A Window Into Time Page 8

  I never thought of myself as weak, but I know my coordination isn’t the best. “Rachel has a gym membership,” I told him.

  “I would never have guessed.”

  “Really?”

  “Sarcasm, Jules, sarcasm. You should deploy it more often; it’s a shield against life.” He took a deep drag. The smoke was awful, all sickly, which made my stomach churn. I couldn’t find any studies on whether it’s carcinogenic like tobacco, but I’m reasonably sure it must be.

  “What I was thinking was she could take me to her gym and I could do the exercises with her.”

  “So you’ll be working out with Rachel, eh?” He winked at me. “I like your thinking.”

  “Uncle Gordon?”

  “Yep?”

  “Do you think reincarnation is real?”

  “Whoa, deep thoughts there, man. Is this about your mum again? If it’s true, she’ll be back as someone wonderful, a heart surgeon or a teacher. Something like that.”

  “But is it real?”

  Uncle Gordon muted the TV. “Okay, here’s something for you, Jules: The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine. It’s a very famous quote. Do you know who said it?”

  “No.”

  “Jack Haldane; he was a British Indian geneticist and evolutionary biologist. One of the smartest people of his time—of any time, come to that. A proper radical, not like the Twitterstorm idiots you get today. And you know what? He was right, too. The more we delve into the quantum structure of the universe, the less we understand. Consider this: Every human culture, no matter how separate their origins, has legends and beliefs about an afterlife and soul. How did that come about, huh, unless there’s a grain of truth in it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “That’s right, man, truth is a universal constant. Remember that—oh, ’course you will.” He got to his feet, swaying about, then started up the stairs. “G’night, Jules.”

  “ ’Night, Uncle Gordon.”

  “Wait, you deserve a full and honest answer.” He turned and gave me a dazed smile. “Personally, I believe consciousness is just a window into time.”

  Chapter 15

  Back to Abnormal

  Dad and Rachel didn’t die in a plane crash, so he came to collect me on Monday evening. I was waiting on the platform when his train pulled in.

  “Well, you look happy,” he said.

  “It’s been good,” I told him.

  He gave Uncle Gordon a vaguely perplexed look. Uncle Gordon touched two fingers to his forehead in salute. I think it was sarcasm.

  The train back to Kings Cross departed nine minutes later. “Did you have a good time?” I asked once we’d found our seats. They were prebooked; I know it’s Rachel who does that for him.

  “Ate too much, drank too much, danced too much,” he said with a grin.

  I smiled. “Is that all?”

  Dad’s expression was funny. I suppose that’s what I must look like when I’m trying to work out if someone’s being ironic. “Uh, that’s all I’m going to tell you about, yes.” He put a hand on my knee and squeezed fondly. “So what did you two get up to?”

  “Uncle Gordon’s got a three-D printer. He makes all his own plastic ties and clips now.”

  “Sounds…interesting.”

  “No it doesn’t. But I want one for Christmas. Please, Dad, you can print anything on them. They’re the future.”

  “Okay, then. How expensive are they?”

  “Depends what sort you get. I made a list for you.”

  “Of course you did.”

  I didn’t mention the catapult and box of ball bearings I’d packed in my suitcase. I’d practiced a lot over the weekend, and I was a really good shot now. I checked online, and the Olympics didn’t have a catapult category, which was a shame. Everyone at St. George’s would have been amazed if I’d represented the UK.

  That night, Dad and Rachel went to bed early. They were both tired, they said. I unpacked and put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket. The catapult went in my bedside cabinet along with the ball bearings. Having it that close made me feel properly safe. If Vladimir broke in to massacre us, he’d be sorry.

  I had to wear two hoodies to go to Docklands on Tuesday. My catapult went into the pocket on the inside one, then I zipped the outer one over it so nobody could see it. The Internet gave me a long list of weapons you’re not allowed to carry in the UK, like knives and hand claws, hollow Kubotans, shuriken (throwing stars), kusari, all sorts of martial arts stuff. And no one under eighteen is allowed to buy or carry air rifles and crossbows. But, legally, catapults are classified as toys—which is really dumb. By Sunday evening, my shots were taking big chunks out of Uncle Gordon’s marrows. I didn’t want to chance a police officer or the office security people seeing it. If they did, they might use search and seizure laws and decide the catapult was an offensive weapon. So if I got arrested, it would be up to the court to decide if I had reasonable circumstances to be carrying a catapult. Which I did, obviously, but they’d have to know about Vladimir to understand that. That might be difficult for a stupid to accept.

