Resonance (17 page)

The picture flashed back to Hyde Park the previous afternoon.

"Fifty thousand people had attended the largely peaceful rally. It was only when the crowd were asked to disperse that a heavily armed splinter group opened fire."

Graham watched. The firing was indiscriminate. Arcs of flame poured down on the lines of police. Explosions, that eerie whining sound, screams, panic, people running, people falling. People lying very still.

Graham looked away.

"Police are advising everyone not to travel. Bands of heavily armed rioters are still at large in many parts of West and Central London. Residents are advised to stay at home and keep away from windows."

Graham closed the door and tried to shut out the sounds of terror and dissent. Muffled screams and sirens followed him down the corridor as he walked blindly away. What should he do? Wait in the building like the police advised or leave while it was still quiet?

He paused by the stairs and listened. What if that policeman came back—the one with the gun? He was in a strange building without the owner's permission. He'd smashed a door to get inside. Did that make him a looter? Could he be shot on suspicion?

He hurried over to the lobby windows and glanced outside. It looked quiet enough. He peered up and down the street. Still no sign of movement. He held his breath and listened. Maybe a dull murmur in the distance, that was all. Surely he'd hear a rioting mob if they were close?

And Westminster Street was only a mile away. He could be there in fifteen minutes, less if he ran.

There was a crash followed by an explosion. Not loud but not far away either. He pressed his face against the glass and peered to the left as far as he could. There was movement—difficult to make out—windows shimmering from upper floors at the northern end of the street. Nothing distinct, reflections maybe, ripples of changing light and dark.

And noise.

He heard it that time. People shouting. People coming this way.

He ran down the stairs, crunched over the glass at the bottom and threw himself flat against the northern wall of the covered doorway. The sounds were louder, distinct voices amongst the background roar, shrieks amidst the sound of smashing glass.

He inched along the wall and peered around the corner. They were about two hundred yards away. A mob, spilling across the street, into and out of buildings. Debris rained down as large objects—monitors, chairs, cabinets—were dropped from upper storey windows. Cars bounced up and down in the street, people climbing all over them, jumping, shrieking, yelling.

And that strange whining sound, a group of hooded youths at the back, firing volleys into top-floor windows. Explosion after explosion. And then the flames. A building on the far corner caught alight.

He had to get away.

He slipped out of the doorway and walked briskly along the pavement, keeping close up against the buildings, his right shoulder brushing along the stone and brick. He followed the contours of the street, pushing into every recess and doorway, counting his way to safety with every step and praying that whoever was behind him was too caught up in their own amusement to notice one stray pedestrian.

Eighteen, nineteen. A railing pushed him away from the building. The wall eight feet away, he felt exposed. Twenty-one, twenty-two. A large explosion. Another. A huge cheer. Twenty-five, twenty-six. Broken glass everywhere, he picked a path through the debris, trying to make as little noise as possible. Thirty-three, thirty-four. A smooth white stone wall brushed against his shoulder. Almost there.

He broke into a run for the last few strides and threw himself around the corner. Nothing else moved. Even the clouds seemed frozen in the sky; there wasn't a breath of wind.

He flattened himself against the wall of the building. Where to next? He needed to go east but that would mean crossing the road in full view of the mob. Should he go west for a block and then work his way south and east?

He looked to the west. The Cavendish Clinic was less than a hundred yards away. What would happen if he went back through the revolving doors? Would he step back into a world of medicals and bogus mothers? Or had that thread unravelled away for good, unloosed from reality to float forever in some twilight realm?

An explosion brought his head spinning back around. That sounded very close. A cheer, a chant, a series of crashes.

He ran away from the noise, heading west then crossing over to the south. He reached a side street, turned south, everything so still, no people, no signs of life. He kept going, turning east at the bottom. He passed a row of shops—boards hastily nailed to where the windows used to be. A dog barked. Four security men stared out from behind the glass wall of an office foyer. All of them armed. He'd never seen armed security men before. He'd never even seen armed police before.

