Chris Dolley - Resonance

Resonance

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

RESONANCE

Chris Dolley

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0912-7

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0912-9

First printing, November 2005

Cover Art by Allan Pollack

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank Kat Mancos, Elizabeth Mcglothin, N.R.

Simpson, Shawn Thompson and Derrick Barnsdale for their

helpful advice and comments.

One

Graham Smith locked the Post Room door, turning the key clockwise as far as it would go. He paused,

counting his breaths—one, two—then turned the key counterclockwise. Another pause, more breaths, it

had to be four this time, four was good, all even numbers were but four especially so. He repeated the

procedure, action for action, breath for breath. Lock, unlock; breathe and count. Twice with the right

hand and twice with the left. Only then could he leave work, satisfied that the door was indeed locked

and all was well with the world.

Not that it would be for long. You can't create a world in seven days without cutting corners.

"Are you going to the Princess Louise tonight?"

A woman's voice. Anne from Small Businesses? He didn't turn to find out, he knew the question wasn't

for him. People didn't talk to Graham Smith unless they had to. Or they were new. Before someone took

them aside for a friendly chat, thinking themselves out of earshot, thinking that just because someone was

quiet they must be deaf as well. But he'd heard them, heard the whispered warnings by the coffee

machine.Don't bother with Graham, he'll never answer. I've worked here fifteen years and never

got a word out of him. Don't get me wrong, he's not dangerous or anything. Just weird. Weird but

harmless.

The woman brushed past, not giving Graham a second look as he turned and dropped the Post Room

key into his jacket pocket. He'd been right. It had been Anne, now deep in conversation with the new girl

from personnel, planning their night out, eyes flashing, words dancing between them. Conversation came

so easily to some people. A tap they could turn on and off without ever worrying what would come

spewing out.

Something Graham Smith had never mastered. He'd barely spoken since his ninth birthday and that was

twenty-four years ago.

He followed them into the lobby, watched as they waved to Andy at the door, barely breaking sentence

as they wished him a good night and pushed through onto the pavement outside.

Graham carefully placed the Post Room key on the reception desk with his right hand—Mondays were

always right-handed days—and smiled towards the guard's left shoulder. Eye contact was unlucky

whatever the day.

He stepped outside, blinking into the early summer evening. London on a sunny day in June—bright

summer clothes, red buses and black taxis. Noise and bustle all around.

He turned right, striding out along the pavement, matching his step to the paving stones, assiduously

avoiding the cracks.

Don't step on the cracks—everyone knew the sense of that. One of the first things you learned as a

child. But too many people forgot. Or didn't care. Graham Smith cared. He knew that paving stones set

the cadence of a street; that cracks regulated the stride length and set the resonance that kept everything

stable and harmonious. Step on the cracks and the street slipped out of kilter. Imperceptibly at first.

Minute changes around the edges, a new person living at number thirty-three, a strange car outside

number five. Step on the cracks too often and . . . well, anything could happen. He'd seen houses turned

into blocks of flats overnight. Parades of shops come and go. Terraces demolished, office blocks

erected. All overnight when no one was looking.

The world was a far more fragile place than people realized. And every now and then a thread would

work loose and something or someone would unravel.

A cloud of diesel smoke spilled out from a bus revving away from its stop. Graham stepped diagonally

to avoid it, stretching three pavers over. A few steps more and he had to change lanes again, the

pavement filling with commuters and tourists. He sidestepped, jumped and picked his way through the

crowd. One eye on his feet and one a few paving stones ahead, searching out the next obstacle.

Which was when he saw her.

She was walking in front of him—four paving stones ahead. Four paving stones exactly, her feet

studiously avoiding the cracks, just like Graham. Except that she didn't have to dart back and forth to

avoid the other pedestrians—they moved aside for her. He watched, fascinated, as a group of men split

apart to let her pass, turning as they did so, their eyes scanning every inch of her, their attention

wandering so much that Graham had to sidestep quickly to avoid a collision.

The young woman walked on, indifferent, not looking left nor right.

Graham was fascinated. She flowed along the road, catlike, not walking so much as dancing with the

street, her feet matching perfectly the rhythm of the pavement.

Who was she?

And why hadn't he seen her before? He walked this road every day, always at the same time. Was she a

tourist? He could see no telltale sign. No camera, no map, not even a bag. Her hands swung loose by her

side. Elegant hands, long and slim, like her. Everything about her resonated elegance . . . except . . .

except now that he looked closer he could see that her clothes were dirty—her short brown dress

looked like it had been slept in for weeks. Or was that the fashion these days? And her hair was badly

dyed, a metallic red streaked with black . . . or was that dirt?

