Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (19 page)

“New York. Fuck, you have money.”

He shrugged and watched, his mind idling, as a customer walked in and placed an order. It was an old man in faded jeans. “Yes, you’re right. I have money.”

“So what else could you give me?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you could give me the facts. But that’s not the whole story. Am I right?”

David ripped a chip from its sticky pile. He pointed it at her. “You know, you’re good. You could do this for a living.”

She nodded seriously. “Yes. Now what about the rest of story?”

“I...” he began, and Christ if he wasn’t near crying. He could suddenly feel his eyes, a tingling in his throat, and a juvenile sense of hopelessness. “Here we go: ‘I am not a good parent’. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Some people would spend millions on a shrink before they could say something like that.”

“You haven’t had my fee yet.”

David laughed and bounced out of his self-pity. “What about your own parents?”

“Ah, the psychiatrist cannot talk about herself. It’s a rule.”

“You have rules?”

“Of course. Let’s be professional. What happen to her mother? Did she leave you?”

David felt off-balanced. His smile weakened. “Her mother was killed a few months after she was born. There was an accident where we both worked. She died in my arms.”

“Bollocks.”

“Nope. It’s true.”

She leaned closer. Half-chewed food lay in one side of her mouth, forgotten. “Did she wake up just before she died, like in the pictures? They usually do that.”

“No. She was lying in corridor when I found her. It was dark, you know, really dark. But I found her anyway. She’d been hit on the head by something.”

“Someone?”

“Something.”

Inside, he was silent, his mind just listening dumbly to his mouth. “She was sleeping. Or rather, she seemed to be asleep. I tried to wake her but her mouth just fell open. She wasn’t breathing. I remember screaming, then someone led me out of the building. I kept thinking that she had died alone. I thought that was the worst part.”

“Hmm,” Janine said. Her fish was nearly gone. His was hardly touched. “Did you work in the World Trade Center?”

“You remember that. No. It was the year after.”

“Oh.”

“You want some more fish?”

“No thanks.”

David took his own fish and plonked it on hers. “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “I don’t want your fucking leftovers.”

He smiled and watched her eat it. “Stop fucking smiling,” she said, spitting fish.

“Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. Again, so adult. Jennifer could roll her eyes like that.

“Guess what?” he said.

She stopped mid-chew. “Wha’?”

“I’m on the run from the police.”

Her relief was evident. She resumed her chewing. “I see.”

“They want me for murder.”

“They want me for shoplifting. Small world. Stop watching me. What are you, a fucking perv?”

David asked mildly, “What would you do without the word ‘fuck’?”

“That comes under the heading ‘philosophy’. I’m a street kid. Don’t you read Dickens? We’re more practical.”

“You’re –” David said, but interrupted himself.

Janine read his mind. She said, “I don’t really do it, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Have it off with people. For money. Like I thought you wanted.”

Something swept through David. Was it relief that he had been talking – playing Dr Bernardo, hero for a day – to the worst example of society’s failure, only to find that she had beaten him at his own game? She had played on his pity, eaten her meal, and now revealed the trick behind her sleight of hand.

And haven’t I done the same to her? Disguised myself as lowlife, and gotten what I wanted? A dry run at reconciliation?

“So you do what do you?” he asked.

“I lure them in and take ’em round somewhere. Back of the Horse ’n Groom. Down to the canal. Or Blackboy Road. Somewhere. Then me mates grab them and we rob them for money. Or cigarettes.” She stopped eating. “Sorry.”

David sighed and tried to push his chair from the table. It was stuck to the floor. He wormed his way out and put on his gloves. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to sleep. In the morning I’ll ride on.” He leaned closer and winked. “Remember, I’m on the run.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, playing along. “I forgot. But what about your life story?”

“Life stories are boring. You should be thankful you only got the edited highlights.”

She shrugged.

David was motionless for the while. Then he said, “Janine, you want your money?”

She burped and nodded. “Oh, yeah. That. Make it a thousand.” She said it casually, too casually, ready for David to protest and rant. He did not.

“Got a card?”

