What is love? It is this: being so connected to someone you cannot bear to be apart from them, even for a moment. It is the sensation of possessing a bond to another person, and if you wander far from your beloved that bond is stretched and cries out in pain. But it never snaps, no matter how far you might travel. It is magical. And when you have it, that bond is the strongest power on earth.
Jake felt the might of it as he looked at Jenny sleeping in the aeroplane seat. He studied her perfect ear, the sprig of sunlight-coloured hair that erupted above it. He kissed her cheek, drawing in the aroma.
When one short hour, sees happiness from utter desolation grow.
The Boeing 737 was over Turkmenistan and in a few hours they would land in Bangkok. What then? He had absolutely no idea. But it was exciting – not knowing what path they would take, where their futures lay. Jake was happy.
He couldn’t sleep, so he decided to have another drink. But when the hostess poured him a glass of red wine Jake drew his hand away, staring at the blood-red liquid in its transparent cup. He didn’t want it, but he did want it. His contentment was thrown into disarray.
It was the stillness of the alcohol that was the irony. While Jake’s soul raged the wine was motionless, the membrane of its surface perfectly defined.
Waiting.
Such is a game she plays, and so she tests her strength.
He hated it then, just as he hated Tages and all the power of the void. But he also realized he had a choice. To drink, or not to drink? Whether or not the decision was preordained, it was his to make.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll have a soft drink. And a newspaper, if you’ve got one.”
“Certainly, sir.” She handed him a tomato juice. “Will the Telegraph do?”
Jake unfolded the broadsheet, careful not to disturb Jenny with its inky sails. The main article on page five caught his eye: an important portrait of Napoleon had just gone under the hammer at Sotheby’s, The Peace of Amiens by Devosge. The artist had portrayed the French Empire as a new Rome and the little corporal was depicted as Augustus. Jake admired the work as the cup went to his lips.
He let go.
The vessel pirouetted through the air, as another drink had done four weeks previously in a pub in King’s Cross. Napoleon stood before a stormy sky. In his hand was a scroll, and on that scroll were characters.
Etruscan characters.
Another copy was out there. History itself was a lie.
Dawn was breaking over central Asia, and at that altitude Jake could see how the world was truly a disc, rotating beneath the void. As he stared at the featureless landmass he fancied he heard laughter – it was grating, guttural, slightly amused. On the horizon storm-clouds were gathering.