A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 38
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
It wasn’t right in the same way as when you’re not really listening to your washing machine – we’ve all got better things to do than that – but then it makes a click when it shouldn’t make a click and you know something’s gone wrong.
This was exactly the same. I heard a sound and it wasn’t a storm sound. I didn’t know what it was but it wasn’t right.
Rain streamed down the windows. It was like being in a car wash. I padded silently into the bathroom and very, very carefully peered through the still open window into the yard below.
Even through the sleeting rain I could see a pod shape where no pod shape should be and, at the same moment, there was a faint sound downstairs. Someone had cautiously opened the back door and it had stuck slightly – just as it always did. Someone – probably several someones – were in the house.
I couldn’t afford to be trapped inside. Out of the window and . . .
I stopped. I was alone. I wasn’t fully fit. St Mary’s was only twenty minutes away. I needed help.
Ignoring my protests, Leon had installed a panic button. Two, actually – one upstairs and one down. One on the landing and one in the kitchen. To the uninitiated they looked like thermostats. Except they weren’t connected to the boiler. They were connected to St Mary’s. Somehow. The process had been explained to me but guess who hadn’t been listening. I had, however, paid attention to the operating instructions.
Turn the temperature control fully to the right. Depress the central knob. Turn the control fully to the left. Depress again. Help summoned. I paused. This was St Mary’s so I did it again. And again. Just to make sure everyone was aware of the severity of the emergency.
I’m not sure what I expected to happen. No alarms sounded. No doors slammed shut. No grills dropped to cover the windows. No panic room opened up. A little disappointing actually. I made a note to have a word with Leon.
Hoping someone was awake at St Mary’s and mobilising what – for want of a better word – could be described as assistance, I shot back into the bathroom. I didn’t hesitate for one moment. The rain was considerably reducing visibility and there would never be a better opportunity to get out unseen and unheard. I put one foot on the side of the bath, the other on the windowsill and climbed out of the window.
The rain was making a hell of a racket, masking the sound of me slithering clumsily out of the window and down on to the outside toilet roof. I crouched, peering through the downpour. I couldn’t afford to hang around up here for long. They could be coming up the stairs behind me at this very minute. I had to find a secure hiding place until the cavalry turned up. I took a deep breath and dropped.
Bending low, I ran to the lowest part of the roof, didn’t allow myself to stop and think about broken ankles, and jumped down into our little orchard. The ground was so hard the rain was just sitting on the top so I landed with a splash, slipped and fell sideways. Now I was not only soaked to the skin but muddy, too. This was obviously going to be one of those days.
I sat up and looked around. Thunder rolled and crashed again. No lightning this time. I couldn’t remember whether being among trees in a thunderstorm was good or not. Did trees attract or repel lightning? Was that actually my most pressing issue at the moment?
Skirting the wall around the back of the outbuildings and pigsty, I reached the corner. I had choices. I could go right into the woods to play hide and seek in the thick rhododendrons, or left, around the log shed, and try to scope out who it was and what they wanted. Although I think we all know the answer to that one.
OK, Maxwell, stop and think for a minute. You should get yourself into the woodshed because firstly, you’ll be out of the rain. Second, it’s a good hiding place. Unless, of course, they have heat-seeking whatnots or proximity alerts. In which case, there is no hiding place. In which case, the decision is whether to run or to attack. I slid my back down the wall and crouched by the overflowing rain butt to consider my next move.
I still favoured the woodshed over the woodland. It gave me options. It was close to the house. And to their pod. Whoever they were. I know Insight was my first guess, but I’d been with Smallhope and Pennyroyal long enough to have inherited a few of their traditional enemies as well.
And then a voice I knew, nearly as well as my own, shouted, ‘Search the outbuildings. Use your personnel detectors. Fan out and drive her this way.’
Bridget Lafferty. And her team. Come to kill me. Again.
Bollocks. Move, Maxwell, while you still can.
