Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (15 page)

David struggled with his hiking boots. The computer sounded like an air steward giving a safety briefing. “Yes.”

“Remember, the left-hand lever is not the clutch. The bike is has automatic gear transmission. The on-board processor will select its own gears based on speed, predicted future traction, orientation and so on. In the event this processor malfunctions, the bike will revert to a mechanical automatic transmission.”

He pulled on the gloves and the rucksack. “Uh-huh.”

“Your left foot will rest naturally with the metal tab under the heel and another tab over the toes. The same for your right foot. If you squeeze the bike with your heels together, like so –” the stick-figure on the computer screen squeezed its heels – “then the engine will increase its power output by one quarter for five seconds.” The stick-figure and its bike raced off the screen.

“Got it.”

He brushed aside the sack-cloth curtain and examined the bike. He had never ridden one before, but he felt a flush of excitement, because this was a toy and he was a boy. It seemed perpetually crouched, like a sprinter at the starting blocks. It had a startlingly low profile and wide, spiked tyres. It sparkled. Some features were odd: the large dashboard and a superfluous set of hydraulics connecting the chassis to the steering column. The colour scheme was chrome silver. On the tank, in the precision flourish of an artist’s signature, was the word Moiré.

“David,” said the computer. Its voice was louder. “There are two, possibly three, motorcycles approaching from the south.”

David heard his heart in his ears. Farmers had seen his downed glider. He searched near the bike and found a helmet. He threw it on his head; he’d do the chin strap later. “OK, computer. Thanks for your help.”

“Wait. Have you got everything?”

“I think so.”

“Do you have the second rucksack?”

He could hear the other bikes now. “Christ, I don’t know. Hang on, here it is.” He found the second rucksack under the bench, near the wall.

“Please take it. It is not essential, but will be useful.”

David threw it over his back. “One more thing,” said the computer, more quietly.

“What now?”

“Please press the red switch on the computer. It is an explosive device with a ten-second delay.”

David pressed it and then jumped on the bike. Outside, the other bikes had arrived. Their engine tones dropped. The riders shouted to each other. He could smell their exhausts. He turned the key, pressed the ignition switch and the bike roared underneath him. He felt the suspension rise and watched as a clear visor rose from the steering column.

David was poised to walk the bike forward when a helmeted man burst into the shed from the side door. To judge by his clothing, he was a farmer. Their eyes met, David’s widened, and the laptop exploded. The sound was loud and concussive. It showered the man with debris. He retreated from the shed in a crouch, one arm across his face.

David lowered his head, gunned the engine, and went absolutely nowhere. He looked down. The back tyre was spinning itself into a blur. It slowed, bit into the concrete floor and the bike reared like a startled horse. David came off the power and waited for the front wheel to drop. It did and he bucked forward into the door. It was flung upwards by the impact.

He burst into the field and contemplated his next move. The bike slithered left and right. The back wheel seemed to be greased. Its treads didn’t offer enough traction. From the corner of his eye, he saw another bike flash by. It was difficult to guess what they were doing because he couldn’t see behind him. The bike had no wing mirrors.

“I could really do with a backwards-facing camera,” he muttered.

There was a beep from the steering column and David glanced down. The transparent visor had risen further and become opaque. Its concave interior showed the view from a small camera mounted on the back of the bike. He saw three other bikes, riding in an even, wide spread. The bikes were gaining because their riders could ride.

“Shit,” he said. He aimed downhill. The bike rode easier. He looked down, unsure of what had changed. The hydraulic rods that connected the chassis to the steering column were not superfluous after all. The bike was using them to correct his steering. He felt an odd mixture of relief and indignation. “Have it your way. But where am I going?”

There was a hedge approaching. Impossible to judge its height, but it would certainly hurt at – he checked the speedometer

– thirty miles per hour.

Another bleep and the visor showed a contour map of the area. A red dot flashed in the centre, which David took to be his own bike. A blue arrow trailed to the southwest. At the bottom of a map, a revolving logo read Easy RiderTM SatNav. The blue line pointed left so he pulled a wobbly left-hander and rode parallel with the hedge. The ground became muddier.

