Déjà Vu

Chapter Sixteen

In his room on the first floor of The Poor Players, David opened his rucksack and spilled the contents across the bed. Among the travel documents was a stun gun. He read its instructions while the live band, downstairs, played their final song. He continued through the travel documents and found an envelope. Smiled. Inside was what looked like a metallic card. The warmth of his fingertips woke it.

‘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 removed the pip that had been taped into the back. ‘Switch to earpiece.’

‘Done,’ said the voice in his ear.

David slid Ego into his wallet. At the bottom of the envelope was a money clip, which he put into the inner pocket of his coat.

‘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. The pipes made a thumping noise and under-pressurised water fell into the tub. ‘Who arranged my escape?’

‘I have been instructed to withhold that information.’

He nodded. The Ego model used a neuronal network to encode its information. Knowledge was stored haphazardly in a great web. Thus, ‘cat’ had a connection to ‘dog’, but also to ‘paws’, ‘lion’ and ‘boat’. Even the most efficient computer operator would find it difficult to isolate information from all the routes that led to it. David set about probing the barricades.

‘Where were you yesterday?’

‘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.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘No. I am reading verbatim from their 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 Nagarajan.’

‘Sing me a song.’

‘Which song?’

‘Daisy.’

‘Just a moment.’ There was a beep and David heard a crackle. The earpiece was picking up Ego’s attempt to access the Internet via the wireless telecommunications network.

‘Alright, forget it.’

He returned 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 permeate his extremities. His genitals began to thaw and assume a respectable size. He considered washing his hair but could not bring himself to encourage the wag who had written the copy for the free sachets: Rinse and Shine at The Poor Players!

‘Ego, can you monitor local police frequencies?’

‘Yes. However, their transmissions are encrypted. The key changes each day at midnight. I could not decode today’s transmissions until tomorrow morning.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘Yes, I am.’

David belched. The brownish water washed over his stomach and lapped around his neck. He looked again at his stomach. In all the excitement, he was losing weight. ‘Ego, if I make a voice call, can I be traced?’

‘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 of the water. Whom would he call, anyway? He had some friends at the university, family in Wales, and one or two old, good friends near London. Undoubtedly, his small circle would be under surveillance. He had some academic acquaintances in Europe and America. He could contact them anonymously, but what could they do from such a distance?

‘Ego, summarise all the news stories filed about my escape in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘That analysis will take approximately two minutes.’

‘Do it.’

He stared at the patches of mould on the ceiling. He wondered what he would next say to Jennifer, and what she would say back. His mind drifted. With his eyes closed, there was nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the pub: the lub-dub of hot water, footsteps, the rumble of conversation, the occasional cough, a car pulling up outside.

There was a knock at the ground-floor entrance used by overnight guests. David opened his eyes. Answering footsteps travelled across the hallway. He heard two men speaking. Only the low, unintelligible register reached his ears.

One spoke slowly and seriously. A policeman? The other responded quickly and made affirmative sounds. The voice of a sycophant: the landlord.

He remembered the thrill of his confession to Janine that he was on the run. He had felt that excitement when he had ridden from Scotland and he had felt it in the chip shop. But he had not felt it during the initial bike chase and he did not feel it now. This was excitement at another level; a surging energy that was difficult to contain.

David stepped from the bath and towelled himself roughly. He pulled on his clothes, then opened the rucksack and poured every loose object into the main compartment. He did not examine what he packed. He simply checked that the room was empty when he finished. Then he collected his toiletries from the bathroom.

David crossed to the window. As he had guessed, a police car was parked outside. The six-metre drop was sheer. No escape that way. Across the street, a uniformed officer emerged from a flat, touched his cap at the owner and walked on.

So the local police were carrying out house-to-house enquiries in pairs. The officer in David’s pub was still checking.

Silently, he turned off the light. With the darkness came a taste of safety. The moment ended when footsteps stopped on the landing outside and he heard the landlord say, ‘There’s one in here. Bit of a character. Popped out with a Dodger not more than half an hour ago. Under-aged.’

