Imogen tossed her curls. ‘I am rich and well-connected.’
‘Not in this Time, you’re not.’
‘And I’ve already met some very nice young men. They were very helpful and sympathetic and one’s going to take me to meet his sister and . . .’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, use your brains, Immy. They’re not nice young men. They’re the 17th-century equivalent of the pervies who hang around the cheap airship stations looking for naïve young women who’ve just arrived in town to seek their fortune – but the only fortune involved is the one you’ll make for them. Their leader will have a quick shag or two – just to let you know what’s required of you from now on – and once he’s had them, he’ll pass you around until everyone’s had you and you’re living with the pigs as the town bike and even your long-suffering mother won’t have you back.’
There was a moment’s disbelieving silence and then Imogen planted her feet, bunched her fist and landed Luke one squarely on the nose. He reeled backwards, caught his foot on an uneven cobble and toppled over.
Imogen picked up her skirts and prepared to flee.
‘Dode led her ged away,’ shouted Luke, sprawled in a greasy puddle.
The Time Police have procedures for this sort of thing. Matthew and Jane grabbed an arm each.
Imogen struggled violently. And then she screamed. Ear-splittingly.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Matthew, wincing. ‘I bet they can hear her all the way to Oxford.’
‘By dode,’ said Luke, tenderly fingering his throbbing nose. ‘We deed to go.’
And indeed, they were attracting far more attention than Jane was happy with. Two or three men – she wouldn’t mind betting they were some of the very nice young men Imogen had met – were pushing their way towards them, shouting angrily. They didn’t look at all thrilled at the prospect of Luke muscling in on their naïve country girl, and the future earnings she was sure to bring them.
‘Shid,’ said Luke. He heaved himself to his feet and wiped the blood off his nose with his sleeve. ‘Back to the pod.’
Imogen was struggling like a maniac against Jane and Matthew’s grip. Luke glanced at the advancing men, cursed, surveyed his puny teammates and found them wanting. In one quick movement, he threw Imogen over his shoulder and did his best to run.
She did not go quietly. She wriggled frantically, twisted her hands in his hair and pulled hard, trying to kick him. Jane and Matthew moved into position behind him. They staggered down the street. People moved aside – some were laughing, but the shouts behind them were drawing closer. Imogen was wriggling and kicking. And, Jane realised, they were running away from the pod.
A stone whizzed past and bounced off the wall to their right.
‘You two get in front of me,’ shouted Luke. ‘I’ll protect you.’
‘What about you?’
‘Not a problem. They’ll hit Immy before they hit me.’
Imogen’s shriek of rage could, indeed, probably be heard in Oxford.
‘Down here,’ shouted Matthew, veering off to the right. ‘There’s another alleyway. Run like stink.’
‘We always run like stink,’ panted Jane, skidding into the alley. ‘We don’t know any other way.’
Luke was slowing as Imogen alternately pummelled at his back or attempted to give him some kind of wedgie.
‘For the love of God, Immy!’ Her struggles had caused her skirts to wrap around his face and he was nearly blind. Desperately he tried to claw them away with one hand and retain his grip on the squirming Imogen with the other. ‘I’m trying to save you.’
She lifted her head and shrieked, ‘Help, help! I’m over here. Help!’
‘Is there no way of shutting her up?’ panted Matthew. ‘We’ll never lose them with her shouting her head off all the time and it looks as if we’re the bad guys. We’ll have the mob after us in no time.’
Skidding around a corner, they found themselves entangled in that popular 17th-century street entertainment – a cock fight. Around ten or twelve people – men and women – stood in a rough circle as two bedraggled cocks closed with each other in a flurry of gore and feathers. The runnels ran red with blood. Even over the jeers from the crowd they could hear the chink as coins were thrown into the ring. And the faces turning towards them were not friendly.
‘Left,’ shouted Matthew and suddenly they were in a maze of narrow, foetid and almost identical streets. All the doors, though ramshackle, were firmly closed. There was nowhere to go. There was shouting behind them. There was shouting ahead of them too. They appeared to be surrounded.
Luke unloaded Imogen like a sack of coals.
‘Well,’ he said, unslinging his baton. ‘We always knew this would happen one day. Back to back, people. Remember the drill.’
‘All for one,’ said Jane.
‘And one for all,’ said Matthew.
‘This is it,’ said Bolshy Jane, presumably in case Jane hadn’t noticed what was going on.
Either say something useful or fire truck off, thought Jane, turning to face the two men coming up on her left, liquid string in one hand, baton in the other, in the approved Time Police manner. She gritted her teeth.
‘Please don’t let this hurt too much,’ whimpered Wimpy Jane.
‘Sonics as last resort,’ instructed Luke. ‘Only if batons won’t hold them.’
He was right, thought Jane. Batons for close combat – sonics for covering their retreat.
There were at least five of them that she could see. Four men wore greasy leather doublets and the one Jane assumed to be the leader sported a long, scruffy and much-stained coat. Jane couldn’t help feeling they looked rather too down at heel for Imogen. She wasn’t the type to be attracted to the rougher element. And this lot looked very rough indeed. A thought struck her. Perhaps they were servants – sent by Imogen’s nice young men with instructions to retrieve Imogen. Or could they be casual cut-throats availing themselves of an unexpected opportunity?
‘Never mind who they are,’ shouted Bolshy Jane. ‘Just get stuck in.’
The one with a coat had a sword, already drawn and brandished in a manner that showed he knew how to use it. The others were armed with nasty-looking cudgels, one or two of which were dark with sinister stains.
Jane could hear Imogen shouting behind her. Whether she was still haranguing Luke, or encouraging the men, or just having a whinge in general, Jane was unable to say. And she had more important things to worry about.
In holos, this sort of thing is always carefully choreographed and everyone knows exactly what to do, to whom, and where to do it. People fight neatly and cleanly and then the villains run away. Narrative imperative. Villains are always worthless cowards who run away when faced with anything more threatening than an angry chicken.