The Chronicles of St Mary's Omnibus, page 16
As it turned out, she was reasonably OK. The Chief attended in his role as buffer zone and this helped. She showed me what they’d put together so far. She’d changed two of my suggestions (for the better) and added some new ideas. I was pleased.
‘Only two things, Izzie,’ I said. She bridled immediately. ‘Can you make sure our logo and copyright appear on the title page? This is going to be big and I’m sure the Boss will want to make sure St Mary's is shown somewhere. Otherwise Thirsk will be all over it.’
She nodded. ‘And the second thing?’
‘The dedication to Sussman.’ She started to speak. I cut across her. ‘Put it at the beginning. This is so good they’ll be in no fit state to notice at the end, so put it up first, while they’re all still able to pay attention.’
I looked at the Chief. ‘His idea and his work. He should get the credit.’
I got one of his full-on smiles. The crinkly-eyed one. It made me feel better and it pissed Barclay off no end, so no downside there, then.
‘Chief, before we show it at Thirsk, I thought we could give it its world premiere here in Hawking tomorrow. Let everyone at St Mary's get to see it. After all, everyone contributed. If the Boss agrees, of course.’
‘I’ll talk to him. I can’t see a problem.’
‘Oh, and, Izzie?’
‘What?’
‘Make sure your name and your team's names are on it somewhere. It's a cracking piece of work.’ And walked out before she could speak. Ha!
The world premiere in Hawking was a huge success. The IT section, thrilled at the thought of producing something creative instead of the daily uphill struggle to instruct the computer illiterate, really put their backs into it. Everyone in the entire unit assembled in Hawking and waited to be impressed. I couldn’t stand still. I went from Barclay's last-minute tweaking to the Chief setting up the streamers around the designated area. They both, in their own ways, told me to go away. Eventually, I ground to a halt near Kal. She rubbed my arm encouragingly. ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘It's got to be better than OK. It's got to be bloody fantastic.’
‘It will be. Stand still. Breathe.’
The lights dimmed, to simulate dawn and we were off. Poets bang on a lot about rosy-fingered dawn and that's just what we got, beautifully reflected in the still water. Tendrils of mist floated above the ground. The quality was amazing. The Cretaceous period was all around us, three hundred and sixty degrees. And solid – this was no cheap, wobbly, see-through simulation. I looked down at my feet, watching them sink into holo mud.
Far away, just on the edge of hearing, I could feel a deep rumbling in my chest. Looking around, I could see people looking at each other, hands on their own chests and laughing, but nervously.
The rumbling increased and out of the mist emerged the long, grey neck of an Alamosaurus, then another and another, then a whole group of them. Necks swayed sinuously and the noises increased. They were greeting each other and the day. One long neck snaked down towards the camera, revealing a small head and cow-like eyes. The bovine resemblance increased when it emitted a long, low mooing noise. The camera trembled. Satisfied we were no threat, the head moved away.
The mist cleared away and the neighbourhood came down to drink. We had some beautiful shots of a group of Ankylosaurus moving around the waterline, struggling to drink and protect their young at the same time. A familiar green smell rose up around us. Industrial-strength farts. Even a T. rex thought twice about biting into one of these. A miracle the cameras hadn’t melted. A large herd of slow-moving Proceratops, manoeuvring their bulky bodies through the swamps gave them a wide berth. Ankylosaurus tails could shatter bones and teeth.
The Proceratops were shadowed by a small group of fast-moving Oviraptors flitting in and out of the dappled shade, looking for nests.
The quality of the shots was excellent. Colours, skin patterns, markings, all the frills, horns, cheek plates, crests, sclerotic rings, everything the well-dressed dinosaur wore those days – all crystal clear as Barclay's team had steadied wobbly camera work, re-focused close-ups and generally sharpened up the whole thing.
The day wore on, we were past noon now. She’d managed to get our very few Triceratops shots incorporated. And a fleeting glimpse of a herd of Deinonychus (I looked away); enough to give an impression of their deadly speed and co-ordination.
