a tunnel. At any moment now we shall emerge into the glorious Italian sunshine. In the meantime, I must insist you return to your compartment. For your own safety. This part of the train is not safe for you. Come. Come.’ He made ushering gestures.

At this point, Luke thought it politic to discover ex-Lt Sawney was not, in fact, dead after all. He and the guard hauled him to his feet. Considerably relieved that he was not required to deal with a dead passenger on top of everything else, the guard remembered the boys. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Teenage boys and a big hole in his lovely carriage – well, it wasn’t the early-20th-century equivalent of rocket science, was it?

Assuming a stern expression, he addressed the boys. ‘You two – what mischief have you done here?’

Not understanding a word but very aware the majority of the catastrophe was their fault, Jay and Dev quailed.

Luke smiled reassuringly at the guard. ‘Boys, you know. They were here when we arrived.’ He mimed smoking a cigarette and winked.

‘Ah.’ The guard nodded understandingly – possibly he’d been young once – and then glared at the boys. ‘You must stay in your compartment. Understand?’

Not understanding at all but still thoroughly cowed, both boys nodded vigorously. The atmosphere lightened somewhat.

Until the same thought appeared to strike everyone simultaneously. This was a very long tunnel. A very, very long tunnel.

With a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, Luke turned to the guard. ‘How long is this tunnel?’

The guard opened his mouth. And closed it again. And opened it. And left it there. The answer was obvious. There was no tunnel.

‘Luke,’ said Jane, eyeing the pitch blackness outside. ‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Something is very wrong,’ said Luke. He gestured at the walls. ‘There are no lamps in this area – well, there are, but they’re not lit – and yet we can see perfectly well.’

‘I think . . .’ began Jane, and stopped, unwilling to put her thought into words.

‘So do I,’ said Luke grimly. ‘But not here. Let’s do as we’re told like good little passengers, shall we? You go first, Jane.’

Everyone followed Jane back to the compartment, where Sawney was deposited on a seat. The guard slid the door behind them with a snap, no doubt implying that they were all to stay put, and disappeared. To inspect the damage more thoroughly, Jane suspected.

‘The fuck?’ said Sawney, sitting up straight.

‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ said Luke. He stood over Sawney. ‘What the fire truck was in that crate?’

There was a pause. ‘It was a pod. A small one. Mocked up to look like a crate.’

‘I’d gathered that. Whose?’

‘Mine.’

‘I don’t think so. If anyone’s got second-rate unskilled labour written all over him, it’s you, Sawney. What’s going on? Speak up or I’ll throw you to whatever’s out there without a second thought.’

Sawney swallowed. ‘It’s experimental.’

‘Yes?’

‘To be able to jump from a moving surface.’

‘Who was going to jump from a moving surface?’

Sawney cut his eyes to Jay and Dev, who were both very pale, staring out at the darkness, saying nothing.

‘What about you?’

Sawney attempted to regain some of his cockiness. ‘What about me?’

‘Your role in this.’

‘Await instructions.’

‘Who from?’

He shook his head.

Luke let it go. Not important at the moment.

‘So you were here for these two,’ said Jane, nodding her head at Jay and Dev. ‘Then what?’

‘Send them off in the pod, disembark at the next station, return to Rome, find their pod and return in that one.’

‘To where?’

Sawney’s eyes shifted. ‘Dunno.’

Luke let that go too. Once Grint picked them up and got them back to TPHQ, Sawney would find himself confronting Officer Varma and the end of his world as he had known it.

‘To be clear,’ said Jane. ‘You encouraged these two to build a pod and jump to Rome as some sort of test. That done, you would meet them there, where you would commandeer them and their pod, use them to test a piece of equipment without any risk to yourself, and return in their now proved safe pod. You’re such a shit, Sawney.’

Sawney said nothing. Jane hoped his thoughts were full of Officer Varma and the jolly time they would have together.

Luke gestured vaguely in the direction of the former crate. ‘And that piece of equipment was designed to . . . ?’

‘To jump from one moving platform to another moving platform.’

‘It can be done,’ said Jane. ‘Jumping while in motion, I mean. I remember Matthew telling me his mother was once in a pod that was falling off a cliff and she managed an emergency extraction. Although it wasn’t fun.’

Luke stared thoughtfully at Sawney, who shifted under his gaze, saying, ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Luke. ‘Just a passing thought I’ve had.’

He frowned. If, as he suspected, Sawney worked for Henry Plimpton . . . and given Plimpton’s tendency to scavenge pods and people wherever he could find them . . . was he actually aware of that shambolic bunch of nutters known to the outside world as St Mary’s? How easy would it be for someone like Plimpton to . . . ? He roused himself. Think about that later. ‘Well, your pod worked, didn’t it?’

Sawney shrugged. ‘Did it? I just saw it disappear, taking half the bloody baggage area with it, thanks to you two disasters shooting at it. Delicate equipment, you know.’

Jane frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

Sawney ignored her. He didn’t do women and he wasn’t about to start now.

Dev put up his hand.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ said Jane wearily.

‘What?’ said Luke to Dev.

‘Well, I think I might . . . have an idea.’

They all looked at him.

‘Go on,’ said Luke. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Well . . . well . . . um . . . I don’t think the crate thing . . . the pod . . . I don’t think it jumped.’

‘It’s not here, stupid,’ sneered Sawney. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Actually, I think it is.’

‘Do you mean it’s invisible?’ said Jane swiftly. They’d encountered invisibility once before and Mikey had been lucky to survive.

‘No, no.’ Dev appeared to pull himself together. Staring at the seat and not making eye contact with anyone, he said rapidly, ‘I think we’ve got things the wrong way round. Given where we are – the Zanetti Train – and what just happened, I think the crate stayed put and we’re the ones who jumped. I think that when they come to search the track for this train, they’ll find a crate labelled for Milan and the missing part of this carriage . . .’

‘But not us.’

Dev swallowed. ‘No – because we’re here. Wherever here is.’

Jane stared out at the dark. ‘Are you saying we’re . . . ?’

Luke responded. ‘Travelling through Time and space – yeah.’

They stared at him. Jane swallowed. ‘We’re . . . what?’

‘It’s the train that jumped.’ He nodded to the darkness outside. ‘And is still jumping. Because it doesn’t know where to go.’

Jane felt a sudden chill. Now she regretted taking off her jacket. She shivered. ‘We could be . . . is it possible we could be like this forever? Because we don’t have a destination?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dev.

‘Why aren’t we dead?’ asked Jane. A frequently asked question in the Time Police.

‘I don’t know,’ said Luke. The traditional response. ‘Perhaps we are. Perhaps the Zanetti Train is taking us all to our . . . ultimate destination. We all know I’m probably going to hell – and Sawney here definitely is – so unless it drops you three off on the way, you’re all coming with us.’

‘Stop that,’ said Jane, slapping his arm. ‘These boys are scared enough.’ She paused and then added honestly, ‘As am I.’

The guard flashed past again, on his way to reassure more passengers, presumably. He shot them a suspicious look through the window.

‘Hang on,’ said Luke, and let himself out of the compartment. ‘Signor! Scusi!’

In the silence following his departure, Sawney stared balefully at Jane and shifted on his seat.

‘Sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane warningly.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jane. She toyed meaningfully with her baton.

Sawney sneered.

Very slowly, Jay and Dev moved as far away from him as possible in this enclosed space.

Jane smiled. ‘Come on then, Sawney. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’

‘Um . . .’ said Wimpy Jane. ‘I’m really not sure . . .’

The door slid open. ‘Jane, can I borrow you for a moment?’

Jane gestured at Sawney. ‘You want me to leave him unsupervised?’

Luke grinned. ‘Go on, Sawney – jump.’ He gestured at the dark nothing outside the window. ‘I dare you.’

Sawney glared again, sat back in his seat and folded his arms.

Jane followed Luke into the corridor. ‘What’s up?’

‘The guard is planning to work his way up to the engine to have a word with the driver and shut down the train.’

‘Is that wise? A moving train implies the possibility of a destination at some point, whereas if we stop the train we might never get it going again. Luke, we could be stuck in . . . this . . . forever.’

‘What does your watch say?’

Jane glanced at her wrist. ‘Nothing. It’s blank.’ She sighed. ‘I take your point, but even so . . .’

‘He doesn’t have to go outside. He’ll access the next carriage. He has a T-key for the doors. He’ll go to the front and climb over the tender. Find out what’s happening. Five minutes, he said. In fact, he might even have returned by now. Let’s go and see what he has to say when he gets back.’

They made their way to the front of their carriage and waited.

And waited.

The guard never came back.

9

‘I think,’ said Jane, seeking to fill the silence, ‘it might be a good idea to secure a source of light. Just in case. I know we can see at the moment, but suppose, suddenly, for some reason, we can’t. We really don’t want to be trapped in the pitch darkness with a bunch of panicking people. And Sawney.’

‘These carriages have the new electrical lighting,’ said Luke, looking around. ‘Controlled from the . . .’

He set off at a run back to the baggage area. Jane remembered a metal box by the door. Marked with a red lightning bolt.

There was a brief pause while Luke forced open the door, exposing several rows of enormous, old-fashioned and very unreassuring fuses, and underneath those, a large red trip switch in the off position. He pulled it down. Lamps flickered wildly overhead and down the corridor, causing even more consternation among already seriously alarmed passengers until, finally, they settled, sending out a dim glow.

‘There,’ said Luke. ‘No matter what happens outside, we’ll have light.’

‘Until the power runs out.’

‘How can it run out, Jane – no time is passing.’

Jane tried to find that reassuring.

Their first fears allayed – that no one was going to explode in a shower of dangerous electricity – those passengers confident enough to stick their heads out of their compartments were demanding answers. Where had the guard got to? And what was happening? Was this train safe? Why was it so dark outside?

The guard continued not to return.

‘He’s not coming back,’ said Jane eventually. ‘Is he?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Now what?’

Luke said nothing in the sort of way that says it all.

‘You’re not going out there,’ said Jane, easily able to follow the way his mind was working.

He continued to say nothing but in a thoughtful sort of way.

Jane was appalled. ‘Luke, no. You can’t go out there. Whatever is out there will kill you. Look what happened to Hay and her team when the door blew off their pod.’

‘No choice,’ he said. ‘The guard took the T-key with him. The only way now is to climb out of a window, up on to the roof and . . .’

‘And die,’ said Jane bluntly.

‘Not necessarily. Someone needs to contact the driver, Jane. The passengers are mostly aged fifty or above, which just leaves you or me. You won’t have the strength, so it’s me. Although I can’t say it’s my favourite option.’

He peered at the window, which showed nothing more helpful than his own reflection in the glass.

‘Luke, you mustn’t leave the carriage. You don’t know what’s out there.’

‘No choice, Jane.’

Barely had the words left his mouth than there was sudden light. A bright, hard, brilliant, blinding light. Jane threw up her arm to protect her eyes. For God’s sake – what was happening now?

She lowered her arm, blinking tears from her eyes. A dazzlingly white sun shone from a cloudless blue sky while an unfamiliar landscape flashed past their window. Gone were the cultivated fields, small villages nestling in gentle folds of countryside, lush vineyards and so forth. Now the terrain was rocky, jagged and steep. The mountains, hitherto on the horizon, had suddenly closed in around them.

‘We’re back,’ shouted Luke, lowering the window to peer, very cautiously, out at the landscape.

‘Back where?’ enquired Jane, not completely convinced that unknown mountains were any sort of improvement. ‘And when?’

There was a sudden commotion behind them and she turned to see another, unknown guard making his way along the corridor, besieged on all sides by panicking passengers who, not unnaturally, wanted to know what the hell was happening.

‘He must have come through from the third carriage,’ whispered Jane.

The guard halted and indicated they should stand aside so he could get through to the next carriage, gesturing with his T-key. A crowd of anxious people followed on his heels.

Luke assembled his Italian. ‘Good day.’

Again the guard gestured. People plucked at his sleeve and clamoured for answers. The guard shook them off.

Luke lowered his voice. ‘I’m actually quite relieved to see him, Jane. I really didn’t fancy doing the James Bond bit along the carriage roofs.’

‘So am I. I think,’ she said thoughtfully, surveying their fellow passengers – their deeply unhappy fellow passengers – ‘that someone needs to take charge, Luke.’

He nodded and drew the guard aside. The guard, grateful beyond measure that here was someone seemingly willing to take control, allowed himself to be drawn.

Luke positioned himself so as to mask the guard from the passengers. ‘What is your name?’

Possibly fearful he was about to be reported to the company for today’s unusual events, the guard swallowed. ‘Tommaso, sir.’

‘Well, Tommaso, I am about to tell you something astonishing and impossible. Please, for the sake of the passengers, remain calm and listen until I finish.’

The guard swallowed again.

Luke spoke slowly and very softly.

The guard gasped once, swallowed, gasped again, opened his mouth to refute everything he had just heard, glanced around at the evidence of his own eyes, closed his mouth again, swallowed again, and shook his head. ‘I am not convinced, sir, that this . . .’ he gestured around, ‘this . . .’ he gestured around again, failed to follow through with his sentence and began again. ‘It is impossible that . . . I cannot believe . . .’ He looked around, adding almost to himself, ‘And yet, here we are.’

‘Sir,’ said Luke. ‘You are familiar with this route, perhaps. Are you able to tell us where we are?’

‘It is astonishing,’ said the guard. ‘I cannot believe . . . but there can be no doubt . . . we have somehow . . . we should be somewhere between Rome and Florence, and yet . . . this is Lombardy.’

‘The Lombardy Tunnel?’ said Luke sharply.

‘Yes.’ The guard pulled out his watch, shook it, made an exasperated sound and tucked it away. ‘In about ten minutes.’

Luke showed him his own watch. Jane hers. The guard swallowed again and closed his eyes.

‘Sir,’ said Jane. ‘It is important that the train does not enter the tunnel. We must stop the train. Can you speak with the driver?’

Luke translated.

The guard shook his head. ‘I have tried. There is an alarm. Either it is not working, or for some reason, the driver is not attending.’

Jane looked at Luke. ‘You can’t go out there, Luke. Suppose it suddenly goes dark again. You’d be trapped.’

‘Jane, I don’t have to go outside. He has a T-key. I’ll work my way through the next carriage, stand in the far doorway and shout to the driver.’

‘And say what? Don’t you think if either the driver or the guard could have stopped this train then they would have? Luke, please don’t do this.’

‘I must. Someone has to try to establish contact with the driver and we only have ten minutes.’

‘Then I’ll come too.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Oh really? Fine for you but too dangerous for me?’

He looked down at her. ‘If anything happens to me, then you’re all we have left, Jane. Think about it.’

Jane did think about it. Then, reluctantly, she nodded and stepped back.

Luke took the T-key from the guard’s unresisting hand. Relief was written all over Tommaso’s face. Jane didn’t blame him in the slightest.

Reaching up, Luke inserted the key and opened the carriage door.

Jane braced herself but nothing happened. No one was whirled away to a shrieking death. Of course they weren’t – there was a socking great hole in the carriage back there and shrieking death hadn’t come looking for any of them then.

‘Pull yourself together, sweetie,’ advised Bolshy Jane. ‘If anything happens to our hero here then you’re completely on your own. With Sawney.’

The guard was showing Luke the handholds and where to put his feet. There was a small platform outside each door and it was simply a case of stepping from one carriage to the other, over the jolting, rattling couplings, on to the corresponding platform and using the T-key to open the second door.

Luke nodded, blew Jane a jaunty kiss and stepped out through the door. Which slammed shut immediately. Jane looked at Tommaso, who spread his hands in an it wasn’t me gesture. It didn’t matter anyway – they now had no way of opening the door.

She tried her com. ‘Luke, can you hear me?’

There was no response. She had no idea whether her com was working or not. Perhaps there was too much noise outside the carriage for him to hear her. Or her to hear him. Perhaps his hands were full and he had no chance to respond. Or her com had just given up.

Or perhaps he was gone. Like the first guard.

‘Yeah,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Like Luke Parrish is ever likely to go quietly.’

Jane and the guard waited in silence.

She stared at the floor, working it out in her head. A minute to get the second door open. Two minutes to get from one end of the carriage to the other. People would be shouting at him, asking questions, blocking his progress, demanding answers. There might be another guard to deal with. Luke would have to shoulder his way through that lot. A minute to get the next door open. And then what? He’d be confronted by the tender. Which would, at the start of their journey, still be piled high with coal. Would he be able to see into the cab? Surely either the driver or the firemen would be on the alert for some sort of communication. Perhaps the first guard was still with them, unwilling for some reason to make the return trip. How long had passed since Luke had slammed the door behind him? She cursed herself for not looking at her watch and then remembered it wasn’t working anyway.

He’s not coming back, she thought. Of course he’s not. The first guard didn’t, so why should he? Did he know this would happen? Was this his way out? Avoiding all the unpleasantness of the near future. The Luke Parrish equivalent of I’m just stepping outside. I might be some time.

How long had he been gone now? She tried to count down the seconds in her head, losing count at thirty because her brain wasn’t working properly.

She sighed and stirred. She and the guard looked at each other. He gestured at the door and grimaced. Actually, she did have another way of getting through. She pulled out her blaster. This door wasn’t going to cause her any problems at all and if she had to blast her way through the next carriage as well, then she would. Whatever it took.

Jane set her blaster to charge, watching the indicator light. She couldn’t hear it whining over the noise of the train. The light turned green. She was good to go. She raised her weapon and sighted on the door.

Which opened to reveal Luke Parrish. Dishevelled and gritty but intact. ‘Bloody hell, Jane, be careful with that thing. You could have had my eye out.’

Somewhat shakily she lowered her gun. ‘I was just about to come after you.’

‘With a loaded gun?’

‘Is there any other way?’

‘Even so, Jane . . .’

‘You took the key.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ He handed it back to the guard, who asked an urgent question, presumably concerning his colleagues.

Luke shook his head, saying slowly, ‘The driver and firemen are gone. The cab is empty. There is no sign of the other guard. I’m sorry. The passengers say he went out of the far door and never came back.’

Tommaso made a small sound and turned away.

Jane stepped aside to give him a moment to grieve for his friends and colleagues, saying urgently, ‘Luke – who’s driving the train?’

‘I think the train is driving itself.’

‘What?’

‘Keep your face calm, Jane.’

‘All right.’

‘The cab’s empty. The fire is blazing – it’s throwing out all the heat from hell – but the crew have vanished. I don’t know if they jumped or were . . . taken somehow.’

She swallowed. ‘What about the other passengers?’

Luke was wiping his face on his sleeve. ‘They’re all OK. Well, panicking and demanding to be returned to Rome this instant, but otherwise OK.’ He sighed and put his hand on Tommaso’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

It was obvious that although he’d unthinkingly spoken in English, the guard had understood what Luke was saying. He straightened up, dragged his sleeve across his eyes and nodded.

Jane turned to Luke. ‘What was it like out there?’

He tried to smooth down his hair. ‘Pretty hellish, Jane. The people in the next carriage . . .’ he nodded over his shoulder at the carriage behind him, ‘are well on the way to hysteria. Half of the passengers have barricaded themselves in their compartments and the other half are running up and down the corridor screaming and shouting. I explained the situation as best I could – and there are a couple of what I thought might be elderly army officers or public officials attempting to take charge. I left them to it. I got the door open at the other end and stood on tiptoe to see what was happening. The bloody train was screaming around me. Like something alive. I don’t know if you tried to call me up, but I wouldn’t have heard a word anyway. Wild horses couldn’t have induced me to step beyond the shelter of that carriage. I could feel the wind ripping through my hair. The wind was real because it was making my eyes stream but I could see clearly enough. The tender was empty, so God knows what’s fuelling the train. The plate door was open and I could see gigantic leaping flames. The fire’s roaring away even though there’s no fuel and no one’s tending it. I’m assuming it’s getting water somehow – otherwise the boiler’s going to blow. There’s a lever working itself – I don’t know if that’s good or bad – and the whole cab is lit up like the ante-room to hell. In fact, Jane, that was the general impression. This train is going to hell, Jane, and no one can get off.’

In the wonderful world of fiction, this would have been an excellent moment on which to end a chapter. Full of drama and suspense and foreboding. But Team Weird’s luck being what it was, of course that wasn’t the end of it.

‘So no one’s driving the train,’ said Jane.

‘I think,’ said Luke slowly, ‘this train knows where it’s going.’

Tommaso was looking out through the window. He turned and shouted something. Obeying his gestures, Luke and Jane peered out. The railway track was following a huge, wide curve towards what looked like a sinister gaping hole in the mountainside in the far distance.

The Lombardy Tunnel.

The same thought occurred to both of them simultaneously.

‘Come on,’ shouted Luke. ‘This is our chance.’

With Jane following in his wake, he pushed and shoved his way through the chaos back to their compartment. Nor was he gentle. People jumped to get out of his way. She could hear the guard apologising behind her.

Racing back to their compartment, he flung open the door. Ignoring Sawney, he dragged both Jay and Dev to their feet.

‘What’s . . . ?’ said Jay, and got no further before being shoved out into the corridor.

‘Move,’ shouted Luke. ‘Back to the baggage area. Now.’

‘But . . .’

‘I said now.’

They moved. All of them. Even Sawney.

‘What the fuck, Parrish?’

‘We’re coming up to the Lombardy Tunnel,’ said Luke, still pushing Jay and Dev ahead of him. ‘People jumped, remember? And survived. This is our chance to get off this fire-trucking train.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ shouted Sawney. ‘I’m not . . .’

‘Sawney, you can do as you please, but we’re jumping.’

‘No,’ shouted Jay, trying to escape Luke’s shoving. ‘The train is going too fast. It’s too rocky. We’ll fall down the mountainside and die. I don’t want to die.’

‘Tough,’ said Luke. ‘This is what happens to illegals who get involved in things they shouldn’t. You’re in my custody and I’m saying jump.’

Dev panicked, twisting in Luke’s grip. ‘No, I don’t want to jump either. It’s much too dangerous.’

‘Then stay here and be damned for all eternity,’ shouted Luke, who loved a good melodramatic moment as much as the next person, and the next moment they were bursting into the baggage area. The noise of the train was much louder than in the corridor. The sun streamed through the missing sections of carriage. Rocky scenery jerked past. The train whistled. Long and hard.

‘We’re coming up to the tunnel,’ shouted Luke, gingerly poking his head outside. ‘We know people jump and survive. It’s our only chance.’ He pushed Jay and Dev into position. ‘And you, Jane.’ He grabbed Jane and lined her up behind Jay and Dev. Jane stared, momentarily hypnotised by the landscape flashing past.

Sawney pushed past him. ‘No, you don’t. Those two are mine. I’m here for them and I ain’t going back without them.’

He went to shoulder Luke aside and grabbed at Jay’s arm.

Jay tried to pull back. Dev tried to pull Sawney’s arm away. Jane shouted a warning. They were all horribly close to the gaping hole in the side of the carriage. She could easily see the whole tangle toppling out through the door and landing badly.

The train was slowing. Was that because they were approaching a tunnel? And there were . . . were there. . . ? Yes, there were. There were people out there. Dotted in twos and threes. And a big group over there. All waving – happily waving. Not a you’re all going to die kind of wave. Of course, these must be the sightseers come to witness the new train entering the infamous Lombardy Tunnel.

The train shrieked again. They might have only seconds – and then it would be too late.

This was not the place for her blaster – the open side of a carriage was the last place for a gunfight – but she had her baton and she had Sawney and she had just cause. Flicking it open, she took a quick step to the side, catching Sawney just above his knee, at the same time shouting, ‘Step back, Sawney.’

He yelled and grabbed her, murder in his eyes.

‘Bad move,’ observed Bolshy Jane.

The train clattered on, its whistle sounding one long, shrill, ear-splitting note. To Jane, grappling with Sawney, the sound had taken on a sinister note. More scream than whistle. More . . .

She hooked her leg around Sawney’s ankle at exactly the same time as he tried to do the same to her. They both fell sideways back into the carriage. A jolt of pain spasmed up her leg.

‘Oh God, don’t let my leg be broken. Not now of all times.’

Sawney was a heavy man. She found herself almost helpless beneath him. His breath gusted in her face, stale and sickening. She jerked her head to one side just as his fist came out of nowhere, glancing off her cheekbone, and then thudded into the wooden floor. He yelled with pain. Jane convulsed, half throwing him off her. Luke completed the other half, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and hurling him aside with some force.

The whistle sounded again.

‘Quick,’ shouted Luke. He grabbed Jay and Dev.

Jane blinked. What was . . . ? Was there something wrong with her eyes? Blurriness from Sawney’s punch, perhaps? A faint white fog was drifting across the carriage floor. Or mountain mist?

Luke was pushing the two protesting boys towards the hole, shouting over the noise of the train.

‘Save yourselves. If you meet any of our colleagues, get down on the ground, put your hands on your heads and shout “I surrender” at the tops of your voices. You will almost certainly be the first people ever to do so and it’s probable our colleagues will be so stunned that they will refrain from shooting you. And watch out for the big bastard.’

He pushed hard. With one last despairing shout of, ‘I really don’t want to do this,’ both boys fell backwards through the hole and vanished from view.

Jane was kicking furiously to disentangle legs and skirt. They must not – absolutely must not – miss this, their only opportunity to get off the train. Luke reached for her. ‘Jane – grab my hand. Come on.’ His voice was faint, as if coming from a great distance. The humming was rising to a scream, echoed in the mad shriek of the train whistle.

‘Come on,’ shouted Luke. He hauled her to her feet. ‘Together, Jane. It’s now or never. On three.’

But it was too late. The mountainside hurtled towards them, the tunnel gaping wide. They were too close. Much too close. Tendrils of white mist curled through the baggage area like questing fingers. And now the tunnel was upon them. Swallowing the train whole.

Jane closed her eyes in despair. One chance. They’d had one chance to escape the Zanetti Train. And they’d missed it. Now they were trapped forever.

And then the world went black.

10

Back in Rome, the pitiless sun was still beating down on the railway yards. And on Team 235. Not so much on Officer Farrell, who had taken care to stand in Lt Grint’s not inconsiderable shadow. Grint turned away from the station, stepped back into the shade, dragged his forearm across his brow and looked over at Matthew, hunched over his scratchpad. ‘Reading still stable?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ Eyes still on his reading, he rotated slowly. ‘The pod’s over there.’

Socko nodded confirmation. ‘About two hundred yards to our right, sir. In among those piles of gravel and ballast, and suspiciously well concealed. For amateurs, that is. Rossi and Hansen are checking it out now. They report that so far there don’t appear to be any IEDs or unpleasant surprises in the immediate vicinity. They haven’t moved on to the pod yet or attempted to force an entry, and so far it appears inert and empty.’

‘Tell them not to touch anything. They’re to leave everything for the clean-up crew.’

‘Copy that.’

Grint opened his com and tried again. ‘Lockland? Report.’

Silence. Not even any static.

‘Lockland – can you hear me?’

More silence.

‘Parrish? Report?’

Even more of the same.

‘Farrell – see if you have better luck.’

Matthew nodded and moved twenty yards or so to his left, towards more open ground, to try for himself. He shook his head. ‘Still nothing, sir, but they might not be in a position to respond just at this moment.’

Barely had the words left his mouth than Luke’s staticky voice sounded in their ears.

‘. . . situation. Forget . . . Assistance requ— North end of . . .’ His voice was lost in another storm of static.

Matthew acknowledged. ‘On our way. Luke, can you hear me? We’re on our way.’ He looked over at Grint. ‘Not sure they got that, sir.’

Grint was already moving. ‘Rossi and Hansen will remain with the pod in case its owners turn up. Socko and Farrell – you’re with me. Stay sharp. It’s Two-Three-Six so God only knows what sort of trouble they’ve managed to get themselves into.’

Matthew briefly considered registering a protest but decided this was a not inaccurate assessment.

Socko stowed his gear. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘To the station. Move it.’

Lt Grint rarely bothered with finesse. He’d never seen the point. Today was very much another non-finesse day as he followed Parrish and Lockland’s route towards the platform, still easily identifiable by its bunting, band, smoke-shrouded train, and crowds of inconvenient people. He and Socko shouldered their way through with Matthew following in their wake. After a while people got the message and began to part of their own accord, considerably speeding their progress.

Grint was a big man, easily able to see over most people’s heads. Unfortunately most heads – male and female – were obscured by fire-trucking hats. Crane their necks as they might, they could see no sign of Lockland, Parrish or their illegals.

Matthew tried his com again. ‘Luke, Jane – report.’

Again static. He frowned. Electricity was still in its infancy in 1911. Where could this interference be coming from? He tried again. ‘Hansen? Can you hear me? Is the illegal pod somehow interfering with our coms?’

There was no response.

Grint shook his head and motioned the three of them to the shelter of an iron pillar and took a moment to assess the situation calmly and professionally, telling himself that Lockland being involved made absolutely no difference to Time Police procedures. Not in any way. And that progress was rarely achieved by running around like headless chickens. The Time Police left that sort of thing to St Mary’s.

He stared around – no Lockland, no Parrish, no illegals – nothing.

Matters were not improved by the presence of what he assumed was the Zanetti Train. A big beast, he thought, dark and sinister. The word satanic had not, until that moment, been in his vocabulary, but it might be now. The monster was belching clouds of steam and smoke and substantially curtailing visibility.

Equally unhelpful were the milling crowds. Other people were never top of Grint’s List of Things to Love. Which, in itself, was very short, having, so far, only three names on it, and one of those was his cat who had died when he was young.

At the other end of the platform, the train whistle blew. Even more steam hissed. The train was preparing to depart.

He raised his voice over the noise of the train, the people and the ever-enthusiastic band. ‘Tag readings, Farrell?’

‘They’re here,’ reported Matthew, who had never ceased consulting his equipment. ‘No clear readings, but both of them are definitely within a hundred-yard radius.’

Heedless of what people might think, Grint jumped up on the baggage cart, which groaned and sagged under his weight.

Matthew shouted up at him. ‘Their tag readings are intermittent. There’s some source of interference nearby.’ He waved his tag reader again. ‘If they’re not on the platform, sir, there’s only one place they can be.’

With one accord the three of them turned to look at the train. As if it felt their gaze, the train unleashed an ear-splitting whistle and hissed a great cloud of steam. Mighty pistons pumped. The train jerked hard and began to pull out of the station.

Matthew stared, open-mouthed. This could not be happening.

Grint jumped down and calculated the distance between himself and the train, taking into account the near-solid wall of cheering people between it and him. Had the train been longer, he might have risked it, but the third carriage was already pulling past.

‘Fire truck.’

Oblivious to curious stares around them, he kicked the blameless baggage trolley. ‘Fire-trucking fire truck. Back to the pod.’

He set off at a run, the other two at his heels, barging their way through anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way.

Hansen and Rossi were waiting for them as they regrouped in the shade of their pod. Grint chugged back some water and wiped his face.

‘Hansen, you and Farrell take Two-Three-Six’s pod and get back to TPHQ. Shut up, Farrell, and do as you’re told. Check out who’s available as back-up. Hansen, if you can’t get Ellis then go to Hay. Report what’s happened and return with the clean-up crew. Rossi, Socko and I will jump to the next station and intercept the train there. Any questions?’

‘Rendezvous point, sir?’

‘The next station.’

‘And if you’re not there?’

Grint opened his mouth to tell him of course they’d be there and then closed it again. ‘If we’re not there, then . . .’

Yes, that was a point. Where?

Inspiration struck.

‘The tunnel. We know two people jump. If they’re still on the train at that point, then it’ll be them. Bound to be. The Lombardy Tunnel.’

Heads nodded.

‘Right, everyone – let’s move.’

On returning to TPHQ, Hansen’s first action was to request the whereabouts of Major Ellis.

‘Not here,’ said the mech, as he shut down their pod. ‘He’s taken a team off to Easter Island. Someone’s stealing the moai and selling them off as garden ornaments.’

‘Bollocks.’ Hansen opened his com. ‘Captain Farenden, please. Sir, Lt Grint has instructed me to report to Commander Hay immediately. Yes. On my way.’

He shut down his com and turned to the mech. ‘What’s happening with . . . you know . . . Curtis, Kelly and the others.’

The mech rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘I just did.’

‘And I said don’t.’

Hansen eyed him speculatively and decided his instructions were more urgent than punching someone’s silly head in, but silently vowed revenge at an unknown but not too distant date.

At a nod from Hansen, Matthew disappeared to check whether Mikey’s rapidly hardening string was yet ceasing to do what it said on the tin. He exited the Pod Bay while Hansen made his way straight to Captain Farenden’s office. Who listened carefully, told him to help himself to a coffee and wait, and let himself into Commander Hay’s office.

‘Yes, Charlie?’

He winced. ‘Ma’am, I’m not entirely sure how to tell you this.’

Hay continued writing. ‘Well, to hazard a wild guess, an unknown number of officers – but certainly including members of Team Two-Three-Six – are even now aboard the Zanetti Train and hurtling towards certain destruction and the complete annihilation of Time and space.’

‘Yes, ma’am. How did you know?’

‘An out-of-control ghost train ricocheting around history leaving chaos and panic and disaster in its wake? Where else would they be? My only astonishment is that there’s anyone actually left here in TPHQ.’

‘To be fair, ma’am, that might be only because a large number of them are still glued to the fixtures and fittings.’

Hay sighed and laid down her pen. ‘Is that Hansen out there? Ask him to come in, please.’

Hansen hastily swallowed the last of his biscuit and complied.

‘So, officer, what are Lt Grint’s immediate plans?’

‘Well, ma’am, his stated intention was that he, Kohl and Rossi will jump to the next large station on the route and endeavour to intercept the train there. In the meantime, I’m to take a clean-up crew back to deal with the illegals’ pod – and possibly the illegals themselves when they return.’

Hay looked at Farenden. ‘I’m assuming we do actually have a transportable clean-up crew available?’

‘Several, ma’am, fortunately. I’ve put Twenty-Nine on standby for you, Hansen. Collect them when you’re ready.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Hay nodded. ‘Thank you, Hansen. Good luck.’

She waited until the door had closed behind him. ‘In the not unlikely event of everything going tits up, Charlie, where and when do we have definite sightings of this infernal train?’

Farenden consulted his scratchpad. ‘Well, according to Lt North’s very excellent briefing notes, and working chronologically in terms of reported sightings, the next stop is a monastery in Modena, at some Time in the Middle Ages.’

‘Which monastery? And when?’

‘Very good questions, ma’am. And one which Lt North is very much better suited to answering than I.’

‘Put her on it. Get them to narrow it down as much as possible. We don’t have the time or the manpower to ricochet around Modena looking for a specific monastery and a ghost train.’

‘I have to say that does sound rather fun, ma’am.’

‘Well, the way things are going, we might very well find ourselves the last two officers standing. Literally.’

‘In which case, ma’am . . . Field trip?’

‘Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.’

‘Will you send reinforcements, ma’am? In case Grint’s team have to split up? And it could be useful for them to have a second pod.’

‘Yes, I think the time has come to unleash Officer Varma, don’t you? Tell her she can choose her own team. Asap, please, Charlie.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Meanwhile, in the corridor between the Pod Bay and Mikey’s workshop . . .

The public areas of TPHQ are painted in stunning shades of beige and grey and adorned with tastefully soothing prints of London through the ages – the thinking being, presumably, to induce feelings of calm and tranquillity among public, prisoners and officers alike.

The same scheme is extended through the non-public areas – with the exception of the tasteful prints, of course. Apart from notice boards, fire extinguishers and the occasional spray of blood, most walls at TPHQ are boringly bland. Naked even.

Not so the walls in the corridor outside the Pod Bay. A total of ten officers hung from them – like the worst surrealist exhibition ever, as Mikey had unhelpfully informed them – all encased in a tangled web of what looked like hard, bright yellow, rubber-smelling spaghetti.

Two more officers lay on the floor. One appeared to have been laminated thereto and was immoveable – TPOs coped with this by simply stepping over him, laughing their heads off as they did so – and the other was the not very much more mobile Officer Curtis, currently maintaining a humpback bridge position with his bum in the air. Indelicate remarks had abounded. TPOs are not noted for their sensitivity, style or rapier-like wit.

They’d all been here for some time and it would be fair to say things were not proceeding well. Or even at all. Matthew found Mikey standing there, hands on hips and surveying what everyone had taken to calling her victims.

‘I’ve been sent to help. We need additional people asap.’

Mikey made a gesture of frustration. ‘I don’t understand it. The effects should have worn off long ago. I estimated the restraint time would be between seven and seventeen minutes, depending on ambient temperature, distance of the sprayer from the sprayee, weather conditions and so forth . . .’ She tailed away. ‘There’s no way you lot should still be glued to the walls.’

Officer Rockmeyer regarded her balefully. ‘Are you saying it’s our fault?’

‘Well, I can’t help wondering.’

Curtis struggled futilely. ‘I swear, Meiklejohn – when I get out of this . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Mikey vaguely, her mind still running on her brainchild’s inexplicable failure to perform as intended. ‘Threatening to tear my head from my shoulders the second you’re free is no incentive, you know.’ She paused again. ‘I’m thinking chainsaw . . .’ and disappeared into her workroom.

Officer Curtis’s struggles increased tenfold. To no avail.

Matthew tapped on Kelly’s – for want of a better word – carapace.

‘It’s not showing any signs of softening enough to free you. Or even softening at all. I suppose we could chip at it with chisels. Bit time-consuming, though.’

Mikey reappeared with a rusty spray can but mercifully minus the chainsaw.

‘I found this,’ she announced.

‘What is it?’ demanded Kelly.

‘Um . . . probably best if you think of it as solvent. Yes, solvent.’

‘A solvent to solve everything,’ said Matthew brightly.

Kelly informed him he’d just been added to his list of people to be dealt with as soon as he was free to do so. Matthew waved this aside as unlikely ever to happen.

‘What does it do?’ enquired Rockmeyer.

Mikey frowned. ‘Well, I’m not too sure, so I think we should proceed with caution. I’ll just spray a very small area to begin with and we’ll see what happens, shall we?’ She placed herself in front of Kelly. ‘Let’s see . . . where’s the best place to start?’

‘Nowhere,’ said Kelly, in some agitation. ‘What sort of idiot are you? Try it out on something inanimate first. A chair or a clean-up crew or something. String them and then try out this . . . solvent.’

‘I used up my whole supply of string,’ said Mikey sadly. ‘It’ll take me at least another day to make some more and Charlie Farenden’s passing on the grief he’s getting from Hay, so . . . here goes.’

‘No,’ began Kelly on a rising note of protest, but it was too late. He squinted down at Mikey carefully spraying the string encasing his left boot. There was a sharp smell of . . . something.

‘Can I smell cat’s pee?’

‘No,’ lied Mikey.

Everyone stopped complaining and watched to see what would happen next.

Nothing happened next.

More minutes passed. Still nothing happened. Interest waned.

‘Bugger,’ said Mikey, disappointed but unsurprised.

‘Well, he still has his foot,’ said Matthew, ‘so not a complete failure.’

‘No,’ said Mikey, ‘but I was hoping for some sort of reaction.’

She bent down and peered closely at Kelly’s foot. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s my foot,’ said Kelly helpfully. He squinted downwards. ‘Is something happening to my foot? What’s afoot with my foot?’ He began to giggle. ‘What’s afoot? About twelve inches.’ He giggled some more. The effect was disconcerting. ‘Hey, Farrell – the game’s afoot.’

Alongside him, Oti began to laugh. ‘Let’s hope your foot doesn’t drop off because then we’d have – ta-da – footfall.’

A couple of other officers apparently thought this was hilarious.

‘And,’ added Rockmeyer, ‘it’s a wonderful opportunity to shoot ourselves in the foot. Or someone else’s foot.’ Overcome by his own wit, he hung from the wall, laughing hysterically. He wasn’t the only one.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Matthew, staring around. ‘Fumes? Side effects?’

Mikey’s com chirped. Hay’s voice sounded. ‘Progress report, Meiklejohn.’

‘Um . . .’ said Mikey.

On the wall opposite Kelly, another officer began to chuckle. As did Matthew.

‘Um . . . well . . .’ said Mikey. ‘Not a great deal of progress so far, but spirits are high.’

‘GIVE ME BACK MY OFFICERS, Meiklejohn, OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.’

‘OK,’ said Mikey.

‘Can I hear laughter?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Mikey, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of giggling officers. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She shut down her com and bit off a giggle. ‘Shit, I think I’ve got it too. I wonder what was in that spray.’

While the whole corridor was still full of glued officers, it would be true to say they were now very much more cheerful about it. Many of them were enjoying a jolly good guffaw. The corridor rang with unfamiliar Time Police merriment.

‘Holy fire truck,’ shouted Varma, appearing at the door leading from security. ‘Keep the bloody noise down, can’t you? There’s people trying to work in here.’

She eyed the laughing officers. ‘What the . . . ?’ She sniffed, disappeared and returned a moment later, wearing a filter.

Striding forwards, she seized Mikey’s spray can from her grasp and threw it back into security, shouting, ‘Schwartz, get the Senior Mech to turn on the filtration system, will you? Full power. Keep all the doors closed. These morons are trying to gas us all.’ She carefully closed the door behind her and turned to address her esteemed colleagues. ‘Idiots – every single one of you.’

‘Hey,’ said Mikey in protest. Her eyes filled with tears. Her lip quivered. ‘Don’t be so unkind.’ A tear ran down her cheek. Then another.

‘That was an awful thing to say,’ said Oti reproachfully.

Rockmeyer burst into tears. ‘You’re a horrible person, Varma,’ he sobbed.

Varma stared around. ‘What the fire truck . . .’

Someone further down the corridor informed them his dog had died last week and he hadn’t been there. Sobbing colleagues attempted to comfort him.

‘Shit on a stick,’ muttered Varma, somewhat muffled behind her mask. ‘I work with idiots.’

A door at the end opened to reveal the Senior Mech.

‘Filter,’ shouted Varma. ‘Unless you want to end up sobbing your heart out over your first love.’

The Senior Mech disappeared back into his own domain.

‘His first love was probably a rusty old engine,’ sniffed Matthew.

‘That’s so sad,’ whispered Mikey. ‘Poor, poor man.’

Audibly praying for patience – NOW – Varma turned to go and fell over Curtis, a weeping heap on the floor. She eyed him thoughtfully, considerably dismaying Officer Curtis who, between heart-rending sobs, demanded to know why she was looking at him like that.

‘I’ve had an idea.’

‘Is it a Brilliant Idea?’ asked Matthew, brightening up considerably. ‘My mum has those. They’re . . .’ He searched for a word. ‘Brilliant.’ He began to giggle again.

Audibly praying for strength – NOW – Varma opened her com. ‘Trainee Tucker? Stop whatever you are doing and report to me outside security. If Trainee Clore is with you, then bring him, too. Both of you wear filters and bring a spare helmet.’

The overhead vents came on, blasting cold air into the enclosed space.

Officers began to cry because they were cold.

Cautiously, a door opened to reveal a masked Tucker. Behind him stood Clore, similarly masked and holding a helmet. They regarded the alternately laughing and sobbing officers with mild astonishment.

‘I told you working here would be interesting,’ said Tucker to Clore. He addressed Varma. ‘You wanted me? I said you would one day, didn’t I?’

Varma ignored this. She pointed to the suddenly very apprehensive Curtis. ‘Can you lift him? Both of you?’

Officer Curtis tried to draw himself up into a defensive ball and failed miserably. He began to weep again.

Tucker and Clore regarded him with astonishment. ‘Is it safe to touch him?’

‘No idea,’ said Varma. ‘That’s why I’m using you two to find out.’ She gestured at the pair of them. ‘Trainees. Expendable.’

‘Yeah,’ said Clore. ‘We can lift him. Easy. Then what?’

‘Throw him down the stairs.’

Curtis shrieked.

Tucker looked around. ‘What stairs?’

‘Find some and throw him down them.’

‘OK. Going to tell us why?’

Varma rapped on Curtis’s carapace. ‘This stuff is rigid. I can’t go with my first impulse, which is to hit him with a lump hammer . . .’

‘I still think chainsaw,’ put in Mikey. ‘I know I’ve got one somewhere but I can’t find it just at the . . .’

‘NO CHAINSAW,’ shouted Varma. ‘I can’t believe I’ve had to tell you that. You people . . .’ She made a gesture that encompassed all of them. ‘Idiots – all of you.’ She took a deep breath and strove for inner calm. ‘But, chucking him down the stairs might do the trick.’

‘It might kill him.’

‘The hard shell will protect him.’ Unwisely, she added, ‘Like a turtle,’ and half a dozen fume-crazed officers broke into the theme tune of a popular children’s series, finishing with a snappy, ‘Heroes in a half shell.’

Varma strove again for inner calm.

Tucker peered down at his potential victim. ‘Head?’

Clore held up the helmet. ‘Helmet.’

‘OK. Clore, you take that end. Up you come, sunshine.’

‘No,’ shouted Curtis. ‘I did not sign up for this.’

‘You can write a letter of complaint to my supervisor,’ said Varma. ‘Oh – wait – he’s not here. I’m the one in charge at the moment. Make sure you spell my name correctly or I’ll throw you down the stairs myself. Onward, gentlemen.’

Clore and Tucker picked up the wildly protesting Officer Curtis, followed by Varma, Mikey, Matthew and acquiring a trail of interested spectators as they made their way through the Pod Bay. Bets were placed as to the probable outcome. And also because Officer Curtis was well liked and many officers wanted to say a personal goodbye.

The short flight of stairs to the locker rooms being deemed inadequate, they removed their filters and squeezed into the lift – Trainee Clore was forbidden to use Officer Curtis as a stool – and Varma pressed the button up to the ground floor.

‘Head for the stairs behind the interview rooms,’ instructed Varma as they exited. ‘We don’t want members of the public to see us throwing people down the stairs.’ She paused to reconsider this sentence before adding thoughtfully, ‘Although . . . no. No, we probably don’t.’

Arriving at the top of a long flight of concrete stairs deemed suitable for their purposes, they paused to take stock.

‘How do you want to do this?’ enquired Tucker. ‘Do we roll him? Or drop him? Or hurl him with considerable force?’

‘Or not at all,’ shouted Curtis.

They ignored him.

‘Minimum force to begin with,’ said Varma. ‘Roll him.’

‘Fire truck off, the lot of you,’ shouted Curtis, red-faced with his efforts to break free.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Mikey cheerfully. ‘If it doesn’t work, your hardened string will protect you, and if it does work, then you’re free.’

‘Oh God,’ moaned Curtis.

‘Ready,’ shouted Tucker. ‘On three . . .’

‘Wait,’ shouted Matthew, arguably the most sensible person present. Which wasn’t saying much. ‘Don’t forget his helmet.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Varma, indicating appropriately. ‘Sorry.’

She addressed the now helmeted Officer Curtis. ‘All right – when you’re ready, gentlemen.’

‘Three,’ said Tucker.

A wailing Officer Curtis disappeared over the edge.

They heard him bounce from step to step. The noise seemed to go on for a very long time.

And then there was silence.

11

Arriving in Florence, Grint’s team was approaching the Maria Antonia railway station. No one felt inclined to linger in the sun – too bloody hot – and so they had only a very quick impression of their surroundings. Long, low, light-coloured buildings with a large clock tower rising up out of the roof was the best description they could come up with afterwards. A short line of horse-drawn cabs huddled under the shade of a strategically planted tree. People scurried everywhere. Piles of apparently abandoned luggage impeded everyone’s progress. Harried porters trundled trollies and shouted at each other as they wove their way through groups of chattering travellers.

‘Are we sure the train will stop here?’ enquired Grint, surveying the scene through probably anomalous sunglasses as they approached the station. ‘Are we even on the right line?’

‘I believe so, sir,’ said Rossi. ‘One moment.’

He disappeared into the throng and was glimpsed, several minutes later, enjoying an animated conversation with a smartly uniformed official sporting a magnificent moustache and the biggest epaulettes in the entire history of the world.

‘We’re in the right place,’ he said, emerging a few minutes later and blinking in the sunshine. ‘Most of the people here have turned up to see the new train.’

‘Will it stop here?’

‘It will – not for passengers, he made that very clear – but so people can view and admire the new train. There’s no boarding allowed but that shouldn’t bother us. Best of all – from our point of view – they’re actually letting people into the station without having to buy a platform ticket – which is just as well since we don’t have any money and we don’t really want to have to start shooting people at this stage, do we?’

His colleagues’ expressions did not indicate complete agreement with this very non-Time Police point of view.

‘It’s so bloody hot,’ complained Socko, who was beginning to turn an unprofessional pink. ‘When does the train get in?’

Rossi glanced up at the giant clock on the roof. ‘In about twenty minutes. On the other hand, Italian trains are not famous for their punctuality.’

‘Didn’t Mussolini come to power because he promised to get the trains running on time?’

Rossi grimaced. ‘Well, yes and no. Most of the improvements had been set in hand long before he came to power, but you could say that an improved railway system and Mussolini coincided. As political leaders everywhere have always done, he took the credit for someone else’s foresight.’

‘Can we go inside?’ enquired Socko. ‘I think my boots are beginning to melt.’

‘They’re going to stare at us,’ said Rossi. ‘We’re a mixed bunch wearing strange clothes.’

‘Just don’t catch anyone’s eye,’ instructed Grint. ‘Remember, we’re the Time Police and we have a right to be here.’

‘Always works for St Mary’s,’ said Rossi cheerfully.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ argued Socko. ‘Nothing works for that bunch of half-wits, and their assignments invariably degenerate into chaos, tsunamis, dinosaurs, explosions, volcanoes, riots . . .’

‘Inside,’ ordered Grint, before this vivid description of St Mary’s-generated disasters could degenerate into an hour-long monologue.

Not only did the platform not have a metal roof, but since all railway stations everywhere are invariably sited to catch the prevailing winds and rain, a breeze rendered conditions slightly more pleasant than in Rome.

They waited patiently for perhaps ten minutes. And then slightly less patiently for another ten. Surprisingly, they didn’t attract as much attention as they thought they might. Most people were staring down the track. Others consulted watches, comparing them with the big clock hanging above the platform. Harassed-looking officials emerged from one door, consulted with each other and disappeared through another. Another group stared fixedly at the clock as if they were afraid to take their eyes off it. There was a general air of consternation.

‘Something’s happening,’ said Grint, drawing his team back against the wall. ‘Rossi – you’re Italian. Go and find out.’

With what he fondly imagined was a pleasant smile, Rossi approached a group of uniformed officials, indulged in more animated conversation for a few minutes and then returned, looking worried.

‘Sir, they’re trying to keep a lid on it, but there’s a hell of a panic going on. Someone said something and they jumped on him pretty sharpish, but it would appear the train’s gone missing.’

Grint was conscious of his slowly accelerating heart rate. Nevertheless, his voice remained calm. ‘How?’

‘They don’t know. They’ve sent people up and down the line and they’re telegraphing every town between here and Rome, including signal boxes, junctions, some of the smaller stations – there’s nothing, sir. We know the train left Rome – we saw it go – but no one has reported seeing the Zanetti Train come through.’

Grint stared at his feet and considered his options. Should his team remain here? The train was scheduled to pass through the station, so it must turn up sooner or later. Had it somehow been derailed or broken down? Should they backtrack to look for it and risk missing it here? No. If they started jumping around, there was the very real possibility of missing it altogether. He sighed. There was only one definite, positive sighting of the train. One place they knew it would be.

He lifted his head. ‘Come on.’

He began to stride towards the exit.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘The one place we know the train is sighted. The Lombardy Tunnel.’

Rossi raised a mild query. ‘But it’s not due there for ages. We could be waiting for hours. Wouldn’t it be better to . . . ?’

Grint cut across him. ‘Then we’ll wait. Back to the pod, everyone.’

They followed him out of the station, back to the pod and treated themselves to some water. Grint drummed his fingers until the AI announced it had calculated the coordinates, then he looked around.

‘Everyone ready?’

His team nodded.

‘Then let’s go. Pod, commence jump procedures.’

‘Jump procedures commenced.’

The world flickered.

14th July 1911. The Lombardy Tunnel.

Everyone clustered around the screens. They’d landed in a steep-sided rocky valley. Behind them, the very nearly vertical rocky mountainside reared high into the cloudless sky. Directly opposite them, the railway track curved gently in a wide, wide bend before disappearing into what looked like a cave they could only hope was the entrance to the Lombardy Tunnel. Between the track and the pod, the ground dropped precipitously into a rocky ravine, at the bottom of which a small, fast-flowing river tumbled whitely over smooth wet stones some distance below.

‘The train left Rome only an hour and a half ago,’ said Grint. ‘Less than that. God knows how they’ve managed to lose it already, but they have. Someone calculate how long it will take a steam locomotive to arrive here.’

Rossi bashed at his scratchpad and came to much the same conclusion as Luke Parrish. ‘Even without stops to take on coal and water – a while. We could get our heads down for a bit.’

‘No, we couldn’t,’ said Grint. ‘There’s something odd going on here and I want to know what it is. We’ll do a sweep, find ourselves a good spot and put together a plan. Engage the camo device and let’s go.’

If they had expected to have the place to themselves, they were mistaken. Rounding a bend in the path, they discovered people everywhere. Some were scattered in family groups around the rocky slope, but most were gathered at a spot on the hillside where the well-worn goat track widened out into flat ground, giving them a good view of both track and tunnel. Grint assumed everyone was here to see the train. The gathering had the air of a grand day out. People took advantage of the shade offered by a clump of bedraggled-looking pines and perched on rocks with cheerful checked tablecloths spread on the ground around them.

‘They’re having picnics,’ said Socko in disbelief.

‘And we’re on the wrong side of the river,’ said Rossi. ‘We need to be over there at the entrance.’ He peered down into the ravine. ‘Can we get across? There’s no bridge.’

‘We have to,’ said Grint, leading the way.

Watched by the interested population, they began to clamber downwards. Shouts echoed off the rocky walls.

‘What are they saying?’ said Grint, looking for somewhere to put his left foot.

Rossi listened for a moment. ‘Um . . . well . . . mostly it’s variations on what the fire truck do you lunatics think you’re doing?’

‘Good question,’ said Grint. ‘Someone try and think of a good answer.’

He continued his graceless scramble downwards, scraping his fingers and banging his elbows and knees. Eventually, hot, panting and dusty, they all reached the bottom of the gorge.

Here the world was much more pleasant. Green things grew in nooks and crannies. Spray from the river rendered the air cool, damp and refreshing.

Socko inspected his bleeding palms and then stared gloomily to the other side of the ravine. Down here, the river appeared much wider and deeper and faster and noisier than it had from up there. High above them, the picnickers opened more bottles of wine and watched with interest.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Rossi, who counted fell-walking on his List of Things To Do Should I Ever Have a Day Off. ‘With your permission, sir. Everyone follow me. Put your feet where I do. Do not fall into the water. It will be icy and you will be swept away to a painful death.’

He stepped on to a rock, looked around and then, arms extended for balance, selected another. Socko followed him and Grint brought up the rear. Slowly and carefully they made their way from rock to rock. The flow was too fast for moss or weeds to make the rocks slippery, but a few of them were under the surface and the river was both very fast and very cold.

They so very nearly made it. Every safe step brought a cheer from the onlookers. But not as big a cheer as when Socko trod on a loose rock which tilted and threw him into the river. He shouted at the shock of the cold water. Rossi made a grab for him. Grint made a grab for Rossi. Socko, who had already disappeared beneath the surface, was somehow prevented from being washed away and was able to grip Rossi’s hand long enough to enable Grint to heave him out and drape him across a handy rock to get his breath back. And without any more of them falling in.

The crowd applauded.

‘Permission to shoot them, sir,’ stuttered Socko, shivering with cold.

‘Later,’ said Grint. ‘We have other priorities. Keep going, and for God’s sake, look where you’re going.’

Their safe arrival on the other side prompted another, longer cheer. More bottles were raised in triumph.

‘Bastards could have kept a bottle for us,’ muttered Socko. ‘I’m bloody freezing to death here.’

‘Mate, it’s a hundred degrees,’ said Rossi.

‘Not when you’re soaking bloody wet, it bloody isn’t.’

‘Never mind,’ grinned Rossi, patting him squelchily. ‘The climb up the other side will soon warm you up.’

This side of the river was much easier to negotiate, and after ten minutes of solid effort, Grint and his team, panting with heat and exertion, scrambled over the edge to find themselves simultaneously wet and dusty, and hot and cold, but very close to the entrance to the tunnel. The crowd applauded ironically and settled back to see what the entertainment would do next.

The entrance was surprisingly small. Trains must have only a couple of feet clearance on either side. Yes, of course. Tunnels were expensive. You wouldn’t waste time and money giving trains a twenty-foot clearance. Grouping together, they shone their torches into the tunnel. The single track faded away into darkness. Wet, rough-hewn walls glinted in the torchlight. Nowhere could they see any alcoves in which to take refuge should a train appear.

