Misspent Youth (3 page)

T
HAT
M
ONDAY MORNING
, the Rutland Circuit bus dropped Tim off outside Oakham market. A few cars slid along High Street, smooth and quiet, their power cells venting thin ribbons of snow-white vapor from their rear grilles like some old-style rocket letting off cryogenic gas. Most of the traffic was bicycles and e-trikes, ridden by residents from the sprawling estates encircling the town who were heading into the center for work. A steady line of buses brought commuters in from the outlying villages.

Oakham’s center was a mixture of architectural styles from the mid-nineteenth century up to the late twentieth, by which time the conservationists had finally stymied the developers and planners. It left High Street dominated by shop fronts, interspersed by the occasional monolithic bank. None of them were particularly relevant to the modern age. The majority of shops had closed, as the larger retail groups went online and consumers sourced direct from the manufacturer. Now, only small specialist shops and cafés remained, while the rest of the buildings had been converted into offices and service centers wired into the datasphere economy. Even those were beginning to thin out; with the National Cable Initiative drawing toward completion, companies were adopting decentralized domestic networks for their employees. Several estate-agent
TO LET
signs were sticking out discreetly from various façades.

Tim crossed over the road and headed up to the Buttercross. The grandiose old buildings of Oakham School made up two sides of the quaint cobbled square. A horde of boisterous schoolkids was crossing the square, funneling into the school under its wide iron-arch gateway. Younger ones were in their smart uniforms, while the seniors, like Tim, wore their own clothes. For all his troubled relationship with his mother, Tim was grateful for her fashion sense. She always managed to dress him stylishly. Their money helped, of course, but then everyone at the private school had money; she made sure everything he wore fitted and looked good. It helped a lot keeping him in with his friends.

As he walked through the neat little enclosed garden beside the school’s stone chapel, he caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on one of the wooden benches at the far end. Annabelle was turned away from the rush of noisy kids, her head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Tim went over. “What’s up?” he asked.

Annabelle stirred, brushing her mane of long gold-chestnut hair away from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with moisture. Tim’s immediate impulse was to throw his arms around her, anything to help comfort her. A girl as beautiful as Annabelle shouldn’t be crying.

“Nothing,” she sniffed, and smiled. “Well…I suppose it’s me and Simon. There was an argument….”

“I’m sorry.”

“The two of you are good friends, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” he said quickly. “We live in the same village, and we’re the same age. That means we hang out. Nothing else.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hanging out with him again. We’re pretty much through.”

“Really?” Tim tried hard not to show how elated he was. Annabelle was available again.

“It’s just…I guess I made a mistake. My fault.” Her expression was anxious, needing him to agree.

Tim thought back to when he’d seen Annabelle with Simon at the party, how much she’d
belonged
with him at the time. But if she’d dumped him, Tim wasn’t going to try to talk her out of it. “Completely. You know he and Derek caught hell from their parents afterward. We pretty much wrecked the place that night.”

“Yeah.” Annabelle gave a small, vaguely malevolent grin.

“Look, there’s a bunch of us catching the bus back to my house this afternoon after school, probably go for a swim or something. Simon won’t be one of them. Why don’t you come along? Be a good break for you. Enjoy yourself without him being around.” The indoor pool at his house was one of Tim’s biggest social attributes. It didn’t quite make him leader of the pack, but along with his father’s name it certainly contributed to making him one of the right people to know.

Annabelle pondered the invitation for a moment. “Sure. Yeah, okay, I’d like that.”

“Great.” That just left him with inviting everyone else back home. Oh, and telling Zai.

T
HE FIRST LESSON
that morning was French. Tim hated languages, he was hopeless at them, but it was a compulsory subject at UE level. When the interactive tutorial began he slipped on his PC-glasses, pushing the earplugs in and flipping down the tiny wire mic. They were ebony and gold 909 Hi-shots, pilot-grade, the coolest of the cool, just like Sir Mitch wore when he was piloting
Newton’s Arrow
. There were ads for them everywhere, big posters with Sir Mitch dressed in a flight pressure suit and the glasses, standing at the end of the runway. All right, so they didn’t make Tim look quite as glamorous as Sir Mitch, but they were still pretty damn funky.

Tim murmured quietly to the secretarial program, calling up a fix to deal with the French tutorial that would convince the teacher he was hard at work. It left him free to compose avtxts. His finger skated across the interactive keyboard mat, selecting colorful little graphics from the menu file, which he began to mix into an invite. He had to keep the audio segments muted: Everyone he was sending them to was also in school. The holographic display on his PCglasses flashed replies at him for the remainder of the lesson. Most of the boys who answered had included symbols that gyrated with semi-obscene content, which nearly made him laugh out loud. When the tutorial ended, he’d collected eight acceptances.