Another voice: ‘Come back, did he?’

The landlord: ‘Oh, yes. Came right back.’

‘Did he.’

David could not move. He needed a plan. The window was not an option. The fall would hurt him badly. He had to think of something else.

His thoughts jammed.

Think, think.

Get out, get out.

The policeman knocked. David had anticipated it, but he drew a sharp breath. He sank to a crouch. Would it make him more difficult to see? Would it provide a moment’s advantage?

‘This is the police, sir. Open up.’

David reached into his jacket pocket.

The landlord said, ‘I’ve got the master key.’

The policeman, quieter: ‘Go on, then. Unlock it. Just unlock it and step back. Understood?’

David drew the stun gun.

In his ear, Ego said, ‘The latest story was filed at the BBC—’

‘Ego, shut up.’

‘Understood.’

Silence beyond the door.

‘Do you hear something?’ asked the landlord.

‘Only you, Sam. Hurry up.’

David imagined the two of them standing there, wondering what lay before them, what the fugitive would do when cornered. He looked down and saw their shadows move in the gap of light.

A key turned in the lock.

David raised the stun gun. The laser-sight put a red dot on the door. His finger tightened. If he squeezed hard enough, two barbed darts would fire at the speed of air-rifle pellets. Each would trail a conducting filament. On contact with the chest, they would lodge under the skin and unleash 50, 000 volts. The leaflet had been quite specific.

The shadows paused.

Suddenly, a third voice erupted: ‘Delta Two from Delta Three, over.’

‘Go ahead Three, over,’ said the policeman. It took David long seconds to realise that the new voice had come from the policeman’s radio.

‘Report of a six-four in progress, end of Main Street. Request assistance, over.’

‘Three, I’m assisting, over.’

David froze in his marksman’s crouch. The landlord asked, ‘Aren’t we going in?’

The policeman scrambled downstairs. ‘A six-four is an assault, Sam. Takes priority. You stay here, eh.’

The policeman’s footfalls became quiet, then clear and brisk as he ran out into the street. David kept the weapon trained on the door and his eyes on the shadow of Sam, the landlord. The door was still unlocked. Sam muttered something and stepped away. Finally, he toddled down the stairs.

David held his position until his calves prickled with cramp. Only then did he exhale and stand. He rubbed his legs. He took another breath and pocketed the gun, shaking his head at his outstanding luck.

He walked to the window and parted the curtain. The policeman was running down the road and David felt a momentary guilt. He had been ready to electrify that man.

David took his helmet, confirmed the presence of his rucksack, and moved to the door. He pressed his ear against it. There was no sound. It opened on an empty corridor. He made his way downstairs, low and sideways. He heard the far-off sound of a jukebox, some laughter, and breaking glass. At the bottom of the stairs, he risked a glance into the bar. The landlord was not there.

David took three huge steps across the entrance and slid through the door. The street was deserted. He swung the helmet over his head and jogged towards his bike. It was a mistake to act like an escapee, but he had too much spare energy. He slipped into the alley and noted, with relief, that the bike had not been moved. The old woman’s window was closed and dark.

He climbed aboard the bike and made ready for the long ride, pausing often to listen for running footsteps or a shout of alarm. Finally, he zipped his jacket and kicked up the stand. The alley was too narrow to turn in, so he waddled the bike backwards to the pavement.

‘Ego, can you interface with the bike’s computer?’

‘No. It has not responded to my attempts at communication.’

‘Fine. Listen, the bike computer uses a vocal input. I don’t want to get the two of you confused. From now on, I’ll refer to you by name if I’m talking to you.’

‘Understood.’

David cleared his throat. Still no police. He held the brake, turned the key and pressed the ignition. The bike rumbled to life. Its windscreen rose and the suspension settled. The display gave him the time, his fuel load and a route map. He had enough petrol for one hundred kilometres on the straight. The excitement of escape began to lighten him.

‘Ego, what do you think will happen when the police learn I’ve disappeared?’

