I try to sense the space around
me to gather my surroundings. I concentrate and there they are, the feelings of
all the people around me. Some of them are sleeping, their consciousnesses
showing the gentle relaxing hum of fantasies or sometimes the dark shaking
terror of dread; apparently the dead dream too.
I force myself to pry my eyelids
open, reluctant as though the action will give me a static shock.
The feeling of the ground has
already given it away. Hard not soft, dry and cold but not wet.
I’ve moved.
I’ve always wanted to see the
Robin Thacker museum. Sandwiched on an old Georgian street, I look up at it and
fulfil a life’s ambition. First though, I take in the magnitude of what I’ve
accomplished. It felt as though I was brushing aside a curtain, when my
scientific mind knows that I have somehow managed to bend space together,
drawing this street in London to touch a field in God knows where.
What does that make me? I know
the astronomical requirements to transport matter in such a way. Being a sponge
of sci-fi comic books, I had of course looked up the theoretical ideas they
were based on. Teleportation, psychic networks, gene manipulation, I know
everything is possible within the realms of our imagination, and apparently
after death, freed from our prison of body and mass, we can put the ideas into
practice. As a being of pure thought, I am imagination and nothing else.
I know what I need lies within
the building in front of me. I know Yates and I share Thacker as a common
interest, a bridge between the two of us. It was a common interest that Penny
showed me on the day we met and pulled me out of a lifetime of timidness to
become something so much more.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I
march across the pavement, through the stillness of a night in London and
travelled through the front door.
The sensation is becoming normal
to me: a second of discomfort like holding my breath and then a release on the
other side.
The Thacker museum smells of
books in a completely different way to Yates’ house. It has the precise scent
of pages, but with it comes the sort of age that means something, of words a century
old which will unite two spirits in the present.
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