I get out my little kit, and begin to pick the many hidden locks in and around the door.
Finn doesn’t hear me come in. I’m that good by now.
He’s got his boxing gloves on and he’s punching one of those bags, the long and heavy ones. He’s wearing his workout clothes, dark tracksuit pants and a white vest. He looks eyeball-poppingly fantastic, as always. The sound of his fists against the leather is rhythmic, slow. Aggressive but somehow defeated at the same time.
“It’s not the bag’s fault, you know.”
Lightning fast, he goes into a defensive crouch, then dives behind a piece of exercise equipment. It’s so quick, it looks like he’s simply disappeared. (I remain outwardly unimpressed but inside I’m thinking that move is so cool, I must learn it ASAP.)
Half a second later he gets up, scowls at me. “Katie. You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Sorry.”
He narrows his eyes, his whole body clenched into aggressive lines. “You know I hate it when you do that. And I told you never, ever, to break in here.”
“You said I shouldn’t do it without asking first.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t open the door.”
“I have the right to be left alone.”
I give him my most sarcastic stare, hoping he’ll think about what he has just said. For a while we glare at each other in silence. Then he turns away from me, begins hitting the bag again.
Finn has really broad shoulders, but although he’s tall, he’s not heavy. Because he trains a lot he’s very well muscled, but he’s also got that naturally cut, lean look which means he can eat as many carbs as he wants to without ever gaining an ounce. It’s difficult not to stare at him, especially when he’s moving like this.
I force my mind back to business. “So, what happened this morning?”
THUD … thud … THUD … thud …
“For Pete’s sake, Finn! You rewinded!”
He winces slightly, but doesn’t say anything.
“What were you thinking?”
THUD … thud … thud … THUD … thud …
Oh for crying out loud.
I walk over to right next to him. This close I can see that he’s sweating lightly, his whole body tensed to the point of violence. I can feel the heat emanating from him. His pupils are too large, and he’s got that manic look that he always gets when he pushes himself too far. I tut softly, but he keeps on ignoring me, staring grimly ahead.
“I’m not expecting an excuse. But I think you owe me an explanation.”
With his hair tied back like this I can see a nerve pulsing in his jaw. It looks kind of good actually, if you’re into that kind of thing. Which I’m not.
I take a deep breath. No point in both of us acting like idiots.
“Finn. Please. I’m not mad, okay? I’m fine, nothing happened, the Screen worked really well. You were right to drill me so many times; it came almost automatically.”
Something in his shoulders relaxes just a bit.
“All I want is to understand why you’d do anything as extreme as rewinding …”
THUD … thud … THUD … thud …
I know that he’s struggling, his emotions all over the place, wired like someone on drugs, aggressive, furious, confused. (Messing around with the fabric of the universe tends to have that effect on people.) But I can’t leave this alone because the truth is, I’m worried.
Finn is becoming reckless, taking wild chances. Not that he’s ever been Mr Responsible, you understand, but lately he’s been, I don’t know, out of control. Even for him.
It’s scary.
Sure, I’m not in love with Finn any more – not at all – but I do still kind of feel for him. As a friend. We’ve been through a lot together, and it upsets me that he’s been so lost, so confused lately. It bothers me that we never really talk about things any more; that we live in the same house like polite strangers. I miss him.
“Finn,” I say, and this time my voice isn’t sarcastic. “You’re scaring me.”
He tightens his mouth, but he still doesn’t look up. He just keeps hitting that stupid bag.
“I need to know. Why would you do something so risky?”
THUD … thud … THUD … thud …
Okay, now I’m getting mad.
“Finn. Stop this.”
THUD … thud … pause … THUD … thud …
I push him as hard as I can, and when he jerks his arm away, I take the gap, stand right in front of the punching bag.
“Will you stop ignoring me!”
A long black strand of hair has escaped. He flicks it back impatiently.
“Get out of my way, Katie.”
“No.”
“I swear to God …” His eyes are glittering, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough of his little tantrum.
“What? You’re going to hit me? Go ahead. It can’t hurt as much as rewinding.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? That’s how you think of it, isn’t it?” I’m not sure where this anger is coming from, but now my whole body is shaking. I mimic his Irish accent sarcastically: “Well now, things aren’t going that well … Oh, I know … let’s do it again! Take two. Push the magic button, change reality, why not?”
“It’s not like that –”
“This may all be a game to you, Finn, but for the rest of us this is it. These are our lives you’re messing with!”
For the first time since I walked in here he looks me straight in the eye. “I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
He pulls off his gloves. His hands are shaking. The anger leaves me as suddenly as it appeared.
“What happened, Finn?”
“They shot me.”
My heart stops. I feel my mouth falling open.
“Sharpshooter. Professional. Hit me just as I left the house, straight through the heart.”
“But …” My head is spinning. “But how did you do it? If you were so badly hurt? You always say that inverse time is the hardest, and this was long, Finn.”
“I’m sorry, angel.” He sits down on an exercise bench, but his body is too tense to allow him to rest. He gets up again, starts pacing. “I need to get on the treadmill.”
I shrug. “Go ahead.”
