The Flux Capacitor

A St Mary's short story by Jodi Taylor

Our new Public Relations Officer, Astrid Gustafsson, swept into the dining room as we were all having lunch and addressed the room.

‘I have received four enquiries from the local TV and radio stations, plus two from the national press. Apparently, St Mary’s has successfully replicated something called a …’ She squinted at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘… flux capacitor.’

A deathly silence fell around the dining room, and believe me, that was a very rare event. Peterson even put down his spoon, saying, ‘What?’

Typical senior management ejaculation. I was more to the point. ‘Who?’

An even deathlier silence fell. All eating stopped. Somewhere behind me, a chair scraped. I twisted around to look.

Miss Lingos rose to her feet. Of course, she would be involved.

And Sykes.

And Bashford.

All the usual suspects plus a terrified looking Mr Lindstrom. For the tech, obviously.

She glared at them. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Apart from inventing a flux capacitor.’

‘No, we didn’t.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Astrid, flourishing her piece of paper, ‘but two local radio stations, the BBC local news programme and the Rushford Times say that you have.’

‘Well, we haven’t.’

‘Then why are they saying you have?’

‘Because we told them we had.’

Astrid assumed the expression of a Saint Mary’s public relations officer who suddenly realises she’s had it easy up until now. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why would you do such a thing?’

It was at this point that she made the fatal error of allowing herself to be sidetracked. I could have told her, but some things just have to be learned the hard way.

‘And what the hell does a flux capacitor do anyway?’ she demanded.

‘It capacitates the flux,’ said Sykes, helpfully

I looked across the dining room just in time to see Leon and Dieter silently oozing out of the door. Sadly, I was on the wrong side of the room to ooze after them.

Peterson picked up his spoon again and embarked upon a spot of defensive eating. Markham had never stopped. Today was Spotted Dick Day, and he was on his second helping.

‘What flux?’ demanded Astrid, displaying a commendable but ultimately doomed tenacity.

‘The one that needs capacitating,’ said Lingoss. ‘It won’t work otherwise.’

Astrid narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you two? A double act?’

Around the room heads nodded. Including mine. Some years ago, I’d endured a brief spell as Training Officer at St Mary’s. Sykes and Lingos were the product of my training. Yes, all right, nothing to be proud of, but, on the other hand, so was Atherton. Nice normal Atherton who never gave me a moment’s trouble and who often acted as mediator/ peacemaker/ hefty dose of common-sense provider, and who, sadly, wasn’t here when I really needed him.

On the other hand, this was Astrid’s problem. As our public relations officer, she was supposed to handle the media.

I picked up my spoon and resumed my Spotted Dickus Interruptus.

Astrid scowled at me. Then at the miscreants – as Smallhope would refer to them. If she’d been here. Fortunately, we’d been spared that.

Astrid fixed them with a hard stare. ‘Right, you lot. Come with me.’

They stopped grinning.

‘What?’ said Lingoss, warily.

‘Why?’ said Sykes, drilling down, as always, to the heart of the issue in hand.

‘Make-up,’ said Astrid.’ We’ll need to pep up your complexions a little or you’ll look like the walking dead when you appear on TV this evening. Except, of course, for Mr Lindstrom, who looks like the walking dead right now.’

And indeed, he did. In fact, he looked as if he was about to faint. I had an idea that wouldn’t save him. There’s always a certain Valkyrie look about Astrid when she’s annoyed, and today she was very annoyed indeed. I suspected any number of people were about to find themselves hauled off to Valhalla for an afterlife of frenzied feasting and … well, you get the drift. Actually, that didn’t sound too bad. I wondered if it was too late to become a Viking. With my luck, they’d have a minimum height requirement and I wouldn’t be eligible.

But back to the issue of the flux capacitor …

Petersen has just pointed out I haven’t included a single word of explanation in this sorry tale, but it’s a bit late now. Brace yourselves.

St Mary’s.

Time-travelling historians.

Enraged public relations officer.

Spotted Dick.

Flux capacitor.

There – now you’re all caught up.

‘I can’t go on TV,’ said Bashford, aghast. ‘I still haven’t got over being publicly arrested by the security services or whoever they were.

‘That’s because you resisted arrest,’ said Markham, articulating with difficulty. ‘You were lucky they didn’t shoot you.’

‘I was unconscious,’ he said indignantly.

Markham swallowed. ‘You failed to obey their instructions.’

‘Again,’ said Bashford. ‘Unconscious.’

‘They didn’t believe you were. Unconscious.’

‘They watched me fall off the roof of my car.’

‘What normal person stands on the roof of their own car?’

‘Whose car should he have been standing on?’ I asked because it is the duty of every senior manager to clarify complex situations for the benefit of the lower ranks.

