Rifter (The Survival Project Duology Book 1) (7 page)

Mara.

Eight years.

She hadn’t changed a bit.

He grinned. It was what he’d been counting on, after all. That the love they had once had would be fresh in her mind and she’d still love him. That any reminder of the man she used to see every day would claw at her memories, dragging them to the fore, where they couldn’t be ignored.

He had to keep calm.

He’d done it once, he could do it again. He had to accept that people didn’t always react like you’d expect them to. He had to account for that in his plans. They couldn’t be strictly logical. He had to think outside of the box. Only, that wasn’t his natural way of thinking. It wasn’t logical. He could do it. They’d practised it. He would carve a different reality for Mara and for himself, but it wouldn’t be easy.

Sometimes, when he tried to get facts straight in his mind, the intricacies of living in two different worlds left him in a worse tangle than when he’d started. Even with his technical bent, which allowed him to understand the process in minute detail, he didn’t have the capacity to truly understand the science of how rifts existed in the first place and how different worlds came to be. You had to have a special type of mind for that. If anyone truly understood it, that is. He knew the theory, that different branches broke off with each decision you made and created new realities, repeated millions of times over by every person on the planet, every creature, every insect. Was that really possible?

He was counting on it.

The only alternative was a simple past, future and present. Go back in time, risk killing your grandmother and end up never existing. Paradoxes. Loops. Impossibilities. The thought of that being the truth was depressing, but he was certain it wasn’t, because this world was different. He’d looked up his family tree, easy enough on the Internet, and it wasn’t the same family tree that he knew, not completely. His great grandparents had still existed, but they hadn’t had children. They’d tried, but three miscarriages were listed in the records. It had made him shudder. Was there really going to be no Leo on this world? The only explanation was that alternative realities, alternative worlds, where small differences existed, was the correct explanation for how things worked.

He knew full well that the Mara who’d just come to visit, who’d run from his flat, was not the only Mara he knew. She had branched off so many times along the line since they’d last seen each other and so had he. Millions of Maras and millions of Leos all living slightly different lives. Some meeting again. Some not.

He’d come to think of these millions of possibilities as containing the essence of someone rather than an actual person. An essence of Mara had come to a world where an essence of him existed, and their essences had been drawn to each other via a chance meeting.

Well, not exactly drawn, or chance. He’d been looking out for a rifter. He’d made sure that if someone arrived on this world, in this reality, that he would know about it.

He threw the stained towel into the laundry basket, slathered his face in burn cream and returned to the scene of devastation in the kitchen.

He wished he was in a version of the world where he hadn’t been able to buy the Parmesan from the little deli down the street on his way home, and that she’d stayed a little longer at the flat. It was unlikely she’d come near him again. He would have to track her down.

He couldn’t call Atwood and ask for back-up. The Department couldn’t know who’d come through. It was too dangerous for them to know. Essences were fragile and could be snuffed out in a second, he knew that. He was going to have to be sneaky, to tell half-truths and full-on lies. But he’d known that all along. He’d been doing that all along.

The kitchen stank and what it looked like defied reasonable description. It was a good job Mayra wasn’t due that evening. She’d go ape if she saw it. Not that it was any of her business. It was his flat.

He went into the lounge and took a moment to look out over the river before starting the clean up. He knew Mara was out there somewhere, almost within touching distance. She was scared and confused, just like he’d been when he’d first arrived. A few hours was nowhere near enough to assimilate the differences, or even to accept them. Theory never stood up to practice.

In the distance, he could see the lights of the London Wheel beginning to shine brighter than the sky behind them. It was still a couple of hours before night would fall completely. He wondered whether she’d found somewhere to stay before she’d come to visit, so that she wouldn’t have to remain outside and vulnerable.

He clicked his finger.

Yes.

The gold coin.

He should do the research now so that he’d be ready for what he needed to do the next day. She’d have sold it for cash. He turned on the mobile he kept in his trouser pocket. He called up a listing of all the pawnbrokers in the local area — they were an easier sell than a jeweller. There weren’t many. Five within a reasonable walking distance — you couldn’t ride without cash and anyway, it had taken him several weeks after he was released before he was prepared to brave the tube trains, or even the buses. Three of them had websites, but none had the coin listed. It was probably too soon for that.

His other mobile rang. He grabbed it from his bag and looked at the display. His body tensed, until he realised it was Atwood. He forced himself to relax. They couldn’t know there was anything wrong.

“Hey, how’s Mayra?” he asked. Leo didn’t hesitate.

“She’s good, but in for the night. I wasn’t allowed to stay for long. I’m back home. She needs to rest.” There was no need to tell him he hadn’t gone to the hospital at all. He wasn’t likely to find out soon enough. Reports took time to write up, and even longer to be read.

“Bad luck. Hospitals can be so inflexible.”

“Tell me about it.” He allowed his voice to smile. “Was there something else? Do you need me to come in?”

“No, just checking in and … I was wondering if you could drop by my place on the way in.”

So, Atwood was going to be there all night.

“And get you a change of clothes? Sure.”

They each kept a set of the other’s keys. It wasn’t something he liked, but it was Department protocol in case of emergencies — and overnight working. If you couldn’t trust your partner to pick out a clean pair of smalls, you couldn’t trust anyone.

“Thanks, mate. Just a clean shirt and some underwear. I’ve got a toothbrush.”

“Done.”

Leo hung up. He had his excuse for being late into work, which would give him time to visit one, maybe two of the pawnbrokers on his list if he was quick. It was worth the effort. It would keep his cover for longer. He picked the ones that were closest to Atwood’s flat. They both opened at seven. If he was back in the office by nine, there wouldn’t be too many questions levelled at him. And if there were, then, too bad. He’d just have to think up some good excuses.