‘Right,’ said Grint. ‘Our job is to prevent the train entering this tunnel. Whatever it takes. If that happens, then we may have lost our people for good.’

‘I really hope we don’t have to go in there,’ said Socko, echoing the thoughts of them all. ‘How long is it?’

‘Doesn’t exist any longer,’ said Rossi. ‘It’ll be bombed out of existence in World War Two. But about a kilometre, I think.’

‘What’s that in proper measurement?’

‘Just over half a mile. Too far to run with a train up your arse.’

They turned around to take stock of their surroundings. Opposite them across the gorge, the crowd had swelled to well over several hundred. Flags and ribbons fluttered in the light breeze. There was a festive air. On their own side, and behind them, the railway track wound around the side of the mountain, giving them an excellent view of its long, gentle curves. Empty, long, gentle curves. They would be able see the train long before it approached the tunnel.

With no idea what he was looking for, Grint wandered away from the tunnel, back down the track.

‘It’s going to be a while yet before the train turns up,’ said Socko. ‘Anyone want anything to eat?’

The Time Police have a policy. Always eat, sleep or shit while you can. You never know when the next opportunity will come along.

Rossi began to rummage in his pack. Socko in his. This was the well-known second-breakfast syndrome.

‘Did you hear that?’ demanded Grint, turning around to look at them and then back down the track.

Socko stood up. ‘What?’

‘That. There it is again.’

‘There’s what again, sir?’

Grint scowled at their second-breakfast arrangements. ‘Put that away. I want you, Socko, on the other side of the track. Start walking away from the tunnel. Stay on the far side. Rossi, you stick with me on this side.’

Rossi looked around and then stood up. ‘Is it me or is it actually getting foggy?’

‘The sun’s still shining,’ said Socko irritably, zipping his pack, ‘so . . . actually, yes, I think it is.’

With one accord they all looked up. Not a cloud in the azure blue sky. The sun still blazed. And yet, at ground level, only an inch or so deep, a thin white mist was swirling around the tunnel entrance.

‘We were expecting this,’ said Grint quickly. ‘Torches. Switch to red filters. And have flares ready. Just in case.’

Socko crossed the tracks to the other side. Rossi bent down to touch the rail. ‘No vibrations, sir.’

‘Well, something’s coming,’ said Grint, staring down the track.

Very faintly, from a very long way off and still out of sight, there came the sound of a distant train whistle. They all heard that one.

‘There’s nothing on the track,’ said Grint, shading his eyes and squinting into the bright sunshine. ‘I can’t see a train – can you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Could this be a different train, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Rossi. ‘The stationmaster told me – this is an important train. They’re keeping the line clear all the way to Milano.’

‘But it should take at least another couple of hours for the Zanetti Train to get here.’

Socko was already a good hundred yards off, walking away from them.

‘The fog’s getting thicker,’ said Rossi, staring down. The mist, now ankle-deep, had taken on an almost solid quality. He looked at Grint. ‘Could this be a time-slip?’

They looked up again. Cloudless sky. Sunshine on the mountain peaks. But down here, in this tight little valley . . . plummeting temperatures and a creeping white mist. This was not good.

‘Something’s going to happen,’ said Grint, checking the blaster on his rip-grip patch. ‘I feel it in my water.’

Rossi nodded. Their water was possibly the most sensitive part of a TPO and ignored at an officer’s peril.

Ahead of them, Socko was checking his torch and engaging the red filter.

Grint turned back and looked into the tunnel. Dark and silent. Well, of course it was dark and silent. It was a tunnel, for God’s sake. What else would it be? Ominous was another word making its first appearance in his vocabulary. He could feel the hair on his forearms bristle. He and Rossi exchanged glances. None of this was good.

Rossi stood on tiptoe, craning his neck. ‘Sir, I think I can see a smudge ahead. Smoke, perhaps?’

Grint opened his com. ‘Stay off the tracks, Socko. Get as far back as you can. There’ll be a slipstream. I don’t want anyone getting sucked under.’

They backed away from the tracks. Socko drew back against the rock face – Grint and Rossi stood as far away as they could get without actually toppling down the steep embankment and into the river.

‘Red filters on,’ ordered Grint. ‘This is a very long stretch of track. The driver will see our warning lights in plenty of time. Remember – that train must not enter the tunnel. Let’s move.’

They began to run down the track. Towards the oncoming train.

The whistle sounded again. It was hard to tell, but Grint was convinced its note had changed. A frantic note shattering this peaceful afternoon.

Socko swung his torch from side to side. ‘Stop. Stop.’

Useless, thought Grint, pounding along. The driver couldn’t possibly hear them. Nevertheless . . . ‘Stop,’ he shouted, waving his own torch. ‘Stop the train. Stop the train.’

‘Not sure they’re seeing our lights, sir,’ panted Rossi.

‘Flares,’ shouted Grint. ‘Did you pick them up?’

‘Two, sir.’ He tossed one to Grint.

‘You first,’ said Grint. ‘I’ll keep mine just in case.’

Just in case of what, he had no idea.

Rossi planted his feet and fired off his flare, which arced into the air with an ear-splitting whistle and then hung, red in the afternoon sky. Grint was dimly aware of shouts and cheers from those in the sunshine on the other side of the river, enjoying the unexpected light show.

Running back towards the entrance, he pulled the tab on his own flare, and threw it into the tunnel. The walls, the roof, even the tracks themselves, all turned a lurid red. But not the mist. The mist remained eerily untouched, unaffected by the spitting red flare. Still pale, still moving, still creeping out of the entrance towards him. Whether it was an effect of the tunnel or not, he could feel pressure begin to build. His ears ached. A chill wind eddied around his legs. He moved back, very reluctant to let the mist touch him.

In the very far distance, the train shrieked again, definitely a different note now. Anger? Warning? An appeal for help?

Ignoring his own instructions, Grint strode to the rails again. Still no vibrations. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the smudge on the horizon and the distant whistle, they’d have no idea a train was coming at all. They could all hear it. Even the spectators could hear it. Getting closer and closer every moment. He could feel it. And yet . . .

Without warning, blue lightning ran along the rails, spitting and crackling as it went. Grint leaped backwards out of the way, which was just as well because suddenly the train was upon them. Pistons pumping, racing towards them, here it came. Huge and black. All three officers stared with the same, sudden thought. It hadn’t been that big in Rome, surely.

‘Shit,’ shouted Rossi, with massive understatement. ‘That’s not right. Should it look like that?’

The monster roared towards them.

Grint swung his torch from side to side. The driver had to have seen them. And the flares. He could hear squealing metal. Was that the brakes? Was that normal? He knew nothing about trains. Showers of golden sparks flew from the wheels. Blue lightning leaped from the tracks to form a kind of nimbus around the train.

Which was not stopping. Not even slowing.

Someone was shouting at him. ‘Sir. Behind you.’

Grint spun around. What the fuck . . . ?

That chilly wind still blew, whipping up loose dust and sand from the tracks, whirling them into tiny dust devils, stinging his eyes. Except . . . the dust wasn’t the problem.

The gentle mist was gone. Great clouds of cold, white fog filled the tunnel, reminding him of something. Dry ice – that was it. Just like dry ice. They’d been warned of the fog at the briefing and he’d discounted it as being the tall tales of terrified civilians. He wasn’t discounting it now. There was something disquieting in the way the tendrils unfurled. Like fingers. Questing . . .

‘Stay out of the tunnel,’ he shouted. ‘And the fog. Don’t let it touch you, whatever you do.’

An unnecessary warning. Instinctively, both he and Rossi were already backing away.

The train was nearly upon them. ‘Be ready,’ he roared. ‘We know two people jump. It’s bound to be Lockland and Parrish. Watch out for them.’

On the other side of the valley, in full sunshine, the crowd was on its feet, cheering and waving their home-made flags. Could they not see what was happening here?

Forget the fog. Concentrate on the train. Lockland was on the train. Grint ran towards it, waving his torch like a madman. ‘Stop, you bastard, stop.’

Rossi ran alongside him. ‘Ferma il treno. Ferma il treno.’

The train ignored them. Grint realised later that that was the moment he had started thinking of it as a living entity with a malicious will of its own. It screamed down the track towards them, pistons driving. Red and gold sparks shot through the blue lightning.

‘Ready?’ shouted Grint over the noise. ‘Get ready. They’ll jump. We don’t know from which side. Be ready. And stay back until the last moment. Don’t get sucked under the wheels.’

Now they were running just ahead of the train, back towards the tunnel. The mouth yawned black before them. Thick white fog still swirled at the entrance, turning back the train’s searchlight. There was no sign of his red flare. And audible over everything, a deep hum that hurt his ears.

And then the train was rushing past them. Grint caught a glimpse of an empty cab, lit by the glow of the open firebox. Then the tender. Then the first carriage. Faces at the windows. Mouths open. Laughing? Screaming? Then the second carriage. More passengers. Beating at the windows. Grint’s heart began to thump. Jane . . .

And then, right at the end of the second carriage – fire-trucking hell – a socking great hole. What the fire truck . . . ?

‘Be ready,’ he roared.

He was running sideways, as fast as he could, parallel to the train, trying to position himself so that when . . .

There. There they were. A flashing glimpse of Jane, and possibly Parrish as well. There – through the thickening fog. And then two figures leaped from the train. They hit the ground hard and rolled three or four times before finally coming to a halt. Involuntarily, Grint winced. That had to have hurt.

Rossi and Socko were already running towards the two prone bodies.

Knowing that Jane was safely off the train, Grint turned to watch as it disappeared, still screaming, into what looked like a solid wall of white fog. Followed by the tender and all three carriages. Swallowed up. Gone. Cut off in mid-shriek. The fog drifted away. The dust slowly swirled and settled. The lightning crackled into nothing. Sudden silence. Everything was as it had been.

Grint ran to the tunnel entrance, switched his torch back to normal, held it high and shone it into the tunnel. As he had half expected, there was no sign of the Zanetti Train. No sight, no sound. Grint bent down to touch the rails. Smooth and cool. As if nothing had passed this way in the last few seconds. Because it hadn’t. Right in front of their eyes, the Zanetti Train had vanished.

12

‘Well,’ said Rossi, kneeling alongside one of the bodies lying at the side of the track. ‘I think we can all agree this is neither Lockland nor Parrish. Given their age, gender and amateurish attempts to disguise themselves, I wonder if we might have found our illegals. Not dead – yet. Conscious – just. Functioning – barely. Give me a minute to check them over.’

He looked up at Socko and nodded to Grint, still off peering into the tunnel. ‘Who’s going to tell him?’

Socko sighed, straightened up and joined his team leader, who turned at his approach.

Socko took a breath. ‘Sir – bad news. It’s not Lockland and Parrish.’

Grint went very still. ‘Say that again.’

‘The people who jumped from the train, sir. Not Lockland. Nor Parrish. We think it’s the illegals.’

‘Parrish and Lockland were on the train. I saw them.’

‘We all saw them, sir.’ He paused before saying carefully, ‘And they’re still on the train.’

Grint’s face remained completely blank. No expression of any kind. ‘Are they injured? The illegals, I mean.’

‘Not badly. Shock and impact damage mostly.’

Grint nodded. ‘Let me know when they’re able to talk.’ He turned back to the tunnel where the last tendrils of white mist were dispersing in the wind.

A background hum, sometimes accompanied by a white mist, were typical by-products of manufactured time-slips. Was this what had happened here? But what had manufactured the slip? The tunnel? The train itself? Some sort of device hidden somewhere in the mountains?

He remained there for some minutes, staring into the tunnel and thinking, and then switched off his torch and rejoined his team, saying, ‘If there are no bones broken, get these two back to the pod. I’ll join you later.’

Socko stood up. ‘Sir, if you’re going to check out the tunnel, may I respectfully recommend you don’t go alone.’

‘You may. Respectfully, I shall ignore you.’

A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Lt Grint? Team Two-Three-Five? Anyone?’

Grint stepped aside and pulled out his com. ‘Varma?’

‘Indeed, sir. With reinforcements. Hansen and Farrell, together with Clore and Tucker to move any mountains that might require shifting.’

Grint nodded to Rossi. ‘They’ll assist you to get these two back to the pod. Do anything necessary to get them talking. I’m going to check out the tunnel.’

‘Sir . . .’

‘Get moving.’

‘No bones broken that I can tell,’ reported Rossi, who had completed his cursory examination of the illegals. ‘Bumps and bruises. Shock, of course. We’ll give them a few minutes and wait for Varma’s crew to get here – they can give us a hand to get them across the river and back to the pod, sir.’

Grint nodded and turned back to the tunnel. The fog had completely disappeared. Just a normal hot, sunny afternoon.

On the other side of the river, the crowd was knocking back the last of its wine, packing up its picnic and preparing to return home. What had they seen? No one was showing any signs of alarm. Had the train simply entered the tunnel in a cloud of smoke? Was that how events had appeared to them?

From force of habit, Grint pulled his blaster from his rip-grip patch and checked the charge again. Switching on his torch, he took one deep breath and then strode into the tunnel. Jane might be in there somewhere.

The tunnel was around half a mile long. Step by step, Grint covered every inch. Walls, tracks, even the roof – although God knows how a train could have managed to escape through the roof. There was absolutely no trace anywhere that a train had recently passed this way. No smell of recent smoke hanging in the air – and given the thick black stuff it had been pumping out, there should be. The rails were cool – although he hadn’t a clue what temperature they should be, so that probably meant nothing. The walls and roof were solid.

Absolutely no sign anywhere of Jane. Or Parrish, obviously.

At what Grint considered to be around the mid-point, he pulled out his scratchpad and scanned both up and down the track. Still nothing.

He continued to the end, stepping out into the hot sunshine. And the panic. He’d completely forgotten there would be a corresponding crowd at this end. There was more room for spectators on this side, and several hundred people, all grouped around the entrance and across the track, were suddenly bombarding him with questions he couldn’t understand, let alone answer. He gathered they’d heard the train whistle in the distance, readied themselves for mass waving and cheering and glass-raising as it emerged at this end, and waited. And waited. And waited. And were still waiting.

Grint, not inclined to embark upon any long and detailed explanations – and in Italian, as well – simply shrugged and shook his head. They could make of that whatever they liked. He re-entered the tunnel – not without some reluctance, because if this was a time-slip they could be very unpredictable – and repeated his meticulous search all over again.

The result was exactly the same. Not only was there no sign of the Zanetti Train – there was no sign it had ever been in the tunnel.

All this had taken him some time. He emerged more than an hour later to find Socko sitting in the shade, his big blaster across his knees and wearing an expression that clearly said only good manners and Time Police discipline were preventing him from telling his team leader he was an idiot. A fire-trucking idiot.

Grint shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Did you expect to find anything, sir?’

‘No – but you don’t leave the job half-done. Not on my team. Illegals safely back in the pod?’

‘Ah,’ said Socko brightly. ‘Bit of a story there, sir.’

Varma’s pod had landed only a stone’s throw from Grint’s.

‘Down and safe,’ reported Matthew, studying the screens. ‘The railway tracks are about a quarter of a mile north as the crow flies – probably more like half a mile as the TPO stumbles. Very rough ground hereabouts. There’s a kind of gorge between us and the tracks. I’m picking up all Team Two-Three-Five’s tags but there are a lot of other people around, so be aware.’

Varma opened her com. ‘Lt Grint? Team Two-Three-Five? Anyone?’

Matthew heard Grint respond and then turned his attention back to the screen, until he heard Rossi reporting the train had been and gone and Grint was checking out the tunnel. ‘We have two lightly injured illegals to bring back,’ he continued. ‘They’re a bit dopey and we could do with a hand here.’

Varma sighed. Teenagers. Too big to fit on a cracker but too small to make a decent sandwich. Of absolutely no use to man nor beast.

‘Luke and Jane?’ enquired Matthew anxiously.

There was a pause before Rossi said, ‘No. Sorry.’ He closed the link, leaving Matthew staring blankly into space.

‘All right, everyone,’ said Varma briskly. ‘We all know what we’re up against. Dodgy trains, contemporaries, injured illegals, rocky terrain, steep gorge . . .’

‘What could possibly go wrong?’ said Tucker.

‘From now on anyone saying that has to stand a round of drinks in the bar,’ said Varma.

Tucker blinked. ‘Not heard that one before.’

‘Well, no – I just thought of it. Mine’s a pint.’

‘What?’

‘So everyone stay sharp,’ said Varma, staring around the pod. They lined up at the door. ‘Clore, you lead the way. Then Tucker. Then Farrell. Then Hansen. I’ll bring up the rear.’

‘Leading from behind,’ said Tucker. ‘Smart.’

‘We always send trainees in first,’ said Varma.

‘Stalking horse?’ enquired Tucker.

‘Decoys?’ enquired Clore.

‘Bait,’ said Varma firmly, shutting down that particular discussion. ‘Move out.’

The terrain was indeed very rocky. Tucker proved surprisingly nimble. Clore did not.

‘Go back and wait at the top,’ said Varma, as he slipped and fell heavily for the third time, bringing a ton of loose rock and shale down on top of them all. ‘We’ll shout if we need you.’

Good move, thought Matthew. If someone the size of Clore broke an ankle, it would take heavy-lifting gear to get him out.

‘There they are,’ said Hansen, pointing across the gorge. He opened his com. ‘We can see you.’

‘OK,’ replied Rossi. ‘Socko and I will get them down on our side. Socko will return for the lieutenant. We all get the prisoners across the river and back to the pod.’

‘What sort of state are they in?’

‘Willing but wobbly. They’re not going to give us any trouble.’

About which he was completely wrong. There was trouble. It was an accident – but trouble nonetheless.

Rossi, Jay and Dev met Varma’s team at the bottom of the gorge. The fast-flowing river – which Varma had anticipated would be the trickiest part – was successfully negotiated, and they were about one-third of the way back up the other side when Jay slipped, fell, and began to roll down the slope. Tucker was able to grab him but not before Jay’s flailing arm caught Matthew, who had been helping him over the tricky bits, knocking him, Matthew, backwards. A ton of shale and loose rock went tumbling down with him.

‘Shit,’ said Tucker and set off after Matthew, stumbling and sliding in his efforts to catch him before he fell in the river.

‘Rossi and Hansen, carry on,’ instructed Varma. ‘Get these two back to the pod, then Hansen, you return here. You’re our field medic. I’ll wait here in case anyone needs assistance.’

Matthew was discovered to be half buried and wedged between two rocks. A dust-covered Tucker scrambled to reach him and began, carefully, to clear debris from around his nose and mouth.

‘You all right, mate?’

Matthew coughed and spat and said faintly, ‘Arm.’

‘Let’s take a look. Yeah – I reckon that’s broken.’

Matthew struggled to sit up. ‘No, it’s not. I just banged it a bit.’

‘Yeah, you did. And then you broke it.’

Matthew was nearly tearful. ‘I can’t have – they’ll send me back and I have to go after Luke and Jane.’

‘Not with that arm, matey. Sorry and all that, but you’re going to have to leave it to us.’ He squinted up the slope. ‘They’ve got those two lads up to the top. Hansen’ll be down in minute and then we’ll get you up.’ He opened his com. ‘Hansen – bring your medkit – broken arm here.’

‘Copy that.’

Fifteen painful moments later, Matthew was back in the pod. Meds had dulled the pain but not his agitation. ‘But I have to stay here. Luke and Jane . . .’

‘Are in better condition than you,’ said Varma. ‘Sorry, Farrell, you’ll just have to sit this one out. Trainee Clore will accompany you . . .’ She hesitated, seemingly unsure of her next move.

‘Are you afraid my criminal nature will reassert itself and you’re trying to decide whether I’ll just overcome the youngster or actually push him out the pod in my bid for freedom?’ said Clore sardonically.

Varma folded her arms. ‘Yeah.’

Tucker looked up, his face watchful.

Clore shifted his weight and loomed. ‘Any conclusions?’

Varma nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘I reckon you’re good.’

Tucker resumed checking his kit.

‘We’ll wait for the lieutenant,’ said Varma. ‘And then you can take my pod. The rest of us can squeeze into this one.’

‘Because that’s always good fun,’ said Tucker, his attention apparently all on fastening his pack.

Varma scowled at him.

‘So,’ said Socko to Grint, winding up this tale of injury and woe, ‘in addition to Parrish and Lockland, we’re about to lose Farrell and Clore as well. And a pod. Otherwise it’s all good.’

Grint sighed. This day was not getting any better, was it?

‘I am assuming,’ he said, ‘that many of our colleagues back at TPHQ are still not available.’

‘Yes and no, sir.’

Grint said wearily, ‘How so?’

‘Well, apparently Varma threw Curtis down the stairs, sir . . .’

Grint found himself warming towards Officer Varma.

‘. . . and the impact – or impacts – cracked the whatever it was encasing him, so now they’re pulling down the walls to free up the others, after which they’ll toss them down the stairs as well, after which they’ll chip away any remnants of Meiklejohn’s infernal substance, after which they’ll be in MedCen for a while for the quacks to check them over. Curtis really bounced, sir. Plus there may be one or two after-effects to contend with.’

‘Such as?’

‘The stuff Meiklejohn sprayed them with to dissolve the string is proving to be unpredictable in its results.’

Grint was puzzled. ‘What stuff?’

‘No one seems to know, sir.’

Grint gave it up to concentrate on the essentials. ‘Have they said anything yet?’

Correctly interpreting this to refer to the two illegals, Socko shook his head. ‘Although now Varma’s here . . .’

They had by now scrambled down the rocky slope and were picking their way across the river. No one fell in this time. A few hot, sweaty, strenuous minutes later and they were back at their pod.

‘Afternoon,’ said Varma, perched on a nearby rock and enjoying the shade provided by a carefully positioned Trainee Tucker.

Grint grinned at her. ‘Where are my reinforcements, Varma?’

‘Farrell fell down the ravine. Not his fault. Your two illegals weren’t functioning that well. We got them most of the way up. The one with the curly hair got his foot stuck, lost his balance, grabbed at Tucker as the nearest inanimate object to break his fall . . .’

‘Hey,’ said Tucker, hurt.

‘Missed him . . . and belted Farrell instead, who, weighing less than every rock in Italy, was sent tumbling down the slope. Tucker chased after him before he split his head open or drowned, and he and Hansen got him back up here again. Broken arm and cuts and bruises. Clore will take him back to TPHQ.’

‘How long was he on site before . . . ?’

‘Until his injury? About four minutes.’

‘An all-time record, even for Team Weird.’

She sighed. ‘I fear so, sir. This will not look good on your record sheet.’

‘My record sheet? I wasn’t even here.’

She grinned. ‘That will be the main thrust of my report. Sir.’

Grint groaned. ‘This is not turning out to be my best day.’

‘Yeah,’ said Varma sympathetically. ‘Rossi filled us in. I gather they’re still on the train?’

Grint nodded. ‘Where are the illegals now?’

‘Inside the pod. Hansen’s still patching them up after their inadvertent detrainment.’

‘What’s the damage?’

‘Bruising. Lacerations. They’re very shaken.’

‘Are they talking?’

‘No.’

‘Too shocked to know where they are and what’s going on, or too scared to open their mouths?’

‘A little of both. I’m displaying my compassionate side by giving them a moment.’

‘We don’t have time for compassionate sides. I want to know what they know and I want to know it now.’

‘In that case,’ said Varma. She turned to Tucker. ‘Get them out here.’

Tucker thumped on the door and after a moment, Hansen appeared in the doorway with the two battered illegals.

The afternoon had not been kind to them. They’d been terrorised by Sawney, unwillingly thrust on to the worst-behaved train in the world, jumped through Time and space and then been pushed out of said train to impact one of the rockier parts of Italy. They stood, grimy, tear-stained, a little bloody, very dishevelled, and blinking in the still-bright early evening sun.

Grint paused for a moment, eyeing them up, his brow furrowed in thought. This was his first proper sight of their prisoners. They looked younger than he had imagined. Much younger than the age they actually were. One of them could barely stand. The other was examining the extensive damage to his school blazer and trousers and reckoning that his mum would kill him when he got back.

There were those who thought Grint more suited to a clean-up squad than an actual thinking team, but they would have been wrong. True, at the moment his thoughts were mainly centred on Jane and where and when she could possibly be, but he was a professional TPO with years of service under his belt and his job was to acquire as much information as he could. As quickly as he could. By any means available.

He turned to Varma, muttering, ‘Back me up.’

She nodded and stepped back, motioning to Tucker to do the same.

‘Right,’ said Grint, with authority. ‘We don’t have time to take these two back to base, so by the authority vested in me as an officer in the Time Police – Officer Kohl, line them up.’ His left eyelid flickered.

Socko stared for a moment and then saluted smartly – much to his colleagues’ astonishment – and pushed the still-uncomprehending Dev and Jay against a convenient rock face.

The penny dropped.

‘No,’ protested Dev, his voice high with panic. ‘You can’t. We’re under age.’

Jay stared around, looking for somewhere to run, although what he thought six TPOs would have to say about that was unknown. ‘You can’t do this. My mum . . .’

‘Should have thought of her before you got started in all this. Jumping through Time is an adult crime for which there is an adult punishment, and as a duly sworn-in officer of the Time Police . . .’

‘You can’t shoot us.’ Dev began to cry.

‘Rossi, Hansen, check your charges and line up.’

Varma was keeping a perfectly blank face but Rossi looked a little uncertain. ‘Sir . . .’

‘You heard the lieutenant,’ barked Socko. ‘Carry out your orders.’

They all stared at each other for a moment and then Rossi said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and began to charge his blaster. Hansen followed suit. Their blasters whined in anticipation. A nasty sound and deliberately designed to be so.

Both boys were crying now. ‘We’ll tell you everything. We can help you.’

Grint let the moment last and finally said, ‘How?’

‘Um . . . I don’t know, but we can. Please don’t shoot us.’

Varma stepped forwards. ‘I think we should listen to what they have to say, sir, before . . . you know . . .’ She made a quick, graphic gesture.

Grint grunted. ‘You can have ten minutes, officer. Before . . . you know . . .’ He made the same graphic gesture.

‘Leave it with me, sir. Now then, you two – you have ten minutes to change the lieutenant’s mind. Cooperate, or else.’

Both boys nodded vigorously.

‘Inside then. We’ll have a nice little chat in the cool, shall we?’

Neither boy looked even remotely comforted by this piece of high-quality Time Police reassurance as she smilingly ushered them back into the pod.

Grint and Hansen followed them in, closing the door behind them. Turning his back, Grint seated himself at the console, attempting to collect his thoughts and form a new plan of action.

The Zanetti Train had been and gone. There were other sightings, but how exactly was it to be intercepted? This had been the closest they were ever likely to get to it and yet the train had just swept on by. And this was no shimmering ghost train – it had been a solid entity. He’d felt the rush of wind as it passed. Smelled the hot cinders. Heard the whistle. There was no driver. How would they ever stop it? Was there nothing to be done except to pursue it through Time and space and simply trust they’d be in the right place at the right Time? Or should he cut to the end – Mexico – concentrate all his resources there and hope for the best? That was certainly the safest option, but the question had to be asked – for how long would that leave Jane – and Parrish, obviously – on that infernal train? Years? Decades? Centuries, even? What sort of state would they be in by the time he eventually managed to get them out? They’d assumed the passengers had been incarcerated in the asylum because of the bizarre nature of their story, but suppose the real reason was that they actually had been driven stark staring mad by their ordeal. He made himself stop thinking of that.

Grint sipped his water thoughtfully. If they went at this chronologically, then their next sighting was in the town of Modena. He called up info on Modena and the AI informed him the town would become a city in 1510. Which was nice for them, but didn’t go any way towards solving his problem. He flicked through the screens. Should he take his team there and somehow try to get Parrish and Lockland off the train? What would happen if he missed them at Modena as well? Should they then jump to the next sighting? And then the next? Were he and his team condemned to follow them through Time forever – as much prisoners of the Zanetti Train as the passengers? Unaccustomed panic stampeded through his thoughts. Jane. It was because Jane was on the train. Jane was trapped and only death or insanity awaited her.

Stop that. Stop that now. There was a procedure for this. Define the mission and its parameters. Assign personnel and equipment. Allocate tasks. Plan for a successful outcome.

He took two deep, calming breaths, turned back to the console, and began to pull up all the info provided by Lt North, quietly building his data stack, half his concentration on what he was doing – the other half listening to Varma and her unfamiliar charm offensive.

Neither boy had received any serious physical injury but both were frightened, shocked and bleeding. They’d fallen heavily – Dev’s hands had been cleaned and bandaged. Jay’s hands were absolutely fine but that was only because he’d landed on his face. Which was a bit of a mess. Hansen was checking his eyes for foreign bodies.

‘Shan’t be a moment,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Varma. ‘Take your time. These are important . . . witnesses. We don’t want anything unfortunate happening to them.’

‘Not before us, anyway,’ said Hansen cheerfully.

‘So,’ said Varma, still disconcertingly friendly. ‘Which of you is which?’

‘I’m Jay Adesina,’ said Jay.

‘Devan Kumar,’ said Dev. ‘Dev. My friends call me Dev.’

‘I’m Officer Varma. My friends call me Officer Varma.’

Both boys flinched.

‘Keep still,’ said Hansen, shining a light into Jay’s eyes.

‘What are you doing?’ said Jay, trying to shy away.

‘Checking your eyesight,’ said Hansen. ‘And then I need to clean up the mess you’ve made of your face before infection sets in, but I can stop if it’s making you nervous. Your choice.’

Jay shook his head, seemingly shrinking in on himself. Dev took his hand, although who was comforting whom was not entirely clear.

‘Right,’ said Varma. ‘I’m going to make things easy for you. I can see you’ve suffered an ordeal and don’t feel like talking, but our priority at the moment is to reacquire our colleagues. I’ll talk and you will either agree, disagree, explain or clarify. You will not lie or attempt to lie. Your cooperation during this interrogation – because it is an interrogation – will be taken into account when deciding your sentence. Do you understand?’

Dev nodded. Jay remained frozen with fear under Hansen’s medical ministrations.

Varma began by making a series of statements to which the boys either nodded or shook their heads, but as the interview progressed and it became apparent they weren’t going to be shot on the spot and their bodies flung into the ravine, Dev, especially, began to volunteer information.

It hadn’t really been them – both boys were very positive on this point. All they’d ever done was mess around building things in their bedrooms or in Jay’s garden shed – just normal teenage boy stuff, they maintained – and then the new lodger turned up and he was all right. They’d had some long talks in the shed and he’d brought beer. Both boys were very anxious that Varma understood they hadn’t really liked the beer but they felt they should be polite.

Varma nodded understandingly. ‘God, yes. Vile stuff, isn’t it?’

Hansen, who had seen her sink a pint faster than anyone in TPHQ, raised his eyebrows but remained silent.

She ignored him. ‘So – this lodger. I think I can guess his name, but tell me anyway.’

The boys looked at each other. ‘Well,’ said Dev. ‘We knew him as Mr White but the other two officers – the ones on the train – they called him something else.’

Varma nodded knowingly. ‘Was it Plimpton?’

They both shook their heads. ‘No,’ said Dev. ‘They called him Sawney and I don’t think any of them liked each other very much.’

There was complete silence. Even Grint turned from the console. Hansen looked up, opened his mouth, intercepted a warning glance from Varma, and closed it again.

‘Sawney?’ said Varma in a careful tone of mild enquiry. ‘Can you describe him?’

Dev frowned. ‘Um. Old. A bit wrinkled. Thin hair. Not very tall. We didn’t like him but . . .’

Varma considered this. She discounted old. The boys were fifteen – anyone over the age of twenty-five would be old to them. The rest of it, however, was a fairly accurate description of former Lt Sawney, recently discharged from the Time Police. The one thing the boys hadn’t described was the massive chip on his shoulder. And his undying hatred of Officer Lockland, major contributor to said chip.

Varma shifted her ground slightly. ‘When you were on the train, did this Sawney injure or attempt to injure the other two officers?’

‘There was . . . some confusion . . .’ said Dev.

Varma sighed. Yes, that sounded like Team 236.

‘And they all tried to shoot each other. And then this crate thing in the corner . . . a big box . . . did something and the side of the train went funny . . . shimmery . . . and then something happened and it wasn’t there any longer. There was an argument about what had happened and whose fault it was.’

Varma sighed again. Yes, that also sounded like Team 236.

‘And I said . . . well, I thought . . . I said I thought the box had stayed put and we were the ones who’d jumped, and we might have done because we all felt a bit sick, and then the guard started shouting about part of the carriage being missing and it was dark outside and it shouldn’t have been and then suddenly it was light and they – the officers – made us jump. Out of the train, I mean.’

Varma filed all that away for future reference. ‘Let’s go back to Jay’s mum’s lodger – whom we will call Sawney. Where did he come from?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Did he ever talk about himself?’

‘Not really. He said he’d been in the Time Police but couldn’t talk about it because he was too important.’

Varma nodded encouragingly. Encouraged, Dev continued. ‘We talked trains. He said he’d always been really interested in trains – although he didn’t seem to know a lot about them – and we talked about some of the famous old ones. Trains, I mean. The Flying Scotsman, the Ghan, the Orient Express, the Golden Arrow, the HS2 tragedies – both of them – the Trans-Siberian Express, the . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Varma hastily, since this showed all the signs of going on all day. ‘And then one day he mentioned the Zanetti Train?’

Both boys swallowed and nodded.

‘Yeah,’ said Dev. ‘We knew all about it, of course. We had loads of stuff on it. I mean – it was a big thing. And then afterwards they filled the tunnel with stones and then it was bombed . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Varma again. ‘And idiots have been chasing the Zanetti Train ever since.’ She looked at them. ‘Including you.’

They swallowed again.

She smiled suddenly. ‘So tell me all about you. You decided to build a pod . . . ?’

‘No, not really,’ said Dev. ‘It wasn’t our idea. It was Mr White. Er, Sawney. He . . . he kind of . . . well . . . challenged us.’

‘To build a pod?’

‘Well . . . yeah. I mean, we’d had some thoughts . . . nothing more than that,’ he added hastily. ‘But . . .’

‘We said we didn’t know how,’ said Jay, temporarily escaping Hansen’s ministrations. ‘And then one day . . . he brought us some blueprints . . . and then some more . . .’

‘And then he moved out – suddenly – and we thought that was it, but he met us outside school one day and said we could use his lock-up,’ interrupted Dev.

‘Even so, how could you afford . . . ?’

‘He said his mate had a shop and we could use his – Mr White’s – account. We could tell him what we thought we wanted and he got it for us. So we did. Build the pod, I mean. He said there wouldn’t be a problem because even if we did get caught, we should say it was for research because that was allowed.’

Like Jane before them, Varma, Grint and Hansen all took a moment to reflect on the effectiveness of the Time Crime’s Schools’ and Young People’s Information presentations.

‘Where did all this take place?’

‘Well, either in the lock-up – although we could only go in there if Mr White . . . Mr Sawney was with us . . . or in our garden shed.’

Varma began to formulate plans for having garden sheds banned by law. And spare bedrooms. And lock-ups. Pretty well everywhere these bastarding idiots with far too much time on their hands and a complete disregard for hard-working TPOs could assemble to carry out their nefarious activities. Although nefarious was not the word she used.

Dev was on his own again as Hansen began irrigating Jay’s facial injuries with sterile water. Jay obviously regarded this as a poor man’s version of waterboarding and was temporarily unaware of what was happening around him.

Dev continued. ‘He suggested we jump to Rome – it was a kind of test – to see the Zanetti Train.’

‘He didn’t jump with you?’

‘No, he was busy that day.’

‘You don’t think that was because you were using an untried pod and he didn’t want to be around in case you managed to blow yourselves up?’

It was very obvious that this had not occurred to either boy, but it was occurring to Dev now.

‘Well, it didn’t,’ he said stoutly. ‘It worked just fine. It’s a good pod. And we got to see the Zanetti Train.’

‘Yeah,’ said Grint, entering the conversation at that point. ‘How has that worked out for you?’

‘Well,’ said Dev, ‘if those other people hadn’t interfered, then everything would have been fine.’

Varma scowled at Grint and smoothly resumed the interrogation.

‘So what was supposed to happen?’

‘Well, we’d see the train pull in and out, have a congratulatory drink somewhere and . . .’

He tailed away.

‘And?’

It was very obvious that the next stage of the operation hadn’t been discussed. Or even considered.

‘Well, go home, I suppose.’ He glanced around uncertainly. ‘Wouldn’t we?’

‘That is perfectly possible,’ said Varma easily. ‘And I’m sure somewhere there’s a universe where that might actually have happened. In this universe, however, it is much more likely that you would have been grabbed – that’s why Sawney was at the station waiting for you – and since you’d both successfully established your pod-building credentials, he would whip you away to work for his employer somewhere. Without pay, obviously, and Jay would certainly never have seen his mum again.’

‘We wouldn’t have done that,’ said Dev stubbornly.

‘We couldn’t,’ added Jay, more realistically, slowly adjusting to the fact he was soggy but undrowned. ‘We have to get back for tea or Mum will be cross. And we’ve both got chess club tonight.’

Varma sighed. Neither of these two idiots had any idea of the implications of their actions. They’d actually thought they’d return home and continue their lives as usual.

‘If you’d given him any trouble, then Sawney would have had instructions to shoot you on the spot and grab your pod,’ she said. ‘These are not nice people. Not only are you two lucky not to be trapped aboard the Zanetti Train – you’re lucky even to be alive.’

The words although possibly not for much longer hung in the air, unspoken.

Dev swallowed. ‘What are you going to do with us?’

‘Well,’ said Grint, making himself comfortable at the console and fully embracing his role as Bad Cop. ‘If it was up to me, I’d shoot you on the spot, return to base, write up my report and go for a well-earned drink. However, thanks to your stupidity, two of our officers are MIA so I’m obliged to keep you alive. At least until a full-scale interrogation at TPHQ persuades you to tell us everything you know. And you will. Everyone does, sooner or later.’

Dev and Jay looked at Varma, who shrugged. ‘This is just the preliminary. We have yet to interrogate your mother, Jay, together with all your relatives – Dev’s too – and all your teachers, school friends, everyone you’ve ever known. And then there will be the trial, of course. Although that does tend to be a bit of a formality. You know – box-ticking and so forth.’

‘We could help,’ said Dev eagerly.

Grint kept his face carefully blank. ‘How?’

‘Well, we know where the train appears next.’

‘So do we. Do you know where and when in Modena?’

Jay went to rub his eyes, was sternly rebuked by Hansen, gulped and shook his head.

Grint cursed and turned away.

Varma stood up. ‘If you’ve finished, sir, these two can go back with Clore and Farrell.’

Grint nodded. ‘Yes. Get them out of here.’

13

Arriving back at TPHQ, Jay, Dev and Matthew were ushered straight to MedCen while Clore, obeying Grint’s instructions, went off to report to Hay and Farenden, which he duly did, showing none of the traditional nervousness of new recruits confronting their commander.

At the end, Hay nodded. ‘Thank you, Trainee Clore. Good work. Please report back to security.’

Clore nodded and backed out of the room.

Hay sighed and turned to Farenden. ‘Firstly, I don’t think we lose anything by sending a message to Nora Adesina to tell her the boys are safe. Keep Clore here and start assembling officers as and when they become available. Which, with luck, won’t be too long now. Grint appears to have a handle on things for the time being.’

She drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, thinking. ‘After he’s been patched up, send Farrell to me.’

Reluctant to become involved with the devastation currently being wreaked in the corridor between her workroom and the Pod Bay, Mikey was visiting Matthew in MedCen.

‘Hey, how’s your arm?’

‘Broken.’

‘What – all of it.’

‘Only in two places.’

‘You seem to be bearing up well.’

He grinned again. ‘Quality pain meds and a flexi-glove all the way up past my elbow.’

‘Matthew, your team? What’s going on with you guys?’

‘I’m not sure – we were interrupted by . . . you know . . .’ He gestured in the vague direction of the corridor.

‘This can’t be the end of Two-Three-Six, surely?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked down. ‘I hate it when people argue. I just . . .’ He tailed away.

She took his hand. ‘When will they let you out?’

‘Just waiting for my discharge now.’

‘What about . . . ?’

The doctor stuck his head into the cubicle. ‘OK, Farrell, you’ll live. Off you go. Commander Hay wants to see you, so get your arse up there now.’

Matthew scrambled off the treatment couch and then looked at Mikey. ‘What about you?’

‘Well, I’m not keen, but something tells me I’d better get back and start clearing lumps of string and skin off the walls.’

He grinned at her. ‘Stay away from the Senior Mech. He’s not happy with you.’

She held the door open for him. ‘He’s not happy with you, either.’

‘No, but I’m going to persuade them to let me rejoin the search. You’ll be here on your own.’

‘I’m not sure they’ll let you do that.’

This was Matthew’s fear as well. ‘I have to go,’ he said, doing his best to sound like someone whose arm wasn’t broken in two places. ‘That’s my team out there.’

Mikey tried to sound encouraging. ‘I know, but Grint’s on the job. Yes, I know that socially he’s about as much use as the g in phlegm, but you have to admit that in this sort of situation, with the possible exception of Ellis, there’s no one better. If I were Jane or Luke, I’d feel much happier knowing he was on it. Wouldn’t you?’

Matthew nodded.

She smiled. ‘I’ll see you later. You sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Just don’t go waving that arm around.’

Matthew nodded again and refrained from waving his arm around to see if it still hurt.

Whistling, Mikey made her way back to the scene of her crimes while Matthew set off for Commander Hay’s office, marshalling his careful arguments as he went.

Entering Captain Farenden’s office, he found both the captain and Commander Hay bending over a data stack.

Commander Hay looked up. ‘Officer Farrell – how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you, ma’am. Keen to get back there and . . .’

‘Out of the question, I’m afraid.’

‘But . . .’

‘I have a job for you here.’

Suspecting he might be assigned to clean-up duties after Mikey’s heroic efforts to bring down the Time Police specifically and society as a whole – the Senior Mech’s words – Matthew again attempted his well-reasoned arguments.

‘But . . .’

‘I’m sending you to work on the Time Map.’

Normally this simple sentence would have brought joy to Matthew’s heart. Not today, however.

‘Ma’am, I know I’ve got this . . .’ He tried to flourish his broken arm and regretted it immediately. ‘But I can still be of use in the search. I respectfully ask permi—’

‘No. I want you here.’

‘But my injury won’t prevent me . . .’

‘I want you to use your knowledge of events, together with skills I know you have developed regarding the Map, to identify and track the Zanetti Train, and, obviously, Officers Parrish and Lockland. I’m not inclined to believe a word of any of the internet ravings, which are all we have to go on at the moment. I want tangible dates. Times. Locations. Coordinates. Track the train through Time. Ascertain its route and get our people back. Why are you still here?’

‘I’m not.’

Matthew shot out of the door, heading for the Map Room.

14

Back in the pod, Lt Grint was surveying his resources. Hansen, Rossi and Socko – he was glad to have them. His team and none better. And Varma and Tucker – he was glad to have them, as well. By now the illegals would be safely in custody at TPHQ and young Farrell receiving medical treatment for his arm. Clore and reinforcements would catch them up at some point. He was good to go.

But good to go where? And when? He seated himself at the console and frowned.

The Time Police have a procedure for this sort of situation. Faced with the possibility of multiple destinations, standard practice dictated he begin at the earliest point and only move forwards. Jumping back and forth, criss-crossing their own Timelines could be – no, actually was – a very bad idea. Moving in only one direction lessened the risk of them accidentally finding themselves in the same Time twice and decreased the possibility of Time lag, as well, which, since they appeared to be in this for the long haul, could be a major factor.

His first jump, therefore, should be to the monastery in Modena – but which monastery? And when? Whereas he actually had specific dates and places for the train’s appearances in the Ukraine. Of course, by that time Jane and Parrish could have been aboard for some considerable Time. What sort of state would they be in? Or any of the passengers. Which was the best option? The gamble at Modena or the safer option in the Ukraine but much later? He chewed his lip for a moment and then came to a decision.

‘Right, listen up, everyone. We have two specific dates and places. Ukraine, 1955 and 1991. We’ll go there first. Hansen, pull up what you can on the Ukraine sightings and we’ll put together a plan. Everyone else take a break. We’re chasing a runaway train through Time and space – this could take a while.’

An hour later they were set to go.

‘Listen up, people,’ said Grint, emerging from the pod. The sun was lower in the sky and, this high up, the temperature had dropped down to bearable. ‘The next jump is planned and plotted. Balaclava, 29th October 1955. We’re looking for a signal box on the outskirts of town. The box is manned by one Pyotr Ustimenko, who reported a definite sighting of the train there. I reckon this is our best shot. If that fails – which it had better not – then we’ll go on to 1991.

‘Our task will be to stop the train – or at least slow it long enough to get our people off.’ He paused for a moment and then continued without looking up. ‘We don’t know how long they will have been aboard and we certainly don’t know what sort of state they’ll be in. They might not even be able to help themselves. They could have been travelling for a couple of hours, a couple of days, a couple of decades, a couple of centuries. We just don’t know. However, if it does become necessary to board the train, then I’ll do it and only me. No one here gets on the train. No matter what. That’s a direct order.’

There was a moment’s silence until Socko said, ‘What about the other passengers?’

‘They’re destined for Mexico. We can’t interfere with that. Besides which, we don’t have the facilities for a hundred people. Lockland and Parrish are our priorities.’

‘How do we stop the train?’

‘A good question. If the thing actually did turn up in medieval Modena, then it’s obvious it doesn’t need rails on which to run, so derailing the thing will probably be virtually impossible. As far as we know, it doesn’t have a driver, so it’s obviously under its own steam. I don’t suppose it takes much notice of signals either, so we’ll just have to use our initiative. Parrish and Lockland both attended the same briefing as us so they’re aware of the train’s – for want of a better word – itinerary, and should be looking out for us. They’ll see our flares and jump.’

‘And if they don’t . . .’ said Hansen softly.

There was a short silence during which Grint became very busy checking the charge on his blaster. Finally he looked up.

‘Like I said. No one boards the train but me. For any reason whatsoever. Lockland and Parrish are TPOs. They’ll know what to do. We rely on them to act professionally as they’ll rely on us to do the same. Is that clearly understood?’

People nodded.

‘By everyone?’

Everyone nodded again.

‘Right, Hansen – brief us on Balaclava.’

Hansen consulted his scratchpad. ‘Balaclava – part of the city of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. Mostly famous for the Charge of the Light Brigade.’

Rossi sighed. ‘Let’s hope we’re a little more successful than they were.’

‘Slightly less suicidal, certainly,’ said Varma. ‘But only just.’

Hansen continued. ‘In 1954 the Crimea passed from Russia to Ukraine. In 1955 – the year we’re interested in – it’s part of Ukraine and stable. We shouldn’t be finding ourselves in the middle of a war zone.’

Grint nodded. ‘Right then, make sure your blasters are fully charged then get aboard the pod. We go in ten minutes. Don’t just sit there – we have a train to catch.’

15

Matthew arrived at the Map Room and entered through one of the doors on the ground floor, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden gloom.

There are two known Time Maps in existence. There’s the one at St Mary’s. The toytown version, as the Time Police usually referred to it. Designed for desktop use, this Time Map consists of a double cone of twisting, turning light and colour. The vertical axis represents Time and the horizontal denotes space. The point where they intersect is the Here and Now. Everything above Now is the future. Everything below is the past.

Other than size, the main difference between the two Time Maps is their function. The purpose of the St Mary’s map is to plot historical events and their coordinates and chart the relationship between them. Take, for instance, 535AD – the Year Without Sunshine. When viewed through the lens of the St Mary’s Time Map, it is easy to see the causes and effects, the links to massive upheavals around the world – climate change, crop failure, drought, floods, death of the Pope, plague, empires falling and religions rising.

Red dots on the Map indicate major historical events, and these can be expanded to show details – coordinates, assignment numbers, personnel, etc. Smaller blue dots represent Pathfinder jumps. Most important are the temporal hotspots. These Triple-S sites – Sites of Special Significance – are marked in red and are areas where historians never venture. Not willingly, anyway.

The TPHQ Time Map is something else entirely. For a start, it’s three storeys high, rising up through the building like a giant . . . something that’s very giant.

Imagine a colossal, slowly rotating sphere. Like the St Mary’s map, it incorporates two axes, and the point where they intersect – at the same level as the observation ring some twenty feet above the ground – is the always present but ever-changing now.

There, the similarity ends.

Set into walls, floors and the ceiling, a thousand computer-driven streamers beam their mosaics of information into one giant sphere of brilliant silver filigree where hundreds of thousands of tiny glowing silver points are connected by a vast network of fine shimmering lines. Blue, green and purple pinpricks of light denote every jump of which the Time Police are aware, and more appear every day. Larger red dots indicate major historical events, although, as the Time Police are always very quick to point out, they really weren’t interested in that sort of thing. They left all that sort of nonsense to St Mary’s. These red dots acted purely as navigation points.

And while the St Mary’s map was inert, relying entirely on human input, the Time Map had its own increasingly sophisticated AI and was, arguably, sentient. Unkind people frequently designated it the most intelligent thing in the building. It was generally agreed that on the day the machines overthrew the human race, the Time Map would be the one masterminding the attack.

The observation ring was empty today – most of the few officers not currently out on active assignments had been swept up in what would always be known as the Great Rapidly Hardening String Crisis, either as a participant or mocking spectator – but it wasn’t unusual to find at least five or six officers there, leaning on the rail, watching the Map slowly rotate, and using it to reorient themselves after a prolonged period of jumping up and down the Timeline. The consensus being that there was nothing like staring at a three-storey-high giant throbbing silver ball representing all of Time and space to bring home to a weary and disillusioned TPO just how tiny and insignificant he was in the grand scheme of things.

The TiMMs – the Time Map Maintenance section – worked at ground level. Two rows of three consoles were drawn up in a semicircle to face the Map. The Map Master’s workstation – a massive and complex affair – stood on a slightly raised platform behind them, giving her an excellent view of their screens and of the Map itself. Off to one side stood another three training consoles – both physically and electronically separate from the Map itself. A precaution brought in after a very young Matthew Farrell had inadvertently broken it. The Time Map, that is. Even now the Map Master’s dreams were occasionally haunted by images of the Map slowly going dark, section after section falling away. These dreams were especially vivid after too much cheese too late at night. Hence the training consoles, where experimental research could be carried out on replicated sections of the Map without any lasting damage being done to the original.

Clutching his pain meds and a bottle of water, Matthew presented himself to the Map Master, who left her console and came down to meet him. He stood motionless, staring up at the Map. Silver light dappled his upturned face. Around them, a melodic hum – the Song of the Time Map – gently rose and fell.

She nodded at his arm. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘I mean – are you able to direct the Map with that arm?’

‘Yes, ma’am. No problem.’

‘If your arm drops off, then it’s on you.’

‘Don’t you mean not on me?’

She stared at him.

‘Because it wouldn’t be on me any more.’

She stared at him.

‘Because it’s dropped off.’

She stared at him.

Matthew gave it up. ‘Still not a problem.’

‘OK – Connor’s set you up on G13 over there. You can do as you please on it. Touch the Map itself and I’ll tear off all your limbs – including the broken one – and beat you to death with the wet ends before ripping off your head and stuffing their remains tidily down your neck cavity.’

Matthew swallowed and nodded. Seriously – you break one Time Map . . .

‘You know what you’re looking for?’

Matthew nodded again.

‘We’re rushed at the moment – this Easter Island thing is taking up a lot of resources – but Connor is with you on this one. See what you can come up with, but he’s in charge. You will keep him informed and, if necessary, take instruction from him. Is that absolutely clear, Officer Farrell?’

Matthew sighed. One Time Map. Once . . .

The corridor outside the Pod Bay was, to use a technical term, a fire-trucking shambles. Freeing the constricted officers sufficiently to enable their transportation to the recently renamed Staircase of Great Pain had entailed tearing down large parts of the walls and pulling up large parts of the floor, which had, inevitably, led to large parts of the ceiling coming down as well. It was safe to say the corridor looked nothing like it had when business had opened that morning.

Each separate piece of corridor, together with its very own attached TPO, had been carefully thrown down the stairs. In the majority of cases, this innovative technique had proved sufficient to free the involuntarily attached officer. However, as officers were fond of saying, there was always one, wasn’t there? – and in this case the one had been Officer Kelly, who, for some reason, had required three separate tossings to shatter his string sufficiently to enable him to crawl, stunned but vengeful, from the wreckage. Rather in the manner of Godzilla emerging from the ruins of Tokyo. Offers of assistance had been rudely refused as he insisted on staggering back to MedCen under his own steam. Vengeance had been threatened on any member of security unwise enough to present themselves in MedCen in the near future. Or, as he had phrased it – ever. Since several members of security were nearly as big as TPHQ itself and Varma was . . . well, Varma . . . no one was impressed. Varma herself had been despatched with a team to support Lt Grint and the last few liberated officers had staggered off for a medical check-up and a quick drink – not necessarily in that order.

Now that the excitement was over and relative normality restored, Mikey was surveying the wreckage. The floor was littered with clumps of still-hard yellow string and lumps of plasterboard, shattered breeze blocks, insulation panels and broken bricks. Multicoloured wires hung in bunches from gaps in the ceiling, causing the lights to flicker wildly. To complete this picture of Time Police debauchery, Officer Oti’s utility belt, three batons, a boot, and the contents of several officers’ pockets – including a couple of items no one was ever going to claim – ever – littered the corridor.

Mikey crouched, picked up a piece of rigid string and thoughtfully tapped it against a piece of remaining wall. The string crumbled quietly into dust.

She sighed. ‘Oh, brilliant. Now you perform as expected.’ She looked at her watch. More than three and a half hours since the initial spraying. Far too long. Where had she gone wrong?

Sighing, she grabbed an old box from her office and began to work her way methodically along the former corridor, picking up the pieces as she went. Almost every fragment of string crumbled at her touch. That was no good, was it? Sitting cross-legged with the box on her lap, she stared at her brainchild, her brow furrowed in thought. The theory was sound – it was the practice that had failed to deliver. Perhaps if she altered the . . .

The door from the Pod Bay crashed open and someone literally fell over her.

‘For fuck’s sake, Meiklejohn . . .’

‘Ow,’ said Mikey indignantly, from somewhere beneath the Senior Mech. ‘That hurt. Get off me.’

‘What the fuck are you doing on the floor?’

‘Trying to get out from under some great lump who wasn’t looking where he was going because . . .’

‘Get up.’

‘Love to, but something mammoth-like is preventing me.’

‘I swear I’ll have you up on a disciplinary charge before the end of the day.’

‘You’ll find me in MedCen being treated for crush injuries. Seriously – get off me before my ribs cave in.’

Crusher and crushee rolled away from each other, climbed to their feet and regarded each other balefully.

‘What . . . ?’ began Mikey, but stopped. The Senior Mech wasn’t listening.

Without taking his eyes from the gaping void, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘You pulled the wall down.’

‘Well, not me – security pulled down some of it and the rest kind of came down by itself. Didn’t you know?’

‘I thought it was just the plasterboard . . . not . . . not the entire . . .’ He waved an arm at the one-time wall.

‘We had to because . . .’

Still staring at the wall, he backed off down the corridor. ‘Shit, Meiklejohn, what have you done?’

‘I told you . . .’

Whirling around, he knocked the box from her hands and grabbed her arm, saying urgently, ‘Leave all this. Get out now.’

‘I have to . . .’

He pushed her towards the door. ‘You don’t know what . . . Just get out.’

He wrenched open the door and shoved her through into the Pod Bay. Not gently. Mikey sprawled on a different floor this time.

‘Hey.’

But the door had slammed shut behind her.

Alone in the former corridor, the Senior Mech stood very still. An observer might have said he was waiting. Or watching, perhaps. Or both. After long, long minutes had passed, he cocked his head to one side. As if listening.

From somewhere in the darkness behind the wall, a tiny piece of something dropped to the floor, sounding disproportionately loud in this enclosed space.

He took a long step backwards – and then half a step forwards again, as if ashamed of his reaction. The same onlooker might have said that he and the darkness were watching each other.

Eventually, he fumbled for his com. ‘Captain Farenden. Put me through to Commander Hay, please.’ He turned away. ‘Ma’am? Are you aware there has been a substantial amount of damage to the corridor? . . . Yes, that corridor . . . No, I’m shutting it all down now and diverting all personnel to repairs. Before anything . . . Yes . . . With immediate effect, the Pod Bay is out of bounds and no pods available TFN . . . No, I can’t stop any pods coming in, but my priority must be to get this fixed . . . Yes, ma’am – all resources and as soon as is humanly possible.’

Behind him, in the dark, the air moved softly.

He turned to face the hole again.

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m watching it.’

He shut down his com.

