Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📗

The old woman was a dark silhouette. There was a pause of several seconds. “My Barry would sort yous out.”

David gave her a tired, tired look.

She snorted and wriggled back inside. The single-glazed window slammed down. David sagged against the wall and tried to ignore the drumming in his ears.

It was nearly 6 p.m. He had been on the road since eight. A total of nine hours with an hour for lunch in little town called Cramlington. Behind the counter in the chip shop there had been a picture of him. A very old picture, thankfully, with more, darker hair and a smiling face. He had frozen, mid-chew, but the owner had not given him a second look. David left immediately. He could not mimic accents, but he could produce the Scottish “Aye,” “No,” and “Is it not?” well enough. He had not disguised his voice for the old bag at the window and if she didn’t buy his story then, well, perhaps her Barry would soon sort him out and so bloody what. He was tired.

On the road he had watched the sun climb, ridden through rain, seen a rainbow, swerved around road kill. His body was near exhaustion. His shoulders and neck hurt from the constant hunch. His kidneys felt bruised from the vibration. Same story with the wrists.

Now he was finished for the day. He had washed up in Northallerton. A few miles to the north was Middlesborough. A few more to south was Leeds. He was still hours from his England.

He emerged from the alley. It was dusk. Parked cars lined each side. Across the way was a pub called The Horse ’n Groom. Multicoloured lights flashed from its windows. Music played so loudly that it transformed from sound to dull touch.

He walked a little further down the road. He still wore the bike helmet but he didn’t want to remove it until it was necessary. A few metres on was the Mulberry Guesthouse. It was a converted semi. Not a palace. Perfect. Next to the door was a box with a plastic front. Inside, a visible bulb illuminated a piece of paper with the words, ‘We have Vaccancies’.

David slid his helmet upwards. His ears had somehow grown into it. He breathed a huge gulp of cold air and ruffled the cowlick that used to be his hair. His neck had lost some movement. He restrained his urge to twist his head and loosen the cartilage with a crack.

The helmet was surprisingly heavy. He reached to press the doorbell when a voice said: “Yen’t a coppeh, man.”

There was somebody there. He looked hard. A boy stood in the shadows, hands in pockets. He stepped into the light. David could tell immediately that he was homeless. He wore a woollen cap, an eskimo-style jacket with the hood down, jeans, and bright white trainers. They were scuffed to hell. He was skinny and birdlike in his movements. His eyes were red-ringed.

“What?” David had barely understood his words. He had no grip on the Northallerton accent. It sounded Geordie, but no doubt the boy would be offended by the comparison.

“I said, you aren’t a copper. On holiday?”

David shrugged as the words came into focus. His finger still hovered over the doorbell. “Business. Yourself?” He wanted to wrap up the conversation quickly, get inside, have a bath.

“Touting for business.”

Something in his voice spoke directly to David’s stomach. He felt nauseous. Saliva squirted into his mouth. “Sorry, what?”

“Wannafuck?” asked the little boy. He was relaxed, but prepared to run. David realised that he had asked that question a thousand times and, with repetition, the meaning had melted away. It was now just a matter of mouth shapes and air.

David’s hand finally fell from the doorbell. He crouched down. His eyes were wide. He reached over to the boy and, with a gloved finger, turned his face. “You’re not a boy at all,” David said softly. “You’re just a little girl.”

Suddenly he wanted Jennifer.

“Alright, you’ve touched the merchandise. Cash or plastic?”

Her eyes were bright. Her cheeks were sunken. She had a large cold sore on her bottom lip.

“Can you come back?” he asked. “Twenty minutes? We can go somewhere.”

Twenty minutes later, David was sitting on the edge of his bed. He hadn’t removed his coat or his gloves. He had checked in, handed over his new, fake credit card, signed with his old, unreadable signature and found his room on the first floor. He had thrown his rucksack on the bed. Earlier, it had revealed a passport, driver’s licence, credit card, and a small brown envelope. He knew that he should open the envelope, discover its secret, but he did not.

He thought about the girl.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mr Harrison?”

Unforgivable, he thought numbly. Unforgettable. How could he have been so stupid? It was not a moment’s lapse. It had lasted years.

“Yeah,” he cakked.

The landlord opened the door a crack. He was a fat, nervous Welshman with a bushy beard. “Someone to see you downstairs.”

David kept his back to the door and dabbed at his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried.

No, not true. Bruce’s funeral. Unforgettable.

“Thank you.”

The door closed.

David patted his pockets. He would need money.

Outside, he did not have to look far. She was waiting in the shadows. It was dark now. He glanced around. They were alone. She emerged and read his mind.

“They know where I am,” she said. “My friends.” Her breath made little white clouds.

“I’m hungry. Want to get some fish and chips?”

She frowned. “You want to eat.”

“Yeah. Come on. Name a place?”

“McCabe’s. It’s over there.” She indicated the direction with a shoulder. Her hands stayed in her pockets and David wondered what weapons she held. She did not let her eyes leave his until he walked past her. She fell in step. Her head reached his elbow. Her strides were fast and his were slow.

“What are your prices like, then?” he asked. The nausea