It was a good strategy, he congratulated himself; with so many other people included, Annabelle wouldn’t feel pressured at all. This was nothing like asking her for a date. By midmorning, though, he still hadn’t decided how he should go about cooling things with Zai. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to. Normally girls finished with him, an inevitable conclusion to his relationships which he greeted with grudging acceptance. But he and Zai were actually getting on pretty well right now. At the end of Saturday’s party, loaded on beer and synth8, they’d got down to some serious seminaked making out. He just knew it wouldn’t be much longer before they had full sex.

Sunday morning had been spent avtxting long silly messages to each other before she caught the bus to Empingham and had lunch at the house with him and his mother. Afternoon had been a lazy time around the swimming pool, followed by watching some pre10 movies on the five-meter wallscreen in the lounge.

To be honest, he’d never had a girlfriend as good as Zai before. Everything was chugging along perfectly. His excitement over Annabelle actually agreeing to tag along that afternoon was subdued by the constant feeling of guilt. Zai didn’t deserve to be treated like this. To be given the elbow when things were on the upswing must be terrible. It was the deliberate infliction of pain. He could barely believe himself capable of such a thing. It was horrid, as if some part of Simon’s character were transfusing into him.

Tim sat with Martin and Colin at lunch. The three of them wrapped up discussing their Jet Ski project. It was an old machine that they were renovating ready for summer in the hope of having some serious fun with it on the lakes at Tallington.

“So did you forget?”

Zai’s voice made Tim wince instinctively. He risked looking up to see her standing at the side of his table holding her lunch tray; her friends Rachel and Sophie were beside her. Too late, Tim remembered he’d avtxted an invite to Sophie for this afternoon.

“Forget?” he asked.

“Your little swimming club.”

“Well, I just thought you’d be coming.”

“You asked Annabelle, didn’t you.”

Tim glanced around. People were looking at the scene; conversation in the dining hall was drying up. “What?”

“They haven’t split up twenty-four hours and you ask her out. You piece of shit.”

“I haven’t…”

“What did you think, having a whole load of people there doesn’t make it a date?”

Tim wouldn’t have thought it possible for his body to get any hotter, but it did. His skin must be neon red.

“You didn’t even have the courage to break up with me first. Were you going to avtxt me? Is that how you tell people it’s over?”

“I was…this…it’s not…”

Zai sneered at him. “I’d say go screw yourself. Except you can’t, can you, midget dick.” She turned around and walked away. Rachel and Sophie shot him derisory looks, and followed.

There was a lot of sniggering coming from the surrounding tables. Tim wished she’d just tipped her tray of food over him instead. It would have been less humiliating.

“Wow,” Martin exclaimed. “Two-timing Tim. I’m impressed.”

“I wasn’t…” Tim began limply.

Colin gave Tim a hearty slap on his shoulder. “You are full of surprises. Did you try and get the two of them into bed together? Is that why she’s so pissed off?”

“No! Look, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Honest.”

“You sly old sod,” Martin said. “You just need a better date organizer program, that’s all. Keep them separated better.”

Tim groaned and gave up.

S
UE
B
AKER STOOD
beside the bedroom’s tall veranda window, watching the Europol technical security team wandering across the lawn. A gloomy February sky was drizzling solidly. In their navy-blue rain jackets, the police team seemed almost immune to the conditions. They carried on positioning slender high-technology poles around the edge of the garden, heedless of the mud and water. Another team was doing the same thing in the sloping paddock beyond; wearing waders, two of them were walking along the flooded stream that made up one side of the field. She knew there was a third group out there somewhere, sweeping through the woods on the far slope.

They’d arrived earlier that morning in a small fleet of clean new-model BMW 25 series, which were now parked on the gravel drive at the front of the manor. That alone informed the locals that this was a Europol contingent. Rutland’s police had only about ten cars to cover the entire county, and most of them were over five years old.

“So what exactly are they doing out there?” she asked.

“Establishing a sensor perimeter,” Lieutenant Krober said politely. It was the third time he’d explained the team’s function today. Sue knew he must think her an idiot, but she’d never understood technical matters. A wonderful irony for the assured, courteous German officer to ponder: that the wife of Jeff Baker couldn’t change her own lightbulbs without puzzling over the instructions. She was eternally grateful that today’s computers were all voice active, you could just tell them what to do and they got on with it. Back in 2009, when she started at secondary school, all the operating programs still used keyboards and mouse pads; she’d never really got the hang of them. Not that it had mattered; she’d left school behind at fourteen when the modeling agency signed her up. You didn’t need to be a qualified nerd to look hot on the runway.

