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There are good ideas and there are bad ideas. Most of those bad ideas you don’t go near. Some of them you know full well are bad but you go to them anyway. They get a hook into you, reel you in. I’m partial to those types.

I don’t know why I went for a fishing metaphor.

Justin gave us the tour. Introduced us to some local politicians, businessmen. I barely remember their names. We flew around this weird version of London in a flying taxi. Clarke looked like he was going to throw up. We were taken for dinner, then to some kind of opera. I think it was an opera. I guess it’s what everyone’s listening to in the future.

I’m in my hotel room. It’s bigger than my entire flat. There’s a button next to the window that turns the glass opaque. You don’t need curtains in the future. The year 2543. I don’t know how to process that, so I go to the bar - the room has a bar - and pour myself something short and sharp. I’m not paying. Shit, the fridge could keep me going all night. Probably a good thing I can’t afford to stay in places like this.

They have these transcription devices here. I’m using one now. It sits behind your ear and transcribes whatever you’re thinking. It’s creepy, but saves on the typing.

We’ll be back to London soon. Our London, I mean. City of smog and stink, where getting anywhere takes forever and everyone’s sad and grumpy and looks at their feet. Justin tried to explain that it’s not time travel; that it’s more of a time slip? That our dimensions have always been misaligned, and our one went flying off down a different route the moment those portals opened two hundred years ago. To be honest, I was more interested in the third course and the wine.

All of which is to say that I’m trying to distract myself from what I really want to do. Because I know it’s one of those bad ideas. Those really bad ideas. The kind of idea that is going to fuck you up for days, weeks, months. The ones you don’t come back from. This one is the real deal. An idea so bad it’s entirely irresistible.

I pour myself another drink. I don’t even know what it is. It has a coffee after-taste. I empty the shot glass, pour another.

I don’t even know where this idea came from. It’s not been there before. Something to do with him being missing for the best part of a week. Thinking that I’d never see him again. That I’d lost him. Couldn’t handle that a second time. But he’s alive, and we found him, and he’s OK. It’s going to be OK. When I hugged him, put my arms around him, that’s when I knew. It was like a spark going off in my brain - well, less brain and more everywhere else, I suppose. I get the feeling that he’s always wanted this, I just didn’t see it before.

The bad idea isn’t going away. The only way to get a bad idea to go quiet, to stop it shouting in your ear and clawing at you all the way through the night, is to let it out. To follow it to its end. I screw the lid back on the bottle, leave the glass on the side. Might need it later. I go to the bathroom, sort my hair out. Check I don’t look too tired. Nah, I look great. I smile at my reflection.

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Slipping out of my room, clicking the door shut behind me, I pad down the corridor with bare feet. Zoltan’s room is only half a dozen rooms away. They’d kept us all close together. I hover outside his door, feeling like I’ve done this before. I take a deep breath, then knock twice.

It’s late, we’ve been out all day creating our cover story of being on an official visit. He’s probably already in bed, asleep. This will just be annoying - I’ll annoy him by rocking up like an idiot. This was a mistake. I recognise this stage: it’s when the bad idea is in motion and you start to fully comprehend exactly how deep you’re wading into the swamp. Maybe I should think of a cover story of my own: maybe I didn’t know how to operate the lights in the room? No, that’s idiotic. I lost my room key? No, they don’t even use keys here. I wanted to go over leads in a case?

Fuck’s sake, Nisha.

The door opens. He’s there, shirt half undone like he was about to get changed.

“Nisha.” It’s a statement, not a question. There’s not a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Hey, Zoltan.”

There’s a second while we stare at each other, and that’s when I know he’s had the bad idea as well. I push into his room, grabbing at him, pulling him close, and I kiss him. I knock the door shut with my foot, and then I’m fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. One of them comes loose as I wrench at it. He can buy a new shirt.

His hands are on me, on my head, fingers in my hair. They run down my back, clutch at me and pull me close. We bump against the wall and I lean into him. My shirt is off, him more gentle than I was, then he unhooks my bra with unexpected, practised ease. His chest isn’t bare and smooth like John’s, but thicker and covered with soft, curling hairs.

John.

I pull Zoltan towards the bed. I sit as he stands before me and I take off the rest of his clothes. His skin is so pale. I can tell he’s wanted this for a long time. He pushes me onto my back and I shuffle backwards, then he removes the long, straight, black skirt I’d worn to dinner.

It lasts. It’s different. He’s gentle but imaginative. We laugh, the bad idea come good, and everything is perfect and attuned and I know this is going to be a wonderful thing. This will help our professional partnership. We’ll work together better. We’ll know each other’s thoughts. We’ll be so in sync. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.

As we find our way off the bed and across the room, over to the window, I hit the button and turn the glass transparent. Max-Earth’s London of 2543 gleams back at me in all its superiority. I see the back of Zoltan’s head in the reflection as he lifts and supports my hips. My breath fogs the glass. There’s another building opposite. Flying cars zip by just outside and I don’t care.

The thought rushes back into my mind that I thought he was dead. That this man was nearly gone from my life. That I was convinced I’d never see him again. And now here we are, as one, closer than ever. And I don’t want to ever let him out of my sight again.

Not like with John. John Callihan, who went to work and never came back. John Callihan, who would go home after seeing me, back to his perfect fiancee. John Callihan who went and got himself killed, really killed. Who had his head fucking ripped from his body. I’d known every curve and corner of that body, and now it lies in two pieces.

Tears are running down my cheeks. Shit. Zoltan asks me if I’m OK. I say I’ve never been happier and I kiss him again.

This was a bad idea.

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