TimeSplash (25 page)

Thunder crashed outside and the evening sky darkened prematurely. A wind had sprung up and was bending the trees, slapping rain against the windows. He opened the French doors and walked outside into the storm. Cold, wet air gusted against his naked torso. He felt his mother’s hands on his skin, her fingers caressing his nipples.

“
Mutti
!” he shouted. But he couldn’t see her anywhere. Her lips moved down his chest. Her hand slid along his thigh.

He was thirteen. Confused. Frightened by what was happening. His erection ached and yearned for her touch. It disgusted him, enraged him. “No!” he cried, slapping her hands away. His fingers found a heavy ornament, curled around it. “No! No! No!”

Thunder cracked the sky, above him like the voice of God. He gaped at his empty hand, fingers clawed, trembling with fury. A wall of rain smacked against his bare skin, clean and invigorating. Cold as ice, it sluiced the blood from his face and chest, waking him up, clearing his thoughts.

He would tear it all down, wipe it all out. He would rip the rotten fabric of the universe. “I can do it!” he bellowed into the storm. “I will do it!” He would make a splash like no one ever could or would make again. He would shred reality, smash it to a pulp. It would be his
magnum opus
, his
meisterwerk
.

Lightning snaked across the clouds and he looked up at it, his face a snarl of determination. He would tear the world down brick by brick, with his bare hands if that’s what it took. Somehow, he had forgotten who he was. Somewhere along the way, he had become a pawn in the game, not a player. Well that was over now. It was time to remember himself. Time to take back control of his life.

He bellowed at the downpour, at the crashing thunder. He filled his lungs, threw back his head and roared.

Jay’s mother left Sandra in the spare bedroom and went to find her son. She found him in the kitchen, making a couple of sandwiches. Waving him aside, she took over the job.

“It’s just for one night, Mum. I’ll find somewhere else in the morning.”

“And your place is a wreck because the ceiling fell in?” She sounded sceptical.

“The guy upstairs let his bath overflow.”

“So, if that hadn’t happened, Sandra would have been staying in your flat tonight?”

Jay finally realised where this was going. “It’s not like that, Mum. Honest. I’m just helping her out.”

“Just helping her out. And that’s because her flat is being redecorated. Isn’t that what you said?” Jay wasn’t quite sure what he’d said, but he bluffed it out with a noncommittal smile. His mother changed tack. “She’s a very pretty girl.”

“I—I suppose.”

“I daresay you hadn’t noticed. Boys don’t notice things like that, do they?”

“All right, she’s gorgeous. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Pretty girls like that can get men to do all kinds of things for them—especially young men who don’t look past the big helpless eyes and the long sexy legs.”

“Mu-um!”

“I’m just saying you have to be careful. Obviously there’s more to this than you’re telling me and I don’t want you getting into any kind of trouble.”

Touched by this admission of concern, Jay put an arm round his mother’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll be all right, Mum. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Except the killers hunting for us, and the crazies trying to blow up London, he thought, but it was probably best not to mention that kind of thing to your mother.

“I do worry about you, Jay,” his mother said.

“Oh, er, sorry.” Sandra, having just walked into the kitchen, started backing out again.

“Oh, hello, Sandra. Come on in.”

“Mum’s just made us some sandwiches,” Jay said. “Pull up a chair. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“My goodness but you look lovely,” Jay’s mother exclaimed. Sandra had showered and changed and was looking fresh and relaxed in a light summer dress and sandals. “His dad and I often wondered what kind of girl Jay would bring home one day.” Jay gaped at his mother, hardly believing his ears. “We never expected anyone as pretty as you, dear.”

“Mu-um!” Wailing pathetically was all Jay could do in the face of such an excruciating gaffe. Sandra giggled and beamed at Jay, enjoying both the compliment and Jay’s embarrassment.

“So I’m the first one?” she asked, twisting the knife.

“He’s never really been much of a one for the girls,” Jay’s mother confided, and Jay closed his eyes and prayed for death. “I’ll leave you two alone then,” she said and hurried out of the room.

“I didn’t say anything that would have made her think…you know…that we were…”

“Oh, shut up,” Sandra said, laughing, and sat down to eat her sandwich. “Your mum’s sweet. And she certainly knows how to press your buttons.” She bit into the thick bread. “Ummm, I’m starving.”

“You mean she was saying all that on purpose?”

Sandra regarded him, head cocked. “Do they make you pass an idiot test or something before they let you into the secret service?”

Sulking a little, Jay sat down too.

“Did you call your friend?” she asked.

“It’s all fixed up. Or it will be by tomorrow.” He had taken a walk out to the main road and used the number Bauchet had left with him. The superintendent had been surprised, but had agreed to sort out something by the morning. Then Jay had got onto a bus, dropped his compad under the seat, got off at the next stop and walked home.

“I wish we could stay here,” Sandra said. “I’d like to get to know your mum and dad.”

Jay looked into her big eyes and wondered why she would want such a thing. “You’re an orphan, right?” A little frown crossed her face. Jay rattled off what he’d read in her file. “Born 2032. Both parents dead. Raised in orphanages and foster homes. Ran away from a foster family aged thirteen. Arrested in Ommen, Holland, aged fifteen. Sentenced to six months imprisonment under the Temporal Displacement Regulation Act, plus three years for reckless endangerment. Both of which you would have served by now—given good behaviour—if they hadn’t extradited you to the UK where they promptly detained you under Section Eight of the Mental Health Act of 2022.”

Sandra chewed her sandwich, looking at the table. She said nothing.

