Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

in a couple of minutes. May I check-in for Las Vegas here?”

The attendant smiled. “You got lucky, I was about to open up.” She started her computer with a flourish. “Have you flown before, sir?”

He turned so that he was facing away from the police. “No.”

“Thought so. The first time is the best, believe me. Luggage?”

He tried to swallow but his throat was too sticky. “Just the briefcase.”

To his left, close enough to touch, the middle aged police officer raised his voice and said, “Jesus, we’re in pursuit of a bloody criminal. He’s about to skip the country. Take your time.”

David released his air. He wanted to bite his knuckles. His heart raced so fast its beat became a constant hum. He could hold out for a few more seconds, and then he would scream. Instinctively, his hand crept towards his jacket pocket. Then he drew it away. The stun gun was gone. It was in the bike container, which was in the gent’s toilet, which was a lifetime away.

“Sir?” asked the attendant. Their eyes met. Hers were sympathetic.

“Yes?”

“I asked, is their anything in your briefcase that you are carrying for somebody else?”

“No.”

“Fine. Here’s your boarding pass.”

David showed his teeth. “Thank-you.” He reached for it, but she pulled it back. He swung from victory to defeat. The scream was near. Had the police officer seen him? Made a signal? Pulled a gun? But the attendant smiled. He released another breath. The air was stale and hot. He was not caught. Not yet.

“Here is the gate,” she said, pointing to the boarding pass with her pen, “and here is the seat.”

And here is the steeple, open it up and here are the people, he thought, still showing his teeth. He had not blinked. His eyes were itching.

“Look, I’ve just about had a tit-full of you,” said the police officer. “Get a fucking move on.”

“I’ve put you near the second emergency exit,” David’s attendant continued indulgently. “So you’ll have more leg room.”

The world was reduced to primitives. The nuances of conversation were gone, human interaction was a memory. The one remaining element was a script; normal behaviour at an airport. It was normal to take the ticket and the boarding pass.

David reached for his documents. They stuck to his sweaty fingers. The attendant said, “Good luck,” and he nearly laughed. He turned carefully and began to walk away. He inclined his head. With each step he felt the certainty build, the certainty that a voice would shout, “Stop! This is the police!” but it never came. He walked on. He watched his feet. It was the only way to be sure that he would not fall over. After twenty metres he realised that he had escaped.

For now.

They were on his flight.

Saskia took her boarding pass and ticket and stowed them with her passport. She remembered the gun and almost asked the attendant whether it would be possible to take it on the flight. But the attendant had already turned her attention to the next couple in the queue. Anyway, it would cost them time. “Come on,” said Hannah.

They headed towards passport control. Saskia glanced at her watch. Hannah saw her. “How long have we got?”

“Five or six minutes.”

“Let’s go,” he said, and broke into a jog. Saskia joined him. Nobody so much as glanced. Just two people late for their flight. Saskia remained a little behind him the entire way. She did not want to encourage him to run faster. She could hear keys jangling in his pocket. She could hear his panting. The tails of his overcoat whipped back and forth. His neck became red.

“Scottie,” she said. She tried to sound breathless. Proctor became less important. “Let’s slow down.”

Hannah turned around and jogged backwards for a few paces. “Come on, I can do with the exercise. It’ll look great in the report.”

They reached passport control a minute or so later. It was busy. Hannah stood with his hands on his hips. He took great breaths. Sometimes leaned backwards, as if to straighten his back, sometimes forwards, with his hands on his knees. He whistled and grimaced. “Saskia,” he gasped. “Let’s…jump the queue.”

“Are you feeling alright, Scottie?”

“Those bloody sandwiches,” he said. He finger-combed his hair. “OK, let’s go.”

“No, let us not,” she said. “Take a moment to recover. I can see the plane. The gate is very close and we have several minutes. We will have time to reach it.”

Hannah nodded. His breathing “OK. You’re right. I’ll just get my breath back.”

Saskia reached over to his tie. She waggled it loose. “Yes. Relax.”

“You are sweating, sir,” said the passport control officer. “May I see your documents?”

“Yes, of course,” David replied. He watched as the man fingered the documents. He watched his eyes flick from the passport to David, from David to the passport. The silence was heavy. Or was it? David forced himself to slow his breathing. His hand flexed around the briefcase handle. His nails drummed on the material.

“You seem a bit nervous, sir.” The officer cocked his head. It was a deliberate affection. It suggested control. David saw himself reflected in the man’s designer glasses. He glanced at his name tag. Christopher Garner. Senior Passport Control Officer. Then David’s stomach seemed to drop. He was nearly sick.

What was his own name?

His fake surname?

“Mr Greensburg?”

David kept looking. The officer kept looking. The queue kept looking too. David could feel their eyes, hear their whispers. They wanted drama. Greensburg. The name wasn’t right. Think. He had created an entire backstory. There was a wife living in Leeds, a son at university, a blue Corvette, lovingly restored, a farmhouse kitchen...

“Greenspoon,” he blurted.

The officer was disappointed. “Of course, sir. My mistake.”

“I’m just a little nervous,” David said. The regret followed immediately, followed by the memory of Ego’s last words to him: “Remember, less is more.”

“Really, sir?”

“Of terrorism.”

The man handed back the passport and boarding pass. “Naturally, we all are, sir.”

David nodded. He stepped over to the detector and felt a physical relief when