Dream Paris (45 page)
“You’re evil.”
“Say that to me in twenty years’ time, Anna. We’re not so different, you and I.”
Why did everyone keep saying that to me? Why did everyone want me to think we were the same?
“We are different, Therese. Very different.”
“Really? You’re saying you wouldn’t kill if you had to?”
Francis had asked me about that, on the roundabout outside the Public Records Office. I’d answered him, but it wasn’t a fair answer. I’d had no reason to kill, then. There was nobody I hated enough then.
Then. I hated someone enough now.
I took the book out of my coat and placed it on her desk. Did she notice the caster sugar pattern on my hands?
“What’s that?” she said.
“A book. Something from Dream Paris.”
“Why have you brought it here?”
“To show you. There’s a… There was a book shop in Dream Paris that sold books of fortunes. Your fortune is in here. This book is the proof that you’re a liar.”
No doubt flickered across her face. She remained perfectly composed as she picked up the book and tried to open it.
“Why won’t it open?”
“Because I lied. That’s not a book. I just needed you to pick it up.”
She shook her hand, tried to let go of the thing. She couldn’t. It was stuck to her. It was part of her.
“Why can’t I let go?”
“It’s an Integer Bomb,” I said. “Just a little one.”
“It won’t work in here, you know. This isn’t the Dream World.”
But it was working. Clearly it was working. It was stuck to her.
“That’s an interesting point. You see, this bomb came from the Dream World. It’s owned by the Dream World. It’s a little part of over there, over here. There’s just enough Dream World in here for it to work. That’s why it’s stuck to you.”
Finally, her composure cracked. Her eyes widened, just a fraction. Not much, but just enough for me to know that I’d frightened her.
“Get it off me!”
“No. I’m not sure that I could, even if I wanted to. I think there’s just enough power for it to detonate. Shall we try?”
“No!”
“Oh, hush. You unleashed something like this on children. You’re a grown up. You should be able to handle it.”
The iBomb was bubbling now, shapes popping into existence like a cubist’s pan of soup boiling over. Her hands turned to cubes… And then the effect stopped.
“Hah!” she said. “I knew there wouldn’t be enough power here!” She couldn’t keep the relief from her voice.
“No,” I said. “I guess there isn’t.” And then I leaned closer. I wanted to spit in her face, but I stopped myself.
“But understand this, Delacroix. That thing is part of you now. You visit the Dream World, it will complete the detonation.”
I leaned closer.
“
You bring any part of the Dream World here, it will detonate. You understand that?
”
She nodded.
I turned to go. And then I paused. I was falling into her way of thinking. Of outward politeness whilst perpetrating heinous crimes behind the scenes. But that wasn’t appropriate here. This wasn’t about political differences, this wasn’t about different points of view. I was face-to-face with a woman responsible for the deaths of who knew how many people. Perhaps we need a little less tolerance in the world. Perhaps we accord the likes of Therese Delacroix way too much respect and perhaps, sometimes, we need to let them know what we really think of them.
So I turned and spat in her face.
T
HERE WAS A
little green coffee van parked outside her offices. I climbed inside, next to the driver.
“All done, Miss Anna?”
“I am.”
“Very good. Where to now?”
T
HANKS TO
I
SABELLE
Morin-Lightfoot for correcting my French
To Lisa Cuppello for the use of her name
To the staff of the Portico library, Manchester, for a great place to work
To Chris Beckett, Eric Brown and especially Jon Oliver, for their advice and feedback
To Robin and Michael for the wealth of ideas
And lastly thank you (as always) to Barbara, without whom…
NOMINATED FOR THE 2015 ARTHUR C. CLARKE AND JOHN W. CAMPBELL AWARDS
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