On the other side of the door, Mikey sat up, rubbed her elbow, climbed painfully to her feet and wrenched the door open, fully intending to favour the Senior Mech with her candid opinion of thugs who picked up young women and tossed them through the nearest door like so much unwanted rubbish. ‘What the fire truck do you . . . ?’

He was staring at a certain portion of destroyed wall. She went to push past him and he grabbed her arm. ‘Quiet.’

In the one long adventure that had been Mikey’s life so far, she had experienced more than her fair share of nasty moments. The sort of nasty moments when your survival instincts kick in and shout, ‘Shut up and wait. There’s something wrong here.’

She froze, looking around without moving her head. The corridor looked perfectly normal – wrecked, of course, but otherwise normal. There was her box full of former rapidly hardening string. Or dust, if you wanted a more accurate description. Quite sizeable lumps of plasterboard lay where they’d been kicked aside. The wall to the right was more hole than wall. Darkness lurked behind the jagged edges – Varma’s security team had not messed about. A combination of pickaxes, boots and enthusiasm had made short work of bringing down entire sections of the corridor. Or freeing their colleagues, as they’d called it.

The Senior Mech had her arm in a grip of iron, holding her slightly behind him as he faced the smashed-in wall. Mikey remained absolutely still. There was something wrong here. Time-served officers the size of the Senior Mech don’t frighten easily and, at that moment, her instincts told her the Senior Mech was a very frightened man.

He spoke quietly. ‘Mikey, help me out here. Get back to Logistics. Find someone. Anyone. We need battens, heavy-duty polythene, as much plasterboard as they can find, tools – everything for an emergency repair. They’re to bring everything here. To me. Go now. Quickly, please.’

He gave her a little push back towards the door.

There’s a time to argue and a time to . . . not argue. Mikey didn’t argue. She pushed her way back through the door, which closed automatically behind her.

Silence fell.

Still, the Senior Mech hadn’t taken his eyes off the largest hole. The one which, incidentally, was closest to him. Arm outstretched, he took one small, reluctant step forwards. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. It couldn’t.

He took another step forwards, his fingertips just grazing the surface, and as he did so, a small gust of cold air sighed softly within the darkness.

16

In the Map Room, Connor logged Matthew into his workstation. ‘What else do you need?’

‘Give me a minute – I’ll let you know.’

Seating himself, Matthew brought up North’s Zanetti Train briefing notes and read them through. And again. And again. A picture of the route began to form in his mind. His first instinct had been to rejoin Grint and his team and race to his colleagues’ rescue because there was no Time to waste. But Hay was right. That would be counter-productive. Speed was not of the essence here. It was an effort for him to overcome the feeling that every wasted second took Luke and Jane further from him, because that simply wasn’t true. In Time travel it’s not when you depart – it’s when you arrive that’s important. In theory, he could take the rest of the day off and pick this up sometime tomorrow. Or next week. Except there was no way his brain would allow him to do that. So he sat down, rested his increasingly aching arm on the console, made himself concentrate, and quietly worked his way through the information available to him, banging his data into the console which almost immediately began to assemble a data stack. OK – he’d got his starting point.

Leaving his seat, he walked slowly towards the Map and frowned, squinting up at the great silver globe above him. The Zanetti Train was in there somewhere. In lots of somewheres, actually. It was simply a case of finding its route. Where did it go after the Lombardy Tunnel? The first thing he needed was the train’s signature. Without that, he – unlike the train – would be going nowhere.

The best option, obviously, was the source.

Turning to Connor, Matthew said, ‘OK – that section there. Yes, that one. Rome. Fourteenth of July, 1911, and . . . how far is Lombardy from Rome? . . . say, a five-hundred-mile radius. Can you isolate and replicate, please, and send to my console.’

Connor nodded and bent over his keyboard. ‘There you go.’

Matthew watched as a tiny, wedge-shaped inner section of the Map glowed suddenly and duplicated. This duplication detached itself, hung for a moment and then faded. A second later, Matthew’s screen lit up.

‘Got it. Thanks.’

He flattened his original data stack to one side and pulled up this new one. ‘Maximum magnification.’

The new data stack expanded.

All right. One-handed – and yes, his arm was beginning to hurt like hell but he wasn’t going to admit it even for one moment – he banged in the Rome coordinates and watched as the stack twisted and turned until it located the train’s starting point.

Shifting in his seat to make himself more comfortable, he began to scan the tangled web. Minutely and methodically. Every glowing silver line. Thirty minutes later the scan was complete and neither he nor the Map had found anything out of the ordinary. The station and its surroundings were just a dense cluster of shimmering filaments. One of which would be the Zanetti Train, but which? At this stage there was nothing to distinguish it.

‘Maximum magnification.’

Helpfully, the Map informed him maximum magnification for his console had been achieved some time ago.

Matthew scowled and searched again. In vain. He knew he was in the right place because here were two very faint pod signatures. Grint and Luke’s pods. And a couple of blurs, one of which was probably the illegals’ pod. The other could be anything – an old echo of something long past, perhaps. Other than that, everything was as it should be. So – would it be right to say that at this stage either the train wasn’t there . . . or . . . that at this stage everything was – for want of a better word – normal? Yes, that would make sense. It wasn’t until it reached the Lombardy Tunnel that the train had, so to speak, toppled off the rails.

All right, since there was nothing in Rome to distinguish the train – try there. The Lombardy Tunnel. That should definitely throw up something interesting. His heart beating with excitement, he bent over his console again, all ready to collapse the Rome section and move on.

If he’d blinked, he would have missed it. If he’d looked away for a fraction of a second, he would have missed it. If he hadn’t had his head practically inside his data stack, he would have missed it. But he didn’t. And he hadn’t. There . . . there . . .

‘Freeze. Save.’

His stack ceased to twirl and hung motionless. He stood up and began to circle the glowing silver web, looking for the best way to . . .

‘What have you got?’ called Connor.

‘I’m not sure. I’ve frozen and saved, but I can’t quite . . . and I don’t want to lose it.’

‘Send it over here. I’ll copy and send back to you. Then you can do as you please with your copy. We’ll make mine the beta version.’

‘OK.’

His stack disappeared.

‘Got it,’ said Connor. ‘Safely saved. Resending now.’

Matthew’s stack reappeared.

‘Thanks,’ said Matthew vaguely, his mind already on the job. Yes, there it was. He rubbed his eyes. An infinitesimal pinprick. There. The very tiniest of tiny anomalies.

He focused the laser pointer on the coordinates. ‘Map, what is that?’

The Map’s AI regretted it had no information.

‘Is it some kind of anomaly?’

The Map agreed that might certainly be the case.

‘Could it be something as large as a train and three carriages?’

The Map informed him that was unlikely.

Matthew unfroze his stack and the pinprick began to move. Helpfully, the Map informed him the anomaly had begun to move.

Matthew politely thanked the Map – because he wasn’t Luke Parrish – and bent over his stack again.

The anomaly was definitely travelling away from the station. Only very minutely at this scale, but definitely moving. The coordinates tracking down the info panel on one side of the stack confirmed it. OK – so, too small to be a train but still moving. How . . . ? Oh, of course – something on a train. Had something happened to the train – caused by something or someone on the train? Something that would cause it to . . . what?

Jump through Time and space like a very . . . jumpy . . . thing.

Fingers trembling with excitement and heedless of his now-throbbing-quite-painfully arm, Matthew discarded a ton of surrounding redundant info and focused solely on the pinprick. Now that the Map was locked on, it would be almost impossible to lose . . .

The pinprick disappeared.

He reared back in shock. What?

He drew a deep breath. All right. All right. The thing to do was not to panic. Panicking never helped. He hadn’t made a mistake. He hadn’t lost it. The anomaly had disappeared, but Connor still had the original copy should he need to retrieve it. But let’s have a bit of a think first. The anomaly was gone. Jumped or destroyed. But how?

Stop and think. What happened next?

The Lombardy Tunnel incident.

Bashing away at his scratchpad again, he entered the train’s calculated time of arrival and then, using his good arm, he began to swipe his way through the stack. And then suddenly . . . even as he stared, the silver lines trembled. All of them. Rippling outwards. Something seismic had occurred. Was occurring. A socking great anomaly. Look at the size of it. It was massive. And growing all the time. What the hell was going on? It was huge. Much, much bigger than the original tiny pinprick. One of the biggest he’d ever seen. Bigger even than the infamous Versailles time-slip. Big enough, it would seem, to shift a train, its tender, three carriages and their passengers out of their own Time.

Never mind that at the moment. Now that he was in the right place, the most important thing to do was acquire the train’s signature. Running that through pattern recognition software should enable the Map to locate the train. It might take some time – it would take some time – but once he had that, wherever or whenever the train went, the Map should eventually be able to locate it. He squinted, his heart thumping with excitement as he moved closer and closer until . . . Yes. There. There it was. The Zanetti Train. A tiny silver thread with a slight but distinctive twist to it. Rather like a very fine chain. Microscopic in the scheme of things . . .

His eyes blurred at the fineness of it. The chain seemed to dance. He blinked hard and squinted. This wasn’t easy. The silver was so bright. He blinked again. Relax. Try to relax. There was no need to stare so hard. Let the Map do the work . . .

He rotated his section back to Rome again. Because now he had the signature, he should be able to track the train’s journey in its entirety. The Map would lead and he would follow. Identifying the train, he began to trace its route out of Rome and across country.

It still wasn’t easy. Even this tiny sliver of the Map was a complex web of silver lines, each of them interacting with others as they made their own journey through Time. He dared not take his eye off the one he wanted, following its twists and turns. Never looking away. Focus. Don’t look away because it was very, very easy to become disoriented when dealing with the Time Map, even with this tiny section.

And now – here – just outside of Rome – something had happened. Matthew froze the image again. There was the pinprick anomaly – cause still unknown. And there was the point where the signature disappeared. How was that possible? What could cause an entire train to disappear?

He moved the Map on. The train had jumped from there . . . to appear here . . . just outside the Lombardy Tunnel. And then – poof – gone again. Did that mean that the supposed anomaly wasn’t the actual tunnel as they had all wondered? The anomaly was the train itself. Which, given the way the thing went on to kangaroo around the Timeline, was very possible. Likely, even. Not a Time Tunnel but a Time Train.

But how? How could that happen? Was it possible to take what had seemed to be a perfectly normal train and somehow endow it with Time-travelling capabilities? Well, why not? People did it with pods all the time. Was that what had happened just outside of Rome?

He remembered the recent mission to acquire Nikola Tesla’s supposed Death Ray. A directed energy beam. Could someone have fired such a thing at the train, causing it to jump ahead to the tunnel? Where two people escaped. And then the train jumped again. And there were reports of fog – fog sometimes accompanied time-slips. Was it possible that, having been subjected to some sort of temporal trauma just outside of Rome, the train just couldn’t stop jumping? No rhyme or reason. No pattern. No purpose. Just random jump after random jump. How difficult would that be to track?

Matthew straightened up and tried to rest his arm. Prolonged and incessant jumping would not do the passengers any good at all. People in 1911 wouldn’t have the faintest idea what was happening to them. No wonder they all ended up in a lunatic asylum.

He reached for his water and his pain meds.

17

Balaclava, 29th October 1955.

Grint’s pod landed at the bottom of a slight slope near a small group of scrubby trees. Disembarking very cautiously, they divided themselves into two groups: Team 235 – whose priority would be intercepting the train and rescuing their colleagues – and Varma and Tucker, who would watch their backs and be ready to deploy where needed.

The day was cool and dry – which was a pleasant change from baking hot Italy. A slight wind blew. Low cloud obscured the horizon and there was no sun to dazzle the eyes. As far as the Time Police were concerned, perfect weather conditions.

They were standing on scrubby ground. Patches of some thorny shrub grew to knee height, supplemented with small copses of birch and willow. Peering through the trees, they could see buildings to their left which they assumed were the outlying suburbs of Balaclava.

‘All right,’ said Grint, consulting his scratchpad. ‘The train will appear – or should appear – somewhere near here. It’s reported by the signalman, one Pyotr Ustimenko. The train had no lights. All the curtains were drawn. The doors were swinging open. The cab was empty as before. None of which is good, but worst of all from our point of view – no sign of any passengers.’

His team stirred uneasily.

Varma shook her head. ‘That doesn’t mean they’re not on board. They might be sleeping, hiding, unconscious . . . anything.’

No one said ‘dead’.

Grint continued. ‘We act on the assumption they’re all on board somewhere.’

Rossi cleared his throat. ‘What does it do this time? The train, I mean?’

‘The signalman reported it as running along former tracks. Either disused tracks or possibly the place where tracks once ran – it’s not clear from his account. The train itself was so old he thought it was something left over from the war. It comes from the direction of Gasfort Mountain.’ He gestured into the dusk.

Hansen was consulting his own scratchpad. ‘The report doesn’t say so but there were rumours the train’s appearance was in some way linked to the Novorossiysk explosion which killed six hundred and eight people. The train was seen as the harbinger of disaster.’

‘Well, of course it’s a fire-trucking harbinger of fire-trucking disaster,’ said Grint, exasperated. ‘A ghost train with over a hundred souls trapped on board is hardly going to turn up and announce you’ve just won the fire-trucking lottery, is it?’

There was some feet-shuffling. No one looked at anyone else.

Grint took a deep breath.

‘If we miss them there, then it turns up again in 1991 at Zavalichi,’ said Hansen soothingly. ‘That appearance isn’t connected with any other disaster that I can see, although apparently it did run over some chickens.’

‘God save me,’ muttered Grint. ‘I work with idiots.’

‘Welcome to my world,’ said Varma.

‘Hey,’ protested Trainee Tucker, not for the first time.

‘Everyone just be aware,’ said Grint. ‘It’s a ghost train that will probably kill you if it gets the chance. Right – first thing – find the railway lines.’

‘There,’ said Hansen, pointing.

‘That was quick,’ said Grint approvingly.

‘Couldn’t miss them, sir. There are hundreds of them.’

This was a slight exaggeration but, looking around, there were indeed a lot of railway lines criss-crossing the landscape. Some shiny and obviously in regular use; some rusted and dull, their sleepers rotting. They looked around. Tracks ran in all directions.

‘Actually,’ said Tucker, ignoring the protocol which said trainees never spoke unless spoken to, ‘this is good. All these tracks mean points and signals, which must mean there will be a signal box around here somewhere. With at least one occupant.’

They looked around.

‘In that direction,’ said Tucker, pointing away from the built-up area. ‘Balaclava railway station over there will have its own signal box, so I think the one we’re looking for will be further away. To shunt departing trains on to the right tracks after they’ve left the station. Well, that’s what I think anyway.’

He became aware of his colleagues’ stares and shrugged. ‘I know how these things work.’

‘How?’ said Hansen suspiciously.

‘I’ve stolen tons of stuff from various goods yards in my time.’

Varma looked at Grint. ‘He’s the nearest thing we have to an expert.’

Grint made a decision. ‘All right. Tucker – you take the lead. Hansen and Rossi take the rear. Keep a lookout. I don’t want anyone ending as a dirty smear on the tracks. Let’s go, people.’

They set off. The day grew darker. Frequent trains passed in both directions, blowing their whistles.

‘They’re still using steam,’ said Rossi, staring about him.

‘Actually,’ said Tucker, again.

Grint stopped. ‘What?’

‘They might be hooting at us. We’re trespassing. If enough drivers report us, they might send people out to investigate.’

Varma nodded. ‘He’s right. We should move away. We surely don’t have to be right on top of the tracks to see a train coming.’

‘True,’ said Rossi. ‘We all saw it at the tunnel. The thing’s fire-trucking huge.’

‘Exactly my point,’ said Grint.

The lines were edged with spindly trees – ash, birch, willow. Not so thick as to obscure the tracks, but enough to provide some cover. The only problem was the coarse, knee-high grass that wrapped itself around their legs and slowed progress.

‘Let’s hope we don’t have to run anywhere,’ grumbled Socko.

‘How do we know any one of these buggers isn’t the Zanetti Train,’ said Rossi, staring at a train rattling past.

‘Not enough menace,’ said Grint shortly. ‘We’re not talking Thomas the Tank Engine here.’

His team stared at him.

‘What?’ he said. ‘You haven’t read Thomas the Tank Engine?’

‘I have,’ said Hansen, without thinking. ‘I’m just surprised . . .’ he stopped in time and finished with, ‘to find it’s still in print.’

Grint glowered suspiciously for a moment and then they all carried on walking.

Overhead, the sky darkened with huge rain clouds. The wind picked up. Grint caught Varma’s eye and the group closed up. Lights began to twinkle in the distance. Work lights, perhaps, or isolated dwellings. Grint was conscious of a growing unease and, looking around, he wasn’t the only one. Dusk was falling and there were fewer trains now and none on the lines near them.

‘How much warning will we get?’ muttered Varma.

Grint shrugged. ‘Last time, we heard it long before we saw it. Watch out for possible blue lightning running down the rails. Some sort of precursor, perhaps. And white fog.’

‘So it’s not going to creep silently up behind us, then?’

‘It was making a hell of a racket last time, so no, probably not.’

By now, the wind had dropped and it was nearly dark. And very quiet. Not a sound in the still evening air. All lights had disappeared. Nothing was moving. Grint could hear his own breathing.

He was never able to say what made him turn around at that very moment, but turn he did.

Directly behind – heart-stoppingly close – the Zanetti Train looked down at him.

Only one thought ran through his mind. This was not the Zanetti Train he’d glimpsed in Rome. Nor the train he’d seen at the Lombardy Tunnel. This was a train that had suffered. The bodywork was scraped and dented. Raw metal showed through blistered paint. Huge dark stains spread across the boiler. As if the train had been bleeding. He stared up at it, held in its gaze, unable to move. Where had this train been? What had it seen? Vast and menacing, the Zanetti Train stood only feet away from him. Grint felt his heart lurch with fear.

And then, from out of the dark – an unseen someone threw a scratchpad at him.

18

Luke and Jane stood together, staring out into the darkness. Their one chance of escape had gone. Vanished into the void. Jay and Dev had made it off the train – Jane hoped – but they themselves were still trapped on board. The Lombardy Tunnel had been their best opportunity and they’d missed it.

Actually, that wasn’t true. They hadn’t missed anything. The opportunity had been snatched from them by Sawney. Luke’s temper, never far from the surface even under normal circumstances, boiled over. He knew that without Sawney’s interference they could have been off this fire-trucking train by now. In fact, without Sawney’s interference they wouldn’t even have been on the bloody thing in the first place. Without Sawney’s interference they would have quietly arrested Jay and Dev and been back at TPHQ by now. It was all Sawney . . . fire-trucking Sawney . . .

The last trails of white mist crept through the baggage area and quietly dissolved. Gone forever. Just like their chance of escape.

The same thoughts were crossing Jane’s mind. Their one and only chance. She leaned against the wall, did her best to swallow down her rising panic and tried to think. What now? How were they ever to get off? What could they do? Her thoughts were all over the place.

‘Try to pull yourself together, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane gently. ‘There’s going to be a murder.’

Luke was advancing across the baggage area, bloody vengeance written all across his face. Sawney took one look, saw his own death writ large and turned to run.

Too late. In one long stride, Luke had grabbed him and, using Sawney’s momentum against him, slammed his face against the side of the carriage.

‘You fucking arsehole. That was our only chance.’

Knotting his hand in Sawney’s hair, he slammed his face again, leaving smears of dark blood across the light-wood walls.

And again.

‘Luke.’

And again. Sawney’s legs began to sag.

‘Luke. Enough.’

He shook Jane off. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Rescuing someone.’

‘He doesn’t deserve to live.’

‘I’m rescuing you. You’ve made a mess of his face. That’s enough.’

There was a very long silence, broken only by the sounds of blood bubbling from Sawney’s nose and mouth.

‘I’m going to kill him, Jane. You can’t stop me.’

‘I know, but I’m asking you not to.’

‘After everything he did to you – to us today – give me one good reason why I should let him live.’

‘I can’t. But you’d be murdering someone in cold blood.’

‘Believe me, Jane, my blood is not cold. That was our one and only chance.’

Sawney, clinging to the wall for support, tried to wipe his face and said thickly, ‘Not for me.’

Still with his hand knotted in Sawney’s hair, Luke said, ‘What?’

‘Not a chance for me.’

‘You seriously think spending what’s left of your miserable life on this train is preferable to being rescued?’

Sawney tried to sniff blood back up his nostril. ‘You’ll be rescued – I’ll be shot.’

‘Small loss to the world.’

With lightning speed, Sawney brought up his elbow. Luke dodged to one side, hooked his leg around Sawney’s ankle and the two of them fell to the floor. It was a dirty fight. Sawney had not been backward in picking up all the tricks of the Time Police trade, and Luke’s anti-kidnap training had been the best money could buy. And there were scores to settle.

Jane grabbed the carpet bag, backed herself into a corner, waited for the right moment and then sonicked Sawney. It was a substantial jolt and he went limp.

Luke rolled away, his face red with fury and effort. ‘What did you do that for? I was winning.’

A bruise was blossoming on his right cheekbone and a trickle of blood ran from his lip. Impatiently, he wiped it away with his sleeve, climbed to his feet and surveyed the semi-conscious Sawney lying in a bloody heap on the floor.

‘Well, what do we do with him now, Jane? It’s your fault he still walks the earth . . .’ he cast a glance outside, ‘metaphorically speaking. I have to say, my inclination is to solve many of our problems by simply chucking the arsehole off the train.’

Jane replaced the sonic in their bag. ‘And I might be inclined to let you, but you never know – at some point he might come in useful.’

Luke sighed and attempted to repair some of the damage to his clothing incurred by rolling around on the dusty floor. ‘Resources check, Jane.’

Jane rummaged. ‘Two blasters – both nearly empty because we accidentally discharged them into Sawney’s supposed pod.’

Luke straightened his tie. ‘In the unlikely event of us surviving this, Jane, I think we should leave that bit out of our report.’

‘Agreed. And we have two sonics. And two batons. And a scratchpad – I don’t know if it will work under these conditions . . .’

Luke took it off her. ‘It doesn’t.’ He handed it back.

Jane replaced it in the bag. ‘We have our coms . . .’

‘Which don’t work – not even to each other. Either that pod/crate thing left some sort of a residual field . . . or electronics don’t work as long as we’re on this train. Could be either. Or even both.’

Jane was still rummaging. ‘Water . . . some rations, a torch . . . that’s it.’

Luke smiled sadly and touched his lip. ‘Not much with which to confront eternity, is it, Jane?’

‘Grint will find us.’

He looked at her. ‘You really believe that, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘I do. I know he’ll find us.’

Luke picked up Sawney’s weapon. ‘We have this as well – again nearly empty. We still need to get rid of it – and carry out a small experiment at the same time.’

He tossed the gun out through the hole. There was a sudden crack of blue lightning, a flash and no more gun.

Luke stared after it. ‘Was that what happened to the guard, do you think? He left the carriage – to crawl over the tender, perhaps, to speak with the driver, and as soon as he left the shelter . . .’

‘You walked from one carriage to the next.’

‘Perhaps the train has some sort of protecting field – I don’t know. I do know wild horses wouldn’t get me out there again.’

‘What about Sawney?’

They looked at the slowly recovering heap. Luke sighed. ‘No, Sawney’s not going anywhere.’

‘Shall we go back to his compartment? We might as well be comfortable.’

‘Why not.’ He looked down. ‘What about him?’ He raised his voice and poked the heap with his foot. ‘We’re going back to your compartment, Sawney. Stay here or join us. Your choice.’

They left the baggage area and made their way back to the compartment.

‘Should we try to keep everyone calm?’ said Jane as they worked their way around shouting passengers. Some people had left their compartments to shout at other people in different compartments. By the sound of it, things were turning nasty.

‘It’s probably best we don’t get involved.’

‘True.’ Jane slid open the compartment door and they sat down. She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Could we possibly talk about something normal for a moment? Something that doesn’t involve all this?’ She gestured around.

Luke made himself comfortable, putting his feet up on the seat opposite. ‘OK, here’s an interesting thought I bet hasn’t occurred to you.’

She opened her eyes. ‘Does it concern Grint? Because if you’re just going to be . . .’

‘Only very slightly. Jane, now that your grandmother’s dead, the chances are that you’re a very rich woman.’

‘Are they? I mean, is it? I mean, am I?’

Luke sighed. ‘Jane, I’ve just been rolling around with the arsewipe commonly known as Sawney on a runaway ghost train lost in Time and I’m still firing on more cylinders than you. Of course you are.’

‘Actually, I hadn’t given it a thought . . .’

‘Of course you hadn’t.’

‘Until Grint mentioned it.’

Luke regarded her. ‘Oh? Grint thinks you’re rich, does he?’

Jane flushed angrily. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘I bet.’

‘No, he said he hoped I wasn’t rich, because if I was then I’d leave the Time Police and he’d have to as well and he didn’t know how to do anything else.’

Luke scowled. ‘What else did he say?’

‘More or less the same as you. For more or less the same reasons as you. The thing is, Luke, I don’t think my grandmother was that rich. There was never very much housekeeping and she always bought my school uniforms second-hand.’ She looked down. ‘Sometimes they smelled a bit. People occasionally . . . mentioned it.’

‘Well, think about it now, Jane. If nothing else, she had that very nice Georgian house in that very nice Georgian square. She didn’t work, so she must have had some sort of income. As her sole surviving relative, all that could be yours now.’

‘How do you know I’m her sole surviving relative?’

Unconsciously echoing Lt Grint, Luke drove his point home. ‘Because if there was anyone else – even if they were a blind, disabled, axe-wielding octogenarian psychopath revelling in every perversion known to man and living in Ulan Bator – she’d have packed you off there rather than take you in herself.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane. She stared unseeingly at the hideously patterned red and gold curtains. ‘She really didn’t want me, did she?’

‘No, she didn’t.’

‘Just like you.’

There was a very long silence. The train rushed on through the dark. At least Luke assumed it was moving – there was no point of reference, so he had no idea. And if it was moving – where would it go next?

Pushing that thought aside, he spoke quietly. ‘I said some very stupid things, Jane. And I’m sorry. I know you’re still having a hard time with that, so I’m not going to say any more, but I’m about to give you some good advice. Don’t let the fact it’s coming from me lead you to ignore it. Obviously, I know the answer to this one, but do you, by any chance, have a solicitor?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, when we get back – and we will because don’t tell me Grint isn’t tearing Italy apart with his bare hands as we speak – you should find yourself a good solicitor and take their advice. If any legacy turns out to be quite tiny, then shout, “In your face, wicked grandmother,” and splurge it all on yourself in one mad afternoon. If – and I suspect this will be the case, Jane, because she sounds as if she had miser written all over her – if you do find yourself in possession of untold riches, then you’ll definitely need financial advice. Your solicitor will recommend someone who will guide you and safeguard your interests throughout all that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s not easy having money, you know. It’s made me what I am today.’

Jane had to smile. ‘Are you holding yourself up as a good example or a terrible warning?’

‘You decide.’

She sighed. ‘If we don’t get out of this, then it’s all academic, isn’t it?’

‘What makes you think we won’t get out?’

‘Only two people ever escaped off this train and they’ve already gone. We’re about to spend centuries hurtling around Time and space before coming to rest in a primitive lunatic asylum from which we will never escape. There’s not a lot to look forward to, is there?’

Luke leaned forwards and put his hand on hers. ‘We’ll get out, Jane. I personally will see that we do.’

Jane’s conscience – easily the most active organ in her body – gave her a metaphorical slap around the side of the head. This was the perfect moment. She opened her mouth to speak. To tell him . . .

‘Luke, I have to tell you . . .’

The door opened, letting in the sounds of people shouting in the corridor.

‘Some people want to jump,’ said Sawney, who appeared to have made some attempt to clean himself up. He seated himself as far away as he could get from both of them.

‘Why?’ said Jane.

‘Because they’re idiots,’ said Sawney contemptuously. ‘Their only hope is to stay on this train. I don’t know what’s out there – no one does – but it will kill them quicker than anything happening in here.’

Luke opened the carpet bag. ‘Anyone want a drink?’

‘Not thirsty,’ said Jane. ‘And we should ration it. We’ve no idea how long we’ll be here.’

‘Actually, I’m not thirsty either,’ said Luke. He looked at Sawney. ‘Are you?’

Sawney shook his head.

‘I don’t think we’re actually in Time,’ said Jane hesitantly. ‘I mean, Time isn’t passing for us. Not when it’s dark outside.’

Luke nodded. ‘I think this train is just randomly jumping, landing, and jumping again.’

‘How long do you think it can keep that up?’ said Sawney, staring out of the window at the nothingness.

‘Forever perhaps,’ said Jane. Despite all her efforts, her voice trembled. ‘The driver’s gone. And the firemen. No one’s driving the train. No one’s feeding it any coal. It’s just . . . going and going and . . .’

Luke put his hand on hers again. ‘There’s an end,’ he said. ‘We know it. At the briefing. All the passengers end up in Mexico.’

‘But when?’ said Jane.

‘We know that – 1840-ish.’

‘I meant – how long until this train jumps to 1840? According to North, it jumps to the Ukraine – several times – and the Middle Ages, and there are unconfirmed reports of sightings in Russia, China, India . . .’

‘You’re saying,’ interrupted Sawney, ‘that it could be years – decades – centuries even, before it finishes in Mexico?’

‘Only the passengers get off there,’ said Luke. ‘We don’t know what happens to the train itself.’

Sawney cocked his head to the sound of another argument filtering through the closed door. ‘What sort of state do you think this lot – any of us – will be in by the time that happens?’

‘Well, we’ll be fine,’ said Luke. ‘We know what’s happening and can deal with it. And the chances are the Time Police will get us out. And, as Jane said, Time isn’t passing for us.’

‘No,’ said Sawney heavily. ‘But it will be for your supposed rescuers. How long, do you think, before they give up? How much time and effort do you honestly think the Time Police will devote to rescuing a couple of bottom-of-the-barrel jerks like you two? My guess is not very much. I’ll tell you what will happen: they’ll mount a couple of unsuccessful attempts – if they ever manage to track you down – and then give up. There’ll be one of their crap memorial services and half an hour later everyone will have forgotten you ever existed. I should know.’

Luke looked at Jane. Obviously Sawney was unaware of the Grint factor. He couldn’t see Grint letting this go. On the other hand, Grint was a TPO. Through and through. If you cut him in half, the words Time Police officer probably ran right through him. Like a stick of Brighton rock. If he was ordered to desist then he would probably comply. He wouldn’t like it and Luke could easily see him throwing the furniture around for an hour or so, but in the end he’d do it. He’d have no choice. And if Grint defied the Time Police and they chucked him out, then he’d lose all access to the pods, and with that any possibility of ever rescuing Jane. Luke suspected recovering him, Luke Parrish, would be a bit of an optional extra. He sighed again. No matter how you viewed them – things were not looking good.

‘I think we should prepare ourselves for rescue,’ he said. ‘To do otherwise is to give up. There are fixed-point sightings. The Time Police will be at those points. All we have to do is jump off the train.’

Sawney stirred. ‘That last place we were at . . .’

‘The Lombardy Tunnel.’

‘Yeah. How long were we there for? A couple of minutes? No longer, certainly. If we’re going to jump, we’re going to need to be ready to go at literally a moment’s notice.’

‘There’s a problem with that,’ said Luke. ‘I’m pretty certain this train jumps to considerably more places and Times than we have records for. If we leave the train at one of those, then we might never be rescued, because no one would know we were there. We’d be stuck there forever.’

‘Our tags,’ said Jane faintly.

‘Jane – there’s all of Time and space out there. Where would they start? Once the known sites have been checked and we’re not there – where else could they go? What else could they do?’

Jane shivered.

‘Yeah,’ said Sawney. ‘Maybe next time you two dickheads will think twice before losing your heads and shooting at everything in sight.’ He fixed Jane with a look of intense dislike. ‘This is what comes of letting girls think they can do a man’s job. All this is her fault. And yours, too.’

‘Our fault,’ shouted Luke in amazement. ‘You’re the pillock who brought a dodgy pod with him.’

‘It wasn’t dodgy until you shot the hell out of it.’

‘Dodgy enough for you to be sending Jay and Dev off in it. I notice you weren’t going to step inside it, were you? Not when you had Jay and Dev to do it for you. You’d better lose the attitude, Sawney. Things aren’t looking good for you. Your boss certainly isn’t going to put himself out for a lowlife like you, and if the Time Police get hold of you then it’s off to Droitwich on a one-way ticket, mate, so I’d shut up, sit still, and hope that when we do manage to get out of this, I can persuade Jane to let you tag along with us.’

‘I’m going back to the baggage area,’ said Jane, standing up and bracing herself against the swaying train. ‘If this train lands somewhere, I want to be ready to go.’

‘I’ll join you,’ said Luke.

They both looked at Sawney.

‘It’s up to you,’ said Luke. ‘I think our chances are best if we work together. Let’s get off this fire-trucking train first and then work out what to do next.’

Sawney nodded. ‘All right. Until we get off the train then.’

They both looked at Jane, who nodded. ‘Agreed.’

Back in the baggage area, they sat on the floor and looked out at the darkness.

‘We’re talking,’ said Jane. ‘And moving about. Therefore Time is passing. Otherwise we’d all be a bunch of statues.’

‘Time’s passing in here,’ said Luke. ‘Just not out there.’ He looked at Sawney. ‘You were an experienced officer. Ever see anything like this?’

Sawney shook his head. ‘I did think – back at the tunnel when there was that fog – that perhaps it was a time-slip. You sometimes get a sort of fog or mist. Especially with the bigger ones.’

‘Where did the fog come from?’ said Jane. ‘The train? The tunnel? Or was it just there?’

They shook their heads.

‘It happened so quickly,’ said Jane. ‘I saw Lt Grint and, I think, Rossi, and then the boys jumped. When it went dark I hoped we’d just entered the tunnel, but it seems we didn’t.’

‘Well,’ said Sawney. ‘If Grint’s on the job then we might stand a chance. Good bloke, Grint.’

Which was also Jane’s opinion, although for completely different reasons than Sawney’s. Given their uneasy truce it seemed politic not to mention this.

‘We need a plan,’ said Luke. ‘The chances are we won’t have a lot of notice if – when – this train actually lands somewhere, so as I said, we need to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’

Jane turned to look at him. ‘We have to jump. I don’t see what else we could do.’

‘We won’t know what we’d be jumping into. Could you tell the difference between 20th-century Ukraine or 10th-century France or 22nd-century Australia? In a fraction of a second? We might have only the briefest glimpse before deciding. Our scratchpad isn’t working, so unless there’s a dinosaur or a famous building or some kind of landmark, we won’t have any idea where or when we are.’

‘And the Time Police might be waiting for us,’ said Sawney.

‘But if we hesitate we could miss the opportunity completely,’ said Luke.

Jane stirred. ‘Our circumstances aren’t quite the same, though, are they? Sawney wants off the train but doesn’t want to be rescued by the Time Police, so he’s prepared to take the risk of jumping into the unknown – I’m not. Don’t know about you, Luke?’

Luke shook his head.

‘Well, I’m not hanging around here for the rest of my life,’ said Sawney angrily. ‘And you can’t make me.’

‘Well, why don’t we compromise? At the next opportunity – Sawney, you jump first. Luke and I can take a second to decide whether to follow you or not. I don’t suppose it would break your heart if we didn’t.’

‘Yeah,’ said Luke. ‘Sawney – you’re off the train, which is well and good for all of us, but Jane and I can still take a moment to make a choice. If we decide not to jump, or miss the opportunity, then you’re not affected. So – wherever we end up – Sawney jumps first.’

Sawney considered this for a long moment and then nodded. ‘Yeah – OK.’

19

Matthew crouched over his console.

Right. He had the signature. Theoretically, between them, he and the Map should be able to follow the train wherever it went. Modena. Ukraine. Mexico. India. Russia. The Chunnel. And those were just the ones they knew about. And in what order? Even with all the resources of the Time Map, this could be worse than a needle in a haystack.

It might be worth pointing out here that in similar situations in the future, a favourite Time Police saying would be ‘Like trying to find the Zanetti Train in the Time Map’. With a couple of fire trucks thrown in to relieve their feelings and make their point.

He looked up at the Map, singing gently to itself as it slowly rotated above him. The train could be anywhere in there. Pangea. Renaissance Italy. Ming China. Industrial England. Viking Norway. The Aboriginal Dreamtime. The Jurassic era. Anywhere . . .

He frowned. There was no point in simply following the train. What did a good hunter always do? A good hunter worked out where their prey would appear next, went there and waited. Good strategy. He should get ahead of the train and identify the coordinates so a couple of teams could be there, ready and waiting when the train actually arrived. But the Map was so vast . . . and complex . . . Even with powerful pattern recognition software, it could take days to locate one tiny thread among so many billions.

All right. Calm down. Don’t panic. Start with known sightings. If those didn’t pan out, then he could go hunting, but at this moment he had a tiny scrap of definite information. Start there and see where that led.

The earliest witnessed sighting was Modena. But he had no info of any kind other than an old entry in an even older text. And the source material had been destroyed in an earthquake. He had no date – no location. Nothing that would enable him to fix even vague coordinates. Move on. He could always come back to Modena.

Ukraine was a different matter entirely. There were two confirmed sightings there. Known dates and places.

He flicked back to North’s notes. Balaclava, 29th October 1955, and Zavalichi, 25th September 1991.

The next definite sighting was Mexico City in or just after 1840 – well, no, no one actually saw the train there, but that’s where the passengers ended up. In an insane asylum. He really, really needed to get to Luke and Jane long before that happened.

He flattened his data stack. ‘Connor.’

‘Yes, mate?’

‘I need four more sections of the Map, please.’

Connor looked doubtful. ‘Your console won’t have the capacity for four.’

Matthew gestured to the space behind him. ‘Freestanding holos. Along here.’ He pointed to the area behind his desk. ‘Rome first, then Balaclava. Zavalichi. Modena. Mexico City on the end. I want to be able to move from one to the other.’

‘You don’t want the tunnel any longer?’

Matthew hesitated. It was an unwritten rule. Always keep your table clean. Clear away all unwanted data. On the other hand, suppose he needed it again in a hurry.

‘No, you’re right – I’ll keep it. Insert between Rome and Balaclava, please. I’ve located the train signature – I want to follow its path and work out the best place to intercept it. I’ll use pattern recognition software and map as I go. When I’ve got something, I’ll send confirmed coordinates to you and then someone can carry the info straight on to Grint. Save him jumping around all over the place. We can do all the hard work for him.’

Connor looked over to the Map Master, standing nearby, frowning. There were risks. Freestanding replications were obviously much larger than the desktop versions Farrell had been using. He would actually be able to insert himself into the segment. Move around inside it. Manipulate the data. It had been done before – although not recently because the Map Master had installed very effective safeguards. Beginning with refusing permission. Because it was very easy to become disoriented. But Farrell would only be a few steps away and if anything went wrong, all they would have to do was to shut it all down – gradually so as not to shock him back to reality too quickly – and then pack him off to MedCen to recover his place in the world. Even so, entering a Time Map holo could be a difficult and dangerous procedure.

On the other hand, this was Farrell, whose abilities with the Time Map were not fully explored or understood. Who knew what he might come up with?

The Map Master hesitated for a moment and then nodded to Connor. ‘Isolate and replicate. But those sections only. Any more and the power drain might begin to affect the structural integrity of the Map. And I don’t want to overload the streamers.’

Connor muttered, but complied, stripping out section after section of the Map, replicating, saving as holos, returning them and sending the copies to the area requested. New streamers twinkled into life and a large, wedge-shaped piece of tangled silver filaments appeared behind Matthew’s desk. Then another. And another.

These holos were much larger than Matthew’s desktop model and, since they had no fixed date on which to focus, the Modena section encompassed over five hundred years and was correspondingly vast – bigger than all the Rome and Ukraine segments put together. He decided to leave that section to last. More streamers came online to cope with the heavy load. The Time Map hum rose fractionally in pitch and volume.

The Map Master turned her head and frowned.

When Matthew finally had the segments lined up to his satisfaction, he stepped back and considered. He had the train’s signature and its start point. He had pattern recognition software to assist him. His scratchpad would record and map his route as he went. His main problem would be navigating the tangled web of Time but, theoretically, this should be easy.

‘Com check,’ said the Map Master abruptly.

‘I’m only just over here,’ protested Matthew.

‘Com check every five minutes or we shut it all down and leave you standing in the middle of the room with one leg in the air and looking stupid.’

Matthew nodded, his eyes reflecting silver. ‘Understood.’

‘Farrell – be aware – if this scheme of yours places any sort of strain on the Map . . .’

‘Understood,’ said Matthew again.

‘Connor – watch him.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I will be monitoring the situation. The slightest threat to the integrity of the Map, Farrell . . .’

Leaving the threat unspoken, she strode away.

Matthew activated the mapping function on his scratchpad and linked it to his console, which in turn linked to the holo and started in Rome. The programme would talk to the Time Map AI, listing coordinates as he went. If all went well, then in less than an hour he could have a complete map of the train’s movements.

Using the pattern recognition software, Matthew began to trace the train’s route, following the silver chain. Move slowly through the holo. Don’t lose the chain. Don’t look away. Don’t confuse it with any other chains. He halted. Here was the unidentified pinprick anomaly. Coordinates noted. And there went the train.

He moved on to the Lombardy Tunnel. A few moments later the PR programme found the train again as it appeared suddenly, several miles from the tunnel. He watched the tiny line inch its way towards . . . a flash . . . ripples . . . and there it went again.

His scratchpad vibrated. Coordinates noted.

So far so good. The PR software was performing perfectly and his scratchpad was recording the train’s route and coordinates. This might actually be much easier than he had thought.

Slowly, he left the tunnel segment and moved on to Balaclava. As he entered, the holo trembled slightly, and across the room, the hum of the Time Map rose again.

‘Com check,’ said Connor.

‘Still here,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m not sure whether to locate Balaclava first and then look for the train there, or try to locate the train and follow it to Balaclava. Are you able to access the Crimean railway system?’

‘Not legally.’

‘In 1955?’

‘Possibly. I’ll pass your request on to North’s team.’

‘The train was spotted at a railway crossing near Balaclava. There should be a signal box nearby.’

‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘I have the date. I need a specific location.’

‘Can’t you just follow the train?’

‘The anomalies happen so quickly I might easily miss it. I don’t want to be just chasing this thing – I want to be there ready and waiting for it.’

‘Give me a minute.’

There was a pause. Matthew closed his eyes against the silver glow.

‘There are four railway crossings quite close to you.’

‘Thank you, Siri.’

‘Sending the spatial coordinates of all four.’

‘I’m linking to the date. That’s narrowed it down to two, but there’s just so much . . . Nothing from the PR software. I’m wondering if it’s not quicker to do this manually . . .’

‘Do both,’ advised Connor. ‘Belt and braces.’

‘Good thought. Give me a moment . . . Bloody hell, this silver stuff kills your eyes. Any chance of goggles or a visor?’

‘I’ll see if I can get one sent up. Do you want to come out until . . . ?’

‘No. I’ll lose my place and then I’ll have to start again at the beginning. Hold on, the programme’s linking with the data and . . . yes, there it is. There’s the chain. I can see it. Shit – what was . . . ?’ Matthew staggered, very nearly losing his footing. ‘Bloody hell, that was a big . . . No – it’s gone. Shit – that was so fast. The actual appearance must last for minutes only. If all the appearances are that short, we could have a problem.’

‘Did you get . . . ?’

‘Say again?’

‘Were you able to . . . ?’

Matthew blinked hard to clear his eyes of silver and looked down at his scratchpad. ‘Yes. Well, I got something.’

‘That’s good,’ said Connor. ‘Proves the train is tangible. It’s not a ghost, or a holo.’

Matthew hadn’t thought of that. ‘This is going well.’

‘Shut up, Farrell – you’ll jinx yourself.’

Matthew closed his eyes for a second – just to give them a moment’s respite from the all-enveloping silver glare. It didn’t help. Even the insides of his eyelids were silver. His entire world consisted of a close-packed web of tiny silver lines – and somewhere in there were Jane and Luke, so he should stop wasting time and get on with it.

The PR programme was still searching. Nothing yet. There was just so much silver . . . His eyes burned. Blinking hard, he turned away from Balaclava and moved towards the Zavalichi segment, gently pulling aside layer after layer of Time. Always seeking to narrow things down. To find the chain. The train. The train chain. Or possibly the chain train. Tired. Must concentrate. For Luke and Jane. Jane on the chain train.

Every tiny silver filigree line led somewhere. To a specific event. Or became entangled in a labyrinth of other lines, each crossing and recrossing each other. His eyes were streaming. He blinked furiously to clear his vision. Whatever happened he must never lose sight of the dancing silver chain. Glowing silver filled his vision. Filled his head. He was sinking slowly. Sinking beneath . . . Drowning . . .

‘Com check,’ said Connor.

Matthew swallowed, deepened his voice and said, ‘Still looking for the chain.’

‘The what?’

‘The train.’

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah – no problems. Listen, forget Zavalichi – there’s just so much . . . I’m wondering if we should cut our losses and go straight to Modena. We have no coordinates at all for that jump. Let me see what I can find there.’

Connor sounded doubtful. ‘If you can’t find the train in Zavalichi – for which we do have dates – how will you find it in Modena? For which we don’t.’

‘It’s a steam train. In the Middle Ages. It should be easy.’

Connor sighed but said, ‘Yeah – possibly you have a point.’

Tucking his scratchpad away, Matthew wished hard for sunglasses. Or a visor of some kind. Anything to dull the silver light biting into his eyeballs and penetrating his brain. Hadn’t he already asked for a visor? He couldn’t remember.

Modena was the biggest segment. Easily big enough to swallow him whole. And possibly Connor and the Map Master as well. On the other hand, a steam locomotive in medieval Modena was about as massive an anomaly as anyone could get. He needed to be in place as it appeared, capture the coordinates and send them on to Connor for onward transmission to Grint. Wherever the hell he was at this moment. Bloody hell – so many silver lines – all twisting and turning – never still. Wait. Should he stop for a moment to rest his eyes? A bit of a bugger if the train materialised directly in front of him and he couldn’t see it.

But – he was actually inside the Time Map and it was wonderful. It was as if he could see the workings of Time itself. Tiny silver threads mapping out the past, the present – even the future. The universe and everything in it was spread out for his delight and it was beautiful . . . so beautiful . . . And there were patterns. He could see patterns. Shapes in Time. Design . . . There was a design. An intention. He could see it . . .

‘Com check.’

Such an effort to speak. ‘Yeah . . .’

‘Farrell, I can barely make you out.’

Matthew snapped open eyes that had closed of their own accord. ‘I’m here.’

Although where here was . . . Or when . . .

Connor’s voice spoke in his ear. ‘Your temporal coords for Modena start at 1000AD.’

Matthew woke up in a hurry. He genuinely thought he’d been in this segment for ages and now it seemed he’d only just entered. Never mind his eyes – now his mind was playing tricks on him as well. He tried to pull himself together – ignore the urge to penetrate even further. To travel deeper and deeper. Back to the very beginnings, perhaps. Become part of the beginning of Time itself.

‘Farrell?’

‘Um . . . Is 1000AD the Middle Ages?’

‘How should I know? Do I look like bloody St Mary’s? It’s a good place to start, anyway. Nice round number.’

Matthew nodded. Why was he here? Oh, yes. Look for the chain. The train. In his head the words danced to a little tune. Look for the chain. Find the chain. Follow the chain.

More slowly now, Matthew began to move through the Map. He hadn’t realised there was so much of it. Most people only ever saw the surface. He had no idea it went so deep. So many layers . . . So much Time . . . All waiting to be explored. He could just let go . . . drift through Time, uncovering its secrets . . . revealing its mysteries.

His scratchpad bleeped, recalling him to this moment. The PR software was working but the search was taking too long. He was losing his concentration. Not focusing as he should. His eyes were watering with the effort of tracing each tangled skein. His vision blurred. He should pull out. Take a break. Rest his eyes. Look at something that wasn’t silver. Let the PR software take over. But it was so slow. And he couldn’t risk losing the train. Legend said the train jumped here after the Lombardy Tunnel, but that was because people had documented events in chronological order, which was natural but probably not correct. The train could have gone anywhere after the tunnel. Somewhere with no witnesses so no one ever knew where it had been. Back to the Dawn of Time. Or forward to the End of the Universe. Any time. Anywhere. He had a sudden vision of the both of them, he and the train, hunting each other in this giant humming silver world. Both of them lost forever.

No – stop. That was just disorientation. Mixed with just a little bit of panic. All right – quite a lot of panic, actually. As long as the train was within the bounds of the Map, it could be tracked. It could not escape him.

Could it?

He couldn’t shake the thought. Suppose it was no longer within the bounds of the Map? He and Mikey had often discussed the possibility that not everything in this universe was encompassed within these boundaries. They’d enjoyed speculating on the possibilities and . . . No, he wouldn’t think that. If the train were outside the scope of the Time Map, then he couldn’t follow and Luke and Jane were truly lost forever. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

His eyes closed of their own accord. He could hear his own heartbeat. As if he was underwater. Not his favourite sensation. He began to breathe deeply. His head swam. He was drowning. He struggled and only sank deeper. He was enveloped in Time.

Let go . . .

He resisted. ‘No.’

Let go . . .

The thought was not his. Do not manipulate the Map. Let the Map manipulate you.

The world went suddenly very still. Matthew ceased to struggle. He was floating . . . floating free . . . an actual part of the Map . . . carried on the currents of Time . . .

A tiny voice, crystal clear as a mountain stream, spoke inside his head. You have only to ask.

He swallowed, whispering, ‘Where are they? Where is the train?’

And then he was moving. Fast. Very fast. Very far and very fast. Silver lines parted before him. He was no longer floating. Now he was flying. Soaring. This was wonderful. Sublime. He was riding the Map as easily as an eagle rode the wind.

And there was the train.

‘There,’ he said. ‘There. I see it. Upload.’

He felt his scratchpad vibrate.

And then he was off again, spreading himself on the wind. Not just following the train but racing it.

Another vibration. Another upload.

At exactly the same moment, the excitement left him. Everything left him. He was no longer soaring. He was tumbling. He lost his sense of direction but was pretty sure he was heading downwards. From a great height. Any moment now, Daedalus-like, he was going to hit the ground with the most tremendous crash.

A voice barked, ‘Farrell. Get your arse out of there now.’

And he was back.

Shit. That sounded like the Map Master. He surely hadn’t broken the bloody Map again.

He tried to turn. His feet seemed unaware of their function. Typical. Just when he really needed them . . . One step. Two steps. No, that wasn’t right. He’d gone wrong somewhere. He should turn back, find his previous position and try again. Except it wasn’t there. This part of the segment looked completely unfamiliar. This was centuries later than his previous position. How had he done that? Shit – he was lost. Surrounded by silver. There was nothing by which to steer. How could he be lost? The Map was only the Map – not Time itself. He was only in the bloody Map Room, for heaven’s sake. Yes, it was big, but it was only a room – not bloody infinity. With walls and doors and things . . . things you find in rooms. Room things . . .

There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his left hand. As opposed to the deep, throbbing pain of his right arm. Someone had pinched the webbed skin between his thumb and first finger and the pain had shocked him out of . . . wherever he’d been. Someone grabbed his good arm and tugged. There was no resisting. Blinking to clear his vision, he allowed the Map Master to pull him clear of the silver web. Connor was there as well. And one or two others. His pieces of Time Map littered the room. There had been no quietly shutting down this simulation. They’d pulled it all apart to get him out and broken pieces lay scattered everywhere. The Song of the Time Map was discernibly louder and harsher. Red lights flashed.

Connor had moved back to his console and was busy shutting things down. Segment after broken segment quietly dissolved. Over their heads, the Time Map brightened perceptibly and the hum decreased.

Matthew powered down his scratchpad and shoved it into his pocket.

Everyone drew a breath.

Especially the Map Master.

‘Found it,’ said Matthew, before she could really get going. ‘Coordinates.’ He turned away. ‘Need to tell . . .’ He couldn’t remember Grint’s name.

‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘MedCen for you. Connor, get him to—’

The Map flickered. And again.

‘Shit,’ said Connor, fingers flying.

The Map Master turned to her own console. ‘Get yourself to MedCen, Farrell. That’s a direct order. Pass the coordinates to someone in BeeBOC. They’ll despatch— Don’t let that section drift, Connor. Freeze and divert power to . . .’

Her voice drifted away as she joined the frantically working TiMMs.

Matthew wobbled his way out of the door.

20

With hindsight, as the Map Master later admitted, it might not have been such a good idea to let young Farrell go wandering off on his own. Although to be fair, she very much had her hands full at the time as she and her team struggled to stabilise the Time Map. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where MedCen was – he’d been there often enough. And any officer encountered during Farrell’s wanderings would immediately see he needed treatment and probably escort him there personally. And at that moment another section of the Map had flickered prior to shutting down and Officer Farrell went right out of her head.

Matthew found himself wandering down a corridor. He wasn’t entirely sure which one. Each Time Police corridor is designed to look like all the other Time Police corridors. The thinking is probably that any potential invaders would become so disoriented they’d quietly lay down their weapons and give up. It is possible that, in the entire universe, Time Police optimism is only surpassed by that of those loonies at St Mary’s.

Instinct took him to the lift, sent him downwards and then deserted him completely.

It was unfortunate that no one had been able to accompany him. They could certainly have made themselves useful translating the floor numbers which, for some reason, had suddenly reassembled themselves in cuneiform. Nor did the numbers appear to be in the right order. Clever thinking – that would certainly confuse the enemy. Which enemy, he had no idea. Any enemy. An enemy. Anemone. Anenemone. Amenome.

He was still muttering when he found himself outside the Pod Bay doors. He halted uncertainly. Why was he here? What was . . . ?

He heard a familiar voice. That sounded like Mikey. Ah – that must be why he was here. To see Mikey. See – nothing wrong with him at all. Everything was fabsolutely ine. Pushing the door open, he entered the Pod Bay.

Something very exciting was happening here as well. There was certainly a lot going on in TPHQ today. Ah . . . yes . . . they were rebuilding the corridor outside Mikey’s Bat Cave. Why, he had no idea, but, on the other hand, why not?

‘Out the way, mate,’ said a mech, edging past him with a length of battening.

‘Sorry.’ Matthew stepped aside.

‘Out the way, mate,’ said another mech, edging past him with a giant roll of polythene over his shoulder. Or possibly a roll of giant polythene. Or even – because it was that sort of day – a roll of polythene over his giant shoulder. Matthew endeavoured to convey this to someone standing next to him. Who turned out to be Mikey, staring at him with a look of great concern.

She took his hand. ‘Matthew? Why are you here? What’s happened? You look . . . a bit odd.’

Since looking a bit odd was his default state, Matthew could only conclude that, for some reason, he looked even odder than usual.

She was asking him a question. ‘Why are you here?’

Yes. Good question. He searched his memory for a memory. Any memory. Any nemory. Anemory. Amenory. He pulled himself up short. Don’t start that again.

‘Grint,’ he said, with sudden recollection. ‘Pulled the coordinates from the Time Map. For Modena. And Mexico. Join him at Bavlacana and give to him.’

He paused, quite proud of himself.

Mikey shook her head. ‘I don’t think they’ll let you go anywhere looking like that.’

‘But they must.’

‘The Map Master can get the coordinates to him.’

‘She’s a bit busy at the moment.’

‘Oh Matthew, you haven’t broken the Map again?’

Matthew searched his nemory. ‘Can’t have. I’m not dead. But if I give them to someone, they’ll want to know how I found them and there’s no time for all that. And they won’t believe me anyway.’

Mikey narrowed her eyes. ‘Why won’t they believe you?’

‘Mm?’ he said vaguely. ‘Need a pod.’

‘No chance. There’s a thing just come down from Commander Hay and the Senior Mech. All jumps on hold for the moment.’

‘What? Why?’

She frowned. ‘Something to do with building integrity, I think. It’s not safe till they shore up the corridor. For the time being, the Pod Bay is out of bounds to non-essential personnel.’

She gestured at the chaotic activity around them, stacks of building materials and mechs arguing over the best way to prevent structural collapse and – worse – the Senior Mech’s displeasure.

‘But I have to get these cordy . . . ordy . . . ornidates to . . .’

‘Matthew – it’s not when you depart, it’s when you arrive. You know that.’

‘But this is the Zanetti Train, and there’s lery vittle warning – seconds only – and there’s a giant amonaly outside Rome. The trigger, perhaps, and . . .’ He stopped, rather concerned his words weren’t performing quite as they should.

Mikey put a comforting hand on his good arm. ‘Matthew, it’s fine. They’ll get the info to Grint as soon as they can. And they’ll put extra people on it if needed.’ Honesty compelled her to add, ‘Just as soon as they’ve chipped the last of the string off them and checked them over. And made sure the building’s safe, of course.’

‘That could take ages. I can go now.’

