‘Tomorrow?’ Creed look startled. ‘But I—’
‘My contractors can have all the equipment in place by midnight,’ Guilder said. ‘It’s vital that we steal a march on the competition before any of this gets out.’
While Creed chewed on the impossible timescale I raised my own objection. ‘The aftershocks that nearly wrecked this place were unexpected. There wasn’t anything in the calculations to suggest that would happen.’ The reason being that there was nothing in the theory to cope with paradoxical timelines, but I didn’t see the need to share that information.
‘That’s why it’s called experimentation rather than implementation!’ Guilder favoured me with a smile that showed his teeth. ‘A stage two cycle tomorrow. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Creed and Halligan looked deeply troubled, but neither spoke.
‘But the next time could be much worse,’ I protested. I wasn’t clear why health and safety was being left to the sixteen-year-old. ‘What if—’
‘Risk-taking is part of business, Nick.’ Guilder advanced on me. ‘Don’t let a challenge like this intimidate you.’ He set his hand on my shoulder and took an almost painful grip. He hadn’t stressed the word intimidate, but something in the hold he took on me did that for him. He knew all about my encounter on the tube. I had no doubt of that now. None at all.
Miles Guilder left a quiet panic in his wake. Dr Creed worried that the next anomaly might take out most of Cambridge.
‘Let’s call it what it was.’ He rubbed distractedly at his beard. ‘That was an electromagnetic pulse. An EMP. A nuclear weapon without the blast.’
‘Guilder has covered the insurance. It’s very comprehensive.’ Halligan didn’t look as convinced as he sounded.
‘But what if a hospital—’
‘Enough, Ian.’ Halligan shook his head. ‘We’re doing this.’
I stood quietly and watched them. They both had loved ones that Guilder’s people could reach out and touch. I too worried that we might shut down a hospital mid-operation, kill the machines keeping people alive. But I also had a bigger concern. It seemed to me entirely possible that with a paradox frozen into our timeline, and without a sound theoretical understanding of what we were doing, it could well turn out that we were tugging at the zipper of creation. If that were true then sooner or later we would yank it hard enough to undo the universe.
‘Well, you don’t need me here. I can’t even wire a plug.’ I turned to go. ‘I’ll see what I can do with a pencil and a lot of paper. Maybe I can figure out our anomaly and stop us crashing any passing aircraft.’ And on that happy note, I left.
Despite my parting claim, attacking the mathematics wasn’t top of my to-do list. It had taken Demus a lifetime to solve the problem to the point where a working time machine could be constructed. And in all that time he hadn’t figured out the paradox problem. Though to his . . . my . . . credit, there hadn’t been any real reason to. He didn’t remember the problems we were now encountering. That was part of the paradox!
Rather than tackling the sums, I decided to tackle the girl. I walked across the city centre and along the riverside towards Queens’ College. Demus had said he was going to do his own investigations into Helen. I assumed that meant some kind of covert operation. If he started hanging around the girls’ floors in the hall of residence he’d soon get himself arrested. I, on the other hand, knew Helen and had an excuse for visiting.
I thought about buying flowers. A thank you for saving my arse the other day. But it turned out that I lacked the flower-buying type of courage as well as the standing up to threatening men on the train type. I actually passed a florist on the way over. I’d even mentally picked the blooms and set my hand to the door. But standing there, I imagined carrying that bunch of roses to Helen’s room under the idle scrutiny of whoever was loitering in the corridors. I imagined my knock on her door being answered by the handsome ogre from the Master’s soirée. Whatever confidence I had left vanished entirely. I abandoned the idea of flowers and came to Helen’s empty-handed. I found myself sweating unaccountably, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I knocked, dry-mouthed.
I waited. The blonde girl who had tried to kill me with her flowerpot came out from her room to watch. I felt very glad not to be standing there like an idiot with a bunch of roses. Standing there like an idiot without a bunch of roses was much better. Turning my back on my audience I knocked again. A muffled shout came from inside. Something about waiting, maybe. With a sinking feeling I realised that I might well be getting her out of bed and that having the handsome ogre open the door was still a distinct possibility.