He hurried past. He could feel their eyes upon him. One wrong move and he was sure they'd open fire.

A noise up ahead. A car, several cars. Graham froze. A convoy of white police vans raced past him—no sirens, no flashing lights. Van after van went by, the occupants all looking at him, grim determination written on every face.

He kept going, heading east and south and east again. Gunfire crackled in the distance, punctuated by explosions and screams.

He entered a residential area—expensive houses, white columns, black railings. And cameras. Cameras everywhere—on top of the porches, halfway up the lampposts. All of them swivelling to track his progress.

And all of them had a tiny red light that pulsed just as he was about to pass by. Three short flashes then nothing. He was fascinated, fascinated by the regularity. He watched the cameras turn as he approached and then—one, two, three—

He . . . stopped. He'd noticed another flash of red light. Not from a camera. He'd caught the rapid flash of light out of the corner of his eye.

It had come from him.

He took a step back. The camera on the lamppost swung back with him. He stepped forward. Three flashes from the camera. And two flashes from his left wrist.

He stared at his watch. It looked like an ordinary watch. It looked very much like
his
ordinary watch. But it wasn't. He could see the manufacturer's name on the dial.

ParaDim.

His first thought was to take the watch off and fling it into the nearest bin. And then he remembered the cameras. He'd do it later, when he was alone and unobserved.

He hurried along the street, wondering what information was passing between his watch and the cameras on the street. Was he being tracked or was it something more sinister?

Movement at the far end of the street caught his eye. Something small and fast was flying along the center of the road at roof height. It looked—Graham rubbed his eyes in disbelief—like a tiny UFO.

It stopped and hovered noiselessly some fifty feet above Graham's head. A grey disk stationary against a blue sky. It swooped down and slowly circled him. It was almost within reach. Graham turned with it, swivelling on the spot. It looked like a large metal discus—one foot in diameter with a black band around its rim.

And a red light that flashed three times.

Graham looked at his watch. It flashed twice.

The disc rose and accelerated in one smooth movement, levelling off at roof height before continuing its journey along the street. Graham watched as it swung north at the next intersection and disappeared.

What had happened to this world? It was as though he'd stepped out of the clinic into a future world. A world where disks flew silently through the air. And strange weapons whined and exploded. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Was this the resonance wave that Kevin Alexander was so worried about? A wave so powerful that it made the biggest unravelling seem nothing more than the weakest aftershock?

He had to get to Westminster Street quick. He was sure to have something written down on his notice board or hidden away in his desk. Some explanation as to what the hell was going on.

He started to run. Expensive homes, squares, offices, hotels and shops—all came and went. All looked deserted. Occasional signs of damage—abandoned cars, smashed windows, smoking holes where houses used to be. Occasional glimpses of a face at a window, or the sound of child crying or a dog barking behind a locked door. And over everything hung the distant sound of destruction and hate.

Where was everybody? Were they really all hiding inside their homes? Or had most been evacuated? And if so, where to? The desolation stretched for miles. It was like running through a ghost town.

There was a sudden squeal of tires and a car turned the corner up ahead. It was going so fast it mounted the pavement in front of Graham before swinging back onto the road and zigzagging away at breakneck speed.

A red disk flew around the corner and set off in pursuit. Graham watched it flash past, ten feet off the ground, a colored version of the grey disk he'd seen earlier.

Graham turned into Westminster Street. There was a roadblock up ahead. Dark green army trucks and . . . was that a tank?

He slowed to a walk. It was a tank; there were two of them. And behind them a host of other vehicles and people.

A voice came from low to his right. "Keep going, Mr. Smith."

Graham jumped and swung round. There was a soldier crouched in a doorway, cradling a rifle in one arm and signalling with the other.

"They're waiting for you at the checkpoint," he continued.

Graham walked on, wondering how the soldier knew his name. People called to him from behind the roadblock.