‘There’s no way you can take a pod, because the Pod Bay’s . . .’

Matthew threw her what was, in his own mind, a lunning cook. ‘The Senior Mech’s busy in there doing . . .’ He squinted as if he could see through the wall. ‘Something. We’ll just borrow a quick pod.’

She sighed. ‘This isn’t St Mary’s. Sadly. You can’t just hop in a pod and take off. Fixing this corridor is a bit of a priority thingy for some reason, and so the Senior Mech’s throwing all his people at it. Nothing’s going out until that’s done.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Matthew, but for some reason this takes precedence over everything. It’s a no-go for a pod.’

Matthew struggled with a thorming fought. No – a thorting form. Forming thought. ‘I’ve had a thought.’

Mikey peered at him. ‘Is it to do with stealing a pod?’

‘Aha,’ said Matthew, sticking to easy words. ‘No.’

‘Well – what?’

Dammit – the word had gone. He held up her hands. ‘Wrist things.’

Mikey stepped back. ‘You want to put me in handcuffs?’

Matthew’s blush achieved – and possibly surpassed – Magnitude Jane.

‘What? No.’

‘Because I’m not really into . . .’

‘No.’

‘Although there’s a club on the other side of Barricade Bridge where . . .’

‘No. No.’ Short simple words. He held up his own hands. ‘Wrist things.’

She gasped. ‘Bracelets.’

Since, not for the first time, language was letting him down big time, Matthew concentrated on mime. He nodded.

Mikey stepped back to think. The door opened briefly to let someone through and she caught a quick glimpse of the Senior Mech driving his people on. Holes were being filled with breeze blocks and covered in plasterboard roughly nailed into place using battens. All a bit rough and ready but doing its job. Then they’d move on to the ceiling, temporarily supported by jack posts. With all those dangling wires, that might take a while. And these were only temporary repairs. Only when the area was made properly safe could permanent repairs begin.

The door opened again as a mech attempted access. He was burdened by more long lengths of battening.

‘Here,’ said Mikey, holding the door for him and grimacing wildly at Matthew who had no idea what particular complex concept she was endeavouring to convey.

Mikey rolled her eyes. ‘Matthew, grab the end of that battening, will you? Give the guy a hand.’

‘Oh. Right,’ said Matthew.

They helped the burdened mech through the door, which closed silently behind them. As Mikey said afterwards, with so much confused activity going on around them, it was hardly surprising they’d found themselves on the wrong side of the door. And having done so, only consideration for others had led them to get themselves out of the way as quickly as possible, and where better than her workroom?

Whispering, ‘Follow me,’ she set off down the corridor, skirting behind the construction workers. The Senior Mech’s attention was all on the work around him with none to spare for anything else. Or anyone. With luck he’d never . . .

‘Where do you think you’re going, Meiklejohn?’

Mikey halted and arranged her expression to one of complete innocence. ‘Picking up something from my workroom.’

‘What?’

By now, she’d had time to think of something innocuous.

‘My scratchpad.’

‘Why?’

‘Checking info for my report to Commander Hay. She’s shouting for it.’

The Senior Mech threw them both a suspicious look. ‘What’s wrong with Farrell?’

Mikey turned to look at the darkly dreaming Matthew. ‘In what way?’

‘He looks well out of things.’

Mikey considered this. ‘No, no, he looks perfectly normal to me.’

At that moment an imperfectly secured piece of plasterboard slithered to the floor, tearing the polythene around it, and a shower of debris fell from the ceiling.

The Senior Mech roared a curse and strode off to deal with it.

Mikey slipped past him into her workroom, dragging Matthew with her.

‘Do you want some tea?’

‘Don’t you mean coffee?’

‘No. Tea.’

Matthew peered around. ‘Is this St Mary’s?’

Another crash and a curse outside rendered his confusion understandable.

The Bat Cave – or Meiklejohn’s workroom, as it was officially designated – was a largish room, a little over thirty feet square. No windows, obviously – they were a long way underground. Time Police thinking was that Mikey being underground would minimise the results of any possible future catastrophe. Or inevitable future catastrophe, as prophesised by more pessimistic officers.

Floor-to-ceiling shelving contained an astonishingly varied collection of . . . stuff, some of it unidentifiable. There were books, obviously, heaped on the shelves seemingly at random. A first-aid kit stood on the top shelf, all but inaccessible in an emergency unless you were well over seven feet tall. An entire crate of toilet rolls – almost certainly to be employed for every purpose other than that for which they had been designed. Two boxes of face masks. A large quantity of nets, of varying thickness and gauge, slung, hammock-like, between shelving units. Two Bunsen burners that had proved useless for making toast but roasted marshmallows to perfection. A long-armed stapler that looked to have been implemented as a weapon at some point. One glove – purpose unknown. Location of the other – unknown. And a vast amount of chocolate in all its manifestations.

The walls were adorned with posters of various rock bands, a kitten, the sun setting over a troubled sea, several Escher prints guaranteed to induce disorientation in the unwary, and an image of a giant teapot painted in shades of green and brown camouflage and decorated with a battered-looking Union Jack.

Every wall had a copy of Captain Farenden’s meticulously compiled Time Police House Rules prominently displayed. Their former home had been on the floor under her workbench. Mikey had entered her workroom one morning to find all six copies neatly arranged around the walls and strongly suspected the unseen hand of Captain Farenden himself. All appeared to have been used as a dartboard at some point in their existence. The actual dartboard was displayed on the back of the door at eye height on the grounds that it taught people to knock.

A breeding group of fire extinguishers of every kind lurked in the far corner, plus three buckets of sand. Two were empty. Of their former contents there was, worryingly, no trace.

The unmistakeable aroma of fish and chips unsuccessfully attempted to mask the odour of something slightly more sinister. A pile of empty pizza boxes was carefully arranged in a dimension-defying design that would certainly have carried off the next Turner Prize.

Under another workbench stood a small fridge whose door Matthew didn’t have to open to know was stacked to bursting point with Wensleydale cheese. Years of conscientious testing had proved Wensleydale to be most efficacious in treating the results of the occasional rough jump. Which, actually, if Mikey had anything to do with them, was nearly all of them.

Pride of place was occupied by the kettle, the biscuit tin and a giant box of blatantly displayed illegal tea bags.

And on a long wooden table pushed against the wall, and each in its own tiny Faraday cage – two large cuff-style bracelets.

Matthew staggered to the nearest chair.

‘Here.’ Mikey thrust a mug at him. Matthew sipped the life-giving fluid while she bustled about and then came to sit next to him. ‘You look terrible. What’s wrong with your eyes?’

Matthew tried to look at his own eyes. Without the aid of a mirror, this turned out to be somewhat tricky. After several unsuccessful attempts, he waved aside his terribleness. ‘Have to pet a god somehow. Find Grint and give him cordyinates.’

‘What coordinates?’

‘Modena. I found them.’

‘How? There’s no record in the records. It just says they were stored at Casta Solea – location unknown – and were the property of the Sadjino family. And there’s no record of them either.’

Matthew was waving his arms in frustration. ‘That’s why I needed to get into the Map. Follow the chain. The train. The train chain. And I found it. I found the train. I know where it’s going and when and I have to go there.’

‘No, you don’t. Someone else can . . .’

‘They won’t believe me. Connor and the Map Master couldn’t see it. But I could.’ He took a deep breath, looked over his shoulder and whispered, ‘Mikey, I asked the Map and it told me. I mean, it showed me.’

Mikey stared at him. ‘The Map showed you?’

‘Yes. Modena and Mexico. I asked it and it showed me.’

‘You have to tell . . .’

‘No. No, no, no. Theople will pink I’m a bit odd.’

Mikey stared at him. The words Matthew, you are a bit odd. And your eyes have got funny silver bits in them would probably not be helpful at this moment. And the Time Police were probably the last people who should know about this.

Matthew mistook her silence. ‘I’m fine. I’m fabsolutey ine. Just have to Grint to get.’

‘Even if they lifted the ban this very minute, there’s no way anyone’s going to let you anywhere near a pod.’

‘I know.’

Long silence. They both looked over at the bracelets.

‘You want one, don’t you?’

‘Want both. They pair as a work, remember?’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No. You have to . . . have to . . .’ He struggled to remember what he was saying. ‘You have to hay stere to tell people where I’ve going.’

‘You know you might not come back, don’t you? That you’re not fit to do this. And that the bracelets aren’t safe. And . . .’

‘You’ve been working at them. On them.’

‘Yes, but they’re still not . . .’

‘Mikey – I have to go.’

‘Yes, someone has to, but it shouldn’t be you.’

‘The Senior Mech’s walling at the stare. Along with all his people. Everyone else is having their kech-up. Check-up.’

‘Matthew – that doesn’t matter because . . .’

‘Don’t tell me it’s when you depart that’s important because it’s . . . no . . . hang on . . .’

‘You’re too confused to do this.’

‘I’m going. I have to.’

Recognising the look on her face, Matthew made a huge effort to speak calmly and properly. ‘My instincts are telling me – go now.’ He swallowed and spoke very slowly. ‘By the time the Map Master has repaired the Map . . . verified the coordinates . . .’

‘Matthew . . . if I ask you to let someone else do this . . . would you do it? For me?’

‘No. Sorry.’

She turned very pale.

‘But if you ask a second time – I might. Are you going to ask again?’

She regarded him steadily. ‘No.’

He looked at her. Silver glints in his eyes. The silence went on and on. ‘Give me the bracelets, please.’

‘If I let you do this, then Hay will legitimately slaughter me.’

He held out his hand.

She shook her head. ‘Not unless I come with you.’

‘But . . .’

‘Matthew, I’m not hanging around here while the shit hits the fan. But – straight there and straight back. With luck, no one will ever know. It’s not as if there isn’t a lot going on here to distract people.’

He nodded.

‘All right – we’ll work out our plan now so we hit the ground running. No, don’t speak – I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll set down at Balaclava and rendezvous with Grint. We hand him all the coordinates and jump away. Immediately. No messing. No hanging around for discussions. It’s Grint’s mission – he’ll take the decisions. We come straight back. Promise me that or neither of us goes anywhere. Five minutes start to finish. Then MedCen for you. Agreed? Just nod.’

Matthew just nodded.

She stood up and reached for her flying jacket and goggles. Matthew grinned at the sight of Mikey in her familiar battledress.

‘OK, then, Matthew – here goes. Bracelets – the new and improved version. We need to stand within about four feet of each other to regulate the fields.’

She lifted the lids, took out the cuffs, passed him one and helped him slide it on to his good wrist.

He frowned at his arm, saying carefully, ‘How exactly are they new and improved?’

‘Well, I think I know where the problem lies.’

‘You fixed it?’

‘Any day now.’

He looked up. ‘What? Mikey, you can’t . . .’

He stopped. Just in time, as far as Mikey was concerned. Disorientation would not have saved him.

‘Yeah,’ said Mikey drily. ‘Wise move. You’d better let me programme in the coordinates otherwise we could end up anywhere.’

Matthew squinted. ‘Will be we invisible?’

‘Shouldn’t be. It was interference from Henry Plimpton’s pod that caused my bracelet to malfunction. I’ve worked in one or two safety protocols and if there’s any problem they simply won’t jump.’

‘So we bon’t we torn apart in the Vime Tortex?’

‘Probably not, but don’t complain to me if you are.’

‘’Kay.’

She grinned. ‘It’s a bit like being back at St Mary’s, isn’t it? Cross your fingers and hope for the best.’

Matthew dragged out his scratchpad, squinted, and began to read the coordinates out loud. Mikey’s fingers flew – Matthew’s bracelet first, then her own. A red light flashed.

‘Wait. Wait. Wait.’ She began to rummage in the fridge.

Matthew’s head jerked around. Which did him no good at all. ‘What are you . . . ?’

‘Cheese.’

‘Oh. Right.’

She rummaged frantically. Bits and pieces of what an unkind person might have designated as utter tat flew through the air.

‘OK. Got it. Let’s go. On three. One. Two. Three.’

The red lights turned green. The workroom disappeared and a bloody great horse reared above him, teeth bared, its great hooves covered in blood and brain matter and pawing at the air. At the same time, the air exploded with an ear-splitting crack. Shrapnel and body parts flew in all directions. Men and horses screamed in pain and fear. More explosions, all around them. A massive crater opened nearby. Great clods of earth and small stones flew through the air. In his hair. In his eyes. In his mouth. The noise was immense. The air was full of smoke and dust. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. The ground shook and gave way. He lost his footing, instinctively grabbed at Mikey, and the two of them tumbled into the unknown.

21

Mikey’s first and very short-lived thought was gratification that the bracelets had worked.

Matthew’s was that it was going to take a lot more than two ounces of Wensleydale to fix this.

His second was to wonder what the hell was going on. Whatever was happening here, this was not 1955 Ukraine. Barely had that thought flashed through his mind when another something exploded overhead. Very close overhead. So close that the explosion sounded as a flat crack behind his eyes, and for a moment he completely lost his place in the world. Was he falling up or falling down? Where was he going? He had no idea what was happening.

After what seemed an endless age, he stopped rolling, finally coming to a halt, sprawled on his face in the dirt. The ground was shaking with impact after impact. He was completely disoriented. The noise hurt his head, and his arm was throbbing red and purple agony. What was happening? Where were they? Was this something the bracelets had done?

Another huge explosion cracked his ears again and, for a frightening moment, the world went silent and he feared he’d lost his hearing. Then his ears popped hard and he could hear the screaming close by. Was that Mikey? Please don’t let it be Mikey. Please. Please.

No, the screaming wasn’t coming from Mikey. Nor himself. It was everywhere. Screaming shells. Screaming men. Screaming horses. All around him. Surround sound. On and on. Rising and falling. A voice was shouting, ‘On. On. On to victory.’

Where the hell was he? What was happening? Cradling his arm, he pushed himself to his knees and then to his feet. Smoke and dust swirled everywhere, stinging his eyes and making him cough.

He should have stayed where he was. The next crack blew him off his feet again. He hit the ground hard. The impact jarred his arm. More pain jagged all the way up to his shoulder. He was conscious of things falling on his unprotected head. Something heavy thudded to the ground in front of him. Part of an arm. Red blood arced through the air. Something warm and wet sprayed across his face.

Was this the train?

Had the train blown up?

Had all the passengers been blown apart in the explosion?

He couldn’t see clearly. Or hear.

The ground heaved again. More debris fell on and around him. His broken arm was useless. All he could do was use his other arm to try to protect his head. His legs were weighed down by something. He couldn’t get up. He wasn’t sure he should. His instinct was to make himself as small as possible and just wait it out. Whatever it was.

The air rippled around him. Shock waves hurt his chest. He was in the middle of some sort of bombardment. Not the train after all. Nothing to do with the train. Pressure made his ears ring again, rendering all sounds faint and distorted as if he was underwater. That would be the worst nightmare of all. Matthew Farrell wasn’t fond of water. Water was cold and spiteful and would rob you of any last traces of hard-won warmth. Was he back in old Scrope’s yard, under the pump, icy water soaking him and his clothes, to lie shivering all night, sodden and freezing in the rat-filled shed that was his only shelter?

No, of course he wasn’t. Yes, he was wet in places, but it was blood – not water. As if blood was any better.

His ears popped completely and suddenly the distortion was replaced by shouting. Someone was shouting to go on. Onwards. Not to stop. Onwards. Onwards. Another voice was shouting for help. He was trapped. For God’s sake, he couldn’t get up. And other voices cutting across each other. Go forwards. Go back. Take cover. Return fire. Attack. Attack. Retreat.

Under all that were the screams and cries of those needing help. Dreadful screams. Agonised. Terrified. Desperate. There were words in there somewhere but he couldn’t make them out.

Where was Mikey in all this?

Using his good arm, he rubbed at his eyes. He was looking at part of a horse’s foreleg. The hoof was still attached. Blood was seeping into the dust. His legs still wouldn’t move. He twisted to look.

The head and forequarters of a horse.

And the remains of its rider. He could see a hand still clutching the reins. Other than that, it was hard to say where one began and the other ended. He stared. Unable to drag his eyes away.

There was another massive impact nearby. Beneath him, the ground heaved. He bounced. It was like being on a trampoline. And again. And again. The vibrations were almost continuous. A never-ending rain of dirt and debris showered around him and on him. He couldn’t get up. A tiny flower of panic bloomed. He would be buried. Trapped. Suffocated. No one would ever find him. He would be buried before he was dead. And never found.

Matthew Farrell was as brave as the next person – depending on who that next person was, of course – but too much was happening too quickly. He had no idea where he was. Or when. Or why. Or what was happening to him.

He tried to twist his head to look up, and another shapeless lump of something wet and red slapped him full in the face. Which was very painful. And now there was something in his mouth.

He spat. And spat again. At the same time he tried to push himself, one-handed, to his knees.

It was useless. His legs were pinned. Horses – even only parts of horses – are very heavy. His only course of action was to stay put and just pray he survived. Whatever this slaughter was about, it surely couldn’t go on forever. Everything ends sooner or later. He remembered a favourite saying of his mother’s. This too will pass.

Whatever this was.

The answer came almost immediately. Of course – this was Balaclava. This could be – this must be – the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade. But how . . . ? The truth hit him hard. Oh God – was this his fault? Had he somehow got the coordinates wrong? Easily done by someone whose eyes had been filled with silver after-images he hadn’t thought worth bothering anyone about. He really should have left everything to Mikey.

And where was she in all this? He had to find her. Again his struggles to free himself were useless. And now that the initial shock had worn off, his arm was really beginning to hurt quite badly. More than when he’d actually broken it, in fact. He wondered if his tumble had rebroken it. In which case he might as well die here because the doctor himself would kill him. And if he survived that, then Commander Hay would certainly do him for disobeying orders. Or the Map Master for leaving parts of the Time Map in ruins. Or the Senior Mech for using the bracelets. Really, his future was not looking good.

A voice, pitched high to be heard over the sounds of guns and slaughter, sounded behind him.

‘Matthew? Matthew?’

‘Here,’ he shouted, redoubling his one-armed efforts to get his legs free.

There was movement and then Mikey was crawling towards him, her goggles smeared with mud and blood. ‘I don’t think we’re in the right Time and place.’

Unbelievably, he had to struggle not to laugh. ‘I think . . . you’re . . . right.’

Whether through shock or the effects of the Time Map wearing off, he was beginning to find words coming more easily.

‘Hold on.’

He felt tugging. The weight on his legs shifted. He could pull out first one leg and then the other. He was free. Cradling his arm, he sat up and tried to look about him.

They were in a crater. About six feet deep – only the smoky sky was above him – and littered with bodies – men, horses and parts thereof. A sabre lay nearby. Its owner was over there. And there. And there. Heavy cannon fire was all around them.

‘We should move,’ Mikey shouted.

Matthew shook his head. ‘There’s nowhere to go. This is the Charge of the Light Brigade. Nearly everyone dies. You know – “Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred”.’

Was it his imagination or was the sound of gunfire subsiding? No – not subsiding. Moving away to his right. This was not the good news it seemed.

Mikey lifted her head and looked around. ‘Is it over?’

He caught her hand. ‘No. No, it’s not. The British are charging the Russian guns. They’ll get there. And then they’ll turn around and come back. And the whole thing will start up all over again.’

Mikey took in the implications. ‘Shit. We need to . . .’

Someone was moaning quite close by. There were words they couldn’t make out.

Mikey rolled over to find herself face to face with a young man. A very young man, splashed with gore, his eyes terrified, watching his lifeblood seep slowly into the dirt.

He reached a shaking hand towards her and she took it.

‘It’s all right, soldier. Your mates have reached the guns. It’s a victory. A great victory. They’ll be back any minute to pick up the wounded and take you back. You’ll be fine. Just close your eyes and rest now.’

Matthew picked up the sabre and gently put it into the soldier’s hand just as his eyes closed for the last time.

‘You lied,’ he said to Mikey.

She looked suddenly ten years older. ‘Did you really want him to know he died because of one of the worst blunders in military history? Uselessly? For nothing?’

She was angry.

He put his hand on her arm. ‘Hey.’ Bugles sounded in the distance.

She craned her neck. ‘Is that the retreat?’

‘Yeah – and the Russian guns will start up again.’

Mikey flourished her bracelet. ‘We need to go. Now.’

‘Mikey . . .’

She ripped off her bloody goggles, stuffed them in her pocket and bent her head over her bracelet. ‘I think . . . we . . . transposed a few digits. Somehow we seem to have substituted 29th October 1955 for 25th October 1854.’

‘That was me,’ said Matthew, stricken into coherence. ‘I’m so sorry. Oh God, Mikey, I could have killed us both.’

‘Well, you didn’t.’

‘But I could have.’

‘I’ll yell at you later.’

Matthew could only hope they both lived that long. He squinted at his own bracelet. ‘Not sure I should . . .’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Do we have enough power for another . . . thing . . . jump? And then back to . . .’ He couldn’t remember where home was.

‘I hope so. It’s just I hadn’t planned on an extra one. We jump to Grint, give him the coordinates and then, if we can, jump back to TPHQ. If not, we’ll have to stay with him until it’s all over. I’m sorry, Matthew, I didn’t bank on two jumps and we’ve been here too long now. We have only minutes left on these bracelets. If that.’

In the distance, the bugles changed their note – recalling the troops. The ground began to tremble as the thunder of hooves started up again. Followed seconds later by the sound of cannon fire again drawing ever closer. The charge was coming back again. And their time was ticking away.

‘Mikey . . . need to go now.’

Mikey looked up from her bracelet. ‘Suppose Grint isn’t there.’

Matthew’s brain said, ‘If the train’s there, then Grint will be there.’ He was never entirely sure what his mouth said, but Mikey seemed to understand.

She nodded. ‘You’re right. We’ve gone too far to stop now. By now they’ll have realised what we’ve done. Only success can save us from the wrath of Hay and possibly not even then.’

Matthew nodded. ‘In awful trouble.’

Mikey grinned. ‘Being in awful trouble is my default state. And you can’t take all the credit. Hay was pretty pissed at me even before we started this. Come on. Let’s get this done. Then Grint can be on his way to rescue Jane and Luke and we’ll have saved the day and perhaps they’ll be merciful.’

Matthew wasn’t certain there was enough mercy in the world for that.

The ground began to shake again as the horses drew closer.

‘Shit – they’re coming,’ said Mikey, snapping the bracelet around his wrist.

Matthew had something important to say. ‘Mikey . . .’

‘Done. Ready. Go.’

Their second landing was even rougher than the first. Mikey staggered but remained on her feet. Matthew sprawled headlong on the ground, struggling to protect his arm.

‘Stay down,’ said Mikey, kneeling at his side. ‘Just give it a moment.’ She consulted her scratchpad. ‘We’re in the right place. I think. No explosions, anyway. There’s a pod signature. Around four hundred yards away. If you take it slowly, are you able to get up?’

Matthew went to nod, thought better of it and, using Mikey, climbed wearily to his feet.

‘Here.’ She handed him an only slightly squashed lump of cheese.

Matthew chewed. ‘Which . . . way?’

‘They went that way, I think. Away from the town. Which makes sense. Come on.’

They set off at a slow walk. By now, the day was growing dark.

‘Matthew, how’s your arm?’

‘Really . . .’ He paused. The word good had disappeared from his vocabulary. ‘Not too bad.’

‘We’ll follow the railway tracks. It’ll be quicker than staying under cover. How long until the train . . . ?’

‘Not . . . long.’ He staggered again as the long grass wrapped itself around his legs.

Beside him, Mikey stopped dead.

Matthew actually took another two paces before realising. ‘What’s wrong?’

Her voice sounded oddly wobbly in the gathering gloom. ‘Shit. Matthew . . .’

‘What?’

She gestured at a massive, solid train-shape ahead, looming out of the darkness and lit with a red glow that was in no way reassuring. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Over there. Is that . . . ? Oh my God, is that it? It’s . . .’

‘Huge,’ finished Matthew, suddenly remembering this word very easily.

‘Should it be that big?’

‘Um . . .’

She held up her arm. ‘Matthew . . . red lights flashing. We’re too late.’

Matthew made every effort, waving his one arm and trying to run. ‘Grint. Grint.’

Mikey ran beside him. ‘He’s not hearing you. Give me your scratchpad.’

She snatched it off him.

‘What . . . ?’

‘You’ve heard the phrase throws like a girl.’

‘Um . . .’

‘This is how girls really throw.’

She whipped her arm back and then forwards and Matthew’s scratchpad flew through the air, almost in slow motion, turning over and over . . .

‘Don’t go back,’ shouted Matthew into the darkness. ‘Don’t go back to TPHQ. They’re grounded and . . .’

The lights on both their bracelets turned solid red.

‘Matthew . . .’ Mikey grabbed for his hand, hoping Grint and/or his team could work it out.

And then they vanished.

Matthew opened his eyes. And then closed them again. He was nose down on the floor in Mikey’s workroom. Which still smelled of fish and chips. Just as it had before. Because nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it had been. Except, of course, for the Senior Mech awaiting them with folded arms and an even more than normally grim expression. Matthew closed his eyes and privately decided he would never open them again.

Sadly, the Senior Mech had other ideas. ‘What the hell have you two been up to? Are you bleeding, Farrell?’

Matthew rolled over on to his undamaged side to check. ‘Not . . . my blood.’

‘Too much to hope it’s Meiklejohn’s, I suppose.’

Surprisingly gently, he helped Matthew to his feet and sat him down on the old stool. ‘Steady now, lad. Mind that arm.’

Matthew waited for the world to stop whirling. It showed no signs of doing so.

‘And what the fuck do you two think you’ve been playing at?’

Matthew decided to let Mikey field that one. He still wasn’t sure he was the right way up. And he’d seen a horse from underneath. And a giant train. And the Time Map had spoken to him. He rather thought he wouldn’t say anything. Not for a moment, anyway. No one would be surprised by that.

A very, very long way away, he heard Mikey speaking. And then the Senior Mech. And then Mikey again. And then the Senior Mech. Who went on for a very long time. Ah – that would be the bollocking. There was always a bollocking sooner or later. It was good to see that nothing ever changed.

‘This way.’ Someone lifted him to his feet. There was a door. Odd. There hadn’t been a door before. Disturbed, Matthew halted and subjected this new door to close inspection.

Mikey also had stopped dead. ‘That wasn’t there before.’

‘No,’ said the Senior Mech with some restraint. ‘But it is now. Say hello to your new door.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s polite.’

‘I mean, why have I got a new door?’

‘It wasn’t my idea. I was all for bricking you up in here permanently. A suggestion that garnered a surprising number of supporting votes.’

Matthew struggled to make sense of this suddenly door-laden world.

Mikey came straight to the point. ‘You blocked up the old door?’

‘Yes.’

‘And made a new one?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘You do know we own building-smashers. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t think you’d use them on me.’

‘Trust me, Meiklejohn, I’ve been using them on you since I first saw you. In my head, of course.’

‘Aw – that’s so sweet.’

‘Not the way I was wielding them.’

He opened the brand-new door and helped Matthew through.

Mikey persisted. ‘What happened to the old door?’

‘It’s gone.’

‘Where?’

He said shortly, ‘Corridor’s not safe any longer so we had to block it off.’

By now they were making their way through the Pod Bay. ‘Where are we going?’

‘MedCen. I don’t know what you’ve done to Farrell, but I think it’s safe to assume MedCen didn’t let him out looking like that, so you’re going to have to account for yourself to the doctor. And while we’re on the subject of accounting for yourself – hand them over.’

‘Hand what over?’

He said nothing, but held out his hand.

Mikey sighed and handed over her bracelet. Matthew stared at his arm as if he’d never seen one before.

‘They worked, though,’ she said. ‘The jump was successful.’

The Senior Mech surveyed the broken and groggy Matthew. ‘This is your definition of success, is it?’

They’d reached MedCen. The doctor appeared. ‘What the fu—?’

‘I don’t merember . . . anything,’ said Matthew, for whom this excuse had worked well in the past.

The doctor looked at the Senior Mech. ‘I swear he didn’t look like that when he left here.’ He looked back to Matthew. ‘What the hell did the Map Master do to you? Is that a hoofprint? Are there horses in the Map Room? And whose blood is this?’

‘I think you’ll find this is something Meiklejohn can explain.’ The Senior Mech looked at her. ‘Give you a chance to rehearse your story for Commander Hay. Who wants to see you asap. And if you thought she was in a bad mood before . . .’

Mikey sighed. This day wasn’t getting any better.

22

There’s nothing like having a random scratchpad thrown at you to take your mind off the giant, Time-jumping steam locomotive looming over you, watching your every move and filled with malicious intent. The thought currently running through Grint’s scratchpad-impacted head was fire truck the protocols, he would definitely be wearing his helmet next time and bugger what the contemporaries thought.

He pushed that thought aside for later.

The massive shape stared down at him. Silent and motionless. Was it waiting? Scoping him out? Preparing to attack?

Grint set his jaw and stared back.

The train hissed. A great plume of steam appeared from somewhere, threatening to envelop them both.

Grint drew back his lips and growled a response.

From behind him, Socko said, ‘Sir . . .’

Grint refused to budge. No over-designed steam kettle was going to face him down.

‘Sir . . .’ said Rossi warningly.

Grint stood his ground, ignoring everyone. This was between him and the train.

The train hissed again. More steam.

Grint growled a response. Longer and louder, his hackles rising.

The night grew suddenly colder. The train filled his vision. He could only hope that somewhere back there, Lockland – and Parrish, obviously – were scrambling to safety while he held the train’s attention here.

Was it his imagination? Did the train just move? Only an inch or so, but Grint had a sudden picture of the bastard thing rolling straight over the top of him, giant metal wheels slicing his body into pieces before hurling itself at the horizon again, dragging its carriages behind it. Destination unknown.

‘You bastard,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m going to do for you.’

As if in response, the train hissed. For longer this time.

Slowly, very slowly, Grint raised his blaster. He was a big man. His weapon was correspondingly large. The whining sound of a charging blaster mixed with the sound of hissing steam filled the night. Neither was backing down.

There was no doubt this time. The pistons moved as the train inched slowly towards him. The tiniest movement. But utterly terrifying.

This wasn’t Lt Grint’s first game of chicken. He took a step towards the train, which seemed to gather itself and – as if to demonstrate its contempt for puny humans and their punier weapons – unleashed a shriek that split the night. On and on and on.

Grint continued to stand his ground – although that might have been because he knew no other way – and roared the battle cry of barbarians everywhere.

‘Come on then, you overgrown tin can. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’

His blaster winked green. He raised it to his shoulder. The train howled in response. And began to trundle towards him. Gaining speed.

Grint stood his ground.

Varma muttered, ‘Shit on a stick.’

Taking three long steps forwards to give herself momentum, she shoulder-charged Grint, smashing hard into him and knocking him sideways just as the giant train surged forwards, straight over the spot Grint had occupied less than one second before. Blue lightning jumped and crackled along the ground and then – abruptly, as if a door had slammed behind it – or, more likely, it had jumped away to another century – the train was gone. The last carriage disappeared into . . . nothing.

Grint rolled over and sat up. ‘Did they get off? Did you get them?’

No one spoke.

‘Fuck,’ roared Grint because this wasn’t the moment for euphemisms. ‘Why the . . . ?’

He picked himself up off the ground and turned on Varma, his face congested with fury. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing? I’ll have you up on a charge for that.’

She stepped forwards, chest to chest. ‘Well, when you do, just remember who saved your stupid life so you could do just that.’

‘We could have got them off, but thanks to you . . .’

‘The train was empty.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, we do. The train was empty. The cab was empty. The lights were off. The doors swinging open. There was no one on the train. They’ve gone. We all saw that. The only person who didn’t was you, because you were too busy playing with your giant train set.’

Grint raised a clenched fist.

Varma brought up her own fists and stood her ground. Three times boxing champion and all ready to take him on. She was younger, she was faster and she was good. Grint held no fears for her.

Tucker remained very still. Many things hung in the balance at that moment and anyone attempting to intervene between these two would stand more chance of surviving the apocalypse.

Grint spun on his heel and walked away.

Varma picked up her weapon and checked it over. Without looking at Tucker, she said, ‘Thank you for not intervening.’

Without looking at her, he said, ‘You’re welcome. Besides, aren’t you some sort of boxing champion?’

Varma nodded. ‘Three times in a row.’

‘Good. I’ll be sure to stand behind you in future.’ On which enigmatic remark, he too walked away.

It was mutually unspoken, but everyone else thought it would be a good idea to take a few minutes for a timeout.

It was Hansen who approached his team leader. ‘Sir, you’re bleeding. You’d better let me check it out.’

Grint shrugged him aside. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘With respect, sir, that’s not for you to say. I’m the medic here. Please allow me to do my job.’

Again, things hung in the balance for a moment. Around them, night had fallen – it hadn’t been the only one – and, apart from the occasional train rattling past in the distance, everything was quiet.

Eventually Grint sighed. ‘All right. Take a look.’

‘You’ll have to sit down, sir. Socko, hold the torch.’ He peered at Grint, turning his head to and fro. ‘No, it looks OK. I’ll tape it up. I don’t think you even need stitches.’

Grint grunted. Everyone present got the message. Even if he’d been lying around the landscape in fourteen pieces, stitches would never have happened.

Tucker wandered up and handed something to Varma.

Grint was irritable. He was in the wrong. He knew it. Varma knew it. Everyone knew it. Probably even the train knew it. ‘What’s that?’

‘This,’ said Varma carefully, ‘is the thing that bounced off your head just now. Surprisingly, it remains undamaged. Sir.’

‘What is it?’

‘A scratchpad.’

Grint was outraged. ‘You mean one of you bastards . . .’

Automatically, everyone present checked their knee pockets. Not mine, was the unanimous verdict.

Varma grinned. ‘This one has Farrell scratched across the back. In defiance of so many Time Police regulations.’

Grint refused to think of his own scratchpad with the legend Grint similarly inscribed.

Varma continued. ‘However, before you stride about hurling boulders, uprooting trees and generally spoiling your lovely security people’s evening – this is the screen it opened on.’

Grint grabbed it off her and they all clustered around.

‘Coordinates?’ said Grint, torn between anger and amazement. ‘Did that little shit Farrell just throw coordinates at me?’

His colleagues unanimously agreed that yes, it would seem that that little shit Farrell had definitely just thrown coordinates at him.

‘That’s a disciplinary offence,’ raged Grint. ‘I’ll throw the book at him.’

‘Like he threw his scratchpad at you,’ said Varma, enjoying her unexpected day out far more than she should be.

‘Exactly.’ Grint put a hand to his brow. It came away red. ‘Is it not enough he’s a scruffy little tosser who never gets his hair cut? What the fire-trucking fire truck does he think he’s playing at? I sent him back to MedCen for treatment and the next minute he’s dancing about throwing Time Police equipment at senior officers. Where did he go? I’m going to kill him.’

‘Actually . . .’ said a grinning Tucker, who stillseemed to have no idea of the correct procedures for trainees which, basically, was to shut up until spoken to.

‘What?’ said Varma. ‘Speak up.’

‘Actually, I think it was Goldilocks who tossed the scratchpad. Which would make her the actual tosser, I mean, not him.’

They stared at him.

‘You hit your head too?’ enquired Hansen, noting his medkit supplies were running low.

‘No, I mean that blonde girl. Woman. Whatever we’re supposed to call them these days.’

‘If you just call her the person who glued half of TPHQ to the walls, then I think most people will know who you mean,’ said Varma.

Tucker nodded. ‘Yeah. Her. She had someone with her but he was staggering all over the place. I only saw them for a second. He shouted something about not going back to TPHQ because they were all grounded, and then they were gone.’

‘Meiklejohn,’ said Varma. ‘And, given your description of him, Farrell. Which we’d guessed anyway.’

‘Yeah. He had his arm strapped up. Covered in blood. Hair all over the place.’

‘Farrell,’ said everyone.

Tucker nodded. ‘Thought it was.’

‘So they appeared, chucked a scratchpad at the lieutenant here and disappeared again,’ said Hansen. He looked around. ‘Where was their pod?’

‘It’s Farrell and Meiklejohn,’ said Rossi, shaking his head. ‘They do things differently.’

‘No additional pod signature,’ said Socko, consulting his scratchpad.

‘I wonder,’ said Varma.

Grint touched his head again. ‘What?’

‘Those fire-trucking bracelets again,’ said Varma, rolling her eyes. ‘Has to be.’ She frowned. ‘They took a big risk. I wonder why.’

‘Let’s not waste their effort,’ said Grint, heaving himself to his feet and determined not to sway like a redwood in a high wind. ‘Anyone check those coordinates out yet?’

Socko, who was bending over his scratchpad, nodded slowly. ‘Yeah.’ He looked up. ‘First set – Modena. September 1444. Second set – Mexico City, November 1840.’

Suddenly, the world seemed a brighter place.

‘Not such little shits after all,’ said Varma.

‘All right,’ said Grint, as they made their way back to the pod. ‘Rossi – I’ve already brought up info on Modena. Pull out all the street plans we have and find me the location of that monastery.’

‘We know the train arrives in the dark,’ said Varma. ‘What we don’t know is whether the passengers are still on board or not. They weren’t just now, so, somehow, between the Lombardy Tunnel and Balaclava, for some reason, all the passengers get off.’

‘We don’t know whether the train was at Modena before Balaclava, but it seems likely,’ said Grint. ‘We’ll proceed as if the passengers are still on the train.’

‘What about Mexico?’

‘It’s a good point,’ said Grint, calmer now. ‘But that’s the last place they’re seen. Who knows how long they’ll have been on the train before they get to Mexico. I want Lockland and Parrish off as soon as possible.’

‘And Sawney?’

Grint shrugged. Sawney was less important to him. ‘Listen up, everyone. Priorities at Modena. We locate the monastery and insert ourselves wherever we can be most effective. As soon as that bastard train shows up, we establish whether the passengers are still on board. If they are, then we bring the train to a halt.’

‘How?’ said Varma. ‘If it doesn’t need to run on tracks, it can go wherever it pleases and I can’t imagine we possess anything capable of even giving it a slight headache.’

Grint patted his blaster.

‘You’re sure that won’t do more harm than good, sir? A locomotive is just one giant boiler.’

‘Anyone got a better idea?’

Everyone was convinced there had to be a better idea than blowing up a steam locomotive in the Middle Ages – they just couldn’t think of it right at that moment.

‘Aim for the wheels,’ said Varma.

Grint nodded. ‘Once we’ve disabled that bastard train, then no one’s going anywhere. We can get the passengers off. After that it can do as it pleases – I don’t care.’

‘Perhaps that’s why it was empty when we saw it,’ said Varma. ‘Because we do manage to get the passengers off at Modena.’

‘And if the passengers aren’t on the train?’

Grint turned. ‘Then we head straight for Mexico City to retrieve Lockland and Parrish there. And nothing gets in our way.’

‘What about all the other passengers?’ asked Rossi.

Grint shrugged.

‘You mean we leave them? In the asylum? We can’t do that. I doubt 19th-century asylums were enlightened places.’

‘Then we get them out and bugger the consequences.’

Varma nodded. ‘I could live with that.’

Nods indicated others could live with it too.

‘OK,’ said Grint. ‘Priorities – Lockland and Parrish first. Then everyone else if we possibly can.’

There were nods of agreement.

‘All right,’ said Grint, happier now they had a plan. ‘Three teams. Varma and Tucker. Socko and Hansen. Me and Rossi.’

Approaching the pod, his brow creased. How many jumps had they made in the last twelve hours? Rome. Florence. Lombardy Tunnel. Balaclava. And now they were off to Modena. And if things didn’t go well there, then there would be Mexico City as well. And with the very real possibility of contemporary involvement at Modena and Mexico, they’d need their wits about them. Five jumps in quick succession. He felt fine and if he asked around, he knew his team would say the same, even if Rossi’s head had just dropped off and rolled across the floor.

More of a problem was the pod. Theoretically they could take twelve hours out – rest, check their kit, get something to eat – but the longer they rested, the more power they’d use. True, the stationary pod was only on trickle at the moment, but every jump depleted the power reserves. Yes, they had solar, but not at the moment – it was dark. And it would be dark in Modena as well.

A prudent team leader might consider taking his team back to TPHQ for a couple of hours’ rest. Except . . . what did Tucker say that Farrell had shouted? ‘Don’t go back.’ And something about being grounded.

Grint had no idea what that was all about, but returning to TPHQ wasn’t a risk he felt worth taking. The pod was still performing within accepted parameters, as was his team, so he had no concerns at the moment. Besides – they were so close. To return to TPHQ now . . . Such a course of action was unthinkable. In a few hours, they’d have retrieved Lockland – and Parrish, obviously – and he’d be back at base sinking a pint in the bar with another successful mission under his belt and Jane safely in the building somewhere. All Grint’s instincts told him to press on while he still could. Yeah – they’d give it their best shot and cross their fingers.

23

Modena, 2nd October 1444. Late afternoon.

‘Depending on the weather and cloud cover, it’ll begin to get dark between now and around 1900 hours,’ said Hansen, consulting the screen. ‘Will there be a curfew, do you think?’

Grint shook his head. ‘No idea. The AI reports there’s no war or civil unrest, so perhaps not. Whether there is or isn’t, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. We’ll move in pairs as discussed.’ He brought up a not as detailed as he would have liked street map and pointed. ‘The monastery of San Pietro is in this corner of the south-eastern quadrant. Next to the church of the same name.’

He moved his finger slightly. ‘We’ve landed here, near the east gate.’ He traced a route. ‘Out of the door. First left, second right. The monastery’s about halfway along the street on the left-hand side. We’re not St Mary’s so we shouldn’t miss it. Varma and Socko’s teams will take up positions at each end of the street. Rossi and I will get as close to the entrance as we can. If anything happens to me, then take your instructions from Varma. We need to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. We don’t know where or when the train will appear. We don’t know what will happen when it does. And we don’t know how long it will stay.’

‘Mushroom time again,’ said Hansen cheerfully. ‘Completely in the dark and fed on shit.’

‘You should be used to that by now. Team leaders to check in with me every fifteen minutes. Any questions? OK – grab your gear and your cloaks and let’s go.’

It was a cool evening. There had been rain and it was almost certainly going to rain again soon. Pools of dirty water had collected among the rough cobbles. Grint looked up. Low cloud. There would be no moon or stars. The chilly air smelled of recent rain, smoke, cooking, livestock and the results of living in a town without a modern sanitation system.

There were people on the streets. Mostly men, and all were heads down and hurrying home by the looks of them. Everyone was warmly wrapped up. Older men wore calf-length robes in shades of earth tones. Some wore a thick surcoat on top, others a cloak. Younger men sported shorter tunics and were showing rather a lot of leg for such a chilly night. All of them wore hats.

In one perfectly synchronised movement, the Time Police pulled up their hoods.

There were a few women around, mostly in groups. Shopping for last-minute bargains, perhaps. Looking for past-their-best vegetables and fruit or marked-down meat or fish. Like the men, their clothes were mostly of terracotta, ochre or brown.

Keeping the tall city walls on their left, Grint’s team made their way along a badly cobbled road. The houses on their right presented a solid, unbroken front except for the occasional archway that seemed to lead to small squares behind the houses. Which, in turn, led to other alleyways. Even allowing for the half-light, the street pattern was bewildering.

‘Stay on this street,’ said Grint in a low voice. ‘Don’t be distracted into taking a shortcut. I suspect once we get trapped in there, we’ll never find our way out again.’

Most of the buildings appeared to be constructed of the same light-coloured stone. Other than the sturdy front doors, there seemed to be very little wood about. Windows were small, square, high-up and dark. Several smashed roof tiles lay on the cobbles. Grint tilted his head back. The roofs were pitched but shallow. Had there recently been a storm and they’d been blown down, or were falling roof tiles an everyday hazard here? He’d already been walloped by a scratchpad today – he didn’t need a large part of someone’s roof dropping on his head as well.

Although obviously a main thoroughfare, the street was narrow. And those leading off it even narrower. How would a train get through these tight spaces? And how could it run without tracks? Actually, never mind that – how could it run without a driver? The answer was depressingly obvious. Especially now he’d seen it close up. This was a train that could go wherever it wanted and do whatever it liked when it got there.

There were fewer people on the streets now – everyone was disappearing down alleyways or wearily climbing the steps to their own front doors.

‘Second right,’ said Rossi quietly and they turned off.

Without warning and seemingly directly over their heads, a bell began to toll. For a moment there was just the single doleful note ringing out and then, all at once, as if in response, hundreds of bells joined in, ringing out from bell towers all over the town.

‘Vespers,’ said Rossi.

‘What?’ said Socko, staring around.

‘The bells are tolling for vespers. Sunset.’

‘Oh.’ Socko sounded relieved. ‘So nothing we did, then?’

Rossi grinned. ‘Not yet.’

On their left, the Benedictine monastery of San Pietro presented a long windowless façade to the street. At around the mid-point, two hefty wooden gates stood wide open, each held back by a substantial rock acting as a doorstop. Grint and his teams slowed as they strolled past. They caught a brief glimpse of a gloomy courtyard, surrounded on all sides by a bewildering array of doors, windows, archways and steps. Next door, the church of San Pietro stood dark and silent. Directly opposite the gates as they looked right, the street opened out into a modest square with a small well in the centre. From this square, a long, straight, wide – by Modena standards, anyway – street led away northwards. Grint regarded it thoughtfully.

A small but steady stream of townspeople were flowing in through the monastery gates. Were they here for a service? The church was next door. Or were these poor people, seeking charity in the form of a meal or shelter from what looked like being a cold, wet night? Many of them limped or struggled with crutches. There was a short line of men, each with their hand on the shoulder of the man in front.

Black-robed monks in a little wooden hut just outside the gates greeted each person kindly and directed them across the courtyard. They seemed to know many of them by name. Cheerful greetings were exchanged.

Another monk came out through the gates. Standing on tiptoe, he carefully lit each of the torches on either side of the gate. All along the street, householders were doing the same, the flames reflected on the wet cobbles.

‘Rossi and I will stay here,’ said Grint. Being careful not to point, he nodded at the small, shadowed square opposite. ‘Somewhere over there. We’ll have a good view of the gates. Socko and Hansen – you two carry on to the end of the street. Varma and Tucker – go back to the corner. Find somewhere out of the way and wait there. There’s no other access to this street that I can see. Stay in touch and report anything out of the ordinary. Remember that bloody train moved like greased lightning at the tunnel and yet was quiet enough to sneak up behind us at Balaclava, so stay alert at all times.’

Grint and Rossi crossed the road to the square and found a deeply recessed doorway in which to stay out of the rain and watch the gates. Judging by the amount of dead leaves and rubbish collected in the porch, no one had used this door for quite some time so, with luck, there should be no risk of an irate householder putting the cat out and angrily demanding to know what they thought they were doing in his porch. In a foreign language.

The bells slowly died away. The last people straggled through the gate and disappeared. Grint and his team waited in silence. They’d all done this before. You stood in the shadows, out of the wind if possible, leaned against the wall to take the weight off your feet, and strove for bladder control. There were no shortcuts. You simply waited until your target wandered past, at which moment you leaped out, caused him to shit himself in fright, sonicked him if he looked at you wrong, banged on the restraints and returned home in triumph for a well-deserved drink.

Of course, in this case their target was a train, so it seemed safe to assume the restraints part of the operation might be somewhat problematic.

Grint faced up the street – Rossi down. Even though the flow of people through the gates had now ceased, the gates remained open. Torchlight gleamed on the monks’ tonsured heads as they talked for a moment and then retreated back inside their open-fronted hut, where they were joined by a small dog who seemed quite sure of his welcome. One of the monks bent to stroke him, said something, and the other laughed. They both tucked their hands into their voluminous sleeves and, other than exchanging the occasional word, waited in silence.

A bit like us, thought Grint. We’re all waiting. He wondered how Jane was doing and pushed that thought from his head. The best thing he could do for her – and Parrish, obviously – was to concentrate on the job in hand and achieve a successful outcome. He began to plan for various scenarios.

Varma spoke in his ear. ‘Com check. All well.’

And Socko. ‘Com check. All well.’

He responded. ‘Com check. All well.’

They settled down again.

The night turned even colder. And then it began to rain. Because it always rained when hapless TPOs were on obbo. In their sad experience, very few Time criminals hung out in plush hotels where officers could wait in warmth and comfort as a smiling waiter brought them free food and drink. That never happened, did it?

Standing behind Rossi so the glow from his watch couldn’t be seen, Grint checked the time. 2025. Would those two monks stay there all night? Would they be relieved at some point? Or would they just shut the gates and go off for their own meal? None of the people who’d gone in had come out again, so presumably they would stay the night.

Rossi shifted his weight. ‘I suppose we are in the right place.’

Grint grunted.

‘There might be other monasteries.’

But Grint had done his homework. ‘Not actually in the town. There’s another about ten miles away.’

‘What if it’s that one we want?’

‘Then we’re buggered, aren’t we?’

Wisely, Rossi shut up.

More time passed. There was another com check.

The rain came down harder. The two monks and their little dog were now invisible inside their hut.

And another com check.

The highlight of the evening was when two monks appeared from inside the monastery to relieve the original pair. There was a brief conversation, and one of them put down a dish for the little dog. They all watched him eat for a while and then the first two monks left their hut, kicked away the stone gate-stops and slowly closed the gates behind them. Grint could hear the thud as they rammed home the crossbar. The new shift settled down in the hut. Grint speculated on when they would be relieved. Midnight, he guessed.

Nothing continued to happen.

‘It’s not coming. We’ve got it wrong somehow,’ said Socko.

‘No, we haven’t,’ said Grint quietly. ‘The train appears, causing mass panic. Two people emerge and run towards the gates. It has to be Lockland and Parrish this time.’

Around them, the noises of the city died away. Most sensible people had either settled in around their hearth fires or gone for an early night. One by one the lights were snuffed out. A cat trotted past on its way to ruin a random rodent’s evening.

Another com check.

‘Stay sharp, everyone,’ said Grint, because that was always the problem. Behind him, Rossi nearly burst trying to suppress a yawn. Grint deliberately refrained from looking at his watch, but Rossi told him anyway. ‘Twenty-one thirty.’

‘Do you have somewhere else to be?’

‘Sir . . .’

‘Or maybe you were wanting an early night?’

‘Sir . . .’

‘Perhaps you . . .’

‘Sir – shut up.’

Grint froze, whispering, ‘What?’

‘To your left.’

Grint slowly turned his head. A tiny spark of blue lightning crackled among the cobbles. The next moment it was gone. At the same time, Varma said, ‘Heads up. Something’s happening.’

‘Yes,’ said Grint, tossing back his cloak in readiness. ‘It’s beginning. Do not let that train get away this time.’

Faintly, he could hear Rossi’s blaster charging. The sound was probably too weak to be heard by the monks, and even if they could – tough. He was here to do a job, not pander to contemporary sensibilities.

They edged their way to the front of the porch and checked in both directions. Nothing.

‘We can’t see anything here,’ said Grint. ‘Let’s move out.’

Very cautiously, they stepped out into the rain.

‘You go left – I’ll go right.’

Grint turned right and took a few paces along the street, keeping to the shadows. On his right, the square stood dark and silent. The long street ran northwards, away into the gloom. One or two flickering torches hadn’t yet been extinguished by the rain, but visibility was very poor. He wished for a night visor.

Like most officers – with the notable exception of young Farrell, who appeared impervious to hints, suggestions and even direct orders to get his hair cut – Grint kept his hair short. It wasn’t so much hair as just a shadow on his head, but right now, at this very moment, his stubble began to prickle. Even as he stared down the street, another crackle of blue lightning ran along the cobbles before fading into the darkness. He blinked the after-image away. There was another further up the street. And then another. And then many more. Two blue lines looking almost like . . . well, railway tracks, perhaps.

‘To me,’ he shouted, backing down the street towards the monastery gates. ‘It’s coming. Get your arses here now.’

And then, with a sound like ripping silk, the world was lit by a giant flash of blue. The sky split – there was no other word for it – the sky split and the Zanetti Train came screaming towards them out of the darkness.

24

Jane awoke with a start. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. Minutes? Centuries, even? Was she about to find that, as with Rip Van Winkle, the world had moved on and left her behind? Or was that Sleeping Beauty?

She blinked to clear her vision. Luke sat beside her, back to the wall, eyes closed, his head nodding. Sawney was sprawled on the floor, snoring slightly.

She turned her head. Still dark outside. So what had woken her?

The guard, Tommaso, was bending over her. ‘Signora. Wake up. Wake up.’

‘What . . . ?’ said Jane, still stupid with sleep.

He pointed urgently.

Jane stared, not comprehending. It was still dark outside. And then . . . something flashed past. Yes, it was still dark, but this was a different dark. There were shapes out there. And – was that a distant gleam of light? And another? The real world was back.

‘Luke . . .’ She shoved him. No time to be gentle. ‘Luke, we’ve landed somewhere. Get up.’

Kicking her feet free of her skirts, she struggled to her feet.

Awoken by the movement, Sawney opened his eyes. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’

Luke was staring out through the damaged wall. ‘There’s something out there. I can’t be sure, but . . .’

Sawney pushed him aside. ‘Let me see.’ He peered out. ‘Yes. I saw a light. Get out of my way.’ He stood in the hole, gripping the edge with both hands, preparing himself for a leap into the dark.

Luke and Jane pressed in close behind him.

‘Go,’ said Luke. ‘Jump.’

Dark shapes slid past. Houses. A bell tower. Rain. No electric lights that he could see. Nor was there anything in the sky. Could this be Modena? The silhouettes looked right.

Sawney didn’t move.

‘Go,’ shouted Luke. ‘Go, go, go.’ Another bell tower. An open square. Yes – Modena. ‘This is our chance.’

Sawney didn’t move.

‘What are you waiting for?’ screamed Luke. ‘This is it. I tell you – this must be Modena. Jump. We have only seconds.’

Sawney turned, looked directly at Jane, uttered one single, obscene word, and in a sudden movement, unleashed a backhanded blow of such violence that she was knocked completely off her feet, flying backwards across the carriage to rebound, with some force, off the far wall and crash heavily to the floor. Luke cursed and ran towards her. As he did so, Sawney jumped.

Tommaso stepped up, hesitated, looked over his shoulder at them, shouted something and then followed Sawney.

Luke hauled Jane to her feet. She swayed, groggy from the force of the blow. They were closer to a door than the hole and he made a grab for the handle. The door wouldn’t budge – too late, he guessed it would only open from the outside – and they wasted two or three valuable seconds trying to force it. Cursing blue murder, he spun them both around.

‘Run, Jane.’

There were lights outside. Now that he had something against which to measure their speed, he could see the train was moving very much more slowly. He could hear shouting. Outside as well as inside. Men’s voices. And there – yes, was that Rossi? Running alongside the train before dropping back out of sight. And Varma. And Grint, shouting something as he ran towards them. To whom he was shouting they never found out because, not looking where he was going, he appeared to trip or fall and disappeared from view.

The train was rattling along some kind of street. He was certain he could see shadowy outlines of . . . yes . . . houses. Even hear . . . was that church bells? Yes, medieval Modena, surely.

This was it. Finally they could get off this fire-trucking train.

And then, with the squeal of a thousand souls in torment – which was always how he thought of it – the train lurched violently. Then jolted forwards. Then lurched again. And again.

Emergency brakes. The train was performing an emergency stop. Metal screeched at metal. The smell of burning was overpowering. More metal screamed and the sound was taken up all along the carriage.

Helplessly, Luke and Jane staggered one way, then back the way they’d come, and then fell to the floor in a tangle. All along the train, he could hear shouts of confusion and terror as everyone lost their footing.

Jane struggled to free herself but the train was braking too hard. They rolled across the dusty floor. Jane impacted the wall first, knocking all the wind out of her, and a split second later, Luke did the same, banging his head.

The train had almost come to a halt.

‘Quickly,’ she panted, struggling to make herself heard over the noise of tortured metal and panicking passengers. And to kick her feet free.

‘Jane.’ Luke reached for her hand and yanked her to her feet. She swayed for a moment, dazed, holding on to one of the luggage racks for balance.

‘Come on. The train’s stopping. We can get off. Come on.’ He tried to drag her across the carriage. He could hear someone outside shouting instructions. Thank God – the rescue party was here and all their troubles were over.

He caught a brief glimpse of a huge tangle of passengers spilling from their compartments out into the corridor, which was completely blocked. Almost everyone was on the floor. And then the hole loomed large before them. He could see lights glistening on wet cobbles. Another second and they would be off the train. Only three long strides to safety . . . They could do this. Jane was doing her best. He would sweep her up and they’d jump together.

Three . . .

Two . . .

He slid his arm around her waist and felt her muscles tense, ready for the leap . . .

One . . .