The now much fewer numbers of animals at the shoreline dwindled even further. You could see everyone thinking it must be siesta time. We’d done that deliberately, so when the T. rex exploded into camera view everyone nearly wet themselves. Its prey, a half-grown, limping, exhausted Edmontosaurus turned to face the end. When we’d picked this up, we’d hardly been able to contain our excitement, but the best was yet to come. The T. rex leaped, finishing its prey with a skull-crushing bite. The Edmontosaurus's skull cracked and it went down like a tree. Red gore splashed the T. rex's face, jaws, and chest. The shot clearly showed its little forelegs opening and closing spasmodically. I wondered again if this was a display of excitement, supporting the argument that these little forelegs, too small even to touch each other, were for sexual tickling. Alternatively, maybe just a reflex action. Others would decide.
The successful T. rex however, made the mistake of bellowing his triumph in a half shriek, half roar that reverberated off the surrounding hills. A red cloud of blood and flesh fragments belched from his massive jaws. Everyone stepped back. Hardly had the echoes died away when another, much bigger, T. rex erupted into shot; possibly a female this time. At this point, even Sussman had been in two minds whether to run or not.
Earsplittingly, they screamed their rage as they circled each other. Dust flew in clouds as they stamped their feet. They lashed their tails. They battered each other with their enormous heads. The bigger one, by virtue of her size, seized the smaller by the scruff of his neck. Instead of pulling away, he closed and ducking his head even lower, clamped his jaws on one of her tiny forearms. She screamed, shook him like a rat, and hurled him away from her. He cartwheeled over and over and, before he could stand, she leaped on him. She raked a hind claw across his belly and as he raised his head to get up, she went for the exposed throat. No messing. He gurgled and was dead in seconds. She strutted, roared her victory to the skies, and settled down to feed on his kill.
Professor Rapson beamed. ‘It's not a chicken after all! Not a feather in sight! Well done, Max.’ Although how I could take the credit for disproving the theory that T. rex was nothing more than a giant, scavenging chicken was hard to see. Still, it was good to know the image of the world's favourite predator remained intact.
We faded from that and before anyone had time to draw breath, the hangar began to vibrate. Dust fell from the roof. Tools rattled and clattered to the floor. And from the far end of the hangar, slowly and with majesty, came a herd of Alamosaurus. The first one was colossal – fifty feet high and seventy feet long easily, with a body the size of a swimming pool. Unarmoured – they didn’t need to be. Size matters. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Others emerged from behind the leader.
Izzie gave us maybe thirty seconds worth of establishing shots. Enough to appreciate their size and proportions and then cut to shots from me and Sussman, ducking and diving like the idiots we were that afternoon. In and out, weaving around giant, slow-moving legs, getting close-ups of bellies, armpits, feet, orifices, you name it – we filmed it. Bloody great haystack-sized dollops of Alamosaurus shit splatted to the ground around us. We could see the different textures of the skin, the calluses on the joints, thick skin, thin skin, the creases and folds.
People gasped. Even over the deafening thud of their feet hitting the ground, we could hear their ghastly gurgling digestive noises. They were so much larger than anyone had thought. Previous estimates of size must have been based on immature bones. They were magnificent. They plodded endlessly on. Finally, the last of the herd passed through the hangar, to eventual dinosaur oblivion, leaving total silence behind. The hangar drew a collective breath, but we had one last spectacular shot to come.
As the sun set, orange and smoky blood-red behind the distant volcanoes, a solitary flying shadow came out of the clouds and the only Pteranodon we ever saw dipped low across the water. Slowly and serenely, he spread his wings and glided over the surface, racing his shadow. A long snake neck whipped out of the water, seized his wing, and dragged him under without a sound and barely a ripple. The sun sank. The day was over.
I spent the next two days incessantly going over the data. I wrote a commentary for the holo. I checked all the data cubes, disks, sticks, and stacks were loaded and correct. I collated all the documentation and labelled everything. I couldn’t leave it alone. Peterson took me for a drink but I couldn’t settle, so I guess they thought it would be easier just to let me be.