Helen came to the door tousle-headed and sleepy-eyed. She opened it a hand’s breadth, wearing a man’s shirt. A large man’s shirt. ‘Oh, hey, Nick.’
‘Er . . . hi.’ Smooth. ‘Bad time?’
‘No.’ A yawn covered by a hand whose nails were random colours, one black, two green. A yellow and a blue. ‘Come in.’ She turned and vanished bare-legged into the gloom.
I followed on, somewhat relieved. She went to the window and drew the curtains. The light of a sunny late afternoon illuminated the mess: clothes strewn with an abandon I couldn’t quite manage even though I knew Mother would never know, coffee cups, and beer cans laid out as an obstacle course, cushions everywhere, a wine bottle, a stray cork, an overfull ashtray teetering on the windowsill.
‘Are you allowed to smoke in here?’ The words escaped before I realised how lame they were.
‘No.’
I tried again. ‘Late night?’
Helen nodded and pushed her hair out of her eyes, yawning again. ‘Room party. I haven’t been sleeping all day. Just ran out of go-juice and needed to crash for an hour or two.’
She sat on the bed cross-legged. I tried not to stare and instead found the armchair and cleared enough space to sit. The beige material was more stain than non-stain and the whole thing felt sticky. I wondered if the handsome ogre had been part of the room party. Weird if he wasn’t. And if he was, then weird he’d left. If I were her boyfriend I’d have been there and stayed. Mess or no mess. Maybe they broke up . . .
‘So . . . ?’ She peered at me as if slightly short-sighted, inviting me to speak.
‘So,’ I said, eyeing her long brown hair. ‘Unless that’s a wig then I’ve kind of answered my own question.’
She took a handful and tugged. ‘No, it’s real.’
‘I saw the girl who looks like you again. She was watching me down at the Winston Laboratory and some weird stuff happened. But she had . . . shorter hair. And I thought it was you with a haircut, which was odd, but possible. Growing it back again in a hurry, though . . . not so possible.’
‘I had a doll like that.’ Another yawn. ‘You could pull her hair to make it long and then draw it all back into her head again with a slider on her back.’
I leaned, pretending to look at her spine. ‘No slider.’
‘No.’ A smile. ‘What kind of weird stuff?’
‘A massive power surge.’ I decided to leave out the time echoes.
‘And I don’t have that effect on you?’ She feigned disappointment.
‘I . . . uh.’ I thought then that perhaps John’s success with girls largely boiled down to not running out of words at key moments. The part of my brain that wasn’t paralysed screamed at the other part to say something. Anything. ‘I, uh, best let you catch up on that sleep.’
‘That’s it?’ She blinked.
‘Well, I thought she was you. I had questions. But now all I’ve got to say is that you have a twin running around.’ Twin was probably putting it too strongly. I wasn’t great with faces. They were definitely similar. But ‘definitely similar’ sounded too lame a reason for being there, even to me.
‘Oh. OK then.’ She watched my slow retreat towards the door as I attempted not to knock over any of the booby traps scattered in the way. I was closing the door when she added, ‘I might see you at the ball then?’
I leaned back in. �
�Ball?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘The Trinity College May Ball.’
‘Oh, right. That.’ I’d known about it but had no intention of showing up. ‘Professor Halligan gave me a bunch of tickets but—’
‘That’s settled, then. I’ll see you there.’ She smiled, and all of a sudden I actually wanted to go. Even if it meant a return to Moss Bros to hire the appropriate evening wear. For that smile I would dress up as a penguin again. I just hoped the staff at the hire shop wouldn’t remember me from last time.
I moved to close the door again, a foolish grin on my face, when a valid question occurred to me. ‘How come you’re going to Trinity’s ball, not the Queens’ one?’
‘Piers is taking me. He’s at Trinity. You met him at that last thing. The big guy. Piers Winthrop.’
‘Oh yeah.’ The big guy. I closed the door.
