Once, months ago, an anomaly from the Carboniferous had let a lethally venomous Arthropleura into the present. Stephen Hart, a trusted friend and companion, had been bitten and nearly killed while attempting to save his mentor Nick Cutter. Connor didn't know the exact details, but he remembered how Cutter had blamed himself when Stephen had been attacked. It was like that now, but a thousand times worse, because this time Cutter had not been able to save him.

After Stephen's death, the remaining members of the ARC were left lost. Cutter retreated into himself, rarely speaking above a murmur, often trailing off in the middle of a sentence. Abby was much more emotional, frequently lashing out in anger or breaking down into sobs for no real reason. Even Lester and Jenny did not seem quite so self-assured. Once Lester even turned up to work with his shirt half-untucked.

And Connor... Connor was rapidly beginning to realise that although he'd never quite felt equal to or comfortable around Stephen, he missed him. He missed the comradeship they'd had over the last few months, the conversations they'd shared (most of which consisted of Stephen offering Connor relationship advice because he'd had screwed up somehow), how safe he'd felt when Stephen was at their backs with a tranquilliser gun. Cutter had been his right-hand man and Abby like his younger sister, though she hadn't trusted him quite as much after the Helen revelation, but Connor had never really considered Stephen a close friend. Until it was too late.

It was quiet in the ARC, as had so often been the case since Stephen's death. Cutter was late again, but nobody, not even Lester, could be bothered to be angry with him. Connor was tapping away at the keyboard of the ADD, running a diagnostic. Abby was in the menagerie, talking softly to the mammoth as she fed him. There hadn't been an anomaly alert in a week, and every member of the team was desperately wishing that something would happen to distract them from the trauma of losing a teammate and friend.

Connor's phone buzzed and he pulled it quickly from his pocket to frown at the caller ID. "Professor Cutter?" he said. "What's wrong?"

"You busy?"

"Uh, no. What's up?"

There was a silence on the other end, but Connor was used to that sort of thing from Cutter now. He waited patiently until the professor said, "I've been sorting through some of Stephen's things. He left something for you."

"For... me?" Connor was sure he had misheard.

"Yeah." Cutter's voice was raw. There was another long silence before he spoke again. "You gonna come down here and get it?"

Connor switched off the ADD. "Of course. Where are you?" He scribbled the address down on a pad and was out of the ARC before Lester could ask where he was going.

The flat in which Stephen Hart lived – had lived, Connor mentally corrected himself – was located about half an hour's drive from the ARC in a leafy part of London. Connor was remembering as he drove how passionately Stephen had spoken of his time working in rainforests all around the world, and how he hated living in the inner city. He spotted Cutter's truck and pulled in behind it, then walked the short distance to the door. It was unlocked; he let himself in quietly and called up the stairs.

"Cutter?"

"Here."

Connor slowly ascended the stairs. It felt strange to be in a house that belonged to someone who was dead. Houses were meant to be lived in, but this one was in a sort of stasis. Every mug and plate and photo that made it a home had been sorted into a box; there was dust collecting on every surface. Cutter was sitting on a low couch, his hands clasped lightly between his knees. There was a small cardboard box on the coffee table in front of him.

Cutter looked up as Connor approached and twisted his mouth in what might have been an attempt to smile. "Here," he said, shoving the box over. Connor knelt by the table and dragged it slowly towards himself. He glanced up at Cutter, who nodded, before reaching into the box and pulling out an iPod.

"He left it to you," Cutter said softly, as Connor's brow knitted itself into a frown. "In his will. Something like... 'To Connor, who asked for it a long time ago.'"

Connor's gloved fingers wrapped slowly around the device. He remembered now. Months ago, after the Arthropleura had attacked. Connor had been to see Stephen in the hospital afterwards. Had asked him for it: "If you get killed, can I have your iPod?" He'd meant it to be funny then. It was anything but funny now.

He closed his eyes, feeling a tear escape and roll down his cheek. "I'd forgotten," he whispered, half to himself.

"He hadn't," Nick said in an empty voice. "He was a good man. Made some bad decisions... but he was there for his friends, when he had to be."

But not anymore, Connor thought. Not anymore.