A Window into Time (Novella) (9 page)

If I was getting Michael's memories from the future as well as the past, then it was genuine time travel. Future-me had obviously perfected his time machine. Or maybe not. I still couldn't get my head around paradox. If I turned up at the Chinese restaurant tomorrow and interrupted their meal, I'd be changing the future—or rather, my memory of the future. But if it was changed, then where did the one I remembered come from?

I didn't understand.

Logically, paradox—the whole causality thing—makes time travel impossible. Any kind of time travel, physically moving ahead or behind in a DeLorean or a Tardis, or the mind-to-mind stuff I've been subjected to.

So once again: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Time travel was not logical. But it was happening to me. That was incontrovertible.

But how?

All I had left was Jack Haldane and the stranger-than-imaginable universe theory. I looked him up on the Internet. He was a seriously impressive man who had incredible principles, and stuck with them no matter what, for his whole life. And do you know what? There was another quote of his that just resonated with me as soon as I read it on the screen:
It seems to me immensely unlikely that mind is a mere by-product of matter.

He believed in souls, too.

Vladimir claimed he'd lived many lives before and would live again. It's driven him insane.

Barney remembered a past life.

I remembered another life: Michael's. But Barney and I have abnormally superb memories. Suppose, just suppose, we really did get reincarnated. Normally, humans didn't remember that, or it was there haunting the subconscious like a vague dream. Haldane's strange universe was simply censoring our minds to protect us, because knowing that…you end up like Vladimir. That is true causality. The knowledge is too big for a stupid to cope with. That there is no spiritual afterlife, no heaven or hell. You just keep coming back to live a human life for all eternity.

Oh yes.
Yes!
Because: Consciousness is just a window into time. Who says you have to live your reincarnated lives in a linear fashion? Not this universe.

I used to be Michael Finsen. And when that body died, my soul came back as Julian Costello Proctor.

It's strange coming back and living in parallel with who you were. Stranger than we can imagine.

But that worked. It fit with what happened. It explained
everything.

I know how the universe works. I'm the smartest person who has ever lived, and lived, and lived…

Mum's not dead, not really; not her soul. I don't know where in time she is relative to me now, but she's somewhen. She always has been, and always will be. That's such a comfort. It's a strange feeling, too, knowing what I do. I suppose my biological animal body part must affect my soul, my true self. Is that what existing is all about? To live is to experience. To experience is to live.

That's the kind of thing Uncle Gordon would say.

After smoking a spinach cigarette.

I was going to go and see Michael and Jyoti at the Chinese restaurant tomorrow. That was the final confirmation. If they were there, physical and real, and doing what I remember, then I was not hallucinating or crazy like Vladimir. It would be an absolute proof.

And besides, I am/was Michael Finsen. I had every right to be there and be told I'm going to be a father.

I texted Dad at lunchtime.

I got a ticket for the new James Bond, 5:30 showing. It's over 2 h + 30 min of adverts. I'll be home about 8:30. OK?

You sure about that?
Dad texted back.
You all right out by yourself at night? I can come and get you when it finishes.

8:30 isn't night. I'll be fine.

Well, all right. Any problems, txt me. I'll come get you.

Thanks.

Enjoy yourself.

I put the phone in my pocket and went to see the film. That way, I'd be able to tell Dad and Rachel all about it when I got back from the Chinese restaurant, and my cover story would remain intact.

I would make a good Secret Service agent. But I still wanted to make the world a better place with smart inventions, and with my super-knowledge I could do that for real now.

After the film, I took the Tube to Leicester Square. Chinatown was just behind it—a long pedestrian road with nothing but Chinese restaurants and Chinese stores. There were these big elaborate colorful gates at the end, and they'd strung lanterns everywhere.

I don't like Chinese food. First there's the rice problem, and everything is so slippery. I can't use chopsticks, either, and it's embarrassing having to ask for proper cutlery every time.

I didn't want to go into the restaurant to wait for Michael and Jyoti, because then I'd have to order something. So I stood just down the road and waited for them. Michael had booked a table for six o'clock so they could get to the theater in Shaftsbury Avenue in plenty of time for
Nobody's Freedom
at seven thirty.

I had my phone out, pretending to read it so I didn't seem suspicious. There were a lot of people in Chinatown. I didn't see Michael and Jyoti at first.

Then Vladimir walked past me. I gasped.

And then The Worst thing happened. He stopped and slowly looked around. Vladimir McCann was staring right at me. He frowned, like he was dragging up the memory of who I was from some deep place in his brain.

Does he know I'm Big Russell?

I ran. I was scared. I had to get clear. My soul is immortal, but my Julian body certainly isn't. I didn't want to die! I didn't care that I was banging into people. I knocked into Jyoti as I went. Her face only registered when I was past. I glanced back and saw Michael giving me an angry glance as he steadied her. Behind him, Vladimir was still frowning at me, but he was turning now, trying to avoid being seen by his stalking targets.

Just for a moment Michael and I were looking right at each other, but I didn't stop running. I was frightened what Vladimir would do.

