New Pompeii (6 page)

The words looked as familiar as ever. He’d read them many times. Somehow though, the account still made his heart race. Although writing some years after the event, Pliny had provided the best record of the disaster. The event wasn’t just some date on a calendar. It had affected real people.

He read the extract again. Felt the words burn into his eyes. A man’s thoughts transmitted from the distant past. But could he trust them? Or had they been for ever mangled by the actions of NovusPart?

He’d never know. Even though he was familiar with every line, he scanned the page again just to make sure. At least there was no mention of people disappearing into thin air. But what about the reference to sparkling flashes? It had never seemed strange to him before, but was this evidence of transportations?

One of the girls at the far end of the table issued another excited shriek. Nick cast them a wary glance and then picked up another book. He flicked through it until he came to a photograph of a plaster cast of a dog. It had died still lashed to a post. Curled in a ball, the animal had suffocated just before the town had been buried. It was still choking, all these years later.

Nick grimaced. The casts had been made by filling with plaster the voids in the hardened ash left by long rotted-away bodies. The archaeologists who’d first explored the site had recognised the pumice shells as natural sarcophagi. A true miracle, even though the resulting plaster casts were now nothing more than a morbid tourist attraction. And yet only a few hundred remains had been found. Where had everyone else gone? Had they deserted the town in the days before the eruption like so many researchers assumed? Or had they been transported?

Nick shook his head. He didn’t know. Didn’t know enough about the technology. The debate had always centred on the ethics rather than the practicalities – and NovusPart didn’t exactly advertise how they pulled off their trick. Still, Whelan would contact him again soon for his decision. And that raised its own question: because they should have had him arrested, not offered him a job.

Even if it was subject to a six-week trial period.

Nick gave a sigh. Six weeks.

Setting the book to one side, he stood up. His sudden movement caused the two girls to stop giggling. As he turned to the nearby window he could hear them whispering. He didn’t much care what they were saying.

Although the number of books in Falconbrook University’s library made a good show of it, there was little to be done to hide the fact they were sitting in a cold, concrete shell. It was an unattractive working space – all fluorescent tubes and dry air. Poorly adapted to a world where everything was available online, and people could work from home.

Six weeks.

His mind swung back to the dinner with McMahon. The speed at which that protest had formed. The mix of desperation and anger in those people’s faces as they’d begged for the lives of their loved ones.

But did they really expect NovusPart to rescue everyone?

* * *

Nick ate his lunch slowly. He’d headed to a small café just off campus but wasn’t enjoying any peace. The food was cheap enough for the place to be busy, and he’d soon found himself penned in by a melee of other students. At least he had a couple of limp cheese sandwiches for company.

And an envelope. It had been waiting for him in his pigeonhole in the History Department. He’d recognised Drockley’s handwriting and had assumed the worst. But on opening the letter, he’d found the exact opposite. His contract was being renewed. The paperwork sat before him. All he had to do was sign. Which meant Ronnie had been right. His dad had pulled some strings and again saved him from the dole queue. But now it seemed second best to what NovusPart were offering him.

Nick spread out the flyer from the British Museum on the table in front of him. He focused on the bones of the Peking Man, but all he could think about were the survivors of Flight 391. All of whom were now walking around, just like they’d never actually boarded the plane. Or, at least, most of them were. Some just hadn’t been able to survive in the modern world.

“I knew you’d be here.”

Nick looked up to see Ronnie pushing through the crowd towards him. His friend fell into the shabby plastic seat opposite before making a grab for the list of specials. He only considered the menu for the bare minimum of time before dropping it back to the table. “You enjoy your meal the other night?”

Nick hesitated. “Why didn’t you come?”

“How the fuck could I?” Ronnie said, his voice suddenly loud. “Two cops showed up at my place and effectively revoked my invitation.”

Nick put his sandwich down. Ronnie’s jaw was set tight. He wasn’t scratching at his jaw. He wasn’t lying. A few of the other customers – mostly students – looked warily in their direction. “I didn’t know,” he said. “And after what you pulled at the museum, I think it’s me who’s owed the apology.”