‘The local traffic division will move to a high state of alert. Records indicate that the local constabulary has one helicopter. If it locates you, the probability of reaching Heathrow is almost zero. You must find a motorway to leave the area before roadblocks are set, then transfer to minor roads to avoid detection.’

‘Bike computer, show me the fastest route to the nearest motorway.’

A map appeared. He could be on the A1 in less than twenty minutes. He would pass through settlements called Walshford, Fairburn and Darrington. Names he would never remember. He could make Leicester without stopping for fuel.

He rolled to the junction and looked left. The two police officers were standing only metres away. They had their backs to him. Between them, being berated vigorously by one, was Janine. Her eyes briefly touched upon David’s. Her expression did not change. David nodded.

He turned in the road and coasted away, retracing his route along Main Street.

‘Bike, change colour.’

The motorbike rode through one pool of streetlight with a silver finish. By the next, it was midnight blue.

‘Ego, read me War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy.’

‘“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Bonapartes. But I warn you…”’

Mrs McMurray, Saskia’s landlady, gave her a key with a plastic St Andrew’s Cross as the fob. Saskia took it and closed the bedroom door in her inquisitive face. She had fantasised about collapsing on the bed and sleeping dreamlessly, but her mind had not spent its momentum. It turned over still, rolling facts around, testing them, tasting them. The words on the wall. Shakespeare. The Fates. The death of Bruce Shimoda. The first bomb in 2003. The second bomb. Proctor. Back to the words on the wall.

By the pricking of my thumbs.

Minutes later, she lay stretched on the bed. Her nose was cold. By the pillow, her glasses were folded and dark. Near her feet was the dusty envelope, unopened. It read: ‘Do not open this envelope’.

She walked to the sash window. She might have been looking from the window of an apartment on a quiet, cold night, back in Berlin.

Something wicked this way comes.

The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.

Spin, measure, snip.

The window was jet, smoky with hints to the scene beyond. The impressions merged and snapped into focus. A human face.

Whom do you hunt?

Saskia stepped back, aghast. Her calves met the edge of the bed. She did not see the face as a reflection, but as a visitation. She drew her revolver.

‘Only me.’

Saskia screamed as she turned. Mrs McMurray, the elderly proprietor who had asked her not to smoke, there’s a dear, dropped her tray of tea and thin British biscuits.

‘Why, my dear girl,’ Mrs McMurray said. Her mouth worked on autopilot while her eyes roamed. ‘I’m very sorry. I should’ve knocked, should I not.’

‘Frau McMurray—’ Saskia began. Why was the woman apologising? ‘The tea,’ she said, confused.

‘Aye. Will you look at that. I should clean it up.’

The landlady remained exactly where she was.

Saskia faked a laugh. She let the revolver tip over her finger. ‘Do not worry about the gun. It is not loaded. I was…oiling it. This is my nightly practice.’

Do I look familiar, Frau McMurray? Read any Russian newspapers? Do I give you a sense of –

Saskia stowed the gun in its holster. ‘Listen. You clean the spill and I shall make us a fresh pot of tea.’

Mrs McMurray brightened. She was staring at the gun. ‘That’s a fine idea.’

Saskia crept down the thickly-carpeted stairs, past printed masterpieces and a cross-stitched owl. Her heart slowed with each step. The television became louder. She remembered the ghostly reflection and decided that Jago’s last word of the night had been correct. She needed to sleep.

Of course, if the landlady walked into a room without knocking, she got what she deserved. What Mrs McMurray really needed was…

A bullet?

She froze on the stairs.

Is that what she needs, Frau Kommissarin? Spin, measure, and…snip!

Saskia cleared her throat and continued walking. That voice was surely just her conscience. But she remembered the words of Klutikov: ‘The imposition of the donor pattern must be constant. If not, the original pattern—that is, the personality and identity extant in your brain—will resurge.’

Was it the mind of her true body—and its murderous mind—straining at its bonds? She could not be sure. But if she even suspected that she could lose her new mind to the old one, then that gun would find itself pointed at her temple. She did not want to meet the Angel of Death.

A little off the top? asked the voice. Snip.