After all, Michael remembered coming out of the office just after twelve thirty.

It's going to be a short lunch; the bank's base interest rise this morning has caught everyone by surprise. The stock market is going wild, and the rise is throwing a dozen deals we've got in the pipeline. They all have to be reviewed, and there is no time. There never is in this business. And it just has to be now, after last night and Jyoti telling me she's pregnant. It's damn hard to concentrate on anything right now.

I'm on the steps outside the building's main entrance when I hear a siren in the distance—police or ambulance, I can never tell. Behind me, Nancy the door warden calls out: “Hey, you! Yes, you. I know you. What are you doing?” Then she's yelling in shock. Something heavy thuds onto the ground. I turn around. Vladimir McCann is standing two yards behind me. His arm is held out, a revolver in his hand, pointing at my head.

I freeze.

He snarls in fury. Lurches. Fires.

The muzzle flash is as bright as the sun. Pain stabs into me. Then there is only blackness—

I was shivering when I got back to the flat. Remembering Michael's death had lowered my body temperature to ice.

Dad came out of the bedroom, tying his dressing gown belt. “You're back early.” Then he took one look at me and said: “What's happened, Jules?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “I'm fine.”

Rachel appeared, a concerned expression on her face. She was in her dressing gown as well. “You look terrible. Was it those kids again?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“Sit here,” Dad said.

I didn't argue. I didn't have any strength left. I sat on the lounge settee.

“It was those kids, wasn't it?” Dad said angrily. He was examining my clothes, trying to find evidence of me being mugged.

Rachel put the Braun electric thermometer in my ear.

“Did you change the sleeve?” I asked anxiously. Used sleeves have lots of bacteria; they can cause serious ear infections.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Not too bad, then.”

The thermometer bleeped.

“What is it?” I asked.

Rachel read the display and pursed her lips. “Slightly high.”

That surprised me. I was so cold. “I'm okay, really.”

“What rating was the film?” Dad asked.

“Twelve A,” I told him.

“Was there something bad in it?”

I shrugged. “Somebody died. A lot of people actually.”

“Oh, Jules.” He gave me a hug. “Maybe James Bond wasn't the right thing for you to go and see, not right now. Too soon, huh.”

“You poor thing,” Rachel said sympathetically.

“I'm all right.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“I think I just want to go to bed now, thanks.”

“You have to eat something. Your gran will be angry with me if you skip a meal.”

“I'll have a hot chocolate,” I told her.

Dad sat beside me while Rachel put a mug of milk in the microwave. Microwaves break up all kinds of protein molecules, which wrecks milk's nutritional value—but she meant well.

“Just the film that bothered you?” he asked quietly.

I nodded.

“All right. But I'd like to go with you to the next one, okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaned in close. “And don't mention the microwaved milk. Please?”

I gave him an astonished look.

“You're my son,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I do listen to you, even though I screwed up with the PlayStation.”

I thought I might start crying.

Rachel stirred chocolate powder into the milk and brought the mug over to me.

“Thank you, Rachel. That's very kind of you.”

I think she looked as shocked as I felt.

I got into my pajamas and went to bed. I didn't open my laptop, but I did check that the catapult was still there. It was.

Vladimir McCann was a murderer. Rather…he will be. He's going to kill Michael.

I suppose that's when my soul is born into this Julian body. So it shouldn't bother me. After all, I'm living this life because of that murder.

But Michael and Jyoti are expecting a baby. I loved Jyoti when I was Michael. I don't think love like that will ever happen to me in this life. We could have spent decades together. All that love will be lost now. Never to exist. That's not fair. There's so much suffering in the world already, what right does Vladimir have to take away a piece of genuine happiness from anyone, let alone me?

Jyoti will be devastated. And the baby. What will happen to the baby? It'll never know its father. It'll never know me.

Worse, my Julian life starts after Michael dies, so I never knew my own child. The baby won't know that its father's soul is alive. And even if it did, as Julian I can never be a proper father to it. I still miss Mum terribly, and I know her soul is safe and sound somewhen. Michael's baby won't have even that small comfort.

There's only one thing I can do. The right thing: stop Vladimir before he shoots Michael. In the memory, Michael heard Nancy call out—she's the security woman on the door, the one with CND earrings. She said
I know you
just before Vladimir fired the gun. She must have recognized him. But she wasn't quick enough. If I'm there, I can let her know earlier, in time to stop it.

That way Michael will live. Which might be a slight problem. My soul leaves his body to live in me. What's going to happen if he doesn't die on time? Does that mean I don't get born?

It's a paradox. I really hate paradox.

But there's only one way to find out.

The news the next morning was all about the Bank of England's announcement that it was increasing the base interest rate by a quarter percent.

“Finally!” Dad exclaimed as he was eating his breakfast toast. “Savings are going to have a purpose again.”

“Going to be busy this morning,” Rachel agreed cheerfully. “The City will go bananas over this news.” She popped a vitamin pill. “How are you feeling now, Jules?”

