The Ministry of Time

Chapter One

Jack Rogers sits alone in Reception, gazing up at a photo of a single gold sandal abandoned by a marble fountain. Even with pretentious blurring, he can tell it’s the Trevi Fountain – which is where he should be right now in a sunny piazza with Deborah. Yet here he is, starting some mysterious bloody desk job in London. Why the hell did they give Rome to that idiot, Hugo Fucking-Browne? Hugo with one brain cell who smirked every single day until he left. ‘Do come for a visit, Jack, when you need to see a real diplomat in action.’ Smug bastard.

Jack checks his watch again and goes back over to the desk. ‘Can you call Alexis Grey again, please?’

The receptionist doesn’t look up. ‘She’s on her way.’

‘She’s been on her way for twenty minutes.’

The woman gives a heavy sigh, puts down her crochet and taps a few numbers on a keyboard. She tips her head to one side as if listening attentively and then puts on a bright administrative smile. ‘As I said. She’s on her way.’

She bends back over her crochet and Jack pulls a face at the top of her head, willing her to drop some stitches before wandering over to the water cooler. He fills a paper cone, then tips it out, drop by drop.

Alexis Grey. He knows as much about her as he does about the job. Which is precisely nothing. ‘And don’t waste your time trying to find out,’ the Director of Human Remains had said. ‘The incomparable Alexis will explain everything when you start.’ The incomparable bloody Alexis whom no one except the HR Director seems to have heard of. She isn’t even listed in the office directory let alone on social media. In his imagination, her name conjures up an older woman in her thirties, dark, slim, tailored, with discreet gold jewellery. He examines his reflection and runs his fingers through his hair. Alexis Grey, he murmurs to himself.

‘Jack Rogers?’

He jerks around to see a tall woman with wild grey hair standing behind him. With one glance he takes in her purple velvet tunic, skirts flowing almost to the ground and a black shawl embroidered with sprawling red roses. In the Foreign Office?

‘Alexis Grey.’ She swirls the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Jack. Urgent phone call.’

Urgent fag break, more like, he thinks, smelling fresh cigarette smoke on her breath. He holds out his hand and smiles. ‘No problem.’

Alexis takes his hand in a tight grip and then turns and leads him through the turnstile into the central courtyard. In the gentle drizzle, he pushes aside dreams of sunny Italian piazzas and trudges behind her to the far corner of the courtyard.

‘Look up,’ she says, as they go through a porticoed entrance into a marble hall. He follows her gaze to a ceiling frescoed with fully clothed and virile Anglo-Saxons ministering to scantily clad Africans.

‘A typical example of racist colonial art?’ he says.

‘Agreed. Truly incomprehensible that any government keeps it but that’s not where I’m pointing.’ Then like a pantomime villain, Alexis looks behind her and whispers loudly. ‘Our office is right at the top. Stunning views but quite hidden away.’

Jack gazes up at a tiny gallery hugging the frescoed ceiling and his shoulders slump. He knew it. An obscure job in an obscure office about as far from the action as it’s possible to be.

‘I’m not much of a climber these days,’ Alexis says, walking over to what looks like a broom cupboard but which turns out to be a tiny lift. ‘I expect you’ll mostly run up the stairs, a keen mountaineer like you.’

Jack gives her a sharp look as he squeezes in beside her. She must have been checking him out, as he certainly didn’t put mountaineering on his CV and as the lift clanks and whirrs its way up four floors, he wonders what else she knows.

When they step out onto the balcony, Jack leans over to catch a last glimpse of people talking, laughing, and taking phone calls. People in the middle of things.

‘I always think they look like busy little mice, scurrying about fantasising that their wordsmithing will change the world.’ Alexis gives a mocking smile. ‘So much wasted effort. And of course, they have no idea what’s going on up above them.’

‘And what is going on exactly?’

‘Aha,’ she says, tapping her nose. ‘Wait till we’re in the secure room.’

The secure room? His curiosity flickers and then dies. It’s not going to be anything interesting. Probably some tedious consular work glamourised by a load of excessive secrecy. The sacred cow of the Foreign Office.

Jack is still looking wistfully at the people below when he realises Alexis is already disappearing down a dark corridor. He hurries behind her up a steep and dimly-lit spiral staircase, only catching up with her at a tattered green baize door. Alexis holds her security pass to a discreet monitor and when it beeps, the door clicks open onto another narrow corridor. Lights flicker on, illuminating a series of set-piece black and white photos along the walls. Photos of men in suits and high white collars, staring out from a past world.

‘Deadly, aren’t they?’ says Alexis. ‘Imagine working with all those stuffed shirts. Taken in the Durbar Court between the wars before the final decline of empire. I should take them down, but every time I see them, I thank God I don’t have to work with them.’ She shakes her head. ‘They really thought they were entitled to impose their views on the world, didn’t they?’

Jack has a vision of Alexis with her wild hair and colourful shawl, sitting in the midst of those sepia men, railing against empire, blowing smoke in their shocked faces.

‘They probably wouldn’t be happy to know they’d been relegated to such an obscure corridor,’ he says, ‘especially by a woman.’