"What's your name?" they shouted. Who are you? What are you doing? Seen any bodies? 

Police and soldiers held them back. A green and red disk hovered over the police lines.

A gap appeared and he walked through, microphones were thrust in his face, reporters everywhere.

"You okay, Mr. Smith?" asked a heavily armored policeman grabbing hold of Graham's left arm.

Graham nodded.

"We'll soon get you through this rabble, sir. Don't worry."

Two more policemen cleared a way though the fifty yards to the DTI's main entrance. So many people. After the desolation of the past hour Graham felt claustrophobic. Reporters were everywhere, and those disks—there were dozens of them, hovering just above head height. They had to be some kind of flying camera, reporters were talking to them, disks of all colors, some with logos—NBC, BBC, RTL.

The door swung open just as he climbed the last step. Two armed men in full riot gear came out and escorted Graham inside.

"You'd better go straight up, Graham," said Andy on reception. "They're waiting for you in Conference Room C."

His first, second, and third thoughts were ParaDim, ParaDim and ParaDim. They'd come for him. It was happening the same as last time
. Ignore ParaDim and they only get stronger.
 

What did they want with him now?

Graham climbed the stairs hesitatingly, trying to push back the moment of his arrival. A security guard stood motionless outside the conference room door. He watched Graham's approach for a few seconds before leaning to the side and pushing open the door.

Graham walked through. The room was as impressive as he'd remembered it. The huge table, the panelling, the paintings—but this time the room had a more lived-in feel. Jackets were strewn on the backs of chairs, cups and plates and papers were lying haphazardly about. And the people—he counted five of them—looked as though they'd been up all night.

Graham hovered by the door.

"Come straight in, Mr. Smith," said a tall man Graham vaguely recognized. "Don't stand on ceremony. Did you get the disk?"

Graham was about to shrug when he remembered the computer disk he'd found in his pocket. He took it out and handed it over.

"Good man. We thought we'd lost you during the power cut." He took the disk and handed it to someone Graham hadn't seen for two years—Roger Tyler, used to work on the fourth floor, very small handwriting.

"Have you had breakfast?"

Graham shook his head. He didn't think so, he felt hungry.

"There's plenty over there," the tall man said, pointing to a table against the wall. "Help yourself. You deserve it."

Graham sidled over to the table. There was a pot of coffee, milk, plates of croissants and bread rolls, a rack of cold toast, butter. Graham stood over the table, wondering whether he was meant to grab a handful and leave or stay, silently, in the background and eat.

The disk was slid into the computer in the corner, a few taps on the keyboard, a long pause, more taps and then a long, relieved sigh.

"It's all here," said Roger. "The Japanese have accepted the amendments to the energy proposals and suggested a rewording to the section on patent extension."

"Excellent. To recap, gentlemen. I want the updated tariff proposals evaluated, changes noted and the draft ministerial briefing revised for discussion at nine. I'll be leaving for the trade talks at nine-thirty."

The tall man picked up his jacket and walked towards the door. Graham poured himself half a cup of coffee and prepared to drink it very quickly.

"You think they'll still go ahead with the talks?" asked a short, middle-aged man.

"Until we hear different, the assumption is the talks start as planned."

"Even with the Japanese delegation stuck in Knightsbridge?"

The tall man stood by the door and shrugged. "It's not our decision."

The door clicked closed. Graham quietly buttered a piece of toast and listened to the conversation behind him, hoping to discover how a Japanese disk had found its way into his pocket. Had he been sent to Knightsbridge to collect it? Was that part of a messenger's duties in this thread of reality?

"I still don't understand why the army hasn't been sent in." A different voice this time, Graham couldn't tell who. "It seems madness to sit back and let a few hundred rioters have the run of London. Have you seen the TV pictures? They're laughing at us."

"That may be what they want," said Roger. "I was talking to the captain outside. He thinks they're trying to lure the army into a trap."