The Chief and I set off early – the Boss had loaned us his Bentley; a rare favour. The boot and back seat were stacked with archive boxes filled with the fruits of our labours. With Sussman gone, the Chief was coming along to handle the technical side of things.
‘You’ll be all right once we get started,’ he said, accurately reading my mind.
I sat and stared out of the window and fretted. Had I mentioned iliac crests? Did I mention the Proceratops eggs laid in spiral patterns? And the flap of skin covering Saurolophus nostrils? Yes, yes, and yes. Calm down and focus, Maxwell.
We were met by the welcoming committee, the Chancellor and her gang, all of whom seemed very pleasant. I don’t know why the Boss always carried on as if they were the Antichrist. Although I suspected if this presentation failed and they weren’t happy with our data then I would soon be finding out. The Chief disappeared off in the direction of their main lecture hall and I went alone into the lion's den to meet the Senior Faculty.
In the privacy of the Chancellor's office I introduced myself, listed my qualifications and experience, and detailed the mission parameters. I always start that way. It gives my brain a chance to catch up with my mouth.
I followed the same format for all the categories. I outlined the requirements, described the methodology, and congratulated them on the reliability of their equipment. I brought up a few stills from the star map, just enough to whet their appetite, then moved tantalisingly on to geology and climate. Again, just as they became interested I switched to flora and fauna. I showed them how to access the raw data. Nothing had been worked up and no conclusions drawn. Not our job.
I gestured to the piles of disks, cubes, and tapes on the table beside me and formally handed them over to the appropriate heads of departments who had been slathering impatiently for the last twenty minutes. Out of compassion for them I’d kept it as brief as I could and I appreciated they wanted to get at it, but I wanted to be sure St Mary's got the credit it deserved.
I asked ‘Any questions?’
Someone stood up (primed by the Chancellor, I suspected) and said, ‘Yes, but what was it actually like?’
There would never be a better opportunity. Before I could respond, the Chancellor rose to her feet and said, ‘This way please, everyone.’ Muttering and looking longingly back over their shoulders to the piles of data on her table, they complied.
The lecture hall was massive. On the downside, of course, given the seating capacity, I could be embarrassing myself in front of millions. The Chief had already erected and aligned the streamers, three down one side and three down the other. Every chair was taken. Standing room at the back was packed. They contravened fire regs. and sat on the floor in the aisles. If this place caught fire, not only were they all doomed, but two of St Mary's finest were going up in flames as well. Better than going down in flames, I suppose. I swallowed and wondered again whether I’d suit an office job.
The Chancellor introduced us, to a polite smattering of applause. We had a minute's silence for Sussman. She sat down. Here we go.
The lights went out, the blinds automatically covered the windows, and the streamers came on line.
I said, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, utilising the very latest technology developed at St Mary's, I present to you: A Typical Day in the Cretaceous Period.’
The opening scenes came up and to gratifying gasps of amazement the Alamosaurus head snaked down and looked the Chancellor directly in the eye. All credit to her, she took it well.
They’d forgotten all about me, so I sat down and watched them watch the holo. My commentary went down well, although, honestly, I’m not sure how much they actually heard. They shouted with surprise as each species made its debut appearance and after that it was chaos. I watched them scramble over each other and the furniture trying to get better views. A hundred arguments broke out around the hall as cherished theories were mercilessly amended, embellished, or discarded.
I watched in amused horror as a great dinosaur dollop apparently enveloped a group of venerable academics arguing in the corner.
‘Oh, I say,’ murmured the Chancellor. ‘All over the Senior Faculty!’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘No, no, they’ve been trying to do that to me for years. Jolly well done.’
‘Always happy to oblige, ma’am.’
‘My compliments to Dr Bairstow. Tell him the cheque's in the post.’
They loved it and us, as they bloody well should. We’d scored a huge PR success for St Mary's. The Boss had asked me to be polite, so I talked to everyone, gave out my card, and promised St Mary's would be on hand to answer any queries that might arise concerning data collection. Finally, we found ourselves in the car park.
