A Window into Time (Novella) (6 page)

I spent half an hour setting the laptop up with my email and preferences. Still no reply to Big Russell's Facebook messages—I'd sent six now. I opened a new file, gave it a password lock, and called it: Michael Finsen.

I started with the facts. Stuff like his age, and the flat number, and that he'd moved in there with Jyoti Tanark—it was a joint mortgage. She was half Egyptian, I remembered that. I think I'd gotten even more of his subconscious memory this time.

He worked at GTB Venture, which had an office in Docklands close to Canada Square, where the biggest skyscrapers were. They were angel investors. I looked that up, and it meant they put money into tech start-up companies. Michael worked in their assessment division, working out if the technology was going to be worth developing and if it could make a profit.

Here's a thought: Future-me was doing all these brain-to-brain time-traveling memories to demonstrate to Michael that my exotic matter technology worked, so it was worth GBT Venture investing in it. That was completely logical, and not a paradox at all. And that would explain why future-me chose him.

It took time to enter everything I knew, but Barney has decent broadband; he uses it to stream the sports he can't get on his premium satellite package. The morning after I got the laptop, I sat on a sun lounger by the pool calling up all kinds of sites (the battery life is really good). The more data I could tabulate like a real scientist would, the more chance I would have of understanding what was happening.

As soon as we finished breakfast that morning, Dad and Barney took the buggy out for a round of golf. Gran told them they had to be back for lunch. “And not pissed, either,” she shouted after them as they vanished into the buggy garage. Then she went out to get food. “Decent portions,” she said, squinting at me as she left.

That gave me hours to do uninterrupted research with nobody questioning what I was doing. Rachel was sunbathing at the other end of the patio, not that she'd ever bother asking me what I was doing.

Showing an interest in someone is part one of caring about them.

I opened a browser and called up the block of flats by Royal Victoria station where Michael lives. The developers had a site with virtual tours of a “typical” flat, with mocked-up window views that made the O2 look even bigger—I suppose stupids fall for things like that. There were three local estate agents with flats in the block for sale; they cost over half a million pounds. Best of all was the land registry office, which listed all the property deals in the UK; Michael had bought the Docklands flat twenty-two months ago—a joint mortgage with Jyoti. So that confirmed when his last memory came from.

That was really satisfying for me. I was like Sherlock Holmes closing on a murder suspect. Better than that, it meant I wasn't imagining any of this. Mum's death hadn't made me insane; it was all real.

I went on to GBT Venture's site. It was surprisingly small and didn't have any useful data. Arty pictures and flowery sentences that don't actually mean anything—corporate puff, as Uncle Gordon calls it. I thought companies liked to brag about how big and successful they were. But nowadays everyone hates banks and The City, so I suppose GBT Venture was trying to keep a low profile.

I actually found more concrete information about Jyoti Tanark than I did Michael. I remembered she was a junior partner in a GP surgery group in Woolwich. Their website was one of those patient-friendly ones, giving lots of information about their staff. It told me she trained with the practice as a GP registrar and joined as a full-time GP two and a half years ago. She was the practice leader in inflamed joints; she spoke fluent Arabic, and her hobbies included reading and badminton.

There was a nice picture of her, smiling at the camera. Obviously that triggered the memory of her standing in the flat, framed by the window, holding her arms out to me/Michael. The smile on her face was a lot less forced than in the photo. It was like a scene from one of those rom-com films I used to watch with Mum—they were her favorite after she and Dad separated.

I realized how pretty Jyoti is; no wonder Michael didn't stay with Karen. Jyoti's got thick dark hair that comes down over her shoulders, and large brown eyes. She's smart, too, and funny, and they have the same taste in music (it's all old rubbish, from like five or six years ago). Michael was so proud and delighted that she was his girlfriend. When he was looking at her, he just kept thinking:
She's the one.

And she kissed him. That memory keeps replaying in the front of my head. It's not completely gross, having someone else's tongue in your mouth. Michael rather liked it. Kissing a girlfriend is pleasant. I imagine it's the same effect adults get from drinking alcohol: The sensation is mild, but it goes everywhere.

I glanced over at Rachel, who was lying on a sun lounger in a scarlet bikini. Actually, she's very pretty, too. Her face is heart-shaped, which gives her a dainty chin. Her eyes are blue-gray, and her hair is blond—genuine blond; it doesn't come from a bottle like most of the women on TV. I know that because her makeup and hair product bottles take up every surface in the bathroom. She's a bit taller than me, almost as tall as Dad. And she's a fitness bunny (that's what she calls herself); she goes to her gym three or four nights a week after work. I could see how toned she was from all that exercise; her legs and tummy were all lean muscle.

“What?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to look at me.

I blushed a bit, because I must have been staring. “Nothing. Taking a break, that's all.”

“What are you surfing?”

“Flats in Docklands.”

“Really, why?”

“You and Dad said we were going to sell up and move to somewhere better.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, Jules, I don't think Docklands is where we'll be going.”

“Where do you want to go then?”

“Not sure. Maybe south of the river. Somewhere nice, a place with a garden, maybe, and more bedrooms.” She pursed her lips. “Might need them eventually.”

“Okay, I'll look south then.”

“You don't mind moving again?”

“No. I won't have to go to St. George's.”

She sat up. “Is it really bad?”

I shrugged. “All schools are. I'm used to it.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“You know your dad will do everything he can to help, don't you? You just have to tell him what's wrong.”

“I know.”

“I'll help, too, if I can. If you want me to.”

“Okay. Uh, thanks.”

“I know it's not easy for you, but I do want us to be friends, Jules. I love your dad.”

“I get it.”

She gave me a small grin and sipped some iced juice. “All right then. I'm going to get me some more sun before Barney gets back. I'll be washing eye-skids off for hours if he sees me out here like this.”

