Chapters (45)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- Prologue
- 2046
- 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
- About the Author
‘Business folded,’ Roland said, nodding morosely at his bottle of beer. ‘Financial ruin. Had an insurance policy that paid out in the event of my death and, fortunately, it covered suicide.’ He stopped to swig from his beer. ‘My death paid for my children’s education.’
Ben nodded. His mind working clear and free. Conclusions drawn. Suspicions formed. Connect the dots. Follow the breadcrumb trail. One of Roland’s children extracted him. Why? Roland is working for one person. Who? Roland is rarely here. Why? Ben rubbed the back of his neck and smiled wryly. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Ah indeed,’ Roland replied. He did not look at Ben but stared ahead.
‘Son? Daughter?’ Ben asked.
‘Son,’ Roland said.
‘Got it,’ Ben said.
‘Do you?’ Roland asked. He shifted position to look at Ben. ‘Do tell me.’
Ben prickled at the tone but suppressed any show of irritation. ‘You died. Your kids got a private education. Your son invented time travel to save his father but fucked the world up then went back to actually save his father, who is now trying to fix what his son fucked up. Which is why you are never here. Because you are spending time with your son.’
‘You are astute, aren’t you?’
Ben did not hide the irritation that time but inclined his head to offer a hard glare. ‘So now you play God with people’s lives to fix the fucking mess your son made. Like I said. Got it.’
Roland stiffened. A blush spread through his cheeks. ‘I . . .’
‘What?’ Ben asked coldly.
‘My apologies.’
‘Where does the money come from?’ Now was the time for specific questions.
‘Pardon?’
‘The money. You said this place costs money to run and you said you are not wealthy. Where does the money come from?’
‘I would rather not . . .’
‘Yeah, I’m not giving you a choice. Where does the money come from?’
‘Ben, what is—’
‘I will throw you off that fucking ledge in a minute you nasty, vile, selfish, egotistical prick. You brought three people into a sterile bunker. You shoved them in rooms like cells and expected them to be heroes because a fucking computer program told you they would be okay and you left them to it while you went to the park with your son—’
‘Now listen here—’