Just One Damned Thing After Another (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #1)

by Jodi Taylor

‘What happened to you? You fall over your own feet?’ I swear he blushed. ‘Go on,’ said Murdoch. ‘Tell her.’ Weasel shook his head. ‘He was hit by a flying body part. A bloody leg flew through the air and caught him right between the eyes.’

muttering, ‘Balls to the wall, guys,’ flipped a switch and a second later The Beatles were asking a startled prehistoric world to picture themselves in a boat on a river.

‘Please be aware that anyone pissing off the pilot will not be allowed to board and since the pilot's already both pissed and pissed off, there's a very good chance some of you won’t make the cut. ‘All passengers for the red-eye to Rushford please make your way to the boarding gate immediately. Hands off cocks and on with socks, boys, you’re going home.’

‘Rushford? Why can’t we go back to St Mary's?’ demanded Markham. ‘What's at Rushford?’ ‘Well, for a start, spicy lamb casserole followed by treacle tart and custard, hot showers, warm beds, more beer than you can handle, and probably a bottle of something potent. But of course, if you’re not interested then I’ll just release you back into the wild, shall I?’ Typically from Markham, ‘So, no women then?’ ‘Tim,’ I said. ‘Open the door and throw him out, will you?’

and contravening . well, I’m always guilty of contravening something, so just fill in the blank space with the contravention of your choice.’

and it would cause me considerable concern (and surprise) if, at any point, you weren’t contravening something, somewhere.’

‘So, you get discharged from hospital, still not recovered from a serious illness at . what . eleven a.m.? You stop for a quick lunch, meet a friend, steal a pod from a top-security establishment, do a series of complex equations, and an hour later you’re skipping around the Cretaceous, rescuing four men and facing down the world's greatest predator with a can of pepper spray and a hard look. I think you’re pretty amazing.’

‘As per our previous conversation, Miss Maxwell, I would like you to deal with this matter. In public and with prejudice.’ ‘Happy to oblige, sir, and with extreme prejudice.’

We could, of course, just march through the front door but that wouldn’t be half so much fun. We were going to do things the St Mary's way.

People's attention was wandering, which was probably punishable by death under the new regime.

You could have heard an earthworm sneeze. I had everybody's rapt attention.

‘Broke your hand, didn’t you?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Forgot to un-tuck your thumb?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Hurts like buggery?’ ‘Yep.’

‘To clear up a few minor points: I am Dr Edward Bairstow and I am the Director of St Mary's Institute of Historical Research.’ His unit cheered. He bent over the vaguely stirring Barclay. ‘Madam, you are relieved!’

We were all shunted off to Sick Bay, even Barclay. Apparently, there's something in the Geneva Convention or the Human Rights Thingy about leaving people lying around bleeding. I was going to require some convincing.

I’m going to the bar and I’m going to spend my last night at St Mary's getting right, royally rat-arsed! Would you care to accompany me, Mr Peterson?’ ‘An honour and a privilege, Miss Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Let's see if we can’t set some sort of record for alcohol abuse, disreputable behaviour, and generally pissing people off.’ ‘Well,’ I observed. ‘We’ve made a good start.’

‘Now then,’ said Peterson to them. ‘We don’t work here any more, so you’re going to need to run a tab and we’ll settle up at the end of the evening, or more probably, the beginning of tomorrow morning. Margaritas for the lady and single malt for me. Keep them coming and I’ll sign the tabs.’

‘What's Kal going to do when she arrives back and we’re gone?’ ‘She will pause only to torch the place on her way out.’

‘It's a little late in the day, but should you be drinking with antibiotics?’ ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I stopped taking them to make room for the booze.’ ‘Fine grasp of priorities, that woman.’

‘Max, your presentations are legendary. That one you did on Agincourt for those school kids was epic.’ ‘I taught them the origins of flicking the V-sign. Did you see their teacher's face?’

when people see how good we are, we can put our prices up a bit. And let's face it, between the pair of us, we have more qualifications than you could throw a short peasant at. In fact, if you didn’t know us at all, you’d think we were quite respectable.’

We got in another round and Mrs Partridge wafted in. ‘Dr Bairstow's compliments and could Miss Maxwell please join him at her earliest convenience?’ ‘Miss Maxwell's compliments,’ I slurred. ‘Owing to the copious amounts of alcohol consumed, it's not only not convenient but probably well-nigh impossible, given the location of his office at the top of an outrageous number of stairs. Probably Miss Maxwell's apologies would be more appropriate. How about tomorrow morning?’ ‘Dr Bairstow is currently downstairs in the Library,’ she informed me with considerable relish. Well, that solved that problem. I helped Peterson to his feet and we set off at an angle.

‘I wonder if I might have a word, Miss Maxwell.’ ‘Fat chance,’ said Peterson, belligerently. ‘Look at her. That's what happened last time you had a word.’

