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
He spotted the awning of the bar through the gaps in the procession but the crowds were too thick on both sides to allow a clear view. He moved up and down, trying to catch a glimpse, but it was no good. He went further down, waited for a gap, ran across to the other side and started moving up towards the awning. He tugged his cap down lower and kept his head lowered, looking up under the rim towards the thick crowds outside the bar.
A gut punch. A surge of adrenaline. Harry being pulled into the road by a scantily clad dancer. Harry. Ben stopped right where he was to stare. Harry. The big bearded man laughing and turning on the spot with a bottle of beer held over his head. He scoured the crowd and saw Roland standing stiff and worried, tightly clasping a bottle of beer. Then right there. Right in front of him suddenly in clear view was him talking to Safa. The sight made his heart lurch. His stomach flipped. His legs wobbled but the feeling was nice. It was more than nice.
He looked so different. Short hair. No beard. Fat too. Well, not fat, but not fit like he is now. The old Ben looked puffy and just different, but as great as the desire was to stare in fascination at himself, he found his attention pulled to Safa. She looked the same. The exact same. The same raven-black hair. The same stature. The same poise and stance. He felt both sick and ecstatic at the same time. Just the sight of them, of her. Harry and Safa. The music. The sounds. The heat. The laughing people. Seeing his old self and knowing what Ben had to go through. There was an urge in him then, to intervene and say something, to tell them to do things differently, but again the dangers of meddling screamed in his mind.
He went closer. Drawn to them. He wanted to hear their voices. He needed to hear Safa. Hat low, peak down, head lowered, he slouched and changed his gait to shuffle as though tipsy. He fed into the crowd and weaved to get stupidly close.
‘Oh my God, Ben! Look at him.’ Safa’s voice drifted over. Her raucous laugh that he remembered so clearly. He closed his eyes and just listened. Just for a second. Just to know she was there. Right there. ‘Need a piss, hold that . . .’