The Observer Effect by Nick Jones

Author:Nick Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2022-01-18T23:41:32+00:00

20

The opera house is a magnificent two-story building. Its arched windows and decorative stonework add a touch of serene elegance to its solid grandeur. I peer up at the roofline, the bluish hues of lead tiles bathed in warm sunlight. On the first floor is a row of tall columns, each with life-sized statues that seem to be guarding the building.

Seeing the opera house like this, resplendent and unknowing, brings a deep, aching sadness. This poor, doomed building. It’s hard to believe it will be consumed in a week. Gabrielle stands beside me, also taking in the view. She lets out an annoying laugh.

“You’re so predictable.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not why we’re here. We can’t save the opera house.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, “maybe contact the fire service?”

Gabrielle tuts. “You’re such a pussy. I’d stop thinking about changing things if I were you.”

I study the opera house, so regal and calm today, as though impervious to harm. At the front of the building, I spot a man busily cleaning the windows, and another wave of sadness breaks over me. I’ve seen those windows explode in a shower of hungry embers. All of this, gone in a week. I think about the time it took to build, the vision of the architect, the discernible passion of the entire team. Knowledge of future events can be incredibly painful, and my throat tightens with a form of pregrief I wasn’t expecting. My eyes start to water, probably from all the dust on the streets. “Surely while we’re here, we have to try, don’t we?”

Gabrielle rolls her eyes. “Oh, here we go. Turn on the waterworks.”

“I’m not crying, it’s just . . . we really should try and . . .” My throat dries up and I begin to cough, loudly.

“Listen to me,” she says. “Take a long, deep breath.”

I notice how tight my chest feels. I try to draw breath, but it feels as though an invisible force is squeezing my lungs, constricting my airway. Considering what else I’ve been through recently, it would be odd to have a panic attack now, but that’s exactly what this feels like.

I tug at my collar. “What’s happening to me? I can’t breathe!”

“Resistance,” she says, without a trace of concern. “You need to put all thoughts of stopping the fire out of your mind.”

“What are you saying?” I croak, my hands slipping to my knees. A group of men nearby turn, concern etched on their faces. One of them calls out to ask if we need help.

Gabrielle waves them away. “Seriously, Bridgeman, you’re going to blow a fuse. Just stop!”

More people take an interest, stopping in the street, and a policeman on the other side of the road looks as though he’s about to come over. Close to passing out now, I decide to do exactly as Gabrielle says, and force myself to focus on finding Nils. The relief is instant. My lungs expand as though a dam has just broken.

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