We chucked our jackets on the now empty back seat and I settled myself in the front as we drove slowly away.
I stared out of the window, still on a high. They’d liked it. It had gone well. I hadn’t embarrassed myself or St Mary's. I couldn’t ask for more. Now I could draw a line under recent events and legitimately take a bit of time off. I would go for long rides, eat chocolate, do some painting, catch up on my reading, and generally laze around a bit. The assignment was all over and I could relax. I decided to start by just looking out of the window, admiring the scenery and enjoying the ride home.
After two miles I was bored.
I looked around the car for something to do and obviously, the first thing I saw was Chief Farrell. I let my gaze wander a little. He’d rolled up his sleeves over his forearms. Heaving huge lumps of pod around every day had given him great arms. Great hands too. Even as I looked, he turned. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said happily.
He yawned.
‘Would you like me to drive for a bit?’
‘No. I choose life.’
‘That's a little bit unkind, Chief.’
‘Miss Maxwell, I have every respect for your many abilities. You are a talented and passionate historian, a skilful artist, and a fierce and loyal friend. You are warm, compassionate, smart, funny, and incredibly sexy. You are also the world's worst driver. Ever. God knows how you passed your driving test. I can only assume the examiner was so dazzled by your beauty that he ticked the “pass” box before you even put the keys in the ignition.’
A couple of heart-thumping seconds passed before I was able to say, ‘Thank you.’
He nodded, his eyes on the road.
‘And if you pull over now, I’ll give you the blow-job of a lifetime.’
We hit a tree.
The only sound was the ticking engine. I got out to survey the damage. ‘Well, for crying out loud, Chief!’
He clambered out and buried his head in his arms on the car roof. I looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you hurt?’
He lifted his head, sighed, and pulled out his phone. ‘Dieter! Yes, crank up the low-loader will you? We’ve had an accident. No, we’re fine. About three miles out, on the Whittington road, just before the crossroads. Yes, at the top of the hill. About half an hour, then. OK.’ He snapped the phone shut and walked round the car undoing his trousers.
‘You. No more messing about. Across the bonnet of this car. Right here, right now.’
Before I could move he lifted me bodily and tossed me across the bonnet. It was hard and hot. So was he. He pushed my skirt up around my hips and tore off my knickers. I really didn’t know that could happen. I don’t know where they went. I never saw them again. He slipped two fingers inside and, satisfied, pushed himself into me – hard. It should have been brutal, but it wasn’t. I arched up to meet him, wanting every inch, wrapping my stockinged legs around his waist and pushing hard against him. We crashed together and I felt heat building in and around me. His hands were all over me, rough and urgent. I moaned and this galvanised him further, thrusting harder and faster. It hurt, but it was glorious, and I couldn’t have stopped to save my life. I pulled up his shirt and raked my fingernails across his back. He gasped and groaned, but didn’t stop. I bit his neck and he took my head between his hands and kissed me, tongue pushing its way into my mouth, matching the rhythm of our bodies. I could hear a wailing noise, rising in crescendo and volume. Oh God, it was me. I twisted my hands in his hair and pushed back, matching him all the way. He whispered, ‘Lucy,’ and as soon as he said it, I was away, heaving and shuddering and gasping as wave after wave broke over me, increasing in frequency and strength. I couldn’t stop, all control gone, totally abandoned, lost in a sea of sensation and pleasure, until my body convulsed, a scream ripping from between my clenched teeth. He pushed again and again, prolonging the moment endlessly until, with a series of harsh, inarticulate cries, he shuddered and collapsed across me. I could feel him inside, pulsing over and over, as he finally released himself and we both slowly came down together.
Eventually, he lifted himself up and looked down at me. I sprawled across the bonnet, breasts exposed, skirt around my waist, legs spread wide. My hair had come down and hung over my face.
He rested his weight on his hands and tried to catch his breath. Slowly, he withdrew and straightened up. ‘Dear God.’