Mrs Mack handed me a plate of leaves. ‘What's this?’ ‘Mushroom omelette and salad. Doctor's orders.’ ‘But it's green.’ ‘Green food is good for you.’ ‘Can’t I have mint choc-chip ice-cream instead?’

and a very special welcome to Miss Maxwell who has returned from civilian life with the impact of a small asteroid.

then heads began to turn towards the back rows where our eight trainees were sitting with the traditional trainee expressions of exhaustion, confusion, and terror.

You’ve seen this unit go through historians like laxatives through a short grandmother.

‘I’ll go,’ said Dieter, standing up. ‘Well, you’ve got a short memory,’ I grinned. ‘The last time we spoke you swore you wouldn’t even use the dining room if I was there!’

becoming temporarily distracted; always a hazard for historians.

‘He should also supply us with a list of desirable scrolls, just in case we have time to pick and choose, rather than the approved St Mary's method of just grabbing anything and running like hell.’

‘Good God, we’ve created a monster,’ said the Boss, calmly, appearing behind me. ‘Peterson, stop writing on the walls. Don’t you know this is a listed building?’

God knows what they were doing in there. There was no point in asking. I’d tried and he’d just grinned at me. So irritating.

We don’t need scientists wondering if the ancients really did use anti-dandruff shampoo.

‘I assume you have contingency plans?’ ‘Well, yes and no, sir. Sod's Law decrees if a thing can go wrong it will. We’ve done our best but something will happen that we haven’t foreseen and then we’ll just have to wing it.’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The History Department's motto.’

The awful fug began to dissipate a little. The fire alarms hadn’t gone off. I climbed on a table and pulled off the cover to investigate. No battery.

There never is.

‘A couple of us will be in full fire-fighter's gear. Everyone else will be wearing protective fire suits. And there's no point in the History Department shaking its head and muttering. I don’t give a rat's arse about historical inaccuracy. Live with it.

I shifted restlessly in my seat. Beside me, Peterson whispered, ‘Bloody hell, Max, we’ve got to stop including these amateurs. We’ll never get anything done at this rate.’ Unfortunately, at that moment, Helen stopped talking and his voice was heard around the Hall with disastrous clarity. You can say this about historians, we may be the tea-drenched disaster-magnets of St Mary's but bloody hell, can we think quickly when we have to. He turned in his seat, fixed a startled Ian Guthrie with a glare, and said, ‘Shh!’ It didn’t save him. I did what I could, but she separated him from the herd and when she’d finished with him, a vengeful Ian Guthrie was waiting.

The big pod, now known for ever as TB2, was completed and loaded only two days after its scheduled date. All the other pods were serviced and ready to go. He did not manage to set fire to himself in any way. No screaming was involved. No alarms went off. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘That was dull.’

History, it would seem, had either been looking the other way; or had possibly given up where St Mary's was concerned.

‘What did we get?’ Peterson coughed and spat. ‘What we came for. At a rough guess, between fifteen hundred and seventeen hundred scrolls. No idea of the contents. We grabbed from all over the Library so it should be a nice mixed bag. Of course, with our luck, it’ll be just multiple copies of the furniture inventory.’

They’re not contemporaries. They have modern weapons. Legitimate targets. Shoot their arses.’

A small part of my mind was thinking what a bitch of a FOD plod we were going to have.

They were covered in soot and such hair as they possessed between them stood on end. The Professor was yelling, ‘God for Harry, England, and St George! ‘

God knows how they were still alive.

They’d found my arm. It was between my shoulder and my wrist, exactly where it should have been. I’d been lying on it. I felt a bit silly.

Did she work for St Mary's? Or did St Mary's work for her?

‘I have some good news for you. When I last saw Mr Markham, he was attempting, somewhat groggily, to persuade Nurse Hunter to engage in a game of cards, the purpose of which, I understand, is to cause the loser to divest herself, or himself, of course, of various articles of clothing. He seemed very determined. I should not be at all surprised if he is successful in his endeavours.’

Markham’s alive! (and playing strip poker)

‘Don’t you come near me you devious, double-dealing, underhand, rat-bastard. I’m going to gut you with a rusty breadknife and then stake your honey-covered arse over an anthill in the noonday sun.’ ‘You’re very grumpy today. And after I picked you up out of the sand and brought you into this nice cool pod. How ungrateful are you?’ ‘I’ve been shot at, blown up, covered in shit, brained with a rock, and lied to. You’re lucky I’m only grumpy.’

People obviously preferred the blazing sunshine to the blazing row I was trying to have – and failing.

‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ ‘I know nothing of the sort. You just hurled me across the car and went at it like a crack-crazed rhino.’ He smirked. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

It was just like us -noisy and gloriously tasteless.