I sprinted out of the orchard and into the wood and yes, I can still do it when I have to. I swerved around trees and hurdled logs and low bushes, heading straight to the stream. Without stopping to think – my signature move, some would say – I slid down the bank and into the water.
Bloody hell, it was freezing. Absolutely bloody freezing. And the current was much faster and stronger than expected. And there were rocks and boulders everywhere. Especially below the water. I’d skinned my leg already. On reflection, this might not have been a good move, but at least now I was as cold as the water, and if they had heat detectors . . .
I struggled out of the stream, courtesy of a couple of tree roots from the Middle Earth tree, and pulled myself up to peer cautiously over the bank. They were coming through the gate – five of them. Bridget and her bloody team. As I watched, they formed themselves into a line – like the police searches you see on TV – and began, methodically, to work their way through the trees. And two of them were coming this way.
I dropped back down again and scrambled in among the exposed roots, much as the hobbits had done to avoid the Black Rider. I made myself as small as possible, clutched my knees to my chest and tried not to shiver too loudly.
I couldn’t hear them over the rain but I could feel their footsteps. At least two of them, I think. They walked up and down the bank and then stopped. Right above me. I clamped my chattering teeth together.
‘Could she have crossed the stream, do you think?’
I couldn’t hear the reply over the water.
They stood for a while. A very long while, it seemed. I pictured them peering at their instruments, looking up and down the bank. I could only hope I was too cold to register.
‘No,’ said one of them, eventually. ‘Nothing here.’ He raised his voice, shouting, ‘Clear.’
Someone far off shouted a reply and I felt them move away.
I gave it twenty seconds. I meant to give it thirty but I’ve always been impatient. Very, very cautiously, I hoisted myself up over the bank. My instinct was to crouch and run and dodge, but running attracts attention. Their visibility would be no better than mine, and if I just moved at a cautious pace, there was a very good chance I could get myself to the already searched log store. It was only just over there. Cold rain splattered on my face and in my eyes and sodden grass wrapped itself around my lower legs. I probably wouldn’t have been able to run even if I’d wanted to.
Their pod was ahead of me and slightly to the left of the log store. I remembered their cameras weren’t that good and I suspected they hadn’t left anyone inside anyway. They were all out looking for me.
Hugging the hedge, I skirted the pod, using my sleeve to try to keep my eyes clear. With luck they were having the same visibility problems as me. And even if they were wearing helmets and visors, they’d be splattered with rain and, with luck, a bit of fogging up as well. I blessed the rain. I was sodden, but so would they be.
Yes – they would, wouldn’t they? I stopped dead, realised that wasn’t the smartest thing to do, and started up again. Get to shelter and then stop to work it all out, Maxwell. First things first.
Because this was Insight. This was Bridget and her crew. The same crew that had attacked us at Home Farm what seemed like a very long time ago, now. It was pouring with rain. And when they’d come to kill us, they’d been soaking wet, hadn’t they? We’d all remarked on it.
Had I got things the wrong way round again? They’d come here before they’d gone to Home Farm. And far from everyone smirking and saying I wasn’t important enough to be the target – I was. It was me they’d come for. For some reason yet to be established, and I didn’t have time to think about that now.
The inside was cold, dark, cobwebby and very noisy. The rain hammered down on the corrugated iron roof. Thunder crashed again, a great long rumble this time that went on and on. I looked around. Not surprisingly, the place was full of wood. A lot of wood. Some big tree trunks, waiting to be chopped up, some old pallets – again waiting to be converted into firewood – and a massive, massive pile of logs stacked neatly against two walls. In fact, so neatly were they laid that you’d be forgiven for thinking it was one of those trendy art installations people leave lying around the countryside. Unfortunately, meticulously stacked logs offer no sort of hiding place at all. Anywhere. I stared around. This was no good. There wasn’t even an upstairs where I could take refuge. With hindsight, this hadn’t been a good move.
