Christmas Present (ebook)

Argumento de Christmas Present (ebook)

It's Christmas Eve at St Mary's,

And all through the house,

Nothing is stirring ...

Except for Max, Peterson, and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books.

It's ten years ago tonight that Senior Historians Bashford and Grey went missing in twelfth-century Jerusalem. So how did they end up in AD60 Roman Colchester?

Max has a theory. Peterson has a plan. Markham has bacon sandwiches. Colchester has Boudicca and her bloodthirsty Iceni hordes.

And then there's the giant pig ... the enraged giant pig ...

I wouldn??t go so far as to describe Mrs Partridge as a nightmare ? not if she was within earshot, anyway ? but there she was, standing at the bottom of my bed, regarding me with that expressionless stare that never, ever, bodes well for me and I should know. I??ve been the recipient of that stare on many occasions.. .
We looked at each other for a while. She was wearing the full formal attire ? Greek robes, silver diadem, sandals, and a stern expression. Only Kleio, Muse of History could brandish a scroll as if it was a heat-seeking missile.
I, on the other hand, was not only in my PJs, but further disadvantaged by the presence of a heavily slumbering Leon Farrell beside me. The only good thing about this situation was that she hadn??t turned up twenty minutes earlier. By unspoken but mutual consent, we ignored him.
I struggled to sit up. ??Mrs Partridge???
As if there could be any doubt, but it was the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. It was freezing cold ? I could see frost on the window ? and St Mary??s was officially on holiday.
We work for the St Mary??s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time-travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, detests that phrase. ??This is not Science Fiction, Dr Maxwell!??
I knew he was at Rushford tonight, dining with a bunch of civic dignitaries, and wouldn??t return until tomorrow, just in time to preside over Christmas lunch. If he wasn??t here and St Mary??s was on holiday, what could she possibly want? And how had she got in? Leon, wisely, always locked the door. I mentally kicked myself. She was Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. She could go anywhere she damned well pleased. And, apparently, she had.
She said, ??Get up, please, Dr Maxwell. I??ll wait outside,?? and turned to go.
??Wait! What??s happened? Is someone dead???
But she??d gone.
I grabbed my dressing gown.
She was waiting for me on the dark landing. ??Please, come with me.?? She took my hand.
??No. Wait. What??s going on???
Too late. She never likes to spoil the surprise with anything as mundane as an explanation. The ground disappeared beneath my feet and we whirled away into the air, as directionless and weightless as two tiny snowflakes in a blizzard. We landed, light as thistledown in her case, and like a small sack of coal in mine.
I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again.
??Mrs Partridge, please, just tell me. What??s this all about???
She gestured ahead of us. We were in Hawking Hangar. But not the Hawking I knew. This one looked really rough. Primitive, even. For a start, the lighting was terrible. Eye-wateringly bright in some areas, but dangerously dim in others. A bit like our Ttechnical Ssection, actually. The central area was taken up with long metal benches, smothered in tools, cables, and equipment. The floor and walls were of rough concrete and the whole place echoed like a cathedral. Huge, rubber-sheathed cables trailed across the floor; not tidily bundled against the walls as they should be, but snaking around the place in giant loops, seeking to trip the unwary.
Busy techies were moving around us, obviously completely unaware of our presence. Nobody actually walked through us though, which was a shame, because I would have liked to see how my dream coped with that.

Pods stood on plinths, ready to jump back to their allocated time, but instead of each plinth having its own set of controls built in, techies were trundling around a giant contraption of flashing lights, dials, levers, read-outs, and electronic beeping. Huge umbilicals sprouted from every orifice. They heaved it to plinth four ? it took three of them ? and started plugging things in. They all wore thick insulating gloves. They even wore protective goggles. For an organisation that tends to regard health and safety in the workplace as something that happens to someone else, this was a little worrying. It all looked very Heath Robinson to me. As if something new was being born and everyone was making it all up as they went along. A crisis would occur and someone would bolt on another piece of equipment, which would do until the next time something else went horribly wrong, and they had to come up with another solution.
Looking at the faces around, I hardly recognised anyone until Dieter drifted past, wearing a stained orange jumpsuit and looking as if he??d just escaped from college ? which actually turned out to be the case. He was pounding his scratchpad and calling the results to someone inside NumberPod Four. A disembodied but familiar voice replied and two seconds later, a very young looking Leon Farrell stuck his head out of the door, requesting clarification.
Yes, this was Hawking, but not as I knew it.
I looked around for a convenient calendar. Given the technical and mechanical nature of the place, the picture on the wall should be of some semi-naked nymph, sprawled elegantly across a high-end sports car, while a significant portion of her anatomy defied gravity. Since this was St Mary??s, a fluffy kitten and a fluffy duckling sat side by side above a date showing Christmas Eve. Ten years ago.
??Oh no,?? I said to Mrs Partridge.0