‘An excellent point,’ says Alexis giving him an approving glance before heading towards a security door made of gleaming steel. ‘Although an obscure recycling bin would be even better.’ She swipes her pass across the card reader and the screen above their heads flashes into life. ‘I’m back,’ she calls to the screen before turning to Jack. ‘Meet Ahmed in Security. Every time you go in or out, he’ll check you.’

‘Hello, Jack. Nice to meet you.’ A voice booms out. ‘Look directly at the screen, can you, sir.’

Alexis nudges him. ‘Try not to blink. Retina recognition.’

‘That’s right, sir. Look straight ahead.’ A red light sweeps across Jack’s eyes. ‘Now switch off your mobile phone, please, and put it in the box on the wall.’

‘What?’ Jack looks to Alexis, and she nods.

‘No mobile phones past here,’ says Ahmed. ‘Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.’

Jack drops his phone in the box and then they’re through. The door clicks shut and he follows Alexis along another corridor to a panelled Victorian door.

‘This is the last door, I promise,’ she says, reaching up to the top ledge and bringing down a tooled leather pouch, tied with a handwoven cord. She presents it to him. ‘One of our little rituals for new team members.’

Jack takes the pouch and examines the tooled leather, not sure he likes the sound of team rituals. As he loosens the cord, he catches a faint scent of oil and herbs and he peers inside, expecting some startling revelation. He pulls out a brass key, the bow moulded into ornate swirls and curlicues. He holds it up. ‘An old key? After all that hi-tech?’

‘A little reminder of the past,’ says Alexis. ‘I thought, given your background as a historian, you’d appreciate it – and in an original 4th-century pouch.’

‘My background?’ He frowns. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You’ll see,’ says Alexis, and then with a theatrical flourish, she pushes open the door. ‘Welcome to the Displaced Persons Unit.’

Jack steps in and after the dark corridors, his eyes are dazzled. Light streams through tall windows illuminating ruby velvet throws flung over deep sofas and a rug of vivid blues seeps across the floor to the skirting.

Jack stares. ‘This is the office?’

Alexis surveys the room with a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve added a few touches but everyone who’s worked here has added their contribution.’ She points to a lacquered screen, decoupaged with Victorian roses. ‘That’s one of mine. The business part of the office is behind there.’

Jack goes over to take a look, expecting more than two ink-stained oak desks. One is covered with books and discarded biscuit wrappers, and the other is bare, except for a large desktop computer and a landline. Then he clocks it.

‘Just us?’

Alexis laughs. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Jack. The rest of the team is based in Haywards Heath. They’ll be here later on but we’ve got a lot to get through before then. So, park your things and get a coffee. The kettle’s over there on the trolley.’

She gestures to an alcove where a blackened kettle rests on a single gas ring. Jack’s jaw drops. It’s one thing to have sofas and rugs in an office but a gas ring? He opens his mouth to ask Alexis how Health and Safety ever allowed it, only to see her lighting a gold-tipped cigarette. He scans the ceiling. No smoke alarm.

He puts down his bag and gets out his coffee kit.

‘That smells good,’ says Alexis, blowing smoke in the general direction of an open window. ‘Quite the connoisseur, aren’t you? What’s that? Kenyan or Ethiopian? I believe they’re your favourites.’

‘You seem to know a lot that’s not on my CV.’

‘Well, that’s the vetting process for you.’ Holding the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, Alexis goes back to her desk, picks up a teapot from a ceramic stand and pours herself a cup. Jack shudders. It must be stone-cold.

‘Personally, I don’t think you can beat a strong cup of Assam with a good old-fashioned biscuit.’ She holds out a packet of custard creams. ‘Want one?’

He shakes his head and takes the cafetiere over to his desk.

Brushing biscuit crumbs from her shawl, she gives him a smile. ‘Now you’re sitting comfortably, Jack, tell me. What’s your best guess of what we do?’

‘You want me to guess?’

Despite the smile, she looks serious. ‘Surely you must have wondered about all the secrecy and security?’

But he hadn’t. In fact, he’d barely given the extra security checks a thought. Too busy being pissed off about Rome. He takes a sip of coffee, giving himself a moment to think. ‘Political refugees? Perhaps from China … North Korea … Russia?’

‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘There are certainly parallels between refugees and our displaced persons. However, good to know you weren’t able to find out what we do … or even who I am. I saw you searched for me on social media and dating apps. That tickled me.’

Jack blushes.

‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed. Of course, you were curious.’

‘Yes, but how do you know what I’ve been searching? Is my phone being tapped?’

She gives a wave of her hand. ‘We could do that if we wanted but there’s no need. We have a whole range of tactics for keeping the Unit secret.’

Jack folds his arms. ‘Alexis. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you going to tell me what it is you do here? Or is it twenty questions?’

Alexis laughs. ‘I like your sense of humour, Jack, but be patient. First, you need to know the implications of working here in the Unit.’ She shrugs off her shawl and leans forward. ‘Everything – and I mean everything – is classified top secret. Nothing leaves the room. No documents, no photographs. Nothing. And absolutely no discussion with anyone outside the team. Is that clear?’