With unbelievable suddenness, the world turned a blacker black. Everything disappeared from view. The cobbles, the darkly silhouetted buildings. The voices outside stopped dead, the bells were cut off. Silence fell as suddenly as if a door somewhere had slammed shut. Which, given their circumstances, was perfectly possible, he supposed.

No time to make the decision. Instinct cut in. He braked hard, his boots skidding on the dusty floor. For a moment it looked as if their momentum would propel them helplessly out into the nothingness beyond, and then Jane collided heavily with the trunk and grabbed hold of it. Luke’s hand was torn from hers. She made a wild grab at him and her hand closed on his sleeve. Instinctively she seized it. His hand grasped her wrist.

She shouted, ‘Don’t let go.’

For a moment everything – including Luke and Jane – hung in the balance, and then she was falling sideways with Luke coming down on top of her. Desperately, she twisted her head to look, but it was already too late.

Modena was gone.

Grint stood his ground, weapon ready, fully charged and ready to go. The train was heading straight for him. He was beginning to take this personally.

Behind him, in classic Time Police V formation, stood his team. Ditto with the weapons.

Wheels locked, sparks flying, and with flames roaring from the brake boxes, from the axles, from the wheels, from everywhere, and vomiting thunderous clouds of black smoke, the train bore down upon them, splitting the night with its endless undying shriek. Sulphur-smelling smoke swirled, enveloping everything around it. The cab glowed a violent red as more flames leaped from the firebox. Followed by a symphony of screaming metal as the three carriages fishtailed wildly behind the tender. Grint could easily understand the hysteria and headlong panic – not in a million years could medieval townspeople ever have imagined such a sight.

Shouts and screams surrounded him. Many people were running from their houses to stand, transfixed. He risked a quick glance behind to see what was happening in the San Pietro monastery.

Chaos. A cacophony of voices, screams and prayers. One of the gates had been hauled open. A group of monks appeared in the open gateway. Some were on their knees, repeatedly crossing themselves. Others held their hands to heaven in a gesture of supplication. One or two had even armed themselves with pitchforks and cudgels. The little dog was standing protectively outside the monks’ hut, bristling like a bottle brush on steroids and yapping hysterically.

Grint could safely leave Varma and Tucker to handle all that. He turned his attention back to the monster bearing down on him. Tossing back his cloak, he raised his blaster.

Over their heads, the bells began to sound. This chaotic peal was nothing like the benevolent and melodic summons to a meal and shelter for the night to those who needed it. The clamour of bells was taken up around the town. The guard would be turned out. There was going to be hell on – literally – in a few minutes.

He gritted his teeth and faced the approaching train.

‘Come and get me, you bastarding rust bucket.’

He began to walk forwards, slowly at first, then faster, then breaking into a run and finally a headlong charge. Roaring defiance and meeting the train head-on.

Behind him, no one hesitated.

‘Avanti Savoia.’

And the battle cry of the security team. ‘Time Police – surrender or die.’

They broke into a run. There were six of them – yeah, that should be enough to take down this old hunk of junk.

Grint was running. Not fast. He was too big to run fast. The others were faster, slowly catching him up, firing their blasters as they came. Long streaks of red-hot plasma lanced through the air, to bounce harmlessly off the boiler.

Grint reached the train first, just ahead of his team. Tucker and Varma were hanging back to cover their rear. He fired a long blast into the empty cab and then slowed, waiting for the first carriage to trundle past.

The train was still braking. They could do this. Faintly, he could hear voices inside the carriages. Crying, shouting, screaming, banging on the windows. There were passengers. He could both see and hear them.

The second carriage . . . coming up . . . all he needed was a glimpse . . . swing himself aboard and . . . he heard a shout . . . there . . . there. Something dark and shapeless fell from the train almost at his feet. Then another one.

Unable to stop in time, Grint tripped over the first body sprawled across the cobbles and crashed headlong to the ground. Lights flashed, although now most of them were inside his own head. Instinct kept him rolling away from the train.

Sawney was struggling to get to his feet. This place might be riddled with TPOs, but he still reckoned he was safer here than on that fucking train. Safest of all if he could get away in the confusion. Fire burned through his right knee. He’d landed badly. He was dimly aware someone had followed him off the train. If it was Parrish, then he was out of here as fast as he could run. If it was the Lockland bitch, then he reckoned he could spare a second or two before . . .

Something cold and hard rammed itself into his ear and someone’s knees impacted his back, driving the breath from his body.

‘Hand-held blaster,’ said Varma. ‘Blow your stupid head off at this range, Sawney, and no one would care. In fact, given that Lt Grint has expressed a desire for a little chat with you, it might actually be a mercy. Face down on the cobbles. Hands behind your head. Do it.’

‘Broken my knee,’ he said thickly. ‘Can’t move.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Varma. ‘That’s such a shame. Just a minute.’

The weight was withdrawn. There was a moment when he thought he’d got away with it because girls were so . . . and then . . .

He screamed as a bright, sharp pain blossomed in his left foot. ‘Aagh. My foot. You bitch. My foot. You shot me.’

‘Yeah,’ said Varma, stepping over him. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

She headed for Grint, who was trying to lever himself to his feet.

The train had passed them by now and was picking up speed again, bearing down on the monastery. Monks, guards, everyone scattered before it. The little dog, shrill with terror and defiance, ran forwards, yapped around the wheels, and ran back again. Behind him, the monastery gate slammed shut with a boom that echoed off the surrounding buildings.

The train was increasing its speed, heading straight for the gates. No one was under any illusion they would hold it even for a moment.

One monk ran forwards and scooped up the dog. One of the gate wardens, perhaps. He straightened up and stood, frozen, as the train bore down upon him. Shouting something in Latin, he raised his pectoral cross with his free hand and held it high in defiance of the workings of Satan. The little dog continued to hurl his challenge at what, presumably, he considered to be a giant metal rat.

Possibly emboldened by this defiance, two or three monks appeared from the dark and stood alongside the first monk, shoulder to shoulder.

The train was beginning to build up speed again. To people who had never seen anything faster than a galloping horse, this must have been terrifying. And it wasn’t ever going to stop. Steam hissed from every orifice. Black smoke filled the streets, obscuring the buildings. Sparks flew from the funnel and wheels. The monks were praying, their voices barely audible over the noise of the train. The little dog wriggled and yelped. More monks appeared. One held a crucifix mounted on a golden staff, snatched up from the church or their own chapel, perhaps. Planting it firmly on the cobbles, the monk raised his hand, palm out, repudiating Satan and all his works. More monks appeared, plainly terrified out of their wits at this manifestation from hell – Varma didn’t blame them in the slightest – but utterly determined that this monster should not pass. They arranged themselves in a defiant wall.

Varma bent over Grint. ‘Sir?’

‘’M all right,’ mumbled Grint. ‘Lockland?’

‘Rossi and Hansen are on it.’

He tried to get up but there was a limit to the number of times even someone like Grint could sustain damage to his cranium. He fell back with a groan.

‘Stay down, sir. Sawney’s just over there if you feel like shooting someone.’

Grint brightened slightly.

Varma spun around. ‘Tucker – with me. We need to shift these people. I don’t think prayers will stop this train.’

She set off at a run. Tucker shouldered his blaster and followed her. Their black cloaks flapped behind them as they ran towards the now firmly closed gates, waving their arms as a warning.

‘Get out of the way. Move. Get out of the way.’

Tucker, surprisingly rapid on his feet, tore his hand-held blaster free from its rip-grip patch and fired over the monks’ heads. ‘Run away. Run away, you fire-trucking half-wits.’ He fired again. And again. Red laser beams sliced through the night air.

The monks wavered.

Varma added her voice. ‘Get out of the way. Get out of the way.’

Tucker always maintained it was Varma who was the deciding factor.

Satanic devices? No problem.

Lasers? Bring them on.

Plasma beams? God is our strength.

What’s that? Shit, it’s a woman. Run for your lives.

‘They probably thought you were the Whore of Babylon,’ he said afterwards, when the dust had settled a little.

Varma had scowled at him but secretly resolved to work that into her CV somehow.

Men were running out of their houses, bearing vicious-looking household implements. Some had cudgels. And they were all converging on Satan’s minions – as the Time Police preferred not to be known.

‘Shit,’ said Varma under her breath. The curse of Team 236 had struck again.

Fixing on someone who looked like a senior monk – he was waving the tall crucifix – Varma ran directly at him, windmilling her arms. Alongside her, Satan’s Imp – or that big bastard Tucker, as he was usually known – fired a red flare high over the bell tower.

The effect was immediate. A new star hung in the sky, spitting red sparks and casting its baleful light over the gates, the street, the square. And the still-approaching train.

The few remaining people scattered. Behind them, the train emitted a malevolent screech. It was close enough for Varma to hear the clank and rattle of the couplings.

‘I don’t think it’s happy,’ shouted Tucker.

‘It’s not the only one.’

‘Get down.’

The next moment something huge and heavy impacted the small of her back. Her first thought was that she was going under the wheels and that this was going to hurt. Although not for very long.

The second was that she was – not for the first time – almost completely buried under an enormous trainee TPO.

The ground shook. Something huge and black roared past. Tucker wrapped his arms around her head and buried his face in her shoulder. Varma swore afterwards the fire-trucking thing passed not six inches away. Since she wasn’t prone to exaggeration, this was generally accepted as a truth. The noise of squealing metal made her teeth hurt. She closed her eyes. It didn’t help. Blue lightning crackled the air around them. With one final, victorious whistle, the train passed them – and vanished.

‘Shit,’ said Varma, from somewhere underneath Trainee Tucker.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

The blue lightning faded. At some point the rain had stopped. Clouds parted and a pallid moon hove into view, took one look at what was passing for nightlife in Modena these days, and pushed off behind the clouds again.

‘Get off me,’ said Varma tightly. Not for the first time.

Tucker grinned and said, ‘Make me.’ Not for the first time.

Varma’s hand moved but Tucker was quicker. A bloke needed his wits about him when dealing with Varma. He rolled to his feet and reached down to pull her up.

She was already up. Sometimes a bloke just doesn’t move quickly enough.

Somewhat stiffly – cobbles don’t make for ideal mattresses and a sixteen-stone TPO on top of you doesn’t help – she began to hobble back down the street.

‘Hansen, see to the lieutenant. Tucker, there’s a disabled ex-TPO over there. Go and get him. Reasonable force is authorised. Under no circumstances is he to get away, but I want to be able to understand what he has to say, so don’t damage him too much. Socko, Rossi, I’m certain two people jumped. Go and find the other one.’

They disappeared into the night.

She and Hansen helped Grint to his feet and they regrouped around Sawney, still sprawled on the cobbles, moaning.

‘This is Tommaso – a guard from the train,’ said Rossi, reappearing out of the night and indicating a muddy and bruised railway employee, staring about him as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘He had the chance to jump, so he did.’

Grint looked up. ‘Lockland and Parrish?’

‘They were there, and he thinks they meant to jump too, but this one . . .’ he prodded Sawney with his boot – or kicked him, might be a more accurate description – ‘hit Lockland. Very hard, Tommaso says. He thinks she was hurt. She was knocked flying, anyway.’ He paused. ‘He doesn’t think either of them made it off the train.’

They stared around the trainless street and square. No Lockland. No Parrish. Tommaso was right.

Grint was looking down at Sawney. ‘Well?’

Sawney clutched his knee. Then his foot. Then his knee again. ‘He’s lying. I fell off the train. It was an accident. The thing lurched and I fell out of the gap in the wall. I thought Parrish was right behind me. And Lockland. Although I think she tripped over her skirt or something, and he went back for her. I didn’t see what happened next.’

‘Really?’ said Grint. Tommaso, who obviously had a grasp of basic English, was shaking his head. Pulling at Rossi’s sleeve, he spoke urgently.

Rossi turned to his team leader. ‘He says that’s not true, sir. He doesn’t speak English very well, but he understands it just fine. He’s senior guard on a main-line route so that makes sense. He probably has a little French and German as well. And he’s definite that Sawney deliberately prevented Lockland and Parrish from jumping off the train.’

Grint’s face congested with rage. Looming over the prone Sawney, he lifted his enormous Time Police boot – prior to unleashing a traditional Time Police stamping.

What saved Sawney from ending his days as a greasy smear across the cobbles of medieval Modena was that the monastery gates suddenly swung open to reveal a veritable army of people, all with hastily snatched-up implements of mass destruction. At the same time, what they could only suppose was the city watch – about a dozen men – poured into the square from the other end, shouting as they came. Time for a strategic retreat.

‘We should go,’ said Grint. No one argued.

‘Sir,’ said Varma. She indicated Tommaso, staring fearfully about him. ‘We can’t leave him here. None of this is his fault and the monks will probably pop him on a bonfire as a servant of Satan.’

Grint nodded. ‘OK. If we can catch the train, we can reunite him with his people. If not . . .’

‘We’ll think of something,’ said Rossi.

Grint swung his weapon over his shoulder and ignored the blood running down his face. ‘Let’s go, people.’

The rain started coming down hard again as they ran down the street, around the corner and back towards the city gates. Rossi led the way, Socko behind him. Varma and Tommaso came next. Tucker had Sawney slung over his shoulder and Grint brought up the rear.

He turned and fired a quick satanic burst into the air and everyone behind him immediately lost interest and remembered their suppers simmering over the fire and their nice warm beds. Only the little dog seemed determined to run them out of town, nipping at their heels and barking furiously until he too bethought himself of his hut and possibly an extra bone or two for a good night’s work. He turned back – duty done.

* * *

Arriving back at the pod, the atmosphere was redolent of wet TPOs. Hansen was making further inroads into his medical supplies. ‘With all respect, sir – you have to stop banging your head or I’ll have nothing left.’

Grint scowled at him. ‘Is the camo device activated?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we’ll stay put for a while. Nothing can get in and it’ll give us time to decide what to do next.’ He nodded at Tommaso. ‘And someone take care of him.’

Rossi stood up. ‘I’ll do it.’

Varma was restraining a protesting Sawney. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Correct,’ said Grint without even looking at him. ‘You’re not. Although half of me rather hopes you’ll try something so I can legitimately chuck you out of the pod to take your chances outside. However, Varma’s marked you out for onward transmission to security, and I’m not going to deprive her of the pleasure. But don’t push it. No one here will mourn your passing.’

He sighed and eased his position. ‘Right. Report.’

Socko spoke up. ‘The passengers were still on board, sir. We could hear people shouting. It was only very brief – the train was noisy and still moving at that point – but they . . . um . . . they didn’t sound to be very calm.’

Wisely, he said no more.

Grint nodded. ‘Did anyone see our people?’

Socko looked at Sawney. ‘Middle carriage? At the end?’

Sawney hesitated then nodded.

‘Yeah,’ said Rossi. ‘I’m sure I saw Parrish. And Lockland. Just the very quickest glimpse. Parrish was on his feet, sir. Still alive. Lockland on the floor.’

Silence greeted this statement.

‘It would appear,’ said Varma slowly, ‘that somewhere between here and Balaclava, then, the train loses its passengers. Somehow.’

There was silence.

‘So,’ said Grint heavily. ‘Mexico it is, then.’

25

Far from all the excitement in medieval Modena, far from the current madness at TPHQ, far from everything, had he but known it, an elderly man lay propped up in a comfortable bed. The curtains were drawn across the window of the bedroom but he could see sunshine around the edges. Birds sang outside. The sound was oddly reassuring. And reassurance was the one thing this elderly gentleman currently craved above all else.

He had feared the worst. In fact, so much had he feared what he might find when he opened his eyes, that it was taking him a while to muster up the courage to do so. The birdsong, however, was reassuring.

Still with his eyes closed, he examined himself.

Was there any pain? No.

Could he move his limbs? Yes.

Was he restrained in any way? No.

Was he warm and comfortable? Actually – yes.

Was anyone shouting at him? No.

Encouraged by all this good news, he slowly opened his eyes.

The room was about twenty feet square, painted a pleasant spring-green colour. The wall to his right contained a window. The sun must be shining brightly to make it through the thick curtains, which were of a pleasantly neutral design that exactly matched the colour on the walls. The same with the floor covering. Three innocuous landscapes hung on the wall opposite. In addition to the bed, there was a modern dressing table of light wood, a wardrobe and an armchair, also in the same green.

Ernesto Portman had no idea where he was. Hotel or hospital seemed the most likely. The lack of beeping machines seemed to indicate the former. He searched his recent memory. There had been that disastrous afternoon. His daringly audacious scheme to end the Parrish problem and get Alexander Portman off his back had ended in utter disaster. Then there had been that enormous Time Police officer – bursting in through the door like the wrath of God. And that insolent bastard Luke Parrish and his even bigger bastard of a father, Raymond Parrish – both of them laughing at him. The whole thing had been a desperate gamble. People were becoming impatient at his failure to secure the divorce between Raymond Parrish and his wife. Every one of his attempts had been contemptuously ignored by Parrish senior. Really, there had been no other option. Kidnapping him had been a bold move that should have succeeded. Raymond Parrish, accepting the helplessness of his position, should have signed all the paperwork put in front of him. In fact, given his contempt for all things Portman, he should have been glad to sign the paperwork and be rid of his wife forever. The stroke of a pen – a civilised drink afterwards, between friends, equals – and the job would have been done and he, Ernesto, would, at this very moment, have been basking in Alexander Portman’s rarely won approval and watching Anthony and Bradley take full advantage of the many opportunities that family favour could offer.

Sadly, owing to a catastrophic failure on the part of those he had entrusted with the task, Raymond Parrish’s bastard of a son had been swept up with him, and from that moment, the situation had gone downhill. Fast. Luke Parrish was an officer in the Time Police and his colleagues had come looking for him.

Worse – not only had Ernesto’s brilliant scheme failed to pay off, but somehow – and he still didn’t know how – the person entrusted to him for safe-keeping, the politician’s daughter, had gone missing. The Parrishes had her – it had to be them, surely, because if it was the Time Police, he’d probably be dead by now – and because he’d lost her, the Portmans’ hold over a prominent cabinet minister had disappeared – along with the hold herself.

Portman wrath would be massive and inevitable. He, Bradley and Anthony hadn’t waited for that to manifest itself. There had been several hours of frenzied activity. Anything incriminating had been whizzed through the shredder. One or two documents that might prove useful in the future had been carefully packed away. They’d grabbed a few essentials and left everything else behind. Anthony and Bradley had disappeared out of one door – Ernesto through another.

With luck, his boys were safely on their way to Switzerland. They might even have arrived by now. While he . . . he was here. How? And where? He searched his memory, to no avail. And for what reason was he here? Given Alexander Portman’s well-known impatience with failure, it seemed unlikely this very pleasant room could be anything to do with him. And the Time Police didn’t do pleasant rooms at all.

He looked around again, suddenly realising he was thirsty.

Was there some way to summon a nurse or room service or something? Ah – no need. A jug of something looking pleasantly fruity and refreshing stood on the bedside table within easy reach. And a glass. He regarded it suspiciously for a moment but he really was extremely thirsty. Especially now he’d seen the jug. Pouring himself a glass, he very cautiously took a tiny sip. Oranges, lemons and something tangy – it was really rather pleasant. He took another sip. Agonising death failed to occur. He sipped slowly and took stock of his surroundings.

He was wearing pyjamas. Pale blue silk pyjamas. Even more reassuring. How many would-be torturers, kidnappers or murderers dressed their victims in tasteful pale blue silk pyjamas prior to inflicting something painful and messy upon them?

Finishing his drink, he set down the glass, pulled up the bedclothes – finest Egyptian cotton, he noticed, with a thread count considerably higher than that of the government’s combined IQ – and listened again. No – other than the birds – nothing. No traffic outside, no voices inside. No trollies wheeling up and down the corridor, no tannoy announcements, no doors opening and closing – just a peaceful rural silence all around.

Now that he’d satisfied his thirst, other, less pleasant thoughts crowded in. Where was he? Why was he here? Was he ill? His heart, perhaps? Had he suffered an attack? Although he didn’t feel ill. Warm, comfortable and slightly drowsy, perhaps, but definitely not ill. Perhaps he’d been sick and was now convalescing?

Their plan had been to rendezvous in Switzerland, then consider their position and how best to report to Alexander – Mr Portman – that not only had they failed to acquire Raymond Parrish’s signature on the divorce documents, but that they’d lost his hostage as well. He had no idea where Imogen Farnborough might be at this moment, but it seemed safe to assume that his, Ernesto’s, goose – all their gooses – were cooked. An immediate visit to their Swiss hideaway had been deemed more than prudent. Followed by a prolonged stay until all the fuss had died down. If it ever did.

Was this where he was now? The room didn’t look at all familiar, but it might have been redecorated since he’d last been here, which was, admittedly, some time ago. He should try to find out. Besides, a visit to the bathroom was now indicated.

Not that far away, two people were watching his every move on a small screen.

‘Our friend appears to be awake, my lady.’

‘About time, too. Although I rather suspect he’s been faking it until he was absolutely certain it was safe to open his eyes. We’ll give him a moment for the drugs to kick in, shall we, and then I’ll pop in for a quick chat.’

‘Shall I accompany you?’

‘Initially, I think no. I’d like to hold you in reserve. Should the drugged drink fail to achieve our nefarious purpose, then you can let rip.’

‘I shall look forward to doing so, my lady.’

‘Not to rain on your parade, my friend, but I can’t help feeling charm and flattery might be our best weapons here and, with respect, your skills lie in other areas.’

Pennyroyal grinned.

‘I think we’ve given him long enough,’ said Smallhope, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. ‘Remember – patience, tolerance and compassion are always our watchwords.’

Pennyroyal frowned. ‘Are they? Since when?’

‘Beginning now, I think.’

‘As you wish. Should charm and flattery prove insufficient, please remember I am only on the other side of the door.’

Ernesto was standing in the middle of the room, looking about him. Where were his clothes? The wardrobe was empty. There wasn’t even a dressing gown hanging behind the door. He was about to pull back the curtains when the door opened and a cheery voice wished him a good morning.

Conscious that he was in his pyjamas in female company, Ernesto climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Where am I? Who are you?’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘How did I get here?’

She was watching him carefully. ‘You remember nothing?’

‘No,’ lied Ernesto. ‘What should I remember?’

‘I’m not sure, actually.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, we’ve been drugging you. Firstly to get you here without you making a lot of fuss, and secondly to enable you to tell us everything we want to know, but that shouldn’t have affected your memory in any way. There’s absolutely no reason – no physical reason – why you shouldn’t cooperate to the best of your ability.’

Ernesto Portman had gone quite white. ‘I . . . I . . . my heart. I can’t . . .’

‘You can and you will. Understand me, Mr Portman, I’ve been hired to get answers and get answers I shall. Well, not me specifically – my friend on the other side of the wall will handle that side of the business. I shall probably take myself off somewhere and read a book. One has so little time for reading these days. Or I might go shopping, perhaps.’ She sighed. ‘Decisions, decisions.’

Ernesto endeavoured to establish himself as the dominant personality in the room. Fixing her with a penetrating stare, he demanded to know exactly where he was.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t I say?’

She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains to reveal a large, bare warehouse. A spotlight, currently enjoying its role as the sun, ensured everything else was thrown into deep shadows. The thought of what those shadows might be concealing caused Ernesto to clutch at his bedding.

A small machine was faithfully reproducing the sounds of happy little birds doing happy little things.

‘You can turn that off now, Pennyroyal.’

‘Pennyroyal?’ If possible, Ernesto turned even whiter. There are no circumstances under which hearing the name Pennyroyal is particularly reassuring. Or even reassuring at all.

‘I see the name is not unknown to you. He’ll be thrilled about that. He works very hard at maintaining his reputation.’ She peered through the window. ‘Are you there, my friend?’

Pennyroyal appeared in the window, silhouetted black against the dazzling white light. After surveying Ernesto in a professional manner that did nothing at all for his – Ernesto’s – heart condition, he switched off the happy little bird sounds.

Silence fell. The only sound was Ernesto’s ragged breathing. ‘I . . .’

Smallhope smiled brightly. ‘I have to say, Raymond Parrish’s anti-kidnap training has proved to be far more robust than yours. Not surprising, of course, since we were the ones who designed it. I can’t help feeling that if it were Mr Parrish currently taking advantage of our facilities, he would, by now, have manufactured a small nuclear device from two pillowcases and a bar of soap and used it to blast his way to freedom, pausing only to bring down the Portman empire on his way out. Speaking of sad disappointments . . .’ She paused. ‘Bradley and Anthony . . .’

‘Are they here too? Where are they? I demand to see my sons.’

She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Portman . . .’

‘You don’t have them, do you? I thought not. They’ll find me and . . .’

‘Mr Portman, I’m afraid I have to prepare you for some bad news.’

Ernesto pulled up the bedclothes again.

‘There was a road traffic accident and I’m afraid neither Bradley nor Anthony survived.’

Ernesto’s mouth opened and closed. ‘You . . . you killed them.’

‘Not us, Mr Portman. These days we tend to deal in information rather than corpses. Although we can do you a perfectly good corpse should you require it. For the appropriate sum, of course. No, I’m afraid someone got to your boys before we could scoop them up. Our sincere apologies. I know the drug will have blunted your shock and, to some extent, your grief, but would you like a moment to yourself?’

That Ernesto was distressed was obvious. That he was fearful for himself was even more obvious.

‘Was it Raymond Parrish? Did he do it?’

She seated herself in the armchair and smoothed her skirt again, saying evenly, ‘We have our suspicions.’

Ernesto stared at her. ‘Are you working for him? Raymond Parrish? Did you kill them? Did you kill my boys?’

‘We did not kill your boys. Hand on heart, Mr Portman. We only kidnapped you.’ She paused. ‘Which, I suspect, may have saved your life.’

Ernesto seized the bedclothes again. ‘You admit you kidnapped me?’

‘Well, yes, of course. I do think honesty between friends is so important, don’t you?’

Ernesto was conscious of the world sliding away from him and then sliding back again. His mouth was suddenly dry. ‘You said you’d been hired to get answers. Who hired you?’

Her voice was warm and comforting and seemed to come from a long way off. ‘We’re protecting you, Mr Portman. On the orders of Mr Alexander Portman himself. After what happened to your boys and for your own protection, I’m afraid we’ve had to take some rather drastic actions.’

‘You mean . . . Raymond Parrish . . . ?’

She was watching him closely. ‘I’m sure you’ll have worked out the answer by now.’

Obviously all at sea, Ernesto nodded.

‘We’re not quite sure of the best place to start, and Mr Portman . . .’ She smiled suddenly and charmingly. ‘I’m sorry – there are so many of you – Mr Portman insisted we call him Alexander – may I have your permission to call you Ernesto?’

Ernesto’s chest swelled at the thought of being lumped in with the Mr Portman.

‘Oh yes, yes. If Mr Port— I mean, if Alexander says so . . .’

‘Thank you, Ernesto. I must say it makes such a pleasant change to do business with a professional such as yourself. Although Alexander did tell us we would find you very easy to deal with. Anyway, Alexander said that you’d probably be the best person to advise where and when we should begin our investigations. In fact, he made quite a point of it. So, Ernesto – what actions do you recommend?’

Obviously much gratified, Ernesto heaved himself up on his pillows and endeavoured to look like someone who knew what was going on. ‘Well . . .’

The silence became embarrassing.

‘Or a better idea,’ she continued, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘Why don’t you tell me everything, we’ll discuss what actions should be taken, and then you can issue your instructions.’

Ernesto shifted uneasily. His urge was to do as he was told. To tell her everything. To rid himself of the burden of knowledge. His instinct, however, was to hold back. ‘I don’t know . . .’

‘The sooner you can give us the information we need, then the sooner we can make arrangements for your future well-being. So . . .’ She settled comfortably in her chair. ‘Talk to me, Ernesto.’

Her voice washed over him again. Yes, he should talk to her. Talk to her now. A wave of contentment ran through him. This was all so pleasant . . . so comforting.

Except . . . a tiny voice at the back of his mind was shouting for attention.

But she was such a nice person. So sympathetic and comforting. So gentle – even when breaking the news about Anthony and Bradley.

The tiny voice became a shout. Something was not right. This was all wrong. How had he arrived here? Where was here? Was Raymond Parrish behind all this? How many days had passed? Was it possible Alexander was already aware of the disaster over which he, Ernesto, had presided? Was he responsible for his boys’ deaths, and not Raymond Parrish after all? What was going on? And who was this woman? For whom did she work? He should say nothing until things were clearer.

Unfortunately for Ernesto, that was never going to happen. As if a switch had been flicked, the woman’s voice and expression hardened.

‘Or, of course, we could always tie a ribbon around you and drop you off on Alexander Portman’s doorstep with our compliments. He’s already put the word out. And with such a surprisingly large bounty, I suspect everyone will want a piece of you. I’m afraid, Ernesto, that Alexander is really not happy with you. Not happy at all.’

Ernesto blinked, bewildered at this sudden change, but before he could process this adequately – or even at all – she was smiling at him again.

‘So – where would you like to begin?’

‘I’m not . . . I won’t . . . You’ll get nothing from me.’

‘And is that your final word?’

Ernesto attempted to jut his jaw. ‘It is.’

The switch flicked again. She opened her com, her voice crisp and clear. ‘Pennyroyal, prep the travelling crate, will you? Mr Portman is being unhelpful . . . Yes, I know, so disappointing. Oh, while I think of it – do we have any ribbon?’

Ernesto was scrabbling at his bedclothes. ‘You don’t understand . . .’

The switch flicked back. She patted his hand. ‘Oh, but I do, Ernesto. Only too well. Your problem is that you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. And then another rock. I can well understand your fear of Alexander Portman – you’ve made a right royal cock-up of just about everything, haven’t you? On the other hand, we both know who’s on the other side of that door.’ Helpfully, she pointed at the door. ‘And he’s a clear and present danger, whereas, at this very moment, Alexander is not. And in the event of you escaping both Alexander and Pennyroyal – Raymond Parrish is out there somewhere. And his son. To say nothing of Mrs Farnborough and the very impressive resources at her disposal. MI5, MI6, Special Branch – it’s really not looking good for you at all, is it? And let’s not even start on the Time Police.’

‘He’ll kill me.’

She frowned slightly. ‘Who are we talking about now?’

‘Alexander, of course.’

She was all warm sympathy again. ‘Yes, well, I can understand your concern. Allow me to moot a suggestion. There are still a few places in the world where Alexander Portman’s writ does not run. Nor Raymond Parrish’s. You tell us everything we want to know, and at the end of it, we guarantee to transport you safely to one of them. You’ll never have to worry about either of them again.’

‘But . . .’

She leaned forwards, saying very softly, ‘Remember Anthony and Bradley, Ernesto.’

A tear ran down Ernesto’s face. ‘Who killed them?’

‘The same person who wants to kill you, Ernesto. But he hasn’t done so yet, has he?’

Ernesto began to tremble. This was so confusing. Alexander Portman or Raymond Parrish? Who was she talking about? Which one was threatening him? How could he save himself if he didn’t know from which direction the threat would come? What should he do?

She was still talking. ‘Because you are a survivor, Ernesto. And a man of intelligence.’ Her voice, as thick and warm as chocolate sauce, filled his mind.

‘So far, you’ve been too clever for him, Ernesto. You’re actually one step ahead. How many people can say that? You should continue to make the smart choices. Tell us what we want to know, and neither Portman nor Parrish will ever be a problem for you again. You have my word.’

He so wanted to comply. The sweet release of telling this charming lady everything. Except that somewhere in the back of his mind, that small voice of caution was still trying to make itself heard. He shook his head to clear it. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. Smallhope drew her chair closer and lowered her voice. She smelled of lemons and lavender. A lovely fresh smell of the countryside.

‘Ernesto, consider this. There are many ways of compelling a person to speak. So far we haven’t needed to employ any of Pennyroyal’s favourites. Would you like him to make a start?’

A part of his mind was able to recognise her technique. Carrot. Stick. Sympathy. Threat. Use his name. Forge a bond. Friendship. Threat. Carrot. Stick. Carrot. No time to think. On and on. Until he talked. And he so badly wanted to talk.

He licked his lips. ‘Somewhere safe? You said somewhere safe?’

She nodded. ‘Very safe indeed and well away from the little muddle you appear to have got yourself into.’

‘You promise?’

‘We guarantee it. And as everyone well knows, our firm always keeps its word.’

Ernesto sighed.

Smallhope was all sympathy. ‘I know,’ she said, putting a gentle hand on his. ‘But even such magnificent loyalty as yours has its limits. The time comes when self-preservation should take priority – and I do think a mind as sharp as yours must see the long-term advantages of cooperation.’

He was conscious of an overwhelming desire to lie back on his pillows and just . . . talk. ‘I . . . I’m not even sure where to begin.’

‘Wherever you like,’ she said encouragingly. ‘We’re so interested to hear what you have to say about so many things, Ernesto. Site X, temporal tourism, Neanders, Portman involvement, Imogen Farnborough – so very interested.’

‘Well . . .’

He could feel the words piling up. Like a dam about to burst. The urge to tell her was overwhelming. Clenching his teeth, he gripped his sheet as hard as he could. As if he could somehow keep the words in check. It was useless. The compulsion was overwhelming. He was about to burst . . .

Ernesto Portman began to speak. Haltingly at first, but then, as he got into his stride, the words cascaded from him. Every single one of them being carefully recorded by an expressionless Pennyroyal lurking, as Smallhope had so graphically described, on the other side of the door.

Some time later, she got to her feet, stretched her back, politely thanked the wilting Ernesto, tucked him up, urged him to finish his drink, and when he had done so, advised him to rest now, and exited the room.

‘Did you get it all?’

Pennyroyal nodded and handed her a well-deserved Earl Grey served in a superb example of her favourite Royal Worcester Flight and Barr porcelain cup and saucer.

‘Thank you. It would seem Ernesto had two tasks. To persuade Raymond Parrish to sign divorce papers, and to keep Imogen Farnborough under guard while they manipulated her mother. He failed at both. He’s terrified of Alexander’s retribution – and rightly so after what’s happened to Bradley and Anthony. Not surprisingly, he knows next to nothing about the Portmans’ recent involvement in temporal tourism and that nasty Neander business, and I can’t say I blame Alexander Portman for not entrusting poor, sad little Ernesto with anything that important. On the other hand, his recent treatment of Imogen Farnborough cancels out any sympathy, don’t you think? We’ll review the tapes and follow up with a few supplementary questions, but I think we’ll be finished here in a few hours.’

‘And then?’

‘As planned. We sell our info to Raymond Parrish and hand Ernesto to the Time Police. They’ll certainly keep him safe from Alexander Portman. And they’ll be absolutely thrilled to see him, and their gratitude will certainly be reflected in our fee. Quite a profitable day, I feel.’

‘And then?’

‘Stage Two of the contract.’ She pulled out a weapon, checked the charge and smiled. ‘Sunnyside Nursing Home. To take care of Alessandra Parrish.’

‘For our usual fee, I assume, my lady.’

‘Slightly more, actually. And I’ve negotiated a very open-ended expense account.’

To those who knew him well, Pennyroyal was smiling.

26

Not quite as far away from the excitement at TPHQ as he could have wished, Captain Farenden was updating Commander Hay.

‘It’s mostly quite good news, ma’am. Officer Farrell and Miss Meiklejohn have returned safely. Although in their case it’s rather a case of frying pans and fires. Farrell is in MedCen and, according to the doctor, even less coherent than usual, which he would not have considered possible.’

‘What’s wrong with him this time?’

‘A surfeit of Time Map, ma’am, together with additional injuries sustained during a cavalry charge.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Alas, ma’am, if only.’ He paused. ‘There is a rumour that at some point he and the Time Map were communing.’

Hay sighed. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised, but that’s a problem for another day. To return to the current crisis.’

‘According to Meiklejohn’s very brief report, they were able, successfully, to pass coordinates for Modena and Mexico to Lt Grint.’

‘You’re grinning, Charlie. What’s so funny?’

‘Well, ma’am, Time being of the essence, they didn’t feel this was an occasion for a . . . a conventional exchange of information and so, using their initiative – as Meiklejohn was very keen to emphasise – they . . . um . . . they threw the coordinates at him.’

‘Grint?’

‘Yes.’

‘They threw the coordinates at Grint?’

‘Exactly, ma’am. In the form of a scratchpad.’

‘Was he able to catch it?’

‘Very nearly, ma’am.’

Hay regarded her adjutant shrewdly. ‘How very nearly?’

‘Not at all, actually. The scratchpad bounced off his forehead.’

‘Oh, dear God.’ Hay covered her eyes. It didn’t help. She looked up. ‘That’s a point. Why was Meiklejohn in MedCen?’

‘It would seem that on their way to rendezvous with Lt Grint, both she and Farrell enjoyed a brief encounter with the Charge of the Light Brigade.’

Instinctively, Hay reached for her letter opener. The one capable of disembowelling any adjutant careless enough not to have removed it well in advance of this meeting. Finding it missing, she gripped her desk instead. ‘For the love of God, tell me they didn’t cause the Crimean War.’

‘No, ma’am. It was well under way by the time they arrived. However, they’re both a little shaken by the experience, and Farrell wasn’t in good condition even before that. Travelling by bracelet can be rough, ma’am, so I think they’re both feeling a little sorry for themselves at the moment.’

‘They’ll be feeling even sorrier when I get my hands on them.’

‘Something for you to look forward to, ma’am.’

‘Yes, today hasn’t been the best day ever. What’s happened to the bracelets?’

‘The Senior Mech has taken charge of them and is awaiting your instructions for their disposal.’

She sighed. ‘I’ll think about that later.’

‘Yes, ma’am. In what you might possibly regard as bad news, ma’am . . .’

‘Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll regard it as bad news, Charlie.’

‘About twenty minutes after the wall came down – and the floor came up – and the ceiling caved in – after all the damage was done . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘And after Varma had instructed her men to throw a considerable number of officers down the stairs . . .’

‘Yes – tell me again she isn’t promotion material.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Well, after all the demolition and shouting and tossing officers around like cheeses off Cooper’s Hill, the string has turned to dust all by itself. Which, as Meiklejohn said, was exactly what she’d designed it to do – it just took about three hours longer than she intended. But, as she was keen to point out, the theory is sound.’

‘Unlike a certain corridor, it would seem.’

‘Yes, ma’am. However, the Senior Mech is sealing off the whole area.’

She sighed. ‘I bet he is.’

‘Even to the extent of bricking up the door to Meiklejohn’s workroom.’

‘I suppose I shouldn’t express the wish she’d been inside it at the time.’

‘Well, not out loud, perhaps, ma’am. Fortunately – or otherwise, depending on your point of view – she was elsewhere at the time.’

‘Ah, yes. Off with Officer Farrell assaulting senior officers.’ She paused, saying quietly, ‘The corridor, Charlie.’

He lowered his own voice. ‘Locked down tight, ma’am. The entire layout of that area is being reconfigured and it will disappear from view. Forever. In future, Meiklejohn will enter and exit her workroom through the Pod Bay – which will also enable the Senior Mech to keep an unobtrusive eye on her doings.’

‘But the corridor itself . . . ?’

‘Is being dealt with, ma’am. No one will ever know. After all, there aren’t many of us left these days.’

‘True.’ She straightened her shoulders and smiled brightly. ‘What else?’

‘All officers involved in Meiklejohn’s field trials are now free and medically cleared. Everyone is ready to go.’ He paused. ‘Except . . .’

‘Except . . . ?’

‘All pods are still grounded at the moment because the Senior Mech wants all personnel not actively on assignment diverted to sealing the wall and shoring up the corridor.’

Hay nodded. ‘He won’t hang around. He knows what’s behind that wall. He’ll shut it down as quickly as possible, and we can pretend it never happened and carry on as usual.’

‘Yes, ma’am, but it does mean that, for the moment, Lt Grint is on his own.’

‘He’s a good officer and has good people with him. And he’ll have more as soon as I can get them there.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She sat back. ‘I’m still inclined to demand the head of Officer Farrell.’

‘And the rest of him?’

‘Use your own judgement.’

‘Understandable, ma’am, but, as usual, he did wrong to do right. Grint now has the coordinates for both Modena and Mexico. The Map Master tells me the Map is seventy per cent restored and should be fully functioning in approximately three hours, including one hour for them to run tests. If things go well, it’s very possible Lt Grint and our missing officers could be back before that happens. Besides which, I gather from the doctor that Farrell is in quite a bad way.’

‘How bad is he?’

‘Quite bad, ma’am. Almost completely discombobulated.’

‘Didn’t his mother once suffer from something similar?’

‘That was Time lag, ma’am – this is Map-induced.’ He paused. ‘He’s claiming . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s claiming the Map spoke to him.’

Commander Hay did not laugh. Or scoff. Or order up the men in white coats. She nodded. ‘How likely is that?’

‘The Map is AI-powered, ma’am. As are the pods, and we communicate with those. The Map is reactive, possesses the ability to learn and, in a very limited way, is sentient and self-aware – why would it not speak to him?’

Hay sighed. ‘One crisis at a time, Charlie. Fixing the corridor will give us access to the pods, and once we have that, we can get our people back – if Grint has not already done so. You see, the priorities arrange themselves.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

27

Back on the train, Luke and Jane were struggling to come to terms with Sawney’s latest treachery. By some sort of unspoken agreement, they’d both, as much as they were able, turned their backs on the gaping hole and the empty darkness beyond.

Jane stared at the floor and struggled with emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. Shock. Panic. An increasingly familiar anger. The dawning realisation that what was probably their last chance of escape had disappeared. Thanks to Sawney. And fear – a very real, icy-fingered fear.

Speaking more to herself than Luke, she said, ‘There was plenty of time for all of us to get off. He deliberately . . .’

‘Yes, he did, Jane.’

His calmness surprised her. She would have expected him to be striding around the small space, kicking and punching the walls, uttering bloodcurdling threats, shouting, relieving his feelings in the classic Parrish way.

‘It’s my fault,’ she said in a tiny voice. ‘I’m the one he hated. I’m the one who made him look small in front of everyone at TPHQ.’

‘You’re the one who called him out, Jane.’

‘And look where that got us.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘You could have jumped. There was time. You came back for me.’

‘Still your team leader, Jane. Like it or not.’

She shook her head. ‘This is all my fault. If I hadn’t . . .’

He smiled. ‘Jane – another piece of good advice from the master. You can’t creep through life appeasing people like Sawney just because they might turn on you in the future. You can’t do that. His was the fault. His was the blame. Suck up the guilt and move on.’

She managed a small smile. ‘When did you learn to be so wise?’

He pulled a face. ‘When you’ve screwed up as often as I have, you develop a kind of unique perspective. Now – all that’s behind us. We need to decide on a plan of action. What do we do next?’

‘Doesn’t that rather depend on the train?’

‘I swear, Jane, the next time a couple of trainspotters need rescuing from the consequences of their stupidity, they can do without the awesome skills of Team Two-Three-Six. Although, I suppose they’ll have to anyway, won’t they?’

There would never be a better moment to tell him. ‘Luke . . .’

He shook his head. ‘First things first, Jane. Getting off this bloody train.’

Jane took a deep breath. Luke was right. Everything was secondary to getting off this bloody train. She could have wept for the missed opportunity in Modena. The rescue team had been there. She’d seen Grint – briefly – and Rossi and possibly even Varma. She and Luke could, at this moment, have been back to TPHQ for a shower, something to eat, and a well-earned drink. Even Jane felt she’d earned a drink today. That hadn’t happened, however, because of . . . She took a deep breath. Luke was right. Suck it up and move on.

‘Right – concentrate,’ said Luke crisply. ‘Other known sightings.’

‘Um . . . well . . . Ukraine – several times. Oh – and Mexico City. All the other sightings are unverified.’

Luke chewed at his bottom lip. ‘Jane, if you were Grint – where would you go next?’

‘I’d prioritise the definite sightings.’

‘Wasn’t the train empty by the time it reached Balaclava and Zavalichi?’ Out of habit he reached for his scratchpad. ‘Bugger – the stupid thing doesn’t work here.’

Jane pulled out her trusty notebook.

Luke grinned. ‘Can’t believe I’ve lived long enough to appreciate Jane’s trusty notebook.’

Jane grinned back. ‘Neither can I. Believe that you’ve lived this long, I mean. Not the bit about the trusty notebook.’

He reached out and took her cold hand. ‘We’ll get out of this, Jane. I promise you.’

‘Never doubted it for a second,’ said Jane cheerfully.

‘That’s the spirit, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Keep this up and you’ll have a decent set in no time.’

‘Set of what?’ enquired Jane, somewhat confused.

Bolshy Jane sighed.

They’d closed the internal door of the compartment but the sounds of shouting and arguments drifted down the corridor.

‘Sounds a bit rough out there,’ said Luke.

Jane nodded. ‘It’s what always happens, isn’t it? Faced with the unknown, people always descend into anarchy, violence and death.’

There didn’t seem much to say to that.

‘Well,’ said Luke eventually. ‘At least Sawney’s gone.’

Recognising this effort to look on the bright side, Jane nodded. Both of them stared at the dusty floor.

‘The train slowed,’ she said, frowning. ‘Did anyone else manage to get off?’

Luke shook his head. ‘Not that I saw. Although admittedly I was a little busy at the time. The train lurched and everyone was on the floor. The corridor was packed solid with struggling people. No one could have even got to the doors, let alone have been able to get off. We all missed the opportunity.’

They stared at the floor again.

‘Luke, I’ve been thinking.’

‘Me too. You go first.’

‘We know the passengers get off in Mexico City. It’s in the records. If we get off at the next stop – will it be Mexico City? Surely it has to be. Because it’s already happened.’

Luke smiled wearily. ‘I don’t think it works quite like that, Jane. The future’s not set. Lord knows how much will be different simply because we’re on board.’

‘Or,’ said Jane firmly, ‘everything we do has already happened and we’re simply fulfilling our destiny.’

‘You might be fulfilling your destiny, Jane, but I’m pretty sure mine has always been clear – live fast – waste my life – die alone.’

She slapped his arm. ‘Stop that.’

He rubbed his arm. ‘Ow. Is this the descent into violence you were talking about earlier?’

She grinned. ‘That rather depends on you.’

They listened to the shouting further along the train.

‘I don’t think this lot are going to last long enough to get to Mexico City,’ said Jane. ‘Sooner or later – sooner, probably – someone’s going to try something desperate. Like jumping into the void. Or attempting to get to the engine and shut it down. People are panicking and it will get worse. Have you considered that we may not have the luxury of waiting that long? Mexico City might be years and years in our future. It’s very possible the passengers end up in a lunatic asylum because everyone on board is actually insane. This train will drive everyone mad.’

She stopped and took a breath. ‘Luke, I think unless it’s an active volcano or something equally dangerous, our priority is to get everyone off the train. There’s no point in the train arriving in Mexico City towing three carriages full of dead people.’

Luke grimaced. ‘Not a nice image, Jane, but you’re right. Survival is our priority. We can’t stay on this bloody train forever. Next sighting – wherever and whenever it is – unless it’s the volcano thing – or dinosaurs – we get everyone off and trust the Time Police to find us.’

He did not add, ‘Somehow.’

‘Agreed.’

Jane herself was pushing away thoughts that the Time Police would probably never find them. There were lots of avenues open to them. Tracing the train using the Time Map. She and Luke were tagged. There – lots and lots of ways they could be found. What was it they’d been taught in training? If you want to be found, then go somewhere you can be found. Resolutely, she turned her attention to the practicalities of the job in hand. ‘One hundred people – that’s a lot of people to get off a train in what could be a very short time.’

Luke considered this. ‘Oh, I don’t know. One hundred people spread over three carriages. That’s thirty-three and a bit people to each carriage. Four doors to each carriage – that’s only eight or nine people to a door. That’s quite doable, Jane.’

‘They’ll need to jump down though, and it’s a bit of a drop. People will be panicking. It only takes one person to stumble on landing and everyone else lands on top of them and a lot of people could be badly hurt – if not dead.’

‘All right. I know it’s counter-intuitive, but younger men first. They jump down and then help everyone else off. Then we all run for it before this monster takes off again and someone falls under the wheels.’

Jane shuddered at this mental picture.

Luke was ticking points off on his fingers. ‘We’ll need to tell people what to do. And they’ll have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, because we may only have a few seconds to get them organised.’

‘Problem,’ said Jane. ‘We only have access to this carriage. Our conductor disappeared. Tommaso’s gone, taking his key with him. There’s no way I’m letting you climb over the roof, so how do we communicate with the other carriages?’

Luke thought for a moment. ‘We set an example. When the others see what we’re doing, they’ll follow suit. Don’t tell me there aren’t one or two people up and down the train thinking along the same lines at this very moment. And you might be right, Jane. We know the passengers get off in Mexico City. Theoretically we could just sit back and wait for the universe to arrange it.’

Jane looked at him. ‘Do you want to take that risk?’

‘Good God, no. In fact, if the train does stop somewhere – anywhere – I think anyone trying to prevent passengers disembarking would be torn to pieces or trampled to death. No – we evacuate at the first opportunity and cross our fingers everyone gets off safely.’

‘And we won’t even have to queue with the rest of them,’ said Jane, looking at the giant hole in the wall. ‘We have our own private exit.’

‘We’re the Hole in the Wall Gang, Jane.’

‘Hole in the Head more like,’ said Wimpy Jane gloomily.

Jane nodded. ‘We should each visit every compartment in this carriage and tell people what to do. Make sure they’re absolutely clear.’

‘A good plan, but I’m not sure some of the old codgers on this train would be willing to listen to a chit of a girl. Besides, I’d rather we didn’t split up at this point. And it’s a waste of time talking to people en masse. It only leads to shouting and arguments. There were a couple of retired army officers in the next carriage – there’ll probably be a few more in this one. Or senior executives from the railway company. We’ll find someone who looks as if they’re accustomed to taking charge, try to convince them, and then leave them to convince the others. I think we’ll stand more chance of success that way.’

Jane nodded. ‘Good thought. And we can advise on evacuation procedures,’ she said. ‘Like they do on airships. Maximum number of people shifted in minimum time. And we don’t want people milling around in the corridor getting in each other’s way, tripping up, getting hurt. Everyone’s allocated a specific door according to their compartment number.’

Luke nodded. ‘Good plan.’

They fell silent for a while until Luke suddenly said, ‘Jane – are you feeling all right? I should have asked before. Your face looks very swollen.’

‘I’m fine. The one who probably has a bit of a headache is Grint.’

‘Yes – he went down like a ton of bricks, didn’t he? Never seen anything like it. I wonder if Modena is still standing.’

Jane sighed. ‘Luke . . .’

‘Yes, sorry, but I think you’re worrying unnecessarily, Jane. It’ll take more than the Middle Ages to finish Grint. Nothing short of a targeted nuclear strike, I suspect.’ He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself down. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find someone to form an evacuation committee.’

Actually it was easy. Looking down the corridor, Jane could see three or four shaken-looking men gathered at the far end, away from all the confusion in the compartments and talking earnestly among themselves. They looked up as Luke and Jane approached. Jane noted that two of them had facial bruising and one was rubbing his wrist, as if he’d fallen awkwardly. It would appear there had been casualties when the train had performed its emergency braking manoeuvre.

She was careful to stand behind Luke and maintain an air of sober gravity. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t that difficult.

Luke greeted them respectfully and pulled out his Time Police ID. It wouldn’t mean anything to anyone here but he felt displaying some credentials would considerably help their cause. Speaking slowly and carefully, he outlined the problem in terms he felt they would understand. He’d been to the front of the train, he said, and they were dealing with a runaway – the driver and firemen had disappeared, the train was completely out of control and unpredictable, and he felt the most important thing was to get the passengers off before a dreadful accident could occur.

He half expected a flood of dissent and being told to mind his own business, but the men listened gravely, heads bent. There was some nodding when he spoke of evacuating the train at the first opportunity. He was very careful to give no geographical details. How they’d handle their appearance in Mexico City – if they even got there – he had no idea. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

Jane stood quietly, using their tones of voice and gestures to follow the conversation. That they understood the need to get everyone off as quickly as possible was very clear. She suspected people had tried to disembark at Modena and they hadn’t been able to pick themselves off the floor quickly enough. She could easily imagine the crush, the panic, the struggle. People might have been hurt. No wonder some were in tears. She remembered her own crashing disappointment. Her sick panic at the lost opportunity. Her despair. How much worse would it be for these poor souls who didn’t have a clue what was going on?

Luke was talking, at the same time gesturing to the carriage doors, miming opening them and jumping. An elderly man with a fine head of white hair and beard grunted, turned away and began to work his way down the corridor, peering into each compartment and returning minutes later with four younger men.

Excellent, thought Jane. Four men – one for each door. Now we’re getting somewhere.

There was a great deal of excited chatter and gesticulating, which the white-haired man – who, from the way everyone deferred to him, had obviously put himself in charge – tolerated for a few minutes before snapping out a command. Silence fell. The young men shuffled.

On the whole, Jane thought, Luke had made a clever decision. Stand quietly, drop the right word in the right place at the right moment, and let people organise themselves. There was no way either she or Luke could have imposed themselves on any of the other passengers.

Leaving the older men in a huddle, the young men began to work their way from compartment to compartment, sliding open the doors and talking to the occupants. Voices clamoured.

Rich people, thought Jane, demanding answers. And that the situation be resolved. Now – immediately – and with minimum effort and hardship. They were probably insisting on being returned to Rome this very moment. Again, she wondered what would happen when they got to Mexico City. If they ever got to Mexico City.

‘I think our work here is done,’ murmured Luke in her ear. ‘Shall we quietly withdraw before the curse of Team Two-Three-Six makes itself known in its usual spectacular fashion?’

Jane nodded.

‘One thing,’ she said, as they made their way back to the baggage area.

‘Mm?’ said Luke vaguely.

‘How will we know when we arrive in Mexico City?’

‘Well, I’ve been there. Giant mooring towers. A socking great golden angel. The monorail . . .’

‘The year will be eighteen forty-something, Luke. I don’t know about the socking great angel, but I suspect no monorail or giant mooring towers.’

‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I take it you’ve never been there.’

Jane shook her head. The world was full of places to which she’d never been.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘As we said before – unless there’s icebergs or dinosaurs or volcanoes or a desert or ocean waves, I think we just have to take the risk and jump. It can’t be any worse than spending the remainder of our lives on this bloody train, can it?’ He nodded at the rest of the carriage. ‘Can you imagine the state of this lot after another twenty-four hours? They’ll be eating each other.’

Jane nodded. She could. She could very clearly imagine the state of all of them after another twenty-four hours. Minus the cannibalism, she hoped.

They re-entered the baggage area. Unsurprisingly, nothing had changed in their absence.

‘Are you with me, Jane?’

Jane turned to face him. ‘Always. You know that.’

He kissed her hand and held it between his own. ‘We can do this, Jane.’

‘How long, do you think?’

‘How long what?’

‘How long before we arrive at our next destination? Wherever that may be? How much longer in this awful . . . nothingness? And when we do eventually get to . . . wherever it is . . . how long will we have to get ourselves off the train?’

‘The answer to any and all of that,’ said Luke, ‘is that I don’t have a clue.’

28

Fortunately Grint’s pod was one of the larger ones commanded by the Time Police – neither Grint nor Socko were small men. And while they may have lost Clore, Matthew and the two illegals, they’d gained Trainee Tucker – who exerted his own gravitational pull – Tommaso the guard, Officer Varma and – everyone’s favourite – ex-Lt Sawney, former member of the Time Police.

Rossi settled Tommaso in a seat in the back row near the lockers, gave him some water, ignored all his urgent questions, patted his shoulder and left him there. In the Time Police, this ranked as high-quality customer care. It was very possible he might be in line for some sort of award.

‘We can’t go back to TPHQ,’ said Socko. ‘Farrell said they were grounded. It’s possible if we do return, we might not get out again.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Varma, eager to install her prisoner in his rightful place – which was sweating cobs in a Time Police interrogation room.

‘It does to me,’ said Grint.

‘I mean – we have the coordinates,’ argued Varma. ‘We can jump to Mexico City whenever we want.’

‘No, we go now,’ said Grint, slightly more immoveable than the Great Pyramid.

‘We need to get rid of Sawney first,’ said Varma impatiently. ‘You don’t want him getting in your way.’

‘He won’t,’ said Grint with slightly sinister emphasis.

‘Or being the subject of a rescue attempt – always supposing his ex-employer considers him worth the effort.’

They both turned to look at ex-Lt Sawney, battered, bruised and muddy, currently benefitting from restraints to hands and feet, and securely attached to his seat.

‘Why would anyone bother?’ enquired Grint.

‘Hey,’ said Sawney, lifting his head. ‘I pulled you out of a shell hole at Waterloo.’

‘And then you enhanced your career by placing a fellow officer in harm’s way and abandoning her there. You followed this by deliberately inducing two minors to build an illegal pod and engage in illegal Time travel, all while in the employ of someone whose identity you won’t divulge – although many of us have made a guess – and by your own actions, deliberately stranded two officers in a hazardous situation. Face it, Sawney – you’re done. It’s Droitwich for you and no one cares.’

