A Window into Time (Novella) (5 page)

By Monday morning, Michael Finsen still hadn't replied. I sent him another message. Then, just to be sure—in case I didn't actually have his subconscious recognition in my head—I sent Michael Finsen(2) a message from Big Russell as well; he was the other Michael Finsen on Facebook that was about the right age.

An hour later Michael Finsen(2) replied:
Hi. Who are you?

So I sent:
I was the striker in the local league team back in 2008/9. We played against each other.

Sorry, pal, I never played football for anyone.

Do you know another Michael Finsen? Same age as you?

No.

I think he lives in Docklands.

Got to go. Have a nice life.

I didn't want to ask, but I had no choice now:
Back in 2009, did you ever have a strange memory about a boy running?

Blocking you now.

Which was rude. Although it made me happy he wasn't the right Michael Finsen. If you're asked out-of-the-ordinary questions, any intelligent person would be curious and keep the conversation going. I figured (2) was a stupid. There are so many of them. Sometimes I wonder how the world keeps running. There are so many complicated pieces of machinery out there that are essential, and the stupids can't keep them going by themselves. If smart people are in the minority, doesn't that make us slaves to the majority stupids?

The weather was nice, so I used my smartcard and visited Docklands. I hadn't been before. I didn't realize it was so big. There was a lot more than just the skyscrapers in the middle. I caught the Northern line from Angel, then switched to the DLR line at Monument. As I didn't really know where I was going, I just sat there and decided to ride it all the way to Beckton at the end of the line. Then when we got to Canning Town I started to recognize the buildings outside. That was exciting. Knowing the buildings must be part of Michael Finsen's memories.

We went through Canning Town, and I could see the cable car over the Thames. The O2 dome was squatting on the other side of the river. It was a comforting sight, like you get when you've been away for a while and glimpse your home in the distance.

The train rolled into Royal Victoria station. And I knew it! I hurried off the train. I knew which way to turn for the exit coming out of the carriage. I knew when to get my smartcard out ready. Outside was all big modern buildings, with the cable car station on the other side of the road. I turned away from it and started walking west, above the water.

There were fenced-off building sites and new residential blocks along the side of the river. One of them was lined with balconies, giving the flat owners a view of the dome.

That was the one. I knew it because Mike knew it.

Mike remembered.

At night, out on the balcony, the dome on the other side of the Thames is always lit up, and you can see the cable cars strung out above the river like fat wobbly stars.

We still need furniture for the second bedroom. Right now it's full of boxes we've both brought with us. Jyoti's are all the same, white cardboard that can be recycled. They're taped up and neatly labeled. I stuffed everything from my old place into appliance boxes, and I didn't have enough so they're overflowing. We'll have to go through everything and see what's duplicated, then dump the extra. I'm assuming most of what we'll junk is going to be mine. Jyoti's things are much better quality—and stylish, too. Like her.

I finish plugging in the kettle and walk out of the galley kitchen. The living room is all new furniture we chose together. Well…she chose it; I just paid my half. It's not quite what I'd have gone for, but I gotta admit it's ten times better than my old furniture, which doesn't belong here at all. Jyoti favors dark reds and grays, which is very stylish. The furniture suits the flat perfectly. She could do interior decoration for a living if she wanted to. But she's the greatest doctor ever.

She's standing beside the big patio window that faces the Thames, and the twilight frames her perfectly. She is gorgeous. And the king-sized bed is new, too. The delivery guys had a load of trouble carrying that inside. I can't wait to christen it tonight.

“Come here you,” she says with a big smile.

I walk over the floor, and she holds her hands out to me. We kiss.

Urrgh.

I did say the date and time out loud, and that I was just outside Royal Victoria station in Docklands. But it was pointless. It's where Michael Finsen lives. He's there every day. If he received my memory of being there, it's nothing new or different.

When I turned around, he wasn't standing there watching me with a knowing smile. There was no
Pleased to finally meet you, Jules.

