A Window into Time (Novella) (7 page)

When I got home, I tried to go onto Jyoti's Facebook page to check it, but she'd closed it down.

I remembered the date Vladimir posted his tirade—three months and eight days ago. The post was actually quite scary. Even the stupids have a kind of logic to their behavior, which is easy for someone smarter, like me, to discern. Then there are criminals, who are actually clinical psychopaths, which doesn't mean they go around hacking people apart the way films depict them (Mum and Dad wouldn't let me see the ones with Sir Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter even though they're classics, but I know the plot; there are literally thousands of spoiler reviews on the Internet). Their neurochemistry means they simply don't empathize and conform with normal human social constraints (looking at
you:
Kenan Abbot & Scrap Owen). That's why they turn to crime; they don't see anything wrong with stealing or threatening other people. Interestingly, the top 1 percent of them wind up running companies or banks or going into politics. People always misclassify them and call them ruthless; they're not. They simply see an advantage for themselves and take it without any regard for the consequences. It's their nature.

Again, I can understand them.

Vladimir McCann was not stupid or psychopathic. Michael Finsen was right; Vladimir was flat-out mad.

I went on Vladimir's Facebook page. His posts there were even worse than the one he wrote on Jyoti's page. It was very hard for me to follow his writing. There was nothing rational there. But he did mention his medication. Mainly when he wasn't taking it.
Oops, forgot again,
he was always saying. Or:
These new tabs make everything dull, I can't think proper.
Or
They space me out too much.
A couple of times he talked about being sectioned.
Logging on from inside my padded cell.
Which couldn't be right; I'm sure mental hospitals don't allow patients Internet access.

I couldn't tell what was true or not. You can't analyze something like that; there's no reference point. I wouldn't like it if he'd sent me anything like that. So no wonder Michael was worried and angry.

And Michael and Jyoti were engaged now. That was something nice to come out of this, I supposed.

“How good are the anti-stalking laws?” I asked Dad that night.

He gave me a very surprised look and just said: “Why?”

This time I'd worked out what to say in advance. It was no good me trying to explain what had been happening. Dad and Rachel don't understand anything that happens outside their view of the world; their brains aren't big enough. So I wasn't lying to them, just explaining in a way they'd understand. “I saw this strange man today. He was in the Angel Center. I think he was following a woman. She didn't know. He was hanging around outside the shops when she went in, and he sat by himself in Wagamama when she went in to meet some friends. It was kind of creepy.”

“Did you tell her?” Rachel asked me.

“No. I couldn't be sure. It might have been coincidence.”

“You didn't think so, though, did you?” Dad said.

I shook my head. “No. He was acting all weird. But that's just what I thought. The police need solid evidence, don't they?”

“Okay, well, the next time you see something like that, tell the mall's security people. They'll know how to deal with it.”

“Ha,” Rachel grunted. “This is what it's like being a woman, Jules. You get some right creeps on the street these days. Harassment is getting worse all the time.”

“But if she'd complained, would the stalking laws protect her?” I asked.

“Not if he's a complete loon,” Dad said. “But they're good enough to warn most people off.”

I went back to Docklands the next day. This time I disguised myself so the building security people wouldn't recognize me. A red T-shirt now, and shorts (yesterday I had a green T-shirt and jeans); I never wear red on Tuesdays, so it was pretty radical. I couldn't bring myself not to wear socks in my sneakers, but I did roll them all the way down so it looked like I wasn't. I borrowed Rachel's baseball cap, the one with her gym logo on the front. Then I finished it off with sunglasses.

Dad was just going out to work when he saw me. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out.”

“Well, try and avoid those boys from school, okay?”

“Sure.”

His mouth opened, like he was going to say something more. But he just looked at my clothes again and shrugged. “See you tonight.”

I stayed in the flat for a couple of hours, searching the Internet for any files on Vladimir McCann. But he was as bad as Michael when it came to filling in his Facebook details; all it said was that he lived in London. He wasn't reliable enough for me to believe it. Not without a confirmed cross-reference.

But there wasn't anything on him. He must have been one of those people who lived off the grid.

Thinking about it, I supposed I did, too. I'd never signed on to any social media site. I don't have any friends to message or share photos with, so there's no point.

Now that I knew more about Michael, I thought about sending him a new message, but I decided against it. It's logical: I could just walk up to him and say hello. This gave me the advantage. If he did know who I was, taking security precautions didn't matter; if he didn't know, then he would probably think I'm some kind of weirdo stalker like Vladimir, and he'd likely be all super-sensitive about that, so security was important. By
security
I mean not saying who I was or where I lived.

There's a special technique you can use for getting people to tell you stuff without them realizing what they're doing. It's simple enough. I'd go up to him looking all confident and say something like: “Hi, you're Michael, aren't you? My dad says you used to play football in his league.” That way he'd think he knows me and start talking.