He begins to run, fast, and adjusts the incline steeply. After a while he takes off his vest, which is absolutely soaked through, and I have to physically stop myself from gasping at the sheer perfection that is his body. (But I’m seriously annoyed that I can still find him so gorgeous at a time like this, so I push the idea away, bury it deep. Good grief, I really need to get a boyfriend, and soon.)
I wait a while, not saying anything. When he finally starts talking his words flow fast, as if he can’t stop himself, his charming Irish lilt less prominent than usual. His voice is raw, his face pale under his dark tan.
“I’m not sure how it happened. I felt nothing, no pain. The one moment I was standing, and the next I fell. There was all this blood. The pain came about a second later, and then I went numb. I thought that was it, it was all over. I thought I was dead.”
I sit down on the bench. I don’t say anything.
“You know how usually I have to concentrate really hard to bring on inverse time? Mostly I can’t even do it, or I can only go back a few seconds. But this time it just happened. I didn’t do anything, I swear. Not consciously. I was lying there in a pool of blood, feeling my body shutting down, leaving me behind …” He looks at me, and I can see that he’s pretty freaked out.
“And then,” he snaps his fingers, “I was fine, standing again, no blood, nothing. I don’t know how it happened, it just … did. I called untime immediately, instinctively, and after a while I saw him, standing quite far away, well hidden, a professional. It wasn’t even the moment just before he shot me; it must’ve been a few seconds earlier because he was still adjustin
g something on his visor.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Don’t bite your nails, Katie.”
“What did you do, Finn?”
“Please. Your cuticles are bleeding.”
I look down. Oh boy. I make my hands into fists, sit on them. “Just tell me.”
“I put him in the basement.”
“Our basement?”
“I need to talk to him, and I couldn’t trust myself just then.”
Thank God. I take a deep, silent breath, wildly relieved.
“How long will it take, do you think, before you get out of this state?”
“A while. Another few hours.”
“I want to come with you, Finn. When you question the guy.”
He knows why. For a long time he can’t meet my eyes. Then he nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“It’ll probably be tonight sometime.”
“Phone me.”
“Dress warmly.”
Chapter 6
The man who shot Finn is a pudgy white guy, black jeans and T-shirt, closely shaved head, over thirty. Nothing special.
When Finn calls untime the assassin is knocking on the basement wall, leaning his ear against it and frowning. He looks really stupid.
“He doesn’t look that professional to me,” I tell Finn.
“He’s very good.” Finn is looking around distractedly. “I want you to wear that mask at all times. And don’t speak. I don’t want him to find out you’re a woman.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll be too easy to trace.”
I swallow hard. Time won’t just miraculously roll back half a minute if I get shot, I promise you. “Okay. Good thinking.”
Finn is dressed just the same as always, but he doesn’t feel the cold in untime. I’m dressed in my coat again, and I’m wearing a Yoda mask. I wanted to use one of Finn’s swords as a light sabre, but he wouldn’t let me after last time (long story). Still, I look pretty cool because I’m wearing a grey cape over my coat for that authentic Jedi look.
I put on my Yoda voice. “Quiet I will be. But remember, on the good side of the force you must stay.”
One corner of Finn’s mouth rises microscopically. A glimmer of his normal sense of humour must be returning, thank goodness. (To be honest, Finn really creeps me out when he goes all psycho and violent like this afternoon. Not that I would let him see it. A girl has her pride.)
When he looks at me I can see that his pupils are much smaller, almost normal.
“I’m fine, angel, honestly.” He grins, one of those grins that makes my heart flip. “I’ll be as gentle as a little lamb.”
I give a rude snort, but behind the mask I’m smiling too. Gentle as a little lamb indeed.
* * *
So, just in case you were wondering, I’m not here to watch some kind of torture scene, okay? I’m SO not the type – I feel dizzy even when I cut my finger, and any kind of violence gives me the heeby jeebies. My role is to make sure Finn doesn’t do anything silly and mess up his karma forever and ever. Simple as that.
(Not that Finn is the torturing type. Seriously, he wouldn’t hurt anyone who couldn’t fight back. I think. Not unless it was necessary. Or if they really, really deserved it. I’m almost one hundred percent sure.
No, I am sure.
Finn is a good guy.
Honestly.)
My presence here is just a kind of safety catch. It makes both of us feel better, especially seeing that he’s just been through inverse time and is still not quite himself.
Anyway, when Finn questions people, violence isn’t usually necessary. He just messes with their heads, makes them think he’s some kind of superhuman. It almost always works – but only once he’s convinced them that they’re not hallucinating, or being tricked, or drugged, or anything like that. Once they realise that what’s happening is real.
This is also the reason why nobody ever messes with Finn. He’s got a really hectic reputation, in a spooky, witch doctory, voodoo kind of way. A reputation like that travels fast; people leave him alone. Also, people know that Finn is freelance, and that he keeps himself to himself. He’s a sleeping dog, he once explained to me, that bad guys out there are more than happy to let lie.
Which is why this guy’s presence in our basement is so worrying.
“You ready?” Finn asks.
I nod.
* * *
It takes about an hour for him to break.
