‘So?’
‘Look, she made a big mistake when she ran away from Eric – I mean running off into the 17th century, not turning down his proposal – but she’ll never admit it. What we have to do now is make things easy for her. Luke, you have to plead with her . . .’
‘What?’
‘And then she can do you a favour and agree to come back with us.’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘You have to. Our mission is to get her back – whatever it takes – and you might be the best person to do that.’
‘In which case,’ said Matthew slowly, ‘she might even be waiting for us at the pod.’
Jane shook her head. ‘No – that would be too easy. I think she’ll give us time to get back and then stroll up immaculate and unconcerned . . .’ She looked down at her muddy self. ‘Then she’ll probably saunter into the pod and demand to be taken home because we’re just a bloody taxi service.’
There was a silence while they all thought about this.
‘I am not, in general, an advocate of violence against women,’ said Luke, gently touching his still tender nose. ‘Trust me – the boot is usually on the other foot – but the second I clap eyes on Imogen Farnborough I’m going to throttle her. Until that happy moment, however . . . back to the pod.’
They set off at a swift trot, covering themselves at all times. ‘Just like real officers,’ said Luke, chattily. ‘How happy Ellis would be to see us now.’
‘What – after being involved in a back-alley brawl and losing our prisoner?’ said Matthew. ‘I don’t think happy is the word you’re looking for.’
‘The word unsurprised would probably be more accurate,’ said Jane, gloomily.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Luke. ‘We are not going back without her. If it takes the rest of our lives, we will track that girl down and make sure she gets what’s coming to her.’
They ran on. Past twisted wooden buildings whose wooden supports had warped over the years. Past piles of filth. A dog shot out of a doorway and snapped at their ankles. The overhanging buildings rendered the day dark. Air barely moved in these tight spaces. Jane tried very hard not to imagine millions and millions of plague rats watching her pass, just waiting for the opportunity . . . There were another couple of years before the Great Plague of 1665 would rip through London, closely followed by the Great Fire a year later. This was definitely not a good time to be a Londoner.
The meandering lanes were mean, narrow and unpaved. The street level was considerably higher than the narrow houses on either side. In London, the streets were not paved with gold. They were paved with household refuse. Some of it was very squidgy underfoot. People just opened the door or the shutter and chucked it all out. Which must have been a complete waste of time since whenever it rained, surely it all got washed straight back in again.
‘Makes the 20th century look good, doesn’t it?’ said Matthew cheerfully to their leader, who ignored him.
Luke was in front, Jane in the middle. Matthew brought up the rear. He stopped suddenly. ‘Listen.’
They pulled up, turned and listened.
Somewhere, not too far away, they could hear sounds of an altercation. A woman screamed. The voice was familiar.
‘Fire-trucking hell,’ shouted Luke. ‘This way. Sound and fury, people.’
He ripped out his baton and shouted. Jane and Matthew followed suit. Roaring Time Police defiance, they pounded down the alley and rounded a corner. Imogen was on the ground surrounded by five or six women. One had a nasty-looking knife. The others were kicking and stamping and she’d rolled into a ball in an attempt to save herself. There was blood on the stones.
Luke waded in, baton swinging. Jane and Matthew were only slightly behind him. Since Imogen had already proved herself to be a bit of a flight risk, Jane left her teammates to deal with whatever was happening around them and knelt alongside her.
‘Quick,’ she said, pulling out her sonic to cover them. ‘Can you stand? You must get up.’
Imogen groaned.
‘Use my shoulder,’ said Jane. ‘Pull yourself up.’
Somehow, Imogen heaved herself to her feet. Jane stood in front of her, her sonic raised, her mouth set in a grim line. Anyone not Imogen Farnborough or Time Police were about to find themselves with enormous – if temporary – bladder control problems. She was just in the mood.
‘Attagirl,’ said Bolshy Jane.
The women were proving far more formidable than the men had been. Two of them were prising up loose cobbles and hurling them at Luke’s helmetless team. Luke and Matthew were falling back.
Luke turned to Imogen. ‘Sorry, Immy, you’re going to have to run like the rest of us. I need my hands free.’
Imogen, however, had no intention of running. ‘Give me that.’ She snatched Luke’s baton from him, flicked it open with an ease he found more than disconcerting and advanced on their attackers. The addition of Imogen to their little party evened the odds. Even more so when it became apparent she had recent scores to settle. Whoever had paid for Imogen’s anti-kidnap training had certainly got their money’s worth. Luke’s world suddenly became a maelstrom of shrieking, flailing, kicking women.
‘We’ve got to get away,’ shouted Jane. ‘There’s too many of them.’
Somewhere above them, a shutter was forced open. There was a shout – whether a warning, a curse or an order to take the fight somewhere else, they never knew. For some reason everyone drew back – except for Luke – and then someone hurled a bucket of what Jane optimistically hoped was pigswill out of the window. And then followed it up with the bucket.
Luke stood dripping. Imogen was wielding the baton like an expert, showing no sort of regard for either the official or unofficial Time Police handbook. People scattered before her. Matthew, possibly wisely, was standing back. Jane pushed Luke back against the wall under the upper storey where he should be safe from any further household-waste-related assaults and turned back to watch the fight.
One wild minute later, it was all over and Team 236 and their prisoner were alone. Imogen stood, chest heaving, baton raised, looking, had she known it, very like her mother single-handedly demolishing a back-bench rebellion. The only sound was her heavy panting. Matthew gently removed Luke’s baton from her suddenly slackened grasp and handed it back to his leader.
‘Nice,’ he said to Imogen.
She smoothed back her tangled hair. ‘Thank you. I just imagined each and every one of them was Luke Parrish and the rest was easy.’
Luke picked something purple and wobbly off his shoulder. ‘Oh, dear God, what is that?’ and dropped it on the ground. Four heads bent over it.