As I turned away, I almost walked into someone standing close by. ‘Sorry, I . . .’
‘No harm done,’ said the man who had taken my mother’s hairbrush from beside her bed and given it to me on a crowded tube train that morning.
CHAPTER 11
The man from the train finished making a note of Helen’s door number on his pad.
‘I thought you . . .’
‘Got off the train?’ A tight smile, no joy in it. ‘Yes, I did. Got back in the next carriage. Easier to follow you that way.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I didn’t want any of this falling on Helen. I hardly knew her, anyway.
‘Charles Rust.’ He stuck out his hand. I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t have wanted to take it if I’d known nothing about him. Despite his grooming he had a feral look to him. Also, there was something unwholesome in the way he looked at me that would make me want to wash afterwards. He lowered his hand without seeming to take offence. ‘I like to introduce myself. You give someone your name in circumstances like these and it shows you’re not afraid of what they’ll do with it. Shows them that they’re the one who needs to do all the worrying.’
‘What are you do—’
‘I’m doing my job, Nick. You should stop bothering this young lady, go home and do yours.’ He tapped his teeth with his pen. ‘You’ll be wanted at the demonstration tomorrow. Don’t be late.’
The anger that rose through me died somewhere between stomach and chest. What could I do? If by some slim chance I could give him a good kicking rather than embarrassing myself and ending up in an arm lock, what good would it do? He would just come after me. I couldn’t kill him or hurt him badly enough to stop him. And Guilder would have other people on the case. He could hire more. As many as he needed.
‘Take care, Nick.’ Mr Rust nodded down the corridor, encouraging me to leave. ‘You’re a valuable asset. My job is to let you know that, like any other asset, you have an owner. And like any valuable asset you’re to be protected. I’m the blade that cuts two ways. If you’re a good lad it’s only the one edge I’ll be cutting with, keeping you safe.’
‘From?’ Was this psychopath claiming to be my bodyguard now?
A slow smile. ‘From anyone else who wants to own you. It’s all about the rules, Nick. All about debt and obligation. Your experiments require finance. That’s a debt. Now you have an obligation. I live and die by my rules, my debts and my obligations. And I intend to see that you honour yours, too.’
I stalked off, my mind a rolling boil. Even warning him away from Helen would just make her more of a target. I’d never imagined this was how things went in the world of scientific research, however valuable the end results might promise to be. Then again, maybe it wasn’t always like this. I only had a sample of one to judge by; and I was, after all, a statistical outlier.
The late afternoon sun shone, in defiance of the rain that traditionally signalled the start of the British summer holidays. Birds sang their tiny hearts out in the trees. Tourists browsed the streets of Cambridge recording the old stonework on celluloid, buying postcards, amusing hats and guided tours. Students zipped to and fro on bicycles. And I wandered through it, devoid of ideas.
By the time I arrived at Trinity College and crossed the green expanse of lawns to reach my wing, I had almost decided that none of it really mattered. Guilder’s desire to protect his investment was intrusive and outrageous, but it wasn’t as if I didn’t want to research the subject. He wasn’t forcing me to work on something I didn’t need to do. Also the practical side did need very expensive equipment that would require financial support, and it wasn’t as if he were planning a third world war or to make himself emperor . . . hopefully. I just didn’t like not being in control. That only left the small matter of whether allowing his financial greed to dictate the pacing and risk level of the experiments would end the world.
I climbed the stairs to the first floor to find Crispin Waugh and one of his cronies lounging in the corridor holding a loud conversation about skiing holidays and yachts. I wasn’t sure how the two subjects fitted together, or if they were just broadcasting their family wealth to everyone within earshot. Neither were so engrossed in their conversation, though, that they didn’t have time to pause and throw a few jibes at my back as I passed.
‘Someone should tell Halligan his dog’s off the leash again,’ Waugh offered.
I slowed and looked back over my shoulder. ‘It’s sad to see what generations of inbreeding have done to our upper class.’ Shaking my head in mock sorrow I added, ‘I suspect that one of your distant ancestors might actually have made it to Cambridge on merit. In your place he might have found something witty to say.’