She had it ready and handed it over. He connected the two and there was a little beep as the transaction was made. He gave hers back and pocketed his own. “Can I ask you something without you getting angry or saying ‘fuck’?”

“Maybe.”

He placed a gloved hand on her head. He didn’t ruffle her hair or pat her head. “Take care of yourself.”

“We’ll see.”

He walked out and Janine watched him leave. McCabe was smiling at the scene. Father and daughter eating out. He did not find it strange that the father had left without the daughter. He whistled a tune and went out back. Janine waited, picking at her fish bones, until she could wait no longer. She grabbed her card and checked the balance. Her eyes widened.

“Fucking bastardain fucker.”

David opened his rucksack and spilled the contents on his bed. Outside, it began to rain. He was glad to be warm and dry. He worried about the next day’s travelling. His coat and the rest of his clothes hung on the back of a wooden chair next to the mini desk and coffee-making utensils.

He ripped open the brown envelope. He smiled. Inside was an object the size of a bankcard but a little thicker. An Ego personal computer. There was an earpiece taped to the back. The warmth of his fingertips caused the surface to assume the shape of a woman’s face.

“Hello, Ego.”

“Who are you?”

“Professor David Proctor, at your service.”

There was a beep as his voice was identified. “No, I am at yours.”

“Oh, you.” David fitted the earpiece. “Switch to earpiece.”

“Done,” said the voice in his ear. He slid Ego into his wallet. There was some cash in envelope too. This he put into his coat’s inner pocket.

“Do you have any instructions for me, Ego?”

“Yes. Get to London Heathrow Terminal Five and open baggage locker J327.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

David walked into his bathroom and turned the taps. A trombone sounded and under-pressurised water fell into the bathtub. “Who arranged my escape?”

“I have been asked to withhold that information.”

He nodded and began to scheme. The Ego model used a so-called ‘semantic network’ to encode its information. Knowledge was stored haphazardly, with items sharing semantic connections in a great web. Thus, “cat” had a connection to “dog”, but also to “paws”, “lion” and “yacht”. Even the most efficient computer operator would find it difficult to barricade all the routes to that knowledge: connections to just one knowledge item might run into the millions. David set about probing those barricades.

“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.

Ego paused. “I was not active yesterday.”

“Think of a name, randomly.”

“Sam.”

“Why did you think of that?”

“I have no reason. That is what random means.”

“Touché . Tell me about Heathrow.”

“Heathrow Airport is the foremost centre for air travel in the United Kingdom. Last year alone –”

“Is that what you think?”

“No. I am reading verbatim from publicity material.”

“Do you love?”

“No.”

“Are you alive?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be alive?”

“I neither want nor do not want.”

“Do you have emotions?”

“No.”

“Who programmed you?”

“Dr Hilbert Nagarajan and his development team at Marquis.”

“Sing me a song.”

“Which song?”

“Daisy.”

“One moment.” There was beep and David heard a little hiss in his ear. The earpiece was picking up Ego’s attempt to access the internet via the wireless telecommunications network.

“Forget it.”

He went back to the bedroom and stowed the passport in the rucksack. Then he removed his clothes and brushed his teeth. Finally, he sank into the bath and felt the heat sizzling into his extremities. His genitals began to thaw and assume a respectable size. His fingers tingled. Muscles in his legs and back began to slacken.

“Ego, can you monitor local police frequencies?”

“Yes,” said the whisper in his ear. “They are, however, encrypted. The deciphering key changes each day at midnight. I could not decode today’s transmissions until tomorrow morning.”

“You are remarkably well informed.”

“Yes, I am.”

David sank a little lower in the bath. The brownish water washed over his stomach and lapped around his ears. He looked again at his stomach. Certainly smaller. In all the excitement, he was losing weight. “Ego, if I make a telephone call, can I be traced?”

“An internet call would not be traced. A telephone call would be. However, internet transmissions are more vulnerable to interception. I have been given instructions to dissuade you from communicating with anybody until you have reached Heathrow Terminal Five and opened locker J327.”