Sawney looked as if he was about to cry. ‘I was a Time-served officer. I had rank. I had seniority. Does that count for nothing?’

‘Not when it’s you.’

Tucker hefted his sonic. ‘Shall I give him some more juice, sir? Just to calm him down a little?’

Sawney struggled, realised he wasn’t helping his own argument and subsided, eyeing Grint with evil intent.

Varma and Tucker exchanged a look and as unobtrusively as someone his size could manage in such a small and crowded space, Tucker went to stand behind Sawney.

Forgetting his many head wounds, Grint rubbed his forehead, winced and desisted. Everyone was looking to him for a decision.

He shrugged. ‘Shoot him and chuck his body out of the pod.’

‘You can’t do that,’ cried Sawney.

Grint grimaced. ‘All right – don’t waste the charge, Tucker – just chuck him out.’

‘You can’t do that,’ cried Sawney again.

‘He’s right,’ said Varma. ‘I for one would have a great deal to say about the rules pertaining to treatment of prisoners.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sawney.

‘And then having said it, I’d chuck you out myself, so shut it, Sawney.’

She turned to Grint. ‘Short-term – he’s dangerous and should be contained. Long-term – I want to know what he knows. In both instances, he needs to go back.’

‘No,’ said Grint.

‘No,’ said Rossi.

‘No,’ said Socko.

‘No,’ said Tucker.

‘You’re only a trainee. You don’t get a vote,’ said Varma.

‘Definitely no,’ said Sawney.

Tucker slapped him round the side of his head. ‘You don’t get a vote, either.’

Varma frowned. ‘Slapping a person on one side of his head is not an approved procedure, Trainee Tucker. You could cause a serious brain trauma.’

‘Sorry,’ said Tucker. He slapped Sawney round the other side of his head. ‘There. Nice and even. Brain damage avoided. You can thank me later.’

‘Still a majority vote for no,’ said Rossi.

‘I don’t care what everyone else says,’ said Grint angrily. ‘This is not a fire-trucking democracy. I’m in charge. You do as I say. Anyone having difficulty with that, just follow me outside where we can discuss the matter with the aid of my fist.’

‘We can’t take him back,’ said Rossi. ‘We only have the one pod. If he goes, then we all have to go.’

‘Reinforcements will arrive,’ said Hansen. ‘Ellis will be organising something. Farrell has the coordinates – we could jump to Mexico City and find them already there and waiting for us. Problem solved.’

Grint brightened slightly. That was true.

Varma took him aside. ‘Any idea why they’re grounded at TPHQ? Did Farrell say anything? You know . . . before . . .’ Grinning, she mimed bowling a Yorker.

Grint shook his head. ‘No idea, but I suspect it’s not unconnected with Meiklejohn’s string.’

Varma shook her head. ‘When I left, that was pretty much sorted.’

Grint shrugged. ‘Well, until we do know what it is, I think we’d better get on with our job here.’

He surveyed his team. How many jumps now? Rome, Florence, Lombardy Tunnel, Balaclava, Modena. Five – and now they would be heading towards Mexico City.

Rossi, dark and slight, looked a little weary but he’d be OK. Socko – it was hard to tell. Tucker made mountains look weedy. Varma was unstoppable, and he himself, apart from a splitting headache, was absolutely fine.

The pod, however . . . five jumps, four of them in close proximity to something powerful enough to disrupt the Timeline. Big time. He’d never really paid a lot of attention to the whole bracelet thing – the way one unshielded temporal field could affect another if in close proximity – but none of them could confidently assert the pod had escaped its encounters with the Zanetti Train completely unscathed. And sooner or later the power levels would need looking at. And once it started to drift, they’d have no choice but to return.

He sighed. As frequently happened in the Time Police, he just had to work with what he’d got.

Sadly, as frequently happened in the Time Police, he never got the chance.

‘Signature,’ said Rossi suddenly, sitting bolt upright. ‘There’s another pod.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Hundred yards to our left. Splitting the screen and switching to night vision now.’

They peered at the readings displayed on the left-hand side of the screen, together with the fuzzy green image on the right.

‘That’s . . . not one of ours,’ said Hansen, leaning closer to the screen. As if that would make any difference.

‘Check it’s not an echo,’ said Grint. ‘Or something residual from the train.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rossi bent over the console.

Varma, watching Sawney, saw him stiffen. She looked up to find Grint looking at her. He jerked his head and the two of them stepped aside. Well, as much aside as they could get in this crowded space.

‘Someone else chasing the Zanetti Train?’ he said softly.

‘Very possible, or . . .’ She glanced over at Sawney, who was attempting to stare casually at his feet and failing miserably. ‘Or chasing our friend here, perhaps. Trying to get to him before he tells us everything he knows in an attempt to save his worthless life?’

‘A rescue attempt? For Sawney?’

The same idea occurred to them both. ‘For Jay and Dev.’

‘And for whatever was on the train with them. The thing that set all this off.’

‘Shit.’ Grint turned back. ‘Rossi, what are they doing?’

‘As far as I can tell, nothing, sir.’

‘Are they aware of us?’

‘Can’t say.’

Grint stared at the floor. Whatever decision he made, he needed to do it quickly.

He spun suddenly and punched Sawney, who slumped in his seat, out to the world.

Tucker turned to Varma. ‘And you told me off for just slapping him.’

Varma shook her head. ‘You could have just sonicked him, sir.’

Grint was blowing on his knuckles. ‘Yeah, I could have, but I didn’t.’ He looked around. ‘Everyone but Tommaso, outside.’ He nodded to Tucker. ‘And bring that git Sawney.’

Tucker lugged a limp Sawney outside. Grint looked around. At some point the bells had stopped. Several streets over, he could still hear faint post-train noises. Raised voices. Marching feet. Were there soldiers out looking for the train? Idiots if they were. He looked around, picking his spot. ‘Drop him . . . there.’

None too gently, Tucker complied. He stepped back to survey the heap that was Sawney, then bent over him and rearranged his limbs into a much more aesthetically pleasing arrangement. ‘There.’

‘Much better,’ said Hansen approvingly.

‘All right, everyone,’ said Grint. ‘Make yourselves scarce. Let’s see what happens next.’

And once again they were waiting in doorways. The night was still cold and wet. Grint sighed. Nothing ever really changed, did it?

Hansen, standing behind him, consulted his proximity reader and whispered, ‘They’re coming.’

Four dark shapes were ghosting down the street towards the heap of Sawney. Two on one side of the narrow street, two on the other.

‘Steady, everyone,’ breathed Grint. ‘Wait for my word.’

Catching sight of the sprawled figure, two men moved forwards. One bent over Sawney – the other covered him, staring up and down the street. The remaining two figures drew back into the shadows. In theory, a really good move. In practice, however . . . one of them found himself sharing a doorway with Officer Tucker.

But not for long.

There was a slight sound. Then another. Then silence.

Having identified Sawney, the two men shouldered their weapons, preparatory to pulling him to his feet. There would never be a better opportunity.

‘Now,’ said Grint, stepping out of the shadows and raising his sonic.

Three men dropped heavily to the ground. Plus Sawney, who was going to find himself with an entirely fresh set of bruises for which he would be unable to account.

Grint stood listening, but no householders emerged to raise the alarm. The rain came down more heavily. Between that and the recent visit from Satan’s Chariot, sensible people were staying inside.

Varma, bending over one of the unconscious men, gave a sudden exclamation, rolled him over and they all looked down.

‘That’s Hooke,’ said Hansen in astonishment. ‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose. He was a member of Sawney’s team.’

Varma and Tucker started securing their prisoners.

Grint sighed. Events had made up his mind for him. He now had no choice but to return to TPHQ. If they could get everyone in. And if the pod behaved itself. ‘Let’s get back.’

Hansen looked up. ‘Their pod, sir?’

‘We’ll send a clean-up crew when we get back.’

His team hauled their prisoners to their feet and set off towards the pod. Grint, however, stood staring back down the street in the direction of the monastery.

Varma lingered. ‘Sir?’

‘Jane will think I care more for doing my duty than for her.’

‘She wouldn’t see anything wrong with that. But you don’t, and she’ll know that.’ She paused. ‘You’re a very lucky man, sir.’

Grint nodded, still staring back along the street.

Varma lowered her voice. ‘Sir, let’s say we do jump to Mexico and then don’t have enough power to get back. What do we actually do when we get there? Do we break in and rescue Parrish and Lockland? Just them? Do we leave the other one hundred passengers? Or do we try to get them out too? And if we’re successful – what do we do with them? We can’t feed them. We can’t even give all of them shelter. Those who survive the breakout will disperse and might never be recovered because of that. Sir, with respect – my honest recommendation is that others will do the job better than us. We should trust in our colleagues.’

Grint nodded. ‘You’re right, Varma. If I were you, I’d be recommending exactly the same thing. It’s just . . .’

‘I know. We’ve chased them long and hard. It’s tempting to want to be the ones who finally get them out. Sir, your team’s duty is to you – but your duty is to your team.’

He turned to stare down at her. ‘Jane . . .’

‘I know. If I were you, I’d be contemplating exactly what you’re contemplating. And I hope someone would have the balls to talk me out of it.’

Grint stared at his feet for a very long time and then nodded. ‘Let’s get back.’

His heart was telling him to set the coordinates for the hospital and trust to luck. His head told him that such a course of action could – probably would – result in them arriving safely but not having enough power to depart. In which case he and his team would be as trapped as the people they had supposedly come to rescue. His head told him this was an unacceptable risk. He needn’t be the one who rescued Jane. As long as she was rescued, anyone would do. Varma was right. The decision made itself.

‘All right,’ he said, entering the pod. ‘We’ve done what we can. Hansen, start the jump procedures. We go back to TPHQ with our prisoners, pass on any relevant info, and leave it to another team who will have a greater chance of success than we will.’

There weren’t enough seats for all of them. Grint took one because he was in charge. Varma got one because she was Varma. Tommaso got one with Rossi alongside. Hansen sat at the console.

The prisoners were dumped on the floor. Socko sat on one and rested his feet on another. Tucker sat on two and rested his feet on Sawney, reflecting that on the whole it had been a very enjoyable day.

Hansen took enormous trouble over the coordinates, with both Grint and Varma checking and verifying them three times. With power levels bordering on low, they couldn’t afford to take any chances.

‘All right, everyone,’ said Hansen, when Grint was finally satisfied. ‘Off we go. Pod, commence jump procedures.’

‘Jump procedures commenced.’

Back at TPHQ at last, Grint and Varma stepped out of the pod to a scene of well-ordered chaos. Mechs rushed to and fro. The entire Pod Bay seemed to have been converted into some kind of builder’s yard.

Grint stared about him in bewilderment. ‘What the hell’s happening here?’

A mech paused. ‘Had a bit of an accident to the wall.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Varma, who had been responsible for that accident. ‘But what’s all this?’

‘Senior mech’s orders. Problems with structural integrity. Everything to be sealed up until proper repairs can be made. New configuration for the Pod Bay.’ He disappeared.

Varma turned to Grint. ‘With your permission, sir, I’d like to get our prisoners safely to security while they’re still too groggy to know anything about it.’

‘Use my team if you like.’

‘Thank you, sir. Hooke and Sawney haven’t had a chance to confer and I’d like to keep it that way.’

Grint nodded. ‘Do it.’

She re-entered the pod. ‘Right then, gentlemen, a nice cup of coffee and a bit of a chat, I think.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said one of the prisoners, obviously unaware his life choices had just plummeted to zero.

Varma scowled. ‘Not you.’

29

Once again the dazzling light came out of nowhere. Sudden blazing sunshine flooded the baggage area. Jane could hear cries of relief – and alarm – all down the carriage.

‘Decision time,’ said Luke, climbing to his feet. ‘In the words of the song – should we stay or should we go?’ He stuck his head out of the hole to try to determine where they were. ‘We’re slowing, Jane – I think we’re slowing.’

‘I wonder if it wants us off,’ said Jane, also scrambling to her feet and going to peer along the corridor. Others had come to the same conclusion. The four young men were moving down the carriage, sliding open compartment doors and rapping instructions to the occupants. Some people tried to leave their seats there and then, and were sternly told to stay put.

Good – people seemed to have a handle on the situation. A rapid, and above all orderly, evacuation of the carriage was on the cards. And they already knew all the passengers made it safely off the train in Mexico City.

She stopped suddenly. ‘Is this Mexico City, Luke?’

He pulled his head back in, his hair all over the place.

‘Actually, yes, I think it is. Buildings the right style. No snow or dinosaurs anyway, which is good enough for me. We’ll go out this way, Jane. Leave the evacuation committee to get people. We’ll assist by moving them away from the train.’

Jane looked at him. ‘This is it then, Luke . . .’

Because this was, literally, going to be a leap into the unknown. If this wasn’t Mexico . . . and even if it was, incarceration in a lunatic asylum was the best they could hope for. She made herself relax. No, it wasn’t – Grint would be out there somewhere.

That was a point. He might be here already. She joined Luke, staring out at what she hoped was Mexico City rolling past. The bright sun was low in the sky, sending elongated shadows across the streets and squares. Every now and then it would disappear behind one of the taller buildings, only to reappear seconds later, dazzling her. The time was either early morning or late evening – she was unable to tell. The train was definitely slowing down. She could make out individual buildings as they rolled past. Architectural details became visible. Doorways, architraves, windows, towers.

There was some traffic about – horse-drawn vehicles, pedestrians, and people pushing handcarts. The few horses already on the streets were struggling to bolt. The occasional faint shout of fear or alarm filtered into the carriage.

The train slowed some more. It wants to be rid of us, Jane thought, suddenly. There are places it wants to be – Ukraine, Russia, India, China . . . Would it ever stop, she wondered, or would it career around the Timeline until . . . well, until there was no Timeline to career around, she supposed.

Or until it carted itself off to hell, of course.

Black smoke swirled past the carriage, which lurched as the brakes came on, but they were ready for it this time. Yes, definitely slowing. They’d be able to jump soon.

Now the buildings were larger. Public buildings made of stone. Churches. An open square.

‘They’re not going to be pleased to see us, are they?’ she said suddenly.

‘Possibly not, but the most important thing is that we’ll be off this bloody train.’

The train shuddered as the brakes were applied again. By whom was anyone’s guess.

Luke reached out his arm. ‘This is it, Jane. Get ready to jump.’

At long last – with one long, final exhalation of steam – the train juddered to a halt.

There was a moment’s near silence. And then another blast from the whistle.

‘I think we’re being ordered off the train,’ said Luke. ‘Come on.’

Jane took one last look around. She could hear compartment doors sliding open all along the carriage. Someone was calling out compartment numbers and instructions. The evacuation seemed to be proceeding just as they had hoped – in an orderly fashion and one compartment at a time. Yes, people were jostling each other in their hurry to get off, but there was no panic. No one was being trampled in the rush. The elderly were being assisted to alight.

She turned back to Luke. ‘It’s going well. We can get off. You first.’

He hesitated for a moment, standing on the very edge, both hands clutching at the side of the hole. The train jerked suddenly, nearly throwing him out of the carriage.

‘It’s a warning – it won’t wait,’ shouted Jane. ‘Jump.’

Now she could hear panic. People already outside were shouting and running to get away from the train. There couldn’t be anyone still left aboard, surely. One of the younger men appeared in the doorway, shouted something at her and then disappeared again.

They were checking everyone had evacuated safely. They were still keeping their heads.

The train jerked again and began, very slowly, to move.

Luke’s voice sounded from outside. ‘Jane. Jump. Jump. Come on.’

She could hear the fear in his voice. She could feel the fear in her heart as well. To be trapped aboard . . . without Luke . . . alone forever . . .

She took two quick steps.

The train was already rolling forwards, emitting another ear-splitting blast as it did so.

She took a breath and jumped. She hung for a moment in mid-air, remembered she’d left the carpet bag with all their gear back on one of the shelves, then hit the hard ground hard. Much harder than she thought she would, banging her elbow, knee and hip.

Luke helped her up. ‘All right?’

Jane rubbed her elbow. ‘Yes. Yes, I think so. Did they all get off?’

The train was rolling away.

‘Good God,’ said Luke, staring. ‘Look at the state of it, Jane. I don’t remember it looking like that in Rome. Do you?’

Jane stared. This was not the train that had pulled so proudly into Rome. Perhaps by some trick of the low sun, this train seemed huge and dark. Far, far larger and darker than in Rome. This was a monster. A damaged monster. Its metal plates were bent and buckled. Many rivets had popped, and rivers of dark fluid oozed from the holes. Like blood, Jane thought. Long scars – blaster fire? – ran along its sides. The carriages weren’t much better. Most of the bright paint had blistered or burned away altogether. Their carriage had a huge hole in its side. Seen from the outside it was a gaping mouth. Instinctively, she and Luke backed away. Whatever space this train required, it could have.

Pistons pumping and belching smoke, the train began to pick up speed, its now empty carriages rattling along behind it. Open doors swung with every movement. Blue lightning danced across the square. Fog swirled around the wheels. Once again, the sky split open. A brilliant bright light hurt their eyes. One final shriek sent terrified horses and mules in all directions. A thin mist rippled across the paving stones, dissolving into nothing, even as they watched. The blue lightning faded. Silence fell. It was gone. Finally, the train was gone.

‘And bloody good riddance,’ said Luke.

He stood quietly, just breathing in the crisp air, enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet. Other than groups of bewildered passengers laughing, crying, or on their knees giving thanks, the square was empty. Anyone about had long since fled.

That was a point.

The square was empty.

Luke spun around and around.

‘They’re not here,’ said Jane, in slight disbelief. Only now did she realise how implicitly she’d trusted Grint to be here. ‘Oh my God – this isn’t Mexico City after all. We’re in the wrong place. That’s why he’s not here.’

‘No,’ said Luke, still spinning around. ‘It is. I think that’s the cathedral over there. But,’ he added, having seen her face, ‘he’ll be off putting together a team somewhere and they’ll come leaping out of the landscape any moment now. You’ll see.’

‘He’s hurt,’ said Jane, trying very hard to remain calm. ‘He was injured at Modena. We both saw him go down and it’s serious. That’s why he’s not here.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Luke. ‘As far as I could see, he just fell over. With feet that size, it must happen all the time. He’ll be here any minute, Jane. In the meantime, we have our flock to consider.’

They looked around.

‘Should we warn the other passengers, I wonder? Prepare them for what’s going to happen?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jane. ‘We don’t want to alarm them to such an extent that they scatter. It’s vital we all stick together.’

‘True. Come on.’

They approached the elderly white-haired gentleman, who was rubbing his knees.

‘Sir,’ said Luke.

The old man turned. ‘We must inform the authorities of our presence here and . . .’

‘Sir,’ said Luke again. ‘I suspect that after our spectacular arrival and the train’s even more spectacular departure, the authorities are already on their way.’ He lowered his voice. ‘May I speak with you, please? Privately.’

They moved away a few steps. Jane remained behind, still anxiously scanning the Grintless square.

Luke pulled out his ID card again. The word Time might not register but police was police in almost every language. He spoke slowly in his best Italian. ‘Signor, we will be found. I guarantee it. My colleagues – the police from my country – they will find us. They are already searching and will be very close now. We must tell the authorities who we are and how we got here. It is imperative we get our story on record. That we’ve come from Rome. By train.’

He saw no point, at this stage, in telling any of them where they’d actually ended up. ‘We must keep telling them that. The authorities will enter that in their records, which will make it much easier for us to be found. I promise you we will be rescued, but only if my colleagues know where to look, and they’ll only know where to look if we make our story known. It’s unusual enough to stand out. People will take notice. Sooner or later my people will come. Our job is to remain calm. Our time on the train is finished. We will never see it again. Trust me, signor, this will end well for us. If we tell our story, then help will come.’

The old man stared, then nodded and turned away to speak to his fellow ex-passengers.

‘Do we wait?’ enquired Jane, still vainly searching for signs of an imminent Grint. ‘Or do we go off and find the authorities?’

‘Oh, I think we wait, don’t you?’ said Luke. ‘Trouble never takes very long to turn up. Not for us, anyway.’

‘I left the carpet bag on the train,’ said Jane, stricken suddenly with remembrance. ‘All our stuff was in it. Scratchpads, weapons and so forth. Even our batons.’

‘Probably just as well,’ said Luke. ‘We don’t want to add contaminating the Timeline to our many other crimes.’

He took a few steps to his right, still not quite able to believe Grint and his team weren’t here somewhere, and his foot kicked something that skidded away across the paving.

‘A cigarette case,’ said Jane, bending to pick it up. ‘Oh.’

She held it up for Luke to see. There was a name engraved in script so flowing and elaborate she couldn’t make it out. And a date. 1907.

‘That’s going to come in handy,’ said Luke. ‘Very handy. Give it to me, Jane. Nice girls don’t smoke.’

‘We should return it to its owner,’ said Jane, incurably honest.

‘Perhaps,’ said Luke. He stared around again. ‘Where the hell are the authorities? It’s just bloody typical, isn’t it? The one time we could have done with maximum disruption and chaos – to say nothing of a couple of hundred witnesses to corroborate our story – and there’s no one in sight.’

‘And other people will have left most of their possessions on the train,’ said Jane. She sighed. ‘My notebook.’

Luke looked down at her. ‘Jane, I’ll buy you another one.’

‘But I’ve had it ever since I joined and . . .’

‘It was falling apart.’

‘No, you don’t understand. All my background info was in it.’

‘Background on what?’

‘Mexico in the 1840s. They’re at war with America.’

‘And?’

‘And Americans speak English.’

‘Oh,’ said Luke. ‘Yes. Well, you’re a girl, Jane. No one will expect you to say anything sensible, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. You might not even be questioned. You know – being female.’

Bolshy Jane sighed. ‘Where’s a demented oversized manic monster train when you need one?’

Jane cocked her head. ‘Listen.’

They could hear the sound of marching footsteps. They turned slowly. A column of soldiers was marching into the square.

‘Shit,’ said Luke. ‘Here we go.’

Thirty minutes later all the passengers were sitting quietly in a large hall somewhere off the main square. Nothing happened for a very long time. It was very apparent that having herded them on to the rows of hard wooden benches, the soldiers had no idea what to do next. Officers marched in and out, barking orders at each other.

‘We say nothing,’ said Luke quietly, watching all this unproductive activity. ‘We stay at the back. Let the Italians handle this.’

‘That’s unexpectedly good advice from you.’

‘Yes, typically, now that it’s too late, I rather think I’m beginning to get the hang of all things Time Police.’

Making sure she couldn’t be overheard, she said quietly, ‘Luke, they’re going to put us in an asylum.’

‘Before you panic, Jane, that might only be because there are so many of us. They’ll be looking for somewhere to keep us all while they . . .’ He tailed away.

Jane finished his sentence for him. ‘Check our story and discover we’re all suffering from some sort of mass delusion and lock us all away. Possibly forever.’

Luke patted her hand. ‘The massive one will come, Jane. Along with Ellis and North. And Varma if she can manage to get in on the act. And Rossi. And all the other people who think you’re worth rescuing.’

He looked around. Military officers were conversing with civilian officials. No one was shouting or waving their arms. Or shooting. That they were puzzled was obvious. Here was a large group of very well-dressed and obviously important people who, like Robert de Niro, were speaking Italian, and who had suddenly appeared. From nowhere. Locals, the few who had been persuaded to speak, were gabbling tales of a huge black monster – did they even have trains in Mexico in 1840? – which spouted smoke and flames. And then vanished without trace.

Luke could see the usual official reluctance to touch anything out of the ordinary. Or in this case – the completely bizarre. This would be kicked all the way up the chain of command. Which would take time. Which was good. Every passing second gave Grint the opportunity to invade Mexico single-handedly, raze its capital city to the ground and rescue his girlfriend.

Yes – any second now . . .

A seemingly endless two hours later they were escorted from the hall. A number of carriages awaited them, although carriages was perhaps too strong a word. These were wooden cages on wheels. And there were a considerable number of soldiers providing an escort.

That the authorities were baffled as to what to do with a hundred passengers was very apparent. Any attempts by the passengers to protest were firmly but politely rebuffed. They were to climb aboard the wagons. Now, if they would be so good. Everyone was still being very courteous, but there was a general impression that if they didn’t do as they were told, things might become considerably less courteous.

Eventually, still protesting, the passengers climbed inside – about ten to a wagon. No effort was made to split anyone up. The ladies and some of the more elderly gentlemen were assisted up the steps and each carriage drove slowly away.

Luke and Jane were in the very last one. The door slammed behind them and the wagon jolted forwards.

‘So far so good,’ said Luke, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Something with a very nasty tummy upset appeared to have been conveyed to its destination in this very wagon. Quite recently, too.

It was dark inside the wagon. Two barred windows set just under the roof let in a little light and some much-needed fresh air. The ride was less than smooth as the wooden wheels trundled over roughly paved or cobbled streets. Everyone sat quietly – four down one side and three down the other. Jane was the only woman on board. No one else was talking. Their faces were a strange mixture of exhaustion and apprehension.

‘Three guesses as to where we’re going,’ muttered Jane.

Luke turned on the hard wooden seat to whisper in her ear. ‘Jane, listen to me. I’ve been thinking. I know next to nothing about asylums – rehab is the nearest I’ve ever been – but I’m certain they’ll split us up. Male and female.’

Jane nodded. That had been her fear. She reached out and took his hand. Together they could face anything, but in a very few minutes, she would be alone.

The wagon rolled on. Occasionally, outside, a man’s voice was raised. Giving directions, she guessed.

Luke continued to whisper. ‘Tell the Rome story for as long as you safely can.’

She swallowed. ‘Safely?’

‘I’ve been rethinking. I suspect either they’ll want to contain the story or, better still, have us abandon it. They won’t know how to deal with it. They’re at war. They’ll shut it down.’ He shifted his position on the hard bench. ‘If you stick with this story, the day will come when there will be punishment instead of treatment. Or what will pass for treatment in this era. You’ll be with the women. Your job – and I’m talking as your team leader now – is to keep them safe. Grint will come. You know it. I know it. So – change of plan. Keep yourself safe until that happens. If things get hairy – recant. You don’t know what came over you, but you’re better now. How clever they are to have cured you. Rome? What nonsense. No more of that silly story. You get the drift.’

‘Luke . . .’

‘I’ll do the same for the men. As much as I can, I’ll make sure they all toe the party line.’

‘Except for you.’

‘Well, obviously, Jane. Never toed a line in my life and I’m buggered if I’m starting now.’

‘Luke . . .’

‘No, listen. This is important. Keep your head down. Make sure all the other women do the same. Leave it to me to make sure our story gets out there.’

She gripped his hands. ‘I won’t let you do this alone.’

‘That’s an order, Jane.’

‘They won’t be happy with you.’

‘No one’s ever happy with me, so nothing new there.’ He looked at her. ‘Jane, let me do the one thing I’m good at. I’ll make such a stink, they’ll hear me all the way to modern-day Battersea. I’ll get us out of this. See if I don’t.’

He was holding her hands very tightly. She was suddenly aware that these could be their last moments together. Ever. An unknown fate awaited them both. They would be split up. She might never see him again.

‘Luke, wait, I have to tell you something and it’s very important. I . . .’

The wagon lurched to a halt. There was the sound of wooden gates being dragged back and more shouting.

He smiled sadly. ‘I suspect it’s too late now.’

She clutched at him. ‘No, I can’t let you . . .’

She was crying.

He held her hand to his cheek as the wagon lurched forwards again. ‘Jane, listen, because this is important to me. I’m sorry. Sorry for everything I said and did. I don’t think I’m going to get out of this, so you have to know that.’

She tried to pull her hands away. To make him listen. ‘Luke . . .’

She could hear voices outside the wagon. Men shouting orders. They were getting closer. She had only seconds to tell him . . . She couldn’t let him go still thinking . . . Words – as they so often won’t when they’re really needed – refused to come. ‘Please, Luke, I . . .’ But, being Luke Parrish, he was determined to have the last word.

‘This is not going to be fun, Jane, but tell them all to behave. To be good. To keep their heads down. I’ll keep the story going. Sooner or later a doctor’s going to mention it in his records and North will find it. Just make sure you stay alive long enough to be rescued.’

The wagon halted. They had reached their destination. Brilliant sunshine flooded the cage as the door was pulled open. What seemed like hundreds of hands reached out for her. She clung to Luke. ‘Luke, it wasn’t true. I didn’t . . .’

He was whispering but she heard him under all the shouting. ‘Don’t forget me, Jane.’

‘I never will.’

He was holding her hands as if his life depended on her. As if he knew he’d never see her again. ‘This is it, Jane.’

The other passengers were climbing out into the sunshine.

‘Stay safe. Leave everything else to me.’

‘Luke . . .’

‘If . . . if anything should . . . you know . . . happen . . . I want you to know, it’s been a pleasure.’

She gripped his hands hard. ‘They know where we are, Luke. Don’t risk yourself.’

‘They know where we are because I’m going to make fire-trucking sure they know where we are. Whatever it takes.’

‘Luke – this is not goodbye.’

‘You can rely on me, Jane. There – I’ve never said those words before. Thank you for bringing out the best in me. Frankly, I didn’t think there was any best in there, and I think the world would have agreed.’

They were the only two passengers left in the wagon. Someone seized her arm and tugged. They were trying to pull her away from him and he wouldn’t let go. As if he knew . . .

‘Sweetie, say something,’ shouted Bolshy Jane. ‘In a moment it will be too late.’

‘Luke – on behalf of us all – we thank you. I thank you.’

He kissed her hands. ‘Don’t forget me, Jane. I just hope I haven’t spoiled you for all other men.’

She tried to laugh through her tears and failed. Miserably.

He was being pulled down the steps. She tried to shout after him. To tell him . . . People were milling everywhere and she lost sight of him. His voice drifted over people’s heads. ‘Good luck, Jane.’

And then the hands reached for her.

30

Captain Farenden tapped at Commander Hay’s open door.

‘Lt Grint has returned, ma’am. And he isn’t alone.’

Something in his voice alerted her. ‘Not Lockland and Parrish, I assume?’

‘No, ma’am.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to make me guess, are you?’

‘No, ma’am. This is neither the time nor the place for one of my humorous little anecdotes.’

‘Then who?’

He glanced behind him, checking the outer door was closed. ‘Among those brought in are former Lt Sawney and former Officer Hooke, ma’am.’

She stared at him for a second and then said, ‘Details later, Charlie. I want those two kept apart. They’re not to have any chance to confer. No chance to get their stories straight. And keep them isolated. No one other than Varma is to have any contact with them. I don’t want people knowing they’re here. Not the slightest whisper. Tell Grint to keep his people quiet. Do it now.’

‘Already in hand, ma’am. The Senior Mech has pulled pretty much everyone out of the Pod Bay and Varma reports she was able to get the prisoners directly to security completely unobserved.’

‘Tell her to begin the interrogation immediately. I want to know what they know.’

‘I suspect that’s not very much, ma’am.’

‘Tell her to do whatever it takes. Make sure both Hooke and Sawney are aware of the seriousness of their position. I’m not in general an advocate of pointless suffering, but I feel I can make an exception in their case.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘What of Grint and his team?’

‘Lt Grint is receiving attention in MedCen. The doctor reports no serious injuries. Major Ellis is about to put together a rescue team.’

‘Ellis is back?’

‘Several hours ago, ma’am. His report will be on your desk after he’s organised the rescue.’

‘Summarise.’

‘He and two teams arrested a satisfying number of illegals: those stealing the moai – the Easter Island statues – together with those selling them on and those buying them. The prisoners are all attempting to say they thought the statues were forgeries, but the price they were willing to pay leads us to assume they knew they were getting the genuine article.’

He paused. ‘Normally, of course, ma’am, all evidence in a case like this is kept at TPHQ to be produced at the trial. However, given the number and dimensions of the statues involved . . . Not even mentioning that people would be unable to tell the difference between them and a clean-up crew . . .’

‘Harsh, Charlie. But not inaccurate.’

‘Yes, ma’am. However, regardless of the way the rest of today has gone – we do have another successful operation under our belt.’

‘Good. I think a nice public trial and some punitive fines, coupled with lengthy gaol sentences, should discourage anyone else from trying the same thing.’

She flicked her scratchpad. ‘What’s happening with those two young boys? Adesina and Kumar?’

‘Currently under mild sedation in MedCen. Mrs Adesina is with them as per your instructions.’

Hay nodded. ‘No point in splitting them up. They’ll all cooperate when the time comes. Anything else?’

‘The Senior Mech reports emergency repairs are nearly complete. By the time Major Ellis’s briefing is completed, the Pod Bay should be open for business as usual.’

She sat back. ‘Have we dodged a bullet there, Charlie?’

He regarded her over the desk. ‘I sincerely hope so, ma’am.’

‘So do I.’

The rescue teams had assembled in Briefing Room 3.

Present were Major Ellis, Lts Grint, North, Dal and Chigozie, Officers Rossi, Hansen, Socko, Curtis, Rockmeyer and Trainee Clore, together with the doctor and his team of four medtecs. Behind them sat a security team – Wu, Harvey, Etok and Roche.

Ellis stood up. ‘Good day, everyone. Today’s mission – as I’m sure you will have heard by now – is to retrieve two of our own officers, Lockland and Parrish, who are being held in a lunatic asylum in Mexico City, 1840.

‘Thanks to the slightly off-the-wall efforts of Officer Farrell and Miss Meiklejohn, we now have the appropriate coordinates. However, for safety’s sake, we’re not going for the exact moment the train arrives. There are several reasons for this. For all we know, the train sets down in the middle of a crowded market square and causes chaos, which would considerably hamper any rescue attempt on our part. We’ll give things a day or two to settle down – and possibly another one just to be on the safe side. Additionally, it might take the authorities a while to decide what to do with the passengers. We don’t want to rock up and find they haven’t yet been despatched to the asylum.’

Grint stirred.

‘Yes, Lieutenant, I know, but better to wait and be certain. Even Officer Parrish is unlikely to come to any harm in just two or three days.

‘Once we’ve successfully located our own people, we will go on to rescue one hundred Italians also stranded there and return them to their own Time and place. Lt North will begin by describing the asylum configuration and what we can expect to encounter.’

North stood up. ‘The Hospital de San Hipólito.’

Activating the screen, she brought up a plan of the ground floor.

Officers stirred. ‘I didn’t expect it to be so big,’ said Dal.

‘No – it’s a complex that combines church and hospital, housing patients, medical, religious and lay personnel, and comprising full hospital and religious facilities, kitchens, stables, accommodation, a large garden and a cemetery.’

‘That’s handy,’ said Rossi.

‘Indeed. Anyone failing to make it back can be interred neatly and quickly with minimum inconvenience to their colleagues.’

She paused, but it seemed no one had any further comment to make.

‘We aim to arrive at 1800 hours local time. As you can see, there are three entrances. The main entrance is this one here, in the south wall. There’s a secondary entrance here on the west wall, between the sacristy and the stables, and a third alongside the kitchen on the east wall.

‘One team will access the main entrance. The gate there isn’t as large as the one near the kitchens but it’s easily the closest to the men’s ward. Both male and female wards are situated within this L-shaped block here. The treatment rooms are housed in the same building. Entrance to the men’s ward is either via those rooms or through the western cloister between the church and the hospital building. The easiest access to the women’s ward is through the east gate here and then on through the eastern cloisters directly opposite. For obvious reasons, there is no direct route from the men’s ward to the women’s. To get from one to the other, you’ll have to go around.

‘Given its nature, the hospital is in a fairly unpopulated part of the city. When it was originally built, back in the 16th century, it was deliberately located some distance away, but the city is slowly encroaching, so be aware there are residential areas nearby. There is every possibility that the alarm will be raised – by ringing the bells, probably – and we have no idea who will respond, so for us, speed is of the essence. In – grab our targets – out. Be aware also that the country is at war with America. Remember the Alamo.’

‘I thought that was a holo,’ said Curtis.

Rockmeyer swivelled in his seat. ‘Based on real events, stupid.’

‘Who are you calli—’

North’s hand dropped casually to her rip-grip patch and everyone shut up and sat up.

‘I tell you this because if the alarm is sounded, then it’s likely we’ll find ourselves dealing with the army rather than any civilian authorities, and they’ll be looking for trouble.’

‘And they’ll find it,’ said someone.

Officer Wu raised his hand. ‘If I might interrupt at this point, ma’am. Teams will have a full security back-up. Exchanging weapons fire with 19th-century soldiers should not be necessary.’

‘Thank you,’ said North. ‘Major Ellis will continue.’

Ellis stood up.

‘Our priority is to secure Parrish and Lockland. We don’t know what sort of shape they’ll be in, so worst-case scenario – be prepared for them to be unable to assist in their own rescue. Having achieved our primary objective, we will move on to the passengers. There have been extensive discussions between the commander, her senior officers and the medical team, and it was felt, in all conscience, we couldn’t leave one hundred people to spend the rest of their lives in an insane asylum in a foreign country. Before any of you comment unfavourably on this unexpected compassion on the part of the Time Police – it has been pointed out that there is a very real possibility that some of the more elderly passengers may be approaching their date of birth. Their removal from 1840 is, therefore, a matter of urgency.

‘There will be three operational teams and one medical team.

‘Team One will consist of me, Lt Dal, Lt Chigozie, Officers Curtis and Rockmeyer, Trainee Clore and Signor Tommaso, the guard. It’s thought his presence will help persuade the inmates to follow us. Team One’s primary objective will be the men’s ward.

‘Team Two will head to the women’s ward. Lt Grint, Lt North and Officers Hansen, Kohl and Rossi.

‘Team Three is our security back-up who will go where and when needed, but their main function will be to secure the south gate. We don’t want to be trapped inside should the soldiers turn up.

‘Team Four is medical, consisting of the doctor and medtecs, who will remain within the hospital pod unless circumstances warrant otherwise. It shouldn’t be too difficult to identify the Italians and . . .’

Curtis raised his hand. ‘Language, sir?’

‘Well, Italian, obviously.’

‘No, I mean, aren’t Italian and Spanish one and the same?’

‘No,’ said Officer Wu with emphasis. ‘They are not.’

Curtis opened his mouth to argue the point and then thought better of it.

Somewhat hastily, Ellis moved on.

‘Returning to the second team. Once through the east gate, you will move straight through the eastern cloister – here – entering the women’s ward through this door here. It’s more than likely that none of them – even with the reassuring presence of the Italian-speaking Officer Rossi – will regard the sudden appearance of armed men with calm acceptance. Be prepared to have a chamber pot thrown at you. All the Italian patients are to be removed – firmly but gently.’

‘How?’ said Socko, slightly mystified at the sudden need for such an unfamiliar combination of skills.

‘Use your best judgement.’

Socko subsided, frowning deeply.

Ellis continued. ‘Remember, Officer Lockland will be there. She will be known to the Zanetti passengers, and possibly able to help control the situation. If that is the case, then you will take advice from her. The same with Officer Parrish in the men’s ward.

‘We’ll be taking two large pods and the big hospital pod. The passengers will be evacuated directly to the hospital pod to be medically checked. We’ve no idea what sort of treatment they will have received during their stay in San Hipólito, but once they’re inside the pod, they’re safe. Be reassuring, but communication is to be kept to a minimum. This is a damage control situation, people – the less they know about what’s happening to them the better. Don’t tell them anything they don’t need to know. We’ll return them – at night – to the waste ground outside Rome railway station, leaving them to tell their tale as best they can. What happens to them after that is a matter for them and the Italian authorities.

‘In the event of our targets not being conveniently located in two easy-to-collect groups, officers will divide up into teams of two and search for them. We don’t know whether everyone will be in some kind of patient’s uniform, so shout, “Zanetti Treno,” and see who puts their hand up. Officer Curtis, Tommaso will be your responsibility.’

Curtis nodded responsibly.

‘Blasters on low charge at all times and only to be used if absolutely necessary. A gentle sonicking is the preferred option. Anyone thus benefitting is to be rolled into the recovery position immediately. These are all innocent civilians and many of them – either patients or staff – won’t understand what’s going on around them. Be aware and modify your behaviour accordingly. We don’t need a major gun battle getting into the history books.

‘As a further precaution, team leaders are to be aware of their individual team members and their positions at all times. The roll is to be called before leaving Mexico City. I don’t want to get back here to find anyone’s been involuntarily admitted, beneficial though many of you might find the treatment there. Are there any questions?’

There were none.

‘Right – gather your kit and assemble at the southern end of the Pod Bay in twenty minutes. Be aware, parts of that area are still cordoned off owing to structural issues. That’s it, everyone. Dismissed.’

31

Luke was gone. Jane was alone.

No time to dwell on that. She was a Time Police officer and her team leader’s instructions had been clear. Keep herself safe. Keep the other women safe. Wait to be rescued. Grint would come.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she could see the last of the now empty wagons pulling back out through the wide wooden asylum gates which slammed shut behind them, firmly discouraging any thoughts of escape. Not that that was necessary. She and her fellow passengers were too exhausted even to think of such a thing.

In the short time since disembarking the wagons, everyone had already been divided into two groups – male and female. Jane was pushed – firmly but not roughly – towards the other female passengers, and as soon as she arrived, a man’s voice shouted instructions and they were moved forwards as one.

Silently they followed their escort – two monks and a number of other men. Jane was at the back and couldn’t see clearly. No one spoke. Most of them lacked the energy even to look at their surroundings. Someone was sobbing quietly. They were alone and frightened.

They don’t know where they are, thought Jane. They don’t know this is an asylum. She had to admit it didn’t look like an asylum, although, to be fair, she was hardly an expert on the subject.

A large church rose up out of a cluster of stone and wooden buildings. Some of the buildings were substantial – others, especially the wooden shacks, had that just cobbled together any old how look. Jane could smell food so there must be a kitchen somewhere near. Ahead of her was what looked like an open-sided cloister, enclosing a central herb garden which looked rather straggly at this time of year.

For cooking and medicine, she thought.

One final turn brought them to a hefty wooden door. There they waited, silent and apprehensive while a female guide . . . nurse . . . gaoler . . . warden – Jane settled on warden – searched through her keys for the right one. Jane seized the opportunity to carry out a quick head count. She needed to know for how many women she was responsible. Twenty-three. Twenty-three souls to keep safe until the cavalry arrived. Twenty-four if she included herself.

The warden had opened the door by now and stepped to one side, indicating they should cross the threshold. Jane was the last one in. The door closed on her heels. Keys jangled as it was locked again. She had the feeling that jangling keys were to become a very frequent and familiar part of her new daily routine.

This must be the women’s ward. The smell hit her first. Stale bodies. Urine. Unwashed clothes. And then that the room was surprisingly large. A long and quite narrow room, with once-white walls that were distinctly grubby below shoulder height. Clerestory windows were set all around the top just below the ceiling. The ceiling was low but the windows were still too high to see out of. The floor consisted of packed earth, trampled over time to be as hard as concrete.

She could see three doors in all. One was in the short wall to her left. She would discover later that this led to the not very encouragingly named Fever Room, and from there to the treatment rooms. Another door stood in the long wall opposite, which, again she would discover later, led to the men’s cloisters. Being allowed to access their individual cloisters to listen to the religious services was considered an important part of all patients’ treatment. The third door was behind her. The one she had just come in through.

She hadn’t given their time at the asylum a lot of thought – she’d had other things on her mind at the time, not least whether they would actually survive their experience on the Zanetti Train. Now, however, here she was. A 19th-century lunatic asylum. Locked doors. Jangling keys. A daily routine. A prisoner in all but name.

Jane lifted her chin defiantly. She was a member of the Time Police. She knew she’d be rescued. Eventually. She hoped. Unbidden, Sawney’s words sounded in her head. There had been two rescue attempts already. For how much longer would the Time Police devote time and resources to extracting two not very important members of probably the worst team they had? Had ever had. She pushed that thought behind her. Grint would come.

Subconsciously, she supposed, she’d been expecting to see neat beds in orderly lines. Now she stared around, shocked. A number of thin straw mattresses had been laid out, seemingly dropped at random and kicked against the walls. She had a feeling not only would these be inadequate and uncomfortable, but were very likely riddled with fleas. Judging by the state of some of them, she and her fellow passengers wouldn’t be their first occupants. There were no pillows. A single thin blanket lay at the foot of each mattress. On top of that were folded brown garments of some kind, and on top of those rested a battered tin cup and plate. There were no eating implements of any kind – not even a spoon. Just in case anyone was tempted to tunnel to freedom with it, presumably. Or attack the staff. Or even attack each other.

All the women clustered together uncertainly, also staring in shock. Probably many of them had no idea places like this existed. Some clung to each other looking frightened.

To Jane’s right, at the top of the room and on a raised dais that gave them a good view of the patients, stood a table and two chairs. Two women, similarly dressed in dark blue, were standing there. They wore close-fitting white caps tied under the chin. Both had bunches of keys hanging from their broad leather belts. What caught Jane’s eye, however, were the long wooden sticks thrust through these belts. Not thick – these weren’t cudgels or truncheons – they were canes, and their purpose was very clear. Jane eyed them with some apprehension.

‘Stay calm, sweetie,’ advised Bolshy Jane. ‘They might be just for show.’

‘Or for punishment.’

‘Do as you are told, and everything will be fine.’

A partially drawn ragged curtain hung across a corner at the far end of the room. By leaning back slightly and turning her head, Jane could make out the dim shapes of four or five other women. They all wore the brown garments – very soiled and stained – and each squatted on their mattress, staring into space. They were dirty, their hair tangled haloes around their heads. The arrival of such a large group of new patients evoked no response from any of them. Each stared into space. Occasionally one would make a random head movement or their hands would twitch, but otherwise there was nothing to show they were in any way aware of their surroundings. These women, she realised, were the source of the smell. Unwashed, stale and rancid. Her stomach twisted. How long had they been here? Months? Years? Again, unwelcome thoughts crowded into her head. Suppose the Time Police rescue never happened. Suppose they were all here for the rest of their lives. Would they end their days dreaming and dribbling like these women?

No – the Time Police would find them. They knew they were here. A few days – a week at most – and the rescue team would turn up. She had to believe that.

There was a muttered conversation between a warden and their escort and then keys jingled again as their escort left, locking the door behind them.

Silence fell and everyone looked at everyone else.

One of the Italian women drew in a deep breath. Jane had a nasty feeling someone was gearing up for a Do you know who I am? moment. She remembered Luke’s final words. No, not final words – think of them as parting words. Luke would be fine. He always was.

She reached out and caught the woman’s wrist, shaking her head and putting her finger across her lips. The woman – considerably older than Jane – stared haughtily for a moment and then subsided.

An older woman with rigid, iron-grey hair fired off a stream of Italian to which neither of the wardens responded, although, given the similarity of the languages, they did appear to understand. In fact, Jane was prepared to bet she would be the only one who wouldn’t know what was going on. The story of her life, really.

She turned to the rest of the group, saying quietly, ‘Does anyone here speak English?’

‘Yes,’ said someone, and two or three women nodded, including the woman with iron-grey hair standing next to her.

‘Please explain to everyone that we should do as we are told. We may not like this place, but it could be much worse. If we misbehave, they might split us up. People are already looking for us, so we must make it easy for them by staying together.’

Without turning her head, the iron-grey woman whispered, ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘I think this is a religious hospital,’ said Jane, neatly avoiding the issue of being on the other side of the world.

‘Everyone is speaking Spanish. Are we in Spain?’

Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

Neither warden descended from the dais. It was very clear they were reluctant to touch either the women or the clothes and bedding provided for them. Perhaps they were intimidated by this sudden influx of twenty-four new patients. They certainly didn’t look particularly happy, but given the job, the surroundings and the smell, that was perfectly understandable.

The first warden addressed them, gesturing at the pile of garments on each mattress. Her meaning was clear. They were being told to undress and put on their new clothes.

There was a great deal of muttering over this. Many of the women seemed unhappy at replacing their silk and linen with what looked like old sacks. Downright refusal was in the air.

Jane tried not to panic. They’d been here less than half an hour and already the situation was tense. It was not in her nature to put herself forwards, but an example was called for. Taking a deep breath, she walked to the nearest mattress, shook out the clothes and held them up. They appeared clean enough. They smelled, but that seemed to be the smell of that particular fabric rather than any former owners, so she supposed that was a bonus. The colour was an indeterminate brown and the material felt very coarse and rough. Suddenly she was glad of her petticoats. If she was allowed to keep them, of course. Would she be required to strip naked in front of everyone?

‘What about our jewellery?’ said the iron-grey lady, who hadn’t moved a single inch.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jane helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just trying to keep us all safe until we are rescued.’

‘You seem very sure we will be.’

‘We will. We just have to stay . . .’ She stopped.

‘Alive.’

Jane considered. A short sharp lesson now might save a lot of grief thereafter.

‘Yes.’ She tried to make her voice firm. She was Lt North, issuing instructions and expecting to be obeyed. ‘Please make everyone aware that our life here will not be pleasant, but it will be very much worse if we misbehave. Look at their sticks. And then look at those poor souls behind the curtain.’

Iron-grey lady stared for a moment then turned and barked out a series of commands. It was very apparent she expected to be obeyed. Jane remembered seeing her in the company of the elderly man with white hair who had led the evacuation committee. She was, Jane considered, the ideal person to take charge.

Slowly at first, the passengers fanned out. Each pulled out a mattress and began to undress, carefully folding their own garments as they went.

At least, thought Jane, I can get out of all this wool. She unfastened her skirt and let it fall. Then her waistcoat, her collar and her blouse. As all the other women were doing, she kept her petticoats, but she did discreetly remove her stockings, hiding her feet as she did so. Already she felt cooler.

The brown garments appeared to have been made of sacking. The blouse was more of a tunic and there was no belt.

In case we try to hang ourselves, she thought.

The skirt tied at her waist and hung awkwardly. All the garments were far too big for her. She folded her own clothes and then quickly put her shoes back on, telling herself that if she did have to make a run for it, she wouldn’t get far in bare feet. Besides, there might be snakes and scorpions and . . . things.

By the time she had finished, so had most of the other women.

The senior warden barked another command. It was obvious they were expected to line up at the foot of their mattresses and hand over their belongings.

The junior warden began to move swiftly along the line, relieving each woman of her personal possessions and taking them back to the dais. And then, at a word from the other warden, she came back for their jewellery.

There were many protestations and some defiance. Jane suspected many of them had worn some of their best pieces for the Zanetti Train event and were deeply unhappy at losing them, justifiably fearing they’d never see any of them again. At best they would be sold and used towards their board and keep. At worst the wardens would sell them and divvy up the proceeds among themselves. Whichever it was, their stuff was gone for good and things would be easier if they could accept that fact.

Voices rose as the passengers protested their treatment. This, in turn, seemed to rouse the women behind the curtain. One began to rock backwards and forwards, muttering to herself. Another began to cry, quietly at first. A third woman shouted something at her that made her wail even more loudly. The shouting one made a move to get off her mattress. Insurrection was in the air.

The senior warden – who had been careful to remain well apart – pulled out her cane and smacked it hard across the table. Silence slammed down as hard as the cane. All sound and movement ceased instantly.

Jane swallowed, gave it a second or two, and then made a placatory gesture to the warden and stepped forwards to address her fellow inmates.

‘Please regard that as a warning. There are only two of them and many more of us and they are understandably nervous. She is telling us that any misbehaviour on our part will be severely punished. Please be sensible.’

While this was being translated, she stepped back again to stand by her mattress. While some appeared to have heeded her words, one of the younger Italian women said something in reply and it clearly wasn’t complimentary. Others joined in. They left their places and surged forwards to form a small group at the foot of the dais. There was going to be trouble.

The senior warden stalked down from the dais and through the room. The women fell silent and moved out of the way for her. Reaching the curtain, she jerked it aside. The sweet and sour smell wafted down the ward again and for the first time Jane had a clear view of the patients – no, inmates – behind it, squatting on their foetid mattresses. Whether through drugs or fear, any signs of their former animation had completely disappeared. Hands folded, they gazed silently at the floor. Jane, staring in horror, was certain she saw things moving in their hair. Not one of them looked up from the floor. They sat still and silent. No one moved or blinked. No one caught the warden’s eye.

The warden turned to survey the passengers with a cold eye. Jane stared at the floor, hoping the other passengers were all doing the same. They were all motionless and silent, anyway. Her message received, the warden let the curtain fall back again.

Jane turned to her fellow passengers, saying quietly, ‘Again, we will be rescued. I promise you. Please, just cooperate. Stay safe.’

Warily, the junior warden began to work her way around the remaining passengers, taking their jewellery and dumping it all in a bowl. One or two women held up their left hands, demonstrating their wedding rings could not be removed. The senior warden grunted, indicating they could be ignored.

For the time being, thought Jane.

The silence was hostile on both sides. Jane could see the senior warden wasn’t happy with this situation. While only two members of staff had no problems with the five existing patients sitting quietly on their mattresses at the other end of the room, the arrival of an additional twenty-four foreign women had changed the dynamic dramatically. As everyone had just seen. She would send for reinforcements, Jane decided. She had to.

Or – and the chilling thought made her stomach twist – the new passengers would also be drugged. All day and every day. A quicker and easier solution for everyone. Like the women behind the curtain. They weren’t sick. They probably weren’t even insane. It was very possible their only crime was inconvenience. She’d heard that 19th-century asylums had been an ideal dumping ground for problematic women. Troublesome wives. Uncooperative heiresses. Women could be taken away in the dead of night, never to be seen again. Leaving their money behind, obviously. Was that what these inmates were? Or had been? Perfectly normal women whose only crime had been their actual existence? Had they – not surprisingly – protested their fate and made trouble for their gaolers and so been drugged into obedience? Or was this simply how everyone – staff and patients alike – got through the day? What drug would they use?

The answer came to Jane immediately. This was the 19th century and that century’s drug of choice was opium. Or laudanum. Its use was widespread. Poets practically bathed in the stuff. It was administered for just about everything, up to and including death. She’d read they even gave it to babies to make them sleep or help with teething. And women were drugged wholesale. Ladies – do you suffer from menstrual cramps, childbirth, hysteria, intelligence, wandering wombs? Have some of this lovely opium. Problem solved. Very soon – very, very soon – the subjects would become addicted and, in a place like this, once that was achieved then control was easy.

The worst thought of all was that it might not even matter whether they behaved themselves or not. Opium might be routinely administered – in their food or drink. Not massive amounts, but just enough to keep them docile. They might not even know about it until it was too late. Jane had no idea how long or how much she would have to imbibe, but she was willing to bet it might not be very long before they too were sitting on their mattresses, twiddling their thumbs and staring at nothing. And then it wouldn’t matter whether they were ever rescued or not.

She felt her blood chill. How easily she could imagine the panic, the hysteria of any woman finding herself in this place. For the rest of her life. With no position in law, no representation, no man to speak up for her, unable to speak up for herself, and abandoned by her family. If that were Jane herself, drugs might be a merciful release. A very acceptable alternative to the long, empty days of the rest of her life.

But that wasn’t her. She’d be rescued. They’d all be rescued. Grint would come. She knew he would.

And in the meantime – what was happening to Luke?

32

Not very surprisingly, Luke Parrish was being Luke Parrish. It was, perhaps, the only thing he did really well. As far as he was concerned, he had one purpose and one purpose only. To maintain the story about being a passenger on a train from Rome. He suspected that initially the authorities would laugh, then become impatient, then irritated, then enraged. And then the fun would really start.

Luke had, on occasion, flirted gently with one or two rehab facilities, and he suspected this would be nothing like that. Sitting on his mattress in his new brown clothes – and only a few yards from Jane, had he but known it – he racked his brains for what he knew of the treatment of mental patients in the 19th century. It didn’t take long. His entire range of knowledge could be encapsulated in the phrase – not very much. Or even the slightly more accurate – nothing at all. He suspected the treatment wasn’t particularly enlightened. On the other hand, this was a religious establishment, so theoretically the regime should be a little more benevolent, but, you could argue, because this was a religious establishment, any deviation from narrowly defined standards of behaviour would be met with extreme discouragement. Or punishment, as anyone else would probably refer to it.

His last words to Jane had been to keep her head down and keep everyone else’s head down too. That he’d do everything necessary. Tell their story to the doctors. Get them into the records. Get them noticed. Get them rescued.

Now, however, looking around, he realised that their surroundings were far more primitive than he had imagined. And here was a nasty thought – would he even get to see a doctor? Suppose they were locked away in this room and just . . . forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. Lunatics taken off the streets and shoved somewhere they couldn’t do any harm – everyone happy. No point in wasting money, drugs, treatment or time on the insane. It would make sense to concentrate their resources on those who could be cured. And who had the money to pay for their cure. That was where the doctors would focus their efforts. It might be days, or weeks before a doctor visited this ward.