‘Hey! Do you even know who I am?’ The friend was broad-shouldered and tanned, though something weak about his mouth made it seem unlikely that anything kind ever came out of it.
‘I really don’t.’ And I didn’t. I did notice now, though, that he was carrying an unsheathed sword. Which was strange. It seemed unlikely that he was the D&D type who like to role play. I kinda wanted to ask about it, but instead I turned and walked away. He shot both barrels of his surname at my retreating back as if I should be impressed. I’d forgotten it before I reached my room.
I closed my door and fell backwards onto my bed, arms spread. ‘Fuck.’
It seems that the richer you are, the louder you speak, and Waugh’s resumed conversation boomed into my room while I eyed the ceiling. Apparently, the sword belonged to double-barrelled’s brother who had graduated from naval college. He planned to use it to remove the corks from champagne bottles at the upcoming ball because . . . well, there didn’t seem to be a ‘because’, but maybe it was fashionable among the old Etonians.
The conversation had ended by the time I’d gnawed my way moodily through a rather stale packet of digestives. I made a cup of black tea and sat by the window overlooking the lawns across which evening was making a stealthy approach.
All of a sudden I remembered. The book!
I approached my bag with trepidation. This morning seemed a million years ago, given all that had happened since. The split second, however, when I had touched that cover and received a massive shock that had thrown me unconscious back across the room . . . that seemed only moments ago. Pulling the zip revealed the old volume sitting there, innocuous, nestled among my other books. My hand did not want to touch it. I tried, but got the same sensation I once had several years before, when ambition exceeded bravery and I climbed boldly up to the highest diving board at the local swimming pool. Twelve feet doesn’t sound very high, but peering over the drop with my toes curled around the edge, I knew with certainty that my legs would not take the next step. Enduring the mocking looks of a sea of bobbing faces and the jeers of those already climbing the ladder behind me, I had retreated without dignity.
‘Just do it!’ I shouted, grabbing the wrist of my right hand with my left and trying to force my fingers onto the book. But I couldn’t, any more than I could wrap my fingers around a lump of red-hot iron, glowing from the forge.
A better idea occurred to me. I went to my doorway a
nd listened. All quiet. Carrying my bag, I snuck out into the corridor and went along to the door bearing the elegantly scrolled name plate ‘Crispin Waugh’. Gingerly I tipped the mystery book from the bag without ever touching it. The thing was carrying some kind of charge and I needed a way of defusing it, of using up energies stored inside. It reminded me of how Demus had to approach me and retreat several times before it was finally safe to meet face to face for the first time.
I left the book lying on the floor, just where a person would see it when they came out. Next I knocked twice, then legged it back to my own room three doors along.
‘Come.’ Waugh’s muffled voice.
‘Come!’ Vaguely annoyed now.
I heard the door open. ‘What the—’
I risked a quick glance from my doorway. My assumption was correct. He had spotted the book and was bending to retrieve it.
‘Ow!’ Waugh drew his hand back as if stung. ‘God damn it!’ Looking puzzled he tried again, more cautiously. ‘Ah!’ But this time he kept a grip, picking the book up and juggling it hand to hand as if it were hot.
I stepped smoothly out into the corridor, feeling distinctly pleased with myself. ‘Sorry, that’s mine.’ A few strides later and I was reaching for the offending item. ‘Must have dropped it when I went past—’ As my fingers touched the covers an almighty shock ran through me, hurling me all the way back to my own doorway where I lay twitching. I didn’t lose consciousness this time. Or at least I don’t think I did. With my ears ringing and every muscle trying to wrench its way out from underneath my skin, I sat up. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t smoking.
It was hard to hear what Waugh was yelling about but clearly a small fraction of the shock had run through him too. His neatly combed hair was in disarray, his V-neck jumper rucked up, shirt out at the side.
I got unsteadily to my feet as the double-barrelled friend emerged from behind Waugh, gesticulating at me with his brother’s sword.
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