In the woodshed.
I have an offspring given to obscure and unexpected utterances. They’re almost always useful but there’s never any context or perspective until it’s almost too late. But, according to Matthew, something was in the woodshed. Something useful? Something dangerous? Something I could use?
As the line goes, there’s something nasty in the woodshed.
And today there certainly was.
Me.
I looked around again. Just inside the door was a shelf at head height. Cans of oil. For a chainsaw, I assumed. Sadly, the chainsaw itself was absent. Shame. I could have gone all Streetley Chainsaw Massacre. A couple of ancient torches that certainly wouldn’t work. And a small cardboard box. I recognised that box. Leon had used it to store the bits and pieces taken out of his pod. I was supposed to go through it and pull out anything I wanted to keep, and I’d forgotten. There was bound to be something useful in there.
Silently I lifted it down. Three of Markham’s socks – don’t ask – a tattered paperback whose title it was too dark to read, a couple of fizzers for emergencies – and a remote control.
Of course. The remote for the pod. I could summon the pod, make a quick dash through the rain and be out of here in seconds. According to Dr Stone it wouldn’t do me any good, but travel sickness, no matter how bad, is rarely terminal, whereas a bullet quite often is.
I moved to the door and peered out into the now slightly flooded yard. The drains had backed up and the water was about an inch deep. Two men were climbing back over the gate just as another emerged from the privy. Checking it, presumably, rather than availing himself of the not very salubrious facilities offered in there. They looked even more drowned than me. If that was even possible. My time was running out. I couldn’t get away and I couldn’t dodge them forever. Time to go. I pressed the remote and waited.
Nothing happened. What?
I shook it hard because that always makes things work better and pressed it again.
Nothing.
Shit. No sign of St Mary’s, either. This is how you can tell I’m not a princess. I usually have to rescue myself.
I pressed again. In fact, I stabbed repeatedly because that’s always helpful. I was still stabbing when the workshop door shattered. Literally shattered. Lumps of rotten wood flew in all directions. Everyone leaped a mile into the air – including me – and with a whine and a clatter of imperfectly meshed gears, Markham’s assistant – R2-Tea2 – crashed out into the courtyard.
Wasn’t expecting that. Were you?
In a life lightly sprinkled with unexpected events, that one was right up there. What the hell? What the actual bloody hell? And then the truth dawned. It was the wrong remote. Of course Leon wouldn’t leave the pod remote lying around. This was one of the remotes for R2-Tea2.
How could I ever have thought otherwise?
Because I’m stupid, was the answer to that one. And I didn’t have my glasses on. And it was dark. And I was being pursued by homicidal former colleagues and my homicidal former boss.
On the other hand, I now had an ally. Yes, there were the aforementioned homicidal colleagues out there, but Markham’s assistant was a force to be reckoned with. I had no idea how to operate the remote but I stabbed the controls at random, either causing a massive malfunction in its tiny brain or possibly changing TV channels for miles around.
The thing careered around in a wide circle, sending up a bit of a bow wave and shattering pots and tubs in its path. A long banner trailed behind it, carefully formed letters running in the rain.
To Mum. Love, Matthew. This was what he and Leon had been doing in the workshop. Matthew’s present to me. My own tea-maker. Aww . . .
Best of all though, it was buying me time. Insight really didn’t know how to react. Yes, they jumped a mile and raised their weapons, tracking it as it crashed around the yard until it became clear they were in no danger. I don’t think they knew whether to laugh at it or shoot it. Whichever they did, it was only a matter of time before they wondered where it could have come from and why and who was operating it, and started searching for me with renewed enthusiasm.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, master?’
Oh God, was it back on that again? We were all going to die. I twisted the controls. I had no idea what I was doing but as long as it kept them distracted . . . St Mary’s was only twenty minutes away. Not much longer, surely.