David slapped the surface idly. Who was he going to call anyway? He had some friends at the university, some family in Wales, and one or two old, good friends near London. Undoubtedly, his small circle would be under surveillance. He had some acquaintances abroad at various universities in Europe and America. He could contact them safely, but what could they do from such a distance?

“Ego, how many news stories have been filed about me in the last twenty-four hours?”

“That analysis will take approximately two minutes.”

“Do it.”

He stared at the mouldy patches on the ceiling and the occasional fly. He thought about Jennifer and wondered what he would next say to her, and what she would say back, and whether they could they even talk without arguing. His mind drifted.

With his eyes closed, there was nothing to do but listen to sounds through the building’s thin walls and floor: the gurgle of hot water, footsteps, the rumble of conversation, the odd cough, the car pulling up outside.

He heard a knock at the front door. Although the ground floor was a pub, there was a separate entrance for guests. Answering footsteps travelled across the wooden downstairs hallway. There was a creak as the door opened. David heard two men speaking. Only low-pitched sounds reached his room. He couldn’t hear individual words.

One man spoke slowly and seriously. A policeman’s voice. The other responded quickly and made affirmative sounds.

David stepped from the bath and towelled himself. He did not waste any time straining to hear them. He pulled on his clothes. The coat was reversible so he turned it inside out. His heart thumped like a fist on a wall: Lub-dub, lub-dub; get out, get out.

He remembered the sparkle in his eye when he had told Janine that he was on the run. He had wanted to see his own excitement reflected in her. He had felt that excitement riding down from Scotland and he had felt it in the fish and chip shop. But he had not felt it when chased by the bikers and he certainly did not feel it now. This was excitement at another level: a surging energy that was barely controllable.

He opened the rucksack and poured every loose object into the main compartment. He did not check to see to what he was putting in; he simply checked that the room was empty when he finished.

He stood by the bed. He did not dare to move because he was listening. He wanted to pick up the trail. Yes, there it was: footsteps. The low voices were moving. They were making small talk while they walked. To him? He had to be certain.

David reached the window in one stride. A police car was parked outside. Two of its wheels were on the pavement. He tried to slow his breathing. The street was well-lit and, as he watched, a car drove past. The six-metre drop was sheer. No escape from this window. Across the street he saw a uniformed officer emerge from a small bed and breakfast, tip his hat to the landlady, and walk on.

The local police were carrying out house-to-house enquiries. In pairs. The one in David’s place was still checking.

Silently, he turned off the light. With the darkness came a momentary taste of safety. The moment ended when footsteps fell on the landing outside and he heard the Welsh landlord say: “One on this landing. Bit of a character. Popped out with a Dodger not more than half an hour ago. Under-aged.”

Another voice: “Is that right, sir. Come back, did he?”

The landlord: “Oh yes. Came right back.”

“Did he, sir.”

David shifted his weight but he could not move. He needed a plan. He could not leave via the window. The fall would hurt him badly. But he could not leave via the door.

His thoughts jammed.

Think, think.

Get out, get out.

There was knock at the door. David had fought to prepare himself, but he drew a sharp breath. The knock galvanized him. He sank to a crouch. This would make him more difficult to make out when the policeman came in. Just a second’s worth of advantage.

“This is the police, sir. Open up please.”

David’s hand reached into his jacket pocket.

The landlord: “I bet he’s hiding in there. I bet. I’ve got me keys.”

His fingers snaked around the envelope of cash to the stun gun.

The policeman, more quietly: “Go on, then. Unlock it. Don’t open it. Understand?”

David drew the stun gun and pointed.

In his ear, Ego said, “The latest story was logged at BBC News On-line –”

“Ego,” he hissed, “fucking shut up.”

“Understood.”

“Do you hear something?” asked the landlord.

The policeman did not reply. Keys jingled and one rattled nervously into the lock. It pushed his own onto the floor (Shite, why didn’t I just turn the key to block the lock? he thought, block the lock, blockthelock) and then turned. There was a pause. David imagined the two of them standing there, wondering what horrors lay behind this door, what the animal would do when cornered. He looked down and saw their motionless shadows in the gap of light under the door. The policeman would be concentrating on procedure; the landlord on each detail, to make his storytelling all the sweeter.