“We do have a security system,” she said. “A very good one.” From the outside, the manor certainly looked as if it might have been built in the eighteenth century, but the oldest thing in the house was probably Jeff. It had been designed after the turn of the millennium, and incorporated every modern domestic device, as well as being energy sufficient with its solar-panel roofing and underground heat pumps.

“Yes ma’am,” Krober said. “But we are concerned about more than just ordinary burglars. Your husband’s treatment will be likely to attract interest from a number of groups, not least the Separatists. Our system will allow us to spot any potential intruders before they get near the house. We can respond more effectively that way.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re very effective.” She supposed it was inevitable Jeff would gain the attention of the Separatists, whom everyone knew were linked to the English Independence Council paramilitaries. Nationalist movements were picking up huge support right across Europe as the federal government’s heavy-handed restrictions and unwelcome taxes continued to erode the independence of the old nations in the name of unification and the social progress it was supposed to bring. And Jeff was the product of a massive Brussels commitment to the biogenetic industries—a symbol of federal success, that government did know best. A threat against him would be equally symbolic, especially one that succeeded. One of the EIC’s loudest boasts was how they were far more ruthless than the IRA had ever been. The idea made her shiver.

“Three of our officers will remain on duty at the house at all times,” Krober said. “Our team has taken out rooms at the White Horse in the village. With that as our permanent base station, the majority of us are just two minutes away in an emergency. And a female officer will accompany you when you leave home.”

“No.” Sue turned from the veranda door to face Krober. He was a handsome man, with dark brown hair cut in a severe, almost military style. His age was probably late twenties, she thought, certainly no more than thirty. In any other circumstances she would have welcomed his presence at the manor; flirting with him would have been most enjoyable. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, not that it would have bothered her. “I don’t want that.”

Despite his perfect English, Krober looked as if he hadn’t understood. “The officers have already been given their assignments. They are merely a precaution against any possible incident.”

“I don’t want them.” The idea of being followed around twenty-four hours a day was awful. She would forfeit her privacy, her secrets: Her life would never be her own again. It wasn’t as though Jeff didn’t know of her lovers—after all, that had been part of the arrangement—but she did at least keep her affairs quiet and discreet, so that she and Jeff could continue to present the illusion of a stable family life for Tim and the local villagers.

“But they’re here,” Krober persisted like a stubborn child.

Sue wanted to call Jeff and complain. This was never part of their arrangement. But then his treatment hadn’t exactly been part of the arrangement, either. This suffocating police protection was simply the inevitable consequence. If she’d wanted to complain, she should have done it right at the start. This was too far down the line to back out.

“They don’t have to start today, surely. Jeff’s not due back for ten days yet.”

“That’s close enough for the Separatists to be making preparations,” Lucy Duke said. “We have to preempt any attempt against Dr. Baker. Lieutenant Krober’s team know what they’re doing.”

Sue hadn’t seen her come in. She suspected Krober had called for help as soon as she started being difficult. He was wearing his PCglasses, though the lenses were clear. “And I can assure you the personal protection teams are thoroughly professional,” Lucy said smoothly. “They neither restrict nor judge their client’s actions.”

“Thank you for that,” Sue said coldly to the young woman. There was an old joke she remembered—probably classed as politically incorrect or racist or Separatist propaganda these days—about how heaven would be staffed by Europeans with specific jobs. The British would be the police, the Germans engineers, the French the cooks, and so on; then you swapped them all around for hell, with the British as cooks, Germans as police…Today, Sue thought, you’d have to redefine the British job. Lucy Duke was a Eurohealth Council facilitator on secondment from the Downing Street policy presentation unit. She was dressed in a smart blue and gray Italian business suit, her hair in a neat swept bob, she spoke in a classless accent, and she had a file of media contacts as long as a pre10 novel. The British today produced the best spin doctors in the world.

“They’re very unobtrusive,” Lucy continued. “And we wouldn’t appoint them if we didn’t think they were absolutely necessary. There is only a very small threat of violence, admittedly, but do you really want to take the risk?”

“How long are they going to be with us?”

“Difficult to say.”

Sue took a look around the bedroom. Like all the manor’s rooms, it was large and luxurious. She’d supervised the interior designer herself, remodeling the place twice since she and Jeff got married. Now it was perfect, representing just how good her life had become. She would hate to leave it, not that Jeff would ever make her, but Tim was past his eighteenth birthday now and he would be leaving for university before the end of the year. She corrected herself: Jeff before the treatment wouldn’t make her leave. Her whole damn world was changing, and doing it far too fast.

“Fine then,” Sue said airily. It was a capitulation, though she couldn’t really bring herself to care. Europol and the Duke cow probably knew all about her sex life anyway. “Wait a minute. If you’re giving me a bodyguard, what are you doing about Tim?”