I blushed again. “Right. Good idea.”

She turned over so she was lying on her front, then unclipped her bikini strap so it wouldn't interfere with her tan.

It was really hot out there on the patio.

I wondered if Dad loved her as much as Michael loved Jyoti. I'd never thought about it before because thinking those kind of things is difficult for me. I suppose Rachel's as pretty as Mum, and a lot younger. She must love Dad; otherwise she wouldn't have married him. And she said they wanted a house with more bedrooms. That must mean they were going to have children, which is also why you get married. I never thought of that, either: me with a brother or sister—well, half brother, half sister. That would be weird. I don't even know how I'd feel about that. Hopefully I'll be at university doing my physics degree by the time that happens, so I won't have to get involved.

Spain wasn't as bad as I'd been expecting. Actually, I got quite a surprise out there, and what made it even more remarkable was that it came from Barney.

Dad and Rachel went out clubbing every night. But three evenings, we all went out to dinner together first. Going plush, Gran called it. We got taxis down to Puerto Banus each time. Barney said it was the posh end of Marbella. I think he was right. The streets were so full of supercars it was like being on the set of
Top Gear.
People wore clothes that you normally only saw on mannequins in windows of exclusive shops. And all the white people were so dark—either murky orange or a really weird brown like their skin was coffee-stained. The older they were, the darker the shade and the more wrinkles they had—same as Barney.

There were whole streets that were mostly bars and restaurants and clubs. Everything was so much cleaner and smarter than back home. I kind of saw why my grandparents liked living here, and the warmth was supposed to make it easier if you had arthritis—which all old people have.

We went to Cono's on the first night. It had a huge open courtyard in the middle, with a fountain right at the center. The vines overhead were combined with tiny lights, like bright stars in the leaves. It was kind of cool, and Barney got all excited when he saw some Premier League footballers at a table down the other end. The girls sitting with them had dresses a lot shorter than the one Rachel wore. And I'd thought that was small enough. They were younger than Rachel, too, like they could've been senior pupils at St. George's.

“You going to have a beer then, lad?” Barney asked me with a laugh as we sat down.

“You leave Jules alone,” Gran told him.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don't like beer.”

“You've tried some then, lad? Good on you.”

“I don't like the smell,” I told him. “Olfactory response is a strong indicator of taste.”

“Blimy. A Proctor who doesn't like beer. Can't have that. We'll have to break you in slowly, eh, lad? Start you off on some ladybeer.”

“On what?”

“Ladybeer: a shandy, lad. A shandy.”

“Oh.”

“He'll be all right,” Dad said to Barney.

“Now, you make sure you order a starter as well as a dessert,” Gran told me. “I still think you're too thin.”

I opened the menu. It was huge, and mainly fish, which is the biggest cause of food poisoning (apart from rice in takeaways), but fortunately all the dishes had an English translation underneath so I could avoid the really dangerous bits.

Barney clapped his hands loudly. “Come on, come on, garson; a man can die of thirst in here.”

“Behave,” Gran said in a sharp voice.

“It's all right, girl; they all know me in here. They should mind.” He turned to me, suddenly solemn. “I knew what it was like here before they built this town.”

“Do you?”

“Ooh, Jules,” Gran said, patting my hand. “You should listen to this. It's right spooky.”

“Soon as we came here,” Barney said, “I knew it. I knew the land, the hills, the shore. Didn't I, girl?”

“He did,” Gran agreed. “Very first time, when we drove in along the coast road, he said to me: Girl, he said, there's some big rocks around the next corner. And do you know what?”

“There were some big rocks around the corner?” I asked.

“There were, Jules. No word of lie.”

“I remember it from decades ago,” Barney said. “Turn of the century, like—last century; when this was just empty land. Banus built the marina back in the early seventies, and the rest of the developments sprouted out after that, until you reach what you got today. So I reckon I must have lived here in an earlier life. I picked up Spanish dead quick, too. Like it's my second language.”

I just stared at him in shock. “What else do you remember?”

“The land. I remember the land. And the sea. It was hard times back then. I reckon I fought in the civil war.”

“Which side?” Dad muttered.

“You can laugh, son,” Barney said stiffly, “but it's real, Jules. I swear it.”

“Do you have a good memory, Barney?” I asked. It was amazing. I'd never thought anyone else in the family had a memory like mine, especially not Barney.

“Best there is.” He twitched a grin. “Never forgot a debt back in the day, did I?” He nudged Gran.

“He didn't,” Gran agreed.

“I still remember them now. All the amounts, down to the last penny.”

“I remember everything, too,” I told him. “The last time you visited us in Yaxley, three years seven months ago, you were wearing Levi's jeans and a green shirt, with black-and-yellow Reebok trainers.”

“Blimey!” Barney grunted.

“And, Gran, you were in an orange blouse and a black cardigan with silver ladybug buttons. Your handbag was leopardskin with a gold chain strap.”

“I remember that handbag,” she exclaimed. “I've still got it somewhere. Years out of season now,” she confided to Rachel.

“And you, lad, had red shorts and a T-shirt with them daft Minions on it,” Barney said smugly. “The ones off've the film.”

“I did. Yes!”

Barney gave Dad a sly glance. “Jules, I think the brains skipped a generation.”

Rachel was looking at me with a very surprised expression. “Do you really remember everything?”

I nodded. “Yes. I keep telling you I do.” Seventeen times in total, now.

“What about you, Dave?” she asked Dad. “Can you do it?”

“Not quite like that,” he said with an irritated grimace.

“So did you have a past life?” I asked Barney.

“No other way to explain it, lad.”

“That makes him a Buddhist,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Imagine that.”

“I'm not a bleeding Buddhist. 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.