Stealing Time by Rebecca Bowyer (bearly read books .TXT) 📗

Ben Williams couldhope to have with his family. She may not have a PhD but the merefact that the kid’s family had time to bring him to the hospitaland scan his Chip suggested these new thieves were either morecompassionate or less accurate in judgement.

“Not sure his family would agree with youthere.” Marisa took the box that Varya held out. “I’m just saying,it seems like the kind of thing we could help with.”

“We sell a product to fundraise for amedical research facility. We don’t get involved in policematters,” said Varya flatly.

Marisa held up her free hand. “Alright,alright. I’m just saying.”

“Save your talking for our clients.”

“Yes, boss.” Her tone held a little moresarcasm than she’d intended.

Varya stood, bent forward, hands pressedinto the edge of the table, eyes gazing into the mid-distance. Shefrowned.

“I guess I’ll see myself out then,” mutteredMarisa. She should have known better than to get involved. Maybe itwas just a one-off abduction. Just one kid. But she knew from hardexperience that if that ‘just one kid’ happened to be your one kid,the relative global scale of the catastrophe bore little weight onthe cataclysmic effect it had on your life. She blinked rapidly andstood.

“What? Yes. Thanks.” Varya picked up theempty coffee mugs from the table and turned toward the sink, hermind elsewhere.

Marisa took her cue and left.

Chapter thirteen

“Fifteen. I ordered fifteen four-hour strips. Thereare only ten in here.”

Marisa frowned as she peered into thematchbox and shuffled the time tabs around.

“Ah, sorry.” She delved back into her bagand pulled out another small box. She opened it and tipped thecontents onto her palm. One tab escaped and fluttered onto the sidetable, coming to rest next to her coffee cup.

“Careful with that.” The large woman in thebed harrumphed and pushed ruby-rimmed glasses up her nose with aswollen-knuckled finger. “Don’t want it contaminated with yourhideous poison.”

Marisa glanced down at her cooling coffeeand raised a questioning eyebrow. “Whole lot more natural thandosing yourself with time-altering chemicals,” she muttered.

“What? Speak up, girl, I can’t hearyou.”

Marisa slid the matchbox closed. “Fifteennow, all there.” She held out the correct tally and presented anempty palm for payment. The woman obediently placed her defectivebox into Marisa’s palm and snatched the new one, holding it to herchest and closing her eyes. She began to hum. Marisa cleared herthroat. The woman hummed more loudly.

“Mrs Denisovitch?”

The woman cracked her eyelids open wideenough to be able to narrow them at Marisa.

“Really know how to spoil a moment, don’tyou, girl?”

Marisa shrugged and waggled her screen atMrs Denisovitch, head cocked slightly. It had been several decadessince she could reasonably be described as a ‘girl’ and she wastaking none of this woman’s sass now. Truth be told, MrsDenisovitch was barely more than fifteen years her senior.

The woman sighed and sat up a littlestraighter, reaching around the pillows for her own screen. Neverletting go of the matchbox, she placed her palm on the screen andthen tapped it a few times before dumping it back on the sidetable.

“There. Done. Now leave me in peace to beable to enjoy my few extra hours of glorious music before they takeme out of this hell-hole and put me to rest permanently.”

Marisa refreshed her screen to confirm thepayment had been received. ‘Donation to med resrch’, it read. Sheput her screen in her coat pocket and picked up her coffee cup. MrsDenisovitch might want her gone quickly, but she wasn’t about topass up the opportunity to finish her free liquid gold. Besides,this was the one place she could safely conduct business all daywithout having to worry about being questioned. Palliative care forthe wealthy. Ironic, really, that euthanasia was still illegal inmost countries, but once you hit the magic sixty-five-year markyou’d be put out of your misery, whether you liked it or not.Marisa’s clients in palliative care used the tabs as soon as theirnext round of pain relief kicked in, to extend the agony-free hoursthey had remaining. Marisa drained her cup and placed it back onthe saucer. She straightened her badge—‘Volunteer’—and stoodup.

Mrs Denisovitch opened both eyes and pushedherself up off the pillows.

“That kiddie that got snatched. Your lothave anything to do with that?”

“What kid?” Marisa feigned ignorance,picking at her nail, and wondering whether her own knuckles wouldstart to swell with arthritis soon. A warm climate to retire to,that’s what she needed. Sometimes when she looked at the pamphlets,she could just about the feel the warm rays beating out ofthem.

“Good grief girl, don’t you pay attention tothe world around you?”

She shrugged. “Not if I can help it.”

“Got snatched outside school a couple daysago. Dropped back today. Expired just a few minutes ago. Just likeall those other kids, all those years ago.” Mrs Denisovitch lookedMarisa up and down and sneered. “Not that you’d remember. You can’tbe more than, what, twelve?”

“Forty-seven, actually, but thanks.” Marisashuddered, remembering. Varya had been right, then. That poor kidhadn’t stood a chance.

“So, it wasn’t your lot, then.”

Marisa gave a small smile. She wondered ifMrs Denisovitch lay awake imagining a whole network of time-givingangels wandering around the country selling time tabs to the dyingwealthy. She didn’t realise just how lucky she was to live within afive-mile radius of one of the few remaining time engineers.

“Nope, not us.”

“Mmph.” Mrs Denisovitch sank back and closedher eyes again. With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Marisa.“Go, then. Come back next week.”

Marisa grinned and gave a three-fingersalute before she turned on her heel and moved onto her nextclient.

Three rooms down the hallway, she nodded andsmiled faintly while Mr Keats recounted how he had secretly readhalf of Shakespeare’s complete works in four-hour blocks whileunder the influence of time tabs.

“Secretly?”

Mr Keats tapped the side of his nose andleered towards her.

“You never know what they’ll hold againstyou next,” he told her in a stage whisper. “Might ban the bardsometime soon. Literature like that can be terriblyinflammatory.”

“Mmm.” Marisa twisted her mouth and turnedback to the screen on the wall, sipping her next cup of coffee.

“Nine-year-old boy returned to parentsdies. Community fears time thieves.”

Video footage showed Ben Williams’grief-stricken parents shielded from the media as they were usheredfrom their home