“So what did you talk to McMahon about?”

Ronnie said the name bluntly; Nick felt himself flinch. McMahon. How did Ronnie know he’d met McMahon? He looked towards the exit. He needed to get out of here. They were too close to the department. More importantly, they were too close to his father. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ronnie reached into his pocket and plucked out a lighter and a cigarette. He lit it, and blew out a long plume of smoke. More people looked round. They’d soon be thrown out.

“Ronnie,” said Nick, leaning forward. He kept his voice low, hoping his friend would finally take the hint. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what shit is going down. Men like McMahon don’t socialise with blokes like you.” Ronnie nodded towards the café window. It gave a good view across the campus. Right across to the History Department and the library. “This is a long way from being an ivory tower. Even if you get that PhD you’re always banging on about, it ain’t going to be worth shit because it’s from the University of My Arsehole.”

Nick didn’t say anything. Part of him hoped the students were still listening. Still, Falconbrook had done for his father – even if he sometimes referred to it as an “academic lifeboat”.

Ronnie grinned, knowing his insult had hit home, and then stubbed his cigarette out on the table. He’d left most of it un-smoked. “McMahon must want you for something,” he whispered, his breath heavy with tobacco. “And others seem to be taking an interest in you too.”

Nick flicked his eyes upwards. At first he thought he meant the other customers in the café, but Ronnie’s face was suddenly filled with regret. He knew he’d overstepped the mark.

“What do you mean, ‘others’?”

Ronnie fumbled in his coat pocket for his phone and brought up an app. Nick leant forward.

Who’s Where
. Social media. And he’d managed to appear on its radar. Great.

Who?
Nick Houghton. (Falconbrook University.) Son of
Dr Bernard Houghton
.
Where Been?
Met with
Harold McMahon
and
Mark Whelan
at Bellotoni’s Restaurant, London.
Where Now?
University Park, Sunbeam Café. With
Ronnie Saunders
.

Nick looked around. Someone in the café must have updated his status to give his current location. Blank faces stared back at him. He checked the screen again. Some of the entries were hyperlinked. He thumbed on to his dad’s entry but found it gave no real detail. Just the obvious facts and a short summary of his disgrace. But the lists of people with whom McMahon and Whelan came into contact seemed to be catalogued in extreme detail.

“Amazing isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Nick. “Someone’s got too much time on their hands.”

“Not someone, Nick. Everybody. Given that it started as a way to find and bump into celebs, this app is actually a private dick’s wet dream.”

Ronnie sniggered. Nick ignored him. “Well, I don’t see my entry getting any longer. I’m thinking of going on a field excursion.”

“To Italy? You’ve been there masses of times—”

“I’m not going to Pompeii again.”

Ronnie ignored him. There was real anger in his eyes. “Well my guys from the Peking Man thing have disappeared,” he said. “No one’s heard from them. They’re all missing. Which means they were transported. Right out of the room.”

“They’re more likely in a jail cell.”

Ronnie stood up. He paused and looked around the café. The other customers were still staring, their faces holding a mix of genuine interest and nervousness. “No,” he said, firmly. “They were transported. And we weren’t. So don’t cut me out, Nick. This is too good. We could finally find out what they’re up to.”

K
IRSTEN FORCED HERSELF
to go on. The last steps into the quad were the worst. She found herself listening for the slightest of sounds.
But no one can see me
, she thought.
No one can see me.

And yet she still hesitated, starting to shiver.

She’d woken in the bath again. The haze had simply taken her back to the water – like so many times before. But this time she’d moved faster. She hadn’t lingered in the corridor. Instead, she’d pushed straight down to the quad.

Her feet found the cold flagstones and again she listened.
But no one can see me
, she thought.
No one can see me. Most of the time
. Because even though the police officers hadn’t been able to see her, and the students had ignored her when she’d gone to her room, it was clear that, on some occasions, she
had
been seen. She’d been seen often enough to get a nickname. She’d heard them whisper it. The “bedder in the bath”.