Two of them put their backs to the wall and raised their weapons. Tactically a very sound move. Sadly, tactically sound moves meant nothing to Markham’s PA, who veered suddenly in their direction.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, master?’
It couldn’t help itself. Matthew and the professor had programmed it to offer tea to everyone whose path it crossed. Its tank would be empty, of course, and quite honestly, there was so much water about that anything this demented Dalek could sling their way wasn’t going to make a lot of difference, but I appreciated the effort.
I was still twisting knobs and things on the remote, so you could probably say it was something I did – although what, I’ve no idea – but, suddenly, appendages flailing, it went on the attack, hurling itself at the one recently emerged from the privy.
He yelled and instinctively stepped back. His two mates nearly pissed themselves laughing as he jinked and dodged trying to get away from the metal monster.
I was pleased because that was three of them occupied, and every second brought St Mary’s that little bit closer.
Sadly, Bridget appeared through the gate, took one look, raised her blaster and fired. R2-Tea2 exploded in a sheet of flame. Mechanical limbs flew in all directions. Black smoke poured from the shell. It was going to take more than a bit of soldering to get him going again. Matthew would be upset. As would Professor Penrose. As was I. My son had made me that. But we had the technology. We could rebuild.
The other team member had turned up while I wasn’t looking. That was all five in the courtyard now. Could I somehow take advantage of this distraction?
And then I had a thought. Oozing back into the log store again, I found the box. And the fizzers therein. Because the other thing about my opponents’ first attack – the one at Home Farm – was that not only had they been soaking wet, they’d been scorched. Quite badly. Not one of them had escaped unscathed. And there had been scorch marks inside the pod, as well. And that melted patch on the floor.
I looked at the fizzers. Not so much a Brilliant Idea as fulfilling my destiny.
Not that it would be easy. Fizzers aren’t accurate. They’re not meant to be. They’re not meant to be fired horizontally, either. They’re designed to soar upwards, spitting incandescent red sparks as they go, and then hang around in the air, bathing everything in a sinister red glow and probably exacerbating the problems that caused you to fire the thing off in the first place. They’re distress flares, not weapons, and the one thing Ian Guthrie had dinned into me during my training was – never, ever, point a fizzer at a person. It takes a great deal of energy to get a fizzer so high into the air and if it hits a person by mistake, it will penetrate the human body to a considerable depth. And it can’t be removed. The heat thrown out is unimaginable. It’s like having a small sun embedded in your arm or leg or chest. It doesn’t actually matter where, because the agony and the shock will kill you. Eventually. So as Major Guthrie had repeatedly said – you never, ever, aim a fizzer at a person.
Well, he was never going to know, was he?
The rain was still hammering down. Insight regrouped and went into the house. I heard the sound of something smashing. And then something else. The bastards were trashing the place. My home. The place where I was supposed to be safe. Small mammals will fight to defend their burrows. I was a small historian defending my burrow. My scruples vanished. I would make them regret ever crossing my path. Suddenly I no longer had any problems at all with their ultimate fate at Home Farm. Even Bridget. Because this was my home. I lived here with my family and we were happy.
Perhaps they knew I was around somewhere and were hoping to tempt me out with a bit of vandalism. They got that wrong. I wriggled further into the shadows as thunder and lightning crashed overhead. I could wait. I had the advantage of knowing how this would turn out in the end. If I played everything right. I knew they didn’t kill me here. They’d go on to Home Farm and meet their fate there. Something smashed in the kitchen. A whole ton of crockery by the sound of it. I imagined them throwing our books on the floor, rummaging through our stuff, breaking Matthew’s carefully constructed models.
Bastards. They were going to fry.
I don’t know how long I crouched there. My knees told me it was hours. I suspect about five minutes. Not a problem – Insight could stay as long as they liked. With good luck and a following wind, St Mary’s was on the way. At least I hoped they were. Yes, of course they were. Bound to be. Weren’t they?