“Fine, thanks.” I couldn't take my eyes off the screen. The reporter on the morning news was standing outside the Bank of England, talking excitedly. People were hurrying past in the background, their faces all creased up and urgent.

“Take it easy today, okay?” Dad said to me. “What are you going to do?”

“Maybe some schoolwork. I want to get well ahead on the science curriculum before term starts.”

“All right. I'll try and get home early, okay?”

“Don't worry. I'll be okay.”

“Good lad, you.”

I wonder if he realizes how much like Barney he sounds sometimes?

I took my time getting ready. Two hoodies again, the catapult in my inside pocket. I put the ball bearings into a plastic box, the type you get to keep food fresh. I laced my trainers up twice, making sure the bow was tight. Phone fully charged—after all, someone's going to have to call the police.

I left the flat just before eleven. I couldn't risk being late. Even if the Tube and DLR packed up completely, I could still get there in a bus or taxi.

The underground and the DLR worked just fine. I rode the elevator up out of Canada Square station at ten to twelve. Forty minutes to go.

My limbs weren't working so well. Every part of me had that horrible vertigo tingle. I was going to change the time line. Which was a physics impossibility. Paradox.

When Robert Oppenheimer tested the first atom bomb, the scientists who built it were worried the explosion would trigger a chain reaction in the atmosphere that would destroy the world. Could me creating paradox destroy the whole universe?

I started walking along the road outside Michael's office at twenty past twelve, searching for Vladimir. I couldn't see him anywhere. But I remembered him, and time was catching up with that memory.

Then I realized actually seeing him didn't matter. I knew he was there; it was that simple. I headed straight for the entrance to Michael's office, pulled out my phone, and dialed 999.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

“There's a man with a gun,” I said. “He's shooting another man. There's blood and everything. Help, please. We need police and ambulances. Now!”

“Where are you? What is your name?”

“Jubilee Park Docklands. Hurry!”

“What's your name—”

I'd reached the steps in front of the big revolving door. “Hurry! He's going to kill him,” I shouted into the phone.

The people around me started to stare, concern registering. Somewhere behind me, I could hear a siren. That was awfully quick. And Michael was coming out of the sliding door. I started to run toward him. Vladimir was
there,
waiting calmly. Ten meters away.

I tugged the catapult out.

“Hey, you!”

I gaped in surprise. It was Nancy the door warden, glaring down at me.

She started down the steps. “Yes, you, I know you.”

“No, no, no,” I groaned.
I'm not the bad guy!
The memory was happening right in front of me. I had to stop it. I tugged frantically at the box of ball bearings in my other pocket. They came free, but I lost my grip and the box tumbled out of my hand.

Nancy was two meters away, reaching for me. “What are you doing?”

The expression on her face is one of my clearest-ever memories. That disapproving frown turning to a comic mask of surprise and panic. She stepped on the ball bearings and flailed about, her arms windmilling wildly. Down she went, as if she'd been rugby-tackled. And behind her, Vladimir was raising his arm, the pistol coming up.

I dropped to my knees and snatched up a ball bearing. Took aim, pulling the elastic back as Michael turned to see what the commotion was about.

I fired. The ball bearing hit Vladimir on the side of the head. He bellowed in pain and jerked about in reaction. His finger pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Michael in the side of his chest, spinning him around. Blood sprayed out. So much blood! And then Michael was falling.

But Vladimir was turning, one hand held against his head where the ball bearing had struck. All around me people were screaming and ducking down for cover.

I was still on my knees, scrambling around for another ball bearing.

Vladimir saw me and started. “You!” His face was bright red, suffused with a terrible rage. I was so scared I almost urinated. He lifted his pistol.

I let go of the elastic. The ball bearing hit him square on the forehead. He flipped backward like a gymnast, his feet actually leaving the ground before he crashed down.

Three of the building security people pounced on him.

The only sound in Docklands was the siren.

I ran up the steps to Michael. He was lying there inertly on the top step, blood spreading out from his wound. His mouth was flapping about like a fish in air.

I knelt beside him and clamped my hand on the wound. Pressure. You always needed to keep pressure on a wound like that. It says so on the Internet.

His blood was horribly warm as it leaked out all over my hand. I could feel bile rising. But his gulping was getting slower—then his limbs started to shake.

I screamed.

Nancy appeared at my side, tipping his head back and opening his mouth. “He's having a seizure.”

The siren stopped. There was an ambulance at the bottom of the stairs. Two paramedics were racing toward us.

I got pushed aside just as his motions slowed and…stopped. The paramedics took over from Nancy, and she came to stand beside me, her arm going around my shoulder. There was a big pressure dressing, and an IV bag, and an oxygen mask. They cut Michael's shirt open and put defibrillator paddles on his chest.

Michael spasmed back to life, and he sucked down a big breath of oxygen. “Hell, that hurts.” His eyes flickered open.

“He's alive,” I said numbly.

“Yes,” Nancy said. “I can't believe how quickly the ambulance got here.”

I looked up into the sky, waiting calmly for paradox to strike, to not exist anymore, or for the universe to end…

Neither happened.