New Pompeii by Daniel Godfrey Read Free Book Online Page B

with Harold McMahon and Mark Whelan at Bellotoni’s Restaurant, London.
Where Now? University Park, Sunbeam Café. With Ronnie Saunders .
    Nick looked around. Someone in the café must have updated his status to give his current location. Blank faces stared back at him. He checked the screen again. Some of the entries were hyperlinked. He thumbed on to his dad’s entry but found it gave no real detail. Just the obvious facts and a short summary of his disgrace. But the lists of people with whom McMahon and Whelan came into contact seemed to be catalogued in extreme detail.
    “Amazing isn’t it?”
    “Yeah,” said Nick. “Someone’s got too much time on their hands.”
    “Not someone, Nick. Everybody. Given that it started as a way to find and bump into celebs, this app is actually a private dick’s wet dream.”
    Ronnie sniggered. Nick ignored him. “Well, I don’t see my entry getting any longer. I’m thinking of going on a field excursion.”
    “To Italy? You’ve been there masses of times—”
    “I’m not going to Pompeii again.”
    Ronnie ignored him. There was real anger in his eyes. “Well my guys from the Peking Man thing have disappeared,” he said. “No one’s heard from them. They’re all missing. Which means they were transported. Right out of the room.”
    “They’re more likely in a jail cell.”
    Ronnie stood up. He paused and looked around the café. The other customers were still staring, their faces holding a mix of genuine interest and nervousness. “No,” he said, firmly. “They were transported. And we weren’t. So don’t cut me out, Nick. This is too good. We could finally find out what they’re up to.”

12
    K IRSTEN FORCED HERSELF to go on. The last steps into the quad were the worst. She found herself listening for the slightest of sounds.
But no one can see me
, she thought.
No one can see me.
    And yet she still hesitated, starting to shiver.
    She’d woken in the bath again. The haze had simply taken her back to the water – like so many times before. But this time she’d moved faster. She hadn’t lingered in the corridor. Instead, she’d pushed straight down to the quad.
    Her feet found the cold flagstones and again she listened.
But no one can see me
, she thought.
No one can see me. Most of the time
. Because even though the police officers hadn’t been able to see her, and the students had ignored her when she’d gone to her room, it was clear that, on some occasions, she
had
been seen. She’d been seen often enough to get a nickname. She’d heard them whisper it. The “bedder in the bath”.
    But no one can see me
, she reminded herself.
No one can see me
…
    …because I’m already dead.
    Kirsten stopped. She tried to concentrate on the air passing over her body. She could still feel it. Just like the tears now trickling down her cheeks.
    She let out a cry of frustration. There was nothing down here.
    Certainly no answers.
    But then she saw them. The long rows of black-framed noticeboards covered in flyers about the college’s various clubs and activities. Kirsten moved quickly. One of them would tell her what date it was, or at least what year. What she found was better. Faces she recognised, staring at her from a glossy poster announcing an event.
    Harold McMahon. Joe “Octo” Arlen. And Mark Whelan.
    They all looked older than she remembered – heavier and more lined. She looked at the date on the poster, but it only gave a day and month. She scanned the other notices, and found the university code of conduct, half hidden behind a list of upcoming sports events. Beneath the signature of the university’s chancellor was the date. Kirsten felt a cry well up, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Ten years.
    She pulled her eyes away and focused on the poster again. Tried to recall the three men. Yes, that was right. They’d lived over in Rose Court. All on the same staircase. She saw them nearly every day, briefly on days when she’d just