Resonance (29 page)

He bent down to look and the sky pressed hard against his shoulders, pushing him over. He crumpled, unable to get up. Rain fell all around him, shiny rain that danced in headlights like a thousand fairies.

And after the rain came the tears.

He had no idea how long he lay there. Wet, cold and confused. Alternately racked with guilt and grief but never quite sure what it was that he'd done.

When he came to his senses, the rain had stopped. He was lying in the road by a parked car, traffic swerving around him. He drew in his legs and, leaning back against the parked car for support, pulled himself up.

A motorist cursed at him, a horn blared three times. Graham staggered onto the pavement. People stared at him, moved aside to give him extra room. No one stopped or spoke.

He looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. He should be at work. Why wasn't he at work? A vague memory brushed against the back of his mind. He'd been on a bus.

Why had he been on a bus? And why were his clothes wet? He looked at the pavement—the dark grey of the paving slabs, the puddles. It had been raining. Had he taken the bus to get out of the rain? But where had he been? He checked his pockets. There was an appointment card and—his eyes widened—hundreds of pounds in cash.

He hastily replaced the money, glancing furtively to see if anyone had noticed.

He examined the card. Something familiar about the name. The Cavendish Clinic in Knightsbridge. He'd been for a medical.

Everything came flooding back—medicals, ParaDim, Annalise, the flames, the bus, the look on Annalise's face as she fell.

No! 
 

He started to run. Where had she fallen? Was it here? Over there? He ran out between the line of parked cars and looked up and down the street. He couldn't see her. He couldn't see the black car either. Was it further along?

He ran. He searched. He stopped.

She'd gone. Everything had gone. He'd never felt so empty in his life.

He walked for miles, not sure of where he was going but knowing that he had to keep moving. His jacket steamed in the sun, his trousers too. Only his socks refused to dry, his feet squelching with every stride.

He didn't have the energy to run. Or the will. If ParaDim wanted him, they could have him. He didn't care any more.

Eventually, he went home. Eventually, he cared enough to read his note and find out if anything else had changed. Nothing had. He still lived at Wealdstone Lane, he still worked at Westminster Street.

He sat at his kitchen table for hours, waiting for the energy to make a hot drink or maybe a meal. By ten o'clock he'd managed a coffee. By ten-thirty he went to bed.

He couldn't sleep. Annalise was everywhere—in his thoughts, in the shadows—he could see her face in the wallpaper, the ceiling, his dressing gown that hung on the door. If he hadn't jumped on that stupid bus she'd be with him now, safe and alive. She wouldn't have run along the road in full view, she'd have dodged in and out of the shoppers, taken side streets, melted into the background. It was his fault! Everything was his fault!

He tossed and turned and counted the intervals between gusts of wind that rattled his bedroom window pane.

And worried. Had he turned off the gas? Had he locked the doors? What time was it? What day? What . . .

He pulled on his slippers and slowly toured the house. He double-checked the gas cooker, triple-checked the doors and windows, and drew every curtain he could find.

Annalise Fifteen rolled over in the street. Someone was shooting at her, the bus was getting away and Graham was flipping between worlds. The new Graham wouldn't have a clue what was happening. Wherever he went—home or work—they'd be waiting for him. He wouldn't survive the day.

She felt the gun in her hand and sprung to her feet. She'd stop a car, any car. She stood in the middle of the road, chest heaving, both hands on the gun, her arms locked straight and pointing at the driver of a car that swung and screeched to a halt a few feet in front of her.

She ran around the front to the passenger side and yanked the door open. A shot rang out, she ducked and threw herself into the car.

"Drive!" she shouted.

The driver hesitated. He had one hand raised, the other on the door handle. "You can have the car. Don't shoot!"

"I don't want the car. Just drive! Now!"

She waved the gun. The car jerked forward and stalled. The driver swallowed, started again, revved hard and pulled away.

Annalise was thrown back against the seat. The bus was now a hundred yards away—four cars filled the gap in between.

"What's your name?" Annalise asked.

"Martin," said the driver, his voice cracking.