He followed her, couldn't take his eyes off her, as she cut a swath through the packed pavement. He

watched her from her long, bare legs to her streaky, tousled top. She was like a sinuous metronome,

clicking out an unchanging beat, looking straight ahead and not deviating an inch.

Something else caught his eye. What was that above her right ankle? A bruise? No, a tattoo. Something

in blue. He quickened his pace, he had to know everything about this girl. He closed the distance

between them to three paving slabs, two. He could almost make it out. A bird? Yes, a bird. A tattoo of a

blue bird.

He was so engrossed he almost missed his tube station. The entrance loomed on his right like a deep,

dark tunnel. The girl walked on. Graham hovered by the entrance, hoping she'd stop or turn.

She didn't.

He had a choice. To take the tube like every other day . . . or follow the girl. Curiosity begged him to

follow, instinct said no—he had a routine, routines had to be followed, not girls.

He looked one way and then the other. He couldn't decide. He watched her bobbing head disappearing

into the crowd, he peered into the shadow of the foyer; the turnstiles, the ticket machines. He looked

back.

She'd gone.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Graham was counting the paces as he walked between the post box on the corner to

the near gatepost of his home at number thirty-three. A ritual he'd started four years ago when he'd first

moved to Oakhurst Drive. A ritual that demanded he arrive exactly on the sixty-sixth step. Sixty-sixth

step, left foot, no room for error or bad things were certain to follow.

Fifty-five, fifty-six, he passed next door's laburnum dead on schedule, his feet rising and falling on the

dusty grey tarmac. A light wind kept him company, swirling eddies of sweet wrappers around his feet.

He arrived at the gate exactly on the sixty-sixth step, his left toe precisely in line with the inner edge of

the gatepost. He turned, swivelling on the ball of his left foot, unlatched the gate with his right hand and

walked through. Two steps and turn, breathe and reach, he took the gate in his left hand and swung it

gently back and forth—once, twice, three times—then let it close.

He listened for the latch to click shut then gave it a gentle tug to check with his right hand—it was a

Monday—then, satisfied, turned, relaxed and ambled—not even bothering to count the steps—to the

door of his prewar pebble-dashed semidetached house.

He was home.

Another day safely negotiated.

He took out his key and pushed it into the lock.

It wouldn't turn.

He tried again.

It still wouldn't turn.

He tried with his left hand, both hands. He took the key out, counted to four and tried again.

Nothing.

Was it stuck? Was it . . .

A sudden intake of breath. Not again. Not so soon. He'd been so careful this time!

A muffled sound came from inside the house. Footsteps on the stairs, someone coming down, someone

inside his house, the house he shared with no one, the house no one ever visited.

A shape appeared, distorted by the frosted glass door. A woman's voice on the other side, nervous,

uncertain.

"Is that you, Rob?"

Graham froze, his hand still clutching the key in the lock. It was happening again.

The shape filled the glass door, he could make out a hand moving towards the latch.

"Who's there?" The voice was louder this time, a hint of panic. Graham withdrew the key, trying to be

quiet, trying to keep calm while he backed away from the door. It began to open, he turned, ran, fumbled

with the gate, forced himself through.

A voice came from the doorstep. "Who are you? What do you want?"

He ran, flying along the pavement, his breaths coming short and fast, his lungs burning, his eyes watering

with the strain. And this time he didn't count or care where he stepped. It was too late for that.

Bad things had already happened.

Two

He turned right at the corner, dropping down to a fast walk, turning his head every few seconds to

check he wasn't being followed, praying that the woman had given up and gone back inside.

It seemed she had.

But what if she'd called the police?

He crossed over, waited for a gap in traffic then hurried across to take the next turning left. He had to

get out of the area, stick to the back roads and not look suspicious.

And he had to find his way home. Wherever that was.

His hand reached instinctively into his jacket pocket, searching for the piece of paper he knew it must

contain, his lifeline whenever the world and his memory became detached.

He took it out slowly and unfolded the note.

Graham Smith

Home Address: 47 Wealdstone Lane

Wealdstone Lane? He couldn't believe it! He'd left there six years ago! He remembered packing, he

remembered waiting all morning for the movers to turn up. He'd moved to the flat in Pierrepoint Street . .

. until that had unravelled four years ago and he'd found himself at Oakhurst Drive.

