Lies, Damned Lies, and History(49)

There was a ringing silence and then I slammed into the bathroom. I threw my clothes around the room and climbed into the shower. After two minutes, an arm appeared around the curtain with a mug of tea. Drinking tea in the shower isn’t easy, but I appreciated the thought and gave it a bloody good go.

He was gone when I came out.

Fifteen minutes later, I strode into the bar full of wrath and rebellion, fully intending to break a few more rules – mostly the ones concerning pregnant women and the levels of alcohol deemed appropriate by those who take it upon themselves to deem such things. Typically, once I got there, I found I’d lost the taste and had to make do with a rebellious tonic water instead.

I wondered if I would ever grow accustomed to people falling silent whenever I walked past.

Peterson and Markham had already bagged a table and I joined them. Judging by the number of glasses on the table, they’d been there for some time. I raised my glass.

‘Illegitimi non carborundum, guys.’

‘Actually,’ said Markham, turning his glass around on the table, ‘I thought that could have gone much worse.’

We regarded him in astonishment.

‘Did you miss the bit about Roberts and Sands resigning?’ demanded Peterson. ‘Or Max being demoted and being made to stay and face people every day?’

Typically, he didn’t mention his own ruined chances.

‘No,’ said Markham quietly. He leaned forwards and so did we. ‘But I did miss the bit where Dr Bairstow demanded to know the whereabouts of the sword so that it could be returned to Thirsk.’

We sat back.

‘So did I,’ admitted Peterson.

I nodded in agreement, turning over the implications. That should have been the first thing he asked. Should have been his main priority. Returning the sword to what the world considered to be its rightful owners would have gone a long way to making things right again, and for some reason, he hadn’t done so. Hadn’t even mentioned it. Was it possible …?

‘Doesn’t mean he won’t have us back again tomorrow and start pulling out our fingernails,’ said Peterson, gloomily.

‘And even if he doesn’t, tomorrow isn’t going to be good for us,’ said Markham. He looked at me. ‘How are you doing?’

He meant Leon.

‘He’s oscillating,’ I said. ‘One minute I’m being blamed for everything under the sun and the next minute he’s shoving a mug of tea under my nose. I’ll get through it.’

‘We all will,’ said Markham. ‘Just a few suggestions. We stick together. Not necessarily physically, although I think that’s a good idea, since we’re social pariahs at the moment, and likely to remain so for some time, but we should eat together at least.’

‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘And we never look downcast, or miserable.’

‘Or guilty,’ added Peterson. ‘That’s important.’

We nodded.

‘And we don’t discuss anything with anyone. I’m afraid that includes Leon and Hunter.’

Markham and I agreed. He looked around the room. The way people were ignoring us was making us the centre of attention. ‘The next few days are going to be a bitch.’

Back in my room, the Chief Technical Officer had disappeared and my husband sprawled across the sofa in jeans and a dreadful old sweater he wouldn’t throw away because it was the one he had been wearing when I appeared in his workshop. He regarded me somewhat warily. ‘Who am I talking to at the moment?’

‘Both of us,’ I said, wearily, plopping down beside him. ‘The ex-Chief Ops Officer and your wife, and both of them are very, very sorry. Leon …’

‘No,’ he said, pulling me onto his lap. ‘Don’t say anything. Not tonight. Tomorrow the Chief Technical Officer will shout at the ex-Chief Ops Officer who will probably throw her boots at him, but tonight, right now, you are my wife, and you’re unhappy and tired, and more than a little frightened of the future.’

I nodded. No point in denying it.

‘Could your husband have a word with his wife?’

‘Wife speaking – go ahead.’

‘There’s a small cottage available for twelve month’s rent. Down in the village. Do you know the one?’

‘Dark green door almost opposite the pub?’

‘That’s the one.’ He groped in his pocket and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Two beds. Kitchen, living room. Breakneck staircase. Small garden at the front. Yard at the back. Nice views over the fields. Recently modernised. Semi-furnished. What do you think?’

‘It sounds ideal. When’s it available from?’