After breakfast we all got in the car and drove north up the A1 to Peterborough. Dad wanted to get the Yaxley house sorted out ready to sell, which meant we had to empty it. I didn’t want to go back; just about everything there would be a memory trigger. But I didn’t want anyone else sorting through my stuff, either.
—
I figured messaging Michael must be a paradox—or maybe a subparadox, because it’s hardly a biggie—so the universe wouldn’t allow it. If Michael had stopped Kenan from assaulting me, then it wouldn’t have happened, and I wouldn’t have hurt my ankle falling over in the park. I wouldn’t have his memory and he wouldn’t have mine.
There’s something called causality that seriously means time travel can’t happen. It’s like the hard science explanation of paradox. There’s plenty of academic papers about causality published on the Internet, but they’re like really technical.
But causality wasn’t the thing stopping Michael Finsen from answering my Facebook friend request; ignoring me was his own decision. Maybe he wasn’t a nice person after all and didn’t want to save me.
Second thought: Michael Finsen wouldn’t know what year/month/day it was when Kenan and his crew went for me. Next time I got a memory of his, I was going to say the date, time, and place where I was out loud. Then if he got my memory, he’d know. If I do it right, I’d probably turn around and he’d be there. How cool would that be?
—
Uncle Gordon had been sorting out the house in Yaxley. Supposedly.
We arrived there midmorning, and the garage was full of boxes. Trouble was, they were all empty. Uncle Gordon was meant to have put all the house contents in them ready for collection by a local auction company, which was doing a house clearance for us—at one o’clock.
He’d brought the boxes but hadn’t packed them.
“Yeah, sorry about that, fella,” he told Dad when he met us in the lounge. “I’ve been kinda busy. Big order for Andries.”
“For what?” Dad said. I could see how angry he was, but he was making an effort to stay calm. He knows how much I like Uncle Gordon.
“Andries. This new acid-grunge band out of Leeds. They’re touring next month, seventeen dates. Gonna be big. Not the sort of folding I can turn down.”
“Did you pack anything?” Rachel asked in exasperation.
“Uh”—Uncle Gordon scratched the back of his head as he glanced around—“I made an inventory.”
I was pretty sure he hadn’t. I could see everything was in exactly the same place it had been when I left.
“Good,” Dad said. “Where is it?”
“Man! I left it at home. Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said before Dad got really angry. “I know what’s in every room. I can write a new one.” I got my tablet out and sat down.
“You can’t know everything in a whole house,” Rachel said.
“Whoa, you don’t know your stepson very well, do you?” Uncle Gordon told her.
She gave Dad a very direct stare, expecting to be backed up. For once, he just shrugged.
“Write it out, Jules,” Dad told me. “Two lists. Stuff we can send to auction, and everything else we can bag for the dumpster.” He glared at Uncle Gordon. “There is a dumpster coming, isn’t there?”
“Absolutely!”
“When?” Rachel asked.
“Next week.” With his back to her, he pulled a big mock-worried face at me.
I grinned back and started typing. I do like my uncle Gordon.
I didn’t go into Mum’s bedroom or the kitchen—I figured the memory triggers would be strongest there. Rachel took a roll of black bin bags up there and filled them with Mum’s clothes. I typed out all Mum’s jewelry, including her wedding and engagement rings.
Dad and Uncle Gordon started clearing the lounge, putting it all into the boxes. There were lots of books, and the good crockery in a cabinet, and ornaments, and pictures.
The estate agent arrived at midday, and Dad started showing him around. I could hear them arguing at lot. Dad was telling him how much the house should be valued at, and he knew because that’s what he did in London. The agent kept telling Dad that Yaxley didn’t have London prices.
Uncle Gordon leaned over my shoulder as I was typing out the kitchen list. “Uh, maybe scratch that, man,” he said, pointing at the air fryer. “Mine was broken.”
He didn’t have one. “Mum would have wanted you to have it,” I told him. “Anything else broken?”
“The toaster.”
“Right.”
“Kettle, coffeemaker, food processor, juicer, some plates, cutlery.”
I started removing items.
“I don’t have the dumpster company’s phone number on me,” he said sheepishly. “Could you look one up for me?”
“Sure.” I opened a Web browser app.
“You’re a lifesaver, Jules. I owe you.”
“That’s okay. How’s the business? That Andries contract sounds good.”
“Ah, you know: another month, another million.”
“In Zimbabwe dollars?”
He gave me a fond grin. “The most reliable currency in the world. Know why?”
“You can never devalue it.”
“Because there’s nothing left to devalue.”
“Uncle Gordon?”
“Whatsup?”
“You did physics. Is time travel really possible?”
“No. Causality prevents it in real life. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still love all the Back to the Future films.”
“Right.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just wondered, that’s all.”
“She’s dead, Jules. You can’t change that.”
“I know.” Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. Not at all.
He gave me a hug. “How’re you doing?”
“Usual. School’s bad.” I shrugged.
“You want me to come down to London and deliver some clobberence?”