  So even though it was midsummer, I wore two hoodies. I was very careful in Docklands. I got there early—twelve o’clock—and scouted Jubilee Park for any sign of Vladimir. I covered the broad walkway beside the water, and checked the Tube station twice. He wasn’t there. After that, I relaxed a bit and hung around for Michael.

  At twelve thirty-eight, Michael and three colleagues came strolling along, talking away about deals and reports. I decided to be very daring and walked straight for them but in the opposite direction, so I actually passed him less than a meter away. He never noticed me, but I remembered this huge surge of emotion he experienced, so strong it took my breath away. Hardly surprising considering what Jyoti told him.

  I can feel my eyes watering right there in the middle of the Chinese restaurant, and I don’t care.

  “What?” I ask in a real croaky voice.

  Jyoti smiles at me across the table. She looks amazing, wearing a purple satin dress that clings to her like static, light glinting off her gold necklace. She never needs to wear much makeup, she’s so naturally beautiful, but she’s dusted on a few highlights so that she looks especially gorgeous tonight.

  “Blue line,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No mistake.”

  “You mean…really?”

  “Yes. I’m pregnant.”

  I reach over the table and grip both her hands and kiss her. “Really?”

  She laughs at how foolish I am. “Yes. The tests are pretty much infallible. I took three.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Yes.” She gives me a concerned look. “You’re not upset, are you? I know this isn’t quite the sequence of events we had in mind.”

  “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Uh—apart from you.”

  She laughs again. “So…big question.”

  “What?”

  “Do we bring the wedding forward?”

  “Oh, hell. Your parents.”

  “They’re not that bad.”

  “No, but—Oh, whatever. Yes, let’s do it. Let’s get married right away. Hey! We could do Vegas.”

  “OMG! You did not just say that!”

  “Yes, I did. Come on, how many people do you know who’ve actually done that?”

  She giggles delightedly. “It’s crazy. Nobody does Vegas.”

  “So we will. It’ll be special and unique.”

  “Mike!”

  But I can see she is intrigued by the idea. It is such a magical meal. My brain is melting out of my ears; I am being deliriously stupid I am so happy. Having a baby together will be utterly wonderful. She’ll be a perfect mother. If it’s a boy I can take him to Arsenal matches with me—don’t say that out loud! But…“Is it a boy?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You have to have a scan to know that. It’s way too early.”

  “Oh, right.”<
br />
  “Do you mind which…? Wait! Are you thinking about taking a boy to football matches?”

  “No!”

  Her mouth makes a great big O, and she throws her napkin at me. “Michael Finsen! You were!”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  She laughs hysterically.

  I don’t know what we eat. I don’t taste any of it. Not this night. And I swear off alcohol for the whole pregnancy to be supportive. We only just make the theater in time—and the ushers never let you in after the performance starts. Opening night of Nobody’s Freedom, too. The tickets cost me a fortune. It’s about a funny dystopian world in the future, or something. At least I think it’s a comedy; Jo Brand is in it. But I’m not watching. I just sit there with my arm around Jyoti, staring at her until she tells me to stop. But I can’t. She is my world.

  I’m going to be a dad!

  I was giddy all the way back to Islington. All Michael’s emotions were reverberating around inside my skull like waves of chaos. They were so strong. I could believe I was in love with Jyoti, too. And a baby’s on the way, which is genuinely wonderful. Just thinking about that made me smile like some gormless stupid.

  Seriously weird.

  When I got back to the flat, I had to sit down and try to get my head calm. That turned out to be uncomfortably easy. I thought about what Vladimir would do when he found out and my skin went cold. He’d gone full-digital-berserk just from Big Russell’s innocuous deflection message. This was off-the-map psycho territory.

  I opened the MacBook and looked up when the opening night for Nobody’s Freedom was.

  I said seeing Vladimir at Jubilee Park was frightening. I was wrong. That was nothing. Not compared with this.

  The opening night for Nobody’s Freedom was tomorrow.

  Chapter 16

  Deep Thought

  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.

  Chapter 17

  The End

  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—

  Chapter 18

  The End Paradox

  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.”