Luke persevered. ‘She’s carved an entire career out of never doing what people expect. Or want.’
‘With luck,’ said Jane, optimistically, ‘she will have been horrified to find they’d pushed off without her and will be very happy to go back with us.’
‘Or,’ continued Luke, ‘she’s an ungrateful little madam, puts up a fight when we eventually locate her, and we find ourselves in the middle of a riot.’
‘Or,’ persisted Jane, ‘she’s been here alone for a couple of hours now and she’s frightened out of her wits and is actually pleased to see us.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘This job could be a piece of doddle.’
‘Although, if she wouldn’t leave with her boyfriend, then she’s hardly likely to want to leave with us,’ said Jane, suddenly abandoning her uncharacteristically optimistic outlook. ‘Even if one of us is you, Luke.’
‘That’s a point,’ said Matthew. He peered at his team leader from under his non-regulation haircut. ‘And we probably should have asked this earlier, but will she be pleased to see you or is she likely to reach for the nearest weapon?’
‘Ah . . .’ said Luke, carefully.
Matthew looked at his team leader and rolled his eyes. ‘You couldn’t have mentioned this before? Jane, if we find her, you do the talking.’
Jane looked down at herself. Unlike those pod jockeys at the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, where historians go to enormous lengths to achieve historical precision with their attire, the sole Time Police concession to temporal accuracy were their black cloaks, beneath which they wore their normal day-to-day uniform. Body armour, black T-shirt, black combats, boots. Since they weren’t expecting any trouble, and to avoid panic and possibly over-hasty actions on the part of any contemporaries, Team 236 had left their helmets back in the pod.
‘We’re not going to blend in at all,’ she said, anxiously.
Luke sighed. ‘Jane, I keep telling you. We’re the Time Police. We don’t have to blend in. We’re utter bastards and we want people to know it. Besides, you know what the English are like – they’ll just think we’re foreigners and pity us.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’ said Matthew, carefully checking the pod door was closed behind them. ‘Do we just march up to Imogen, grab her and throw her into the pod, clean-up-crew style?’
‘I strongly advise against anything physical,’ said Luke. ‘Even without her anti-kidnap training, I know she captained the hockey team at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. I believe doubts were raised at the time on the advisability of weaponising her but it was too late by then. No, I think our best plan will be to locate her with all speed and then adapt ourselves to whatever circumstances are prevailing at the time, devising and executing a simple but effective plan to achieve our primary goal.’
Matthew eyed him suspiciously. ‘You mean make it all up as we go.’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
Jane surreptitiously consulted her by now very dog-eared notebook and pointed. ‘This way,’ she said, and with some misgivings, the three of them stepped out into the seething mass of humanity. It was impossible to put one foot in front of another without colliding with someone else. The streets were packed and noisy.
‘Bloody hell,’ shouted Luke, battling to stay on his feet. ‘What’s that smell? I swear it’s making my nose hair curl.’
Matthew tried to squint up Luke’s nostrils. ‘You have nose hair?’
‘Probably not any longer.’
They were buffeted on all sides by citizens going about their normal day-to-day business. Horses shied at all the noises and sights around them. Shopkeepers bawled their wares. Shrieking women, their aprons covered in blood and guts, held up reeking fish. Beggars pleaded for alms. Seeming lunatics – or possibly street preachers – wandered past, shouting randomly. Armed men, grim-faced, marched purposefully. Well-dressed nobles forced their way through the crowds. Dogs trotted determinedly to the next butcher’s shop. Pickpockets did what it said on the tin. Indescribably filthy children smelling worse than the fishwives dodged between people’s legs. Rats scuttled. Pedlars peddled. And every single one of them, as Luke put it, suffering every personal hygiene issue known to man and a few more besides.
The streets seethed with life and vitality. There were eleven years of Puritan rigour to overcome and it would appear that everyone had already made a great start. The pubs were open. The theatres were open. Christmas was back. Riot, drunkenness and bawdy behaviour were the norm.
‘I’m sure no one ever buffets real Time Police officers,’ said Luke crossly, rebounding off a sooty wall. ‘For God’s sake, Jane, stay between me and Matthew, otherwise you’ll be swept away to a life of sin and debauchery. Not that you would probably notice.’
‘Hey,’ she said indignantly, but such was the racket around her that no one heard.
‘I could do debauchery,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Don’t think they heard you, sweetie,’ said Bolshy Jane, making her unwelcome presence felt again. ‘And no, you couldn’t.’
Jane wondered if anyone else had voices inside their head or whether, as she suspected, it was just her.
The Theatre Royal was approached by a narrow, dark alleyway running between two rows of barely upright tall wooden buildings whose upper storeys very nearly met over their heads.
Luke halted, looking up. ‘Why do they do that?’
‘What?’ said Jane.
‘Build them like that. No – don’t ask the . . .’
Too late. The AI spoke in his ear. ‘Rent was calculated according to the size of the ground area. In an effort to avoid taxes, the ground floor was designed to be as small as possible while no restraints were placed on the size of the upper floors. When traversing the streets, it is advisable . . .’
‘Shut that thing up,’ muttered Luke.
‘It is important to note . . .’
‘Be quiet.’
‘I am endeavouring to . . .’
‘Shut up.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew, thoughtfully. ‘Shouting at a machine. That’s always a sign of intelligence.’
‘You have only to say thank you,’ said Jane.
‘I am not saying thank you to a bloody machine.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Matthew. ‘You barely say thank you to us humans.’
‘Can we get on, please?’
At the far end of the alleyway they could just make out a three-storey-high wooden structure. The Theatre Royal.