Read Online A Window into Time (Novella) by Peter F. Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter F. Hamilton
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They all come back as dogs or spiders or something.”
“Only if you’ve been a bad boy,” Gran said knowingly. “So right now he should be a toad. A big fat one.”
Barney gave me a cheerful smile. “Ignore them, lad. We know the truth, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do.”
—
The Monday after we got back, I went to the office. Michael Finsen’s office. It was in a long concrete-and-glass building just off Canada Square. I hung around on the pavement on the other side of the road. There were a lot of companies with offices in the building; it was incredibly busy. Everybody went in and out through the main entrance.
Watching it, I remembered how Michael hated the revolving door in the middle; he always used one of the ordinary doors on either side. There were people in dark suits standing outside, with the Secret Service earpieces—the ones with the coils of clear plastic tubing that vanished down into their collars. They smiled at the people going in, who were all dressed in expensive suits. The only difference among them was their ties, like they were all in competition to have the brightest one.
I caught one of the security people glancing over at me a couple of times, but she didn’t start talking into her suit cuff like they do in the films. I felt a lot safer in Docklands than I did in Islington; it’s like a Kenan Abbot exclusion zone. His type simply didn’t belong here.
Michael Finsen came out of the building (using a side door) at twelve thirty-seven. It was the face I’d recognized in the Facebook photos. He was really real! My legs went all tingly and weak, the same sensation you get with vertigo (I used to get it on fairground rides; when I was younger, Dad took me on the rides until I cried so much Mum stopped him).
Michael was with a couple of colleagues. They set off across Jubilee Park, talking and laughing together. It must be nice to have friends like that, people you enjoy being with.
Then Michael looked around, and he wasn’t smiling. I froze. I thought he’d realized who I was. But he just kept scanning all the people on the street.
And I remembered why: Vladimir McCann. Mike’s memory made me shiver.
Jyoti is already in bed when I come out of the bathroom. She is sitting up with her laptop on her knees, frowning at the screen. The light glints off the diamond in her engagement ring. She never takes it off, not even at night.
I slip under the duvet and snuggle up beside her. Her frown only gets deeper, which isn’t good.
“What’s up, babe?” I ask.
She sighs and closes up the laptop. “Someone from before.”
“Before?”
I get the disgruntled look she always spikes me with when I’ve said something truly dumb.
“Before you.”
“Oh. Right.”
“He’s called Vladimir McCann. It wasn’t serious, not like you.” She gives me a small smile and squeezes my arm. “We went out for a few months, that’s all. He wasn’t…right.”
I look at her laptop. “What happened to him?”
“He’s not well. Mentally, I mean.”
“What?”
She reluctantly opens the laptop for me. It’s her Facebook page. I start to read what Vladimir has written in her Visitor Posts.
She’s right. He is ill. It’s all nonsense—most of it incoherent, disconnected from reality. But in among the bizarre paragraphs about how the world is falling apart are disturbing passages. Personal ones. About how she knows what she’s done is wrong. About how she shouldn’t have left him. How that weekend they spent in Portsmouth will haunt him, and that is entirely her fault.
“We never even went to Portsmouth,” she tells me sadly.
The end of it is a long rant about how badly he is suffering now that he can see the truth. How that suffering wouldn’t end. How she will have to face up to what she’s done, and that will be dark for her. Very dark.
“I’m going to the police,” I tell her.
Chapter 12
Time Line
When I got home, I tried to go onto Jyoti’s Facebook page to check it,
“Only if you’ve been a bad boy,” Gran said knowingly. “So right now he should be a toad. A big fat one.”
Barney gave me a cheerful smile. “Ignore them, lad. We know the truth, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do.”
—
The Monday after we got back, I went to the office. Michael Finsen’s office. It was in a long concrete-and-glass building just off Canada Square. I hung around on the pavement on the other side of the road. There were a lot of companies with offices in the building; it was incredibly busy. Everybody went in and out through the main entrance.
Watching it, I remembered how Michael hated the revolving door in the middle; he always used one of the ordinary doors on either side. There were people in dark suits standing outside, with the Secret Service earpieces—the ones with the coils of clear plastic tubing that vanished down into their collars. They smiled at the people going in, who were all dressed in expensive suits. The only difference among them was their ties, like they were all in competition to have the brightest one.
I caught one of the security people glancing over at me a couple of times, but she didn’t start talking into her suit cuff like they do in the films. I felt a lot safer in Docklands than I did in Islington; it’s like a Kenan Abbot exclusion zone. His type simply didn’t belong here.
Michael Finsen came out of the building (using a side door) at twelve thirty-seven. It was the face I’d recognized in the Facebook photos. He was really real! My legs went all tingly and weak, the same sensation you get with vertigo (I used to get it on fairground rides; when I was younger, Dad took me on the rides until I cried so much Mum stopped him).
Michael was with a couple of colleagues. They set off across Jubilee Park, talking and laughing together. It must be nice to have friends like that, people you enjoy being with.
Then Michael looked around, and he wasn’t smiling. I froze. I thought he’d realized who I was. But he just kept scanning all the people on the street.
And I remembered why: Vladimir McCann. Mike’s memory made me shiver.
Jyoti is already in bed when I come out of the bathroom. She is sitting up with her laptop on her knees, frowning at the screen. The light glints off the diamond in her engagement ring. She never takes it off, not even at night.
I slip under the duvet and snuggle up beside her. Her frown only gets deeper, which isn’t good.
“What’s up, babe?” I ask.
She sighs and closes up the laptop. “Someone from before.”
“Before?”
I get the disgruntled look she always spikes me with when I’ve said something truly dumb.
“Before you.”
“Oh. Right.”
“He’s called Vladimir McCann. It wasn’t serious, not like you.” She gives me a small smile and squeezes my arm. “We went out for a few months, that’s all. He wasn’t…right.”
I look at her laptop. “What happened to him?”
“He’s not well. Mentally, I mean.”
“What?”
She reluctantly opens the laptop for me. It’s her Facebook page. I start to read what Vladimir has written in her Visitor Posts.
She’s right. He is ill. It’s all nonsense—most of it incoherent, disconnected from reality. But in among the bizarre paragraphs about how the world is falling apart are disturbing passages. Personal ones. About how she knows what she’s done is wrong. About how she shouldn’t have left him. How that weekend they spent in Portsmouth will haunt him, and that is entirely her fault.
“We never even went to Portsmouth,” she tells me sadly.
The end of it is a long rant about how badly he is suffering now that he can see the truth. How that suffering wouldn’t end. How she will have to face up to what she’s done, and that will be dark for her. Very dark.
“I’m going to the police,” I tell her.
Chapter 12
Time Line
When I got home, I tried to go onto Jyoti’s Facebook page to check it,
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