Luke stared at the patient on the next mattress. A tiny man, wrinkled like an apple stored too long over winter, rocking and crooning the same phrase over and over again, a trail of shiny saliva running down his chin. Even if he could be released tomorrow, this man was so far gone he wouldn’t be aware of it. Probably wouldn’t even care. Would the same thing happen to him, Luke? Would that happen to all of them?

He looked around. Unlike the women’s ward, this one had been almost full when they turned up. Now it was packed with men. The windows were too high for direct fresh air. The smell, already strong, would become robust. And this was winter. What would this airless room be like in summer?

There weren’t enough mattresses for everyone. Some would have to share. Some would be content to sleep on the floor. Some wouldn’t. There might be fights. There were a good ten guards in here, all with long cudgels thrust through their belts, and every single one of them looked as if they would use them without a second thought.

And where was Jane? How was she faring? Were women treated better? Or much, much worse? Unscrupulous guards taking advantage of them because who would ever know?

No – stop that. Jane would be all right. She would do her job. He must do his. Time to get started.

He waved at the biggest guard – and the one with the biggest stick.

‘Hola!’

The guard stared at him.

Luke began to talk.

Two hours later he was still on his mattress. Unbelievable. These people had just had a hundred foreigners turn up out of the blue – and don’t tell him someone somewhere hadn’t seen the monster Zanetti Train disgorging its passengers all over the place – and no one was interested in anything he had to say. Absolutely no one. He’d told his story and they hadn’t even laughed. They’d just stared and then walked off. He sighed and looked around.

Provided no one raised their voice, the passengers were able to speak to each other. Even walk about. No sudden moves, obviously. Nothing to alarm the guards and their big sticks. But as long as they sat quietly together on their mattresses, yeah, they could talk to each other.

The existing patients were a little worrying though. Vacant staring seemed to be a common theme. That and pupils the size of pinpricks.

‘Drugged,’ said the elderly man opposite him. Luke recognised the white-haired man from the second carriage.

Luke nodded.

‘My name is Luigi de Luca. Come and talk to me. Alas, now that I am down on this mattress, my bones will not permit me to rise without a great deal of unseemly effort.’

‘Luke Parrish,’ said Luke, settling himself cross-legged on the old man’s mattress. ‘I think that will be us, sooner or later. I think they drug the patients to keep them quiet and eventually . . .’

‘Yes,’ said de Luca. ‘Addiction. I confess this . . .’ he gestured around, ‘is not how I expected to end my days.’

‘Nor me,’ said Luke, ‘but I have a plan.’

‘Escape?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘Back to Italy. We break out – we find the embassy. I am not without influence. The matter is resolved.’

Luke made a decision. ‘Sir, please listen to me very carefully. Please do not allow your face to show your feelings. Prepare yourself for bad news.’

‘Very well. I am prepared.’

‘Sir – we are not in Spain. We are not even in Europe. We are in Mexico. Mexico City, to be precise.’

There was a long pause. ‘I was wrong,’ said de Luca. ‘I was not prepared after all.’ He looked at Luke. ‘You do not look insane.’

‘Well, the jury’s out on that one,’ said Luke. ‘My plan is to tell everyone I can who we are and where we came from so that . . .’

‘Has it occurred to you that telling this story is the reason for us being . . .’ he gestured around again. ‘Here.’

‘It has, sir, but everything depends on whether you ever want to return to Rome.’

‘It is my dear wife’s birthday next week. I have a party for her. It would be nice if we could both attend.’

‘Sir, prepare yourself again.’

The old man sighed. ‘What is it now?’

‘The year is 1840.’

‘I really must work on preparing myself more thoroughly. Are there many more things for which I should be prepared?’

‘No – that’s it. We’re in Mexico City and the year is1 840.’

‘Seventy years before we set out from Rome?’

‘Actually, I was wrong. There is something else . . .’

‘I hardly dare ask.’

‘I hardly dare tell you.’

Luigi sighed. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Sir, how old are you?’

‘I am sixty-eight.’

‘Are you the oldest person here?’

He gazed around. ‘I believe so, yes. Although I cannot vouch for some of the ladies. One does not ask . . .’

‘No,’ agreed Luke. ‘Not unless one wants a quick slap.’

‘Young man, I have yet again prepared myself. What is it you wish to say to me?’

‘This is difficult. Sir – in which year were you born?’

‘Eighteen forty-three.’

‘So, in three years’ time, you will be born.’

‘If what you say is correct, then yes.’

‘In three years’ time, then, there will be two of you. The infant and the . . .’

‘The old man. Yes.’

Luke remained silent and eventually Luigi said, ‘Do I gather this is not a good thing?’

‘It is not a good thing, sir. God does not intend the world to have two versions of the same person.’

‘I see.’

‘And not just you, sir. Your wife, your friends – eventually, everyone here will be born, and when that happens . . . you will all die. Sir, I do not wish to alarm you . . .’

‘I am a soldier, sir.’

‘Your death will not be pleasant.’

‘You forgot to prepare me.’

‘My apologies.’

‘We have three years, then.’

‘If no one has lied about their age.’

‘I begin to see the point of your plan, Signor Parrish.’

‘Luke.’

‘Luigi.’

‘I must do this, sir. My colleagues are searching for us. They will find us. But we have to . . .’ He paused, wondering how to put it.

‘Signal our whereabouts.’

‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

‘By telling our preposterous story.’

‘I will tell this preposterous story, sir.’

‘Young man . . .’

‘Sir, your people will need a leader. Someone to keep them together. Keep them as safe as possible. Prevent them doing anything foolish.’ He smiled. ‘Doing something foolish is my job. You don’t have to believe me. For all you know, I am truly a lunatic and deserve to be here, but the consequences will be mine and mine alone. And whether I am telling the truth or not – your people will still need someone to guide them safely through the time ahead – until we are rescued – and we both know, sir, that that person is you.’

The old man looked at him for some time and then nodded. ‘Very well. If you are indeed speaking the truth, then God go with you. And if you are not – then God go with you anyway.’

Barely had the words left his mouth when the door clanked open. The guards stood to attention as a youngish man, dark-haired and with a handsome moustache, and better dressed than anyone Luke had seen so far, entered the room. Luke tensed – a doctor, surely. There was a muttered conversation and then one of the guards turned and pointed at Luke.

‘Bingo,’ said Luke softly as two of them advanced towards him.

Stiffly, he rose to his feet, reminded himself to speak Italian and waited.

The guards each seized an arm – Luke had no idea why, he had every intention of going with them and, indeed, was eager to do so, but arm-seizing seemed to be a feature of guard behaviour everywhere – and he was hustled to the door.

They followed the doctor past a room with two or three guards sitting around a battered table and drinking coffee. Their break room, Luke supposed. Past a number of rooms with firmly closed doors. From behind one of them, he thought he heard the sound of water and faint cries. No one took any notice.

Finally they halted outside a small room, furnished with a desk and two chairs and nothing else. The window was open, which was pleasant after the smell of the men’s ward, but barred. The door closed behind him and the two guards took up a position on either side.

The doctor spoke slowly, in Spanish. Luke made his replies in the best Italian he could manage, and both found they could more or less understand each other.

‘So, Señor, I believe you have a story to tell.’

‘I do indeed, doctor.’

‘You may commence.’

Luke commenced. ‘On 14th July 1911, just before noon, my fellow passengers and I boarded a train in Rome.’ He looked at the doctor. ‘In Italy.’

There was no response.

‘When we disembarked, we were somewhat surprised to find ourselves here. We would very much like to return to our country of origin, if you would be so kind as to make the arrangements.’

He finished speaking and the doctor looked at him for a while. Luke endeavoured to look as sane as possible. Disappointingly, the doctor had taken no notes, nor was there any paperwork on his desk. Perhaps he would write the case up later. Perhaps the story was so ridiculous he wouldn’t bother. Perhaps persistence was the key. Perhaps . . .

‘Do you know where you are now?’

‘Yes, doctor. Mexico City.’

‘And the year?’

‘Around 1840, I believe.’

‘And your name?’

‘Luke Parrish.’

‘Born where?’

‘London.’

‘But you are American?’

Luke raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose. ‘I am no such thing. I am the son of Raymond Parrish, a . . . a manufacturer. Because of my father’s important position, I was invited to the launch of the new Zanetti Train in Rome. I boarded. We all boarded. When the train stopped, we were here in Mexico City.’

‘For how long have you had these thoughts?’

‘What is the time?’

The doctor pulled out his watch, snapped it open and showed him the face. ‘Thirty-five past four.’

‘A little more than twenty-four hours ago, I was standing on the platform in Rome waiting to catch a train, so I’ve had this delusion for one day.’

‘You agree it is a delusion?’

‘If it makes you happy, sir. Whether you believe me or not does not alter the facts as I have stated them.’

‘Do you have any proof of your claim?’

‘Actually,’ said Luke. ‘Yes. Or I did have. One of your guards probably has it now.’

‘Has what?’

‘Proof. A rather nice cigarette case with the date 1907 inscribed upon it. He should get a good price for that.’

Without saying a word, the doctor opened a drawer to his desk, reached inside and placed a silver cigarette case in front of Luke.

‘Nineteen zero seven,’ he said, pointing helpfully at the date.

‘That’s the one,’ said Luke.

‘My staff are not as corrupt as you Americans think.’

‘Not the point,’ said Luke. ‘I rather think you should be concentrating on the date.’

The doctor shrugged. ‘Anyone can have any date inscribed upon any object. This proves nothing.’ He leaned forwards and pointed at the name. ‘And I strongly doubt you are Guiseppe Mancini. Did you steal it?’

‘No. It was on the ground. I picked it up to . . .’

‘Ah. Finally. That I can believe.’

Too late, Luke realised that telling the doctor he had picked it up in order to prove his story would result in the doctor wondering how or why he knew in advance he would have a story to prove. He remained silent. The doctor did not.

‘Should I question them, what will your fellow passengers say?’

Luke decided to tell the truth. ‘I advised them to say whatever will keep them out of trouble.’

‘You have instructed them?’

‘You overestimate my influence, doctor. I simply said I would tell you how we came to be here and told them to keep themselves safe.’

‘Out of concern for your fellow passengers?’

‘Sir, there is no point in all of us suffering.’

‘You admit then that no one else will tell this story of yours.’

‘Not if they are wise.’

‘And why do you not behave in a similarly wise fashion?’

Luke shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. I was brought up to tell the truth.’

‘By the Americans?’

‘No, by my English – well, actually, she was from Scandinavia – nanny – and then a particularly brutal school just outside Chipping Sodbury devoted a huge amount of time and effort in ensuring I always told the truth.’

‘Even when inconvenient.’

‘Especially when inconvenient. I have consistently found, throughout my life, that most people are not as happy with the truth as they think they will be.’

The doctor sighed. ‘You are an educated man, Mr . . . ?’

He paused, groping for the unfamiliar name.

‘Parrish,’ said Luke helpfully. ‘Luke Parrish. Son of Raymond Parrish. Grandson of Raymond Parrish. Can’t help you with any generations before that, I’m afraid.’

‘If I ask you again tomorrow, will you tell me the same story?’

‘Alas, sir, yes.’

‘And yet you are fully aware that this is a delusion?’

Luke hesitated. ‘If I say yes, then I am admitting to madness. If I say no, then I am admitting to madness, since no madman ever knows he is insane.’

The doctor smiled. ‘The diagnosis is usually slightly less straightforward than that.’

‘Well, I very much hope you diagnose me correctly, doctor, but it occurs to me you could rid yourself of our troublesome presence by simply contacting the Italian embassy.’

‘Señor, I very much regret to disoblige you, but there is no Italian embassy. In fact, there is no country of Italy.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I enjoyed your story but, as is always the case, the madman – or, in your case, the spy – falls down on the detail.’

Shit. Of course. Italy wasn’t unified until . . . he couldn’t remember the date – if indeed he’d ever known it – but obviously not before 1840. He had condemned himself.

The doctor smiled. ‘Let us begin again. I ask you where you are from and how you arrived here, and you tell me you are here to spy for the Americans and I hand you over to the military and everyone is happy.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ muttered Luke. In English.

‘Last chance, señor. And given the ease with which your story has fallen apart under even the gentlest questioning, I do not think you will last long in the hands of the military.’

Luke could well believe that. So much for his plan to fly the flag of truth. Keep the flame burning to guide their rescuers. For Jane and all the others. What on earth had led him to believe he was capable of . . . well, anything, really? How much more could one person screw up in their life? He really was an utter failure at everything he touched.

He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, stared unseeingly out of the window and unconsciously spoke again in English.

‘I thought I could . . . well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing really matters, when you get down to it.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘They say it’ll all be the same in a hundred years’ time – well, that’s true and no one knows that better than me. Everything will be the same in a hundred years. Because nothing changes. Nothing ever gets any better. Stupid people doing stupid things until the day they die. And I should know. Trust me, I am the king of doing stupid things and now – when I thought I finally had a chance to make a difference, to do something right for a change, to redeem myself, if you like – I get it all wrong in less than ten minutes.’ Luke sighed. ‘I had such high hopes of doing something noble. Heroically sticking to my story in the teeth of all opposition. Being courageous. Brave. Honourable. Sacrificing myself for the good of others. Except I haven’t, have I?’ He sighed again. ‘Good job you don’t understand a word I’ve said.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

Luke sat up in surprise. ‘You speak English? Yes, of course you do. You’re an educated man. You aren’t by any chance Dr José Saxino, are you?’

It was the doctor’s turn to be astonished. ‘You have heard of me?’

Luke decided a little flattery might not go amiss. ‘I have. Even in England you are famous for your enlightened treatment of those unfortunates suffering mental illness.’

This was good policy. Few people ever object to being told they’re famous. Especially in their chosen field. And, Luke hoped quite fervently, if you tell someone they’re enlightened they will often act in an enlightened manner. And the doctor spoke English. This was marvellous news – perhaps he could build a bond, establish a rapport, make the doctor listen.

The doctor was talking. Luke dragged his attention back.

‘. . . not know what to think. What to believe. Whether you are in genuine need of treatment or whether you are sheltering behind a façade of madness. I choose to take the humanitarian view. You will be treated for your delusion. Let us see what that brings forth.’

‘Um . . .’ said Luke, with a picture of the dribbling man large in his mind. ‘What exactly would that entail? If you’re considering administering substances I’m certain you will regard as medication, then I should perhaps tell you I have a certain experience with that sort of thing and you might find your treatment is not quite as effective as you hope.’

Dr Saxino spread his hands. ‘Señor Parrish, all you have to do is rescind your story and you need not experience the treatment at all. Come now. Last chance. Tell the truth and let us shake hands before I despatch you to our friends in the army.’

Luke looked him in the eye. ‘I have told you the truth. Every word.’

The doctor sighed and made a sign.

Luke was hauled from the chair and marched away.

33

Jane had meant to keep a tally of the days. After all, it shouldn’t be hard. There was daylight – new day – and then there was darkness – end of day. Simple.

Except it didn’t work like that. She lost count after day two. Or possibly day three. Or two. Yes, two, surely. Or perhaps three. She gave it up. Counting the days wasn’t going to make them go any quicker.

The main problem was they weren’t awake during the day or asleep at night. Like those around her, Jane found herself dozing off at odd times, only to wake goodness knows how many hours or minutes later. Her mind confused dawn and dusk. And then she worried she was being drugged without knowing it.

I’m really not very good at this, she thought, jerking herself awake for the third time on the second day. Or possibly the second time on the third day. Initially she had worried that boredom would be the enemy, but that turned out not to be the case because, on the second or third day at the asylum – don’t start all that again, she thought wearily – they were put to work.

A routine had begun to emerge. They began with prayers before daybreak. These lasted for half an hour or so. Jane tried hard not to let her mind wander during this time. She needed her wits about her when it came to making the responses, because she was always half a beat behind everyone else. Something that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

After prayers the women cleaned themselves. Using their tin cups, they filled their eating bowls with water, washing themselves as best they could. After that, they cleaned their room, shaking out and folding their blankets. The two youngest – Jane and a woman of about thirty – were detailed to empty the toilet buckets. They were permitted to leave the ward whenever necessary – Jane was always grateful for the fresh air – and escorted through the cloisters to a hole in the ground with a grating over the top. It wasn’t an area in which to linger. Jane found herself wondering what it must be like in summer, although, obviously, they’d be long gone by then.

Two more women were detailed to try to tidy the patients behind the curtain. It had probably been one of the junior warden’s duties before their arrival. On the whole, Jane thought she preferred the buckets. None of the women took kindly to being washed, and hair-combing was out of the question.

Only after buckets, blankets and patients were arranged to the senior warden’s satisfaction was breakfast brought in and grace said. Breakfast consisted of some sort of tepid corn mush. Jane wasn’t sure whether it had originally been hot and had cooled on its way to them, or whether it had been cold and was warming up to salmonella-breeding temperatures. Either seemed equally likely. The mush was dispensed from a big cauldron brought in by two local women. The patients queued with their tin bowls. They ate with their fingers. Fortunately, the mush was on the stodgy side. This repast was washed down with water, which Jane sipped with the gravest misgivings and waited for the bottom to fall out of her world. Or vice versa, of course.

Those who couldn’t queue had a very small portion slopped into their bowl, which was then dumped in front of them. If they could rouse themselves long enough to eat, then all well and good. If they couldn’t – well, someone else would. Problem solved.

Jane looked at the emaciated patients. A puff of wind would blow them away. And quite soon, by the looks of some of them.

Once a day they were allowed out to listen to the services. Not in the church itself, obviously. Mad people had no place in a house of God, but they could stand or sit in the cloisters and listen to the chanting. Apparently it was felt this would contribute greatly towards their cure. They would walk slowly in pairs with one warden at the front and one behind, carefully watching their every move. Jane always took the opportunity to listen carefully for the sound of men’s voices. Luke’s in particular. If he was here, then sooner or later she would hear him.

Lunch – served at noon – was more corn mush. Sometimes with a piece of bread. Which, as far as Jane could see, was just solidified corn mush that had been baked. She began to worry about scurvy.

And then, on the second day – or possibly the third – after the midday meal, two male wardens brought in big baskets full of white fabric. Brightly coloured coverings were carefully spread across the dirt floor – to keep the white material clean, Jane discovered, not out of consideration for the patients. They were divided up into fours and given a large piece of material, together with one needle and one thimble each, and a big spool of white thread between them.

Sheets, thought Jane. They want us to hem sheets. Well, that could be worse.

She suspected the sudden acquisition of an additional hundred patients was straining the hospital’s resources somewhat and word had come down that they were to earn their keep. She wondered what they’d got Luke and the others doing. And what would happen to him if he refused to cooperate? She corrected herself. When he refused to cooperate.

She looked at the alternative – the five women who rarely moved from their mattresses except to heave themselves to their feet occasionally and lurch across the room to use the bucket behind the screen. One day they’d be too far gone even to do that. What would happen to them then? Jane suspected the other patients would be instructed to care for them. Wash their clothes. Wipe up their waste. Keep them clean. She couldn’t see any of the wardens doing that. They didn’t even empty the buckets – they certainly wouldn’t care for women who spent their days in such a state of deep stupor that they were unknowingly soiling themselves.

Occasionally one of the patients would exhibit signs of agitation, calling out, struggling to get to her feet, shouting, laughing hysterically, and then one of the wardens would unlock a door and disappear, to return minutes later with a small cup of something, and the laughing would gurgle away into nothing and the patient would slump across her mattress again.

They’re in a waking dream, thought Jane. Or nightmare. They never really wake up. They sleep the night through and drowse away the day, their lives slowly passing them by. One day, perhaps, they wouldn’t wake at all. She could only hope they were having happy dreams. An escape from the tiny, tiny world that was all they were allowed.

On the arrival of their evening meal, the sheets were carefully folded and replaced in the baskets. There was another grace and then they were allowed to eat. Bread or some kind of tortilla, and beans. And water. Only one cupful – to stop them using the buckets all through the night, Jane guessed. Overflowing was something she didn’t want to think about.

The day finished with more prayers. Which, to Jane’s tired mind, were identical to the morning prayers. Hence her confusion.

But back to the sheets. Each team of four would spread out their sheet, thread their needles, take a side and begin to hem. The instructions were very clear. Three sides were to be hemmed to exactly one inch, and the top side to five inches. Each completed sheet was rigorously inspected for the slightest flaw. A dirty mark, uneven stitching or a lumpy hem meant the sheet would be thrown back for them to unpick and do again, and there might be tears because no one from the team could eat until they had completed their allocated two sheets per afternoon – and the longer it took, the poorer the light became, and the longer it took.

Fortunately – although she hadn’t thought so at the time – Jane knew her way around a sheet. Her grandmother had never thrown a sheet away if there was more than fifteen per cent of the original fabric still hanging in there somehow. Jane had become a bit of an expert at cutting and patching. And all these women were from an age where girls were taught to sew properly. They were fine. They could manage.

The main problem was their working conditions. The needles weren’t of good quality and difficult to thread. The thread itself frequently snapped. The light was poor and some women struggled to see. And, hanging over them, was their quota. Two sheets per team per day. Minimum.

It wasn’t heavy work but the position was awkward. None of the women were accustomed to sitting cross-legged on the floor for long periods of time. Even the younger ones suffered. Bending over her work made Jane’s back ache, and apart from the few minutes allocated for a drink and a go at the bucket, there was no respite. Sometimes her lower back felt as if it was on fire. She spent hours wondering which hurt most – her back, her cramped legs, her stiff fingers, or her aching eyes. Complaints were ignored.

The worst crime, as Jane discovered one day, was to break her needle. She felt it snap and managed to prick her finger at the same time, and before she knew it there were two surprisingly large red blood spots. Very visible against the white fabric.

The supervising warden spotted them immediately. She shouted something and slammed her cane on the table. Behind the curtain, one of the women giggled nervously.

‘She wants you,’ whispered the woman on her left. Her name was Gianetta, Jane thought. ‘Go. Quickly.’

Jane threw back the sheet and climbed creakily to her feet. The warden shouted again. Jane limped stiffly towards her and found herself seized from behind.

Throughout her life, Jane had always been a victim. She had almost come to expect it. Bullied at home, bullied at school, bullied by life in general. Being bullied was one of the very few things she was really good at. An expert, in fact, and she recognised the signs now. She was to be singled out. Whether for the snapped needle or the bloody sheet was unclear. Or even – and here was a thought – they’d identified her as a leader. Or even a ringleader. She had put herself forwards on their first day here. Brought herself to their attention. True, this had taken the form of encouraging everyone to do as they were told and not to give any trouble, but had that been enough to mark her out as someone to watch? Was she now about to have an example made of her?

‘You could give me another needle,’ she said, without much hope. ‘And the blood will soak out. There’s no need for all this shouting.’

The warden shouted some more. Uncomprehending, Jane shrugged.

The junior warden pulled forwards a wooden stool. Jane genuinely thought she was to be made to stand on the stool in front of everyone. Like that bit in Jane Eyre. Right up until the cane was flourished.

Unsure whether to protest or not, Jane lost the opportunity. She was pushed up on to the stool. The door from outside opened and a large man entered. Not liking the look of this one little bit, Jane tried to step back off the stool. The man took two swift strides forwards. For one mad moment, Jane thought he was hugging her. That this was some sort of embrace.

She was wrong. She was being restrained. Her arms pinned to her sides. Someone lifted her skirt and petticoats. What was happening here? Jane tried to struggle but she could barely move. She was tightly clasped to this man’s warm soft body. He’d had onions for lunch.

The thought hit her like a blow. This was going to hurt. Whatever was about to happen – it was going to hurt like hell. The years rolled back. She was standing in front of her grandmother, pleading, ‘I’m sorry. It was an accident. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m . . .’

‘Sweetie,’ whispered Bolshy Jane urgently. ‘You are not alone. We’re here. Both of us. You’re not alone. Listen to my voice. Keep listening to my voice. Listen to m—’

The cane slashed across the back of Jane’s thighs. The shock of it made her shriek. She had never known pain like this. Stinging red-hot waves of pain. Her legs buckled. Without the man holding her up, she would have toppled off the stool. This was obviously his function, to keep her upright until this was over.

The cane came down again.

Despite his obvious hygiene issues, Jane rested her head against the man’s chest and gritted her teeth. Hard. You don’t cry. You don’t cry. You don’t cry. Not ever. Never. You don’t cry.

Tears rolled down her cheeks just the same, soaking into the front of his coarse shirt.

The cane came down for a third time. And then – nothing. Was that it? Was it over? Please God let it be over. Jane hardly dared hope.

It wasn’t over. The warden was simply changing her position. Another stroke. Jane bit her tongue with the shock of it and tried again to struggle. Huge, thick arms held her firmly in place. All she could do was hope this would be over soon.

Another slash.

It wasn’t just the pain. There was the shock. And the outrage that this could happen. To her. And the humiliation. Being crushed against this man. She could feel his excitement. Her skirts up around her waist.

And the sixth blow.

And then it stopped. Quivering, Jane waited for whatever would happen next. Which was that he let her go. Quite suddenly, and she toppled off the stool to sprawl on the dirt floor. Both her legs felt as if they were on fire. She found she couldn’t bear the thought of her petticoats brushing against her skin. And it would get worse. Jane knew from experience the pain wouldn’t go away anytime soon. She wasn’t sure she would even be able to stand. Would she have to crawl back to her place?

Something warm ran down her leg. She was bleeding. They’d broken the skin. She couldn’t get up. She couldn’t even see. She wouldn’t be able to sew. And she’d broken her needle anyway. Not that she cared at that moment. Her legs felt hot and huge and they throbbed unbearably. She lay with her cheek pressed to the floor, feeling her tears run sideways into the dirt.

Someone was talking. She was unable to make out whether it was Italian or Spanish, and actually – did she care? Did she want to deal with what had just happened to her? Or whatever would happen to her next? When she thought about it – no, she didn’t want to deal with anything. Not really. She closed her eyes. Perhaps everything would go away.

It didn’t, obviously. The universe is not that obliging. Someone was picking Jane up. Quite gently, so it probably wasn’t the male warden. Someone else – Gianetta? – took her other arm and she was guided to . . . somewhere. Every step was agonising. A gentle pressure on her shoulder told her to sit.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘My legs . . .’

‘You must,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Just lean back. Trust us.’

She should obey. She didn’t want to get anyone else into trouble. She leaned back and was gently lowered to the ground. There was no chance of crossing her legs and she didn’t even try. No one insisted.

And then the junior warden handed her another needle. Jane stared at it.

All the women were very quiet. All of them. Even the ones behind the curtain. No quiet chatter or someone humming a folk tune. They bent their heads over their work. No one looked at Jane. Jane continued to stare at the needle. Her mind refused to work properly.

Someone took it from her and threaded it quickly and passed it back. ‘Here.’

Jane barely remembered to say thank you.

It was hopeless. She could hardly see for unshed tears and her fingers weren’t functioning. Stitching was out of the question. A stick poked her in the back. Now, everyone was watching her. She tried again. No – it was hopeless. Surely the warders must realise that. Yes, of course they did. It was deliberate. She’d been selected. Because there always had to be a scapegoat. A weak link. Someone to be picked on. She was the most useless here. She’d be the example. The implied threat. If you don’t behave, then this will happen to you, too.

She’d had this throughout her life. You could do anything to Jane Lockland because she never told, and she never complained. She just sucked it up and she had no parents to speak up for her so there were never any consequences. The stick poked her again. This was how it would be from now on. The wardens had picked their victim. She was unable to sew therefore she must be punished. And then the punishment meant she couldn’t sew, so it started all over again. She tried not to think about how much the next beating would hurt.

Someone pushed a packet of pins on to her lap. ‘You – pinning. We – sewing.’

Pinning. Yes – she could do that. She had to.

‘Grazie,’ she whispered.

34

Jane’s experiences, though deeply unpleasant, were a festival of fun and frivolity compared with those of Luke Parrish. Unlike Jane, Luke was vividly aware that this was his third day of what everyone liked to refer to as ‘treatment’.

He had not been returned to the ward. There could be any number of reasons for that – to prevent him contaminating the other patients with his ridiculous story, perhaps. Or to prevent him passing on vital military secrets in his capacity as a suspected spy. Or – and he presumed this might be the case – he’d simply pissed off one person too many, once too often. It had only been a matter of time.

He shivered. This tiny stone cell was freezing and so was he. And wet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dry. For the umpteenth time, he contemplated removing his wet clothes and spreading them out on a floor that was as damp as they were, but again decided against it. His body heat would dry them out more quickly. Except he didn’t have any body heat. Not any longer. He’d forgotten how it felt to be warm. He curled himself more tightly. It didn’t help.

There was a sound at the door. They were back. Again? The door swung open. The two guards hauled him to his feet.

‘Ah,’ he said thickly. ‘Been promoted. Three treatments a day, I see. Lucky me.’

The doctor stood in the doorway.

‘Señor Parrish.’

Luke tried to straighten himself. ‘Dr Saxino. And how are we feeling today? Any chance of some nice hot coffee?’

‘You have only to tell the truth.’

‘Luke Parrish. British citizen. Left Rome on the Zanetti Train. Arrived here. You may not have an Italian consulate – yet – but I’m betting there’s a British one somewhere. Please inform them of my presence here and . . .’

The doctor gestured to the guards, who began to drag him from the room.

‘Señor, either you are suffering a genuine delusion – in which case you are being treated – or you are an American spy – in which case you are being punished.’

‘Could I not be punished with a nice hot cup of coffee? You know – ring the changes a bit . . .’

They pushed open the door.

‘Ah,’ said Luke, as brightly as he was able. ‘Bath time again. I must say, the facilities here are superb.’

Dr Saxino flushed. ‘Why are you so determined to provoke me?’

Luke shrugged. ‘Don’t take it personally. I annoy everyone.’

‘I don’t think you realise the seriousness of your position, señor.’

‘Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. I just don’t seem able to help myself.’

The doctor stepped aside.

Luke sighed. Nothing much had changed. The cold stone room. The big bath in the middle. The pump. The buckets. The floor swimming with water. And now a bucket of ice.

‘Oh, that’s new,’ he said. ‘Ice. I suppose it’s too much to hope you’re about to serve cocktails.’

‘Señor, I want you to listen to me very carefully. This is not your first treatment. Or even your fourth.’

‘If that’s what you want to call it, then who am I to argue.’

‘We are not savages here. The cold bath is a tried and tested cure for many mental disorders – although not espionage, of course. The recommended immersion is from two to five minutes. A treatment of two or three minutes reduces anxiety and promotes obedience. It is unpleasant – all treatment must be unpleasant to be effective – but not fatal. As you are aware. However, since you have failed to respond appropriately, we shall increase the time and decrease the temperature. Have no fear, señor, Jesús and Miguel will be present. You have only to give the word and they will release you and then, señor, we will see what can be done with warm blankets and a hot drink. In the meantime . . .’

He disappeared out of the door.

‘Shit,’ muttered Luke. The bath was half full of dirty water. Same water as this morning, he reckoned. And the day before. In which case there was a substantial amount of urine swilling around in it as well. In which case he would be wise to keep his mouth closed. A bit late for that, he thought with a flicker of humour. Lumps of ice floated on the surface. He could feel the cold radiating off it already. This was not going to be fun. He wondered if he should try to make a break for it.

The same thought had obviously occurred to Miguel and Jesús. Without giving Luke a chance even to tense his muscles or prepare himself in any way, they heaved him off the ground and straight into the bath.

The water was so cold it burned. Luke gasped in shock. And again. And again. He cried out. He began to pant. The guards slammed down the wooden cover leaving only his head showing through. One of them was working at the bolt. Whether the water had swelled the wood or the cheap bolt didn’t fit properly, Luke didn’t know. Or care. He was still gasping for breath. How long had he been in here? Ten seconds? Twenty? Five minutes was ridiculous. He would never last a fraction of that time.

At last, with a gust of onion-scented breath that turned Luke’s stomach, the guard slammed the bolt home. Both men straightened up, removed the sacking aprons that had more or less protected them from being drenched, and stepped back.

Luke tried to remain as still as possible but the position in which he had been placed meant he was half reclining and half sitting upright – an awkward position which he knew he would be unable to maintain for very long. The purpose of the head hole was now apparent. To keep his face out of the water when he lost consciousness. Because he wouldn’t be allowed to drown. He must be fully aware of every moment of his treatment. And be appropriately grateful, he supposed.

Luke Parrish had never been particularly good at gratitude. On the other hand, at pissing people off, he was world class. Lifting his head, he began, somewhat creakily, to sing:

‘It was on . . . the bridge at midnight,

Throwing . . . snowballs . . . at the moon . . .’

His voice quavered around the room. One of the guards – he had no idea which was which, even after three days’ acquaintance – shouted angrily.

‘She . . . said, “Sir . . . I’ve never had it,”

But she . . . spoke . . . too . . . bloody soon.’

The guard shouted again.

‘Come on,’ called Luke, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. ‘Pull me . . . out if you don’t . . . like the song . . . I . . . don’t mind.’

Slowly, and with menace, the guard took out his stick.

‘For . . . Christ’s sake, I’m . . . dying in . . . a . . . bath of ice here and . . . you’re threatening me . . . with a . . . stick. You’re not bright, are . . . you?’

The worst thing was the pain. Lying in icy water was actually agonising. Who knew?

‘It’s . . . the . . . same . . . the whole . . . world . . . over . . .’

This was becoming difficult. What was the next line?

‘It’s the poor . . . what . . . gets . . . the . . . blame.’

Agony. He was on fire. His entire body ached. The pain was . . .

‘Whilst . . . the . . . rich . . . gets all . . . the . . . pleasure . . .

‘And . . . rightly so . . . if . . . you . . . ask me. Although . . . no . . . one . . . ever does.’

Forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

‘Ain’t . . . it . . . all . . .’

No. No good. He was going. Not even five minutes. What a waste of space he was. His voice cracked.

‘. . . a . . . . . . bleedin’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . shame.’

For a long time, he was convinced he had dreamed it. The door to the so-called treatment room was fairly hefty – it wouldn’t do for inmates to hear their fellow patients screaming in pain or begging for mercy – but dimly, on the edge of blacking out, he could hear noises. Running footsteps. Men shouting. Something wooden clattered to the ground.

Miguel and Jesús exchanged glances, pulled open the door, and disappeared to investigate.

‘Wait,’ whispered Luke feebly. ‘What . . . about . . . me?’

They locked the door behind them. Which was disturbing, implying, as it did, that they weren’t coming back.

Luke struggled with his thoughts. He hardly dared hope, but it seemed likely – given the crash he’d heard – that the Time Police officer known as Grint was in the building. In which case the cavalry was here. Except that the cavalry probably didn’t know he had only minutes left.

Jane would tell them. His friend, Jane. He must remember to tell her so. And Matthew. His friends . . .

But Jane didn’t know he was here. No one did except for Dr Saxino and Miguel and . . . and . . . Jesús. No – he was going to have to rescue himself. If you want something doing . . .

Painfully he tried to flex his arms. Perhaps he could push at the wooden cover. His hands were so cold he wasn’t sure he could feel what he was doing. What about his knees? What were they always saying? Straighten your knees and lift with your back? That didn’t sound right. He tried to lift his knees but his legs had gone walkabout. Which was hilarious when you thought about it. He was dying and still coming out with class jokes like that. Truly, the world was going to miss him. He scrabbled. Icy water sloshed up through the head hole. Perhaps he would drown after all. He was certain he was telling his hands to claw at the cover – get it open somehow – but he could neither see nor feel what they were doing. He could be playing with himself for all he knew. Although that wasn’t likely. Genitalia the size of a peanut. Yes, that was funny, too. He repeated it to the empty room. And began to laugh.

He was still laughing when his eyes closed.

After a few seconds, the laughter stopped. The water ceased to slop about and fell still.

Silence filled the room.

35

Mexico City. November, 1840. 1800 hours.

The two Time Police pods materialised from nowhere.

‘Exactly on target,’ reported Dal, busy shutting things down. Around him, officers got to their feet, checked their weapons and stamped their boots.

Lt Dal turned to Ellis. ‘We’re less than one hundred yards from the east entrance. The downside is there’s very little cover here and we’re very exposed. Shall I instruct people to activate the camo devices?’

Ellis considered. ‘No, I don’t think so. These people have been kidnapped by a train, forcibly jumped through time and space, and then incarcerated in a foreign asylum. I’m not sure this is the moment to introduce them to invisible pods, as well.’

Dal was peering at the screen. ‘It’s arrived, sir.’

The big hospital pod settled more or less alongside them. Hospital pods are much larger than the usual pods and make no attempt to conceal either themselves or their purpose, being clearly marked with red crescents, red crosses, red crystals, the caduceus, the star of life and, in case anyone hasn’t yet got the message, a giant H emblazoned on each door and the roof.

‘Everything on schedule,’ reported Dal. ‘Exactly 1800 hours, sir.’

‘Right,’ said Ellis, opening his com. ‘Remember – minimum force. We’re a rescue, not an invasion. Let’s go.’

The doors on both pods opened simultaneously, disgorging a stream of officers in a textbook manoeuvre. Grint, North and their team trotted for the nearest entrance – the east gate – while Ellis and his team peeled away towards the southern wall.

The sun was now barely above the horizon, casting long shadows everywhere. At this time of year, there was a bite in the air of Mexico City.

Grint’s team waited against the eastern wall for Ellis’s team to get themselves into position.

The main gate was still open but not for much longer, Ellis reckoned. Time was ticking. Both teams needed to move simultaneously.

He jerked his chin down to activate his helmet mike. ‘We’re in position. Go, go, go.’

Keeping to the shadows, he and his team entered silently through the south gate, covering each other and moving as swiftly as possible. There was no one in sight anywhere, but just as he was beginning to think they’d got away with it, a brother appeared in an open doorway.

‘Good evening,’ said Dal cheerfully and, in accordance with his instructions, sonicked him with compassion and empathy.

Ellis and Chigozie were comparing the layout on their scratchpads to the maze of buildings in front of them.

‘Over there, sir,’ said Chigozie. ‘To the right of the church tower. The building with the tiled roof. That door there. Leads to the men’s ward.’

Ellis nodded. ‘Clore – you’re up.’

Clore stepped up with his door-smasher. Three solid blows and they were inside, finding themselves in a small anteroom with another locked door ahead of them. Clore and his door-smasher made even shorter work of that one. Curtis and Rockmeyer moved smoothly through the doorway. They crouched, weapons raised, covering the room, and waited for their eyes to adjust.

‘Clear, sir,’ said Curtis. He and Rockmeyer moved aside for Ellis and Dal to take their place.

They found themselves looking into a long, grubby room, redolent of stale human beings, many of whom obviously suffered poor bladder control. This room was uncomfortably full of men of all shapes, sizes and ages. All had frozen, staring at the black-armoured and helmeted newcomers.

At the back of the room a door slammed. Ellis cursed. At least one of the guards had clearly gone for help. And no sign of Parrish anywhere.

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tommaso, can you come here, please.’

Hesitantly, Tommaso stepped forwards, halting on the threshold, his eyes big. Ellis nodded towards the passengers.

Tommaso drew breath and began to address the room in Italian.

He had no need. Some of the passengers recognised him immediately. They crowded round. He was greeted as a long-lost friend.

Ellis left him exclaiming and explaining while he himself carried out a brief survey of the men’s ward. He hadn’t expected to find so many people. Everyone was dressed in similar brown clothes. How many of them were the passengers and what should he do with the original patients?

Dal was at his elbow. ‘Sir, we need to get a move on. They could raise the alarm at any moment.’

‘Yes. Let’s get the passengers out as quickly as we can.’

‘Back through the building, sir, or round the outside? Through is quicker, but outside is safer.’

Ellis was scanning the room. ‘Outside, I think. We don’t want to lose anyone now. I don’t see Parrish anywhere.’ He raised his voice over the clamour of excited voices. ‘Officer Parrish?’

Apart from a man in the corner, rocking and moaning to himself, silence fell.

An elderly white-haired man limped forwards, rubbing his stiff legs. ‘Are you looking for Luke? A young man? Two fingers missing on his left hand?’

‘Yes. Is he here?’

The elderly man nodded through the door at the far end. ‘He was taken away for . . . treatment. He kept insisting on telling our improbable story. He said if he persisted then the story would get into the records and you would be able to find us. He was very certain.’

‘He was correct,’ said Ellis.

‘Yes. Even though it was obvious, right from the beginning, that that was not a wise course of action, he persevered. He instructed us to keep quiet and obey the guards. To avoid punishment. He himself would continue to maintain the truth. A stubborn boy.’

‘Yes,’ said Ellis. ‘He’s well known for it.’

‘Please find him. I suspect we owe our rescue to his . . .’ He paused, uncertain of the English word.

‘Intransigence,’ said Ellis. ‘And he’s well known for that, too.’

He looked around and made a swift decision. ‘Dal – get the evac under way. I’ll find Parrish. Clore – you’re with me.’

He turned back to the elderly man. ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

‘We have not seen him for some considerable time. He will be in one of the treatment rooms.’ He pointed to the door through which the guard had disappeared. ‘Through there. Further than that I cannot help you. None of us knows what goes on behind that door. But you should hurry, I think. Our guards ran away when they heard you coming. Whatever was happening to Luke – I suspect they will have abandoned him.’

Ellis nodded. ‘Sir, time is of the essence. Please follow Lt Dal’s instructions and leave the building as quickly as possible. Get to it, Dal.’

‘Yes, sir. Move it, everyone.’

Leaving milling chaos behind him, Ellis made for the door Luigi had indicated. Which again proved unequal to Clore and his door-smasher.

They found themselves in a narrow, dim corridor. There were four doors in the left-hand wall and a blank wall on their right. The air smelled musty and damp.

The first room seemed to be a break room. Empty of people in general and Parrish in particular. And the second. The third door, however, was locked.

Ellis stepped back. ‘If you would be so kind, Trainee Clore.’

Practice often makes perfect. The lock shattered at the first blow . . .

Clore moved forwards, kicking splintered wood out of the way.

‘Shit.’

They stood on the threshold of what, at first glance, appeared to be a primitive bathroom. This was a large, square room with a wet stone floor. Damp was working its way up the walls. The plaster had bubbled and crumbled into powder. Black mould sprouted in the corners. Puddles of water lay all across the floor, which was green with slime in places. On the back wall, a pump dripped water into a bucket. Other buckets were stacked alongside. A long bath stood in the centre. But not quite a bath. This structure was topped by a sturdy wooden cover with a head hole cut into it, currently occupied by a lolling head whose face could not be seen.

‘Shit,’ said Clore again. ‘Is that Parrish in there? What’s he doing?’

‘It’s an ice bath,’ said Ellis. ‘We need to get him out. Now.’

Clore bent over the bath. ‘Parrish, can you hear me?’

Luke, currently walking with Jane under the trees on a warm, sunny day, made no response. And there was blossom – pink and white – drifting slowly downwards. Or possibly snow. And then Jane turned to him and said . . . and said . . . Her face slowly fading behind a curtain of white . . .

Ellis carefully lifted Luke’s head. ‘Luke – can you hear me?’

Still no response. Luke’s eyes were closed. Not even an eyelash fluttered.

Clore felt for a pulse. ‘Can’t find a pulse, sir, and he’s icy cold.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir, I think he’s dead.’

‘Let’s get him out. Quick.’

Clore was already wrestling with the bolt. ‘It’s stiff. And the wood’s swelled. Hold on.’ He tried to work the bolt loose and when that didn’t work, to wrench it loose by brute force, muttering, ‘Come on, you bastard.’

Ellis stepped aside and opened his com. ‘Doctor. I need you or a medic. Urgent. Treatment rooms behind the men’s ward. We’ve found Parrish in an ice bath. He’s not looking good. Quick as you can.’

The doctor responded. ‘On my way.’

Ellis opened it again. ‘Lt Grint.’

‘Sir?’

‘I need more muscle and I need it now. In the third treatment room behind the men’s ward. On the double. Medical emergency.’

‘On my way, sir.’

Grint arrived within a minute.

‘Here’s the problem,’ said Ellis and pointed to the bolt.

Grint considered. ‘Clore, can you get your hand in the head hole?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll wrench out the hinges. You take the top one. I’ll take the bottom.’

‘Quickly, please,’ said Ellis, surprised at the effort it took him to keep his voice calm. ‘We might still be able to save him.’

‘Ready,’ said Grint. ‘Push and pull. Get a rhythm going. Now. Push down.’

They pushed down. Then heaved up. The wood groaned. The top hinge began to work loose from its screws.

‘Yes,’ said Grint. ‘Keep at it. Push. Pull. Push. Pull.’

With a great splintering noise, the wooden cover split at the top hinge. Clore pulled most of that section away and hurled it across the room. Now that he could use both hands, Grint made short work of the other piece, which followed its fellow into the corner.

Luke Parrish lay in water and shards of half-melted ice. His eyes were closed. There was no discernible movement of his chest. Grint reached in, hissing with shock as he plunged his arms into the ice-cold water.

‘Be careful,’ warned Ellis. ‘Support his head.’

‘On three,’ said Grint to Clore. ‘Three.’

They heaved together. Several things happened at once. The sad remains of the wooden cover, with no bolt to support them, collapsed into the water. Grint and Clore both lost their balance. Clore slipped on the slimy floor and toppled sideways. With no support, Luke slid beneath the freezing water.

Grint scrabbled to get him out. Icy water slopped everywhere.

‘Gently, gently,’ said Ellis. ‘Don’t knock him.’

Clore picked himself up and together he and Grint lifted Luke out of the bath. His skin was as white as his face.

‘He looks like a dead fish,’ said Clore. Which was an accurate description. Livid red and blue bruises showed on his hands and forearms, and his fingernails were shredded.

‘Poor sod tried to force his way out,’ said Clore.

‘Not for long,’ said Grint. ‘Not in those temperatures.’

‘Let’s get him out into the corridor,’ ordered Ellis. ‘It’s dry there and marginally warmer.’

The doctor turned up carrying heat packs and emergency foil blankets. He crouched over Luke. No one said a word.

‘Well?’ said Ellis.

‘Give me room,’ said the doctor. ‘Clore, help me cut these wet clothes off him.’

Ellis moved away. He opened his com. ‘North – what’s happening with you? Are the women all evacuated?’

And then all the bells began to ring.

36

On leaving the pod, Lt Grint and his team had waited at the east entrance. As soon as Ellis gave the word, Grint was through the gate like a rocket, North close behind him with Rossi, Hansen and Socko following on. The layout in front of them conformed exactly to their briefing notes. The kitchens were on their right – easily recognisable from the sounds of clattering pans and the smell of cooking. The eastern cloisters were ahead of them. They moved quickly and quietly in the deepening dusk.

Quick and quiet they might have been, but they were spotted almost immediately. Shouts of alarm accompanied their progress across the courtyard and past the kitchens. Did the occupants think they were being invaded by Americans? Very possibly. There were two ways this could go. Either they’d barricade themselves in the kitchen and take themselves out of the game – always a TPO’s first choice for civilians – or they’d arm themselves with some of the many lethal instruments to be found in any kitchen and sally forth to defend their homeland.

Grint’s team kept going. The kitchen staff posed no threat to his team, whose sole purpose was to liberate the prisoners. In the event of any difficulties, Wu and his team could protect their rear and hold the gate for them.

They entered the cloister with caution. It was darker in here than outside and the corners were thick with shadows. A chill wind blew, rustling the dead stalks in the herb garden. An eerie sound in the growing dusk.

‘Switch to night vision,’ ordered Grint.

Ahead of them stood a substantial wooden door, silver with age, with hefty iron hinges and studded with nails. And locked, obviously, because no one ever made things easy for long-suffering Time Police officers. Socko brought up his door- smasher.

‘One – two – three.’

They could hear screams of alarm coming from behind the door. And then it gave way.

‘Wait,’ said North, as Grint’s team went to surge forwards. ‘I’ll go in first.’

Very reluctantly, Grint moved back.

North removed her helmet, eased open the remains of the door and stepped over the threshold into the women’s ward. Her first impression was that they’d gone wrong somewhere and that the room was empty. Mattresses, blankets, tin plates were all strewn across the floor as if everything had been thrown aside in a panic. Had the occupants all run away?

No. A number of brown-clad figures had retreated to the very far end of the ward. Two what North assumed were female wardens stood by the other door, their sticks raised. Whether in defence or attack was unclear.

Their eyes wandered past North. Women in trousers were clearly not in their vocabulary, but seeing the number of strange-looking men behind her, the wardens unlocked the door, wrenched it open and ran, screaming, from the room.

Since this was a perfectly normal response to any Time Police entrance, no one took any notice.

At a sign from North, Grint and the others slowly entered the room and secured the other doors.

North drew a breath. So far so good. She surveyed the dimly lit room. The women in brown dresses were quiet at the moment but there were many of them, and if they panicked . . . if they scattered . . . North had no intention of spending her evening pursuing terrified Italians around a Mexican lunatic asylum.

Grint was craning for a view of Lockland when Ellis spoke in his ear.

‘I need more muscle and I need it now. In the third treatment room behind the men’s ward. On the double. Medical emergency.’

Grint looked around the room and made a decision. Jane and the passengers would be safe under North’s supervision and this was not an occasion for brute strength. He could leave Socko behind in case it became one.

‘On my way, sir.’

He turned to North.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We can manage here. Go.’

Grint followed the two wardens out of the other door. He’d studied the layout and reckoned if he just kept turning left . . . He vanished from view.

North turned her attention back to the room. ‘Officer Lockland?’

‘Here,’ said Jane. ‘I’m here.’ She limped her way painfully through the cluster of women, trying not to flinch as her petticoats brushed the back of her thighs.

North opened her mouth to speak and stopped.

There were no mirrors anywhere in the entire complex – church, hospital, civilian quarters – so Jane had no idea how bad she looked. Shock had driven all the blood from her face and it had not yet returned, leaving deep, dark shadows under her eyes. Her hands were shaking and her breath was coming in short pants.

North readjusted her plans slightly. ‘Hansen, please attend to Lockland. Rossi – ask the Zanetti Train passengers to make themselves known and tell them we’ve come to take them home and that we have to go now. To Rome, just in case anyone has any doubts. Reassure them as much as you are able, please. I don’t want a room full of hysterical women.’

Rossi, hands held outwards in a gesture of peace, approached the women and began to speak in Italian.

This had no noticeable effect. The women closed ranks, their faces frightened and hostile.

‘Wait,’ said Jane. ‘Just wait.’ Painfully, she turned to face the women.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. She could hear her words being translated as she spoke. ‘These are my people. They’ve come to save us. They’re taking us all home. Help them to help us. Do as they say.’ She wondered whether to mention the probably approaching Mexican soldiers and decided against it. It wasn’t as if the passengers would need any incentive to leave this place. ‘Everything is going to end well.’

Ellis’s voice sounded in North’s ear. ‘North – what’s happening with you? Are the women all evacuated?’

As North opened her mouth to reply, the bells started up. Loudly. Wildly. And alarmingly close. All of them. North watched the passengers’ reactions. They clutched at each other, staring wildly about them. This was no normal summons to worship. This was a jangling clamour that spoke of alarm and warning – and an urgent summons for assistance.

North raised her voice over the clamour. ‘Not yet, sir, but everyone is accounted for. We’re just about to move out.’

‘Any casualties?’

‘Lockland, sir. Some difficulty walking. Otherwise all good.’

‘The men’s evacuation has begun. Get all the women out and remain at the pods. We’ll join you there.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Any news of Parrish?’

‘We’ve found him.’ He stopped.

‘Sir?’

Ellis said nothing.

‘Shit,’ said North.

‘Say nothing. To anyone.’

‘Understood, sir. We’re about to evacuate now.’

‘Good luck, North.’

‘You too, sir.’ She turned back to the ward. ‘Socko, check what’s happening out there. We’re making a break for the pods while we still can.’

Socko disappeared.

‘Lot of open ground out there, ma’am,’ said Rossi, checking his weapon.

‘I know. Get everyone together and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Is there anyone who can’t move quickly?’

‘One or two of them are elderly, ma’am, but only Lockland’s actually having trouble walking.’

Socko was back. ‘There’s a lot of running around and shouting from the servants, ma’am, but nothing beyond the gates. That could change at any moment. If we’re going we should go now.’

‘Agreed. If anything goes wrong, then implement emergency evacuation procedure alpha. And don’t drop anyone this time. Hansen – you lead. Rossi – you’re shotgun. Socko – you’ve got Lockland. I’ll bring up the rear. Move.’

Hansen stationed himself at the door, motioning to the women.

‘Andiamo,’ shouted Rossi. ‘Andiamo via veloce.’

In pairs and threes, the women streamed out of the door and into the cloister. Now they were outside, the noise of the bells was deafening.

‘Modena all over again,’ shouted Rossi. ‘All we need is that bloody train to appear and it’ll be just like old times. Look out – trouble ahead.’

Kitchen staff were appearing from every doorway, wielding saucepans, hatchets, knives.

North was suddenly at the front. ‘Minimum sonic. Wide beam. Bring them down.’

The air rippled. Half a dozen men halted as abruptly as if they’d run into an invisible wall, seemed to hang in mid-air for a moment, fell to their knees and then toppled slowly to the ground. The two or three at the back who’d been shielded from the worst effects stood for a moment in amazement and then turned and ran.

‘Good enough,’ said North. ‘Keep going, everyone.’

The women needed no second bidding. Everyone moved. Even Jane, who clenched her teeth and tried to think of something other than pain. And the shame of having been publicly beaten and everyone else knowing it. And there might be scars. A permanent reminder.

‘Badge of honour, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane quietly. ‘Badge of honour.’

‘It’s not you who had your skirt pulled up round your waist with everyone looking,’ said Jane, and despite all her best efforts, her eyes filled with tears.

Socko bent over her. ‘Problem?’

Jane shook her head. ‘No. Not at all.’

‘Should I take a look?’

‘No,’ said Jane quickly. ‘I mean . . . no. Please. No.’

He nodded. ‘Can you run?’

Honesty compelled Jane to answer honestly. ‘Probably not.’

‘OK,’ said Socko quietly. ‘Here’s the deal. I’m going to give you my second best sonic to hold. You go over my shoulder, and while you’re there, you can protect our rear. Not dignified, but very effective. You’re our rear guard.’

‘See,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Badge of honour.’

He heaved her up over his shoulder. An excellent move because his shoulder bone, jolting painfully against Jane’s ribs, very nearly took her mind off her burning legs. She put her hand through his belt to steady herself and raised her blaster. Jiggling about as she was, it was unlikely she’d be able to hit even the church tower, but she was determined to give it a go. No one would attack them from behind. Not if she could help it.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Bolshy Jane. ‘Look for the ones in the blue dresses. Now imagine them on the ground, twitching and wetting themselves and knowing it was you who put them there.’

Jane suddenly found she felt much better.

They were nearly at the gates. Hansen was waving them through.

And then the soldiers turned up.

37

‘Dammit,’ said North, exasperated at this typical Time Police bad luck. Only another few minutes and they’d have been out through the gate, across the open ground and safely back in the pods.

Hansen turned to her, shouting to make himself heard over the still-clamouring bells. ‘Do we fall back to the cloisters, ma’am?’

‘No. We keep going. Make for the gates. And then we need to traverse the area between the gate and the pods.’ She opened her com. ‘Wu, how many hostiles out there?’

‘One platoon. About twenty men. They’ve split up – the other half has peeled off to the south gate. This is just the preliminary force sent to check out the situation. Others will be here very quickly. Especially when they hear gunfire.’

‘We need to be gone before that happens.’

‘Dal and Chigozie report the male passengers are safely inside the hospital pod. Ellis, Clore, Grint, Parrish and the doctor are on their way. Do we wait for the major or go now, ma’am?’

North considered. Including Lockland and Wu and his people on the east gate, she had seven officers. More than enough to fight their way out. Of course, she had some twenty civilians as well and some of them were elderly. If they waited for Ellis, she’d have more manpower, but more soldiers might arrive in the meantime. She made the decision.

‘No. We go now. I don’t want to be trapped here. What are the soldiers doing?’

‘Setting up a defensive position, ma’am.’

‘Bugger. We need to distract them. And the kitchen staff will be coming round any moment now. Rossi, you’re with the passengers. Socko and Hansen, you’re with me. We’ll . . .’

There was a sudden clatter of gunfire in the distance. At the south gate, by the sound of it. Were Ellis and the others under fire? The soldiers around the pods began to shout. Faintly, in the distance, came a reply. Reinforcements.

North made a quick decision. Too far away for sonics. And they were using the pods as cover.

‘All right, everyone. Combat mode. Visors up. Lay down blaster fire. Before they know what’s hit them. Try to panic them into breaking cover and then sonic them.’

They themselves were coming under fire. She could hear bullets impacting the walls. Lumps of brick were flying through the air. They were safe enough here, but not for long. Military reinforcements would be on their way. Her team needed to be gone by the time they arrived.