I walked back into Royal Victoria station and rode the trains back to Islington. I needed to think this through more.

Two days later we flew to Spain. Our airplane was an Airbus A320. I checked online, and it used fly-by-wire control systems. I followed the links. The joysticks were electronic; they didn't move together. I didn't like that. When we got onboard, I told Rachel.

“Right,” she said.

Clearly she didn't understand what that meant.

“It means if the pilot and copilot move their joysticks in different directions, they don't know; they can't feel what the other is doing,” I explained. “And it can confuse the computers. That's why an Airbus crashed into the ocean in 2009. Before computers, the joysticks were always mechanically linked.”

“Okay,” she said. “Why don't you put your seatbelt on now?”

“They had three qualified pilots onboard, because it was such a long flight from Rio to Paris. It didn't do them any good.”

“Jules,” Dad said. “Enough about air disasters, thanks.”

“But this is the same flight control system. Airbus standardized all its aircraft cockpits.”

“Do your seatbelt up. Keep quiet.”

I could see the man and woman sitting on the other side of the aisle. They were both staring at me, frowning.

A flight attendant came over. “Is there a problem?”

“No, thank you,” Dad said. “We're fine.”

“I was just explaining there's a fatal design flaw in the plane's avionics,” I told her.

“Jules!” Rachel hissed.

“It's okay.” The flight attendant gave us a bright smile. I'd never seen teeth so white before. “All our planes undergo regular maintenance,” she said to me. “You'll be quite safe.”

“Not if we crash. Statistically, very few people survive a crash.”

“Jules!” Dad growled. “Be quiet. Now. I mean it.”

The flight attendant winked at me. “It's okay. I saw the flight plan the captain filed, there's no crash scheduled for today.”

I think she was being sarcastic. Or possibly patronizing—that's always a hard one to call. Two things. One, she's a cabin flight attendant; I don't believe she would get to see the actual flight plan. One (b): unless she was having an affair with the captain, in which case he might have tried to impress her by showing it to her. (The tabloid sites say airline pilots and flight attendants are always having affairs.) Two, she said
scheduled,
which made me wonder if she actually did know we weren't going to crash—and there's only one way that could happen. She was getting future memories from someone, the same as me. Two (b), future-me was sending her the information about not crashing to reassure now-me. But why wasn't he sending that to me?

“Do you remember the future, then?” I asked her.

She did this strange double blink and frowned at the same time. Then she turned to Dad. “We do offer counseling for nervous fliers, sir. It's a new service. I can see if we could get you on a later flight if your son would like to use it.”

“We're just fine, thank you,” Dad said in a strained voice. “Because Jules is going to Shut Up now, aren't you, son?”

“But she said—”

“SHUT UP.”

I could feel my cheeks go all hot that way they do when I blush. I looked down at my knees so I didn't have to see everyone staring at me. I hate that. They were all stupid and don't like that I'm smarter than them.

“You've got to pull yourself together, Jules,” Rachel said. “It's just a flight to Spain.”

I didn't say anything, just sort of hunched up tighter in my seat. There was a safety briefing before we took off. Which was pointless, as far as I was concerned; it was purely to reassure the stupids. The cabin crew went through all the stuff about life belts and oxygen masks, then told you to go into the brace position if there was an emergency landing.

I looked at Rachel, but she was reading a magazine and deliberately ignoring me. I wondered if she knew that the brace position isn't to help you survive; the airline only wants you to do it because it helps protect the human skull on impact. That way, it makes it easier to identify your corpse from dental records.

I thought about telling her but decided not to.

Victoria and Barney, Dad's mother and father, were waiting for us at the Malaga airport.

Grandma gave a huge shriek in the arrivals hall and flung her arms around me. She was wearing a bright-pink blouse and some kind of beige safari suit. Big gold necklaces
clink
ed around her neck, and her wrists were covered by gold bracelets. Grandma looked like an upmarket fortune-teller, and she smelled of very sweet perfume. I couldn't escape the smell. She wouldn't let go.