“Some what?”
“Clobberence. It’s like consequence but delivered by a baseball bat.”
“No! Really, Uncle Gordon, no.”
“Hey, I can still handle myself, no worries. Especially against some punk kids. I helped security backstage at a Duran Duran concert once, you know, back in the eighties when they were massive. Man, those teenage girls. When they got their hands on you, they knew which bits to squeeze to make a guy’s eyes water, you dig what I’m saying?”
I started typing again, staring intently at the tablet. “I get it, Uncle Gordon. Thanks.”
“I don’t like people picking on you.”
“School’s always bad. I’m used to it.”
“But you shouldn’t be used to it, Jules,” he said softly. “That is so wrong.”
“It’s okay. It’s only for a few more years, then I’ll be at university and the stupids will be nowhere.”
“You are beautiful, Jules, so beautiful. I see so much of her in you.”
I was blushing, but it was good embarrassment. I hadn’t known there was such a thing. That’s Uncle Gordon for you: The Best.
Dad had one last argument with the estate agent, and the poor man left.
“He looked happy,” Uncle Gordon said.
“He’s an idiot,” Dad said, all grumpy. “I’m not settling for less than four hundred K.”
“Maybe you should just rent the place out like all the others,” Uncle Gordon said. “That way you’ll get the mortgage paid off, and Jules will have a house when he’s twenty.”
“Really?” I asked.
Dad gave Uncle Gordon a curt glance. “I paid for this house,” he said. “You have no idea how hard I had to work to keep those payments going after we separated. It’s been really tough.”
“It has,” Rachel chimed in, nodding approvingly as she leaned against him.
“Once this place is sold along with the flat, we can move into something better in London,” Dad said.
“Wel
l, that’s all you’re getting,” Uncle Gordon said. “I’m the executor, right? Jules is named as the sole beneficiary in her will, and I’ll make damn sure he gets everything he’s entitled to.”
“That money could help him a lot right now,” Dad said.
“Help you out, you mean,” Uncle Gordon replied quickly.
“What money?” I asked.
“Your mum had life insurance, Jules.”
“I paid the premiums,” Dad said.
“The court had to order you to,” Uncle Gordon said. “It was for your wife and son, man. Why did they have to order that, hey?”
“You have no idea what divorce lawyers are like. They put both of us through hell.”
“I certainly know what yours did.”
I’d never seen Uncle Gordon angry before. It was quite impressive—in a scary way. Maybe I should tell him where Kenan Abbot lived, after all.
A van’s horn sounded outside. It was the auction house people. Dad and Uncle Gordon stopped glaring at each other. Rachel took Dad’s arm, and they went outside to speak to the van driver and his mate.
“Your dad’s a good man, Jules,” Uncle Gordon said. “Don’t ever think different. We’re all still shook up over your mum. And this day is right emotional for everyone.”
“I know.”
“Come on, let’s go up to your room. You need to pack all your stuff to take down to London.”
I was surprised when I went back up to my old bedroom. Physically it hadn’t changed, of course. But now it looked drab somehow. I didn’t want to take the clothes that were still in the drawers. They’d all been tight on me when I left for London. First pair of trousers I tried on were five centimeters short above the ankle.
“Growth spurt, huh?” Uncle Gordon said sympathetically.
“I suppose.” The same went for everything else. Old toys that were for kids a lot younger. My books were mostly YA, too, and I’d stopped reading that stuff ages ago.
In the end I only carried one box out to the car, and that was barely half full. The men from the auction house were loading furniture into the van. I thought it might bother me, seeing my old home broken up like this, but it didn’t. That part of my life was over. Most of the time all I could think about now were Michael’s memories, and how that was going to change everything.
I watched Uncle Gordon load a box of food from the freezer into the boot of his car.
“How much is the life insurance?” I asked him.
He produced a mild frown. “Not like you to talk about money, Jules.”
“I know. But how much?”
“I think the policy is for a hundred thousand.”
“What?” A hundred thousand pounds! I was so shocked I could only grunt.
“It’s a logical amount. It’s supposed to take care of you until you’re old enough to start earning the readies for yourself. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you get it properly. Pay your tuition fees when it’s time for you to go to university, and all that nonsense. Mind, you’ll be surprised how depressingly fast it’ll go.”
“Is that much enough to buy a high-energy physics lab?”
“Er, I don’t think so, nah.”
“But I could maybe rent one?” I asked urgently.
“I guess. Yeah, sure. Why not.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Okay, I’m biting. Why?”
I shrugged, trying to appear all nonchalant. “It’s what I want to do. Invent something that’ll help the whole world.”
“Good for you, Jules. Good for you.”
I was so happy. I’d been right about what was happening. Future-me doesn’t even need to send now-me lottery numbers. With that kind of money, I could start experimenting with exotic matter up there in the future.
Oh yeah. I’m going to be the inventor of time travel!
Chapter 9
Long Hot Summer
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.”
A Window Into Time Page 4