Had the last six years unwound?

He read the rest of the note.

Job: Office Messenger

Work Address: Post Room (Room 001),

12 Westminster Street

At least his job hadn't changed. He'd worked at the Department of Trade and Industry since he'd left

school at sixteen.

He stared at the note, rereading every line, hoping the words might magically alter in front of his eyes and

give him back the life he remembered.

They didn't.

A group of children pushed by, running out into the road to pass, laughing and shouting and seemingly

unaware of the fragility of the world they were growing up in. A lawnmower engine started up a few

doors down, a car cruised by. Normality all around, seeping in to cover the cracks.

Graham slipped the note back into his pocket and took a deep breath. Wealdstone Lane was about

three quarters of a mile back the way he'd come. Back through Oakhurst Drive if he wanted the shortest

route.

He didn't.

He took the circuitous route instead, settling back into his walking ritual, looking for landmarks when the

streets weren't paved, markers he could use to pace between, counting the strides and making sure he

always finished on an even step. Finding comfort in the simple ritual and the hope that, somehow, he was

helping the world bed down and the healing process begin.

It was nearly seven o'clock by the time he turned into Wealdstone Lane. The street looked much the

same as he remembered it. The house on the corner had a new drive. Number thirty-five had been

repainted. But beneath the trimmings the structure of the street remained unchanged. The same red-brick

semis, tightly packed. The same undulating pavement of cracked and badly laid paving stones.

And there was his home, number forty-seven, just coming into view. He'd been born in that house. He

knew every inch of it. Nothing had changed.

Except the wrought iron gate.

It was black. The old gate had been silver. He'd thought about painting it black but had never gotten

around to it.

He unlatched the gate and stepped through, keeping his feet cleanly positioned in the center of the patio

paving stones—one, two and turn, breathe and reach, switch hands and swing—once, twice, three times,

release and click. He smiled, he couldn't help it. The beauty of ritual and the unexpected joy of seeing an

old friend. The gate could have performed the ritual by itself, all those thousands of times it had swung

back and forth to his touch. Every caress, every motion, ingrained into its fabric.

He took a deep breath and felt for his key as he walked the few yards to his front door. Would the key

fit? He counted to four then slowly slipped the key into the lock.

The key turned, smooth and unchecked. He counted to two, relaxed his grip and let the pressure of the

lock slowly force the key back to its original position. Another count, another turn, left, right and push.

The door swung open.

Inside, it was like stepping back six years. The carpets, the stairs, the furniture—all exactly as he

remembered. Only his face in the hall mirror had aged, everything else looked straight out of a time

capsule.

He walked from room to room, picking up familiar objects, opening cupboard doors, fingering

ornaments. He recognized them all.

Even the ones that shouldn't be there. Like the sofa he'd sold when he moved to Pierrepoint Street. And

the electric kettle he'd bought only six months ago.

He walked upstairs, slowly taking in his surroundings. Everything familiar, everything clean and orderly.

He crossed the landing into his bedroom at the back. Again, everything was present and in its place. His

small pine bed, his blue quilt, his dressing table, lamp and clock.

And his notice board. Covered as usual in yellow Post-it notes. Everything he needed to know would be

recorded there. The name of his doctor, his dentist, any appointments he had or addresses he needed to

know. Everything he'd need for times like this, when the world slipped a thread and became detached

from his memory.

He read them one by one. All were written in his handwriting and yet he had no recollection of writing

any of them—even the one dated yesterday.

He crossed the room to his bookshelf and ran a hand along the spines, checking the titles. A few he

didn't recognize, a few that should have been there weren't. A story repeated with his clothes. The new

jacket he'd bought last week was missing and there was a pair of black jeans he'd never seen before.

Another thought hit him. How far had this thread unravelled?

He stepped uneasily onto the landing. His parents' bedroom door was closed. But then it always had

been. At least, since the last time, the time his mother had disappeared.

He stopped in front of the door, unsure, his hand hovering over the door handle. Should he knock? Call

out?

He knocked tentatively, the word "mum" lodged in his throat.

No answer.

He closed his fingers around the knob, twisting and ever so slowly easing the door open. The door

creaked. He peered in. Not sure what to expect. Would he see his mother, his father, an empty room?

He could barely breathe. His hand began to shake. He pushed the door wider. Their double bed came

into view; the pink bedspread, the fluffed pillows, the two bedside tables.

His hopes fell. Both tables were empty; no book, no glass of water, no open box of tissues. No sign of

occupation.

