in the night. The pod was dark and silent. He had curled himself around me, one arm protectively over my shoulders. I could hear him breathing.
I woke again and I was lying in the crook of his arm, warm and safe.
I woke again and he was resting his head on mine. I could feel his breath in my hair.
I woke again and he was in the tiny shower.
Singing.
* * *
It’s true what they say – things do look better after a good night’s sleep.
After breakfast, we sat and talked over the plan – every aspect of it, because there would never be a second chance. We had to get it right first time. Our lives depended upon it.
Leon’s plan was to land at St Mary’s and talk to Dieter, now in charge of the Technical section. While his pod was being serviced, he’d somehow sneak a word with Dr Bairstow and load up with supplies. Whether the Time Police would have left a presence at St Mary’s, we had no way of knowing but he didn’t seem overly concerned about that, because, I suspected, he was keeping all his concern for my part of the plan.
In vain did I argue that the eruption was necessary to cancel out any advantages they might have in terms of numbers and equipment. When you’re fighting for your life in a pyroclastic flow, sonic weapons are about as much use as the junior party in a coalition government. In fact, I argued, as an historian, I’d have considerable advantages over the Time Police. I was commanded to state at least one. Not important right now, I said.
He sighed.
I challenged him to come up with a better plan. He sighed again. I didn’t push it. Instead, I made us both a cup of tea, partly because I felt we deserved a mug to fortify us against our coming ordeals, but mostly to put off the actual moment when we would have to part.
Taking refuge in practicalities, he busied himself drawing up a servicing schedule.
I made up a shopping list of supplies and medical stuff, including industrial strength painkillers. Understandably, he would want to be in and out as quickly as possible, but, as I kept pointing out, that was the beauty of the plan. He could spend days at St Mary’s – weeks, even – and so long as he could jump back to Pompeii around an hour or so after he left me there, it didn’t matter.
‘The plan can’t fail,’ I said, ignoring such minor inconveniences as an unreliable pod, an erupting volcano, the omnipresent Time Police, a dying city, and a panicking population. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
He slowly folded his lists and put them carefully away.
I shut the last locker door and there was no reason why we shouldn’t get on with it. No reason at all.
So we didn’t. We sat on the floor and looked at each other.
I should speak. I hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t said anything either, but there was a very real chance that one or both of us wouldn’t get through this. His pod could whirl him off to some place there was no coming back from. I could find myself buried under the contents of Vesuvius. He could be caught at St Mary’s. I could be caught at Pompeii. This might be the last opportunity we would ever have to speak together and if it was one thing I had learned over the last year, it was never to let an opportunity pass. It might never come again.
We turned down the lights and heating to conserve power, wrapped ourselves in blankets and we talked. We were a little hesitant at first, but there was safety in the semi-darkness. A feeling of intimacy and understanding. After a while, the words came more easily. We talked a little of our lives before St Mary’s, but not a great deal, because those weren’t happy times for either of us. We talked of St Mary’s – of shared experiences, each bittersweet word recalling old memories and half-forgotten jokes.
I said, ‘Do you remember the day Roberts and Markham tried to get a horse upstairs?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. They got old Turk up onto the gallery and they couldn’t get
I woke again and I was lying in the crook of his arm, warm and safe.
I woke again and he was resting his head on mine. I could feel his breath in my hair.
I woke again and he was in the tiny shower.
Singing.
* * *
It’s true what they say – things do look better after a good night’s sleep.
After breakfast, we sat and talked over the plan – every aspect of it, because there would never be a second chance. We had to get it right first time. Our lives depended upon it.
Leon’s plan was to land at St Mary’s and talk to Dieter, now in charge of the Technical section. While his pod was being serviced, he’d somehow sneak a word with Dr Bairstow and load up with supplies. Whether the Time Police would have left a presence at St Mary’s, we had no way of knowing but he didn’t seem overly concerned about that, because, I suspected, he was keeping all his concern for my part of the plan.
In vain did I argue that the eruption was necessary to cancel out any advantages they might have in terms of numbers and equipment. When you’re fighting for your life in a pyroclastic flow, sonic weapons are about as much use as the junior party in a coalition government. In fact, I argued, as an historian, I’d have considerable advantages over the Time Police. I was commanded to state at least one. Not important right now, I said.
He sighed.
I challenged him to come up with a better plan. He sighed again. I didn’t push it. Instead, I made us both a cup of tea, partly because I felt we deserved a mug to fortify us against our coming ordeals, but mostly to put off the actual moment when we would have to part.
Taking refuge in practicalities, he busied himself drawing up a servicing schedule.
I made up a shopping list of supplies and medical stuff, including industrial strength painkillers. Understandably, he would want to be in and out as quickly as possible, but, as I kept pointing out, that was the beauty of the plan. He could spend days at St Mary’s – weeks, even – and so long as he could jump back to Pompeii around an hour or so after he left me there, it didn’t matter.
‘The plan can’t fail,’ I said, ignoring such minor inconveniences as an unreliable pod, an erupting volcano, the omnipresent Time Police, a dying city, and a panicking population. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
He slowly folded his lists and put them carefully away.
I shut the last locker door and there was no reason why we shouldn’t get on with it. No reason at all.
So we didn’t. We sat on the floor and looked at each other.
I should speak. I hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t said anything either, but there was a very real chance that one or both of us wouldn’t get through this. His pod could whirl him off to some place there was no coming back from. I could find myself buried under the contents of Vesuvius. He could be caught at St Mary’s. I could be caught at Pompeii. This might be the last opportunity we would ever have to speak together and if it was one thing I had learned over the last year, it was never to let an opportunity pass. It might never come again.
We turned down the lights and heating to conserve power, wrapped ourselves in blankets and we talked. We were a little hesitant at first, but there was safety in the semi-darkness. A feeling of intimacy and understanding. After a while, the words came more easily. We talked a little of our lives before St Mary’s, but not a great deal, because those weren’t happy times for either of us. We talked of St Mary’s – of shared experiences, each bittersweet word recalling old memories and half-forgotten jokes.
I said, ‘Do you remember the day Roberts and Markham tried to get a horse upstairs?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. They got old Turk up onto the gallery and they couldn’t get
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