Resonance (45 page)

"They'd never do it," said Sylvestrus, shaking his head.

"They don't have to," said Graham. "We're doing it. The Grahams. We're men of vision. Maybe your mind's too small to appreciate that. But we . . ."

Graham stopped. He felt strange, the light in the room was flickering. He felt . . .

No! Not that! Not now, he couldn't flip now!

A pain exploded in the back of his head. He reeled forward, men were all around him, grabbing his arms, the gun. The whining sound increased. It might have been the gun, it might have been him, everything was moving and coalescing—ceilings, floors, sounds. He felt like he was being stretched and pulled. There was an explosion. He was falling, flying, rolling.

No! A thought burrowed into the back of his head. He was flipping out of danger. He was going to wake up in a new world. Someone else was going to wake up with a gun pressed against his head.

No! He fought. He concentrated. He summoned whatever will he possessed and then dug deeper. He was not going to put someone else in jeopardy. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He dragged the world back to him. Sylvestrus, the guards, a smoking hole in the ceiling. He was on the floor, writhing, his arms and legs pinned, the gun nowhere to be seen, debris everywhere.

"Hold him down," shouted Sylvestrus, removing something from his breast pocket. A syringe. Graham struggled, the pain and nausea building. Sylvestrus's face loomed towards him. The needle, the prick, the burning sensation in his arm.

No! He fought, he struggled, he screamed. And then he was flying again, everything so hazy, he was being pulled and squeezed and stretched. The world had lost its cohesion. He wasn't sure if he was dying, losing consciousness or flying.

He awoke, lying on the floor. No Sylvestrus, no debris, no hole in the ceiling.

Only pain.

He retched.

When one pain eased, another hit him harder. Guilt. He'd exchanged lives. He'd dragged someone to a slow, lingering death.

He jumped to his feet and immediately fell down again. His legs had buckled beneath him. His head felt like it was going to explode.

He looked around the room. It looked identical to the one he'd left. Except the filing cabinets were gone. He could see the door. He crawled towards it, used the handle to pull himself up, pressed the release button. The door clicked. It hadn't been locked. He pulled it towards him and squeezed through, keeping a foot in the door to stop it from closing. The corridor was empty. Did that mean he was safe?

He prayed for his head to clear. He couldn't think through the pain. How could he determine if he was safe or not?

The notice board! He swung round. The notice board was there but no mention of New Tech weapons. He staggered towards it. Memos about joint ventures and procurement, something about the Census project and accommodation. Nothing about Sylvestrus or weapons.

Was that proof?

And did that matter? He'd left someone to die on the other side. He'd made a choice and someone else had suffered the consequences. They wouldn't even have a chance! They'd materialize in a drugged body, pinned to the ground by two armed guards.

He'd go back! He'd make things right. He'd make a choice, ten choices, and lie in the exact same spot.

"I choose to go back," he said, tilting his head back and shouting at the ceiling. He ran to the spot where he'd struggled and threw himself on the floor.

Nothing happened.

How long did it take, he wondered? Should he make another choice? Should he make a larger choice? What if the other Graham was in no condition to reciprocate?

He dismissed the thought. He had to try. He jumped. He filled his head with decisions. He chose to walk to the wall, to hop back, to use his left foot, his right. He picked up a pencil and snapped it. He took the stub and marched over to the notice board. He started writing. Telling everyone about Sylvestrus and the resonance wave and how to stop it.

Nothing happened.

Maybe the other Graham was no longer in the room? Maybe he'd been moved?

He left the room. He ran down the corridor towards the stairs. Would this be the way they'd bring him? He banged on every door he passed. He chose to run, he chose to walk, he chose to shout at the top of his voice.

Nothing happened. Not one door opened, not one person came out to investigate. Was the building empty?

He reached the stairs. Would they have taken the other Graham this way? He took the first flight. He ran back. He thought of every possible meal he'd cook for dinner that evening—choosing each in turn and then changing his mind.