‘You know I have top-level vetting. I do understand the rules.’

‘And I asked you if everything I just said is clear.’

‘Yes. It’s clear,’ he says.

‘Good. Because the work of this unit is far more restricted than anything you’ve ever worked on before.’ She pushes a document towards him. ‘This sets out the extra restrictions involved in working here, and the penalties if you breach them. Come and read it through, please.’

He glances through and picks up a pen.

Alexis lays her hand flat on the document. ‘No, Jack. Read it properly. The secrecy provisions are very stringent and lead to certain imprisonment if you breach them.’

Jack nods and makes a show of reading. It doesn’t look different from the usual official secrets stuff, taking all his rights away and threatening dire consequences if he mentions anything to anyone. He signs and hands it back. Alexis scoots her chair over to a wooden filing cabinet, files away the papers and then gestures for him to return to his desk.

‘Right. Now all that formality is out of the way, a very warm welcome.’ She pulls the shawl back around her shoulders and settles back in her chair. ‘Firstly, I want to apologise for depriving you of that post in Rome. I know it led to your break-up with Deborah and it must have been a very difficult and disappointing time.’

Jack looks away. So she even knows about that. Well, his love life may not be private. but he’s damned if he’s going to discuss it.

After a pause, Alexis continues. ‘The reason you were pulled off the Rome posting is because you’re perfect for this job. I’ve wanted you in the team ever since I read your excellent thesis.’

‘You’ve read my thesis?’ Jack stares.

‘Yes. I was particularly struck by the clever way you describe fourth-century Britain – the food, the smells, people’s expectations – very meticulous and insightful.’ Alexis takes another custard cream, dunks it in her cold tea and nibbles the wet edge.

‘Thanks,’ says Jack, watching the soggy remains of the biscuit slide into the tea, ‘but what’s my thesis got to do with this job?’

‘It shows your ability to get inside the skin of people from the past. And that’s central to the work here.’

‘Now you’ve got me worried. I didn’t join the Foreign Office to continue my career in history...'

‘Didn’t you?’ asks Alexis. ‘And I thought diplomacy was all about history.’

‘… and I didn’t join to work on migration and refugees either, and this Displaced Persons Unit sounds uncomfortably close to what the Home Office does.’

‘I can assure you, we have absolutely nothing to do with the Home Office. Given their utter inability to deal humanely with migrants and asylum seekers, I wouldn’t let them near our displaced people.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Not in a million years.’

Jack bumps his mug down onto his desk, harder than he intends and coffee splashes over the rim. ‘Who are these displaced people? Just get on and tell me, Alexis. Please.’

Alexis nods and then is very still for a moment. ‘What you’re about to hear will surprise you. You won’t believe it at first. No one does.’

‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you deal with aliens.’

‘Not aliens,’ says Alexis. ‘Although our displaced people are rather unusual.’ She regards him, a gleam in her eyes. ‘Our people aren’t displaced from another country. They’re displaced from another time.’

‘From another time?’ He frowns. ‘You mean these people have been prisoners? Out of touch with the outside world in some way?’

‘No, I actually mean, another time. From the past. Time travellers. Although, I don’t like using that term, it carries so much baggage. You’re probably already thinking of time machines and HG Wells. And it also makes it sound like our displaced people time travel regularly or have control over it.’ She flashes a bright smile. ‘They don’t, of course.’

Jack stares at her. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this and he starts laughing. He can’t help it. Some lucky people get posted to Thailand. He gets posted to Cloud Cuckoo Land.

‘This is a psychometric test, right?’ he says. ‘You’re checking to see how credulous I am? Or how I react under pressure?’

She snorts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really think we’d go to all this trouble and expense for a personality test, Government budgets as they are?’

‘Psychometric tests seem a lot more likely than a government unit dealing with time travel. Just tell me the truth. What’s the real job?’

‘Working on time travel is the real job.’

Jack stands up, pushing his chair away. ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve dragged me away from a job I really wanted and now you’re playing games with me. I don’t have to put up with it.’

Alexis watches Jack collect his coffee things. ‘Actually, you do. After what you’ve signed, I wouldn’t advise leaving now as a good career move.’

‘Whereas staying here is a good career move?’ Jack strides over to the door and tries to pull it open. ‘Unlock it, please.’

‘Time travel is unbelievable, and of course, you need to see the hard evidence. You’re a civil servant, after all. A day in the office is all it will take. What have you got to lose?’

‘True.’ Jack says. ‘I don’t have much to lose, do I? You saw to that.’

‘Leaving now won’t get you back the job in Rome – or Deborah. Whereas if you give it a day …’

Jack turns to face her. ‘Then what?’

‘… then if you’re not convinced, I won’t stop you from leaving.’ Alexis looks straight into his eyes. ‘What’s it to be, Jack?’

The only sounds in the room are the hum of air conditioning and the steady ticking of a clock on the wall.

Jack drops his gaze. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll give it a day.’

#