Astrid ignored us. She hadn’t been with us for long, but I rather fancied she’d got the measure of St Mary’s about ten minutes into day one. She stiffened her sinews. It was quite a sight. ‘You will all appear on TV – as requested by the BBC. I have already accepted on your behalf.

‘You will allow their makeup department to exercise their talents to the limit and make you look normal. Ish.

‘You will wear your best uniforms.

‘You will remain clean and tidy for the duration of your slot.

‘You will not swear.

‘You will apologise nicely and politely and explain that the whole thing is a joke.

‘You will make a substantial donation to the charity of their choice.

‘And you will never, ever, ever do such a stupid thing again unless you want to see what happens when I really, really LOSE MY TEMPER.’

There was a soft, sighing sound, and Mr Lindstrom fainted.

I wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised. A shieldmaiden stood before us. A pretty pissed off shieldmaiden, actually. All she needed was a breastplate and a blood-stained axe.

‘Is he all right?’ enquired Sykes, craning her neck for a better view.

‘Who cares?’ snarled Astrid. ‘Go and get ready.’

‘I thought you were joking,’ said Bashford, feebly.

‘Well, I wasn’t,’ she shouted. ‘This is what happens when you pull stupid pranks. In public. Especially when you work for an organisation that is supposed to be keeping a low profile.’

‘But …’ began Lingoss, and at that moment Leon and Dieter re-entered the dining room, carrying some heavy techie piece of equipment between them which they dropped onto Sykes’ table.

‘No need for all this anguish,’ said Leon, grinning at Astrid.

Astrid glared at him with a very effective I thought better of you Chief Farrell look that I made a mental note to try to reproduce later on.

‘And what is that?’ she demanded

‘A flux capacitor,’ said Dieter. ‘Of course.’

Heads swivelled back to Astrid. St Mary’s held its breath.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘You just happened to have one on your person?

‘Not on me, no. As you can see it’s quite heavy to cart around so it usually sits on a shelf somewhere in Hawking.’

‘A flux capacitor?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a flux capacitor?’

Leon gave it an affectionate pat. ‘Dieter and I knocked one up last Thursday.’

Eyes swivelled back to Astrid again.

‘We actually use flux capacitors? Here? At St Mary’s?’

‘No,’ said Leon. ‘Of course not. They’re very old hat now but we built one just for fun.’

‘But …’

Leon turned to Sykes. ‘Just take it with you and show the world. Offer to auction it off for charity. They’ll love it. And you.’

Astrid tried again. ‘But …’

‘Everyone will take it in the spirit it’s meant and a good laugh will be enjoyed by all,’ said Dieter. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’ He laughed. Teutonically.

Astrid turned back to the miscreants. ‘Go. Prepare for you imminent ordeal. Write your names on the back of your hands if you have to but do not mess this up.’

She strode from the dining room rather in the manner of Eowyn determined to deal with that irritating Nazgul once and for all.

Lunch resumed.

Sykes poked at the lump of tech. ‘That’s not a real flux capacitor, is it?’

‘Of course not,’ said Leon patiently. ‘The real one is hidden away in an unspecified location I can never reveal.’

‘Leon …’ I said.

‘Everything will be fine,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘Nothing at all to worry about.’

‘But surely everyone will know it’s not a real flux capacitor?’

‘Of course they will,’ he said in the tones of one addressing a 3-year-old. ‘Flux capacitors are a made-up thing, Max. They’re not real.’

I pointed. ‘So what’s that, then?’

He smirked. ‘This is a complicated and sophisticated piece of kit that completely failed to rise to the challenge of Mr Markham’s porridge in 11^th century Scotland last year.’

I gasped. ‘You mean – tonight – on TV – the whole world will be bidding for – a toilet macerator?’

Leon grinned. ‘For charity Max. For charity.’

Oh. OK. For charity. Well, that was all right then.

Lunch resumed. Again.

It was quite a long time afterwards before, out of the blue, I suddenly realised that Sykes and Lingoss never did explain not only why they were messing around with flux capacitors in the first place, but why they would tell people they were messing around with flux capacitors. That rather important piece of information seemed to have been lost in the general … discussions over the days that followed their jaw-dropping TV appearance. No one – other than me – seemed to be asking what they could possibly have done that was so bad that only an imaginary flux capacitor could distract public attention? Even just thinking about it, I could feel my blood pressure rising. (Dr Salt says I can’t really, but she’s wrong.) I rose to my feet. I should investigate immediately.

On the other hand … I looked out of the window. The earth was still spinning on its axis. The sun still shone. If the curse had come upon us how much did I want to be the Lady of Shallot? And the continuing presence of politicians would always prevent this being a perfect world. How much did I actually want to know? Trust me, the benefits of plausible deniability cannot be overestimated.

I sat down and carried on with my day.

The End