Chigozie’s voice sounded in her ear. ‘Hold your fire, North. We’re coming out.’

One of the hospital pod’s doors opened. Chigozie and Curtis knelt in the doorway and opened fire. Red and gold plasma trails criss-crossed the sky and the effect was impressive. The soldiers, finding they were under attack from the rear, did the sensible thing and clustered together in a tight group.

‘Gotcha,’ said Chigozie with satisfaction. He raised his sonic. ‘Wide beam, everyone. Night, night, soldiers.’

A minute later, silence had fallen. Along with a good number of soldiers. Curtis pulled out his proximity meter and reported nothing moving.

‘Go,’ said North, straightening up. ‘More will turn up any moment now. Emergency evac procedure alpha.’

The distance from the east gate to the hospital pod was less than a hundred yards, but it was all open ground and needed to be traversed as quickly as possible.

The Time Police have a procedure for rapid evacuation. Based on their conviction that anyone non-Time Police can’t be trusted to do even the simplest thing properly, civilians are not allowed to move under their own steam. In the TPO’s experience, civilians tended to do stupid things like panicking, running in the wrong direction, falling over and bringing others down with them, hurting themselves, or worst of all – arguing. All this can make evacuation much more difficult than it need be. So they’re thrown. From one officer to the next. Officers station themselves at intervals and literally catch the person hurled at them, whirl them around and throw them at the next officer. It takes a certain amount of concentration and coordination, there are always bruises, and sometimes the occasional person gets dropped. The big advantage, though, is that people treated thusly are hopelessly disoriented and helpless. They can barely speak, let alone struggle. All their concentration is on keeping their feet. This manoeuvre is often accompanied by a little light screaming, but that can easily be ignored. The object is to get people from A to B as quickly as possible. Minor injuries – any injuries at all, actually – were acceptable. Apologies might come later – but probably wouldn’t. Gratitude – never.

With Etok standing guard over the disoriented soldiers, the women were hurled from North to Socko to Harvey to Rossi to Hansen to Curtis to Rockmeyer to a hastily co-opted member of the medical team, and finally in through the door, where they were neatly caught by Kelly and quickly pushed out of the way to make room for the next. Any miscalculation on his part could result in him receiving an additional flying evacuee amidships before ridding himself of the first and all of them crashing to the floor. The line wouldn’t stop and he would end his days underneath a pile of breathless and dishevelled Italian women. It flashed through his mind that there were worse ways to go.

But not today. Twenty-three women and Lockland all safely received. Shifted from gate to pod before any of the soldiers out there knew what was going on. And now the door was closed, and they were safe. A little bruised, perhaps, but safe.

The medical team sat each of the women down while they got their breath back. Acting on instructions from the doctor, Kelly began to prep a treatment table, carefully selecting the one furthest from Officer Lockland.

Leaving Curtis to keep an eye on the still-unconscious soldiers, North and the rest of her team waited outside, ready to support Ellis when he should appear.

Jane propped herself against the wall of the hospital pod and closed her eyes. Her whole body throbbed. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but if only they’d come a couple of hours earlier. She’d have been issued a weapon and could have stood alongside her colleagues as they fought off the soldiers. And joined in the hunt for Luke, about whom she had huge concerns. God only knew what sort of trouble he’d managed to get himself into.

Luke was indeed in trouble, but being deeply unconscious, was unaware of that fact. Under the direction of the doctor, they’d cocooned him in foil and fashioned a makeshift stretcher using a grubby brown blanket hastily snatched up from the men’s ward.

Ellis opened his com. ‘Dal – how’s the evac going?’

‘Well, sir. Everyone accounted for.’

‘Once you’re at the pods – stay there. We’ve found Parrish. We’ll come to you. All pods to prep for immediate departure. Officer Wu?’

‘Sir?’

‘Sitrep?’

‘Both male and female evacuation complete, sir. My team is waiting for you at the south gate.’

‘What about the hospital staff?’

‘Fled into the church, as far as we can see, sir. Best thing for them and us, but we’re expecting massive reinforcements at any moment, sir. They must think they’re being invaded. There’s going to be infantry, cavalry, possibly even cannons. We must go now.’

Ellis closed his com and gestured. ‘I’ll go first. Then Grint and Clore with Parrish. The doctor and I will cover you. Remember – no one dies today. Sonics on wide beam and lowest setting. Blasters only if there’s no other way. Let’s move, people.’

He set off. Grint and Clore seized their ends of the stretcher and followed him. The doctor pulled out his more-frequently- used-than-you-might-think-given-the-supposed-healing-nature-of-his-profession weapon and took up his position at the rear.

There were no signs of opposition as they ran to the gate, where Wu and his team stepped out of the shadows. ‘Sir, Lt North reports the pods are clear for the moment. That won’t last – more soldiers will be on the way. Follow me, please.’

They set off at a run. Ellis and Wu went ahead, firing randomly as they went, just to discourage any of the soldiers who might be thinking of getting up again and having another go. The dark sky blossomed red and gold bursts, turning the night into a firework show. They stuck closely to the walls, clinging to the shadows. The pealing bells masked any noise they might be making. Although they’d be covering the sounds of reinforcements turning up as well. Ellis glanced back. The doctor had things in hand. He allowed himself to think they’d got this.

Grint and Clore were making the best speed they could while carrying their burden. Try as they might, they couldn’t avoid jolting the patient, which couldn’t be doing him any good. If he was still alive, of course. Grint was silently cursing himself for not risking the earlier jump.

They were so nearly back at the pods when a hail of gunfire erupted out of the darkness. The wall above them exploded. Pieces of plaster and brick rained down upon them. Quite painfully in some instances. A particularly large piece of former wall bounced off Grint’s helmet. The impact caused him to collide with the wall and drop his end of the blanket. The dead weight of Parrish brought Clore to his knees as well.

More gunfire erupted around them. There were shouts. They’d been spotted.

Instinctively – as he claimed afterwards – Grint flung himself across Luke Parrish. More wall fell on him.

He could hear shouting all around him. Ellis was summoning reinforcements. Risking a look up, he saw North and her team come racing around the bend. Someone heaved him to his feet.

‘Move,’ shouted Ellis.

Hands grabbed at the stretcher and they moved, firing as they went. Keeping up a continuous barrage. Pinning the soldiers down. The night was as bright as day. Still the bells clamoured overhead. Civilian screams sounded in the distance. So much for a quick in-and-out and no one any the wiser. It was possible full-scale wars had been fought with less sound and fury.

But they were nearly there. Covering fire was being provided by those already at the pods; the doors were open, all ready for them. The stretcher bearers peeled off into the hospital pod and everyone else headed for their own. Finally, they were all inside.

Ellis removed his helmet and dragged his arm across his forehead.

‘Chigozie, call the roll. People will be in the wrong pods. I don’t want to leave anyone behind.’

Shots peppered the sides of the pod. For all the good that would do.

Chigozie turned from the screen. ‘Everyone accounted for and all secure, sir. We were just waiting for you to finish your evening stroll.’

‘It’s been a refreshing interlude,’ said Ellis. ‘But time to go, I think. Wait until the other pods have gone – just to be on the safe side – and then give the word.’

Chigozie consulted the screen. ‘All jumped away, sir.’

‘Then let’s go.’

They went.

Rome. Midnight, 14th/15th July 1911.

The atmosphere in the hospital pod was calm. The passengers, most of them seated on the floor, were talking quietly among themselves. The pod smelled of antiseptic, coffee and people. Medtecs had treated the minor injuries incurred during the evacuation. Tommaso and Rossi moved quietly between the Zanetti passengers, explaining and reassuring. Some people sat quietly, sipping their drinks. Others had been reunited with friends and family. There had been some tears.

In the screened corner, Luke Parrish was placed carefully on an examination table.

‘Is he dead?’ said Grint.

‘Go away,’ said the doctor, opaquing the screen.

Grint moved a few paces away, studying the faces of those already brought in. ‘Lockland?’

‘Here somewhere,’ said the doctor, not looking up from what he was doing. ‘Go and look for her.’

Grint needed no second bidding. The pod was crowded and all the women seemed to be wearing sacks. He moved carefully, trying not to stand on anyone.

Socko looked up as he passed. ‘Sir, we found Lockland.’

‘Is she alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Conscious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unharmed?’

Socko paused. ‘Knocked about a bit, sir. This way.’

Jane was leaning against the wall and very carefully not sitting down because it hurt too much. She and Grint looked at each other.

Grint planted himself in front of her. ‘Well . . . Lockland.’

Jane squinted up at him. She was none too clean, hair everywhere, and somehow even skinnier than when he’d last seen her.

‘Hello, sir.’

‘Yes. Hello.’

Behind him, Socko rolled his eyes and left his team leader to it.

‘How are you feeling? They said you’d been knocked about a bit.’

For the first time in her life, Jane didn’t have enough blood in her face to blush. ‘Um . . .’

‘What? Jane, are you hurt? Does the doctor know?’

‘Just a little bit, and yes, he does.’ She changed the subject. ‘You found Luke?’

Grint remembered the sight of Parrish’s limp white body. His skin looking so thin that the bruises beneath could easily be seen. The long, bloody scrapes and nicks all over his hands and up his arms. The cuts gaping white because no blood was flowing.

‘We did. He’s being treated.’

‘They won’t let me . . .’

Grint saw again that limp white figure. ‘I . . . um . . .’

‘What?’

Grint was unsure what to say. This was a job for the doctor, surely. Medical platitudes. Expressions of groundless optimism. Leaving the door open for hope that was wasting its time.

She gripped his forearm. ‘What?’

It occurred to Grint that some idea of the seriousness of Parrish’s injuries might lessen the shock when he . . . he didn’t . . . Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘He’s not good.’

‘I knew it. I knew it. He was banging on about making certain we appeared in the official records. He stuck to the story even though . . . He told us to say whatever they wanted us to. To stay safe because we’d be rescued. That he would tell them about the train. He should have let me do it, too. He shouldn’t have had to do it all alone. I shouldn’t have listened to him. He . . .’

Jane’s voice was rising. Kelly appeared. ‘What’s going on here?’

Jane let go of Grint to clutch at Kelly. ‘Luke. What’s happening with him?’

Kelly assumed his professional face. ‘He’s receiving treatment.’

‘There you are,’ said Grint, unfamiliar in his new role as comforter. ‘They wouldn’t be doing that if he were dead.’

‘No,’ said Kelly, his heavy sarcasm going over both their heads. ‘We tend not to treat corpses. Bit of a waste of time and resources and the outcome is rarely happy. Lockland, you look like shit. Sit down and let’s have a look at you.’

‘No,’ said Jane quickly, unable to meet his gaze. ‘I’m fine. Just a little tired.’

Kelly paused for a moment and then said, ‘Yeah – OK. Stay quiet, Lockland,’ and went off to have a word with the doctor.

Left alone with Jane, Grint struggled to put his guilt into words. ‘How long were you in the asylum?’

‘I don’t know. Less than a week, I think. Couple of days. Long enough for Parrish to get himself into trouble anyway.’ She craned her neck as if trying to see through the crowds of people.

‘Jane, I’m sorry. We were just behind you all the way. We just couldn’t seem to . . .’

She smiled up at him. ‘I know. I kept catching glimpses of you.’

‘And then we had prisoners to take back to TPHQ.’

‘I know.’

‘I didn’t . . . I don’t want you to think I thought more of doing my duty than . . . you know . . . getting you back.’

‘I never thought that for a moment.’

‘I tried so hard. We all did.’

Jane reached out and very briefly touched his forearm again. ‘I knew you’d come. I never doubted it for one moment.’

Grint took both her hands in his and stared fiercely at the floor. Jane, by now accustomed to his method of displaying deep emotion, changed the subject.

‘What’s wrong with Luke? What aren’t they saying?’

Thus confronted by a direct question, Grint abandoned pretence. ‘He was . . . There was a bath full of ice.’ He stopped and then, not looking at her, said, ‘I think he’d been in there too long. I’m sorry.’

Jane turned a paler shade of white. Nearly as white as Luke Parrish had been.

‘We got him out as quickly as we could,’ Grint said, ‘but . . .’

‘He’s dead?’

‘The doctor’s working on him now,’ said Grint quickly, glad to be able to give her something positive.

‘But he’s dead.’

Grint shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’m sorry.’

Jane pulled her hands from his and wobbled off.

‘Um . . .’ said Grint, uneasy at this departure from instructions to stay quiet. On the other hand, he reflected, people were always telling Lockland to stay quiet, and now he came to think of it, she very rarely complied.

He went after her. ‘Lean on me.’

‘He’s not dead,’ she said, more to herself than Grint. ‘He can’t be. He’s Luke Parrish.’

She stared down at Luke, neatly wrapped in heated blankets, lying on the treatment table.

‘Ah, my other patient,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re . . .’

He caught a glimpse of her face and changed what he had been going to say. ‘You’re not important enough to be treated here. Wait until we get back and I’ll take a look at you then.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jane faintly.

Twenty minutes later, the passengers had been escorted to safety. They’d been evacuated in small groups to rendezvous at the front of the station. Most of them hadn’t waited to say goodbye even to each other, let alone their rescuers.

Ellis sighed and made his way back to his pod.

‘Is that it?’ said North, meeting him outside. ‘Have they all gone?’

Ellis nodded. ‘All one hundred and whatever of them. Disappeared into the night.’

‘I wonder what they’ll tell people. How will they account for their adventures?’

‘Well,’ said Hansen, ‘I think at the very least I’d kick down the door of the managing director of the Zanetti Company and demand a refund. And then compensation. And then reparation. And then I’d probably punch him anyway.’

‘I foresee a fine future for you in Industrial Relations,’ said Ellis drily. ‘What’s the position on Adesina and Kumar’s pod – which we might have been forgiven for forgetting, given the events of today.’

‘The clean-up crew dealt with it, sir,’ said Rossi.

‘In that case, everyone, I think we can go home.’

38

Jane awoke in MedCen and blinked. She was lying on her side in a cubicle, waiting for the doctor and, unbelievably, she appeared to have dropped off. She lifted her head. No, it hadn’t been a dream. She was definitely here in MedCen. She was safe. No more Zanetti Train. No more horrible darkness outside. No more lunatic asylum. All gone. She might never leave this place again. She could spend the rest of her life here. Snug, warm, safe.

To her left lay Luke. Very white, very still, and with all sorts of tubes and drips looped around him. They were pushing warm saline through his bladder, apparently, to warm him up. The doctor had said he wasn’t dead and no one had added yet, so the prognosis must be reasonably optimistic.

In the cubicle opposite, Matthew lay curled in a ball, apparently fast asleep, his arm encased in a flexi-glove and with a number of small cuts decorating his face. Jane sighed in equal parts affection and exasperation. What had he done now?

‘Hello there, Lockland,’ said the doctor, materialising beside her and checking the electronic readings over her bed.

Jane nodded at the bed opposite. ‘Is Matthew all right?’

‘Not in a month of Sundays, but if you mean is he hurt, then yes. Fell down a cliff and broke his arm, got himself involved in a Russian battle somewhere, was party to an assault on a senior officer – according to Grint – and somehow found enough time to chat with the Time Map. Pretty normal day for him, really.’

‘And Luke? How is he?’

‘Still with us. You can still get good odds he’s going to snuff it, but my money’s on him pulling through. He’s awake if you want to wave.’

Jane pulled her blanket more tightly around her.

The doctor looked at her carefully. ‘How are you feeling, Lockland?’

‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

‘Good. Socko reported you had problems walking. Did you twist something?’

Jane hesitated.

‘Sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane, very quietly.

‘Legs a bit sore?’

She braced herself. ‘Yes. A bit. Back of my thighs. They bled a little.’

‘All right, let’s have a look.’ He activated the screens around the bed. ‘Roll over.’

Jane turned scarlet, rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the doctor, unwrapping her like a parcel. ‘Six strokes, as far as I can see. The skin’s broken in a couple of places. Do you know what they used?’

‘A cane,’ whispered Jane.

‘Well, the good news is that there are no splinters and it all looks perfectly clean. Some antiseptic cream will sort things out, and Kelly can give you a shot to numb the area so you’ll be more comfortable.’

‘Um . . .’ said Jane faintly. ‘I . . . um . . .’

‘Actually, I might as well do it now,’ said the doctor, apparently oblivious to her agitation. ‘While I’m here.’ He pulled up a chair and took out a pair of latex gloves. ‘I probably won’t make as good a job of it as Kelly. Sure you wouldn’t prefer to wait for him?’

‘No, no,’ said Jane hastily. ‘I . . . um . . . it’s fine.’

The cream did help. And the shot. The pain faded a little. A lot, actually.

The doctor threw his gloves in the bin. ‘I’ll write up your records myself – it’s quicker.’

Jane smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

He stood up.

‘When can I be discharged?’

‘You don’t want to go out there,’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s bloody chaos. Big problems with the corridor outside the Pod Bay. Lots of shouting. Blame flying about in all directions. Take my advice – stay in here. I am.’

‘OK,’ said Jane, very willing to do as she was told.

‘We’ll bring you a gown in a minute. Make you more comfortable.’

He disappeared to do something to someone else.

Jane carefully made sure her skirts covered everything that should be covered and wobbled her way to Luke’s bed.

He was lying flat on his back and his eyes were open.

‘Luke?’

He smiled and whispered, ‘Jane. They said you made it. So glad.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks to you.’

The doctor materialised from nowhere. ‘What are you doing out of bed, Lockland?’

‘Talking to Luke.’

‘I said you could wave. Which implies not getting out of bed. Hang on.’

He pulled up a chair. Jane sat very carefully but the shot was still working.

‘Luke . . . I have to tell you this and you’re going to be angry. I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because what happened to you was my fault.’ Her tears began to flow. ‘I lied to you. I didn’t vote you off the team. But I was so cross with you. And you thought we didn’t want you and you did those things and risked your life because you thought you didn’t have a future and what happened to you is all my fault and I’m so sorry.’

She buried her head in the covers, sobbing into his lap just as a battered-looking Lt Grint appeared in the doorway. He stopped dead, drew every wrong conclusion known to man and then headed towards them with a thunderous expression.

Luke tapped Jane’s shoulder, saying weakly, ‘Jane, you and I both know you’re only depositing half a hundredweight of snot into my lap, but I fear your boyfriend might be getting the wrong impression and I’m in no fit state to defend myself. Not just at the moment.’

Jane lifted her head, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Which of us are you apologising to?’

Mercifully, Kelly appeared at this moment and handed her a gown. ‘Get back into bed, Lockland. Right now.’

Jane sniffed and nodded.

Luke winked at Grint – because he couldn’t resist – and then closed his eyes.

Grint turned his attention to Jane. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

She limped back to her own bed. ‘Yes, in a minute. I . . . um . . . I have to tell you first. Something important.’

‘What?’ said Grint, panicking utterly.

‘I . . . they . . . I was beaten. On my legs. It hurt. I cried. There might be scars.’

Grint took her hand and stared furiously at the bedside locker.

‘I shall kiss them better.’

Matthew opened his eyes to find the doctor standing at his bedside.

‘Look at me, Farrell.’

Somewhat groggily, Matthew complied.

The doctor examined his eyes. ‘Are you still seeing silver?’

‘A little bit. Not so much. It’s fading.’

‘What about your hearing?’

‘It’s fine. I can hear you.’

‘Only me?’

‘Yes,’ said Matthew carefully.

‘Well, I’ve reset your broken arm. And that’s the last time, so if you break it again then you’ll have to fix it yourself.’

‘How is Lt Grint?’ whispered Matthew, who had been fretting over whether he and Mikey had inadvertently caused Mount Grint any lasting damage by hurling official Time Police equipment at him.

Both the doctor and Matthew regarded Lt Grint, currently talking to Officer Lockland in the cubicle opposite.

‘The black eye on the left,’ said the doctor, who hadn’t enjoyed himself so much since the last time 236 had graced MedCen with their presence, ‘was caused by you and Miss Meiklejohn when you hurled your scratchpad at him, and the one on the right was inflicted by the city of Modena, which inadvertently got in his way at a crucial moment. Judged on aesthetic values, colour, range and imaginative placement, you are today’s winner. Congratulations – you beat an entire city. Speaking of beating, Lt Grint would like a word with you when convenient.’

He went off, laughing.

Completely forgetting there was now a new route to her workroom, Mikey had taken a wrong turn and found herself in the wrong corridor. Cursing her mistake, she wheeled around, only to collide with the Senior Mech. Both eyed the other.

Mikey took a chance. ‘What’s behind the wall? What don’t you want people to see?’

He opened his mouth but she interrupted. ‘Please don’t say there’s nothing, because that’s obviously not true.’

‘No, it’s not, but I give you my word it’s nothing harmful to you.’

‘Meaning it could be harmful to you.’

He looked around.

Mikey waited.

Eventually, he said, very quietly, ‘When we broke the wall . . .’

Mikey regarded him for a long moment and then said, ‘When I broke the wall. It was my experiment.’

‘You weren’t to know. It was all hushed up. Things were very bad at the time, and we didn’t want people to know that could happen. Even today, people aren’t aware . . . Officially they never made it back – Albay said people would forget and they did. There wasn’t even a service for them. They were just . . . left.’

He looked down at her. ‘I don’t know why I told you that, but for God’s sake don’t mention it to anyone. Not even young Farrell.’

‘You haven’t actually told me anything, but I won’t. I promise. What happens now?’

He shrugged. ‘We rebuild the wall. Before . . . Hay won’t want this getting around. That given the right – or wrong – set of circumstances, it could happen again. We’re a superstitious bunch. Soldiers always are. You’ve seen them stamp their boots for luck before they leave the pod.’

Mikey nodded. ‘St Mary’s does that as well.’

‘Yeah . . . well . . . those idiots need all the luck they can get.’

Mikey stared at the wall. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault, kid.’

‘Yes,’ said Mikey. ‘Actually, it is.’

He looked at her. ‘You didn’t cause this. You didn’t order the cover-up. You didn’t deprive them of the recognition of their service.’

‘But I did this.’ She pointed at the damaged wall.

‘You didn’t know.’

She looked down at her feet and said in a small voice, ‘Perhaps I should go back to St Mary’s. I don’t seem to be making a very good job of being a consultant to the Time Police.’

He shook his head. ‘You don’t want to do that. They’re a bunch of nutters there.’

Mikey shook her head, biting her lip.

‘How’s the problem with the toilet?’

‘Still a problem, I’m afraid.’

‘And the tea substitute?’

Mikey made the ambiguous noise made by inventors everywhere when they’re not sure where they’re going wrong. ‘And please don’t ask about the rapidly hardening string.’

‘No – that was a good idea. If you can get it to work, then everyone here will thank you. One day.’ He paused. ‘Would you like me to take a look? If you think I could help.’

Mikey hesitated. ‘Actually, um . . . yes, I would. If . . . um . . . if you’re not too busy . . . yes.’

‘OK. This afternoon, perhaps.’

Mikey nodded. ‘OK.’

Captain Farenden tapped at Commander Hay’s door. ‘Officer Varma for you, ma’am.’

He closed the door behind her.

‘You wanted to see me, ma’am.’

‘I do. Please sit down.’

Varma, who had assumed she was to brief the commander on progress with Sawney and Hooke, seated herself and took out her scratchpad.

Hay clasped her hands on her desk. ‘I wanted to speak to you about the death of Lt Filbert.’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘A sad loss. However, we must move on, and therefore I intend to promote you to lieutenant and make you head of the security department. I shall make a formal announcement to this effect after his service.’

She paused. Varma said nothing.

Hay continued. ‘You and I will begin as we mean to go on and speak honestly to each other, Lieutenant. Do you anticipate any difficulties in taking up this role?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I do. I can think of several people who might not be happy. But that’s their problem.’

‘You will have my full support at all times.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. For that and for the promotion. I shall do my best not to let you down.’

‘I have no fears on that score. Now – what are your plans for Messrs Hooke and Sawney?’

‘They’re in separate cells, ma’am. They never had a chance to talk to each other and I want to keep it that way. I’ll ask Major Callen to talk to Hooke while I interview Sawney myself.’

Hay blinked. ‘What is your thinking?’

‘It will annoy Sawney. He likes to think he’s important. Hooke will get the deputy commander of the Time Police while Sawney himself will only rate a woman. Or girl, as he’ll probably be more comfortable referring to me. It will rankle with him. I think it will be interesting to see what that brings forth.’

Hay stood up and extended her hand. ‘Lieutenant Varma, you have a very bright future ahead of you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Varma left Hay’s office in something of a daze, to find Trainee Tucker lingering outside in the corridor.

He planted himself in front of her. ‘Word on the street is that congratulations might be in order.’

‘Yes,’ said Varma. ‘They are.’ She faced him squarely. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

‘I do. I wish I could say it wouldn’t be a problem, but it would.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’d be your boss. It wouldn’t be appropriate.’

‘No. Shame. There were possibilities there.’

She nodded again.

‘Well. Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’

They each continued on their way.

Next in to see the commander was Major Ellis.

Hay sat back. ‘Well, Major, here we are once again, discussing the future of the infamous Team Two-Three-Six. Are they even speaking to each other at the moment?’

‘I believe so, ma’am. And not just to hurl abuse at Luke Parrish. They’re all very shaken by their individual experiences and, encouragingly, have turned to each other for support.’

She sighed, suddenly looking very tired. ‘I really don’t know what to do with them. They’re either dazzlingly brilliant or woefully inadequate. There’s just no middle ground.’

‘Actually, ma’am . . .’

She looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve discussed this with Lt North, ma’am. We both agree there are possibilities with Two-Three-Six. They have the capacity to do great things.’

‘There is also the capacity for great disaster.’

‘Agreed, ma’am. But at the moment they don’t have a senior officer. We’ve let that go until now because . . . well, no one was willing to take them on and they didn’t want one anyway. However, Lt North and I feel the team as a whole would benefit from a period of greater supervision. Not probation – I think that should be made very clear – but they need to work on their team dynamic. I – we both – think they’re worth saving. Parrish’s behaviour, for example, showed promising signs of leadership. He held things together on the train. He held the passengers together with the very lightest touch, steering them in the right direction. He undertook to get their story on record for us to find, regardless of the cost to himself. Nor would he let anyone else take the risk. Yes, he has attitude, ma’am, bucketfuls of it, but I find myself wondering whether, if carefully managed, there aren’t signs of excellence in Officer Parrish.’

Hay nodded. ‘And Lockland, in her own unspectacular style, delivered everything asked of her. As she always does.’

‘Agreed, ma’am. She’s steady and reliable and exercises a beneficial influence over Parrish. I don’t think either of them realises how much.’

‘And Farrell?’

‘Well, he’s just weird, ma’am. And if he’s taken to talking to the Time Map, then I don’t think any of us can save him.’

‘An interesting development, though, don’t you think? However, if he left, then Meiklejohn would certainly go with him and we’d have the two of them out there, unsupervised, wreaking havoc on the Timeline, and getting involved in God knows what.’

‘Agreed, ma’am. I think they’re all better off with us for the time being, and North and I are prepared to put in the time and effort.’

‘I still want you heading up BeeBOC though, Major. I’m not prepared to lose you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. And yes, I’d like to continue in that role. Supervising Two-Three-Six wouldn’t be forever. Just a few basic missions for them while they get themselves together again. Nothing fancy or strenuous. Just good old-fashioned solid gruntwork. As a team.’

‘But under careful supervision.’

‘If that’s what you want to call it. North and I regard it as an opportunity to sit in the pod drinking coffee while they get stuck in. You know the sort of thing – typical senior officers. Sitting back while others do the hard work.’

‘Good to see the old traditions being maintained,’ said Hay. ‘Very well, Major. With immediate effect. I’ll leave it to you to break the glad tidings to them.’

Meanwhile, at the same time and away from TPHQ – quite a long way from TPHQ, in fact – two pairs of eyes were surveying a pleasantly situated if slightly remote nursing home in Wiltshire. The prospect was pleasing. An ancient ivy-covered building was surrounded by well-designed gardens, which, in turn, were enclosed by thick woodland. Bright sunlight twinkled on diamond-paned windows and there was a pleasant smell of cut grass in the air. A neat sign beside the open front door informed visitors they were looking at Sunnyside Nursing Home.

Smallhope lowered her binoculars and they both drew back under the trees, out of sight. ‘Nice place.’

Pennyroyal nodded. ‘Very pleasant, my lady.’

‘This is going to be interesting.’ She eyed his suitcase. ‘Have you really brought every weapon you own?’

He surveyed her grimly. ‘Only the ones we’re going to need.’

Luke opened his eyes. The ward was silent. The lights had been dimmed. Everyone was asleep. He sighed in contentment, savouring the warmth. He would never take heat for granted again. From now on he would only be accepting missions that took him to tropical climes. Beside him, in the next bed, Jane slept neatly and quietly. Jane did everything neatly and quietly. It dawned on him that she was something he’d never known. Someone who was always reliable. Always safe. Always there.

The knowledge came to him with a sudden, almost terrifying clarity. He couldn’t do without her. He didn’t want to do without her. Life without Jane at his side was suddenly unthinkable. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He didn’t want to do it.

He retained only the haziest memories of the last twenty-four hours or so, but he did have a very clear memory of their recent conversation. Team Weird would continue. He was conscious of a spreading warmth that was nothing to do with the treatment he was receiving. He would see her again. Every day. There would be chances to tell her . . . show her . . . be with her.

He smiled to himself, whispered, ‘Jane,’ and closed his eyes.

On the other side of his bed, where she had been sitting still and unnoticed, Imogen Farnborough stood up, her face an expressionless mask, and quietly left the ward.

* * *

A few days later, a burdened Captain Farenden appeared at Commander Hay’s door. ‘Quite a lot for you this morning, ma’am.’ He placed two steaming mugs in front of her.

‘Ah – a two-mug meeting. My favourite sort.’

‘Kind of you to say so, ma’am.’

Hay sighed. ‘Sarcasm just bounces off you, Charlie, doesn’t it?’

He looked up. ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

She sighed again. ‘Nothing.’

He placed his files on her desk. ‘In what order would you like your updates?’

‘Randomise me, Charlie.’

‘Well, if you say so, ma’am. All non-Pod Bay staff have been given forty-eight hours’ leave. Hardly able to believe their luck, most officers have fled the building, scattering to the four winds, giving the Senior Mech and his cohorts the opportunity to finish their emergency repairs.’

Hay nodded but said nothing.

He flicked to the next item on his scratchpad. ‘Ah, yes. The hot news of the day, ma’am, is that Lt Grint and Officer Lockland have, apparently, departed TPHQ and headed for a small hotel on the south coast.’

Hay raised her eyebrows.

‘Together, ma’am.’

Hay sat back. ‘Charlie, how do you know these things?’

‘It’s my job to . . .’

‘No, I really don’t think it is.’

‘To offer you the opportunity to participate in a small . . .’

‘They’re taking bets out there?’

‘Speculation is rife, ma’am.’

‘It’s none of our business, Charlie.’

He shut down his scratchpad and folded his hands. ‘As you say, ma’am.’

‘And besides, how will anyone actually verify the outcome?’ Hay frowned. ‘It would have to be . . . Why am I talking about this?’

‘Allow me to change the subject, ma’am. Moving on . . .’

‘Hold on a moment. What odds are being offered?’

‘Ten to one on a successful . . . conclusion, ma’am. Two to one on utter catastrophe, broken limbs and possible hotel collapse.’

Hay drummed her fingers. Captain Farenden sat quietly with the expression of one contemplating higher things.

‘What have you put yourself down for, Charlie?’

‘I am a romantic, ma’am. A tenner on a successful conclusion.’

‘That’s sweet. I, however, command the Time Police. A tenner on utter catastrophe with a side bet on a small fire occurring at some point in the proceedings.’

He made a note. ‘Yes, ma’am. Moving on . . . There don’t appear to have been any repercussions following the safe return of the Zanetti Train’s passengers to their Time and place of origin.’

‘Thank God. That’s something we can cross off our list.’

‘Already done, ma’am. Next item – Miss Farnborough has been installed in one of the guest suites. We sent a polite request for a statement, and she actually turned up in person to assist us with our enquiries. The doctor has checked her out and there’s no reason for us not to proceed.’

Hay nodded. ‘Good. I’ll try to get along to see her later today as a courtesy visit. What’s next?’

‘Jay Adesina and Devan Kumar – lots of progress there, ma’am. They’re cooperating fully. Textbook interrogation. In fact, Varma is regarding it as a teaching moment and all trainees will be sitting in. We’ve tracked down the lock-up in which they worked, and the shop from which they bought the parts. Both empty, I’m afraid, but investigations are continuing. Something will turn up.’

‘I’m sure it will. Especially since it’s almost certain to involve Henry Plimpton somewhere along the way.’

‘Well, so we’ve assumed, ma’am, but suppose it doesn’t?’

‘Then I suppose my second choice would be Alexander Portman.’

‘Ah, yes – speaking of whom . . . First thing this morning, on his way out of the building with Officer Rockmeyer, Officer Curtis spotted something outside the front door which, on closer investigation, turned out to be Ernesto Portman himself. Bound hand and foot. And gagged. And wearing a surprisingly tasteful pair of silk pyjamas. Someone had thoughtfully thrown a blanket over him. Big surprise nevertheless. He seems somewhat befuddled, ma’am. He has no idea whence he originated, but I suspect Parrish Industries would be a good bet.’

Hay scowled. ‘I agree. I also suspect Raymond Parrish, having got whatever it was he wanted from him, has now passed him on for us to do the dirty work, but never mind – we can be grateful.’

Captain Farenden laid down his notes. ‘Do you think Raymond Parrish was responsible for the deaths of Anthony and Bradley?’

Hay considered this, eventually saying, ‘I don’t think he was involved at all. Not his style. I think he left them for Alexander Portman while he went straight for Ernesto – which probably saved Ernesto’s life. He would have gone the same way as his sons, otherwise.’

‘It will be interesting to hear what Ernesto has to say.’

‘Almost nothing we don’t already know, I suspect. Lt Varma is going to be busy.’ She paused. ‘Speaking of Varma, how is her promotion working out? Has the dust settled yet?’

‘Apparently there have been one or two isolated patches of negativity. However, after one broken nose and two black eyes, everyone has now come to regard Varma’s promotion as a Good Thing.’

‘Excellent. I do prefer these little matters to be successfully resolved without any intervention from senior staff. What else?’

‘This is interesting, ma’am. Sawney’s device. The one on the train that kicked everything off – it’s been discovered by the side of the railway line. The clean-up crew thought it was a wardrobe at first.’ He regarded his commanding officer. ‘We have choices, ma’am.’

‘Hobson’s choice,’ she said. ‘We either destroy it where it stands, which means we never get to plunder its secrets, or we bring it back here and risk TPHQ becoming another Zanetti Train if someone presses the wrong button.’ She stared out of the window for a long minute. ‘No – I’m not inclined to take the risk. We’re no worse off if we get rid of it. Tell them to wipe it off the face of the earth. I want a smoking crater where the bloody thing used to be.’

He made a note. And paused.

Hay picked up her second mug of coffee. ‘Go on, Charlie.’

‘Lt North and I have been trawling through everything we could find on the Zanetti Train. We’ve removed, altered, misled and generally lied, and there’s nothing out there now to leave any sort of clue should anyone be stupid enough to go after it in the future, but just to discredit the story completely, I’ve added one or two obviously very fake articles of my own. For instance . . .’ He passed over his scratchpad.

‘What’s this?’

‘An article purporting to be serious research on the appearance of the Zanetti Train through the ages, ma’am.’

She looked up from her reading. ‘It’s . . .’ Words apparently failed her.

‘Rather good?’

‘Well, actually, I was going to say sensationalist, badly written, poorly spelled, easily disprovable, and contradicts itself three times in the first paragraph.’

‘I modelled it on the government’s report on the success of their fiscal policy over the last three years.’

‘Yours is definitely more entertaining, Charlie.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘I particularly like your imaginative spelling of the word unnecessary.’

He frowned and reached for the report. ‘Actually . . .’ He made a minor adjustment. ‘There.’

‘That’s even worse.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Is there even a word in the English language with a double Y?’

‘There is now.’

‘And your plans for this article’s future?’

‘It – and several others like it, but by different authors . . .’

‘What different authors?’

‘Well, me, ma’am. But under different pseudonyms.’

‘A word you do appear able to spell correctly.’

‘Inadvertently, ma’am, I do assure you.’

‘What sort of pseudonyms?’

He passed her his scratchpad again. ‘Well, this one, for instance, is from the famous occultist and part-time porn star Clare de Lune.’

Hay peered at the scratchpad. ‘It says oculist.’

‘A nice touch, I thought, ma’am. Although I admit I did think it would be the porn star part of the persona that gripped your attention.’

‘How can you be a part-time porn star?’

‘I’m not, ma’am. Sadly, my onerous duties here preclude me taking up any other sort of occupation, part-time or otherwise.’

‘Aren’t you a member of MENSA?’

‘Sayyids.’

‘What?’

‘Sayyids, ma’am. Double Y. Scores fourteen points in Scrabble.’

‘We appear to be straying from the point. These reports . . .’

‘Yes, this one – and three or four similar but from supposedly different authors – will be buried on the internet.’

‘Buried?’

‘Not too deeply, ma’am. A rainy afternoon’s trawling with a mug of coffee and nothing better to do should uncover them easily enough. I think there’s enough discredited rubbish there to distract people from pursuing the matter any further. And just to be on the safe side, I’ve removed almost all related references to Dr José Saxino, the Casta Solea and so forth. The Zanetti Train might continue its journey through Time and space, but from now on, it will do so alone.’

‘Nice work, Charlie.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not really.’

‘In that case, get yourself out of the building and enjoy the next forty-eight hours.’

He gathered up his notes and scratchpad. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Returning to his office, he could be heard opening and closing drawers and shutting down his data table.

Something pinged.

Commander Hay was accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the normal Time Police working day. It was just something to be automatically filtered out. Silence, however, was rare enough to catch her attention.

She lifted her head just as Captain Farenden appeared in the doorway.

‘Ma’am . . .’

Epilogue

‘This is so pretty,’ said Jane, surveying the flower-bedecked hotel garden with its views out over a sparkling sea. ‘How did you find it?’

‘North stopped me in the corridor and for some reason mentioned it.’

Jane decided to think about that later.

Grint picked up their bags. ‘Shall we go in?’

The interior seemed very dim after the bright sunshine outside. Out of habit, Grint paused for a moment and blinked. The Time Police manual has quite a lot to say on the stupidity of officers who barge into unfamiliar territory with impaired vision. His full faculties regained, he approached the reception desk.

The young woman was surely far too young to be working legally. Grint hovered on the brink of ordering her to produce her ID and assume the position.

She looked up with a smile. ‘Good afternoon.’

Grint nodded. ‘We have a reservation.’

‘What name, please.’

‘Grint.’

Standing slightly behind him – because her ability to blush at a slightly higher magnitude than that of a supernova had returned with a vengeance – Jane tensed.

Grint had no need to tense. He was already there. And had been since he’d made the reservation earlier and run headlong into that old, old problem – one room or two?

Two rooms and everyone might think Jane was his sister, or that he was incapable, or Jane might think he wasn’t interested in . . . things, but one room looked as if he was taking an awful lot for granted. True to form, neither he nor Jane had discussed this even a little bit, because, as Luke Parrish had remarked to Matthew Farrell, each was as clueless as the other.

‘That’s right,’ said the young woman, blithely unaware of the mental anguish currently being experienced by both her potential guests. ‘Two adjoining rooms.’

Grint and Jane nodded. She handed them two key cards, ran an experienced eye over Lt Grint and, in the tones of one who already knew the answer, asked if they needed assistance with their luggage.

Both Jane and Grint shook their heads.

‘The bedrooms have a connecting door . . .’ She cast them another appraising glance and added, ‘Should you require it. Otherwise the door can be locked from either side.’

Grint stared out of the window. Admiring the view, probably. Jane stared at the floor. Admiring the carpet, probably.

Maintaining her professional face with an effort, the receptionist continued, ‘The lift is next to the stairs. Your rooms are on the first floor. Rooms eight and nine. Dinner is about to be served, but the kitchen is open until nine if you’d like to take a walk along the seafront first. The dining room is through there . . .’ She indicated. ‘And the bar is through there. There is a conservatory at the front where many of our guests like to take coffee and enjoy the view. I understand neither of you has any special dietary requirements. We hope you enjoy your stay with us.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jane, in some doubt about that but determined to be brave. Other people did this sort of thing all the time. With varying results, of course. Unless you were a heroine in one of Jane’s favourite romances, in which case you spent a night of energetic sexual rapture culminating in being borne aloft on golden clouds of ecstasy. And bliss. And joy. Jane cast a doubtful glance at Grint. It would have to be a very substantial cloud.

They took the stairs and located their rooms. Jane found herself in a very pretty lemon and pale green room with crisp bedding and a view out over the sea.

Grint found himself in a bedroom with three doors and could not have told you the colour scheme to save his life. There was the door from the corridor through which he had just entered, the connecting door to Jane’s room, and the third door which led into a small bathroom from which there was no other exit. A swift search revealed no booby traps. Nothing but towels and toiletries. Back in his bedroom, he peered from the window. His room was situated above a small porch. Should the situation require it, he could easily drop from the window to the porch and from the porch to the ground. Taking Jane with him, of course. From there they could effect a swift getaway down a narrow alleyway and lose themselves in a maze of short streets while he sent off an officer-in-distress signal and requested immediate back-up.

His Time Police instincts temporarily assuaged, Grint turned his attention to unpacking. Unzipping his bag, he upended the contents into the nearest drawer and shoved the bag on top of the wardrobe. After some thought, he washed his face and hands. Hair-combing was not deemed necessary. Lt Grint did not favour the fashionably tousled look and his hair reflected that fact.

He tapped on the door between the rooms. Jane opened it.

‘Have you finished unpacking already?’

He nodded.

‘Are you ready to eat?’

He nodded again.

Quite accustomed to his unique approach to social situations, Jane slung her bag over her shoulder and led the way downstairs.

Correctly divining the reason for their stay – Jane would have been mortified if she had any idea of the number of people who had correctly divined the reason for their stay – a suspiciously blank-faced waiter showed them to a quiet corner table where Romance Could Occur.

They settled themselves and picked up their menus. The hovering waiter asked if they would like a drink.

Having reassured himself the waiter appeared to be unarmed, Grint requested a beer. Jane, wondering whether her evening would be better approached sober or under the benign effect of a little alcohol, ordered a glass of house white.

‘Well,’ said Grint, having surveyed the room and its inhabitants, decided neither posed any imminent threat and that he could, therefore, relax for a moment. ‘This is very nice.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘And my room is . . . very nice.’

Grint nodded. ‘And the beds look comfortable.’

Jane turned scarlet.

Grint fiddled frantically with his cutlery.

Mercifully the waiter appeared with the drinks.

‘I’ll have the fish, please,’ said Jane, who always had the fish.

‘And the steak,’ said Grint, who always had the steak.

The waiter disappeared. It was quite some time before either Jane or Grint could look at the other.

Unknowingly joining the ranks of the Time Police, the waiter enquired of his colleague whether she would care to take a bet on Table Nine. His colleague cast Table Nine a swiftly appraising glance and gave it as her opinion they’d break the bed. The waiter scoffed and offered good odds both parties would chicken out and they’d spend the night in separate rooms.

‘We’ll see,’ said his colleague, irritatingly smug.

Had either Jane or Grint been in a fit state to notice anything, they might have wondered at the excellent service they received throughout the meal. Never had water glasses been so assiduously topped up. Never had the dessert menus been proffered so quickly. The two waiters were unable to agree whether dessert being declined was a good or a bad sign.

Finally, the meal that had, at one and the same time, seemed to fly by and yet drag endlessly, came to an end and both Grint and Jane were forced to the realisation that the time had come. A little rain began to speckle the windows. A walk along the seafront, which might have delayed events slightly, was now out of the question. Yes, the time had definitely come.

Unless they had a nightcap in the bar, of course.

‘Would you like a nightcap in the bar,’ asked Grint, not entirely sure what answer he was hoping for.

‘Um, no, thank you,’ said Jane, whose stomach was twisting itself into knots.

They stared at the table for a while.

The waiting staff held their breath.

‘But you go ahead,’ said Jane, struck by sudden inspiration. ‘I’ll . . . um . . . I think I’ll go up.’

Somewhat belatedly, it occurred to her that Grint might mistake this for a firm goodnight and that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. Now what should she say? I’ll go and get ready sounded as if she was about to don armour. But the thought of disrobing while Grint was actually present . . . What would he be doing while she undressed? Taking off his own clothes as well? Well, yes, obviously, but they’d be doing it in front of each other. How much easier would things be if she could actually be in bed when he arrived? Ready and waiting. So to speak. Jane’s mind recoiled at the thought of such promiscuity and she blushed all over again. Why was this so difficult? In books and holos, people just tore off each other’s clothes and tumbled into bed. Sometimes they didn’t even make it that far.

She resurfaced to find both Grint and the waiter staring at her. Grint was about to rise and the waiter stood ready to pull back her chair.

What was she to do?

‘Sweetie, you’re on your own,’ said Bolshy Jane and disappeared to pursue her own plans for the night.

‘I’ll um . . .’ She pulled herself together and managed a timid smile. ‘Can you give me a few minutes?’

‘Of course,’ said Grint, vastly relieved. He resisted the temptation to ask exactly how long she thought she’d need.

Jane disappeared. The waiter, not unsympathetic, recommended a brandy in the bar. Grint thoroughly agreed.

Twenty minutes, he thought, sitting at a table and nursing his brandy. Twenty minutes should be more than enough for Jane to do whatever it was women did under these circumstances.

He stared at his drink and realised he hadn’t thought to check his watch when Jane had disappeared, so he had no idea how much time had elapsed. He unsuccessfully tried to convince himself no one could possibly know why he and Jane were here, suddenly realised he should probably be making his own preparations, stood up in a panic, remembered his drink, sat back down, decided that finishing the brandy probably wasn’t a good idea, and stood up again, all to the vast amusement of the bar staff who had been discreetly tipped off by their colleagues in the dining room.

Jane, meanwhile, was dithering. She’d washed, brushed her teeth and hair – miraculously using the right brushes and in the right order – and donned a pretty nightdress she’d bought in a small and very expensive boutique and consequently smuggled back into TPHQ convinced everyone knew what was in her bag and why she’d bought it.

She’d turned down the lights and drawn the curtains and the effect was warm and intimate. Now she sat at her dressing table and stared at herself in the glass.

This was it. This was definitely It. It was definitely happening.

‘Sweetie, you look fine,’ said Bolshy Jane.

‘You’re back,’ said Jane.

‘Just passing through,’ said Bolshy Jane and was gone again.

On the other side of the wall, Grint had showered, dried himself off, cleaned his teeth, and was now on the horns of a dilemma. Should he put his clothes back on? If he appeared fully dressed would it look as though he’d changed his mind? And if he did put them on, at what point should he take them back off again? Perhaps he should just wear shorts? Yes. He felt very firmly he should wear shorts. And perhaps a T-shirt. Or was that too much? Or should he not wear anything at all? That would certainly make his intentions plain. Of course, his intentions wouldn’t be the only thing made plain.

And socks. Socks on or socks off? He’d read somewhere that a reluctance to part with one’s socks indicated a lack of sexual confidence. Would Jane have read the same article? She was a voracious reader, so yes, probably. Socks off, he decided.

And condoms. It was possible that Jane took care of her own precautions, although he shouldn’t assume, so he’d brought his own. It was, he told himself, the responsible thing to do. But where did he keep them? There were no pockets in his shorts. Did he surreptitiously conceal them in his hand? Or toss them casually on to the bedside table, thus making his intentions clear?

And how many should he carry? One? Two, perhaps? Three? Surely any more would constitute an orgy. Grint had every confidence in his own abilities but four times a night was pushing things a bit. To say nothing of exacerbating his old wound.

He sighed. Life was certainly a lot easier when you just left the money on the dressing table. Although this was probably not the moment to think about that.

He pulled himself together. He was a Time Police officer. He’d charged into situations where he’d been outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred and come safely out the other side. He could do this.

With a very similar mindset to the day he’d led the charge against the Tiptree Gang just outside Prague, and which had led to him temporarily losing all feeling in six of his toes – not all on the same foot – he slipped the packet into the waistband of his shorts, pulled down his T-shirt to cover them, squared his shoulders, crossed the room with a firm stride and tapped at the connecting door.

Hearing Jane’s voice and choosing to believe she was asking him in, he opened the door. Jane sat at her dressing table, hairbrush in hand. The gentle light caught her hair and made it shine.

Remembering to close the door behind him, Grint said the first thing that came into his head. ‘You look very pretty.’

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’

There was a pause. Jane was uncertain how to return the compliment. You look very muscular was probably not the way to go. Although he certainly did. You look very big was definitely not the way to go. Although he certainly did. As always, she compromised by saying nothing.

‘Don’t just sit there,’ hissed Bolshy Jane.

‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘I’ve popped back because it’s obvious you don’t have a clue. Stand up and let him get to you.’

Obediently, Jane stood up, one hand on the dressing table for support.

Grint stopped breathing.

There were several reasons for this. She did look pretty. Very pretty. And the way she was smiling up at him always made his heart turn over. And the light gleamed on her skin and made shadows at her throat and under her collarbones.

He pulled himself together. They were in a classic triangle configuration. He was here. She was there. The bed was over there. All about ten feet apart. The longest ten feet of his life.

All right. Think about this calmly. The clearly defined objective was to unite A with B and get them both safely to C. It shouldn’t be difficult. What would he normally do?

Well, that was easy. Had he been wearing his uniform, he would have taken two long steps forwards, tossed B over his shoulder and headed towards C with all speed, leaving himself hands-free to deal with any unexpected obstacles encountered along the way.

He suspected similar actions would not be appropriate under these circumstances.

The second option was to take the same two long steps forwards and sweep Jane off her feet. A fine, romantic gesture, yes, but not without its own problems.

It wasn’t that he doubted his own strength. It was generally agreed throughout TPHQ that Officer Lockland weighed less than a gentle breeze on a summer’s afternoon. Certainly less than the new Tebbit & Truss Anti-Personnel Disrupter (as featured in last January’s edition of Bombs & Blasters) – a long-range sonic cannon with optional range finder and rocket launcher – a magnificent piece of kit with a range of over a thousand feet and which, using ultrasound at full capacity, could permanently damage an opponent’s hearing and lungs and ultimately turn his – or her – brains into soup. A bit of a big beastie – normally two-man operated, but not if you were the size of Lt Grint. He’d had the pleasure of test-firing the thing at the special Time Police facility just outside the appropriately named village of Upper Slaughter.

Conscious that his thoughts were wandering, Grint refocused on the problem at hand. Think it through. Suppose he swept Jane off her feet in the traditional manner – then what? With both his arms full, how did he turn down the covers and actually get her into bed? Just tossing her on to the bed like a packet of condoms didn’t seem right, somehow. Should he perhaps reconsider the whole over-the-shoulder scenario again?

Fortunately, Jane, not unfamiliar with Grint’s thought processes, had taken matters into her own hands. Suddenly she was standing in front of him. He could smell her perfume. Something light and flowery, he thought, which, considering just a tiny thimbleful had cost Jane the equivalent of two weeks’ wages, probably wasn’t doing the fragrance justice.

Standing on tiptoe, and with her eyes tight shut, she kissed him. She was warm and she was soft. Suddenly confident, Grint returned the kiss with enthusiasm. She tasted amazing. It would be all right. Everything would be all right. In fact, it would be more than all right – it would be wonderful . . . glorious . . . spectacular . . . At long last – at very long last – this was IT.

Faintly, behind him, in his own room, came a horribly familiar sound. His com had gone off. A second later, so did Jane’s.

Grint let fly a terrible oath. For two pins – and had she actually had the vocabulary – Jane would have done the same.

He let her go. ‘Sorry. I have to . . .’

‘So do I.’

His com lay on his bedside table.

Grint grabbed it.

‘What?’

Not exactly standard Time Police procedure, but perhaps forgivable under the circumstances.

‘This is Ellis.’

Grint grunted.

‘A body’s been found in Wales.’

Grint groaned.

His interest in Wales was low at the best of times, and at this precise moment, any body that didn’t actually belong to Jane interested him not at all. In fact, in the unlikely event of Wales finding itself strewn with corpses from Cardiff to Caernarvon and back, he could not have been less interested. Not even if they were stacked three deep.

Ellis had stopped speaking, obviously expecting some sort of response from his deputy.

Grint grappled with his Time Police conscience. Pausing long enough to convey his deep unhappiness to an officer for whom he had a great deal of respect, he responded with enormous restraint. ‘I am on official leave.’

‘That is understood, Lieutenant. Nevertheless, this is a unit-wide recall. No exceptions.’

Grint grimaced, remaining silent in a vain hope Ellis would think his com had failed.

‘Lieutenant?’

Grint gripped his com. ‘Sir?’

‘I do understand . . .’

Grint grunted.

‘. . . but I need you back here. Asap. And Lockland.’ There was a pause – almost as if someone had nudged him. ‘If you happen to know her whereabouts, of course.’

Grint grappled again with his Time Police instincts. ‘What’s so special about this particular body?’

Ellis paused. ‘It’s a dinosaur.’

THE END

Author’s Note Three – yes, another one. Is there no respite?

Some of my wonderful readers have asked where the Time Police short story, Santa Grint, fits into the Time Police timeline. The short answer is that it doesn’t, officially – it’s a standalone. Although I can’t promise that the issue of Lt Grint’s publicity posters The Time Police Officer With a Heart won’t make an appearance at some point in the near future.

Acknowledgements

Well, firstly, I suppose – massive thanks to my mother, who offered to sort out my filing system. That’s a grand name for a filing cabinet stuffed full of loose paper, headphones, bank statements, old Kindles, business cards, actual files, old files, soon to be files and a tube of Polyfilla. Don’t ask.

Anyway, she volunteered – I took it all to her in black plastic bags, cardboard boxes, old file folders and such – and hey presto! Filing system. I said thank you, took her out to lunch, and casually mentioned my shredding pile. That’s the one under my desk that I rest my feet on while I type. She expressed an interest. Informing her that at only ninety-four, she had years of useful working life ahead of her, I stood back and let her get on with it.

Little did I know. From there – with barely a pause – she launched herself at my wardrobe which, to be fair, required some slight attention. I’d just slung everything in the nearest cupboard when I moved in, gaily planning to sort it all out at the weekend, and that was six years ago. My wardrobe is now seasonally arranged, then by colour and then by item.

(By the way, I’m planning to pimp her out if anyone’s interested.)

From there she launched a full-scale offensive on my kitchen – which might have needed it, but let’s not go there. Everything is now neatly arranged by culinary purpose. Condiments on one shelf, tea stuff on another, tins on another. My saucepans are finally reunited, which hasn’t happened in a while. She found my frying pan. Tea towels in one drawer, batteries and candles in another – all stored in plastic containers. I’ve seen this sort of thing on the TV but I never thought it would happen to me.

I’m pretty certain she’s about to start on my hairstyle – or lack thereof. And do I ever wear anything other than jeans? And how about giving all my shoes to the charity shop and starting again?

I and my shoes are currently hiding behind my laptop.

Anyway, thanks are also due to Graham O’Mara, who so kindly answered all my questions concerning steam locomotives, points, railway tracks, exploding boilers, dead man’s handles and so forth, and was so patient when answering all my daft questions and pointing out where I’d gone wrong. Thanks, Graham.

Thanks also to Hazel, my agent, for her help and support.

And to Steve and Sharon who picked me up off the bathroom floor. Not something any of us want to do again. Ever.

And to Julia, my beta reader.

And to Phil, my go-to guy for all the dodgy stuff.

And Zara Ramm, who reads my books so beautifully.

And everyone at Headline, of course:

Frankie Edwards – my editor.

Jessie Goetzinger-Hall – who somehow overcomes everything.

Hannah Sawyer – marketing guru.

Federica Trogu – in charge of publicity.

Ellie Wheeldon – who produces the audio books.

Everyone else involved, including the Sales, Rights, Art and Production teams.

Together with:

Jill Cole and Sharona Selby – my copy editor, proofreader and safety nets.

Fasten your seatbelts. Jodi’s written the origin story of everyone’s favourite bounty hunters . . .

THE BALLAD OF

SMALLHOPE AND

PENNYROYAL

Meet Lady Amelia Smallhope, for whom there is no problem that can’t be solved by a drink and a think. And Pennyroyal, for whom there is no problem. Ever.

No bad guy they can’t handle. No expense account too flexible. No adventure too outrageous.

Join them as they settle scores, break every rule in the book and take the world by storm.

The timeline doesn’t know what’s hit it.

Available to order now

Have you read the latest St Mary’s adventure?

Don’t miss The Good, The Bad and The History . . .

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