Free A Window into Time (Novella) by Peter F. Hamilton Page B

security people outside Michael’s office and told them, Vladimir would be gone, and they’d be super-suspicious about me.
    The new Michael memory was from three and a half weeks ago. I know that because Michael was sitting in a coffee shop in Docklands reading the paper, so I knew the date the stories were from, just before school term finished.
    Some animal instinct makes me look up from the news about an East London MP’s expenses scandal and there is that piece of scum Vladimir, standing outside the window, looking in at me. Scruffy little nonentity in his mid-thirties, with thinning brown hair that hasn’t been washed for a while, and stubble that isn’t yet a beard. Baggy gray-green corduroy trousers and a suit jacket that is several years out of style, with sleeves that are all creases. He isn’t making any attempt to hide, just staring in at me.
    Some of the other customers have noticed him. They nudge one another uncomfortably. Vladimir doesn’t quite come over as a typical homeless type, but he is disturbing enough to rattle the cozy mums having their coffee break after getting the kids to school.
    So now what do I do? Go out and confront him? Just sit tight? I have to admit, some part of my brain is playing an enjoyable fantasy of me marching out there and smashing the crap out of him. But he is a genuine nutter; Jyoti had to shut her Facebook page down after that second rant he posted. Not that the police did anything about that, either. Idiots!
    We stare at each other for a few seconds. I keep my expression completely emotionless, then I fold my paper up, keeping eye contact with him. When I stand up, there is a flicker of panic on his face, and he turns away. I walk to the door, all calm and cool. I’m not going to shout or threaten, I am determined about that, but I am going to do my best to be utterly intimidating. Hopefully even his junked-up brain will have enough basic animal self-preservation instinct left that he’ll know not to come near either of us again.
    By the time I get outside, he is twenty yards away. I don’t chase after him; that would be stupid. But I do keep that level expression in place. And—yes!—he looks back, seeing me all unruffled and cold-eyed. I swear he starts walking even faster after that.
    That’s right, freak, run. Go plague your therapist.
    When I finished writing all that up in the Michael Finsen file, I read it back carefully. What Michael did in the coffee shop, trying to alarm Vladimir…I don’t think he thought that through properly at all. I mean, the other day when I saw him for the first time, he was still checking to see if Vladimir was still stalking him. So (1) he now knows that quite clearly wasn’t the end of it, even though he missed seeing Vladimir today. (2) How come Vladimir (2a) knew who he was, and (2b) knew where he was?
    Obviously Vladimir is being a whole lot more active than just sending out weird Facebook posts. He’d discovered that Michael was Jyoti’s new boyfriend, discovered either where Michael worked or, more worrying, where they both lived. Now, I did the same thing quite easily, because I have Michael’s memories. But to do that without insider knowledge is more difficult by a whole order of magnitude. You’ve got to be seriously obsessed to accomplish that.
    And Vladimir hasn’t stopped following Michael about. It was so creepy seeing him there at the Tube station. I mean, it was weird when I saw Michael for the first time, but this was frightening and weird. What did Vladimir want? Or did he even want anything? He was in the middle of some kind of breakdown, so he wasn’t rational.
    I wondered if he was going to mug Michael or, worse, put him in hospital? Maybe he thought if he got rid of Michael, then he stood a chance of getting Jyoti back. From what I knew, I didn’t think so. For a start, they were engaged. But perhaps Vladimir didn’t know that.
    I opened my laptop and went on to my Big Russell Facebook page. I