“How come they did that? Sectioned you, I mean.” Jay had a horrible feeling he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help asking. The whole subject was troubling him more all the time. “You don’t seem all that crazy to me.”

She looked up at him at last. “Didn’t you pull my medical records too?”

He nodded. “They didn’t really make much sense. Obsession, paranoia, post-traumatic shock, that kind of thing.” He couldn’t read her expression but he went on, anyway. “Sounds to me like you had a bad experience that really shook you up and, well, people overreacted a bit.”

Her eyes fell again. “I needed taking care of,” she said flatly. “After what happened at Ommen…and then the police and the trial…I was glad when they put me in the Institute. If they’d kept me in prison…”

On an impulse, he reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away. “But you’re all right now?”

She shook her head. “Maybe.” She didn’t seem too certain.

It struck him that he might have done the wrong thing, getting the Section 8 revoked, that maybe she would be better off where they could help her. A gritty wind pushed against the kitchen window. Jay hadn’t noticed until then that it was raining.

“Why did you run away?”

“From the Institute? I had to. I wasn’t safe there. Nobody’s safe any more.”

He thought he understood. He hoped he did. “When this is over—” he began, but she lifted her eyes and looked straight into his. He stopped, surprised by the powerful need he saw there. He took a breath. “When this is over, and we’re all safe again, will you stay here, in London, so I can still see you?”

A smile slowly grew in her. She reached out her other hand and laid it on his. She nodded, eyes bright.

* * * *

Two black armoured Mercedes pulled into the parking area in front of the offices of Bailey and Sons Light Industrial Ltd. of Deptford, London. The mid-morning sun was high and climbing. The storms of last night had washed everything clean.

Four armed men emerged from one of the cars and took up positions around the building’s entrance. Four more men got out of the other car. Two of these went into the building while the other two flanked the car. They exchanged a few words on a closed compatch channel. Then one of the men beside the second Merc opened the door and Sniper stepped out. None of the armed men looked at him as they scanned the quiet streets for signs of trouble. Sniper moved quickly into the building. One of the guards who had preceded him said, “All clear, sir,” and the group relaxed, just a fraction. A young receptionist, who had been murmuring into the comm, looked up with a smile and said, “Ms. Vergara will be along shortly, sir.”

“Ah, there you are.” Camilla managed to sound more accusatory than welcoming. Sniper was, after all, two hours late and she wasn’t going to let him get away scot-free. She bustled into the small foyer and took charge, leading him toward a double door beyond the reception desk.

“This way. We’ve all been waiting.”

Sniper shrugged her hand off his arm and stopped dead. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Camilla stopped too, as if remembering herself. She took a breath. “You’re right. I’m being rude. I get so used to people being on time for meetings, I forget that the great Sniper doesn’t live by ordinary rules. I should have asked first, of course, whether you can be bothered to come inside and do what you’re being paid to do, or whether you’d rather I pimped a couple more whores for you to go home and play with.”

Sniper hit her across the face so fast she didn’t have time to flinch. It was an open-handed slap, but it sent her sprawling to the ground, momentarily stunned. The receptionist cried out and immediately clasped her hands to her mouth.

Sniper looked down at Camilla who was too dazed to get up. “
Arschloch
,” he said, spitting out the word with utter contempt. Without a backward glance, he strode off through the double doors.

* * * *

“Klaatu!” Sniper shouted as he entered the workshop.

Bailey and Sons was a light engineering company that Flash had bought and used as the front for his operations. Apart from the few offices and reception at the front, the main body of the building was a large open workshop with a delivery yard and storage at the rear. There was little activity there at the moment. The F2 generators had been disconnected and were standing on palettes in one corner, and the cage itself was under a tarpaulin at the centre of the room. A forklift truck stood idle as did the drills, lathes and other machinery. A door opened from a small office at the back and Klaatu stepped out. Behind him a bank of glowing displays could be seen. Sniper strode toward his teknik and they met halfway across the stained concrete floor. They stood in silence looking at one another. Beside them, the bulk of the cage loomed.

“I have been a crazy man,” Sniper said, a little stiffly. “You are right to want to leave me. I would have brought us both down.”

Klaatu watched him warily, saying nothing.

“I promise you, there will be no more shit like that, no more stupid risks, no more childishness. From today, I am focused on what must be done. From today, I am completely dedicated to making this splash work.”

Klaatu studied the big man’s eyes. “Good,” he said, not bothering to hide his anger. “And afterwards?”

Sniper nodded, acknowledging Klaatu’s right to ask. “Afterwards, it is over. For me anyway. The splash is all I care about. All this other shit…” He vaguely waved a hand but Klaatu knew what it indicated. “It spoils the fun, don’t you think?” He gave a wan smile. “This is my show now. Mine and yours. Like it used to be. Camilla and the rest can go fuck themselves.”

Slowly, Klaatu nodded, hardly daring to believe the change that had come. “And the target?”

Sniper shrugged. “It’s a good target. We’ll still use it.”

“And the money?”

Sniper’s smile became wolfish. “That’s one of the big mistakes I’ve been making. Relying on other people makes you weak. I don’t like being weak. It makes me cranky.”

For the first time, Klaatu smiled too. “So I should probably start building the rig, then?”

Sniper inclined his head in agreement. “Do your thing, man. And I’ll do mine.”

He held out his hand and Klaatu shook it without hesitation. To the young teknik it felt as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

“I need to take care of some business,” Sniper said. “It won’t take long. Then I’ll be back to go through the plans, okay?”

* * * *

Sniper went back out to the reception area. Camilla, blood smeared across her face, was shouting into her compatch. When she saw Sniper, she stopped immediately and backed away from him.