Read Online The Shift of Numbers by David Warrington - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Warrington
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designed to look as imposing and bleak as possible. Many people actually shudder when standing in the shadow of this strange gothic building and to be summoned there has been likened to receiving a letter to attend one’s own funeral. In fact, a recent study has shown that on average 3 people a year have heart attacks while opening a letter from the MSD (Statistics from: Heart Attack Monthly – A practitioner’s perspective) .
Deep in the basement of the building , Tim lined up the sights of hi s handgun with the target’s head, relaxed his arms and held his breath. A gentle squeeze of the trigger brought a muffled roar in his ears and his arm moved quickly backwards.
A particle of light from the target’s head moved in an instant down towards Tim’s eye, excited and full of energy. Perspective being what it is and giving the particle a conscience, time would have moved around it in a treacly, creamy malaise. It would have narrowly missed the bullet spinning on its axis, trailing a distorted path in the air molecules behind it. In front, a wave of sound, viewed like a perfectly round bubble belligerently trying to escape thick liquid. Over time, the accelerating silvery tip of the bullet pierced the slower-moving sound and broke away leaving a ragged outlet, resembling a hole poked through stretched clear plastic. Then a face, fixed and still, a 3-dimensional picture made up of tiny points of light. Created by my friends on their equally speedy journey in the opposite direction to me. Then I see it, my bliss, my rapture, paradise … The retina. A black misty abyss drawing it seductively onwards passed its blue-y grey outer circle, positioned like ethereal landing lights forcing a direct hit on the centre of the cornea. Chemical changes created trigger nerve impulses, controlled explosions of activity down protein rods and cones, burrowing rapidly into the brain. Its interpretation was lost on Tim as his memory cells were sparking a different tune, making their own symphony. For today was Grace’s birthday and, however fleetingly, he was 12 years old again…
Tim, or Timmy as he was known back then , was hiding from the ra in in his usual place, a rarely- used bus shelter. He was sat with his best friend , W alter, a chunky fresh-faced lad with a shock of ginger hair and clothes that were clearly 2 sizes to o small for him. They made an un usual coupling, born e out of necessity r ather than any common interests: Walter protected Timmy from the bigger boys being , at 14, 2 years older, w hile Timmy provided friendship in return. The 2 boys were loners , with no other friends to speak of. The estate they lived on di dn’t offer much fun either. Run- down, dilapidated and hopeless describe d it best. It had been built many years ago as a futuristic , c oncrete utopia for the masses. N ow , it housed the mainly jobless and disillusioned, those unable to escape , imprisoned inside identically-shaped rooms.
Most of Timmy and Walter’s conversa tions revolved around leaving the estate in some way with talk of d ream jobs and money never far from their lips. They were joined in their dry haven by a middle-aged man who was holding a newspaper over his head in an attempt to fend off the rain . They assumed he was waiting for a bus until after a few minutes he spoke to them in a polite accentless voice.
“Excuse me,” h e said.
“Why what you done?” s niggered Walter , childishly .
“I was wondering if you could tell me who that young lady was. She just got out of that red car, just over there.” The man pointed down the street to a car owned by 1 of Tim’s sister’s many friends.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I could give you this fiver…” The 2 sat in silence for a moment, looking at the man with some suspicion.
“Of course I know who she is. She’s my sister,” s aid Tim , holding out his hand.
“Really...” s aid the man triumphantly, seemingly deep in though t for a moment. He handed
Deep in the basement of the building , Tim lined up the sights of hi s handgun with the target’s head, relaxed his arms and held his breath. A gentle squeeze of the trigger brought a muffled roar in his ears and his arm moved quickly backwards.
A particle of light from the target’s head moved in an instant down towards Tim’s eye, excited and full of energy. Perspective being what it is and giving the particle a conscience, time would have moved around it in a treacly, creamy malaise. It would have narrowly missed the bullet spinning on its axis, trailing a distorted path in the air molecules behind it. In front, a wave of sound, viewed like a perfectly round bubble belligerently trying to escape thick liquid. Over time, the accelerating silvery tip of the bullet pierced the slower-moving sound and broke away leaving a ragged outlet, resembling a hole poked through stretched clear plastic. Then a face, fixed and still, a 3-dimensional picture made up of tiny points of light. Created by my friends on their equally speedy journey in the opposite direction to me. Then I see it, my bliss, my rapture, paradise … The retina. A black misty abyss drawing it seductively onwards passed its blue-y grey outer circle, positioned like ethereal landing lights forcing a direct hit on the centre of the cornea. Chemical changes created trigger nerve impulses, controlled explosions of activity down protein rods and cones, burrowing rapidly into the brain. Its interpretation was lost on Tim as his memory cells were sparking a different tune, making their own symphony. For today was Grace’s birthday and, however fleetingly, he was 12 years old again…
Tim, or Timmy as he was known back then , was hiding from the ra in in his usual place, a rarely- used bus shelter. He was sat with his best friend , W alter, a chunky fresh-faced lad with a shock of ginger hair and clothes that were clearly 2 sizes to o small for him. They made an un usual coupling, born e out of necessity r ather than any common interests: Walter protected Timmy from the bigger boys being , at 14, 2 years older, w hile Timmy provided friendship in return. The 2 boys were loners , with no other friends to speak of. The estate they lived on di dn’t offer much fun either. Run- down, dilapidated and hopeless describe d it best. It had been built many years ago as a futuristic , c oncrete utopia for the masses. N ow , it housed the mainly jobless and disillusioned, those unable to escape , imprisoned inside identically-shaped rooms.
Most of Timmy and Walter’s conversa tions revolved around leaving the estate in some way with talk of d ream jobs and money never far from their lips. They were joined in their dry haven by a middle-aged man who was holding a newspaper over his head in an attempt to fend off the rain . They assumed he was waiting for a bus until after a few minutes he spoke to them in a polite accentless voice.
“Excuse me,” h e said.
“Why what you done?” s niggered Walter , childishly .
“I was wondering if you could tell me who that young lady was. She just got out of that red car, just over there.” The man pointed down the street to a car owned by 1 of Tim’s sister’s many friends.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I could give you this fiver…” The 2 sat in silence for a moment, looking at the man with some suspicion.
“Of course I know who she is. She’s my sister,” s aid Tim , holding out his hand.
“Really...” s aid the man triumphantly, seemingly deep in though t for a moment. He handed
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