But no one can see me
, she reminded herself.
No one can see me
…

…because I’m already dead.

Kirsten stopped. She tried to concentrate on the air passing over her body. She could still feel it. Just like the tears now trickling down her cheeks.

She let out a cry of frustration. There was nothing down here.

Certainly no answers.

But then she saw them. The long rows of black-framed noticeboards covered in flyers about the college’s various clubs and activities. Kirsten moved quickly. One of them would tell her what date it was, or at least what year. What she found was better. Faces she recognised, staring at her from a glossy poster announcing an event.

Harold McMahon. Joe “Octo” Arlen. And Mark Whelan.

They all looked older than she remembered – heavier and more lined. She looked at the date on the poster, but it only gave a day and month. She scanned the other notices, and found the university code of conduct, half hidden behind a list of upcoming sports events. Beneath the signature of the university’s chancellor was the date. Kirsten felt a cry well up, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Ten years.

She pulled her eyes away and focused on the poster again. Tried to recall the three men. Yes, that was right. They’d lived over in Rose Court. All on the same staircase. She saw them nearly every day, briefly on days when she’d just emptied their bins. Longer on others when she’d changed their sheets.

Octo the geek. Whelan the soldier. McMahon the slob. Three lads who’d been randomly assigned rooms on the same staircase and, if she remembered correctly, didn’t much care for each other.

She drifted forward, bringing the text into focus.

They’d started a business together. Novus Particles. Again she felt tears welling at the corner of her eyes. Ten years? Had all that time passed already?

She wiped her face, trying to read the rest of the notice. They were going to give a talk in the Hereford Lecture Theatre in a few days’ time. She examined the photograph.

Octo Arlen beamed at the camera, a mixture of pride and excitement making his ruddy cheeks glow. Whelan had his jaw out like he was having his army mug shot taken. She used to regularly see him in his army fatigues. Playing at soldiers at weekends and working late during the week to catch up on his studies.

McMahon’s stare was as dead-eyed as ever, having finally gained the pounds all those empty pizza boxes must have been carrying. For someone supposedly so good at maths, he didn’t seem to understand how to count calories.

Smiling despite herself, Kirsten reached forward, groping for the picture. Her hand went straight through it, and she pulled back in sudden anger. Turning away, she looked out into the quad.

A man was looking straight at her.

It took a full ten seconds before Kirsten recovered enough to speak.

“Can you see me?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he took a step forward. Kirsten only just stumbled out of the way. And no, he hadn’t seen her. He was looking at the noticeboard. The poster about Arlen, Whelan and McMahon.

It was soaking wet.

I
T WAS EARLY.
Too early. Nick rubbed at his stubble, and felt his jaw stretch and pop as he yawned. Ronnie didn’t live in a great area. It was a conclusion he reached pretty much every time he visited his friend’s home. Most of the pre-war terraced houses that dominated the street had long since been converted into flats. Despite the number of people who must be living nearby, the streets were empty, and it only added to the sense of the neighbourhood’s dereliction.

Be here now. Urgent.

The message had pinged into his phone almost the second Nick had woken that morning. Or perhaps the message had broken his sleep and his brain was just playing tricks on him. Whatever the answer, he wasn’t fully awake. But he was now at least prepared to have an argument with his friend. About what Ronnie had said at the café and, more importantly, about what had happened at the British Museum.

A short set of concrete steps led up to the main door of Ronnie’s building. Nick took them two at a time and rang the bell for the first-floor flat. He flexed his fingers. He’d rehearsed what he was going to say. He was ready.

The door didn’t open. Finally, a flap of curtain attracted his attention downwards. The occupant of the basement flat – a fat, unshaven guy wearing a vest and shorts – was staring up at him through a window. Nick shrugged an apology and pushed the buzzer again.