He chose until he had no choices left. And then he collapsed. On the cold concrete steps by the basement doors. The other Graham could be anywhere now. He'd failed him. He'd failed everyone.

He stayed on the stairs for hours. Or maybe only a few minutes. Time lost all meaning in the wallowing landscape of guilt and what-might-have-beens.

A voice called out to him from above.

"Mr. Smith? Graham, are you all right?"

Graham looked up and saw a face peering down at him from the railings above. It wasn't a face he recognized. Or could talk to. He pulled himself slowly to his feet and trudged up the stairs.

The man came down to offer him a hand. A middle-aged man in shorts and a T-shirt that failed to encompass his bulging stomach. Graham shrugged away his offer of a hand. He wasn't deserving of any help this day. Graham pushed through the doors to the ground floor lobby and strode out. He didn't care if Sylvestrus and all his henchmen were waiting for him. Let them do their worst. He'd already done his.

Annalise Fifteen refused for the third time. There was no way anyone was going to interview Graham. He needed time.

"The guy's been chased, kidnapped, shot at and terrorized," she told Jerry Saddler. "He's traumatized."

"The police are not going to wait forever, Annalise," said the lawyer. "Let me at least have a doctor see him. If we can provide the police with a medical report, it will strengthen our hand. At the moment it looks like we're stalling."

And so the conversation continued. As it had most of Sunday afternoon. The same conversation—different venues, different combatants. When could the police see Graham? Why won't he attend an identification parade? What exactly is the matter with him?

Annalise stalled them all. Graham was going nowhere, seeing no one and talking to no one. Not until he was ready. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.

"We can't hold these men forever," Dave had told her, minutes after she'd identified the two phoney policemen from their respective lineups. "Twenty-four hours and then we have to charge them or let them go."

"Then charge them," Annalise had said.

"Without Mr. Smith's evidence we don't have enough. We're under extreme pressure as it is. My phone's backed up with lawyers and VIPs. All of them want these men released and you locked up."

"You owe me," she'd snapped. "I've given you three murderers. The least you can give me is a lousy twenty-four hours."

He'd relented. "One o'clock tomorrow afternoon," he'd said. "The twenty-four hours runs out then. Make sure Graham's here before that."

Jenny ran through the options again. Stay in the flat or move to a house outside London.

Neither appealed.

Security at the flat was being tightened. Three men would stay the night, another two would watch the roof, another four on the ground outside. But there was still the memory of the previous night. The ease with which the intruder had broken in.

"That won't happen again," Jenny said. "There's more men and all the cameras have an independent power supply. Plus Dave has promised to have a car come by every half hour. Sylvestrus would have to be mad to try anything again."

Annalise wondered how crazy Sylvestrus was. And how desperate. She could imagine him firing one of his New Tech rockets into the building and waiting for the two of them to run out.

And moving to another house wasn't an option. Sylvestrus would have the building watched. He'd follow them wherever they went.

"Another option," said Jenny, "is to do both. We can hire some look-alikes—with your hair, it'll be easy. We can bring them here in disguise, dress them up, and then you choose where you want to spend the night. The decoys take the option you turn down."

"Won't it be dangerous for the decoys?"

"We'll look after them. If you want, we'll spread the risk. Have ten addresses, ten cars and ten sets of decoys. Sylvestrus won't be able to keep track of them all."

Annalise agreed. She liked that idea. She liked that idea a lot.

Graham wandered through Putney in a cloud. Why was it sometimes he flipped without knowing and other times he felt like he'd been pulled through a mangle? It made no sense.

Maybe it wasn't supposed to, maybe it was punishment for not breaking the link as a child.

Or maybe there was something different about the flips themselves. He thought back. The girl in the park, jumping on the bus, holding a gun to his head. Was there a common denominator? Fear, guns, something tightly grasped in his hand—the girl, the pole, the gun. Was there something about that type of situation—the flow of adrenaline, the overpowering desire not to flip, the physical connection to some kind of restraining anchor—that interfered with the flipping mechanism?