Finn is right; the guy is really good. He does that thing with his eyes that I’ve learnt to recognise by now, where he simply takes everything in, judges, stays calm. There is no fear in him, but also none of that show-off hostility and aggression (that’s actually just suppressed fear). He is completely cool, almost relaxed, and his pudgy face hides the fact that his reflexes are madly fast. (He reminds me a bit of Matt Damon in the Jason Bourne movies, actually. Except he’s not at all hot. Story of my life, I tell you.)
The guy only makes one attempt at Finn, and he does that at exactly the right time, when Finn’s attention has wandered just the teensiest bit. It’s only then that he finds out that the little Yoda standing in the corner is not some drug-induced fantasy.
Oh, how we laughed.
Anyway, moving people around in untime is more difficult than moving objects, but it’s still doable, especially if you’ve got someone to help you. (Think of trying to manipulate a life-sized doll made of heavy modelling clay and you’ll get a pretty good idea of what I’m talking about.)
We give him the usual treatment.
For an idea of what this feels like, read the box (bear in mind that I’m only describing the first few real-time minutes here).
You’re the bad guy, okay? You’ve just completed whatever sordid job you were contracted to do.
Suddenly you’re standing in a bare room, no windows, harsh neon light. You have no idea how you got here. Your weapons are gone. So is your phone and everything else, even the secret satellite tracker and the implanted microchip. You have a small wound at the base of your left bicep.
You check your pulse, your reflexes. You do not seem to be drugged. Your mind is clear.
You check for hidden cameras, hidden exits or entrances, anything. You cannot access the ceiling, which is more than three metres high. The door is solid steel.
Suddenly a man is in front of you. He didn’t come through the door. He tells you that you are up against forces you cannot imagine.
You do not feel drugged. The man says you are not hallucinating. He asks some questions. You answer. You are talking normally. This is not a dream.
You are sitting in a chair. There weren’t any chairs before.
The man tells you to stop eating all the ice cream. You are holding a bowl of ice cream.
You must be drugged.
You are on a dark beach.
You are in a car.
You are in the room again.
Yoda is standing in one corner.
The man talks to you calmly. He tells you that he can do things that cannot be done. You must have been drugged. He is completely coherent.
Your jeans disappear. You are sitting on a couch in a cosy sitting room, clutching a teddy bear.
He tells you that he does not want to hurt you.
Your clothes are gone.
Your body is bent at strange angles.
Yoda is standing in the corner.
You’re wearing a bathrobe.
Etc.
For him it must be a crazy, disturbing experience, but for us it’s just plain hard work. Especially for me, because we snap in and out of untime about a hundred times, which means that I’m dressed far too warmly in real time, but it’s too much of an effort to keep taking my gear off every time. After a while I’m one sweaty little Yoda, I’m telling you. Finn stays in complete control the whole time. He’s obviously not the type to hold grudges.
We spend about an hour of real time with the guy before he cr
acks (but an hour can be a long time when the universe goes wonky on you). He’s very intelligent and doesn’t spook easily so it takes a lot to convince that calm, rational mind of his that this is for real. What sways him in the end, I think, is his own clear recollection of shooting Finn through the heart.
This is what he tells us:
His name is Josiah Winters, he’s a professional assassin, CIA trained, with an international client base. He was paid a million dollars to kill Finn. (That’s like, ten million rand!!!) He was given the job through his usual contact, but he did his homework. The money, half of which has already been paid, came from a private Swiss bank. He traced the account to a woman named Annelie Botes.
Annelie Botes?
I frown, not able to place the name. Then I see Finn’s face and I remember the ex-stripper named Misty Mountains.
Holy cow.
He doesn’t feel that he’s ready to die, Winters says.
I brace myself for the worst.
Winters falls to his knees. He tells us that at last he has found proof that there are greater powers at work in the universe. That we are not alone. That there might be some meaning to this senseless, sorry existence we struggle through. He wants to know if Finn has spoken to God. He begins to cry.
He asks if Finn is an angel, and only then does Finn lose his temper.
I leave the room, disgusted.
Chapter 7
For the next week or so Finn and I avoid each other. I can guess what must’ve happened: Misty took over her husband’s dodgy dealings, and began to feel threatened by Finn knowing her secrets. So she paid to have him killed. Or something like that.
Truth is that I just don’t care. Finn made that bed, and now that it’s morphed into a bad remake of a Sopranos episode, he can fricken well lie in it.
I have enough problems of my own, not least of which is the fact that I’m hardly getting any sleep lately. Night after night I’m plagued by visions that wake me up screaming, terrible nightmares in which children are being drugged and beaten and sold into slavery. In my dreams the children are scared – terribly scared – lost and abandoned by the world. There is a sense of evil, and horror, and terrible betrayal. There are lots of tears and screams and blood.
And the worst is that in all these nightmares I’m there, right there. And while those kids are crying and screaming and pleading, I’m relaxed, not worried, doing absolutely nothing. In some of the dreams I’m talking and laughing with Finn, in some I’m messing around with Mandi, in one I’m even playing chess with Macy Bowers’s dad, the guy who came to speak to us at school.
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