A biker slid into view on his right, between himself and the hedge. The profile of this man’s machine was much higher than his own. His helmet was opened-faced but he wore goggles and a bandana, covering his nose, which bore the blue and white Scottish flag. The man flapped his arm at him. Pull over.

On David’s left, another bike came alongside. It also bore a scruffy rider. It was the man who had retreated from the shed when the laptop exploded. David watched him with envy. He seemed to ride the bike with his fingers and toes. The bike undulated and swerved yet the rider kept a perfect, comfortable line. David, by contrast, was constantly at risk of bouncing from his seat.

“Computer, rear view.”

Another bleep. The visor showed that the third bike was still behind, but not far. They had him in a pincer.

“Computer, fire rearward missile.”

There was no beep. “Worth a try.”

There was movement to his left. A boot connected with the side of the bike. David swore. He wobbled, veered sideways, but managed to stay upright. Moments later he felt his palms go slick with sweat. That had been close. Even a landing on grass held the potential for a fatal injury. His stomach and fingertips tingled. His scalp grew itchy and hot under the helmet. These blokes weren’t just farmhands. They wanted him injured, possibly dead.

David searched the area for a way out. There was low ground on the other side of the hedge. To his left the ground banked steeply upwards. That way led back to the equipment shed and the downed glider. The bike dipped into a small depression again and David almost fell from the seat. He gripped the tank tightly with his knees.

He had to get over that hedge and into the next field. There was no way he could outrun his pursuers. On the flat, maybe. Not in a field.

The bike dipped into a steep ditch and he had to brake hard. The wheels slid, locked, and he walked the bike up the other side. He turned to see that the other bikers and gone high to ride around the top of the ditch. They were waiting for him. Abruptly, he heaved the front of the bike around, surprised at its sudden, dead weight, and headed back the way he came.

He retraced his route along the hedge. He was desperate to put empty space between himself and the other bikers. The engine whined but the bike stayed close to the ground and fast. He built his straight-line speed. After a glance at the rear-view camera, he pulled heavily on the rear brake and spun the end of the bike. He sat and panted. Breath clouded. There were lines of sweat on his temples. He faced the oncoming bikes.

Time to fix his helmet strap. He had maybe four seconds.

He threw his gloves away because they made his fingers too clumsy, but the gloves hung from his wrists by strips of Velcro. He looped the chin strap through its metal link and tugged. It held.

The bikes were almost upon him.

He slapped down his visor and raked the throttle. The bike roared.

Something in his expression, or his body posture, gave pause to the incoming riders. They slowed a little. Perhaps they wondered if he had found the desperate strength of a man who had nothing to lose. They fell to the left and to the right and David shot through the middle of them – bare centimetres of clearance on either side.

He rode on now, towards that large ditch. He did not bounce around as he had done before. Now he rode with his fingers and toes. A glance at the rear-view camera confirmed that the other bikers were following. With some disappointment, he saw that they were moving as fast as he was.

The ditch approached.

Here it was.

Shit.

“Shit.”

He swerved left, hillward, then cut right, down towards the ditch at a diagonal. He spurred his heels and felt the answering ssss of valves opening by his ankles. Nitrous oxide mixed with the fuel. The engine whistled like a jet on take-off. The bike found a whole new speed and he dropped low to its tank, hugging in wonder, willing himself to stay onboard.

He rode up other side of the ditch, now pressed into the seat, and caught its lip as a ramp. He was airborne. The hedge was a brief glimmer of dark green below. He heard the wheels swish across its surface. He reached his apogee and became weightless. The bike touched down on its front wheel. It bounced immediately. David watched as the steering column rose up and met his chin. His teeth bit together with a crunch. The back wheel touched, bounced, then the front did the same again. The bike became a bucking bronco. But the intervals shortened and, though the bike wobbled and swerved, the onboard computer was able to keep the bike and its rider upright. It came to a graceless halt some thirty metres from the hedge. David sagged in exhaustion and tapped the petrol tank.

