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

“Look at Bugsy,” his father said quietly.

David climbed to his feet. He was too surprised to cry. He was too surprised to think very much at all…but he was sure that he did not want to look at Bugsy.

“Look at Bugsy,” his father said again.

David took a deep breath. It shuddered into his chest. It was awfully loud. He didn’t want to cry. He turned and looked at Bugsy.

Bugsy’s hutch was in shadow. He stepped forward and peered. Bugsy was in a corner and David began to cry. The wood shavings that made Bugsy’s bed had been pushed into one corner. They were bloody. There was blood on the meshed window, and blood too on the straw of his water-feeder. Bugsy himself was in the corner. He was stretched out. His grey-white hair had yellowed. He was lying on his side, lying on weeks of his own shit. David could see his ribs. His belly shuddered just as David’s did right then. Bugsy’s face was pinched. Red-coloured spit bridged the gap between his nose and his front paws.

Bugsy sensed David was there. It was the first time they had seen each other for three weeks. One transparent, reddened eye rolled towards David. It fixed on him for a single moment and then, with gravity, assumed its original position: staring at the roof of its little hut. That was last time David saw Bugsy. A week later, Bugsy had been carried away by the dust men.

“See what you did, David?” his father asked. His voice had become quieter.

David turned towards his father. He knew that should stand up to this man. He should shout and scream that he was a kid – he couldn’t be expected to look after a whole rabbit on his own. As an adult, his father should have helped him. He wanted to shout that this wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Instead he turned away and walked inside.

They spent the rest of the Christmas morning opening presents. Superman slippers, a wallet, and Abba cassettes. They were all very expensive. Under the feeble gaze of his mother, who dared not ask him why he had been crying, and his father, who seemed impassive, he tore paper after paper. His expression was blank.

When he opened the final present – a plastic model of the Millennium Falcon - his mother clasped her hands to her chest and said, “Isn’t he pleased?”

His father said quietly, “He isn’t pleased.”

Saskia opened the rear door and pushed David inside. It would be best to have him in the back and Jennifer in the front. Otherwise, he would sitting chatting to her and Saskia would never have her answers. She walked around to the passenger seat and jumped in. She searched for a button that would stop the engine. She found it on her second attempt.

She could see that Jennifer was shocked. The girl sat, almost fully turned, gazing into the eyes of her father. Her father was smiling. Saskia was not touched by the scene. Not under these circumstances. Not with Frank unconscious in the other car.

“Do you speak French?” she asked, in French.

The girl ignored her. Saskia reached across and turned her head by the chin. “We are under surveillance,” she said again, this time in German.

Jennifer stared at Saskia’s hand. Saskia withdrew it. In German, Jennifer said, “I know.” Saskia looked at David expectantly. He nodded. He understood. No English.

“Your German is good,” Saskia said.

“Yes, I learn it in school.” Jennifer spoke from far away. For a moment, Saskia wondered what she was thinking. But only for a moment. There was no telling how much time they had.

“Hello, papa,” Jennifer said.

“Hello, Jennifer,” David replied. Saskia glanced at her watch. She remembered the emails that she and Scottie had examined in Edinburgh: documentary evidence of a father and daughter drifting apart. She would give them two minutes.

“Why are you here?” Jennifer asked. Her voice was emotionless.

“For you.” David slapped is hands together in frustration. His German was worse than his daughter’s. “I returned to Scotland. Thunder and lightning in the building. I killed Bruce Shimoda. Now Saskia Brandt hunts me. She is the police. She wants to return to Britain with me.”

“Bruce Shimoda is not dead,” Jennifer said quietly. Her eyes had fallen to the floor.

David shook his head. “I am sorry, Jennifer. He is dead. He was in the computer. He was dying. He asked.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I do not know. I have…Saskia…I mean, Saskia déjà vu. Understand?”

“No.”

“I think Saskia travelled…over, no, through…” he trailed off in exasperation. He tapped his watch.

“He means time,” Saskia interjected. “He’s got this crazy idea that I travelled through time. He thinks he saw me in Scotland a few days ago. I told him that time travel is impossible -”

Jennifer shook her head and, with that, her eyes began to clear. “Time travel is possible.”

Saskia said, “Ah.” She composed herself, avoided David’s face, and tried to focus on her questions. “Jennifer, what did Frank tell you about me?”

“He told me you were an independent agent. He said that you wanted to talk to me and that you were…”

“Dangerous? Listen, Jennifer, I’m not. I was assigned to find your father. Nothing more. Isn’t that right, David?”

“Yes,” he replied, though he not really listening.

“Jennifer, Frank Stone lied to you. He needed to find me through you. But I need to ask you a question: How did he know where I was? Did he mention anything?”

Jennifer stared at the ceiling. She closed her eyes. “No. I remember the conversations in total. He said nothing.”

Saskia turned to David. “But he didn’t know about you. That means he wasn’t told. If he wasn’t told, then he didn’t need to know. Why didn’t he need to know? Simple: because his only task was to collect me. Somebody told him where I was. Now, who else knows that I am here?”

“Also simple,” David said. “Your boss. He wants to find you. Get you back in your office.”

“But I