He came to. He was lying, twisted on a floor, people standing over him. The floor was moving. He was on a boat?
A wave of nausea overwhelmed him; he rolled onto his side and retched.
"Are you all right?" A voice out of nowhere. He unscrewed his eyes, tried to focus and failed, a blurry face swam before him.
And then it hit him.
Annalise! Where was she?
He tried to get up. An arm, somewhere, obeyed. He tried to push against the floor; he tried to slide a leg under his body.
Hands helped him up, pushed him onto a seat. He was on a bus. Now he remembered. Where was she? He looked for her, his head panning up and down the row of seats, the world lagging behind his gaze, faces blurring into their neighbors', a pain ever-present behind his eyes.
"Where's Annalise?" he asked, his voice echoing inside his head, loud and slurred.
"Who's Annalise? Your daughter?" asked a stranger close by.
He shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't as the world spun once more.
"She was running behind the bus. You must have seen her." He was talking with his eyes closed, talking to whoever would listen.
"No one was running behind the bus, dear," said the woman.
"She was! I saw her! She was . . ." He turned to the woman and grabbed her arm. "Was she shot? Did you see her fall?"
He tried to open his eyes. A woman's face appeared—concerned, middle-aged, slightly startled. He let go of her arm.
"Has he been drinking?" asked another woman.
"He looks drugged to me," said another. "Or mental."
The bus stopped and Graham slid off the seat. He had to get off. He had to find Annalise. He'd promised. She might be lying in the road. She might be waiting for him.
He lurched along the aisle towards the back of the bus, his legs half asleep. He jumped down onto the pavement, stumbled, fell into a group of people, hands pushed him back up, shoved him away, someone shouted. He walked in a daze, back the way he'd come, back the way he'd imagined he'd come. People barged into him, his shoulders reeling from one impact to the next. Keep going. She's waiting. Not far.
He was wet. Everything was wet. His hair, his clothes, the sky. The world was melting, running down his face.
An umbrella caught him high on the cheek, nearly taking his eye out. He lurched to the side. More umbrellas, so many colors, the pavement blossoming in blues and greens.
Was it raining?
He staggered onto the road, the pavement too crowded, too wet. He leaned against the back of a parked car, caught his breath, retched, then started to walk. Car horns blared, lights flashed, cars pulled alongside, people shouted at him from wound-down windows.
He didn't care. He kept walking, falling against the sides of cars when the ground moved unexpectedly. She had to be here, somewhere. Lying in the street, bleeding, waiting for him to come to her. Maybe she'd rolled underneath one of the parked cars to hide?
He bent down to look and the sky pressed hard against his shoulders, pushing him over. He crumpled, unable to get up. Rain fell all around him, shiny rain that danced in headlights like a thousand fairies.
And after the rain came the tears.
He had no idea how long he lay there. Wet, cold and confused. Alternately racked with guilt and grief but never quite sure what it was that he'd done.
When he came to his senses, the rain had stopped. He was lying in the road by a parked car, traffic swerving around him. He drew in his legs and, leaning back against the parked car for support, pulled himself up.
A motorist cursed at him, a horn blared three times. Graham staggered onto the pavement. People stared at him, moved aside to give him extra room. No one stopped or spoke.
He looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. He should be at work. Why wasn't he at work? A vague memory brushed against the back of his mind. He'd been on a bus.
Why had he been on a bus? And why were his clothes wet? He looked at the pavement—the dark grey of the paving slabs, the puddles. It had been raining. Had he taken the bus to get out of the rain? But where had he been? He checked his pockets. There was an appointment card and—his eyes widened—hundreds of pounds in cash.
He hastily replaced the money, glancing furtively to see if anyone had noticed.
He examined the card. Something familiar about the name. The Cavendish Clinic in Knightsbridge. He'd been for a medical.
Everything came flooding back—medicals, ParaDim, Annalise, the flames, the bus, the look on Annalise's face as she fell.
No!
He started to run. Where had she fallen? Was it here? Over there? He ran out between the line of parked cars and looked up and down the street. He couldn't see her. He couldn't see the black car either. Was it further along?
He ran. He searched. He stopped.
She'd gone. Everything had gone. He'd never felt so empty in his life.
He walked for miles, not sure of where he was going but knowing that he had to keep moving. His jacket steamed in the sun, his trousers too. Only his socks refused to dry, his feet squelching with every stride.
He didn't have the energy to run. Or the will. If ParaDim wanted him, they could have him. He didn't care any more.
Eventually, he went home. Eventually, he cared enough to read his note and find out if anything else had changed. Nothing had. He still lived at Wealdstone Lane, he still worked at Westminster Street.
He sat at his kitchen table for hours, waiting for the energy to make a hot drink or maybe a meal. By ten o'clock he'd managed a coffee. By ten-thirty he went to bed.
He couldn't sleep. Annalise was everywhere—in his thoughts, in the shadows—he could see her face in the wallpaper, the ceiling, his dressing gown that hung on the door. If he hadn't jumped on that stupid bus she'd be with him now, safe and alive. She wouldn't have run along the road in full view, she'd have dodged in and out of the shoppers, taken side streets, melted into the background. It was his fault! Everything was his fault!