“Good job,” he breathed.

He flipped his visor and risked a look over his shoulder. The other bikers had stopped to watch him. He wondered why they didn’t race on to the nearest gate. Surely they would know its location. But they didn’t move. They stared at him. David managed a little wave and began to ride away.

When he looked back again, he saw that one of the men had removed his helmet. He was speaking into a phone. His free arm was waving about madly.

David carried on. In a few minutes, he came to a road and turned left. The spiked tyres rattled uncomfortably before the computer retracted the spikes. According to Easy RiderTM, that way led, via a tortuous pre-programmed route involving minor roads and country lanes, to London Heathrow. It would take one day, nine hours, twenty-eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. If he rode without a break.

It was 8 a.m. It would be a long day. He rode on.

Saskia took a taxi to the airport. With no time to pack, she had taken nothing but her gun. She checked-in early and shopped: a coat, a few T-shirts, some nice blouses, shoes, a skirt, and some jeans. She also bought some tampons. Thanks to Jobanique, she had no idea when she had had her last period. In the supermarket she flashed her ID and jumped the queue.

She flew into London Gatwick at 10:40, twenty clock minutes after her departure, and spent the next hour wandering. Her attempts at English were largely successful, though she felt no familiarity or confidence.

Gatwick was uninspiring. She bought another coffee and listened to the announcements. She watched children play and discussed British hamburger beef with a French businessman.

At midday she sat in an old Boeing 737 as it lumbered up the runway and, almost impossibly, achieved flight. She touched down an hour-and-a-half later in Edinburgh. She spent some time talking to a customs officer who was unimpressed by the paperwork for her revolver. Two phone calls later, the gun was in back in its holster on her hip.

In arrivals, she saw a suited man with a card that read ‘Brandt’. She shook his hand. He directed her to a car and they climbed into the back. It was an old manual Ford.

“In your own time,” he said to the driver. Saskia wondered what would happen. She was relieved, but also puzzled, when they pulled away into traffic. “Your luggage has been sent on. You’re staying at the Old Train Inn in Whitburn. Why did you want to stay there? The last sighting of Proctor was in Northumbria.”

She considered his words before replying. He spoke in a whisper she associated with French. “The murder,” she said simply.

He nodded and flicked some ash from the window. Some fell on a ‘no smoking’ sign near the handle. She guessed the man was in his mid-fifties. In England, she knew, police officers could serve a maximum of twenty five years. He would be near retirement age. His cheeks were rouged with broken blood vessels. White hair had begun to creep from his ears. She wondered what he thought of her and was surprised, given what she knew about British politeness, to be told immediately.

“You’re a bit young, aren’t you?”

“Between us, I forget how young. Will you offer me a cigarette?”

He seemed surprised. She smiled sweetly. “Aye. Have one.”

She took it. “Not many people smoke any more.”

“They do in Scotland.”

“Why’s that?”

“First time in Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“Light?”

“Please.”

He took out a gold Zippo, flipped it open on his thigh on the downstroke and lit the wick on the upstroke. Saskia watched the gesture. She had seen it before. It was a memory with roots beyond the black wall that had fallen between her new life and the old. She reached out.

Nothing. Nothing more than a familiar gesture. Soon, even the familiarity was gone.

The man frowned and checked his lighter. “I’m Hannah. Detective Inspector George Hannah.”

“Oh.” She shook his hand. “I’m Saskia Brandt. Detective FIB.”

She looked at his warrant card, nodded, and he examined her gold badge, smiled.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No. I –” she faltered, and lost herself in the shops passing by. She felt a deep frustration about travelling...a frustration she was certain she had felt Before too. She could never get far enough away that the scenery really changed, became properly alien, properly foreign. Edinburgh was full of traffic lights, people, modern buildings. Brussels with different lighting. “I once knew a man who did that with a lighter,” she lied. Then she added, almost to herself, “He’s dead now.”