According to the Internet, it's called soft-sideways interrogation. The most famous example ever is Neville Chamberlain, who was prime minister just before World War Two. He was in a lift in Harrods when a posh young girl and her nanny got in. The girl politely said hello to him and looked very familiar, but he couldn't quite remember her name. So he asked her if her father was still in the same job, thinking she'd say what the job was so he could work out who she was. She replied: “Yes, he's still king.” It was Princess Elizabeth.

Maybe I won't use that technique.

Though, actually, Chamberlain did get to find out who she was.

I arrived outside Michael's office at twelve twenty-five. The same security people were on the entrance. The woman who had looked at me a couple of times yesterday didn't pay any attention to me today. She wore different earrings—small purple ones with the circular peace symbol, which the Internet says was designed by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. I thought it was odd that someone from security would wear those.

Michael Finsen came out for lunch at twelve thirty-seven. I liked that. He clearly knew the importance of routine and how easy it makes life.

I hadn't even started following him when I began remembering his trip to the police station.

It wasn't Mike's happiest memory.

I go into the reception area, which is so much smaller than I'd expected, given the size of the station. It's a long way in from the big glass doors, making it oddly dark. The desk is surrounded by thick security glass, and the door beside it has a keypad so you can't get any farther into the building.

There's a community service officer in a high-viz jacket sitting at the back of the reception, using a computer. I know the cliché about police officers looking younger as you get older, but he can't be more than twenty-two. It doesn't inspire me with confidence.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asks.

You can start by going and getting a real police officer out here for me to talk to,
I think. “One of my fiancée's old boyfriends is threatening her,” I tell him.

“In what way?”

Seriously? Do you not understand the word
threat
?
“He posted this on her Facebook page.” I hold up my smartphone, which is showing the Visitor Post.

He takes it from me and starts to read. It takes him a long time—longer than it should. The way his face is all creased up, I keep expecting his lips to move silently as he reads.

When he finally finishes, he looks up and says: “There's no threat there, sir.”

“What?”

“It's odd, granted, but he doesn't actually threaten her with anything.”

“You're kidding! He says she's going to come to a dark end. It's right there.”

“But he doesn't specifically say he's going to harm her. It's more like a prediction based on what happened in Portsmouth.”

“They never went to Portsmouth.”

“I see.” He purses his lips. “Has there been anything else?”

“Well, not yet, no. That's why I'm here, so you can stop it getting out of hand.”

“I'm sorry, but this isn't a cause for any kind of police action.”

“You mean you won't even talk to him?”

“We have no reason to.”

“This is a joke! What are you here for, then? What's the point of having police? You're all useless.”

He points to a big poster on the wall, one that says any abusive behavior toward police personnel will be dealt with severely, and may result in civil court action.

“Oh for…” I take my phone back off him and turn to leave.

“I can give you an incident number, sir,” he says.

“What?”

“An incident number for your complaint. That makes it all official, see. So if he bothers your fiancée again, it will be considered as showing a pattern of harassment. Then we may be able to take action.”

Almost! I
almost
just walk out. But instead, I take a breath and say: “Fine. Give me the number, then.”

I was shocked—exactly the same as Michael had been, though perhaps with not quite so much anger thrown in.

What use are the police? I didn't expect them to send an armed tactical team around to Vladimir's house straightaway, but this? A crime number? The tabloid sites are right: We are sliding into anarchy.

Michael couldn't even slam the door as he left. He tried, but it had dampening hinges.

I sat in the flat by myself for the rest of the afternoon, thinking about what I remembered and what to do about it. Future-me was obviously revealing Michael's life to now-me for a reason, but I simply couldn't see what it was. Not yet. I still needed more data.

One interesting thing, though. Whenever I saw Michael, I received more of his memory; he must be a visual trigger. And yesterday he'd been looking around for Vladimir. So there was still a stalker problem. Future-me must be wanting now-me to help. Somehow. I really needed more information to add to the file.

The next day I wore a pale-blue hoodie and black trousers to go to Docklands. Not that I had to worry about the security people. Now I that knew his routine, I waited in Jubilee Park, out of sight from the office entrance.

Michael went to lunch at twelve forty-one—so, slightly later today, then. It was just him and one other bloke this time. I sat on a bench and watched the pair of them go past. I guessed they were talking about work; both of them were looking very serious, and there was plenty of hand-waving.

And I'd been right. Just the sight of him was bringing back another memory. I was remembering the time not long ago when Michael caught sight of Vladimir—

—then I wasn't remembering anything at all, because I was looking across Jubilee Park at one of the big curving entrances to the Tube station and saw him standing just inside the arch. Vladimir McCann! Right in front of me. He was stalking Michael.

I left right away. Dad's advice wasn't going to help. By the time I got to the security people outside Michael's office and told them, Vladimir would be gone, and they'd be super-suspicious about me.