“Naturally we’ll provide him with an equal level of coverage. We’ve already discussed arrangements with Oakham School. They’ve been most accommodating. He’s not the only pupil there that needs a watchful eye.”

Sue laughed in her face. “Have you spoken to him about all this?”

“We were assuming you would explain this to him. Your example should help.”

“You are joking!” Sue kept on laughing. The thought of Tim meekly allowing a Europol officer to trot along behind him was hilarious. “You don’t have children, do you?”

“Not yet,” Lucy said.

“Well, just remember, babies are God’s way of persuading parents to have teenagers.”

Krober gave a small smile. “Do you believe he will be unwilling to cooperate?”

“Could be.”

“Will you tell him that this development is unavoidable, try to make him understand a bodyguard is necessary?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Lucy Duke asked.

“I’m not saying a damn thing to him. We’re not exactly on the best of terms as it is. You want to guard him, you tell him.”

“But he’s your son.”

“Not through choice.” Sue walked out of the bedroom, leaving the astonished spin doctor staring at her back.

The Europol team spent the rest of the day tramping through the manor and its grounds, bringing mud inside as they came. Sue did her best to ignore them by helping Mrs. Mayberry, the housekeeper, in the kitchen; then she took lunch by herself in the conservatory. In the afternoon she had another argument with Lieutenant Krober about placing cameras inside the house. After a heated twenty minutes during which Lucy had to intervene again to cool tempers, they agreed that cameras could cover all the entrances from the outside, and they’d all wait until Jeff Baker came back before any would be put inside, pending his approval. Sue conceded that they could wire the manor’s existing security network into their own secure datasphere port. A command post was set up in the smallest of the five reception rooms downstairs.

Tim arrived back just after five o’clock. Fortunately most of the installation was complete by then. He brought a group of his friends with him, which stalled the inevitable confrontation between him and Lucy Duke. Mrs. Mayberry busied herself cooking pizzas for the teenagers as they descended on the swimming pool.

Ever since Jeff had gone for his treatment, fifteen months ago, Sue had slowly relaxed her objections to Tim inviting his dreadful friends round at all hours. The manor was a huge place for just two people to be living by themselves, especially two with a history of conflict like she and Tim. For all the qualities she possessed that had convinced Jeff to make his marriage contract proposal, the natural mother’s ability to bring up a child was definitely nonexistent. Curiously enough, Jeff’s absence had brought about a mild truce between them. There were none of the tantrums and screaming sessions that had so occupied the pair of them during the first half of Tim’s teenage years. They hadn’t exactly become great pals, but they were certainly civil to each other now.

Actually, it was rather nice to have the big house filled with young people, she thought; all their brash laughter and high spirits helped to banish the solemnity that had crept in over the last few months. Not that—as she had made exceptionally clear—she would ever consent to any kind of party like the poor Langleys had been lumbered with. She’d actually grinned as Tim and Zai left the house last Saturday evening, remembering her own teenage years. If only Tim had known how she used to behave….

From the living room’s huge bay windows she could see right into the swimming pool. The building was like an elaborate orangery sprouting from the southern end of the manor, with tall panes of nultherm glass supported by arching white timber frames. The teenagers were running around the edge of the pool, diving and jumping with excited whoops and yells. The inflatable floating furniture was taking a terrible battering. Plumes of spray shot upward to splash the roof. The spiral slide was in constant use.

She’d been rather surprised that Zai hadn’t been in the group when they’d barged through the front doors. Tim’s expression when he finally staggered home in the early hours of Sunday morning had provided her with a great deal of amusement: a cat that had not only got the cream, but managed to gobble down the goldfish as well. Now Zai was nowhere to be seen, and Annabelle Goddard had been invited by herself. She’d been a casual member of Tim’s group for several years, though it was only in the last twenty months that she’d become increasingly striking. Tim was keeping a civil distance from her this afternoon. Sue had almost laughed at how careful he was being, desperate not to show any favoritism, never singling her out to talk to, making sure she was just one of the lads. He must be crazy for her. It looked mutual, too.

Sue peered through the bay windows, trying to see how the pair of them were conducting themselves in the pool. It was the first time she’d noticed how amazingly pretty Annabelle actually was these days, possessing the kind of body that every boy would drool over. But then Sue had caught herself several times over the last few months looking hard at the girls in Tim’s group of friends, giving their figures and complexions a professional assessment as she ran comparisons with herself. She wasn’t forty yet, and had certainly managed to keep her own looks and figure, despite nine repellent months of pregnancy and then giving birth. Modern genoprotein-based cosmetic treatments were an absolute boon in that respect.