Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

‘Regrets,’ Janine said. Her fish was nearly gone. His was hardly touched. ‘Did you work in the World Trade Center?’

‘So you remember that. No. It was later.’

‘Oh.’

‘You want some more fish?’

‘No, thanks.’

David took his own fish and plonked it on hers. ‘Here.’

‘What’s wrong with you? I don’t want your fucking leftovers.’

He smiled and watched her eat it. ‘Stop fucking smiling,’ she said, spitting fish.

‘Guess what?’ he said.

She stopped mid-chew. ‘Wha’?’

‘I’m on the run from the police. They want me for murder.’

‘They want me for shoplifting. Small fucking world.’

David said mildly, ‘It is.’

Janine resumed her chewing. ‘I don’t really do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Have sex with people for money.’

Something swept through David. Was it relief that he had been talking to the worst example of society’s failure, only to find that she had beaten him at his own game? She had played on his pity and eaten her meal.

And haven’t I done the same to her? Got what I wanted? A dry run at reconciliation?

‘So what do you do?’

‘I lure them in and take them somewhere. Back of The Players . Down to the canal. Or Blackboy Road. Somewhere. Then me mates grab them and we take their wallets.’ She stopped eating. ‘Sorry.’

David sighed and tried to push his chair from the table. It was stuck to the floor. He eased out and put on his gloves.

‘Back on the run?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning I’ll ride on.’ He leaned closer. ‘Janine, you want your money?’

She burped and nodded. ‘Aye. Make it five hundred.’ She said it casually, too casually, ready for David to protest. He did not.

‘Got a card?’

She had it ready and handed it over. He touched the two.

‘Can I ask you something without you getting angry or saying “fuck”?’

‘Maybe.’

He placed a gloved hand on her head. ‘Will you take care of yourself?’

‘That all depends.’

He walked out and felt Janine’s stare all the way.

In his room on the first floor of The Poor Players , David opened his rucksack and spilled the contents across the bed. Among the travel documents was a stun gun. He read its instructions while the live band, downstairs, played their final song. He continued through the travel documents and found an envelope. Smiled. Inside was what looked like a metallic card. The warmth of his fingertips woke it.

‘Hello, Ego.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Professor David Proctor, at your service.’

There was a beep as his voice was identified. ‘No, I am at yours.’

‘Oh, you.’ David removed the pip that had been taped into the back. ‘Switch to earpiece.’

‘Done,’ said the voice in his ear.

David slid Ego into his wallet. At the bottom of the envelope was a money clip, which he put into the inner pocket of his coat.

‘Do you have any instructions for me, Ego?’

‘Yes. Get to London Heathrow Terminal Five and open baggage locker J327.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

David walked into his bathroom and turned the taps. The pipes made a thumping noise and under-pressurised water fell into the tub. ‘Who arranged my escape?’

‘I have been instructed to withhold that information.’

He nodded. The Ego model used a neuronal network to encode its information. Knowledge was stored haphazardly in a great web. Thus, ‘cat’ had a connection to ‘dog’, but also to ‘paws’, ‘lion’ and ‘boat’. Even the most efficient computer operator would find it difficult to isolate information from all the routes that led to it. David set about probing the barricades.

‘Where were you yesterday?’

‘I was not active yesterday.’

‘Think of a name, randomly.’

‘Sam.’

‘Why did you think of that?’

‘I have no reason. That is what random means.’

‘Touché. Tell me about Heathrow.’

‘Heathrow Airport is the foremost centre for air travel in the United Kingdom.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘No. I am reading verbatim from their publicity material.’

‘Do you love?’

‘No.’

‘Are you alive?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to be alive?’

‘I neither want nor do not want.’

‘Do you have emotions?’

‘No.’

‘Who programmed you?’

‘Dr Nagarajan.’

‘Sing me a song.’

‘Which song?’

‘Daisy.’

‘Just a moment.’ There was a beep and David heard a crackle. The earpiece was picking up Ego’s attempt to access the Internet via the wireless telecommunications network.

‘Alright, forget it.’

He returned to the bedroom and stowed the passport in the rucksack. Then he removed his clothes and brushed his teeth. Finally, he sank into the bath and felt the heat permeate his extremities. His genitals began to thaw and assume a respectable size. He considered washing his hair but could not bring himself to encourage the wag who had written the copy for the free sachets: Rinse and Shine at The Poor Players!

‘Ego, can you monitor local police frequencies?’

‘Yes. However, their transmissions are encrypted. The key changes each day at midnight. I could not decode today’s transmissions until tomorrow morning.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘Yes, I am.’

David belched. The brownish water washed over his stomach and lapped around his neck. He looked again at his stomach. In all the excitement, he was losing weight. ‘Ego, if I make a voice call, can I be traced?’

‘I have been given instructions to dissuade you from communicating with anybody until you have reached Heathrow Terminal Five and opened locker J327.’

David slapped the surface of the water. Whom would he call, anyway? He had some friends at the university, family in Wales, and one or two old, good friends near London. Undoubtedly, his small circle would be under surveillance. He had some academic acquaintances in Europe and America. He could contact them anonymously, but what could they do from such a distance?

‘Ego, summarise all the news stories filed about my escape in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘That analysis will take approximately two minutes.’

‘Do it.’

He stared at the patches of mould on the ceiling. He wondered what he would next say to Jennifer, and what she would say back. His mind drifted. With his eyes closed, there was nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the pub: the lub-dub of hot water, footsteps, the rumble of conversation, the occasional cough, a car pulling up outside.

There was a knock at the ground-floor entrance used by overnight guests. David opened his eyes. Answering footsteps travelled across the hallway. He heard two men speaking. Only the low, unintelligible register reached his ears.

One spoke slowly and seriously. A policeman? The other responded quickly and made affirmative sounds. The voice of a sycophant: the landlord.

He remembered the thrill of his confession to Janine that he was on the run. He had felt that excitement when he had ridden from Scotland and he had felt it in the chip shop. But he had not felt it during the initial bike chase and he did not feel it now. This was excitement at another level; a surging energy that was difficult to contain.

David stepped from the bath and towelled himself roughly. He pulled on his clothes, then opened the rucksack and poured every loose object into the main compartment. He did not examine what he packed. He simply checked that the room was empty when he finished. Then he collected his toiletries from the bathroom.