He forced himself further into the room and checked behind the door. His mother's dressing gown was

still there. He opened the wardrobe. It was full: dresses and suits, skirts and jackets. All their clothes

were there, wrapped in the smell of mothballs. He wondered if he should call out. Was there a chance

they'd hear? Was there a chance they were still alive? Somewhere?

Silence.

He didn't call and no one answered. The story of Graham Smith's life.

* * *

The next day he set off for work at his usual time, walking to the tube station at Harrow-on-the-Hill,

waiting on the platform for the Baker Street train. The train came and he jumped on, quickly moving

inside to take one of the few remaining seats. He liked to sit and gaze out the window on the opposite

side. To wile away his journey by looking out for landmarks. He'd tick them off as they flew by: that

school, the big fir tree, the funny-shaped tower. They gave meaning to his journey. He wasn't just

travelling from A to B; he was helping preserve the fabric of the world.

A fabric in need of constant reinforcement. The more something's observed the stronger it becomes. Its

edges become sharper, its colors brighter. But ignore something long enough and it always goes away.

That's the nature of the world. One day you ride by and it's gone.

The train pulled into and out of stations; people got up, sat down, walked by, hung from straps, the train

filling with every stop. A large man carrying a suitcase shuffled in front of Graham and grabbed a strap.

Graham shifted in his seat, looking for another unobstructed view of the window. A girl stared back at

him. He looked away, gazing hurriedly at someone's back while watching the girl out of the corner of his

eye. She was still looking at him, her eyes fixed. Had he left some remnant of breakfast on his face?

He moved his tongue in a wide sweep around his mouth, checking for crumbs. The girl did the same and

smiled.

Graham reddened and slid along his seat as far to the right as he could, away from her line of sight.

The train entered a tunnel; there was a sudden whoosh of noise and a momentary blackness followed by

the stutter of the carriage lights.

Graham leaned even further to the right, trying to catch his reflection in the blackness of the window

opposite. Was there something strange about him today? Had he cut himself shaving? He strained his

eyes, peering at the badly focused image. He ran a hand through his hair, over his face. He found nothing.

No breakfast, no blood, no enormous spot.

He looked down at his clothes. Had he misbuttoned his shirt? Was there a stain?

There was nothing, nothing that he could see.

He checked the other passengers, was anyone else looking at him? He slowly scanned the carriage,

watching people's faces in his peripheral vision, never looking at anyone directly, never giving anyone a

chance to take offense.

No one appeared to be watching him.

Except the man by the doorway! Hewas looking. Wasn't he?

The man looked away.

The train lurched and swung, tunnels came and went in quick succession.

Graham was confused. He was anonymous. People didn't look at him. Ever. Even if the man by the

door was a coincidence there was still the girl. She'd smiled at him. No one ever smiles on the tube.

He glanced back towards the girl, with her face hidden behind the ample body of the man with the

suitcase he could watch her in safety. She was wearing jeans, her legs crossed, her right foot bouncing up

and down with the motion of the train, her shoe loose and flapping, her . . .

No, it couldn't be!

She had a tattoo, just above the right ankle, just below the hem of her jeans. A tattoo of a blue bird.

Graham's mind raced. Was it the same girl? Her hair wasn't red, was it? It was more orange from the

brief glimpse he'd had. But that didn't mean anything these days. It might have been dyed. Or a wig.

And if itwas the same girl . . .

He was intrigued. And panicked at the same time. Intrigued by the possibility that here was someone

who saw the world as he did. Who appreciated the danger of stepping on cracks. And panicked by the

fear that she didn't; that it was all an act, a joke primed to explode in his face. He'd been the butt of too

many jokes to trust the first stranger that smiled at him on a train.

And even if it wasn't a joke what could he do about it? He wasn't like other people. Any attempt at

casual conversation would end in disaster. He'd learned that lesson a long time ago. The rest of the world

was on a different wavelength to him, anything he said would either be laughed at or cause offense.

The train began to brake hard. Graham looked up, was it Baker Street already? The train continued its

long deceleration, commuters grabbed hold of straps and hand rails, newspapers were folded, bags

picked up.

The train stopped. Graham stayed in his seat, watching for the girl as an endless stream of people filed

between them. He caught glimpses of her between the bodies. She smiled, he looked at his shoes. She

was attractive in a street urchin sort of way, her features angular, her hair bright orange and unbrushed.

Chris Dolley - Resonance

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