He tossed and turned and counted the intervals between gusts of wind that rattled his bedroom window pane.
And worried. Had he turned off the gas? Had he locked the doors? What time was it? What day? What . . .
He pulled on his slippers and slowly toured the house. He double-checked the gas cooker, triple-checked the doors and windows, and drew every curtain he could find.
Annalise Fifteen rolled over in the street. Someone was shooting at her, the bus was getting away and Graham was flipping between worlds. The new Graham wouldn't have a clue what was happening. Wherever he went—home or work—they'd be waiting for him. He wouldn't survive the day.
She felt the gun in her hand and sprung to her feet. She'd stop a car, any car. She stood in the middle of the road, chest heaving, both hands on the gun, her arms locked straight and pointing at the driver of a car that swung and screeched to a halt a few feet in front of her.
She ran around the front to the passenger side and yanked the door open. A shot rang out, she ducked and threw herself into the car.
"Drive!" she shouted.
The driver hesitated. He had one hand raised, the other on the door handle. "You can have the car. Don't shoot!"
"I don't want the car. Just drive! Now!"
She waved the gun. The car jerked forward and stalled. The driver swallowed, started again, revved hard and pulled away.
Annalise was thrown back against the seat. The bus was now a hundred yards away—four cars filled the gap in between.
"What's your name?" Annalise asked.
"Martin," said the driver, his voice cracking.
"Well, Martin, you see that bus ahead, the red one?"
"Yes."
"Follow it. Get me to that bus and we'll all be fine."
She swivelled in her seat and checked behind. She couldn't see anyone running after her. She couldn't hear any more shots. Maybe he was no longer on foot? She checked the cars behind, expecting to see someone leaning out the passenger side with a gun pointing in her direction.
All she saw was a line of traffic—an intermittent line of traffic that snaked to avoid a flaming black car in the distance.
"The bus is stopping," Martin said.
"Pull in behind."
The car stopped.
"Congratulations, Martin," she said as she climbed out. "You've just helped save the world."
The bus started to pull away. Annalise jumped onto the back, grabbed the pole and swung herself inside. Graham was slumped in the first seat. He looked in pain and confused. People were moving away from him. "What's the matter with him?" she heard someone say.
"He'll be fine, now," said Annalise. "He's with me."
Graham awoke early the next day and immediately felt guilty. He should have lain awake all night. He didn't deserve sleep. He'd left Annalise lying in the road. How could anyone sleep after that?
He tried to make himself busy. He tried to imagine what she'd say to him if she found him wallowing in self-pity. She'd shout at him, he was sure. She'd tell him to snap out of it and climb some roofs or race through an abandoned building.
After breakfast he checked for listening devices, looking in all the usual places. The house was clean—either that or ParaDim had learned to hide them in different locations. He checked his notice board. No mention of Annalise. Perhaps he'd flipped to a world without her. Or maybe she was back at home, struggling with voices that she couldn't understand. Maybe he should find her phone number and call her? He could help her . . . and, maybe, she could help him.
He arrived at work as normal, sweeping in unnoticed behind a group of people. He presented his card and walked through to the Post Room.
He printed the staff list and checked the names—the usual mix of additions and departures. Sharmila was back and Brenda was using her maiden name again.
Graham sighed. Brenda and Bob were the happiest couple he knew. They shone in each other's company; apart they merely endured. Brenda lost her bounce and Bob . . . well, Bob was a different person. Married Bob had a twinkle in his eye and laughed as he worked. Single Bob, or married-to-someone-else Bob, worked hard, kept his head down and couldn't see the funny side of anything. Work was his life but it wasn't a life worth . . .
Graham considered his own life—the one he had before Annalise. Was that a life worth living? Go to work, come home, go to bed?
"Morning, Graham," said Sharmila from the doorway. She sighed as she heaved a heavy shopping bag onto her desk. "Did you see that note I left you?"
Graham shook his head.
"Frank dropped it by yesterday. He wants to see you this morning. Something urgent about ParaDim."
Graham closed his eyes. It was all happening again. ParaDim! He should have realized when he saw the medical appointment from the Cavendish Clinic. Would he never be free of them? He scanned his desk. Sharmila's note was stuck to his terminal. Frank Gledwood called. Wants to see you first thing Thurs. a.m. Room 551. Urgent.
"If he gives you any trouble, come and get me."
Graham took the lift to the fifth floor. Perhaps he deserved it? Punishment for abandoning Annalise.
He knocked on the door of 551 and went inside. Frank Gledwood was leaning back in his chair, his hands crossed behind his neck.
"About time," Frank said. "I have someone here who wants to see you." He withdrew his hands and let his chair fall back to rest with a thump. "Tamisha Kent," he said, waving an arm towards a woman in the far corner, "meet Graham Smith."
Graham turned, he hadn't noticed anyone else in the room, and instantly froze.
The woman was not Tamisha Kent.