The new Michael memory was from three and a half weeks ago. I know that because Michael was sitting in a coffee shop in Docklands reading the paper, so I knew the date the stories were from, just before school term finished.

Some animal instinct makes me look up from the news about an East London MP's expenses scandal and there is that piece of scum Vladimir, standing outside the window, looking in at me. Scruffy little nonentity in his mid-thirties, with thinning brown hair that hasn't been washed for a while, and stubble that isn't yet a beard. Baggy gray-green corduroy trousers and a suit jacket that is several years out of style, with sleeves that are all creases. He isn't making any attempt to hide, just staring in at me.

Some of the other customers have noticed him. They nudge one another uncomfortably. Vladimir doesn't quite come over as a typical homeless type, but he is disturbing enough to rattle the cozy mums having their coffee break after getting the kids to school.

So now what do I do? Go out and confront him? Just sit tight? I have to admit, some part of my brain is playing an enjoyable fantasy of me marching out there and smashing the crap out of him. But he is a genuine nutter; Jyoti had to shut her Facebook page down after that second rant he posted. Not that the police did anything about that, either. Idiots!

We stare at each other for a few seconds. I keep my expression completely emotionless, then I fold my paper up, keeping eye contact with him. When I stand up, there is a flicker of panic on his face, and he turns away. I walk to the door, all calm and cool. I'm not going to shout or threaten, I am determined about that, but I am going to do my best to be utterly intimidating. Hopefully even his junked-up brain will have enough basic animal self-preservation instinct left that he'll know not to come near either of us again.

By the time I get outside, he is twenty yards away. I don't chase after him; that would be stupid. But I do keep that level expression in place. And—yes!—he looks back, seeing me all unruffled and cold-eyed. I swear he starts walking even faster after that.

That's right, freak, run. Go plague your therapist.

When I finished writing all that up in the Michael Finsen file, I read it back carefully. What Michael did in the coffee shop, trying to alarm Vladimir…I don't think he thought that through properly at all. I mean, the other day when I saw him for the first time, he was still checking to see if Vladimir was still stalking him. So (1) he now knows that quite clearly wasn't the end of it, even though he missed seeing Vladimir today. (2) How come Vladimir (2a) knew who he was, and (2b) knew where he was?

Obviously Vladimir is being a whole lot more active than just sending out weird Facebook posts. He'd discovered that Michael was Jyoti's new boyfriend, discovered either where Michael worked or, more worrying, where they both lived. Now, I did the same thing quite easily, because I have Michael's memories. But to do that without insider knowledge is more difficult by a whole order of magnitude. You've got to be seriously obsessed to accomplish that.

And Vladimir hasn't stopped following Michael about. It was so creepy seeing him there at the Tube station. I mean, it was weird when I saw Michael for the first time, but this was frightening and weird. What did Vladimir want? Or did he even want anything? He was in the middle of some kind of breakdown, so he wasn't rational.

I wondered if he was going to mug Michael or, worse, put him in hospital? Maybe he thought if he got rid of Michael, then he stood a chance of getting Jyoti back. From what I knew, I didn't think so. For a start, they were engaged. But perhaps Vladimir didn't know that.

I opened my laptop and went on to my Big Russell Facebook page. I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide if I should help.

I pictured Vladimir as a dinosaur-killer asteroid—one big enough to wipe out all the life on Earth if it crashes into us. Like the voice-over says at the start of
Armageddon
: It's happened before, and it will happen again. But here's the thing. If an asteroid ten kilometers in diameter is streaking toward Earth, it's very difficult to knock it out of the way when it's close—say, inside the moon's orbit (like they did in
Armageddon
). By then, it's too big and too close and too fast. That much inertia is way too difficult to alter, even if you hit it with a dozen nukes. So if you look up what NASA suggests, you'll see they want to target it with smaller kinetic impacts while it's a lot farther out, which only delivers a tiny change of course. That way, by the time it reaches Earth, the course change has grown enough that it sails harmlessly past us. They're even researching how to do it: a joint mission with the European Space Agency called AIDA, scheduled for a 2020 launch.

That was what Vladimir needed. Right now he's this massive ball of anger and madness heading straight for Michael; and nukes (common sense / the police) wouldn't stop him. But a small kinetic impact now, before it got out of hand, should deflect him.

I figured this was it. This was the reason I was getting Michael's memories; future-me remembered where they take me (Jubilee Park this lunchtime). Seeing Vladimir today was such a small subtle thing. It made me the tiny, early kinetic impact, the deflector who averted catastrophe. If I intervened, Michael Finsen could go ahead and lead a normal untroubled life.

So Big Russell sent a message to Vladimir McCann's Facebook page:
Hi, I heard Jyoti and Michael are engaged. That's really good news. In the future, they will be happy together. We should all wish them well and let them get on with their new life.

That should do it.