Ms Steel sighed, conveying an entire continent of impatience and judgement. ‘Can you even see the papers, Mr Parrish?’
‘I’m actually having difficulty seeing the table. Can’t you just tell me?’
‘Very well. These are enlistment papers for the Time Police.’
I was shocked. Seriously shocked. ‘What? Why the hell is the old man joining the Time Police?’
She didn’t bother to laugh. ‘Your father feels that after the Tannhauser incident last year, your life would benefit from more structure. Hence, you will serve two years in the Time Police.’
I had the feeling I was fighting a losing battle but I had a go anyway. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘He has already done it.’
I said with confidence, ‘They’re not going to take someone like me.’
‘With the right inducements, they would take even someone like you.’
I thought the ‘even’ was a little bit offensive and said so.
She shrugged, giving an excellent impersonation of a woman who really couldn’t give a fu . . . give a damn.
Time to turn on the old Parrish charm. Never lets me down.
I inched my chair closer. ‘I feel sure there’s been a mistake somewhere along the line, Ms Steel. He didn’t actually mean me to join. It’s just to scare me. And it’s worked. Obviously, I’ll be a good boy from now on. Please pass on my congratulations regarding his tactics. Is he coming to my birthday party tonight?’
‘No. And neither are you. These papers order you to report immediately. Later today, in fact.’
I blinked furiously. As if that would make any difference. He can’t do this.’
She didn’t bother with a response this time.
I stirred the papers with my finger. They all looked horribly genuine. Not that I’d know any differently but they did all the same. My headache redoubled its thumping. I couldn’t join the Time Police. What was the old man thinking?
‘I can’t join the Time Police,’ I said. ‘I have . . . responsibilities. Commitments I must honour.’ The old man was very big on honouring commitments. Now was obviously a good time to make a start. ‘I’ve got Glastonbury. And Wimbledon. A fortnight at a mate’s house in the Caribbean. There’s the test match next month. I can’t let people down.’
‘Mr Parrish has instructed me to say that letting people down is second nature to you. And that you have never shown the slightest inclination to shoulder any of your responsibilities. The Tannhauser affair was the last straw, I’m afraid. Responsibilities are about to be imposed upon you.’
‘I know the Time Police,’ I lied. ‘You can’t just waltz in and sign on the dotted line. There are tests and interviews and . . . things.’
‘All of which have been completed on your behalf.’
I scoffed. ‘They wouldn’t take me sight unseen.’
‘They know you by reputation. Everyone knows you by reputation.’
Ten minutes ago I might have thought that was a compliment.
‘I am sure your vanity will be happy to hear it took a very great deal of persuasion and an extremely large sum of money to induce the Time Police even to contemplate the idea. You are not cheap, Mr Parrish.’
Time to switch on even more Parrish charm and get myself out of this. I pulled my chair closer still, smiled into her flint-hard eyes and said, ‘I’ve never been cheap, Ms Steel, but I can assure you I am extremely good value.’
Not a flicker. Not a bloody flicker. I was obviously a lot more hungover than I thought. Or she was a lesbian. Yes, that was far more likely. Typical Dad to send a lesbian.
‘Officially, your father has made a very generous contribution to their Widows and Orphans Fund. They were extraordinarily grateful.’
The net was closing. ‘I’ll bet they were.’
‘To the extent they would take even you.’
I noticed we were back to the ‘even’ again. Lesbian, for sure.
‘So,’ she said, indicating the dead trees strewn across the table. ‘It’s all here. Travel documents. Joining instructions.’ She paused for the kicker. ‘Contract of employment.’
I leaped at a perceived opportunity. ‘I haven’t signed a contract.’
‘Haven’t you?’ She pushed a document across the table and I peered at it. The throbbing behind my eyes now quite bad and getting worse by the second, because there was my signature. Quite definitely mine. The clouds of alcohol grudgingly parted to make room for the airbus of memory. I had vague memories of signing an enormous number of bar bills. This must have been among them and I hadn’t noticed.
I pushed it back. ‘Signed under the influence of alcohol. And a couple of other things as well. Probably not legal.’
She pushed it back again. ‘Substance abuse these days is punishable by considerably more than a two-year gaol term, and is invariably served in institutions far less benevolent than the Time Police. The end result will be the same, however – you out of harm’s way for at least two years. Your father is graciously offering you a choice. I’ll tell him you’ve declined the Time Police and chosen the other option, shall I?’
She began to gather up the papers.
It started to dawn on me with a very nasty thud that there was no way out of this other than to do as my father . . . well, I was going to say ‘wished’, but ‘commanded’ would probably be more accurate.
I held out my hand for the documents. Could be worse, I suppose. The uniform was pretty cool and you got to shoot people. And they were based in London, so apart from showing up for work occasionally, I could just carry on as before. My dad’s not as clever as he thinks he is.
‘One other thing,’ she said. ‘During your period of service, you will receive no money other than that which you earn.’
I must have gaped like an idiot.
‘Your allowance is rescinded. Your social engagements are cancelled. All your accounts except one have been closed and that one is now empty. Your property – all your property – is confiscated. You may take with you one small suitcase. I advise you to choose wisely – the contents will have to last you two years. And now I must take my leave, Mr Parrish.’
Honour demanded I have one last try.
‘Oh, don’t go yet, Ms Steel. I thought we could spend a little time discussing things and . . .’
‘I’m a very busy woman,’ she said, clicking her case closed. ‘You are simply number three on my list of Things To Do Today, Mr Parrish. Good luck with your new career.’