Free A Window into Time (Novella) by Peter F. Hamilton
Authors: Peter F. Hamilton
sneakers, but I did roll them all the way down so it looked like I wasn’t. I borrowed Rachel’s baseball cap, the one with her gym logo on the front. Then I finished it off with sunglasses.
Dad was just going out to work when he saw me. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out.”
“Well, try and avoid those boys from school, okay?”
“Sure.”
His mouth opened, like he was going to say something more. But he just looked at my clothes again and shrugged. “See you tonight.”
I stayed in the flat for a couple of hours, searching the Internet for any files on Vladimir McCann. But he was as bad as Michael when it came to filling in his Facebook details; all it said was that he lived in London. He wasn’t reliable enough for me to believe it. Not without a confirmed cross-reference.
But there wasn’t anything on him. He must have been one of those people who lived off the grid.
Thinking about it, I supposed I did, too. I’d never signed on to any social media site. I don’t have any friends to message or share photos with, so there’s no point.
Now that I knew more about Michael, I thought about sending him a new message, but I decided against it. It’s logical: I could just walk up to him and say hello. This gave me the advantage. If he did know who I was, taking security precautions didn’t matter; if he didn’t know, then he would probably think I’m some kind of weirdo stalker like Vladimir, and he’d likely be all super-sensitive about that, so security was important. By
security
I mean not saying who I was or where I lived.
There’s a special technique you can use for getting people to tell you stuff without them realizing what they’re doing. It’s simple enough. I’d go up to him looking all confident and say something like: “Hi, you’re Michael, aren’t you? My dad says you used to play football in his league.” That way he’d think he knows me and start talking.
According to the Internet, it’s called soft-sideways interrogation. The most famous example ever is Neville Chamberlain, who was prime minister just before World War Two. He was in a lift in Harrods when a posh young girl and her nanny got in. The girl politely said hello to him and looked very familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember her name. So he asked her if her father was still in the same job, thinking she’d say what the job was so he could work out who she was. She replied: “Yes, he’s still king.” It was Princess Elizabeth.
Maybe I won’t use that technique.
Though, actually, Chamberlain did get to find out who she was.
I arrived outside Michael’s office at twelve twenty-five. The same security people were on the entrance. The woman who had looked at me a couple of times yesterday didn’t pay any attention to me today. She wore different earrings—small purple ones with the circular peace symbol, which the Internet says was designed by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. I thought it was odd that someone from security would wear those.
Michael Finsen came out for lunch at twelve thirty-seven. I liked that. He clearly knew the importance of routine and how easy it makes life.
I hadn’t even started following him when I began remembering his trip to the police station.
It wasn’t Mike’s happiest memory.
I go into the reception area, which is so much smaller than I’d expected, given the size of the station. It’s a long way in from the big glass doors, making it oddly dark. The desk is surrounded by thick security glass, and the door beside it has a keypad so you can’t get any farther into the building.
There’s a community service officer in a high-viz jacket sitting at the back of the reception, using a computer. I know the cliché about police officers looking younger as you get older, but he can’t be more than twenty-two. It doesn’t inspire me with confidence.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asks.
You can start by going and getting a real police officer out here for
Dad was just going out to work when he saw me. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out.”
“Well, try and avoid those boys from school, okay?”
“Sure.”
His mouth opened, like he was going to say something more. But he just looked at my clothes again and shrugged. “See you tonight.”
I stayed in the flat for a couple of hours, searching the Internet for any files on Vladimir McCann. But he was as bad as Michael when it came to filling in his Facebook details; all it said was that he lived in London. He wasn’t reliable enough for me to believe it. Not without a confirmed cross-reference.
But there wasn’t anything on him. He must have been one of those people who lived off the grid.
Thinking about it, I supposed I did, too. I’d never signed on to any social media site. I don’t have any friends to message or share photos with, so there’s no point.
Now that I knew more about Michael, I thought about sending him a new message, but I decided against it. It’s logical: I could just walk up to him and say hello. This gave me the advantage. If he did know who I was, taking security precautions didn’t matter; if he didn’t know, then he would probably think I’m some kind of weirdo stalker like Vladimir, and he’d likely be all super-sensitive about that, so security was important. By
security
I mean not saying who I was or where I lived.
There’s a special technique you can use for getting people to tell you stuff without them realizing what they’re doing. It’s simple enough. I’d go up to him looking all confident and say something like: “Hi, you’re Michael, aren’t you? My dad says you used to play football in his league.” That way he’d think he knows me and start talking.
According to the Internet, it’s called soft-sideways interrogation. The most famous example ever is Neville Chamberlain, who was prime minister just before World War Two. He was in a lift in Harrods when a posh young girl and her nanny got in. The girl politely said hello to him and looked very familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember her name. So he asked her if her father was still in the same job, thinking she’d say what the job was so he could work out who she was. She replied: “Yes, he’s still king.” It was Princess Elizabeth.
Maybe I won’t use that technique.
Though, actually, Chamberlain did get to find out who she was.
I arrived outside Michael’s office at twelve twenty-five. The same security people were on the entrance. The woman who had looked at me a couple of times yesterday didn’t pay any attention to me today. She wore different earrings—small purple ones with the circular peace symbol, which the Internet says was designed by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. I thought it was odd that someone from security would wear those.
Michael Finsen came out for lunch at twelve thirty-seven. I liked that. He clearly knew the importance of routine and how easy it makes life.
I hadn’t even started following him when I began remembering his trip to the police station.
It wasn’t Mike’s happiest memory.
I go into the reception area, which is so much smaller than I’d expected, given the size of the station. It’s a long way in from the big glass doors, making it oddly dark. The desk is surrounded by thick security glass, and the door beside it has a keypad so you can’t get any farther into the building.
There’s a community service officer in a high-viz jacket sitting at the back of the reception, using a computer. I know the cliché about police officers looking younger as you get older, but he can’t be more than twenty-two. It doesn’t inspire me with confidence.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asks.
You can start by going and getting a real police officer out here for