"Well, Martin, you see that bus ahead, the red one?"

"Yes."

"Follow it. Get me to that bus and we'll all be fine."

She swivelled in her seat and checked behind. She couldn't see anyone running after her. She couldn't hear any more shots. Maybe he was no longer on foot? She checked the cars behind, expecting to see someone leaning out the passenger side with a gun pointing in her direction.

All she saw was a line of traffic—an intermittent line of traffic that snaked to avoid a flaming black car in the distance.

"The bus is stopping," Martin said.

"Pull in behind."

The car stopped.

"Congratulations, Martin," she said as she climbed out. "You've just helped save the world."

The bus started to pull away. Annalise jumped onto the back, grabbed the pole and swung herself inside. Graham was slumped in the first seat. He looked in pain and confused. People were moving away from him. "What's the matter with him?" she heard someone say.

"He'll be fine, now," said Annalise. "He's with me."

Graham awoke early the next day and immediately felt guilty. He should have lain awake all night. He didn't deserve sleep. He'd left Annalise lying in the road. How could anyone sleep after that?

He tried to make himself busy. He tried to imagine what she'd say to him if she found him wallowing in self-pity. She'd shout at him, he was sure. She'd tell him to snap out of it and climb some roofs or race through an abandoned building.

After breakfast he checked for listening devices, looking in all the usual places. The house was clean—either that or ParaDim had learned to hide them in different locations. He checked his notice board. No mention of Annalise. Perhaps he'd flipped to a world without her. Or maybe she was back at home, struggling with voices that she couldn't understand. Maybe he should find her phone number and call her? He could help her . . . and, maybe, she could help him.

He arrived at work as normal, sweeping in unnoticed behind a group of people. He presented his card and walked through to the Post Room.

He printed the staff list and checked the names—the usual mix of additions and departures. Sharmila was back and Brenda was using her maiden name again.

Graham sighed. Brenda and Bob were the happiest couple he knew. They shone in each other's company; apart they merely endured. Brenda lost her bounce and Bob . . . well, Bob was a different person. Married Bob had a twinkle in his eye and laughed as he worked. Single Bob, or married-to-someone-else Bob, worked hard, kept his head down and couldn't see the funny side of anything. Work was his life but it wasn't a life worth . . .

Graham considered his own life—the one he had before Annalise. Was that a life worth living? Go to work, come home, go to bed?

"Morning, Graham," said Sharmila from the doorway. She sighed as she heaved a heavy shopping bag onto her desk. "Did you see that note I left you?"

Graham shook his head.

"Frank dropped it by yesterday. He wants to see you this morning. Something urgent about ParaDim."

Graham closed his eyes. It was all happening again. ParaDim! He should have realized when he saw the medical appointment from the Cavendish Clinic. Would he never be free of them? He scanned his desk. Sharmila's note was stuck to his terminal.
Frank Gledwood called. Wants to see you first thing Thurs. a.m. Room 551. Urgent.
 

"If he gives you any trouble, come and get me."

Graham took the lift to the fifth floor. Perhaps he deserved it? Punishment for abandoning Annalise.

He knocked on the door of 551 and went inside. Frank Gledwood was leaning back in his chair, his hands crossed behind his neck.

"About time," Frank said. "I have someone here who wants to see you." He withdrew his hands and let his chair fall back to rest with a thump. "Tamisha Kent," he said, waving an arm towards a woman in the far corner, "meet Graham Smith."

Graham turned, he hadn't noticed anyone else in the room, and instantly froze.

The woman was not Tamisha Kent.

Annalise smiled back at him. An Annalise with brown hair this time—straight, cut close against the face, a slight curl at the end, a fringe at the front. And she'd discarded her jeans and trainers. She was looking smart and businesslike in skirt, blouse and heels.

"Hi," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm the ParaDim liaison for the Census project."

They shook hands. Annalise beamed. "Your family history greatly interests us, Mr. Smith. I hope I can persuade you to work with us."

Graham stared. Why was she calling herself Tamisha? Was this a prearranged plan? Something the previous Graham had omitted to document?