“My little boy, my little boy,” she kept calling as she hugged me. “How are you? You coping all right? I've been praying for you every day since…you know.
It
happened.”

“I'm okay, Gran.”

“You poor thing! You're going to have a fab time here, I'll make sure of that.”

She finally let go before I started coughing from the smell. Then Granddad moved in. He had more gold chains than Gran, and a lot of thick gold rings on his fingers as well. He did look a bit like Dad, except he's wider, and shorter, and a bit stooped—sort of the goblin version of Dad.

“Hey there, champ,” he said as he mock-boxed me. “You holding up there? You're a good lad, you.” I flinched. He's got scars on his fists. Last time I saw him he was always telling me about fights he got into when he was younger. His company used to run several pubs in the East End of London. Tough man's game, he called it.

Then he hugged me, even tighter than Gran. “Sorry about your mum, lad,” he said quietly.

“Thanks,” I said, just as quietly.

He went on to give Rachel an equally strong hug—him and Gran went to the wedding. “How's my lovely new daughter-in-law, then? Give us a kiss.”

“Doing all right, Barney,” she said, and wiggled free.

“How was the flight, love?” Gran asked.

Rachel looked away from me. “I need a drink,” she said.

“Oh I know,” Gran said. “They cram you in so tight these days. I don't know how they get away with it. I really don't.”

“It's the CAA,” I told her. “They analyze the passenger seating density and work out evacuation statistics.”

“Oh Jules, you're so clever,” Gran said with a smile. “Don't know where you get that from—not Barney's side of the family, that's for sure.” She laughed loud again.

“Oi,” Barney said. “I got plenty of smarts, me. Let's get you all back to the villa, then. Swimming pool's ready for you, Jules.”

“Oh great, thanks.”

“And you can get yourself into a nice bikini, Rachel. Hey! That'll be all right.” He rubbed his hands and smirked like a pedo.

“Cheeky!” Gran exclaimed and slapped his arm. “He don't mean no harm, girl,” she told Rachel.

“Yes,” Rachel said. She'd wound her arm around Dad like a boa constrictor gripping a goat.

It was amazing. I'd never felt any sympathy for Rachel before, but Barney can be a bit overwhelming. Intimidating, if I'm honest.

He and Grandma live on the edge of a golf course just north of Marbella. And I do mean on the edge. The wall at the end of their garden is the boundary of the fifth hole's fairway. Grandpa has a garage for his golf buggy; the swing-up door opens directly onto the course, and he plays every day. The whole perimeter is lined with villas just like it. They're all owned by British expats.

But it does have a small pool. Swimming is the one thing I do like; not that I want to race or anything.

“You're so skinny,” Gran exclaimed after I'd jumped in. “Rachel, don't you feed him properly?”

“He eats loads,” Rachel protested.

“I do, Gran,” I assured her.

“I'll cook you some proper meals while you're here, Jules, don't you worry.”

That evening, Barney came into my room. “Got you a little present,” he told me, holding up a slim white box. “Sorry we couldn't make it to the funeral, lad; I've got all sorts of tax rubbish going on back home, have to watch how many days I spent in the UK. But this'll help take your mind off things. You deserve something nice right now.”

“You didn't have to do that, Grandpa,” I told him, but he wasn't listening.

“Grandpa! Gawd help us. I keep telling you, lad, call me Barney. Go on then, open it.”

It was the latest-model MacBook Pro, with a fifteen-inch screen that had amazing resolution. “Seriously? For me?”

“Aww. That's the smile I remember belongs on your face. 'Course it's for you, lad. Only fair. Is it what you wanted?”

“Yes! It's brilliant. Thank you, Barney.” My tablet was old and slow and had practically no memory left.

He gave me a hug. “You're a good lad, you. Go on then, you get on with your fancy computing stuff. I expect you to make a million for me by the time you're sixteen. Bloke what invented Facebook did, and you're smarter than him.”