He was good at that.

Eight

“Why?” said Mara, officially scolding herself for her stupidity as she walked aimlessly along the southern bank of the river. She wasn’t scolding herself for the stupidity of having gone to Leo’s flat and getting caught there when he got back from work, that was so high on the scale of stupidity that it didn’t count. The stupidity she was now concerned with, was how she’d been in this city for half a day and not managed to sort out the acquisition of any money before all the shops had closed. Getting enough of the local currency to survive for the three days she was there was one of the first things she should have sorted, because she could do very little without money. Seeing Leo and his girlfriend had put that completely out of her mind — that wasn’t entirely true, it had crossed her mind, but had very quickly been eclipsed by her other thoughts. As a consequence, it was now impossible for her to secure somewhere to stay for the night. Which, of course, was the second thing she should have done after getting money, because being out alone, in a strange place, at night, was not a good situation to put yourself in. And she still had nothing to eat.

Gordon would be so angry with her if he knew.

‘Why do you think we took you through all that training? For fun? No. We wanted you to survive in an alien environment. And what did you do? Missed off the first two things you should have done, to take part in a wild goose chase that made your situation even more dangerous than having nowhere to sleep.’

She could even imagine the crescendo that his voice would’ve reached by the time he ended his tirade.

Gordon wasn’t one for mincing his words.

And, usually, she was such a good student.

“That impulsive nature of yours has got a lot to answer for,” she chided herself.

Maybe they ought to include impulsiveness as a contraindication for becoming a rifter. There had to be a test they could devise.

The reason she should have found somewhere indoors to sleep, apart from safety, was because they weren’t given survival gear to take with them. It would be too bulky to carry around for a start, and the other reason was because it was thought unlikely it would survive the journey through the rift. She supposed they’d tried it and found that out, but she wasn’t sure. She suspected it might also pull you off course if it was too bulky, and mean you never got to your destination. She hadn’t looked to the sides as she’d travelled, she kept her vision straight and true, as advised. It was possible there were proper, solid walls in the rift, as you entered it looked like there were, but she had a feeling that wasn’t the case, even though it had felt solid enough underfoot. It was more likely to be a thin skin that when broken dropped you into a void, a bottomless pit, somewhere where the forces would pull your limbs from your body and eventually explode those, and your de-limbed torso, into tiny pieces. She tried to get that image out of her mind. It wasn’t helpful

Not that she could’ve pitched a tent in the centre of the city. She was sure there would be laws against that.

Even the clothes they wore weren’t optimised for warmth. They were meant to look average. Something that wouldn’t stand out wherever you landed. Denim. It was considered to be the least likely to cause undue interest or to look out of place, unless you ended up in a world where the dinosaurs hadn’t perished, and then, it was widely accepted by all concerned that you were never going to blend in. Denim could look fashionable and it could look like a manual worker’s clothes. It was the best compromise.

Denim jeans, denim jacket with lots of hidden pockets, plain white t-shirt, sports shoes. And now she had a shirt. Mayra’s shirt.

If she had to stay out all night, she was going to get very cold indeed. There had been no clouds in the sky, nothing to keep the warmth in.

Her stomach was beginning to grumble.

She looked longingly at a street vendor who was dispensing something wrapped in a bread roll, with a savoury aroma, to a constant stream of people. She seriously considered begging him to let her have one, but she didn’t think that would go down well. He was making too much money from those who had the means to pay. It wasn’t like her clothes were tattered, or her shoes had holes in. No one would believe she was destitute just to look at her. She decided to move further away. The smell of food wasn’t helping her state of mind.

There wasn’t even a water fountain from which she could drink, and she knew the river water was salt, and even if it hadn’t been, it didn’t look that clean.

She rubbed at her sleeves. The friction only gave her a moment of respite from the cooling air.

For a second, she seriously considered sneaking back into Leo’s block after he’d gone to sleep and bedding down in the lobby overnight. She soon dispensed with the thought. Far too dangerous. And she had no idea whether or not he’d called the police. By now, he had to know she wasn’t Mayra. Mayra, he had to have shouted Mayra.

She could try some other block, she had her lock picks, but what if the doors were alarmed, or someone saw her? If she ended up in a cell, she’d never get home.

The one thing she was certain of, was that she couldn’t walk all night. Her legs were tired and with no food, the energy wasn’t there. She’d only managed to run so far away from the flat because of the adrenalin. If it had been down to fuel alone, she reckoned she would’ve run out before she’d even crossed the bridge.

She leaned against The Embankment wall and stared down at her feet, as if they might give her some kind of inspiration. They didn’t. It just focused her mind on how cold her toes were becoming.

She had no idea how long she’d been in that position when the man walked up beside her and leaned against the wall, mirroring her stance. He was only a couple of feet away, and considering it was a very long wall, the invasion of her personal space felt heightened. Her neck prickled.

She didn’t look at him. She felt vulnerable.

She noticed there were few people still around and the snack bar was now closed. When did that happen? Had she drifted off while standing up? It was entirely possible, but she didn’t want to look at her brac to see the time.

She edged a little away, testing the situation. She hoped it would work, that his appearance beside her was entirely innocent. Some chance.

“No money?” he said.

The words numbed her. Was it that obvious that she didn’t have a penny to her name? She considered how she looked again. Her clothes were hardly threadbare. She was young, but she was an adult. She didn’t have a bag. Most other people, certainly the women, carried something with them. Did that make her look penniless? Did it make her look like an easy target? Or was it just that fact that she was out here, alone, at night?