"I've been talking to Mr. Gledwood . . ."

"Frank. Call me Frank . . . Tamisha." He pronounced the last word with every syllable oiled and followed it with a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on an Argentinian gigolo.

Annalise didn't appear to notice. "I've been talking to Frank," she continued. "He thinks he can persuade the department to release you for another day or two. If that's agreeable to you."

"Of course it's agreeable to him, isn't it, Graham? Time off, a change of scenery, the beautiful Tamisha. What else could anyone want?"

Annalise coughed. "Sorry," she said, glancing in Frank's direction. "My throat's dry. Is there somewhere I can get a drink?"

Frank bounced out of his chair. "Would you like a coffee? I can get you one if you'd like?"

"That'd be great."

Frank scooped a coffee tray from Shenaz's desk. "I won't be long," he said, smiling one last time from the door before slithering away.

"You can close your mouth now, Graham. He's gone."

Graham had but one thought. "Have you heard from Annalise Fifteen? Is she okay?"

Annalise looked surprised.

"Why do you . . ." Then came the realization. "Have you just come from Fifteen's world?"

"I was with her yesterday. I think she was shot. Have you heard from her?"

"Yes . . . no." She was confused. "She was shot?"

"I think so. I was flipping worlds at the time. She was running behind the bus. There were gunshots and she fell."

"Stop. Slow down." She grasped his shoulders. "What gunshots? Who was shooting at who?"

He told her. He told her about the black car, the flaming waste bin, the smell of petrol, the gunshots, his stupid decision to jump on a passing bus. Annalise listened, shaking her head.

"I talked to her yesterday," she said, her eyes distant. "She said the two of you were hiding in a changing room. I thought she was joking."

Graham shook his head. "She wasn't."

"I'll contact her now," said Annalise. "Nudge me if anyone comes in."

She sat on the edge of Frank's desk. Graham's eyes flicked between Annalise and the door. He prayed for a long queue at the coffee machine, a gaggle of senior managers for Frank to suck up to, anything to ensure Annalise had sufficient time to get through.

Annalise looked worried. Graham stopped glancing towards the door. Her eyes were closed, her face alternating between concentration and concern.

Graham waited for her to say something—to open her eyes and tell him he'd been mistaken, she hadn't fallen, there'd been no gunshot, he'd hallucinated it all in the throes of flipping worlds.

After two minutes she opened her eyes.

"She's fine," she said. "She tripped, that's all."

A great weight fell from Graham's shoulders. He could breathe again. He felt as though he'd been holding his breath for hours.

"What happened? Where is she? Are you sure she's okay?"

"She's fine. And she wants you to know that she caught up with that bus."

"She did?" Graham was amazed.

"Yeah, she caught up with it, all right." Annalise looked away and for a brief second there was a hint of worry in her face. Then back came the smile. "Wow, you are
so
unlike the other Graham I had."

"I am?"

"Totally. Don't get me wrong. I know you've all been through a hell that none of us could even begin to imagine but you've spoken more in the last five minutes than the other Graham managed in three whole days. You're almost . . ."

She stopped and bit her lip. Graham finished the line for her. "Normal?" he suggested with a slight lift of his eyebrow.

"Yeah, and I mean that in a good way. Something only another freak can say, right?" She laughed. "I'm Annalise Six, by the way." She held out her hand. "Good to meet you, Mr. Smith."

A few seconds later, the door opened and Frank came in with two coffees on a tray.

"Thank you," said Annalise, taking a sip. "I'll take it with me."

"You're going?" Frank looked devastated.

"Yeah. There's no problem getting clearance for Graham, is there? I was told that if anyone could swing it, you could."

"You were?"

"Sure. You know they call you 'Frank the Facilitator' at ParaDim?"

"They do?"

Graham watched in awe. Annalise had barely met the man and yet she played him like an old instrument. Frank Gledwood, the mention of whose name was enough to ruin the brightest of Graham's days, was being wound around one of Annalise's perfectly formed fingers.

And Frank neither realized nor cared.

"Where are we going?" asked Graham as they left the building.