And was it something he could use?

A thought that lasted less than a block. What good was he at using anything. He'd tried to flip and failed and tried not to flip and failed. That was the only thing he
was
good at. Failure.

It wasn't until he reached the tube station that he thought to check his pockets.

He'd moved house. He was back at Oakhurst Drive. And he had a ParaDim key card.

He rotated the green and gold card between his fingers. Did having a key card signify anything? Did it mean he was safe in this world? Was he helping the Resonance team?

Or had Adam Sylvestrus given it to him? Was that his way of ensnaring Graham, making him welcome, bringing all the eggs into one basket so he could crush him and the Resonance team in one go?

Graham went home, not caring if his house was bugged or full of assassins. Let them all come, he said to himself, what do I care?

He ate late and sat in silence, reflecting on his failures.

He was
not
Annalise Fifteen. He couldn't think on his feet the way she did. When she'd threatened to kill herself, it had been part of a plan—a way to knock her opponent off balance. When Graham had threatened to kill himself, it had been
the
plan. He hadn't thought any further. Even now, he wasn't sure what he'd have done next. Pull the trigger, negotiate, bluff? He'd expected something to pop into his head. He hadn't expected it to be another Graham.

The next day dawned under the same cloud. Graham settled into his familiar routine—wash, breakfast, catch the usual train. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to choose, he just wanted to forget.

At work, he printed off the staff list and watched the familiar names roll by. Brenda was married again, back with Bob. He felt a flicker of vicarious happiness. At least someone was having a good time.

"Good morning, Graham," said Sharmila from the doorway.

Graham grunted a greeting as he flicked through the list of names.

"I saw Brenda outside," she said. "She asked me to remind you about her birthday."

Graham swivelled round. It was Brenda's birthday? He'd forgotten. He usually bought her something.

"She's inviting everyone for drinks in her room at twelve."

Graham glanced down at the staff list. Brenda, Brenda, Brenda . . . room 501. Same as always.

Graham smiled and nodded a thank you to Sharmila. If he took an early lunch he could buy something at that little shop by the lights.

He sorted through the morning post, loaded up the mail trolley and set off on the first of his rounds.

Five minutes later, he pushed the mail trolley past the second-floor coffee machine and pressed the up button for the lift. Two women behind him were locked in an earnest conversation. Liz and Steph, from the sound of their voices.

"Is Brenda going to cancel the party?" asked Liz.

Graham's ears pricked at the mention of Brenda's name. Had something happened?

"No, she said Holly wouldn't hear of it," said Steph.

Graham leaned further into the conversation. He knew Holly well. She often worked in the same room as Brenda.

"How old's Holly's mother? She must be getting on," asked Liz.

"Sixty-five. Still, that's no age, is it? Not these days."

Had Holly's mother died? Graham had seen pictures of her once. Holiday snaps that Brenda and Holly had passed around one year. Rhyll. Or had it been Tenby?

"At least it's operable," said Liz. "Holly says she's just thankful they caught it in time. If it hadn't been for the headaches, no one would have known."

"Ugh!" said Steph. "The thought of having something like that growing in your brain . . ."

The lift bell drew the two women's conversation to a close. They filed past Graham, who was suddenly lost in thought.

"Do you want the lift, Graham?" Liz asked, holding the door open.

Graham wasn't sure if he answered. He meant to shake his head but couldn't remember if he had or not.

He did remember the two women laughing.

But none of that mattered. He could see a plan forming in his head. It was so simple. Probably too simple to work. But if it did?

He pressed the down button. He had to find Annalise. He had to plan. And he needed somewhere he could think and make choices without the risk of flipping. He needed to be elsewhere. Fast.

He left the trolley by the Post Room door and hurried outside. He turned left instead of his usual right and started to run. He had to get far enough away. Flipping now would only complicate matters.

He stopped a block away and took a deep breath. For his plan to work he had to find Annalise. But how? She could be anywhere. She could be back in the building he'd just left or at home in America.